Sailors Tale

"A Sailor's Tale" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

This is a work of erotic fiction, and contains scenes that may be offensive to some. If so, please move on. I must also advise that works of this nature are "illegal" to possess, download or read in some legal jurisdictions for anyone who has not reached legal age (18, 19 or 21 years, take your pick). If this is the case in your hometown, please find a less illegal site. Of course you can always do it, but say you didn't!

Mu thanks as always to my readers whose comments and critiques make what I do all the more worthwhile. Any comments should be directed to my e-mail site: paradegi@rogers.com

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter 5

Life continued on its normal, lazy path. Nothing much happened in my little town. The cottagers came and went, there were boat cruises on the lake, a canal was built to link the lake with the Trent system, more tourists came in the summer and Mr. ffynch-Douglas dropped dead in the middle of the town square one blood-hot summer day. The ensuing, necessary funeral, brought out the black suits and dresses, James returned, and departed almost immediately after the will was read. As I said, nothing much at all happened.

The years leading up to my joining the navy were my "dark times". I knew that I was gay and I was determined to do everything I could to deflect any hint of my gayness. Living, as I did, in a small town, I knew exactly what would happen to me if my desires became known. Small town values in many ways aped big city values, only worse.

It is difficult for anyone who has not lived during the dark days of oppression to understand what life as a gay man meant. There were no support groups, no gay villages, just constant hatred and bigotry, and hatred. In the days before the Stonewall Riots, before gay liberation movements took hold, before Woodstock, and Haight-Ashbury, the hatred directed toward gays could not be understood now. The only way I can ask anyone to comprehend this hatred is to say that there is a web site, run by an insane defrocked-Baptist minister that exemplifies the hatred, only ten-fold. This is the same cretin whose family protests at military funerals - and no one has the wit, the enterprise, or the balls to stop them, fearing the ACLU and prosecution for violating the First Amendment.

Many young gays would leave their small towns or farms, and flock to the cities, Toronto, or Montreal, in the hopes that their lifestyle would be, if not accepted, at least tolerated. Not so.

Gays were an abomination, and not deserving of anything approaching civil liberty. If a gay man found a job, he could be fired from it without notice for being gay. If they managed to find a place to live - and many landlords would not rent to "queers" - they could be evicted, their personal effects thrown into the streets without notice if they were discovered to be gay. Restaurants could and did refuse service to gays; clerks in the shops and department stores could and did refuse service to gays. Every aspect of gay life was subject to excoriation, of danger and, in not so extreme circumstances, death. In the large cities, where there was so much as a hint of a gay population, the police turned a blind eye to the atrocities perpetrated on gay men.

As an example, in Toronto there was a bar, called the St. Charles. It was housed in an old fire hall that boasted a tall, square clock tower. The tower is still there, but not the bar. It became too much for the owners to keep open. Because it was a "known gathering place for perverts and deviants" the bar was constantly raided by the police, or visited by the LCBO inspectors to ensure that the liquor laws were not being violated. These laws included one that forbade anyone who was sitting at the bar from turning around to hold a conversation with those sitting at the tables. Hands had to be kept on the table or bar, in plain site, at all times. Dancing, touching of any kind, was not permitted.

On Halloween the bar held a dance, which brought out the bigots and rednecks that lined Yonge Street spewing their hatred at the costumed guests. There was a police presence but that meant nothing. If a brick, or a rock, or a two by four was thrown the policemen all seemed to be blind. It seems that it was perfectly acceptable for gays to "get what they deserved".

An openly gay man was effectively barred from the professions, if he could find a college or university to learn a profession. A gay man could be and often was refused entry into any "reputable" university for moral turpitude. If he managed to get in he could be summarily dismissed, again on moral grounds, and good luck getting a transcript of grades when that happened - somehow he never attended the university at all!

Gays could not join the military - being gay they were subject to security considerations in that they could be blackmailed! They were also, in the words of the American Psychiatric Association, suffering from mental disease, and therefore "not advantageously employable". In retrospect I suppose a diseased nutter would not be considered "advantageously employable".

Sex between males was illegal. At the same time, to demonstrate the hypocrisy of the Canadian Criminal Code, gay males could not engage in sex of any kind until they reached 21 years of age!

To sum it all up, gays were denied the most basic of civil rights.

This was a life I desperately wanted to avoid. I knew that if my secret was ever revealed my father would have shown me the door and I would be told that I was no longer his son. He would not have under "his" roof someone who, as he could not produce children, would spent his waking hours trying to "recruit" innocent young boys into his nefarious lifestyle, that is when he was not molesting little children!

My mother, sadly, would not have been far behind. She never came out and said anything, being a lady, but she was a product of the age, and her look, and the darkness that filled her eyes, told me that she agreed with everything the Catholic Church taught her about gays.

Determined to avoid what I thought to be the most horrible fate that could befall me, I did everything I could think of to "prove" that I was a normal boy. High school sports helped. I never excelled, although I could have done better, and would never be first draft anything. I did not want to draw attention to myself. I played baseball well. I swam well. I held my own in soccer and made every meet in cross-country.

In the locker rooms I tried to shower first, and as quickly as I could, and kept my eyes closed, the better to resist my very real temptations to look and slobber over the naked bodies of my team mates. I avoided as much as possible any situation where I would be tempted and purposely avoided joining the local Boy Scout troop. I attended Church every Sunday and holy day. I even dated, although I always asked a girl known for her imagined purity and determination not to give "it" up.

In a way all my actions helped me to develop the alternate persona that I needed to hide behind. I never joined in the homoerotic banter in the change rooms, and never joined in the bragging and boasting most of the boys did when it came to their dicks and balls. I presented the front of a deeply religious boy who would look away when a naked team mate parade around the locker room. I would look shocked if any of the other boys engaged in what I would later call "chucking shit", accusing his pals of wanting his dick, or worse. I was a right little prig. At the same time, while I might look disapproving, I would never comment, one way or another. Eventually I was put down as a self-righteous, very religious, properly raised young gentleman. Mothers all over town held me up as an example of what their sons should be. They could never know that every night, in bed, I lusted after their not so proper sons.

I was miserable, and while my parents noticed my constant mood changes, they put it all down to teenage angst, a part of growing into manhood, and understood. I did not. But in January 1962 my cozy world crashed around me and I took the first steps towards what was to ultimately lead me to self-recognition as a gay man.

Life in any small town revolves around certain community events, and certain community institutions. Foremost is the local Royal Canadian Legion. As the Legion's primary source of income is the bar revenues almost every legion loses no opportunity to celebrate significant dates in the military calendar: Trafalgar Day, the Battle of the Atlantic, D-Day and so on. As many of the members had their roots in the British Isles, most legions also manage a dinner and dance on "national days", days particular to each of the three groups that make up the British Isles. There is Saint George's Day for the English, St. David's Day for the Welsh and, for the Scots, Robbie Burns Day.

Every legion of any pretence to fellowship and camaraderie holds, on the 25th of January, or as near to it as possible, a dinner, usually featuring roast beef and always featuring haggis, a concoction made of the stomach entrails of a sheep, oatmeal and spices. Actually it's quite good, if awful sounding.

On the appointed day everybody attending the dinner dresses to the nines, the ladies in long formal gowns, a tartan sash, and a cairngorm. Gentlemen entitled to it wear a kilt. Others wear evening clothes.

Saturday, the 21st of January 1962, was an ordinary day in my life. Nothing of note happened that I remember, except that my father closed the drugstore early. It was Robbie Burns Night and my parents were off to the Legion. My father, looking magnificent in his kilt and his father's sporran, came down the stairs first. My mother appeared soon after, dressed in a light, champagne gown and wearing her family heirlooms, a set of emerald jewellery, very old, and usually kept in a safe deposit box at the bank. After bidding them goodnight I glanced out of the window and saw that a hard snow was falling. This was nothing unusual. We lived in what was called the "snow belt" and it always snowed hard.

