Phantom of Aurora

The Phantom pedaled his bike up the hill and into the driveway of the large Victorian house that was home. He dismounted and wheeled the bike into the old carriage house his family used as a garage and general storage area. His mother's car was gone, as was his father's, which was not surprising. His father was a cop with the Courtenay Police Department. This week he was working the 4-to-12 shift. His mother worked in the Royal Bank downtown but she would not be there now as the business day was long lover over. She was probably off to a pool party or a barbecue somewhere in the neighbourhood. Comox was a small and friendly town and on a warm, clear summer night such as this one there would be a pool party or a barbecue being held in most of the backyards in town.

He entered the house through the kitchen entrance. The kitchen was, as usual, spotless, and there was a note from his mother on the table. She was off to the Jensens, who lived on the other side of town. Mr. Jensen was also a cop; only he worked for the town of Comox.

The Phantom read that he was also invited to the barbecue, smiling as he read the note and thinking that the Jensens should not hold dinner waiting for him to show up. He tried to avoid going to any of their little parties. Harry Jenson was everybody's nightmare of a cop. He was large, had a beer belly and never stopped being a cop. He was also an opinionated, bigoted jerk. He dominated his family and Mrs. Jensen, a small, washed out woman, never seemed to contradict her husband and always nodded her agreement with anything and everything he said. He sometimes wondered how two such people could ever have a son like their oldest boy, Jeff.

Jeff was magnificently handsome and had figured in many of The Phantom's masturbation fantasies before he started visiting the cadets at AURORA. He was 18 - a year older than The Phantom and had recently graduated high school. He had won a football scholarship at the University of British Columbia and would be heading off to Vancouver at the end of August. Jeff had been a year ahead of him in school and for four years The Phantom had secretly lusted after the handsome and popular quarterback.

Jeff was one of those boys whose every movement shouted his masculinity. His smooth, crisply muscled body, his graceful movements, the way he talked and walked, precluded any thought of anything other than sheer, raw straightness. He was one of the most popular boys in school and always had a girl after him, and he was always after all of the girls, never settling with one girl, playing the field.

The Jensens' younger son, Robbie, was twelve-years-old and a smaller, more refined version of his older brother, whom he obviously adored. Robbie aped Jeff in everything, although he was still at the age when girls were little more that obnoxious pests. There was something about the boy, however, that The Phantom found disconcerting. There was slyness about Robbie and The Phantom always felt uncomfortable whenever he was around him.

There was also Amy, the Jensen daughter. She was not bad looking, for a girl, and had made it plain that she would not have minded seeing what The Phantom had up the leg of his shorts. In fact, she knew he had something up there. The last time he had gone over to one of the Jensen's barbecues Amy had run her hand right up there, and felt his hardon. He counted himself lucky that he had been wearing briefs at the time, so all she really felt was a large bulge. She flattered herself by thinking that his hardon was in her honour.

The Phantom snickered derisively at the memory. His hardon was in her brother's honour. Jeff had been cavorting in the pool with his latest lovely, some very revealing racing trunks and The Phantom had boned up the minute he saw the young stud's tight basket.

Hungry, The Phantom helped himself to some cold chicken, and downed a glass of milk. Since he worked from 11 in the morning until seven at night, he never ate supper at home. He ate in the galley most days and his pay was docked him $1.00 a day for meals, so he figured he might as well get value for his money. Besides, Chef usually jazzed up whatever was on offer so he did not feel hard done by.

When he was finished eating The Phantom washed his plate and glass and put them in the dish rack. His mother would pitch a fit if he left a mess in her clean kitchen. Then he climbed the stairs to his room. He stripped off his clothing and threw them in the laundry hamper. His boxers, as he had expected, were pretty stained up. Between the cadets at the swim parade and The Gunner, The Phantom figured his dick had pumped out at least a gallon of lubricant. It was a good job he did his own laundry. It saved embarrassing questions from his mother. She was pretty cool about stains, really. He had had his first real wet dream just days after his 13th birthday, and creamed his pyjamas and the sheets stiff. His mother had never said a word to him and The Phantom guessed she had more or less expected it, having gone through the same thing with Brendan, his older brother. He wished, however, that she had not told his father because then he had been forced to go through THE TALK.

The Phantom did not know who was more embarrassed, he or his dad, who sputtered and blushed his way through a very confusing chat about sex, boys, girls, and the changes that were occurring in his young body. The Phantom could have spared his father the embarrassment as he had learned all about sex in school. He did not because at the time he was pissed off at his father who had jokingly told Brendan, his jerky older brother and The Phantom had to endure weeks of Brendan ribbing him about that damned wet dream. Which was rude coming from a guy who beat his meat noisily every night. Christ, the grunting and groaning was something to hear, and when he blew his load . . . God help the neighbours on his wedding night! Brendan was in Regina at the RCMP Training Barracks and his room, right next to The Phantom's, was empty.

The Phantom glanced at the small clock that sat on the bed table. It was getting late and he needed to shower, smelling, as he did, like food mixed with sweat and the muskiness that came with almost constant arousal. He walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. He smiled at his reflection. He had seen enough guys naked to know that he had a good body; slim, trim and with not too much hair, except around his dick. The milky-white V-shaped patch of skin around his waist and groin still held its tan, which he noticed was fading. He turned and looked at his butt in the mirror and nodded firmly. His behind was firm and round, with only a little hair dusting the cheeks near where they curved down to his legs, which did have hair, from his ankles up to his ass. He turned and looked straight into the mirror.

Reaching down The Phantom lifted his balls and dick. He really liked the look of his tackle. The skin of his genitals was darker in colour than the rest of his body, a dark tan colour. His low-hanging balls, large, egg-shaped ovals, were contained in a smooth, hairless scrotum. Another smile creased his handsome face. His balls were much bigger than Brendan's. But then, Brendan had a real whopper of a cock. Five inches soft and only Brendan knew how big it got when he popped a bone. The Phantom, although he was an unwilling listener when Brendan jerked off, had never seen Brendan with a bone. This was fine with The Phantom. Brendan might have a nice-looking piece of meat, but he was still a jerk.

The Phantom considered his own hardening penis. He liked the look of the 4-inches of smooth muscle he held in his hand. His penis was circumcised, not too thick, very sleek and smooth, unmarred by veins, and with a pinkish-brown, smooth, crown of a helmet, which was perfectly aligned with his shaft. The Phantom released himself and decided that he really liked the way his dick looked.

He ran his fingers through his rough bush of pubic hair. The hairs were long, very dark brown, and curly. His bush covered his lower body and circled his parts to join the thinner hair on his groin and legs. He had a treasure trail of sorts, but The Phantom had to admit it was pretty shabby with just a few random hairs straggling upward from his bush to just below his navel.

Standing back The Phantom turned left, then right, and nodded. Not a bad piece of goods. He took another step back and shook his head, wondering what kind of pervert he was, standing in front of a mirror telling himself what a hunk he was! But then, what kind of a pervert went around wanking guys in their sleep?

He turned on the shower and soaped himself, being careful not to give too much attention to his middle parts. He had managed to build up a good case of blue balls, what with the half-naked cadets parading by and by The Gunner touching him. The Phantom planned to take care of business, but not just yet, because part of the enjoyment of beating off was the foreplay he engaged in. He liked to squeeze and roll his balls with one hand and fondle his stiffy with the other. He liked to get a good buzz going in his dick and balls before he shot his load. Which led The Phantom to thinking about his forays across the harbour. He supposed that there was some sort of medical term for what he was doing and why he was doing it. He was not overly concerned why he did it. He only knew that he liked doing it. He loved the feel of a warm, soft dick in his hand, the feel as he stroked soft flesh into silk covered, iron hard shaft; the feel as he rolled and fondled smooth boy balls into tight wrinkled sacs of skin, loving the way the cocks would grow longer, and thicken, and then spew forth rivers of hot teenager cum. He marvelled at the way each boy climaxed, some massively, splattering their ejaculate across their smooth, hairless chests while others oozed thick cream over his hands, down the shaft and into their patches of pubic hair. The Phantom also loved the sheer pleasure he gave each boy he serviced, pleasure demonstrated by the way they writhed and bucked, or humped his hand, and moaned and groaned deliriously when they came.

The Phantom looked down and saw that his dick had stiffened to just over six inches and had thickened perceptibly. He turned off the hot water and gave himself a blast of icy cold water, which shocked his dick into shrinking back to its normal size. He walked back into his bedroom, rummaged in his underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers, drew them on and then sat on the edge of his bed. He found the pack of cigarettes he kept in the bedside table, fumbled one out, lit it, and sat back against the headboard, enjoying his smoke and the cool breeze flowing through the open window. He could hear the distant sound of music, probably one of the bands that played in the bars and restaurants that lined the harbour front.

The Phantom's thoughts returned to his nighttime expeditions. What really confused him was that not one of the boys he visited had complained or, when faced with the evidence that sometime during the night, for one reason or another, they had blown a massive load, they dismissed it as a wet dream, or a subconscious, self-administered hand job. They were, after all, healthy teenagers in the full flush of puberty, when their dicks did strange things, and beating off was a necessity.

Every morning while serving breakfast or bussing tables The Phantom heard the cadets bragging about the size of their morning woodies, or complimenting well-endowed shipmates on the size and girth of their weapons. For the cadets it was almost a rite of passage to wake up with a boner, and to have that boner admired, or jeered at, by the other cadets. They were all alike, bragging about how hung they were when in fact it had been his experience that three inches soft meant six inches hard. About the only thing they did not do was brag about the pussy or blowjob they had had the night before, which was what all the studs he went to school with did. Of course, the local boys all had opportunity going for them. There were a few girls in town that would fuck a snake if it could wiggle its hips (he suspected that Amy was going to be right up there with the best of them before very long).

The cadets were a different matter. Being good, moral, upstanding Canadian boys, sex with another good, moral, upstanding Canadian boy, which was all they were going to get on the long strip of land on which AURORA stood, just never happened. Nobody bragged about jerking off. That did not happen. AURORA cadets did not have sex. Which was bullshit.

The Phantom knew that the Base Laundry Officer was complaining about stained sheets. Thumper beat his meat at the drop of a hat. You did not need to be a brain surgeon to know what the cadets were doing after the lights went out. Twice now The Phantom had been forced to delay visiting a particular barracks because one, sometimes more, of the cadets were happily jerking off and as for sex between cadets that happened, too. One night last year he had been sneaking past Boatswain's Stores, a long, low shed down by the water and seen a light and had peeked in the window and seen the Duty Quartermaster and the Roundsman lying on the floor, their white briefs and bell-bottoms around their ankles, having a sixty-niner! He had watched the two cadets sucking each other to beat the band and he had gotten so excited that when they bucked and came their loads in each other's mouth, he had cum in his briefs. Which had pissed him off. He liked to work up to it by visiting a cadet or two first and had gone home with his drawers sticky with warm cum, and wishing that he had been down on the floor with the cadets, wondering how a cock tasted, wondering what it would be like to suck a cock.

Thinking about it now The Phantom reasoned that he should not have been surprised at the cadets doing each other. The cadets were young, they were healthy, and they were all hornier than a two-peckered owl in the moonlight. Getting your rocks off was getting your rocks off, which might just explain why nobody said anything. Having sex with another guy was not something you talked about. The more he thought about it, the more The Phantom came to understand that no guy was about to admit that he was having sex with another guy. A stiff prick might not have a conscience but the guy attached to it had better have one. Sex with another guy carried no bragging rights and God help you if anybody found out about it, which explained why nothing was ever said. Not last year, when he began his forays across the harbour, or this year, when he had returned. He had not heard so much as a whisper about anything. No one had made an official complaint about being molested in his bed. And no one would.

The Phantom chuckled cynically. Not only did they not talk about having sex, they pretended that the act had never happened. He remembered that the two cadets he had seen last year sucking each other in Boatswain Stores - one of whom was back again as the Guard Petty Officer - had never so much as whispered about what they had been doing. The Phantom had eavesdropped as much as he dared as he was bussed their table but had heard nothing. They talked about many thinks but not once did they talk about their night in Boatswain Stores. So much for love.

He listened to the music for a little while and lit another cigarette, remembering that first time. Remembering his first cadet.

The thing was, what a near run thing it had been. It had started with Sam. They had been together, doing what they always did when they were together. They had been in The Phantom's bedroom, their hands on each other's dicks, stroking each other towards orgasm. As he always did, Sam grunted his warning that he was about to squirt. Instead of releasing Sam, The Phantom had continued to pump his friend's turgid organ. At first Sam had allowed it, then, without warning, and just as his penis erupted, he had angrily pushed The Phantom's hand away. The Phantom had broken the rules and Sam was not having that. To compound his error The Phantom had started to laugh at the sight of Sam angrily trying to control his jerking fire hose of a dick, which was squirting huge jets of his semen halfway across the room, and pull up his Jockeys and shorts which were gathered around his ankles. The memory of Sam's misfortune brought a grin to The Phantom's face. It had been funny. Unfortunately for their relationship Sam had not thought it at all funny. Harsh words had been exchanged and, in the heat of the argument, the word queer flashed.

The Phantom's face turned stony as he remembered Sam calling him a queer. He remembered that he had hurriedly pulled up the track pants that were gathered around his ankles, turned on his heels and gone downstairs. Sam had hurried after him and tried to apologize. The Phantom had been unforgiving. Sam had left the house, angry with The Phantom for breaking the rules, and angry with himself for reacting the way he had. Eventually they made up, but their relationship was never the same. While they still masturbated each other, they did so infrequently. Sam would come mooching around, looking embarrassed and horny and they would go up to The Phantom's room. They would drop their shorts, which was what they both wore most of the time, and start jerking each other.