I watched the hockey game on TV, more out of habit than anything else, and besides, it gave me something to talk about with the guys after church the next morning. After the game I went upstairs, to bed and slept soundly until 3:32 in the morning (I looked at my bedside clock). Wondering what all the noise was about I stumbled downstairs in my underwear, something that would have shocked my mother. I was still half asleep and didn't really hear the howling of the wind outside the house. Snarling, I threw open the door to find the Town Constable standing on the porch. Behind him a blizzard raged, the blowing snow completely obscuring the roadway in front of the house. The Constable, who was a kindly old man, asked if he could come in. Out of habit, I took him into the front parlour and here he told me the worst news any teenage boy could ever hear: my parents were dead, killed in an automobile accident.

I later learned that my father, with my mother in the car beside him, and both of them stuffed with haggis and awash in single malt whiskey, had driven away from the Legion, taking the new road that had been cut to join Reid Street with the canal that joined the lake to the Trent System. Somehow my father lost control, and the car fell into the empty lift lock at the end of Legion Street. The car plummeted straight down onto the concrete bottom of the lock. They died instantly and I was an orphan. I was 17 years and 2 months old.

In any small town a death, especially the death of a prominent citizen, is a very big event and guaranteed to set the neighbours into action. The Town Constable had called his wife, a matronly woman, who came bustling into the house, filled with sympathy and carrying a large container of food. Next to appear was the parish priest, who told me to have courage and asked if I would join him in prayer. I had barely sunk to my knees when the president of the Legion appeared. He at least had the common sense to point out that I was only wearing my tighty-whitey underpants and a T-shirt.

Dazed, and in shock, I hadn't noticed what I was wearing, or not wearing, and really didn't care. My whole world had come crashing down and I did not want to be alone. I was trying to be "manly", and not cry, but with the own Constable's wife blubbering in one corner, and Mrs. Willis, blubbering in another, it was difficult. How Mrs. Willis knew of the accident I don't know, just as I don't know how the other neighbours who slogged through the snow came to know of the accident. I was grateful, however, that Mrs. Willis had brought along her son, Terry, the tall, handsome redhead I'd been lusting over for four years. He led me upstairs to my bedroom. Here I lost it totally, crying wildly while he held me and patted my back sympathetically.

Eventually I calmed down and Terry helped me dress in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. Death, it appears, always demands formality. Terry was very kind to me, and I will always remember him being with me, never leaving my side. He was a true friend and I never betrayed that friendship,

When I returned downstairs the house was filled with people. The ladies from the Sodality had shown up and were saying the Rosary in the front parlour. The kitchen was filled with food of every description, and a few of the heartier Legion members, who had found my father's supply of beer. Mrs. Willis was fluttering about, greeting people and keeping the more demonstrative mourners away from me. Sometime during those terrible hours the parish priest called my uncle in Toronto. He was my father's only brother and I hated him.

My Uncle Edward was a banker, one of those people in the banking profession who never gave a loan except to people who didn't need it. He was quite the rising star in the bank he worked for and believed in "taking charge". I should be grateful to him because he relieved me of the burdens associated with death, but I wasn't. He was obnoxious, annoying and was forever telling me that he was only doing what he felt best for me.

In time I came to appreciate what he did for me. There are certain rituals and functions associated with death, all of them necessary, and he did them and to his credit he never reminded me of what he had had to do.

After driving through one of the worst blizzards of the season he accompanied the Constable to the hospital where my parents lay, identified their bodies, and collected their personal effects. Then he went to the funeral parlour to make the necessary "arrangements", choosing matching coffins, rosewood, with just enough carving and satin to show the neighbours that they were not cheap.

My uncle's return to the house after his visit with the undertaker brought on our first argument. While I was grateful for his help, I would not agree to have my parents buried from the funeral parlour, as he wanted. I did not care that the parlour offered the finest appointments this side of Toronto, or that there was plenty of room for parking. Funerals were conducted from home, and that was all there was to it! In light of what was to come I suppose I should have listened to him. But I was 17, and I was grieving, and determined to do the right thing, at least as I saw it.

My father was a very well known and well-respected man, not only in our little town but also in the surrounding area. His death was truly mourned. He was also a great "joiner" and before I knew it the house was filled with floral tributes from the Legion, from the Knights of Columbus, and so on. Almost every neighbour sent a wreath or an arrangement. My uncle, who knew how to conduct a good funeral, had also notified the Regiment in Toronto. As a member of Regiment's Old Comrades Associate, and a Veteran, my father was entitled to a military funeral. Bearers, and a bugler, would be provided for the service.

On the Monday after the accident my parents were brought home. The front parlour was opened, and the sliding doors between it and the dining room opened. The dining room was cleared of furniture and filled with wooden folding chairs and flower arrangements banked around the front windows and in the corridor. I waited in the hall while the undertaker and his assistant made the final preparations. Before each open coffin was placed a prayer bench. Rose coloured bulbs had replaced the plain white ones in the tall standards that flanked both coffins. The Red Duster draped my father's coffin, a floral blanket my mother's.

When everything was ready I was led into the room. Terry accompanied me. This was my personal time with my parents. I admit that I wept bitterly, with Terry holding me tightly. I could hardly bear to look down at the painted faces of my mother and father. Terry tried to tell me that they looked wonderful. I pretended to agree with him. They didn't look all that bad, but they were dead. I there and then decided that an open coffin was a horrible custom and that when my time came I would go out with the lid firmly closed.

When I was finished with my private mourning, the doors to the parlour were opened and the rest of the mourners entered. My Aunt Margaret had arrived, finally, and she took charge of me. She was a wonderful, kind woman, and I loved her dearly. She held me, and comforted me, and somehow made the obsequies much easier to handle. And there were a lot of obsequies.

For two nights and two days I was forced to endure the insincere platitudes and sympathy expressed at every funeral. The whole town seemed to show up to pay their respects so there was a constant flow of people, each of whom had to be greeted, offered a drink or something to eat, and the opportunity to tell me what a wonderful man my father was, what a wonderful woman my mother was.

Then there were the "services". As my father had been a member of the Legion, he was given a "Legion Service", conducted by the Legion Chaplain, actually the vicar from the local Anglican Church. It was very moving and at the end of the service, as was the tradition, the Legion members pinned red poppies to the satin lining of my parents' coffins. That was on the first night that my parents were home. The second night was reserved for the Knights of Columbus, who showed up in tuxedos, plumed hats, black capes and swords. Each man also carried a rosary and the evening was spent in saying prayers. The nuns from the convent showed up for the Rosary, and announced that they would keep the Vigil, ensuring that my parents would not spend their last night on earth alone. It was tradition, and my mother and father had been true Children of the Church.

I appreciated the consideration shown to me. I did not want to be alone, and I did not want to spend my nights in a house where my parents lay dead in the front parlour. All of my school friends called, and along with Terry Willis, kept close to me. I had always dreamed of waking up with one of them in my bed, but not under the circumstances I found myself in. Nothing happened, but just having one of them close was enough. Again, I shall always remember their kindness and consideration.

The funeral itself was conducted according to the Latin Rite of the Roman Catholic Church, with accompanying incense, chanting and solemn music. The Bearer Party sent by the Regiment carried the coffins containing my mother and father shoulder high from the church with military precision and solemnity. The cortege from the church to the cemetery stretched for miles. It was all very impressive.

As was expected, a reception was laid on back at the house. There was a mountain of food, coffee, tea, and enough booze and beer to float a battleship. As the Chief Mourner I was the centre of unwanted attention and spent three hours greeting guests and listening to the neighbours telling me what wonderful people my parents had been, or telling me that they had gone to a better place. I could have disputed this last. To me dead was dead and that was all there was to it. Fortunately I was still in a daze and most of the comments went over my head, or simply did not register, although I do remember coming close to a first class breakdown when several of the mourners remarked on how wonderful a job the undertaker had done, leaving my parents "wonderfully preserved" and "looking like they were only sleeping."

Once the funeral reception was over and the last mourner had gone, my uncle sat down to discuss my future. As I was not of legal age, I was now his ward, as appointed by my father in his will. I could live with that. I really didn't have a choice. My uncle also informed me that when all was said and done I would be a moderately well off young man. My father and mother both had insurance, which paid out double indemnity in the event of an accident. My father's business could be leased out, or sold. As I had no intention of becoming a pharmacist, or even staying any longer that I had to in the town, I agreed to sell the business, and the house. The furniture would be stored.

After complimenting me on my sagacity my uncle then went into my education. I would graduate high school in June. I could stay with him and my aunt in Toronto if I wanted to take a "gap" year before entering university. He assumed that I had already made plans, and expressed the hope that I would attend U of T. It was prestigious, and I more than had the credits needed. Money for my tuition and living expenses was available. I had the impression that he had everything planned for me. As he blathered on about paying me an allowance, of investing my inheritance in good, solid, blue chips, my gorge rose. What he didn't know was that I had already decided what I was going to do. When I told him, he liked to pitch a duck stomping fit.

To this day I do not know why I blurted out that no matter what he thought, I was going to join the navy. I had been thinking about the military, but not in a serious way. What influenced me? I don't know. Perhaps it was the afternoons spent in the Legion with my father, drinking Coke and listening to the old Veterans spin their dips, reminiscing, remembering those who had not come home, laughing at their private jokes and seeing the love and camaraderie in their faces. Perhaps too it was the oft-repeated assertion that the Army, or the Navy or the Air Force had made a man of the speaker. I remember the phrase: "It made a man of me" and that was the one thing I wanted so desperately to be, a man!

Perhaps also it was my uncle's arrogant assumption that I was going to follow the path that he laid out for me. Perhaps it was all the repressed fear and anger at what I was, at my parents' death, at my hidden life and desperate need to be accepted for who I was, not what I was. In the end it didn't matter because the more my uncle argued against it the more determined to join up I became. Deep down I felt that it was something I had to do and I had convinced myself that if anything would rid me of my demons, and make a true man of me, it would one of the branches of Her Majesty's Armed Services. The Army did not appeal to me. The Air Force was too effete for my taste. This left the Navy and into the Navy I would go.

The battle raged for over an hour or more. My uncle at first refused to even consider my decision. I was underage and would need his approval. I dismissed his approval and threatened to run away and hide until I turned 18. I had no money - my uncle controlled the chequebook. I countered that there were ways for young boys to make money in a big city. At first Uncle Edward did not understand what I meant, but when what I threatened finally sank in he almost had a stroke! He calmed down a bit and told me that he only had my best interests at heart, that he was only trying to do what was best for me, what my father would have wanted for me. I retorted that my father was dead and only I knew what was best for me.

My aunt, who could not help but overhear the shouting, finally came into the room and mediated. She calmed my uncle, and spoke gently to me, asking if I truly knew what I wanted. I told her that I did and she decided that perhaps it would be best for me to, as she put it, "get it our of my system". As the initial enlistment in the Navy was only for three years I could try it. If I liked it, I could decide then if I wanted to make the Navy a career. If I did not, then I could return to school. Her soft reason touched me and I agreed. My uncle, who was still reeling from my threat to ply the world's second oldest profession in the cesspool of Toronto's downtown, reluctantly agreed.

Calmer, we all discussed what would happen next. Since I was only four months away from graduating high school, neither my aunt nor my uncle saw any point in moving me to Toronto. My life was here, my school was here, and my friends were here. My aunt thought that for the foreseeable future I would need some continuity in my life, and need my friends around me. It was agreed that I would stay in the house I had been born in. My uncle would arrange for groceries to be delivered, and the bills paid. I also agreed to study hard, and behave myself. To make sure that I did I was placed under the watchful eye of the local Anglican Vicar and his wife (my uncle had converted and did not trust anything connected with the Catholic church), both of whom visited daily. So long as I kept my end of the agreement there would be no objections to my taking the Queen's Shilling.

I kept my word. I studied hard, did not party, and in fact became somewhat of a recluse. I did not deliberately avoid my friends, but neither did I go out of my way to be with them. In May I declined to attend the Senior Prom, using the excuse that I was still mourning my parents. The night of the prom Terry came by, as did Pauly Tralla, both dressed in rented tuxes, to say that they would miss my company. I doubted it, and kidded with them about their dates, and watched them leave, two magnificent young men off to meet their girls. As the door closed I turned and went into the parlour where I wept in self-pity, and anger, and jealousy.

On the 6th of June, a Wednesday, and coincidently the anniversary of D-Day, I walked across the stage of the high school auditorium wearing a silk gown and mortarboard and received my diploma. I was not the valedictorian, but I had managed to make the Honour Role.

The next morning I took the bus to Toronto.

My uncle met me at the Bay Street bus terminal and drove me to the Navy Recruiting Office, then located in the Naval Reserve Barracks located not far from the CNE grounds. There, along with four other boys, I listened to a short lecture on life in the Navy, wrote an aptitude test, passed it, and then saw the Recruiting Officer, who warned me that I would never get rich, as the pay at time was a paltry $112.00 a month. I was also informed that discipline was rigidly enforced, and that while the life could be good, it could also be very bad for those who thought they could beat the system. "Queen's Hard Bargains", as the Recruiting Officer called the malcontents, almost always ended up in the "glasshouse", his term for the Navy Detention Barracks.

After a short break, where I was expected to pee and consider that what I was doing was actually what I wanted to do, I returned to the recruiting office and affirmed my desire to join up. While my application was being typed I was sent to Sick Bay, located next door to the Recruiting Office, where I was poked, prodded, made to cough, asked to pee in a cup (somewhat difficult since I had already peed, but I did manage to squeeze out a few drops) and ultimately pronounced fit for service by the medical officer. I returned to the Recruiting Office and as I was four months shy of my 18th birthday my uncle had to sign my enlistment papers. I then signed, and, together with the other three boys, raised my hand and swore to bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and successors. In less than five hours I was in. But not quite. The paperwork would have to be processed, and I would be assigned a recruiting billet. This usually took anywhere from two weeks to two months. As I did not live in Toronto I was given a chit authorizing me to return home. When my number came up I would be informed when to report to Union Station, there to take the first step in my journey to manhood: the train to HMCS Cornwallis, since 1951 the Navy's Recruit Training Base where I would spend 15 weeks learning the rudiments of being a sailor.

HMCS Cornwallis had been commissioned as one of the numberless establishments set up to meet the demands of World War II. Trained men were required in ever increasing numbers to meet the demands of manning the ships of the burgeoning Royal Canadian Navy. It was commissioned in May of 1942 as a sub-command of HMC Dockyard, located in HMCS Stadacona, as the primary training base for new sailors. The original establishment consisted of numerous schools, offices and quarters scattered where and when space could be found. As the war progressed and the Battle of the Atlantic raged it became clear that the crowded base and city of Halifax simply would not do. It was decided to relocate Cornwallis and in June of 1942 the Navy purchased a 615-acre site on the eastern shore of Annapolis Basin. The site was chosen for its convenience to the transportation arteries, which fed men and materiel into the war effort.

Located in the Annapolis Valley, the site was rich in history and had originally been a land grant to a Loyalist from New York. In the late 1800's it passed to a Colonel Hallett Ray, whose home was to become the Commander's House. Colonel Ray eventually sold the estate to a Mr. E.P. Morse, a retired American, who also built a house, which became the Cornwallis Wardroom. Mr. Morse died before he could move into his new house and eventually the estate was purchased by DND as the new home of the Navy's principal training base. In April of 1943, after a crash construction program, the first buildings were ready and the schools and personnel were transferred from Halifax.