There was never any foreplay of any kind, and their sessions lasted no longer than it took to shoot their loads. They were just two guys beating off, two guys helping each other out, a release of semen that meant nothing. The closeness that had existed between them was gone. The warmth, the feeling, was gone. Now it was all just sex, which The Phantom provided because he did care for Sam. He also knew that for ten months of the year Sam was the only game in town. As for the months of July and August, well, just across the harbour was a place that provided The Phantom with as much sex as he wanted, albeit one-sided. It was dangerous, it was risky, but at the end of the day, it was glorious.

Hurt and angry at Sam, The Phantom had endured days of frustration from watching the hard, slim bodies of the cadets as he served them their meals, and the temptation to reach out and fondle those bodies as he watched them march and drill, and on the parade square playing baseball or soccer, their young, sweat streaked bodies glistening in the late afternoon sun, their tight, firm behinds and baskets displayed with innocent brazenness. Impulsively he had sneaked onto the Spit at 1:00 in the morning. Getting onto the ship was easy. He knew the lay of the land and a loud thunderstorm was raging. Getting into the barracks was even easier. The doors were never locked.

Before entering the barracks he hesitated. A titanic bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and a clap of thunder shook Heron Spit. The Phantom did not believe in omens, but the thunderous explosion caused him to pause. Once he entered the barracks, once he placed his hand on a sleeping cadet's cock, once he played with that cock, he was taking the first step on a dark and dangerous path. If he retreated, and returned home, no one would be the wiser. If he entered the barracks there would be no turning back. As his hand grasped the doorknob The Phantom took a deep breath. He would either bring wonderful pleasure to some boy, or disaster upon himself if he were caught. He noticed that his hand was shaking. He could feel a tremor of excitement roll through his body. Unconsciously he reached down and felt himself, feeling the hard, tight bulge in his jeans. He gave no thought to what the consequences of his actions this night might be and slowly pushed open the barracks door.

The cadets were housed in H-shaped barracks; each barracks was a mirror image of the other. Down each side of the long room was a row of double bunks, each set of double bunks separated by twin metal lockers where the cadets kept their uniforms and civilian clothes. Down the middle of the barracks was a long wooden table, scarred with use. Halfway down the barracks was a large, open doorway, which lead to the heads and washplaces - the toilets and showers - that the cadets shared with those in the adjoining barracks. Ordinarily each barracks housed 40 cadets in two long rows of single bunks. Last year the numbers had been small, with empty bunks in every barracks but this year many of the courses had been overbooked, which required "doubling up" the bunks. Every bunk in each of the four huge, H-shaped barracks was occupied.

Thinking back The Phantom realized that he had all but invited disaster. On entering the barracks he had not stopped to listen, to ensure that everybody was asleep. All the hard learned lessons that Sam's father had taught him had been forgotten. While The Phantom had remembered to sneak and crawl as he made his way onto the Spit, he had simply walked into a barracks full of sleeping cadets, depending on the thunderstorm that raged outside to muffle the sounds of his movements. He had no idea who slept soundly, who slept lightly. He was unaware that there was a Duty Roundsman who constantly entered the barracks, patrolling for fire hazards and the like. He did not know his prey because he had not bothered to learn its habits. In time The Phantom would, but that first night all he was interested in was what was between the legs of the boy cadets sleeping soundly in their bunks. His lust was paramount and he had not given the least thought to what might happen to if he were discovered committing what was, in truth, a criminal act. He wanted to touch another boy, to feel him, to hold his most precious possession. He wanted to give another boy the pleasure that he was not allowed to give to Sam, and in the giving of that pleasure give himself an even greater pleasure.

The Phantom did not remember which barracks he had entered. He assumed it was Barracks 1, which housed the cooks. It was the first block he had come to after leaving the beach. He did remember the first cadet. He remembered everything about the boy.

The long barracks stretched before The Phantom, ill-lit and crowded with double bunks that lined either side. Down the centre of the barracks stretched long wooden tables flanked by bare wooden benches. He stood quietly, listening, and watching. As he stood there The Phantom noticed a smell, an aroma that intoxicated and excited him. The perfume was not as harsh as the smells he associated with a locker room. There was a delicate something to the harshness, a muskiness, a mélange of smells, soap, starch, clean clothes, dirty clothes, ironed serge uniforms, boot polish and the raw maleness of teenage boys, the combination causing his head to spin with frightened anticipation. He stepped a few paces into the barracks. He would do what he had come to do. He had no plan, no idea which cadet he would touch, or what he would do.

Stopping at the first bunk in the row of bunks, The Phantom knelt down and looked at the sleeping cadet. The cadet had been asleep in the bottom bunk of the first set of bunks inside the doorway, lying on top of his covers. The Phantom remembered the cadet's square, tight-jawed face, and the clear, smooth skin of the handsome young man. The Phantom remembered the cadet's body, long, lean, muscular, the tanned skin dusted with light, blond hair, lighter than the wheat coloured hair on his head. The Phantom remembered that the cadet had been wearing only the white Jockey briefs that seemed to be a uniform requirement. Every cadet wore them.

The Phantom had reached out a tentative hand and stroked the small mound that filled the soft cotton briefs, fondling the sleeping cadet, stroking the boy's flaccid penis until it lengthened into a six-inch tube of hard flesh stretching upward under the cloth of his underpants. The boy's erection, held in check by the tight briefs, rose and fell, pulsing with each breath the cadet took. The Phantom had pulled down the front of cadet's Jockeys to reveal a smooth, circumcised shaft crowned by a dark pink, helmet-shaped glans.

As the Phantom knelt, staring at the beautiful object before him, there was a clap over thunder and a flash of sheet lightning, which illuminated the mess decks and revealed small details, engraving them on The Phantom's brain: the small drop of natural lubricant, precum, leaking from the pee slit that marred the beauty of the cadet's mushroomed corona, the small, thin line of dark blond pubic hair that completely encircled the base of the cadet's erect penis, the shape and size of the cadet's testicles contained in a low-hanging, smooth sac sprinkled with long, curling blond hairs. The Phantom licked his lips and was about to reach out to touch this work of art when the cadet's breathing rhythm changed sharply. He snorted loudly and waved an arm in the air.

The Phantom had enough sense to drop and roll under the bunk opposite. He lay there, not daring to breathe and watched as the cadet sat up, looked around, and then looked down at the front of his tented briefs. He looked around again and then pulled open the front of his Jockeys, regarding his hardon. Then he released the waistband of his underpants and lay back down.

Desperate to avoid discovery, The Phantom lay under the bunk for what seemed like hours until the cadet's breathing slowed and he fell back into deep sleep. Breathing a small sigh of relief The Phantom was about to get out of Dodge when the barracks door slammed open and a ray of harsh light pierced the darkness.

The Duty Roundsman, his boots clumping heavily on the tiled deck, walked slowly down the length of the barracks, his flashlight probing occasionally, lighting his way to the far end of the mess deck.

The Phantom heard the door at the other end of the barracks slam closed and heard the muttered grumbles as the other cadets returned to their disturbed sleep. Finally, after the muttering had subsided, The Phantom made his move. He hurried from the barracks, his heart pounding, waiting for a shouted alert that there was an intruder. The shout never came and he retraced his steps along the narrow beach, running and stumbling, retrieved his bicycle from its hiding place and pedalled madly home. He had been badly frightened by his experience and in the safety of his room he had decided that he had made a very bad mistake and had been very lucky in not being caught. He had been so frightened that he had decided that he would never go prowling in the night.

The next morning The Phantom returned to work fully expecting to hear that a cadet had been molested during the night and that an investigation had been launched. He heard not a word. The cadet he had visited passed down the serving line, joking and laughing with his fellow cadets. Later, as he bussed the tables, clearing them and wiping up after the cadets, The Phantom heard nothing that would indicate that anything out of the ordinary had occurred during the night. Except for the thunderstorm it was as if nothing had happened at all. The Phantom watched, and he listened. He saw much, and heard many things, but not a word did he hear about someone feeling up a cadet in his sleep.

The Phantom's personal crisis passed, as did the first summer. He recognized that what he had done had been a foolish and dangerous thing. He realized that the danger of what he wanted to do lay in not knowing the habits of the cadets he wanted to visit. The Phantom was intelligent enough to know that much of what he needed to know he could learn in the mess hall just by listening to the constant chatter of the cadets as they ate. He had much to learn about the habits of other boys, of Sea Cadets.

"And learn them I did," thought The Phantom as he snuffed out his cigarette. He had listened, he had learned, and he had returned again and again last summer to the barracks on Heron Spit. He lay back in his bed, thinking of everything he had learned, thinking of how he listened and learned! He learned to study the Duty Roster and Routine Orders, he learned which cadets were heavy sleepers and difficult to wake up, and who slept lightly and woke at the touch of a foreign hand on their bodies. He learned which cadets could be counted on to spend most of their watch in the Guard House, and not out patrolling the base. He learned which cadets were alert and which cadets took their duties seriously. Every snippet of information he stored in his capacious, retentive memory, analysed it, and used it in his now almost nightly forays.

Thinking about the cadets he had visited, The Phantom pulled his semi-hard penis through the slit of his boxers and as he idly stroked his penis he tried to remember the bodies of the boys he had visited last summer. They were, for the most part, all alike with slim, smooth, tanned bodies. Most of them had been circumcised. The Phantom raised his head and examined his own penis. It was, he thought, very good looking, very neat and smooth and pink, with a classic helmet-shaped glans. He rubbed his finger against tender knot of scar tissue under the curving mushroom of his penis, and then slowly stroked downward, feeling the vein on the underside of his cock filling with blood. With his other hand he reached into his underpants and pulled out his testicles, feeling the heft of them, gently rolling and caressing his smooth eggs. The Phantom's cock reacted to the stimulus of his stroking hand, thickening and stretching into a rigid shaft of flesh, dark tan below his circumcision ring, rosy pink above it. Closing his eyes, The Phantom fondled and stroked himself, rubbing his fingers along the smooth cap, feeling the precum ooze from the slit of his penis. Using his thumb he lubricated the reddening knob, marvelling at its smoothness as his thumb glided over it. He moaned softly at the pleasure he felt.

As he played with himself The Phantom began to think about what he had done to the cadets he visited. He had masturbated them all, bringing them to varying degrees of intense eruption. He also began to think about the bragging conversations of his peers in high school locker room conversations that always involved their sexual antics and peccadilloes, real or imagined, with the girls they dated or wanted to date. While getting into a girl's pants was always the goal, for some reason many of the boys talked about getting a blowjob, which seemed to be even more desirable, and easier to get. The Phantom wondered what it would be like to have someone suck his dick or, better yet, what it would be like to suck a dick. What he found hilarious was that his schoolmates, and from his eavesdropping, the senior cadets, all seemed to know everything there was to know about the habits of queers, fags and assorted deviates while all the while proclaiming their straightness and abhorrence at such practices.

What amused The Phantom even more was that by just listening to the bragging he learned how a boy would like to be pleased. Intercourse with a girl, always high on everyone's list, paled however to having one's dick sucked. And not just sucked but sucked in a variety of ways - they differed from boy to boy - so that the boy being sucked derived maximum pleasure from the act. Some insisted that being "deep-throated", whatever that was, and was the only way to go. Others preferred having just the heads of their dick sucked, or just the top half, insisting that the rush of pleasure they felt as they shot their immature loads was more intense that anything they had ever managed by self-manipulation. Some needed their balls rubbed; others declared that having their balls squeezed and their bags gently pulled while their dicks were being sucked was the only way to go. All avoided any hint of homosexuality in their talk. They might know what fags did to and with each other but they all loudly averred that they had never, and would never do anything with another guy. Which led The Phantom to wonder about the strange looks that came over the faces of at least two of his school chums whenever the "Sixty-Nine" position was mentioned.

The more he thought about sex with another boy the more The Phantom wondered what it would be like to suck another boy's dick, which was something he had never done. His only partner, Sam, would not allow it. Sucking Sam's cock was queer, which Sam would never admit to being. The Phantom knew the Indian boy well enough to never so much as suggest that they suck each other off. Sam would have stormed and raged at such an outrageous suggestion.

In retrospect The Phantom was not upset about Sam's refusal, not after mentally comparing the cocks of the cadets he had manipulated with Sam's organ. Sam might be one hell of a good looking guy with his pants on, tall and strong, with a chiselled, firmly muscled chest, bronze-coloured skin, black hair, brown eyes and sparkling teeth. But with his pants down all bets were off. Compared to the smooth, hard, circumcised penises that The Phantom had been servicing, Sam's dick was not all that handsome. Sam's cock was thick, and four inches long when soft, which included a good inch of long, wrinkled foreskin. When he got hard his dick naturally got bigger, extending to almost eight inches from his body, but instead of sticking straight out or up, it curved in the middle, the head pointing to the right. The colouring changed, the rim of his barely retracted foreskin turning an ugly red, tightly gripping the deep, plumb-purple head of his cock.

Thinking, even briefly of Sam's turgid organ, caused The Phantom to shudder and wrinkle his nose because thinking of it brought back the memory that Sam, from time to time, was sadly lacking in personal hygiene, his dick smelling of urine and an unpleasant something else which The Phantom assumed came from the small deposits of a yellow, cheese-like substance that formed under the rim of Sam's crisp helmet. Sucking such an offensive object was no longer an inviting prospect.

The Phantom swore softly and pushed the image of Sam, and his cock, from his mind and another vision began to form, a picture of one whose dick he would gladly suck, one whom he would gladly pleasure, one who he wanted to be pleasuring him.

"Yeah, oh yeah," he moaned as the picture firmed and he released his balls. He wiped his fingers across his oozing knob and then reached down and plunged his hand into his boxers. He spread his legs, brought his knees up and began to stroke and probe his anal opening. The feeling of his finger against his sensitive opening sent a shock wave of delight coursing through his body. He arched his back and increased the speed of his hand, masturbating furiously as he tightened his hold on his raging hardon. He felt his balls tightening and increased the speed of his jerking as he quickened the pace of his rubbing against the warm, moist, sensitive tissue of his anus. The warmth of pleasure seeped from his middle, spreading throughout his body, engulfing his senses. He felt the flood tide of his seed explode from his balls, race up his shaft, and explode from his gaping pee slit. His body arched and pumped and a huge blob of cum flew upward and landed on his chin. Wave after wave of excruciating, intense, indescribable wonder washed over him. His face, a rictus of pain and pleasure contorted as he called The Gunner's name. He begged and moaned loudly as his hand pumped massive load after massive load of semen from his body, his ejaculate landing hotly on his chest, on his navel, on his stomach just above his dark brown pubes. He continued to jerk and spasm until his cock began to soften and only a small, delicate drop oozed from his slit.

He fell back against the pillows, light headed and exhausted, sucking in great drafts of air, gasping at the unbelievable, monumental, awe inspiring pleasure that had overwhelmed every part of his body. He raised his hand and felt the still warm pearl drop on his chin. He wiped his chin and brought his finger to his lips, his tongue flicking out to draw his thick, creamy fluid into his mouth. He rolled the dollop of his semen on his tongue, savouring the delicious nectar.

Still in the breathtaking clutches of the afterglow of his orgasm The Phantom raised his head and saw the small drops of ambrosia that spotted his chest and formed a small pool in his navel. His fingers touched the rich pool of cooling ejaculate, slowly cleaning the liquid treasure from his body. He again brought his fingers to his lips and began to lick gently, savouring the taste of his sperm. He recalled the taste of the cadet's fluid that he had sampled only a week before, comparing that taste with the taste of his own rich, thick cum. They were the same, only different. The cadet's sperm-filled semen had tasted slightly salty while his own had a special sweetness to it.

The Phantom lay back on his pillows and folded his arms behind his head. His body was still warm and glowing and he was totally at peace with himself. His eyelids grew heavy and as sleep took him he remembered the name he had called out in his ecstasy. He whispered the name into the darkness. If only it had been him he had visited. If only . . .

As day turned to dusk and the shadows lengthened in the small room, Joel lay cuddled in his lover's arms, enjoying the blissful aftermath of wonderful sex, his hand resting lightly on The Gunner's broad, chiselled chest. He smiled a contented sigh. The Gunner was so unlike his many other lovers, being an undemanding, considerate lover, who gave as much pleasure as he received, always seeming to know by instinct just which part of Joel's body to stimulate to bring him to the ultimate, final threshold of ecstasy. And when they were done, both having experienced more joy that either had ever imagined, The Gunner did not roll away. He would hold Joel in his arms, stroking him, adoring him, thanking him for their act of love.

Joel raised himself on one elbow and regarded the man who had been, these 14-plus months past, his friend and lover. By no stretch of anyone's imagination could The Gunner be described as a classic beauty. He was, in many respects, a most ordinary looking man, with fine features, and a lean, well-muscled body and lean, ruddy face of the kind that only sailors ever seemed to have. Joel's eyes drifted lower. The Gunner would never be asked to pose for one of the pseudo-art magazines glorifying the male nude. Nor would he draw a second glance in the dimly lit corridors of the baths in Vancouver's Gay Village, which unbeknownst to The Gunner Joel frequented on an almost nightly basis. There the boys strutted naked, their smooth, young bodies on show for all to see, their genitals unabashedly on show. The Gunner's neatly circumcised penis and large, oval-shaped testicles would evoke no moans of orgiastic desire from the size queens.

As he lay back and listened to The Gunner's soft breathing, Joel thought of how he and The Gunner had met. It had been during Navy Week, the week preceding Battle of Atlantic Sunday, last year. As always the Navy came calling, sailing two or three ships across from Esquimalt and opening the vessels to the general public for tours and day steams up and down the Strait of Georgia. His employer, one William Gates, Jr., had instructed Joel to entertain a small group of potential Canadian investors, one of whom had been a Former Naval Person. Joel, never averse to studying the terrain when it came to men in uniform, had taken the group down to the docks where the three RCN vessels were moored. He had also arranged, through a friend of a friend assigned to MARPAC Headquarters, for a special tour and luncheon aboard the squadron flagship. The Gunner had been assigned to be their tour guide. At the end of the tour, during lunch, and much to his surprise, Joel found himself agreeing to meet with the young Leading Gunner for drinks later in the evening. Joel had been very surprised when he found himself in bed with the man.

Joel had always known that he was attracted to boys. His attraction was confirmed and intensified when he began a torrid affair with his tall, handsome, older cousin (by four months), Michael Chan, a serious, passionate boy who adored Joel in every way possible. Michael, while he cared deeply for his handsome cousin, knew that their love affair would not, could not endure. He was the heir, the scion, the Anointed One who was destined to be groomed to succeed his father, Joel's Uncle Henry Chan, the Viceroy of Chinatown. While Joel might refuse to believe that being gay in a society that abhorred homosexuality was an impediment, Michael knew better. If any word, any hint of their relationship became known they would disappear forever, their disappearance facilitated by Uncle Henry's "business associates" in Hong Kong, or Shanghai, or San Francisco. Michael had brothers, as did Joel, and innumerable male cousins. The succession was not in danger. Uncle Henry would make do with a lesser son and the family's honour would remain unblemished if anything happened to Michael. Joel, as a nephew, was a nonentity, and would not be missed in the family scheme of things. What further eroded Joel's relationship with Michael was Joel's discovery that Michael was not the only boy who was attracted to him. In high school - they both attended St. George's College, an exclusive WASP school for boys favoured by British Columbia's aristocracy and made possible by virtue of a large donation to the school's building fund and a little arm twisting by Uncle Henry - Joel had many friends, all of whom wanted his friendship for one reason. Joel, because he enjoyed the company of his schoolmates, made them very happy.

Unlike his cousin, Michael Chan had very early learned that in all things connected with his life discretion was paramount. He was the oldest son and heir of the most powerful Chinese in Western Canada and would one day be head of the family. Over and over it was stressed to Michael that he must in all things conform not only to the mores, attitudes, customs and traditions of the society in which he lived, but also to the same mores, attitudes, customs and traditions of the society with which his family dealt. Certain lapses of character could be overlooked - a too fond communion with alcohol, an inability to remain faithful to one woman. Many men drank to excess; far too many kept a mistress if they could afford one. That many gambled excessively was ignored. There was not a Chinese man born who did not love to gamble. All these could be, and were, overlooked so long as they were done discretely and there was no loss of honour, of "face". In Michael's world loss of face was devastating.

Michael knew without having to be told that he could never acknowledge in any way, shape or form his preference for males. Homosexuality was as much abhorred in the Eastern culture into which he had been born as it was in the Western culture in which he lived. Discovery of his affair with Joel would mean so devastating a loss of face that his family could never recover.

Michael had been willing to risk everything and continue his relationship with his beautiful young cousin, so long as the relationship was secret, and so long as neither of them did anything that might bring unwanted attention to themselves or their love affair. Michael was blissfully unaware that Joel was spending a great deal of time in the Boys' Change Room, or that he had sequestered a certain small room off the gymnasium where he "tutored" some of the more mature students. Michael was brought down to earth and into a world of shattering reality one cold, rainy evening in the Juniors' Common Room, where he was nestled into a wing-backed chair reading Chaucer.

The room was large, and with only a few lamps and the fire lit, dark. Michael, valuing his privacy, had chosen a chair in the far corner of the room. He was so totally engrossed in his reading that he did not hear two of his schoolmates enter, and only half aware of what they were talking about when he heard his cousin's name mentioned. He hunkered down as much as he could in the chair, listening intently while Spencer Bowes, the handsome Captain of the School XI, told Chris Owen, a skinny, short, red-headed boy whose ears stuck out so much that he dared not go outside in a high wind, all about the superior blowjob he had received after football practice. "And I could have gotten into his ass if Bloggins hadn't come into the fucking change room," Spencer concluded sorrowfully.

"Did he see anything?" asked Chris, a note of concern in his voice. "You're already on probation, Spence, and all you need is for the Sports Master to catch you with your dick in some Chink's mouth!"

Spence had laughed sexily. "It would have been worth it, Chris. Joel might be a Chink but he can sure suck a mean dick." Michael did not see him waggling his eyebrows lasciviously. "Next time, though, I am going to fuck his ass."

"One of these days you are going to get caught, Spence," said Chris quietly. "The Head will toss you out on your ear if he finds out you are screwing half the school."

"Hardly half," returned Spencer with a chuckle. "Just the ones I know love to have my dick up their ass. Terry Cecil doesn't bother you anymore, does he?" At this Michael perked up his ears. The First Proctor, Terry Cecil, was a bully and a notorious homophobe.

"No, he doesn't," confirmed Chris. "But you did not have to sleep with him. I would have survived."

Spencer's mocking laughter filled the room. "I did not sleep with him. I fucked him."

Chris made a disgusted sound. "Whatever! The point is that sooner or later that dick of yours will get you into trouble. You are going to put the moves on the wrong guy and . . ."

"I put the moves on no one," remonstrated Spencer. "They put the moves on me! Can I help it if I'm sexy?"

"You're horny, is what you are," snapped Chris.

"And you are a eunuch," replied Spencer cruelly. "You could be getting your rocks off regularly, if you would just loosen up and smell the cum!"

"Do you have to be so crude?"

"Yeah, I do," replied Spencer with a chuckle. "Say, where's your roommate?"

"He's doing a Latin tutorial," replied Chris. "What do you want him for? Are you thinking to add Clement to your list of conquests?" he finished with a sneer.

"I wouldn't mind," replied Spencer equably. "He's got a super body and a brilliant cock." He sighed theatrically. "But, no. Clement is much too straight. I thought that maybe you would be up for a threesome."

"A WHAT?"

"You, me, and the Chink. He was in the Library when I went past. I am sure he would be more than happy to glom on to that cute little dick of yours."

There was a shocked gasp and the door slammed. Michael waited for five or so minutes before uncoiling himself from his hiding place. He stared at the empty room, his eyes blazing, his face suffused with anger. The bigotry and racism expressed by the two boys did not anger him over much. He had long known that no matter how long he, or his family lived in a white society, no matter how much money they garnered, they would always be Chinks, little yellow men, not quite up to a white man, don't ye know. That could be countered with raw power, subtle persuasion, or money. What angered him almost beyond comprehension was Joel's betrayal. With clenched fists he stormed from the Common Room.

The memory of his encounter with Michael Chan so many years ago caused Joel to shudder. Dear God, had Michael been angry. His rage had been expressed in cutting, icy tones, his manner so cold and distant that Joel had cringed. Michael had made his position clear. Joel was out of his life, forever. What love he had ever felt for his cousin was gone, replaced by a veiled disgust.

Over the years they saw each other rarely. Michael's anger and rejection of him caused Joel to change his ways, at least until he finished high school. He did not stop his philandering, for he had discovered that there were boys who wanted what he had to offer, many boys. He discovered Wreck Beach. He also discovered the bathhouses of what was fast becoming Vancouver's "Gay Village."

Wreck Beach was a narrow strip of sand at the base of the cliffs on which perched the buildings and campus of the University of British Columbia. In Joel's youth the beach was Canada's only "clothing optional" beach, attracting an eclectic and varied crowd of sun worshipers. There were undergrads of both sexes from the University; naturalists (as nudists preferred to be called) of all ages, sizes and sex; tourists who could not pass up an opportunity to visit and gawk. And there were sailors! Young, healthy SAILORS! Sailors from visiting warships; crewmen from the merchant ships and cruise liners that filled Vancouver's wharves and piers; cadets from the military college on leave; sailors from the naval base on Vancouver Island. The beach was, for Joel, a smorgasbord of masculinity.

St. George's College was located directly opposite the university campus and when classes were finished for the day Joel would stroll leisurely through the college grounds, admiring the scenery. There were always undergrads walking or lounging on the green lawns that separated the university buildings, or tossing a football, or kicking a soccer ball around. If the weather was warm and sunny, as it almost always was, the college boys wore as little as possible.

After drooling his way through the university grounds Joel would descend the steep, wooden steps that connected the campus to the beach below, strip off, and settle down to admire the passing parade of nude bodies, enjoying the sleek, lean, tanned muscular bodies so overtly displayed for all to see. He rarely connected with any of the young men who presented themselves for closer inspection. It was not that he would have refused their companionship. The beach was awash with the clean-cut Canadian and American boys he adored (and an occasional tasty English or European lad whose extra bit of skin he was prepared to overlook). He even found the uncertainty and air of danger in going off with a complete stranger erotic and sexually stimulating. What prevented any sort of sexual conduct was the layout of the beach and the vigilant Vancouver Police Department.

Wreck Beach was devoid of any kind of flora in which to have a private assignation. Aside from the scraggly sea grass and the dense thicket of low bushes at the base of the cliffs under which it lay, the beach was as naked as the people who frequented it. The beach, because of its popularity and the variety of people who went there, was well patrolled by the Vancouver Police Department. Public nudity was accepted and so long as one obeyed the unwritten rules: no sex, no booze, and no drugs the police constables more or less left everybody alone. Overt sex of any kind, whether homosexual, heterosexual, or variations in between, was not allowed and persons engaging in it were subject to immediate arrest with all the attendant consequences, not the least of which would be the publication of one's name in the criminal court calendars which the city's two dailies published without fail. Joel might risk going off with a young man who turned out to be a homophobic mugger. He dared not risk doing anything that would reveal his homosexuality to his family. Michael might know, the boys at school might know, but his parents, and more importantly, his Uncle Harry, could never find out what he did with other boys. He might risk a beating, a savaging, even death, but he could not risk exposure to his family, he could not risk the wrath of his father or Uncle Harry for that would bring the Tsangs down on his head and he would rather die than be placed in their hands.