The base continued to grow and eventually sprawled across Provincial Highway 1, more barracks being added, more marriage quarters being built until the wartime base boasted a complement of 11,000 officers, men and WRCNS.

Because it was never conceived as a permanent base - after all the war would end eventually - Cornwallis, to me, always had an impermanent air. The buildings were all built of wood and looked exactly the same, square, sturdy, and painted white. In addition to the usual barracks, there were machine shops, stores buildings, buildings housing the Communication Division, the Seamanship Division, a Gun Shed, office blocks, a hospital, two chapels, an elementary school and a high school, houses for married staff, a Wardroom, a Wet Canteen, a Dry Canteen, a shopping precinct, a sports complex, boat sheds and, dominating the football field called the Parade Square, a huge Drill Shed, which ran the length of the square, on which mere sailors were forbidden to set foot except at Divisions and evening Quarters. To get to the main gate, or the admin buildings, which flanked the huge structure, you trudged around the sides of the square, past the bleachers built on the west side of the square. It was quite a hike and colder than buggery in the winter when the wind blew frigid from the Bay of Fundy.

As she had originally been established as "Wartime Only", the base was paid off by the Navy in February of 1946, and declared surplus. World events however changed everything. The Cold War had begun and the Navy suddenly found itself faced with threats of force by the Soviet Bloc and quickly put a stop order on the sale of the base. After reclaiming the base, and renovating the buildings, the ship was recommissioned on the first of May 1949. From that day until its final closure in 1993, Cornwallis was the training cradle for thousands of sailors, officer cadets and Wrens. Much of the base is gone now, most of the old buildings replaced by modern glass and brick horrors housing something called "The Pearson Peacekeeping Centre". The Pearson Peacekeeping Centre's mission is to support and enhance the Canadian contribution to international peace, security, and stability. The Centre is an independent organization established by the Government of Canada in 1994, and is a division of the Canadian Institute of Strategic Studies and funded, in part, by Foreign Affairs and International Trade Canada and the Department of National Defence. It is an education, training and research facility with a mandate to be a knowledge base and educational facility for trainers and other educators (their words not mine). It is actually a United Nations boondoggle where one learns, I suppose, how to stand idly by while 7,000 Muslim men and boys are hauled off into the Bosnian hills and massacred, or how to drive stoically by while a dozen Belgian peacekeepers are hacked to death by African tribesmen.

A few of the old barracks blocks remain, housing the Sea Cadet establishment, HMCS Scotian, and two of the blocks, one of them "The Wrenery", the barracks where the Wrens were housed, have been refitted to accommodate guests during the annual Cornwallis reunions.

Back home I waited anxiously for the letter containing what was called my "Draft Chit", the official notification of where and when I was to report to begin the next stage of my budding naval career. I spent much of my time clearing the house, which had been sold. The new owners wanted to turn the huge old wreck into a lakeside inn and were eager to start renovations. My aunt came up from Toronto to help. She realized that clearing the house would have a traumatic effect and helped, in her quiet, calm way, to ease the burdens. She made many of the decisions as to what was to be given to charity, and what was to be stored away. Shortly after her arrival she sent me into town to meet with my father's lawyer and sign the papers of sale. While I was gone she cleared the house of my father's suits and such, and my mother's frocks, hats, and white gloves. I was thankful she did this, as I don't think I could have maintained my composure as my parents' personal things were carted off to the local thrift shop and the Sally Anne in Peterborough.

My mother's silver, crystal, china and assorted figurines, were packed away and sent off to storage, as was much of the furniture, period pieces that had come down through her family, and several family portraits.

For two weeks or so we sorted through boxes of photo albums, bric-a-brac, and for the most part I managed to keep myself together. What did me in were the photo albums, black and white snapshots the chronicled the history of my family. In one album I found my father's "official" portrait, looking proud in his uniform, and taken before he shipped out to England, and later North Africa and Italy. There were photos of my parents' wedding day, my father wearing a pinched, wartime suit, my mother wearing her mother's wedding gown (silk and satin were rationed and she could not have her own made). There were photos of me as a boy, the usual family snaps that to an outsider meant nothing, but to me meant the world. I wept and wept and then, when we opened the last album I turned as red as the proverbial beet. The album contained my baby pictures and all I will say is why parents will take snaps of their innocent baby sons in the bath is unconscionable! It might seem "cute" at the time but it is downright embarrassing when the subject is 17 and a bit!

The last act of closure was a small garden party and reception for my mother's friends. My mother had been a great traditionalist and in her will she had left small mementoes to her lady friends, bits of china, small pieces of jewellery, a lace scarf, and so on, nothing all that valuable except for a special wealth reserved for friends. The night before the party my aunt and I sat up wrapping and labelling these bequests. When we were done I handed my mother's jewel box to my aunt and asked her to take the rings and broaches, necklaces and earrings that my mother had prized so much. I had no use for them, and I did not see the point in sending them off to the bank for safe keeping with my father's small collection of cuff links and watches. My aunt tried to refuse but I insisted and in the end she took the jewels.

The party, which was held on the lawns outside the house, was the last act in my tragic play. The neighbours came, I was once again patted and commiserated, the small bequests were distributed, the parish priest was prevailed upon to make a small speech and say a small prayer for the repose of the souls of my mother and father (it should have been a large prayer, considering the bequest my parents had given the church) and when all was said and done I went upstairs to my empty room and picked up the small bag containing the clothing I would need for the trip to Cornwallis.

It was late in the evening and I walked out of the house and into the car that had been hired to take my aunt and me to Toronto. I never looked back, and I never returned to the little town where I had been born.

Two weeks and three days after I had left the recruiting office the postman delivered a large, manila envelope. In it was my Draft Chit, which told me that I had been loaded on the Recruit Training Course, and a sheaf of papers entitled "Joining Instructions". I was told where and when to report (Union Station in Toronto, where I would board the train for Montreal), and whom to report to (someone called the "Escorting Chief Petty Officer"). I was warned not to bring large sums of cash. As a recruit trainee I would be kept much too busy to spend money. I was told to bring the absolute minimum of clothing and personal effects. The Navy would supply me with everything I might need and storage space for personal kit was limited in Cornwallis. Basically, aside from a change of shirt and underpants, and shaving gear, I really did not need to bring anything at all but of course I packed a bag with enough clothing to last me a year! I did take note that as sports were a large part of the Navy's training program, particularly swimming, I was encouraged to bring my swimming suit, as this article was not part of our kit issue. I brought three.

The night before I was scheduled to leave I spent at my uncle's house in Toronto. It was pleasant, and while my uncle and I continued to regard each other warily, we kept the peace and nothing untoward happened. The next morning, a Saturday, he and my aunt drove me down to Union Station.

In the cavernous main hall of the station I reported to the Escorting Petty Officer, a personage hard to miss, as he was dressed in full uniform, including gaiters. On his chest were campaign ribbons from both the war and Korea, which meant that he'd been around the Horn once or twice. He was a short, taciturn, craggy man with a face that would frighten children and spoke volumes about his drinking habit. He gave me a pitying look, checked my Draft Chit against a list he had on a clipboard, checked my name off the list and told me what platform to go to.

The train, a long line of coaches and sleepers, and a diner, already had steam up when I arrived on the platform - the train was actually pulled by two diesels but what the hell, "steam up," sounds better. There was the usual gaggle of railwaymen, conductors and so on, and here and there little groups of people saying goodbye to the soon to be travellers.