The Tsang clan were Uncle Henry Chiang's personal retainers, Chinese peasants who still worshipped the gods and saw omens in everything, keeping to the old ways and never really progressing much beyond the 16th Century. They were Uncle Henry's enforcers, bodyguards and, if the situation warranted it, his personal executioners. The whole clan lived in a rundown, decrepit building in Chinatown, uncles, aunts, cousins, relatives of every degree, fighting, yelling, and copulating with abandon. Their compound was overrun with children, cats and dogs (which appeared and disappeared with distressing regularity, replaced by even mangier creatures), the occasional chicken and innumerable and inconveniently placed shrines to the hundreds of gods and goddesses in the Chinese pantheon. The Tsangs produced hulking males and demonstrably the ugliest females ever conceived. They also gave Uncle Henry fealty and their complete, unquestioning loyalty. Wherever Uncle Henry went there would be a Tsang or three nearby. Michael, as Uncle Henry's heir, had been gifted with a Tsang minder, in the person of Joey Tsang, a huge, beetle-browed young man who followed the boy everywhere, ensuring with his hulking presence that Michael would never be bothered by the school bullies or forced to join the lunch hour line-ups in the school cafeteria. Michael hated him.

Joel recognized Joey for what he was: a spy, who would report back to Uncle Henry every misdeed, every breach of manners, and every unexplained absence. Michael accepted Joey Tsang as an unwelcome, but necessary, presence. He might rail at Joey's existence and constant presence, but once Uncle Henry had ruled, there was little Michael could do about it. Not so Joel.

With his sex life in danger, Joel deliberately, and with practiced ease, seduced Joey, a most unpleasant experience for the same aberrant gene that gave Joey his height and bulk had given him the genitals of a schoolboy, all flesh and little substance, made worse by Joey's complete lack of personal hygiene. Years later Joel would shudder at memory of a naked Joey Tsang, his deep purple glans peeking through the rubbery folds of his foreskin as powerful globs of his thin semen squirted into the air, his porcine squeals of pleasure sundering the quiet of the dingy storeroom off the school gymnasium where Joel took his "dates".

Seducing Joey Tsang had been necessary to ensure his silence. To the Tsangs, Uncle Henry and his family were Mandarins, demi-gods beyond reproach, held in such awe that the elders of the clan kowtowed whenever they entered Uncle Henry's presence. Joel deliberately used this knowledge, and the ingrained horror that all traditional Chinese had of homosexuality, to ensure that no hint of his activities with his school chums made its way to his parents, or Uncle Henry, or Michael, who had made it plain that he would not countenance such conduct. Joey Tsang kept silent for the same reasons. Were he ever to reveal what he and Joel did together would have one result and he had no desire to meet his ancestors with his testicles in one hand and his penis in the other. Knowing what could happen to him did not, however, stop Joey from seeking out Joel whenever Michael's back was turned.

Joel had no worry that word of his conquests amongst his schoolmates would get back to Michael for several reasons. The boys he serviced were naturally very quiet about having sex with him, the more so because of their ingrained prejudices. Getting your dick sucked, or fucking one of your classmates carried no bragging rights in the locker room where being branded a queer, or a faggot, was tantamount to a death sentence. In the white world in which all of Joel and Michael's classmates lived, Chinese were considered not quite human, pitiable examples of humanity who worshipped strange idols, lived in filth, and ate strange, foul-smelling foods. Decent people simply did not have sexual relations with Chinamen! Then there was Joey, who seemed to be always lurking about and one look from him caused even the loudest-mouthed of bullies to pale. Prejudice and unspoken threat made certain that everybody kept his mouth firmly shut.

As he matured Joel realized that antagonizing his cousin was unwise. Michael more and more was drawn into the web of power that surrounded Uncle Henry and while he used that power sparingly Joel had no doubt that if Michael ever found out that his orders had been disobeyed . . .

Joel had no desire to end up in some dismal Tsang village in the wilds of China, surrounded by ugly men and even uglier women, which was the least that would happen to him. Accordingly, he was very careful which of his schoolmates he would have sex with; choosing only those boys whose absolute discretion could be relied upon. Selective, discrete sex worked for a while. Unfortunately Joel discovered that he craved variety. He needed to know what was hidden under the trim grey trousers the boys wore as part of their school uniform. He needed to taste and feel not one boy, but many boys and by his 17th birthday he knew without question that he could never be content with just one partner. No matter how many of his schoolmates he slept with, he still wanted more. Each boy had his own distinct taste and scent, his own uniqueness, to the extent that Clement Keppel tasted entirely different from Spencer Bowes, who was not as sweet as Chris Owen, or as harsh as Terry Cecil, who tasted a hell of a lot better than Joey Tsang. It was the essential difference of men that drove Joel first to Wreck Beach, and later to more fertile hunting grounds in the bathhouses.

From time to time the Vancouver Chamber of Commerce issued glowing press releases to the effect that Canada's "Brightest and Best" were abandoning the frigid, staid and restricting East for the warm, fun-loving, laid back West, not-knowing, or if the Chamber did know, choosing to ignore, the very real fact that many of the country's "Brightest and Best" were young, male, and gay.

They came, at first a trickle, and then a veritable torrent, these young men, anxious to live their lives as they wanted to live them, and not as society, or the churches, or their families wanted them to live. A tide of young men came to the Golden Coast, and stayed. They began to establish a haven for themselves. From Burrard Street to Lost Lagoon, from Robson Street to Bright's Bay and Sunset Beaches on False Creek, a small village began to form, eleven or so square blocks where hotels, inns, bars and clubs welcomed gay clientele with open arms. Gay businesses were opened, gay apartment buildings upgraded and dotting the gay cantonment were established the bath houses that seemed to be an essential part of gay life. They ranged from the opulent to the ordinary, and catered only to men.

Joel visited them all. That he was underage was no impediment. A complete set of false identification, in an assumed name, helped him gain entrance to these treasure houses. In the dimly lit corridors, steam rooms and swimming pools of the bathhouses Joel found what he was looking for. Each building was filled with smooth bodied, handsome, naked men, all wanting to live life to the fullest, to taste, to savour, to enjoy, to live. And all of them wanted what Joel wanted, wild, uninhibited, passionate, anonymous sex. Inside the bathhouses no questions were asked, no names given. Any baggage was left at the door. They were young, they were handsome, they were desired, and life was to be lived to the fullest. Joel, a slim, beautiful boy, was in his element. He had his pick of partners, all of them like him, young, slim, and beautiful. His partners craved what he craved, anonymous sex with no names asked or given, no commitments expected or needed.

For Joel, life was wonderful. He had all the sex he wanted and, on his 18th birthday, he came into his inheritance. Years before when the Chans took over the family business and eased out the Chiangs, certain arrangements were made to ensure that there would be no problems with later generations of Chiangs. Each male "inherited" a sum of money large enough to keep them quiescent and happy. Joel, who was aware of just what Uncle Henry did, and Michael would do, had no desire to be a part of the family business and, given his preferred life style, desired only to get as far away from the restrictions imposed on him as he could. With part of the money he bought a penthouse condominium overlooking English Bay. He continued, officially, to live at home in the family compound with his parents, his brothers, sisters and assorted hangers-on, playing the role of a dutiful Chinese son. Unofficially he lived a secret, double life, free of Chiangs and Chans, Tsangs and, after Michael had succeeded Uncle Henry, the hard-bodied, hard-eyed young white men who supplanted the Neanderthal Tsangs.

With no restrictions placed on him, and no one reporting his every move to Michael Chan, Joel enjoyed the good life. He haunted Wreck Beach and visited the baths every night after school (the boys of St. George's were effectively off-limits so long as Michael attended the school). He had the money to spend, a new car to drive, and never lacked for someone to share the bed in his condominium. As an undergraduate studying at the University of British Columbia he discovered that there were more than a few of his fellow freshmen who enjoyed the view of a sunset over English Bay from a penthouse window. He also discovered a new source of enjoyment.

Vancouver, with its laid back lifestyle, attracted more than just the "Brightest and Best". The city also attracted gay teenaged boys who had come out, or been discovered, by their parents and friends and as a consequence were disowned and thrown out to fend for themselves. Many immediately began to trek, by bus, by train, by foot, to Vancouver, the Holy Grail. They gathered, disconsolate, broke, and dispirited, in Gastown, a rundown, not yet gentrified part of the old city, gathering on street corners and around the steam clock, easy prey for the predators who swooped, vulture-like, down onto the old city square. Joel, while hardly a predator, joined the hunt. He would find a boy, always no older than 17 or 18, not too abused, and take him to the condominium. The boy would be bathed, fed, seduced and bedded and for the next three or four months he would be dressed in the best clothes, gifted with expensive toys, and treated as a young princeling until he became too demanding, onerous, familiar, or Joel became bored with him. He would be given all the jewellery and clothes he had been given during his stay, a wad of bank notes and eased on his way. Within days there would be a new boy toy in place.

After graduation Joel, as the result of a brief fling with one of his professors, was introduced to the world of computers and something called cyberspace. It was, for Joel, a fascinating, strange new world that had, until now, been little known. He took to this new world with a vengeance. Through a friend of a friend of the professor Joel secured an introduction to an American, a visionary of sorts same William Gates, Jr. Joel flew down to Seattle, listened, and joined the choir, committing himself to making Bill Gates' vision a reality. It was the only commitment he was prepared to make and made what he had to do later this evening the hardest thing he would ever do in his life.

The Gunroom was a long, wide chamber in the Staff Barracks, a red brick building that the Royal Navy had built as a Wardroom, housing junior officers assigned to the Heron Spit Station. When the Station was transferred to the Royal Canadian Navy the building had been stripped of its Victorian woodwork and porches and internal partitions and designated as housing for Chiefs and Petty Officers. Between the wars a wing was added at either end of the building to contain the heads and washplaces. After World War II, with the increase in Sea Cadet Training, the building was divided into two parts, the western end housing senior Staff Cadets rated Petty Officer 1st Class or above, the eastern half housing junior Staff Cadets, Petty Officers 2nd Class and below. Two years ago, when it was determined that the "Sea Cadet Training Establishment at Heron Spit" would become the main training venue in Western Canada, a small cabin, named the Chiefs Mess, was cobbled into one corner of the large main room. The cabin accommodated the two Senior Rated Cadets, the Cadet Master at Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor.

In the days of sail, and later in the dreadnoughts and cruisers of the Royal Navy, the most junior officers, Sub-Lieutenants and Midshipmen, were housed in that part of the ship called the Gunroom and so it was that in keeping with the traditions of the Navy the main room was called the Gunroom. Here lived ten cadets. Down each side of the room were ranged five bunks, separated by double metal lockers which were supposed to contain the cadets personal effects and clothing, but never did, the overflow being accommodated in large, black and white striped wooden sea chests placed at the end of every bunk. Down the centre of the Gunroom, separating the line of single bunks was a battered wooden mess table flanked at precise intervals by low, wooden benches. This year the Gunroom was home to five Regulating Petty Offices, the Yeoman of Signals, the Senior Seamanship Instructor, the Drum Major, and the Twins.

At 2000, Paymaster Lieutenant Dickensen, the Officer of the Day, accompanied by his acolytes unto the ninth generation in the persons of Tyler, Val, Young Brown (Duty Bugler), Mal Wooten (Duty Petty Officer), Anson Adean (Duty Quartermaster) and the ship's cat, had trundled through, tracking dust across the freshly washed deck, much to the Twins' annoyance. As part of their punishment for their latest High Crimes and Misdemeanours they were on Defaulters and as such had the thankless task of cleaning the Gunroom, the Chiefs Mess, and the adjacent heads and washplaces.

When the Inspection Party disappeared through the door leading to the Petty Officers Mess the Twins quickly stripped off the night clothing they were required by regulations to wear until after Night Rounds were completed. They stood naked for a moment and then both boys reached for a pair of identical, red-striped boxer underpants.

Todd and Cory Leveson-Arundel were fraternal twins, sharing the same facial features, sun-bleached blond hair, taut, trim bodies and clear, sparkling blue eyes. Each spoke in the same low-pitched, tenor voice. They had the same likes and dislikes (most of the time) and whenever possible preferred to dress alike, although they had little choice in what they wore while serving in HMCS AURORA, their mode of dress dictated by Dress Regulations for Sea Cadets (Revised). Except for swimming, they wore a variation of their uniform, more often than not blue or white bell-bottom trousers, highly polished black boots and a stiffly starched gun shirt. After 1800, if they stayed in their barracks, the cadets were required to exchange the gunshirt for a white T-shirt piped with deep blue at the neck and sleeves.

At home they shared a room and when in it they preferred to be balls to the breeze whenever possible. Here at AURORA such freedom was not permitted and nudity, except in the showers, was forbidden by Queen's Regulations and Orders (Cadets). At home they shared a double bed. Here in the Staff Barracks they had to settle for adjoining bunks next to the bulkhead that separated the Gunroom from the Chiefs Mess, which was, for them a major inconvenience. They enjoyed an active sex life at home and sharing a compartment with eight other boys precluded any activity.

Not that the Twins had been idle or were without resources. Last year, as Gunnery III cadets in training, they had managed to wander a bit and had found several secluded places that were deserted after the training day ended, or so isolated that no one ever went there. One such place was the Ropewalk. Another was a small clearing in the grove of trees that crowded the southern end of the Spit. There were also several small beaches along the southern and western shores of the Spit where they could be alone. This summer they had returned to AURORA and rediscovered their private places. Twice since arriving they had managed some private time together. Unfortunately, this would not happen tonight, or for the next 13 nights. The Twins were Under Punishment; 14 Days Number 9, to be precise, confined to Barracks. They were, in Naval parlance, Defaulters.

Ordinarily, unless they were required to teach a class, or had been detailed off as Duty in the Dog Watches, the Twins would secure at 1600, enjoy a leisurely swim, eat dinner and enjoy the amenities available to Sea Cadets in the canteen. They could play darts (the board and darts donated by the Comox Sports Emporium), play the battered old upright piano donated by the Comox Legion, argue their way through a game of pool with Harry on the table donated by the Courtenay Legion Auxiliary, or cheat their way through a game of table tennis (table, paddles and balls courtesy of the Knights of Columbus, Father Joseph Milligan Council) with the Buffer, Stuart MacDuff and his friend and constant companion, Steve Lee, the Baby Buffer. On Saturday evenings there was a movie in the Drill Shed, always something enlightening and "safe" for viewing by Sea Cadets.

As Staff Cadets the Twins enjoyed great latitude in their free time activities and had discovered that so long as they conducted those activities within the rules, nobody bothered them. If they slipped away for a few quiet hours they knew that no one would question them if they were back in the Gunroom, ready for bed check at 2230, when the Duty Hand would report "All Present and Correct" to the Duty Petty Officer of the Day. They could then, if they felt like it, sit on the barracks stoop for a while, or slip away to one of their private spots, for there was an unwritten agreement in place: The Duty Chief, or Petty Officer of the Day left the Senior Hands strictly alone after Lights Out at 2300. That way when there was a late night bull session, or Harry decided that a few medicinal snorts of something stronger than Coke were in order, nobody was the wiser.

Such activities were now put on hold for the same Naval Discipline Act that confined the Twins to barracks required that the Duty Petty Officer, at least once during his watch, "Log" all Defaulters. He was required to enter the barracks and ensure that each Defaulter was indeed in his bunk, and make note of it in the Night Rounds Book. Tonight Two Strokes was Duty Petty Officer of the First Watch. He was a stickler for discipline, a Book Man, who would carry out his duties to the letter. That he was also homophobic, and disapproved of the Twins, did not help at all. To make matters worse, Two Strokes would be followed by the Twins' nemesis and archenemy, Band Petty Officer Paul Greene. Little Big Man, if they knew him at all, would make a beeline for the Gunroom every hour.

Resigned to their fate the Twins decided to make the most of their incarceration. They were sitting at the mess table enjoying the peace and quiet. They were - a rare event - alone. Todd was intently designing the logo that would adorn the Gunnery Branch T-shirt. Each course had a shirt made up as a souvenir of their time at AURORA. Cory, equally intent, and with the care and deftness of a surgeon, was carefully using a pair of tweezers to weave what looked like a mare's nest of multi-coloured gun line into rosettes that would adorn the parachute cord covering the bottom half of the telescope he was decorating. On the table in front of him was a large, open book illustrating different types of decorative knots.

Cory had a flair for this type of decorative ropework and many of the older RCN hands, who had learned the art as Boy Seamen, considered him a virtuoso. Decorative ropework was yet another skill cast aside by Unification. Now only Sea Cadets were taught how to weave pieces of Costain Gun Line, parachute cord, and hemp into small masterpieces adorning telescopes, oars, sweeps and stanchions.

Todd looked up from his drawing and saw his brother's intense, concentrating face. He loved the way the tip of Cory's tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth when he was really into what he was doing, from trying to make sense out of advanced calculus to tying miniature knots. "New book?" he asked.

Cory nodded. "The Gunner gave it to me when he heard that Number One had asked me to decorate his lookstick." He nodded toward the book. "It's Ashley's Book of Knots," he explained. "It's the only book I've seen that tells how to weave a rose." He put aside the tweezers, stretched, rubbed the back of his aching neck and then reached over and slipped his hand into the fly of Todd's boxers. He rolled and squeezed his brother's satin-skinned, low hanging scrotum, and ran his thumb along his smooth, soft penis.

Todd reciprocated. Cory's testicles were identical in shape to his, and were contained in an equally smooth, satin sac devoid of hair. Cory's penis was exactly the same as Todd's in length, colouring and positioning of his slight circumcision scar. His testicles, however, were slightly smaller than his brother's. Todd explained the difference in size to his being older - by seven minutes and some seconds - than his twin. Cory pretended to believe him.

They continued their fondling for several minutes and then Todd reluctantly pulled his hands from his brother's underpants. "We better not," he said glancing at the clock over the door leading to the Petty Officer's Mess. He leaned over and kissed Cory's well-formed, sweet lips. "No sense in tempting fate."

Cory groaned heavily. "I suppose its hand wipes in the dark for us for the next 14 days!" He grimaced and slowly pulled his hand from Todd's boxers.

Todd nodded his agreement. "We will not be able to go down to the place. Not tonight, anyway."

"I know. Little Big Man will be in here just looking for a chance to catch us. He would dearly love to log us as absent." Cory untangled himself from the bench that he had been sitting on and began to clear away his handiwork."

"As I said, it's better not to tempt fate, especially when it's panting at the door," replied Todd. He held up the drawing that he had been working on. "So, what do you think?"

Cory looked at the drawing and regarded the artwork. He raised his eyebrows at his brother's artistic license, for Todd had drawn, in neat and meticulous detail, a Model 1904 Ordnance Quick Firing 13pdr Field Gun, complete with limber. It was a handsome piece of artillery and still in use by the Royal Navy and the Royal Artillery for ceremonial purposes, including funerals. The Sea Cadets did not use such a weapon. They used the sturdy, 12-pound Mountain Gun, a plain, substantial gun that could be broken down into six mule-loads. Not that the Sea Cadets had mules. They broke down the gun when performing the Naval Gun Run. Cory was about to point this simple fact out to his brother when he saw the words, written in neat manuscript, encircling the gun. His eyebrows rose higher as he read the words. "Last Course With Balls." He regarded the drawing and shook his head.

Both boys were not impressed that the Sea Cadets had gone co-ed. The Twins, being confirmed gays, had little interest in girls in general, and female Sea Cadets in particular. Unlike the politicians and the feminists they, even at their young age, understood the unique bonding that occurs between males in the close environment of a military unit. Females did not understand this bonding and being females they could never achieve it. The Twins' opinion was shared by most, if not all, of their comrades.

The melding of the all-female Wrenette Corps with the all-male Sea Cadet Corps had been planned for this year and in some dim office there was a site plan of HMCS AURORA blocking out a barracks area for females. Fortunately labour difficulties in the early spring of the year had delayed construction of a barracks for female cadets until the next training cycle in 1977. The Twins, who would attain 18 years of age in April of 1977, would not be returning to AURORA and would be spared any female nonsense.

"You will never get away with it," said Cory slowly as he turned and began to store the telescope, book, and line in his sea chest. He slammed the lid closed and sat on the chest. "You will never get the Executive Officer to approve that shirt. He might not like having girl Sea Cadets but he has to live with them. They will be all over this place come next year and there is nothing he can do about it." He shook his head firmly. "Number One will never approve of that drawing," he finished.

"Which is why I do not intend on asking for his approval," replied Todd airily as he rolled the drawing into a tight cylinder. "What he does not know will not hurt him." He grinned and waved the rolled drawing at his brother. "The guys will love it!"

Cory stood up and moved to his bunk. "That is as may be," he said as he sat on his bunk, his back against the outside bulkhead. He made himself comfortable, bringing his legs up so that his parts hung low and luscious. "You still have to have the shirts printed up," he pointed out.

"Oh, I will think of something," replied Todd nonchalantly. "I always do." He stored the drawing in his locker and sat on his bed, unconsciously assuming the same position as that of his brother.

Cory groaned and said, "That is what worries me!" He hugged himself and turned a sad face toward his brother. "Jesus, Todd, aren't we in enough trouble as it is?"

Once again Todd emulated his brother. He hugged his knees and grinned. "Cory, we are always in trouble. Our middle name is trouble. So then, what difference will it make?"

Cory considered this for a moment. "Well," he drawled slowly, "I suppose if you have the things made up, and then waited until we were just getting onto the buses to go home before you handed the shirts out, it might work." He gave Todd a stern look. "You still have to have the logo printed on the shirts," he repeated stubbornly.

Before Todd could tell Cory exactly what he had planned the bugle call, First Post, blared from the overhead speaker. "Fuck! There goes peace and quiet," he grumbled obscenely.

The Twins braced themselves for the jeers and sarcasm they knew would accompany the return of their messmates. Any minute now the door leading from the barracks yard would slam open and the first of their mates to return would start. Neither of the Twins was looking forward to what was hardly a unique experience. Their messmates never let an opportunity to hoot and holler at their latest escapade and punishment go by. Their so-called friends would have a field day after what happened this morning.

It was not that the Twins were not expecting the comments. Chucking shit, as it was called, was a part of mess life and anyone being in the rattle knew without having to be told that a shit locker full of abuse would descend on the cadet unlucky enough to be found wanting. The Twins could hardly complain for they had been, as the saying went, on the other side of the table and chucked shit with the best of them. They would have preferred that whatever their messmates were going to say had been said earlier but there simply had been no opportunity.

The Twins had returned from Defaulters just before the bugle called the cadets to Muster for Evening Classes. All the senior cadets were teaching a class, or on duty. The day was scheduled so that there was little, if any, time between events for a cadet to loiter. From 1600 until 1800, when evening classes began and the Second Dog Watch mustered, the denizens of the Gunroom had to eat, change into the uniform of the day if they were not already wearing it, grab what materials they needed to instruct their class, quickly tidy their allotted space - the Twins, as Defaulters, would scrub the deck, heads and washplace - and hurry off. The other boys had barely enough time to acknowledge the presence of the Twins before they reported for duty. The Twins could only await their fate.

As the last of the bugle notes died away Cory turned to his brother and smiled weakly. "It could be worse, I suppose," he said, knowing exactly what Todd was thinking.

"How could it be worse?" muttered Todd.

"At least we do not have to put up with Little Big Man," replied Cory consolingly. He laughed bitterly. "What fun he would have!"

"There is that, I suppose," agreed Todd. He gave the bulkhead that separated the Gunroom from the Petty Officers Mess a dirty look. Behind the bulkhead Little Big Man lived. Wisely, he never entered the Gunroom except when on duty.

The Twins had little time to dwell on what Little Big Man might, or might not, have said. The door from the barracks yard slammed open and Harry entered. Alfie, the handsome, black Regulating Petty Officer, followed him. Behind Alfie came Thumper and Two Strokes. All four immediately began stripping off their uniforms, preparing for their evening showers. All four lost no time in heaping derision on the golden haired Twins.

"You fucked up, big time!" crowed Two Strokes as he stepped out of his starched, white bell-bottoms. "Too bad The Gunner stood up for you!"

"Too bad?" asked Thumper dropping his trousers to the deck. He gave the Twins a disgusted look and pushed down his tight, white briefs, not caring if the Twins ogled his handsome set of parts. "Without him those two clowns would have been sent down. Those idiots could have killed Matron!"

"Not to mention fucking up Dirty Dave the Deacon's sex life," opined Alfie. He stepped out of the huge boxers he claimed he needed to wear to contain what he considered to be his huge endowment. "And for not pranging Little Big Man when you had the chance, you deserve what you got!" He sniffed derisively, a true Crusher. "Fourteen Days stoppage of leave and confined to barracks!"

Harry, a towel draped around his slim, classic waist, shook his fist at the Twins. "If there is ever a war I hope you two are on the other side!"

The Twins were hardly in a position to respond. They had fucked up, and no danger.

The door opened again and the rest of their messmates entered. Nicholas Rodney, the Yeoman of Signals and Jon Jackson, another Crusher, stripped down and added their opinions and comments. Only two of the cadets, Fred Fisher, a tall, thin, dark blond Regulating Petty Officer, and Chris Hood, the Senior Seamanship Instructor, said nothing. Fred was naturally quiet, and never said anything to anybody. Chris worshiped the Twins and would have walked on white-hot coals before saying anything against them.

When it became obvious that the Twins were not going to rise to the bait and respond to their insults, the cadets went to shower. As Harry pointed out, there was plenty of time left for some serious shit chucking.

When the last of their messmates disappeared down the short corridor that led to the washplace Cory moved down the bed and propped himself on one elbow. He looked at Todd. "Perhaps if we ignore them, they will go away."

"Fat chance of that," responded Todd. "Those bastards are enjoying themselves!" Harry was the first to return from showering. He went to his bunk, which was in the starboard corner of the Gunroom, and put on a pair of tight, white briefs. He then slipped what looked like a folded piece of a white T-shirt down the front of his underpants. As a finale he adjusted his penis until it was pointing up toward his navel. He saw the Twins looking at him and growled. "You two skates keep the noise down tonight!" he ordered. "You caused enough trouble today and I need my beauty sleep. I do not want to listen to you jokers yapping half the night!" He got into bed, pulled the covers over his head and turned his back to the room.

Todd gave Cory a questioning look. Cory snickered. They were both familiar with the habits of their messmates. Todd thought that Harry was up to something, probably involving beating off. Cory knew that Harry was up to something, and it did involve beating off.

The cadets returned from showering and began pulling on the boxers and briefs that they slept in, pointedly ignoring the Twins who, being put out by their treatment at the hands of the messmates, pointedly ignored them. The Twins were so put out that they deliberately refused to participate in their usual nightly ritual, normally a pleasant, if predictable end to the day for them.