One of the groups surrounded one of the young men I had joined up with. He was a tall, muscular, quite handsome young Italian male, with dark, curly hair, and flashing white teeth. His name was Alfredo Spadafore and he had been born and raised in Toronto's Little Italy, a real Grace and College boy. Two older people, dressed in black, which I later learned were Alfredo's parents, were carrying on as if their son was being hauled off to slavery. Surrounding Alfredo were two smaller versions of himself (brothers), three plainly dressed young girls, quite good looking (sisters) and four smashing girls dressed in colourful summer frocks and obviously, from the way they carried on, girlfriends. They rubbed Alfredo, they patted Alfredo, and generally made it clear to anyone who cared to watch that their lives would never be the same again. Later, in Cornwallis, I saw all of Alfredo, and I couldn't blame the girls at all . . . Mama Mia was he hung!

I also noticed a man standing alone, off to one side. He was dressed in a lightweight summer suit, shined brogans, and carried a small suitcase. He seemed to be laughing silently and smugly at Alfredo's family, or perhaps it was the way Alfredo was dressed: blue jeans, a skin-tight white T-shirt, and battered work boots. I supposed I passed muster dressed as I was, in dress slacks, a sports coat, and a white shirt and tie (my aunt believed that a gentleman always travelled properly dressed).

This man was "Don". He'd been studying at U of T but too many late nights and too much communion with funny cigarettes and kegs of beer had caught up with him and the university proctors had suggested strongly that he withdraw gracefully. Much later I would learn that Don, who was actually not a bad guy, had been taking pre-med courses, and majoring in basic male anatomy.

Before very long the conductor began calling, "All Aboard". My aunt cried a little and kissed me on the cheek. She told me that she was proud of what I was doing, that I should behave myself, and slipped me a twenty. My uncle, all bluff and hearty, shook my hand, slapped my shoulder, expressed the hope that I knew what I was doing and that I wouldn't make a fool of myself, and slipped me a twenty. The Escorting Petty Officer came down the platform and shooed his charges (all three of us) onto the train and then, to accompanying bell ringing from the engine, and weeping and wailing from Alfredo's family and girlfriends, the train pulled slowly from the station. We were off on the first in a series uncomfortable stages on our journey to Naval glory!

Once upon a time, the Cunard Line had an advertising campaign that declared that, "Getting There is Half the Fun". It was obvious that the copywriter never had to travel by train from Ontario to Nova Scotia. The trip was not fun, uncomfortable, and a first class pain in the ass, literally. The Navy paid for coach only.

The first leg of the train journey carried us from Toronto to Montreal, with an intermediate stop in Trenton and Ottawa. As we pulled out of Union Station I remarked that there didn't seem to be too many of us. The PO, who could actually put two or more words together, told me to wait. More were coming, and in Trenton and Ottawa were joined by more recruits, all bound for Cornwallis.

In Trenton six young men, two of whom, the Hanson brothers, were ex-Air Cadets and military brats who knew the system, joined us. The Hanson brothers, Ted and Andrew (always called "Drew") were twenty and nineteen respectively. They did everything together and were as close as brothers could be. They were also the sons of an Airdale major, and told me that each New Entry Division consisted of about 65 young men from across Canada, except for the French Canadian boys, most of whom didn't speak a word of English, and had their own Division at Cornwallis. The small group of us in the Toronto to Montreal carriage were just the tip of the iceberg.

In Ottawa we were joined by more recruits, one of whom I will call "Winger" would have a devastating, horrifying impact on my life and attitude.

When I first saw him, Winger did not make too much of an impact. Slightly taller than I was, he was very slim, with a light olive complexion, and almond-shaped eyes. He had a feral look about him but there was something about him that intrigued me. He took the seat beside and our friendship began.

The part of the trip from Toronto to Montreal began the bonding process that the Navy hoped would happen. We were all of an age, except for Don, who was an ancient 23, with similar interests. We all spoke English as our first language, and most of us were of British extraction, except for Alfredo, who had been dubbed "Fettuccini Alfredo" (in sounded better than "Spaghetti Alfredo"), and Winger, who was actually third or fourth generation German Canadian. Fettuccini's stock went up when he opened a huge straw picnic basket that his mother had put in the train with him. She obviously assumed the CP rail could not feed a growing Italian boy properly and had loaded the basket with home-made cheeses, bread, sausages and four bottles of Dago Red, deadly to non-Italians and under age boys. The PO, who had spent much of the trip up to then snoozing in a corner seat, promptly confiscated the wine. We were, he announced "UA", and therefore could not drink alcohol. This prompted a mutiny. The PO was right, and legally we were too young to drink. However, since wine was a part of Fettuccini's culture, and Don asked if the Chief (an unwarranted promotion in my opinion) was going to deny the young Italian a part of his heritage? This hardly seemed to Don's thinking to be "the Navy Way". Ted Hanson announced that he'd been drinking beer with his old man every day after evening chores were done since he 12, and a little wine wouldn't hurt. I opened my big mouth and stated that since there were only a dozen of us, including the "Chief", we were hardly going to make a Bacchanalian riot on four bottles of plonk. Winger stuck his oar in by saying that as we were the only ones in the car, who was to know, and besides, the PO didn't want to throw the bottles off the back of the train, did he?

Faced with the very real prospect of not having a drink (which he desperately needed) until the bar in the first class car opened, the PO relented. We could share two bottles. Grumbling, we agreed.

Fettuccini opened the bottles of wine and we had a very pleasant time, eating his food and drinking what little of the wine we were given. During the course of our impromptu meal we were also treated to a small discourse on the "Etiquette of the Tot". This was given by one of the boys who had boarded the train in Ottawa, Harry Oppenheim, a recently "retired" (at 19), Sea Cadet. Harry was tall, stocky, and handsome in the dark, Mediterranean Sephardic tradition. He was also, as I later saw (in the showers, again), deliciously Jewish.

Harry was a fount of knowledge to us ignorant landlubbers. He told us that when we eventually arrived in Cornwallis, which at the rate the train was travelling through the Eastern Ontario countryside seemed problematical and in the distant future, we would begin was called an "In Routine". There would be more papers to sign and we would be given what Harry called a "Station Card", on which would be stamped a large red "G", "T" or "UA". The letters would indicate our eligibility, or not, to receive a "tot".

A tot, Harry explained, was a daily issue of Navy rum, usually at 1100, when the pipe "Up Spirits" would be made. "G" meant we could draw a tot of rum a day, "T", for Temperance or "U/A", underage age, and not legal to drink. Since we were all of an age - I think the average was 19, except for Don - which at the time meant that one had not reached the ripe old age of 21, the age of majority, and in certain cases, consent.

The Rum Bosun, as the Regulating PO in charge of issuing the rum was called, would prepare the issue in a large "rum barrel", actually a wooden barrel shaped like a small tun, to a traditional recipe: two parts water to one part Navy, or "Pusser's" rum, dark as night, over proof, and with the kick of a mule in heat. The lads would line up, their status authenticated, and then they would be issued a tot: two Imperial ounces.

Once the total was in hand, so to speak, "Rum Etiquette" came into effect. A tot could be used to repay a debt, or ask a favour. "Sippers", for minor or personal debts, repaid debts and small favours, was just that - one, and never more than three, short sip. Three sips equalled a "gulp", one big swallow, and reserved for major infractions, debts and "my ass is grass if you don't help me" favours.

Harry also told us that if we were lucky at one point or another in our new careers the pipe would be "Splice the Main Brace". This was reserved for very special occasions, the birth of a Royal Child, or a Royal Wedding, a job well done, and so on. Splicing the Main Brace meant that we would be issued a double tot, neat. This double tot, however, had to be mixed with water, immediately, except for Petty Officers First Class and Chiefs, who drew their tots neat. Some drank it at once, others took it away to their mess, to save for whatever reason they had.

At this point the PO, fortified with two bottles of Fettuccini's wine, spoke up. He was, as we learned, quite a character, and had been in the Navy since forever. He had joined the Navy during the Great War, and his official number was, I believe, 72, which matched his age in my childish eyes. The PO advised that while he would not be with us during our time in Cornwallis, he felt the need to begin our education now.