Casual nudity was a way of life in any mess deck or barracks, so much so that no one, after the initial shock, gave it much thought, cheerfully stripping off and parading about, the size, shape and colour of their genitals being subjects of admiration or derision from their fellows. Being teenage boys they had long since lost whatever inhibitions they might have - even Two Strokes, who was a blue-nosed Calvinist from Redneck Country - and being vain, they enjoyed being admired for the aesthetic, masculine beauty they all knew they possessed. The Twins, the acknowledged experts on the subject, did not disappoint and every evening cast admiring glances at the swinging dicks paraded for their approval and pleasure, from Alfie's short, thick penis with its huge, blue/black mushroom to Fred's long, thin, delicately circumcised member. Harry, as always led the pack, deeming it his due, seeing as he had the biggest, and best, penis of the lot, as he told his messmates constantly.

This evening, however, the Twins refused to participate. As the cadets paraded past they turned their heads away. They even ignored Chris, a slim, short and very good looking boy from Kingston, Ontario, who was half in love with them and walked past their bunks, twice. After his second pass a look of disappointment crossed his face. He pulled on his underpants and crawled under the covers.

Once the other cadets were settled in their beds Todd gestured toward the door. Cory nodded and the Twins picked up their pillows and left the Gunroom. Once outside they placed the pillows on the concrete slab that formed a small stoop and sat down, squirming until they were comfortable and ensured that no part of their scantily clad behinds touched the hard surface of the stoop. Their grandmother had insisted that sitting on cold concrete was a sure way to develop haemorrhoids and, while they only half-believed the old wives' tale, after the day they had had they were not taking any chances.

The night was cool and not at all unpleasant. They enjoyed the feel of the light breeze that blew across the Spit, caressing their near-naked bodies, the quiet broken only by the soft shuffle and skittering as the night creatures went about their business.

The Twins always tried to end their day in this manner. They enjoyed sitting outside in the evening, discussing the day's events, just enjoying being with each other. The other cadets seemed to recognize that the Twins needed this time together and never interrupted them. The Twins, appreciating the courtesy, never did anything untoward, and always made sure to stay outside a good ten minutes after Lights Out had been sounded. They knew that Thumper, immediately the lights were darkened, would hurry into the heads and pound his pud, which was his nightly ritual. The Twins considered that they were young gentlemen and thought it bad form to interrupt a messmate at such an intimate and private moment.

Once they were comfortably settled Cory moved close to Todd, and laid his head on his brother's shoulder. He loved the way Todd smelled at the end of the day, after his evening shower, his scent evoking a feeling of warmth and love.

Todd rubbed his cheek against Cory's soft hair. "Are you going to tell me what Harry is up to?" he asked as he put his arm around Cory's shoulder.

Cory giggled and slipped his arm around his brother's slim waist. "He's going to try a Thumper Special," he replied.

"A what?"

"Thumper told Harry that if he puts a piece of an old T-shirt, a really soft one, down the front of his Jockeys and just rubs the head of his dick on it, you know, a dry hump."

Todd pulled away and gave Cory a doubtful look. "The head?"

"The underside of the tip, you know the spot just where the shaft joins the head?"

Todd knew exactly what spot Cory was talking about. "It is awfully sensitive there," he agreed.

"According to Thumper if you rub that spot slow and easy you end up with a mind-blowing orgasm and cum like a racehorse!"

"If anybody would know about things like that it would be Thumper," sniffed Todd acidly. "And how do you know?" he finished suspiciously.

"I was in the heads, sitting on the throne when Thumper told Harry," replied Cory coolly, not at all impressed with his brother's suspicious nature. "Nobody looks to see if the cans are empty, so I hear a lot of things."

"Such as?" asked Todd, still suspicious as to how Cory happened to know about Thumper and his so-called Special.

"Such as I happened to be over at the School of Wind when I overheard Sylvain and Andre talking," replied Cory.

Sylvain de Beauharnais was Drum Major of the Bugle Band. Andre de Noailles was "Sticks", or Lead Drummer. They were French-Canadians and while Todd had a yen for Sylvain, he did not particularly care for Andre. Cory, on the other hand, lusted after Andre and only tolerated Sylvain. They were both handsome young men but Todd knew that neither would ever grace Cory's bed once he found out what they had hidden under their Fruit of the Looms, which secrets Todd did know, having participated in the QUEST Programme with both musicians in April. He decided now was not the time to enlighten his brother, or tell him how he came to acquire the knowledge, particularly in Sylvain's case. "You just happened to be in the School of Wind and decided to take a dump?" he asked, not entirely convinced that Cory's motives were innocent.

"Nature called," returned Cory with a shrug. "Can I help it if they decided to visit the heads at the same time?"

"I supposed not," conceded Todd grudgingly, although he did wonder what in the hell Cory was doing in the School of Music in the first place!

"Anyway," said Cory with heavy emphasis, "I was in the heads and they came in, nattering in that horrible patois they will speak and I had a hard time trying to figure out what they were on about"

"You managed, I take it," said Todd dryly. Both he and Cory had been schooled in classic, Parisian French. Sylvain and Andre spoke Jouel, a corrupted version of the French language.

"I got the gist of it," said Cory. "Sylvain was bragging about a wet dream he had last week and he was telling Andre how his shorts were stiff with crusted spunk. Andre said that was nothing as he had a wet dream the same night and he was covered in his spooge. He also said that the dream was wonderful, so good that he had pushed the front of his undies down and when he woke up there he was, balls up and his dick still hard, spunky as hell!"

That either of the French boys would have a wet dream was hardly surprising to Todd. With the possible exception of the New Entry Cadets, called Sea Puppies, every cadet aboard was well into puberty and except for their own hands had no way to vent their frustrations. Having a wet dream was a perfectly natural occurrence.

The Twins had no worry about wet dreams, or the resultant mess on the sheets or in their underpants. They had been sexually active with each other almost from the moment they discovered the pleasure they derived from manipulating their penises. Todd said as much to Cory who said with a quiet sigh, "I wish we could go over to the place."

Todd rubbed his cheek against Cory's head, feeling the bristles of his brother's high and tight haircut scratch his smooth skin. "So do I," he said softly. "But we can't."

Cory held back a sob. "I'm sorry, Todd. I should have checked that damned gun!"

"I was Acting Battery Commander. It was my responsibility so that makes me just as guilty." Todd shrugged expressively. "It really doesn't matter, though. Maybe it's as The Gunner said, shit happens and we all make mistakes."

Cory raised his head and looked at his brother. "Do you really think that he shelled the Dartmouth Ferry?" he asked.

The day that had ended so disastrously for the Twins had begun pleasantly enough. For once everybody in the Gunroom had set to with a will at Cleaning Stations and the place was immaculate for Rounds. The Executive Officer had complimented the cadets and told them that they were fine examples of what Sea Cadets could, and should be, and no one was given a shitty chitty.

After Rounds the Twins repaired to the parade square where, under the direction of the Guard Officer, they began the intricate evolutions of drill and music that made up the Ceremony of the Flags. This ceremony the cadets would perform on the lawn of the Legislature in Victoria, on the first Monday in August, which was British Columbia Day, in the morning. In the evening, as the sun sank into the western Pacific the cadets were to perform the Sunset Ceremony, which would also be practised today.

The ceremonies, the music of which was accompanied by gun salutes, had once been a staple of the Royal Canadian Navy. There was nothing quite so stirring as 100-odd sailors, dressed in crisp, starched, proper white uniforms, marching and counter-marching with a precision and grace that only sailors seemed to possess as the guns fired in perfect synchronization with the music. The ceremonies raised the profile of the Navy to great heights and were guaranteed showstoppers whenever they were performed. Naturally, with the unification of the Armed Services the ceremonies, together with any and all of the old customs and traditions that might draw attention to the old days, the old ways, the ceremonies were discontinued, performed only by Sea Cadets.

The Lieutenant Governor of British Columbia, who in addition to being the Queen's Representative, was a Honourary Captain in the RCN. He was a decorated veteran of the War and Korea, and he was not a supporter of Unification, to the extent that he refused a Naval Guard for his investiture. He was Old Navy, Blue Navy and he would not have a bunch of non-descript whatevers dressed in green suits cluttering up his lawn.

While he was nominally a pillar of the Liberal Party (he had to be in order to get his present job) there were certain aspects of the Prime Minister's reign that His Excellency (as he was called) did not approve of, one of which was Unification. As a politician he was compelled to follow the party line, no matter how much it galled him. As Lieutenant Governor he was supposed to be "above politics", constitutionally required to follow the advice of the Premier of British Columbia and the Prime Minister of Canada, and was not supposed to express an opinion on any subject, no matter how trivial. There were, however, subtle ways for an old sailor to make everybody know exactly where he stood on certain subjects. To express his disdain for Unification and, coincidently his dislike for the Commander, Maritime Pacific (MARPAC), he requested that a Guard of Honour, composed of 100 Sea Cadets, with Band, all of them dressed in proper, old pattern sailor uniforms (a pattern which he himself had worn back in the dark days of 1939), be present for his Inspection at his Investiture and whenever he opened Parliament. He was also politician enough to note that there was not much reaction when the so-called Regulars, dressed in green and looking like a troop of itinerant bus drivers, marched in a parade. He did notice that when the Sea Cadets marched by with drums beating and flags flying, dressed in starched white uniforms and deep blue collars, wearing their distinctive round caps, the crowds clapped and shouted. MARPAC did not like it, and tended to sulk when it happened, but there was not much he could do about it. The Great Canadian Public outranked him, as did the Lieutenant Governor, who invited the Sea Cadets to come down to Victoria and help that most British of Canadian cities celebrate British Columbia Day, by marching in the parade and performing on the grounds of the Legislature.

Thus it was that the Twins, with two 12-pound field guns, complete with limbers and 32-cadet crews for each gun, a 50 man Guard, two Bands (one Brass/Reed, the other Bugle), flag bearers, signalmen, and the Ship's cat, were in position on the parade square where, under the direction of the Guard Officer, they were smartly executing the manoeuvres required to perform the Ceremony of the Flags. The Guard Officer was a handsome, dark haired young man of 19 years, a product of the Kingston Sea Cadet Corps, RCSCC SAINT LAWRENCE. He had come up through the ranks, joining the Corps as an Ordinary Cadet at the age of 12 and progressing through the ranks, retiring as Chief of the Corps, when he was appointed a Midshipman. In April of 1976 he had received his commission as a Sub-Lieutenant, RCNR, and was justifiably proud of his accomplishments and his appointment to command the Guard. His appointment confirmed his decision not to participate in the Fort Henry Guard, a crack drill unit made up of students attending Queen's University in Kingston. As an undergraduate, and a former Sea Cadet, the Guard Officer would have been a natural for this Guard. He had chosen to stay with his first love and applied for a commission with the Sea Cadets. He could not believe his luck when his application for Gunnery Officer of HMCS AURORA for the 1976 Training Year had been approved. In a few short weeks he would be front and centre at the most important ceremony of the cadet training year, leading a group of superbly trained cadets, every one of them just as proud as he was. His only disappointment was that his parents had not been able to arrange their summer holiday to coincide with his moments of glory.

Because he was young, and inexperienced, the Guard Officer forgot that he was only a small part of a very large production, and that Murphy's Law was always in effect. Quite innocently the Twins became Murphy's Law personified.

The Twins had four years of intense training under their belts. They had fired the guns for the Ceremony of the Flags so many times that they were complacently certain that they could do it in their sleep. They had unknowingly cultivated a "been there, done that" attitude and this morning they had spent most of their time checking out the Guard Officer. They had both known him back when, having attended the National Sea Cadet Camp in Esquimalt with him. Cory opined that the Guard Officer had somehow gotten handsomer. He certainly looked dashing in his brass-buttoned uniform and his tan set of his black hair and complimented his bright, brown eyes a treat. He wondered if Sub Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent, for that was the Guard Officer's name, would be interested in some extracurricular activities, say during the Middle Watch in the Ropewalk?

Todd, who had been lounging against a gun limber when Cory made his suggestion, scratched his head and made a face. He liked Kyle. He had seen all of Kyle when they were Petty Officers in RCSCC ONTARIO, Kingston Sea Cadet camp. He cast an appraising gaze over the young Guard Officer. "I admit that he is cute," he said slowly. "I also admit that he has got a very nice package under those trousers he is wearing. However . . ." He held up his hand before Cory could comment. "He has hair on his feet, for Christ's sake." Then he looked his brother squarely in the eye. "He is also an officer."

Somewhat crushed, Cory nodded his agreement. Other Rates did not fraternize with officers, period. He turned to giving Dylan Brereton, the No. 2 Gun Captain, the once over. Dylan was short, slim, had blond hair and dazzling blue eyes, and just the thing to look at while lazing away a morning while waiting for the Guard to get its shit together. Cory sighed happily.

The first practice had gone well enough. The Gunner, who was nominally in charge of the guns, and the gunners, and who would normally be present, was busy elsewhere. Before the cadets had assembled he had called the Twins aside and told them that he trusted their judgement and level of training. He saw no reason to baby sit them and told them that so long as they remembered their training and listened to the Gunnery Officer, they should have no problems. The Twins had passed this message on to the other gunners who knew that if they fucked up word would get back to The Gunner with the speed of light. They were all determined not to let The Gunner down. They marched and wheeled with precision and gusto. What errors they committed were few, minor, and quickly put to rights. The second run through was even better than the first, so much so that Kyle decided to have the guns fire during the playing of the Sunset Hymn. He needed to practice his timing. As Guard Officer it was his job to have the Guard present arms at the exact moment the guns fired to begin the final part of the Sunset Ceremony. Done properly it was all very stirring.

Kyle told Brian Venables, the Guard Petty Officer, to tell Todd, the Acting Battery Commander, to load the guns with blank rounds. The order was a surprise to the Twins, first because there was no officer present to supervise the loading and firing of the guns, and secondly because they had never before been allowed to actually fire the guns during a practice run. They had always relied on the Drum Line to simulate the sounds of the guns firing.

The Twins and Dylan held a short conference. Neither Todd nor Cory was worried about the drill. They were both Gunners First Class, Quarter Rates, and had been laying, loading and firing the ancient field pieces for four years. The Gun Crews were all as well trained and qualified. Dylan, while relatively junior, was only an examination away from his Quarter Rate. He was almost as sharp as the Twins.

Cory, enthusiastically supported by Dylan, pointed out that there was no reason that he could think of for them not to carry out Kyle's order. They had practice fired the guns on at least a hundred occasions, had they not? They had participated in more actual firings than they could remember, had they not? They knew the orders; they knew the drill backwards and forward, inside and out, did they not? Everybody had been expertly trained by The Gunner (here he waved his arm at the Gun Crews for effect), had they not? Every man jack in both Gun Crews had been hand picked by The Gunner, had they not? The same Gunner who had told them that he trusted their judgement and training, had he not? Cory could not see a problem at all.

Dylan agreed with Cory, as did the other cadets who were drawn into the conversation, and they all nodded their complete agreement when Dylan opined that all of the gunners had more time in than the Ship's cat, that all of them had been in longer than a Dog Watch and none of them needed some poxy officer to stand around with his thumb up his bum until it was time to yell "Shoot", which he usually fucked up anyway! He also pointed out that the Guard Officer had issued an order. He had ordered them to load and fire the guns. Personally he could not see that they had much choice.

Todd was naturally cautious by nature and he admitted to be a tad worried. Queen's Regulations specifically stated that cadets, no matter how well trained or what their rates, had to be supervised by an officer. Every evolution, with the possible exception of going to the heads (and sometimes not even then) had to be supervised by an officer!

Leading Gunner Anson Adean, who was No. 1 Loader on Cory's gun, and whose brother was also at AURORA as Assistant Physical Training Instructor, pointed out that there was an officer on parade, even if he was a Subbie.

Todd, who actually liked Kyle, even if he did have hairy insteps, and knew him to be a sharp young officer, doubted that he could be in two places at once. He could not supervise the Battery and play with the Guard at the same time. Cory agreed, up to a point. Regulations did stipulate an officer be present to supervise. Kyle was out there on the parade square, as big as life, supervising. Dylan, who was eager to prove that he was just as good as either Todd or Cory, bobbed his head in agreement.

Todd, with a chorus of "Yeahs", "Cory is right", and "We're gunners, not little kids, and we can do it!" assaulting his ears, allowed himself to be talked into it. He, along with the other cadets, was a well-trained, very experienced gunner. Not only that, but he and the Gun Crews had been trained by The Gunner, who had learned his trade at Whale Island, and you could not get any better than that! The same Gunner had only this morning told them that he had the greatest faith and trust in them. Todd was also tired of being treated as if he was a little boy. He did not need some officer looking over his shoulder when he went for a pee, and he sure as hell did not need an officer to tell him how to load and fire a gun! He was the Acting Battery Commander and by Heaven he would command!

Todd ordered the Gun Crews to stand to their guns. Cory and Dylan, as Gun Captains, took up their positions behind the guns and ordered their crews to draw blank rounds from the ready-use lockers of the limbers. There was no need for them to warn their crews to look sharp and step lively. With a precision that surprised even themselves the loaders smartly slammed home the blank shells. The layers just as smartly elevated the gun barrels. The firing numbers grasp the lanyards and dropped to their knees with a sharpness that would have shamed a Royal Horse Artilleryman. The Acting Battery Commander, and the Gun Captains of Number 1 and Number 2 Field Guns snapped to attention, their right arms raised. They were ready! The adrenaline was flowing! They were gunners trained by the best damned gunner in Canada. They were sharp and they were good! The Gunner knew it! They knew it and in a few minutes the world of AURORA would know it!

Unfortunately so great was the collective excitement that the Gun Captains forgot to remove the tompions - tapered felt and metal stoppers that protected the guns' rifling from the elements - from the barrels.

At first the world unfolded, as it should have. The parade formed up and then, as the Band played The Middie, marched onto the parade square, marching and counter-marching into their positions in the middle of the huge, dusty square. The enthusiasm of the Gun Crews seemed to have travelled to the Guard and Band; their drill was sharper, crisper, and cleaner, better than ever before. Starboard, and aft of the Band, was Cory's gun and crew. Port, and aft of the Band was Dylan's gunners. As always happened when the Guard and Band were out and about, the spectacle drew a motley collection of onlookers. The Phantom, who on his way to work, stopped to watch, as did Dirty Dave the Deacon and Matron, who were courting and taking a pre-luncheon stroll along the far edge of the parade square.

Once in position the Guard began their drill, unfixing bayonets to Kyle's shouted command and firing a Feu de Joie. The sound of the rifles firing in sequence attracted even more spectators. Chef and the two cooks, Ray and Sandro, stood outside the Mess Hall. Number One left his desk and stood in the Breezeway Flats, by the canteen. A gaggle of Sea Puppies, released from class early by Little Big Man so that they could watch the drill, gathered on the side of the parade square.

Their part of the Ceremony finished for the moment; the Guard fixed bayonets, shouldered their arms, and stood at attention while the Band began their part. The drummers beat out a Drummers' Salute. After a three-beat pause Harry raised his Mace and with a flourish the Band stepped off, thumping out On The Quarterdeck. The drummers and musicians marched ten paces forward and then, at Harry's signal, performed a rosebud counter-march. Another counter-march and the Band halted, the drummers continuing with drums crashing. The drummers counter-marched through the Band and then back again, halting in front of the musicians. A short pause and Greensleeves' slow, haunting melody sounded as the Band slow-marched until they were ten paces behind the Guard. The Band halted and the Director of Music, a short, bespectacled Lieutenant, marched from beside the Band to the front of it, raised his arm and then slowly lowered it. Without fanfare the Band began to play the traditional hymn, The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Over.

As the hymn's slow, mournful notes were played and the end approached, Kyle tensed and began counting. Todd, Cory and Dylan tensed, watching Kyle, and counting. The buglers in the Bugle Band, at a signal from their Drum Major, Sylvain, raised their brass and silver bugles to their lips, and counted.

The final bars and actions of the Sunset Ceremony were designed to impress, awe, and stun the onlookers. It was a magnificent spectacle when done properly. The Guard would execute the Present Arms, the Sunset Gun would fire, and the bugles would sound the first notes of the Last Post while the Band played the Sunset Hymn, composed as part of the Jubilee Celebrations for King George V in 1935 by the Royal Marines in Gibraltar. As the Band played the guns would fire in counter point to the music. Done properly the ceremony was guaranteed to cause even the most hardened Gunnery Chief to cream his Dr. Denton's.

Up to this point everything happened as planned. The Guard presented arms; the Guard Officer's sword came up in salute, then down, in perfect synchronization with the Guard's last movement and the last note of the hymn. The buglers wet their lips, prepared to blow the bugle call, and Todd, as Acting Battery Commander bellowed, "Shoot!" Cory's armed dropped and the firing number of his gun jerked the lanyard. No. 1 Gun roared. Dylan, either not understanding, or forgetting that only one gun was supposed to fire, dropped his arm and the firing number of No. 2 Gun jerked his lanyard. No. 2 gun roared.

The Phantom, who had been watching the spectacle with interest, jumped at the report of the guns, then watched slack-jawed as two projectiles, three pounds of tightly packed felt and brass tompions, arced high in the air, crossed over the heads of the Bandsmen, and landed at opposite sides of the parade square, the first landing not a foot from Little Big Man who, much to the undisguised glee of the Sea Puppies, squealed in fright and jumped a good three feet back. The second projectile whizzed past the noses of Dirty Dave The Deacon and Matron and buried itself in the soft earth not ten feet from them. All hell promptly broke loose.

Little Big Man, convinced that the Twins had deliberately fired at him, charged full bore towards the gun crews, howling curses. Matron, a large, formidable woman who had survived the fall of Hong Kong, and not about to put up with any cadet nonsense, charged full bore down the parade square towards the Guard Officer who was, so far as she was concerned, the man in charge and therefore responsible for the unwarranted assault on her person. She threatened to give all concerned a Bombay Cocktail, a noxious brew and her sovereign remedy for constipation, guaranteed to clean out a Sea Cadet or a sea elephant, which were in her loudly voiced opinion were equally loathsome creatures!

Kyle, not knowing what had happened, was totally at sea. He could not understand why he was being roundly chewed out by the normally well-spoken and quiet nurse, or why Little Big Man was in the middle of the parade square, arms and legs flailing while Harry and Sylvain, who had witnessed his charge and tackled him, held him down.

By the time the Executive Officer arrived the parade square was in tumult. Dirty Dave the Deacon, who was given to fluttering in times of crises, was fluttering; Matron was yelling at Kyle; Little Big Man, firmly in the grip of the two Drum Majors, was shouting maledictions at the Twins and all their antecedents and progeny; the Buglers and musicians were beyond relief from laughing and the Sea Puppies had scattered at a rate of knots. The Twins, for the first time in their young lives, were scared rigid.

Number One told everybody to shut up! The two Bands, the Guard, the two Gun Crews, were dismissed. Matron was figuratively soothed and stroked, told that it had all been an unfortunate accident and assured that justice would be done. Little Big Man was picked up, dusted off, figuratively kissed on both cheeks and patted on his bum, firmly told that no one was deliberately trying to kill him, and assured that justice would be done. Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent was sent to the Commanding Officer's cabin, there to await that august personage's pleasure. The spectators were sent packing. When the parade square was cleared Number One went stomping off to the Wardroom for a stiff scotch, damning an unkind fate that had gifted him with the Twins!

At 1600 the Twins repentant and feeling very sorry for themselves, appeared at Executive Officer's defaulters. Tyler, the Cadet Master at Arms, his natural liking for the Twins overcome by his sense of duty, coldly read out the charges and specifications, the Twins being charged with Discharging a Weapon Without Exercising Due Care and Caution, Dereliction of Duty in that they Discharged a Weapon Without Exercising Due Care and Caution and, for good measure and just to make sure that they could not weasel out of anything, the Admiral's Cloak: Conduct Prejudicial To Good Order And Discipline, which covered just about everything that the Master at Arms could think of.

Number One had the Twins cold, and knew it. The Twins knew that Number One had them cold. They had considered pleading not guilty but after talking it over they decided, what the fuck. They would plead guilty to all charges and specifications and, accompanied by much whining and snivelling, beg the mercy of the court, of which there was precious little.

The Executive Officer was in no mood to grant mercy. His own ass had been royally chewed by the Commanding Officer, an ex-Gunnery type himself, for standing by and allowing an inexperienced young officer to order rifles and cannons to be fired all over the place! He had then been required to humiliate himself by offering the most obsequious of apologies to Matron, whom he did not particularly care for. Then he had to listen to Dirty Dave the Deacon going on and on about boys being boys, creatures that must be watched at all times lest they do themselves, or innocent bystanders, an injury. On top of everything else Number One had been required to discipline the Guard Officer who, besides being a young man of great potential, was his own particular pet. Kyle much chastened and with his ass feeling as if it had been chewed to hamburger, was ordered to stand Watch On Watch, four hours on, four hours off, for the next two days. He was also ordered to apologise, in writing, to Matron and the Chaplain (P) for the incident. Having been hard on the Guard Officer, Number One could hardly do less to the Twins.

The Gunner, as senior Gunnery type, and de-facto Gunnery Divisional Officer, was required to stand up for the Twins and defend their actions. He was well aware of what had happened for he had been told, first by Chef who was laughing fit to kill as he related his eyewitness account, by The Phantom (his story suitably embellished), Surgeon Lieutenant Commander Reynolds (who had been forced to listen to Matron's ranting for two hours and ten minutes - he timed her), six gunners, two Sea Puppies, and the ship's cat. The Twins were neck deep in shit and from the way Number One carried on, sinking fast. The fact that the Twins were guilty as hell was immaterial. They were part of the Gunnery Division and it was The Gunner's duty to do everything he could think of to save their scrawny necks. He gave no indication of what we was going to say or do when he saw the Twins before they were all marched onto the Quarterdeck. "Plead guilty, keep your yaps shut and let me do all the talking," was all he told the boys.

Tyler read out the charges and specifications. Alfie, with great solemnity duly recorded the Twins' guilty plea. The Executive Officer told The Gunner to get on with it. He did not know the man all that well. What he did know was that The Gunner was "Pusser", a stickler for discipline and proper conduct. Number One expected The Gunner to spout the usual drivel about how the Twins were good sailors, normally excellent gunners, and that what had happened had been an unfortunate lapse of judgement, and beg the mercy of the court.

The Gunner more or less performed as the Number One expected. He was well aware that the Executive Officer was Kyle St. Vincent's rabbi and would not take kindly to anything too outrageous being said against his protégé. What neither the Executive Officer, nor the Twins, knew was that the two boys had a rabbi, who would do everything he could to help them.

The Gunner considered his options. Insanity was a possible defence but he rejected that ploy, primarily because he feared that Number One would agree to it. His main concern was getting the Twins' asses out of the slings they had very capably put said asses in. He had, in any case, a plan.

The Gunner calmly admitted that while yes, the Twins (formally known as The Accused) were guilty because they had indeed neglected to remove the tompions from the barrels of the guns. All guilt was admitted, with the understanding that there had been mitigating circumstances.

Number One, who now expected "An Order is an Order" defence with most of the responsibility - and guilt - heaped on Kyle's head, glared at The Gunner. "They loaded the bloody guns, then they fired the bloody guns," he snapped impatiently. "I fail to see any mitigating anything about it!"