As the train rocked and rolled gently toward Montreal the PO began our first lessons in learning a new language: Navy. We learned, amongst other things, that only civilians sailed "on" a ship. Matelots sailed "in" a navy ship. He cleared up some misconceptions, most of them caused by watching too many John Wayne movies. For instance, a door was a door, a ladder was a ladder and a hatch, which was a covering over a hole in deck, was a hatch. There were very few "rooms" in a ship. There was the engine room, and the radio room (although this was usually referred to as a shack). Rooms were by and large "cabins". The Commanding Officer had a day cabin, and a sea cabin. Officers slept in cabins. There was a Wardroom, which was derived from the old RN "Wardrobe Room" where the officers stored their trunk, and was really the dining room and bar for the officers. Sub-Lieutenants and Midshipmen ate and drank in the "Gunroom", a separate compartment - meaning a large space. Lower deckers, which we were for the foreseeable future, lived in messes, as did the Chiefs and Petty Officers. These spaces were sometimes called "berthing compartments" but the PO told us this was really an American navy term, all of which should be avoided and used at risk of loss of limbs and various body parts if said in the presence of the more traditional RCN type.

As we had run out of wine, and the bar opened, the PO took us all to the first class section and stood us to a beer, although we had to make an all but blood oath never to tell. I think we all realized that this was the PO's way of introducing us to what was known as being a part of what Nelson called the "Band of Brothers". We were bonding, and that is exactly what we were supposed to do.

Over our one beer, the PO went on. Floors were decks, ceilings, deck heads. Windows were windows, but on board ship portholes were scuttles, and covered by a round metal circle called a "dead light." This was not to be confused with "Dead Lights", which was a name given to signalmen who missed an important signal. There were many more definitions, of course, too many to remember, but we were all given a firm grounding in our new language.

We arrived in Montreal and detrained, claimed our small bags and valises, and were led off to another platform, where we were told to stay put, not wander off, and wait. We had a four-hour wait before we could board the "Atlantic Limited", the train that would carry us to Cornwallis. During this wait we were joined by six more recruits, Montreal boys, all English. As we got to know each other the PO wandered off to the taproom of the nearby Windsor Hotel. Don also wondered off, heading to the public lavatories at the far end of the platform. Although we didn't know it at the time, Don had an itch to scratch.

About ten minutes before the train was due to leave, Don returned, looking flushed but with a very satisfied look on his handsome face. Five minutes before the train was due to leave, the Escorting PO came onto the platform, listing lightly, and shooed us on board the "Atlantic Limited".

The "Atlantic Limited" was a prestige train, much favoured by tourists. It travelled, after crossing the St. Lawrence, through some of the most spectacularly beautiful country in Canada, up the Eastern Shore of Quebec and, after turning south and east at Riviere de Loup, the even more spectacular countryside of New Brunswick. It was the Dominion Atlantic Railway's train deluxe and consisted of a long string of sleeping cars, deluxe sleepers, a parlour car, a dining car and, at the end, an observation car, called the "Drumhead". All the cars were modern, stainless steel carriages that glimmered and shone silver in the sunlight. It offered premium service, not that I had much of it, except in the dining car, and I did not see anything of the countryside, as it was an overnight service to St. John, New Brunswick. Once again we were in coach, a most uncomfortable place to be if the trip were long. I did manage to sleep, but not much, and I admit that the strangeness of it all kept me awake much of the trip.

The train arrived in St. John at 0930 the following morning, and we all detrained and boarded the ferry that would carry us across the Bay of Fundy, the "Princess Helene". The cars of the train were shunted on board the ferry and we sailed for the short trip across the Bay of Fundy at 1030. Once again we were in "Coach" so to speak, although most of my travelling companions spent the crossing on the upper deck, enjoying the sunshine and, for most them, myself included, their first "sea voyage". The PO, who had sipped his way from Montreal to Riviere de Loup, through Edmundston down through Fredericton, spent his time in the lounge, and sipped his way across the Bay of Fundy.

We arrived in Digby, Nova Scotia, which is located across Annapolis Basin from Cornwallis, around 1:00 o'clock. There was another wait while the train was reassembled and then we were off on the final leg of our journey, a forty-five minute journey that covered the 30 miles or so to Cornwallis, stopping briefly at Smith's Cove, Bear River and Deep Brook, before pulling into Cornwallis station, a long, open platform fronting a white-painted station, which to me, with its two-storey addition, always looked more like a caboose than a station.

On the platform were what looked like, at the time, a hundred evil-faced demons, all got up in gaiters and looking fierce. Some of them were Gunnery Instructors, into whose care we would be given, our teachers, and hopefully, our mentors. Others were members of the Regulating Branch, "Crushers" as they were called, Naval policemen detailed to ensure that no unauthorized personnel left the train. Cornwallis was a military reservation and only military personnel and dependants were allowed to leave the train.

Directly across the railroad tracks was an access road, and across the road was a long, white painted building. This was the Joining Block, a barracks reserved for New Entries.

After a maximum of shouting, growling, grumbling and name-calling the GI's formed the gaggle of recruits into the semblance of a formation and we were marched, again with shouting, growling and grumbling, the short distance from the station to the block. An added incentive was name-calling, not swearing, but name calling, and in the space of five minutes we were deemed "Sausages", "Horrible Little Men", "Barracks Stanchions" and "Canada's Last Hope".

Once inside the block, which was just a long bare room - sorry, compartment - with bunks down both sides we were told to stow our gear in a neat pile, and not to nest. We would only be here for 14 days. After dropping our bags, boxes and suitcases in an untidy heap, we were herded outside again and loaded on three buses, some of which already had passengers. These were the boys from "Down East", Haligonians and Newfs for the most part.

We were driven through the base to a large reception hall where we were given a box lunch: one chopped egg sandwich, a carton of not quite fresh milk, and a lonely looking apple. This was to sustain us until supper.

While I ate, I looked around the room and saw that there only about forty of us. I later learned that while the Navy tried constantly to load 65 bodies a week, recruiting levels were such that we were lucky to have the numbers we did. Military service, never popular at the best of times, and the low pay offered, were hardly inducements.

After we ate a short, slim, quite young lieutenant entered. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Martel, and told us that he was the "Gatineau" Divisional Officer. He explained that each New Entry class was named for a Canadian Destroyer, that he would be responsible for us, and that we were embarking upon an exciting and stimulating adventure. He told us that here in a short time we would participate in a program designed to teach us teamwork, esprit de corps, all of which would help us to become what Nelson called "A Band of Brothers" - that phrase again. Over the course of 15 weeks we would foster the ideals through PT, Drill, classroom instruction and sports. He then added that when we received our white caps we would be proud to be Canadian Sailors! I heard Harry Oppenheim mutter something about "the biggest load of crap" he'd ever heard, but I dismissed his words. I was young and I was going to be made into a man. I should have listened to Harry.

From the reception hall we were marched to the Administration Building where we began our In Routine. Here we were given a sheaf of papers and a Station Card, which wasn't a card at all, but a small booklet with a hard, black cover. In it was listed my vital statistics, my rate (Ordinary Seaman - Unqualified), the mess I would live in, the number of the bunk I would sleep in, and the number of the locker I would keep my kit in. As I expected, the Station Card was stamped with a big, red "UA", which really did not mean all that much. Recruits did not receive a tot.

From the Admin building we were herded to "Slops", or Clothing Stores, where we were issued our kit. And dear God there was a lot of it. First there was our "Basic Issue", items for which replacement was provided in the Kit Upkeep Allowance, a whole $7.00 a month. This issue consisted of what seemed to be a hundred different bits and pieces of clothing and what not, and included a soap bag, two pairs of boots, a housewife containing needles, different coloured thread and a thimble, which would come in very handy, gym shoes, which we called "Pusser Gummers", black and white high tops that I always felt made us look like adolescents when we were wearing them. We were issued gym shorts, socks, gym shirts, which were white T-shirts piped at the neck and sleeves with deep blue cloth, a pair of dress shoes, six handkerchiefs, four pairs of cotton boxer undershorts, overshoes, a wonderful warm greatcoat with a collar so deep that when it was worn up covered the neck up to the rim of our blue hats. We were also issued two pairs of pyjamas, which none of us wore, except for Don, and only for the first night, when he was ribbed so mercilessly about putting on airs that he folded the things away and slept in his issued underpants thereafter.

Once everything on the Basic Issue List had been signed for, checked and packed in a duffle bag - also issued, came the next step, Class II Issue Kit, the real stuff, the stuff that we all thought made us look like sailors. First came clothing, two seaman's caps, blue, which we learned to call our "Kick Me Caps", as they immediately identified anyone wearing them as low-life New Entries, three worsted serge jumpers, three pairs of uniform bell-bottom trousers, four gunshirts, two large pieces of black silk which would have to be sewn and ironed into what was officially called a uniform scarf but everyone called a silk, three collars, dark blue denim jackets and trousers, a Seaman's pocket knife, and two lanyards. What we did not know at the time was that every piece of kit had to be marked, stamped or embroidered with our first initial, family name, and official number. I could only echo Harry's muted "Oy vey" as we staggered, laden with two kit bags and wearing our great coats on a sweltering summer day, back onto the bus.

We returned to the Joining Block where our instructors waited. We were told to dump everything on our bunks. It was then that I noticed that painted in black on the white bulkhead above each bunk was a number. After I consulted my Station Card I dumped everything on Bunk 19. Winger was in 20, and Harry had 18. On the unmade bunk was more gear that I was responsible for: two sheets, a pillow case, a blue checked coverlet, a warm-looking white wool blanket and a small pile of cloth, blue and white patches.

The Chief Instructor for "Gatineau" Division was Chief Petty Officer Moorhouse, a roly-poly, pink-cheeked man with a Yorkshire accent that you could cut with a knife. The Block Petty Officer, PO Edgar, was a thin as the Chief was pudgy. They were both no-nonsense, very experienced NCOs and their mien gave notice that not only had they seen it all, they had done it all, and we were warned not to try to put anything past them. After telling us that it was their job to teach us everything we needed to know, the Chief told us to "Clean Into Sports Gear". Seeing the dumb looks on our faces, the Chief explained that sailors never changed clothing. They "cleaned" into whatever number uniform was required. He then explained that a certain combination of kit represented a certain number of uniform. Number 1 was our best uniform, with gold badges and medals. Since we had neither, we would have to wait to wear it, but it would all become clear soon enough.

We began to undress and when we were all down to our underpants, PO Edgar coughed and ordered us to strip. It took us several minutes to understand the implication of what the PO had said. He saw the uncertainty on our faces and explained that the Navy had seen fit to outfit us from the skin out, and as what we were wearing - tighty-whiteys for the most part - were not on our scale of issue, therefore we would wear the underpants the Navy had issued to us.

There was more hesitation. After all, it's one thing to strip naked in front of guys you've known all your life. We'd all done it in gym class, or a swim class. It was quite another thing to reveal your shortcomings to guys you've known for barely 48 hours, and two strangers you'd just met. However, we'd taken the Queen's Shilling, so . . .

I had nothing much to offer, I admit, but what I had was mine, and if it wouldn't set a size-queen's heart to fluttering, I reasoned that the guys would see it sooner or later. I glanced at Winger, who seemed to be having the same thoughts. It was then that we bonded. Almost as one entity we stripped off our T-shirts, pushed down our tightys, stepped out of them, gave the PO a "there you go" gesture and naked, rummaged through our pile of kit for the boxer shorts and gym T-shirt and blue gym shorts.

We set the trend. Off came Jockeys, white, cotton, or FTL briefs, cotton, coloured (one daring individual - Don if the truth were told - had on silk paisley boxers). On went our brand new, Pusser boxer underpants, dark blue shorts, a white cotton tee with blue banding around the arms and neck, white socks, and black high topped gummers. Now properly dressed, it was back on the bus, this time to the Base Barber Shop where three barbers, appropriately named after the hair cuts they gave, "Attila the Hun", I, II and III, where we were shorn like innocent lambs, "high and tight" on the sides and back, with just enough hair on top to form a top.

From the barbershop we were taken to the Mess Hall for supper. The food was, while not what Mother would cook, plentiful, filling and surprisingly good. While I was eating I heard a new word to add to my lexicon of Navy: duff. This was desert, and the supply was more than generous. I also overheard two of the diners complaining that the duff was not up to the usual standards. It transpired that the pastry chef, while young and given to fits of rage, usually directed at Supply Officers, was off to Ste Hyacinthe, where the School of Cookery was located, on a course. This did not stop the two ratings from filling their plates with pie, although one thought aloud that with the cook away on course the Paybob didn't have to worry about being chased around the Parade Square with a cleaver!

After supper we returned to the Joining Block. Here PO Edgar set down to business. He explained that we would only be here for 14 days, a period of "settling in", a time to learn the ropes, learn our way about the sprawling base (we wouldn't see buses again unless we were taken off base), of learning to live with others. We would also increase our vocabulary of Navy, and he would try to teach us some of the pitfalls of being what he called "Bare-assed OD's" - us, and patiently explained that we were rated as "Ordinary Seamen (Untrained), a rate we would hold until we had received all of our trades training, which could take up to two years! On the bright side our pay would then rise to $119.00 a month! PO Edgar actually managed to make us feel impressed at the news and, thinking back, he turned out to be a great guy and was the best teacher I ever had.

The first order of business was how to make our bunks. PO Edgar opined that since our mothers did not live with us, and he did, he was not about to make our beds or tuck us in. To his credit, at the end of the course, after he had found out that I was an orphan and that my mother had just recently passed on, he apologized for his clanger. He was truly sorry if he had caused any offence. That was the type of Petty Officer he was.

At the time, however, I was too engrossed in trying to make hospital corners in a sheet that insisted on forming bunny ears, or a rat's nest. PO Edgar was patience itself as he watched, and instructed, over and over until we got our bunks made up, the sheets and coverlet so tightly drawn that he could (and did) bounce a quarter off them.

Once our bunks were taken care of we then settled in to marking every piece of kit we owned. To help us there were several sets of brass stencil letters, which could be fitted together. There was also a punch set, containing the alphabet and numbers 0 to nine. The PO showed us where everything had to be marked. He warned us that this was important as every piece could and would be inspected at any time, more often than not at Kit Muster, which was usually held once a month, but if the DO (Divisional Officer) were in a bad mood, every Friday. Some officers had a tendency to take inspection of kit to extremes. The First Lieutenant (traditionally the Senior Ranking Lieutenant on Board, and usually responsible for the cleanliness of the ship) never failed to lift up the collars of our uniforms at Divisions, to ensure that our name and number had been properly stencilled on the back. The Lieutenant-at-Arms, the senior Regulating Officer, and in charge of the Crushers, was infamous for making the Leave men drop their bell bottoms to make sure that they were wearing clean, regulation underpants. PO Edgar warned that failure to properly mark a piece of kit could result in stoppage of leave, always prefaced by a snarling, "Gimme your card!" This meant surrender of one's Station Card to whatever authority demanded it, and without your card you could not go ashore. I filed this information away and made it a point never to come into contact with either of the two gentlemen if I could help it.