The Gunner begged the court's indulgence. He pointed out, with the greatest respect that while yes, the Twins had loaded the guns with blank rounds, and fired the rounds, they had been ordered to do so by the Gunnery Officer. This had been a most unexpected and, in light of past training exercised, a most unorthodox order and they were understandably unprepared for it. The Gunner further pointed out that the unexpected order had been delivered at the last minute, and through a junior cadet. In their haste to obey the order the Twins had overlooked removing the tompions from the barrels of the field guns. Such an error in judgement was a mistake easily made, and made more often than anyone would admit. Here The Gunner ducked his head and tried to look sheepish. He had, he reluctantly admitted, been guilty of making just such an error when he was only a lad, barely a year older than the Twins now were, and shelled the Dartmouth ferry.

"Shelled the what?" asked the amazed and incredulous Executive Officer. He imagined that he could hear the veil in the temple at Whale Island being rent asunder.

"The Dartmouth ferry. The whole battery," replied The Gunner cryptically. "All six guns, I'm afraid."

Number One rolled his eyes, said a private prayer to God - whose Existence he was beginning to doubt - and nodded as his shoulders sagged. "Go on, tell me," he growled. "I know that I am going to regret it, but go ahead."

Well, explained The Gunner, as a lowly Ordinary Gunner he had been part of the battery of six field guns detailed by the Chief Gunnery Instructor to fire the Minute Guns during the Remembrance Day Services in Halifax. The guns had been set up in Point Pleasant Park, it was November and as was expected it had been a bitterly cold morning, made harsher by a biting wind blowing in from the Atlantic. The young gunners - there was not one of them older than 19 - had never actually fired the guns. They had practiced, of course, and knew the drill. At that particular moment, however, they were more concerned about not freezing to death than they were about the details of the drill. Matters had not been improved when the Battery Chief, a kindly old soak, had passed around a bottle of a little something to keep the cold out of their bones.

Upon arrival at the Point where the Cross of Remembrance stood, the crews had unlimbered the guns, elevated the barrels and then, as ordered by the Battery Chief, shoved a blank round up the spout. By pre-loading the guns they could keep the pace and not have to worry overmuch about misfires. Everybody then stood around, stamping their feet, hugging themselves, sipping from the Chief's little bottle, waiting for 1100. Everybody quite forgot the tompions.

Shortly before 1100 the Gun Crews formed up, prepared to fire the first Minute Gun. At 1100 a bugler sounded Last Post, the church bells of the old city began to toll, and the guns began to fire.

"And shelled the Dartmouth ferry?" interjected Number One.

"Yes, sir," replied The Gunner with a nod. "The first tompion went across her bows. The second bounced off her funnel. Three, four and five passed over her and landed in the harbour."

"Straddled her," muttered Number One with a note of admiration in his voice. "Damn good shootin'. Even if it was by accident!"

The Gunner ignored the interruption and continued on. "The sixth tompion went right through the after wheelhouse. Fortunately it was empty. The thing went in one side and out the other. It was a very sad affair." He finished with what Number One suspected was a false air of repentance.

Number One gave The Gunner a fixed glared. "And now, one assumes, you will tell one what punishment you received?" he asked.

"The Chief was dipped to Petty Officer. The ratings, myself included, were given fourteen days stoppage of leave, and extra drill during the Dogs, 2 hours a day for 5 days. Our pay was stopped $1.25 a month to reimburse the Navy for the cost of replacing the windows in the ferry's wheelhouse."

Number One was nonplussed. He could not very well doubt The Gunner's story. Being a Sandy Bottom Sailor, the furthest east Number One had been was to Grouse Mountain. He had not heard of any scandals concerning the Gunnery Branch, which did not surprise him. Scandals of any kind were hushed up very quickly in the Navy and the bloody gunners would have had to sink the bloody ferry before anybody heard about it. He pretended to study the Charge Sheet, weighing his options.

The Gunner had been quite right in saying that there were mitigating circumstances that had to be considered before sentence could be passed, none of which had much at all to do with the Twins. It was obvious to Number One that The Gunner had, for reasons best known to himself, decided to take the Twins under his wing and become their rabbi. At first glance this was of little consequence in the normal scheme of things. At second glance, however there was the whisper he had heard when last in Esquimalt, a whisper to the effect that he was being gifted with a very special Leading Gunner. Not only was the man well regarded by his peers and a superb instructor he enjoyed, or so rumour had it, the patronage of the Fleet Chief Gunnery Instructor, an august personage of such prestige, respect and power that he did not sit at the left hand of God. The Fleet Chief Gunnery Instructor sat on God's shoulder and whispered in His ear! Number One, deep in thought, tapped the top of his table idly. If he threw the book at the Twins, and came down hard, he risked pissing off their rabbi who, while a honourable man, was their rabbi, and dedicated to them and to their careers. If he pissed off The Gunner he would, by association, piss off his rabbi. And that he could not do. A collision at sea might ruin his whole day. Pissing off the senior Non Commissioned Rating in the Navy might ruin his whole career! His fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the scarred wooden podium. The Commanding Officer was retiring at the end of the training year. Number One's name was on a piece of paper which was no doubt at the moment sitting in the Chief of the Defence Staff's in-basket, a piece of paper that confirmed the present Executive Officer of AURORA's appointment as Commanding Officer when Father hauled down his flag.

Lieutenant Commander Charles Oliver Hazelton, MC, CD, RCNR was not a stupid man. He was well aware that within the Navy there were cliques and coteries, friends of friends, and that power emanated from the most unexpected places. It was expected that a man of power and respect would help his friends from time to time, as any gentleman would. A soft voice might turneth away wrath but a whisper from the Fleet Chief Gunnery Instructor in the right ear could do wonders for one's career.

A tight, evil smile played at the corner of Number One's lips as he quickly decided what he would do and imagined the punishments he should be able to hand out. He envisioned the Twins, stripped to their underpants, being Flogged 'Round The Fleet, sadly outlawed for a hundred and more years. Another picture formed: Royal Marines, in red coats and top hats, bayonets fixed to their Brown Bess muskets, lining the waist and looking down at the Ship's Company formed up in the well of the ship as the Chief Boatswains Mate roundly flogged two tow-headed miscreants bound to a grate. Ah, for the days of sail and wooden ships!

Number One held back a disappointed sigh. His powers of punishment were limited to the recommendations contained in Queen's Regulations. While he could order the Twins returned to their home unit, the Commanding Officer had made it quite clear that such a thing was not about to happen. The Twins were to be given a just punishment, one that would impress upon them the severity of their actions. Number One was to be firm, but fair. He looked at The Gunner and knew what he would do. What had been sauce for the gander would be sauce for the goslings!

"The accused are found guilty of all charges and specifications," Number One intoned. He wrote a quick note on the Charge Sheet. "Seven days confined to barracks, followed by seven days stoppage of leave. Ten hours extra drill and training."

Before anyone could comment or react Tyler stood to attention and shouted, "Accused found guilty of all charges and specifications. Seven days confined to barracks, seven days stoppage of leave, ten hours extra drill and training! Defaulters, HO! Defaulters, On Caps! About turn! Quick March!"

Outside the Headquarters Building, The Gunner did not as they expected give the Twins a rocket. "Let this be a lessoned learned, boychicks. Bullshit baffles brains any day of the week," was all he said. Then he winked, slapped them on their fannies and told them to get back to their barracks.

Cory sighed at the memory of the day, hugged his brother and reached into his boxers, gently cupping Todd's parts. Cory felt comforted by their weight and heft. "What pisses me off, really," he said presently, "is that we hurt The Gunner. He trusted us not to fuck up and we just went ahead and fucked up! You saw the look he gave us when he saw us standing on the Quarterdeck. We really disappointed him!"

Todd nodded and held Cory in a full embrace. He was not surprised that Cory had put his hand down his shorts. Most of the time Cory had balls of brass and nothing fazed him. Yet there were times, always when he was under great stress, when he needed to feel Todd in his hand. There was nothing sexual about it. Todd never got hard when they comforted each another in this way.

"He stood up for us, though, all the same," reminded Todd quietly. "That means something. He doesn't hate us, and he did slap our fannies and called us boychicks."

Cory smiled wanly. "Yes, he did, and I admit that it felt great when he did it, and I know that when The Gunner calls a cadet "boychick" . . ." He heaved a gentle sob. "But damn it, Todd, we let him down! He trusted us!"

Todd nodded but said nothing. He had not seen Cory so upset since the day that pervert in Stanley Park had tried . . . He quickly put the memory of it from his mind. He slipped his hand down the front of Cory's shorts and ran his forefinger over the smooth, warm, mushroom shaped tip of his brother's soft penis. Then he leaned over and kissed Cory on the cheek. Cory reached up and traced his finger along Todd's chin.

They sat together quietly, holding each other close, saying nothing. >From somewhere down the gravel path that led to the main cluster of buildings an orchestra of crickets began tuning up. "The Gunner does care for us, Cory," murmured Todd presently.

"That is what makes it worse!" Cory raised his head and looked into his brother's face. "Toddy?"

Todd started. Cory was much more upset that he realized. He rarely called him by his childhood name. "Yes, Cory?"

"Can I tell you something? Will you promise not to laugh at me if I tell you something?"

"You are my only brother," replied Todd. He pulled Cory close. "You can tell me anything."

"Toddy, I think that I am falling in love with him." Todd realized that Cory was crying. He tried wiping his brother's tears away.

"It's all right, Cory. I understand."

"You do?" asked Cory as he wiped his eyes with his hand. "He's been so kind to us, and treated us so well. He understands about us. I was half in love with him before Tyler yelled, 'March the guilty bastards in!' and now . . ." He quickly kissed Todd on the lips. "I don't mean that I love him the way I love you. I could never love anyone the way I love you," he said quickly. "But, after what he did for us I think I am falling in love with The Gunner!"

Todd laughed and kissed Cory's nose. "You goof! You just want to get into his pants!" he gave Cory's penis a gentle squeeze. "Besides, you are not the only one who feels that way."

"What?" Cory pulled away. "You mean . . .you . . .?"

Todd nodded. "No, you idiot, Cardinal Spellman! He adores The Gunner!" He laughed and said, "Of course me!" His voice took on an almost dreamy quality. "I've felt that way from almost the first day. I really did not want to say anything to you about how I felt." He gave Cory a stern look. "You know how you get when I like someone and you do not."

"Balls!" returned Cory with a grin. "You're as bad as I am. Look how pouty you got when I told you that I really did not care for Sylvain."

"Hah!" retorted Todd. "Not half as pouty as you got when I told you that I did not particularly care about Andre." His face sobered and he slipped his arm around Cory's waist. "It doesn't matter, anyway. You would not go with either of them."

"Why?" asked Cory as his hand returned to Todd's boxers.

"You know," was all Todd said.

When Cory realized what Todd meant he hugged his brother as hard as he could. "You're sure?" he asked softly.

"I am afraid so." Todd gave Cory a return hug. "They were both with me on QUEST. I shared a tent with them when we were on our orienteering phase. Remember, you were supposed to go with me but you broke your arm instead."

"I did not do it intentionally," Cory flared. The he settled down. "It would have been nice if Andre was. He is cute and he has a neat little butt!"

Todd thought it best that there be no more mention of QUEST, or Andre, or Sylvain, particularly Sylvain. "You would not want him," he said flatly.

"They are not . . .?" he left the rest of the question unasked.

"They are not," confirmed Todd.

Cory buried his head in Todd's shoulder. "I could never . . ." he began with a shudder.

"Hush, now," soothed Todd. "Stanley Park was a long time ago."

"I remember," said Cory with a sob. "I remember it all." He seemed close to tears again.

Todd stroked the back of Cory's head. "It's over, Cory. No one will ever hurt you again. I am here with you. I will always be here with you."

Through the open windows of the Gunroom they could hear the bugle sounding Last Post. As the last note was sounded the lights in the barracks were turned off and the stoop and the barracks yard were plunged into darkness. "We can go in soon," said Todd. Thumper should be in the heads by now." He disentangled himself, yawned, and stretched. "With any kind of luck he will be hornier than usual and will not take too long. It has been a long day and frankly, dear brother, I am tired."

Cory giggled at the mention of Thumper, and of what he was doing in the heads. Then he had a thought. "Toddy?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think that The Gunner is . . . you know?"

"It would be nice if he is," replied Todd. "Not that we will ever find out. I do not think that he rides the same bus as we do."

Cory snuggled closer. "He's straight, you mean."

"As an arrow," returned Todd. He kissed the top of Cory's head. "We had better get on in. The Gunroom will be the first place Little Big Man hits when he does Rounds. Thumper should be finished by now."

Cory nodded his reluctant agreement. They stood up, went inside and crawled into their bunks, which were close enough so that they could hold hands in the dark.

As they lay there listening to the night sounds, both boys became aware of a series of long, slow moans coming from the end of their row of bunks. Todd raised himself up and looked in the direction the moans were coming from. There was enough moonlight coming through the windows - which were not curtained - to allow him to see Harry raise his round, firm behind, lower it and then push slowly forward, groaning loudly as he did so.

Todd gave Cory's hand a firm squeeze. Cory sat up and watched Harry. A huge grin broke his face. Harry was very definitely giving his mattress a slow, methodical hump. Todd returned Cory's squeeze and leaned over. "It appears that Harry is trying a Thumper Special!" he whispered in Cory's ear.

Cory snickered softly, nodded firmly and lay back on his bed. Todd followed his brother's example, thinking that it was bad enough with Thumper beating off morning, noon and night! Now they had Harry doing it!

The Twins listened as Harry's low moans became came a series of explosive grunts. Suddenly Harry let out a terrific groan and then began panting heavily. Thumper had been right!

"Well done, Harry," said Todd just loud enough to be heard. He rolled onto to his left side, stuck his hand down the front of his underpants, and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

"Well done, indeed," echoed Cory, just loud enough to be heard. He rolled onto his right side, stuck his hand down the front of his underpants, and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.