Our first night in Cornwallis passed quickly enough as we used the supplies provided to mark our kit. As mentioned, each had to bear my initial, my last name, and my Official Number, which was H64675. What significance the number had I have no idea. Before the war, and before the RCNVR became the RCNR, the Navy used the prefix "X", which was a change from the older system where everybody had a sequential number, as they still do in RMC, where your number tells you that you were the "x" number cadet to be enrolled. After the war, the system of introducing the letters with an "H" letter prefix told anyone interested that you were engaged in a recruiting centre east of Fort William. Anyone engaged west of Fort William had the prefix letter "E". I think they were for Halifax, the main east coast base, and Esquimalt, the main west coast base, although there was no guarantee that someone with an "H" prefix would ever serve in Esquimalt (and thus be labelled a "Sandy Bottom Sailor") or and "E" prefixed sailor in Slackers, as Halifax was called. It also told anyone interested that I was a Permanent Force, or Regular Force sailor, as opposed to a member of the Reserve, who had an "R" prefix letter. Officers, of course, had a different system and all had the prefix letter "O".

As we worked at our marking, the PO told us that we did not do laundry. We did a "dhobey". Like so many of our sayings, this was from the Royal Navy, which was the cradle of the RCN. We never went to the toilet. We went to heads, which was where sailors went in the old days of sail and the lavatories, actually open holes in the deck, sometimes with a handrail, where they went when nature called. We showered and shaved in a washplace, which was where the showers and sinks were located.

When I went to bed that night my mind was awash with new terms, new names, new routines. I slept soundly and did not hear Don spanking the monkey (as he did every night, without fail). Nobody wore the pyjamas we'd been issued and to the best of my knowledge they all mouldered away at the bottom of our lockers, only seeing the light of day at kit muster.

The next morning I was almost blown from my bunk when the overhead speakers blared the raucous notes of "Wakey Wakey", the Navy's answer to "Reveille". I, along with everyone else, staggered into the heads and washplace for what was delicately called "our morning ablutions". It was 0600, and there was a full day ahead. Just to make sure that we were awake, and to get the blood to singing, we were off on a morning run, PO Edgar leading, and much too cheerful than he had a right to be. After our run we had breakfast, again plentiful and very good and then we began a new round of visits. The first was to the base hospital where we were once again medically examined, presumably to assure the powers that be that we hadn't been damaged in transit. The Navy would have no truck with damaged goods. Once assured that we were indeed healthy, and free of the more common diseases, we went to see the dentist, who checked our teeth. From the hospital we ran in ragged formation back to Slops where we were issued the Bible of the Navy: BRCN 67, The Manual of Seamanship, Volumes I and II. These books were to be our guide and our bane for the next fourteen weeks.

We returned to the Joining Block, dumped our books, and had our first drill period. It stunned some people, particularly Fettuccini Alfredo, that we actually had a left foot, and a right foot. The drill period did not go well as across the road and railroad tracks there was a Greek Chorus of ratings waiting for the down train from Halifax. PO Edgar told us not to worry, we'd do all right . . . eventually.

Our days were filled with necessary things to do. Eventually all of our kit was suitably marked, and we were allowed to wear Number 5's, or work dress uniforms, but only after we had squeezed, pounded and generally abused the flat, round, blue caps we had been issued into something that looked more like a sailor's hat, and less like a Greek Bishop's. We also had to learn how to tie a proper bow in our cap tallies, which took some time, but in the end we passed muster and were allowed out in public.

Of course the blue caps, which together with the coloured patches sewn on the right sleeve of our jumpers, jackets, gunshirts and work dress shirts, immediately identified us as recruits, little worms that drew instant attention from our "trained" betters. Every move we made was subject to criticism and, in some cases, invective, particularly from the Parade Staff if we dared to go anywhere near Sacred Ground - the parade square.

At the end of our 14-day settling in period, we moved to a new barracks block, and were officially designated "Gatineau Division". It was not much of a change, as every block was basically the same as every other block. During those 14 days I added some new phrases to my increasing "salty" lexicon, including, amongst others, calling an empty tin container a "fanny". Calling a tin a fanny derived from an unfortunate incident in England in 1867 when a young girl, Miss Fanny (or Frances) Adams was brutally murdered by one Frederick Baker who, when he was finished doing whatever nefarious things he did to her, dismembered her body and it was alleged that some of her body parts had turned up in Deptford Victualling Yard. As the Royal Navy had chosen the same time to begin issuing tinned mutton, the matelots, being suspicious of anything new, promptly dubbed the mutton "Fanny Adams". As time passed the "Adams" was dropped, as was the reference to mutton, and an empty tin container became a "fanny".

I also learned that I would eventually "swallow the anchor", that is retire, if I didn't "cross the bar", die, first. I also added a new lexicon, nicknames. The Navy sailor seems to delight in nicknames. Some were time honoured traditional nicknames, some of which made sense, and all of which depended on one's last name. Millers, for instance, were "Dusty". So were boys named "Rhodes". Redheads were invariably called "Ginger" (as were boys named Casey), a boy name Lane became "Shady Lane". A boy named "Brodie" almost always was called "Steve" instead of his real Christian name, after the only man reputed to have jumped off of the Brooklyn Bridge and lived. Martins were named "Pincher", reputedly after a former Impressement Officer who "pinched" unsuspecting sailors and civilians and "pressed" them into the Royal Navy. The list went on and on. I, with a last name that had little connection with anything, was not gifted with a nickname until much later, when I was in Gunnery School.

From the third week on we were fully integrated into the New Entry Training scheme, our days filled with classroom instruction interlaced with parade training, PT and sports. We were taken to the base pool, housed in a huge galleried structure, with a high diving board, and were taught how to right an upturned life raft, and abandon ship by jumping from the diving board. My foresight in bringing more than one bathing suit paid off. The Hanson brothers had not brought anything, and I gave them my extras. Harry Oppenheim likewise was forced to "borrow" a swimsuit, from Winger, and while the suit was a size too small I must admit that Harry filled it well.

It was during this time in the latter part of the training period that Winger and I became close. We did everything together, from helping each other embroider, yes, embroider, our blankets with our names and numbers, to spending our free time in the Dry Canteen (so called because no beer was served, just tea, coffee, sodas, or special treats from the in house soda fountain and ice cream bar).

I knew that I was falling in love with him. I tried desperately not to, but failed miserably. If he had been one of the Hanson brothers, or Fettuccini Alfredo, or Harry Oppenheim, I could have understood it. I did not and I tried desperately not to give him any indication of the way I felt. I also learned never to express my true feelings to him or anyone, to keep my own counsel, and to pretend to be something I was not. It was in Cornwallis that I began to develop and nurture my alternate persona. Stevie Straight-Arrow, the Navy's answer to Captain Canada was born in Cornwallis. He almost died there.

I consider myself privileged that while I was in Cornwallis I observed the coming together of men. This coming together is a slow process, involving camaraderie, shared joys and sorrows, a bonding process that occurs only in the military, a shared trust and dependency on each other to be sure, but a bonding that once it is formed never breaks.

I would watch, while I exercised my newfound ability to spit shine the most desperate looking pair of boots, my messmates. I saw them grow from young boys, frightened, boys, insecure boys, into men, a disparate, flawed group perhaps, but a true Band of Brothers.

I also saw their attitudes change. One of the first things to go were their inhibitions. Every group of men is different, yet the same. We all started out as normal, run of the mill anal-retentive boys. Life on a mess deck is open, brutal, and horribly truthful. There is no place for shyness and before very long nobody seemed to notice the morning woodies that poked out of our boxers, or that Don thought nothing of parading into and out of the washplace as naked as a newborn babe. Nobody took umbrage at the homoerotic badinage that soon developed, well, no one except Winger who was a prude. We came to recognize that we all had our little quirks of character, which in the beginning were annoying, but something we eventually came to accept as just Drew being Drew when he dropped something - he was a klutz, and no danger - or that Harry Oppenheim, a sweet boy, but more of a sports nut than a scholar, constantly needed help with his lessons. He was Harry, and that was it. We thought nothing of Don being able to embroider, a very necessary skill. We were required to embroider our names on the thick, wool blankets, and I mean embroidered. Since none of us new the sharp end from the blunt end of a needle, Don took us in hand, so to speak, and taught some simple cross-stitching. He could also do needlepoint, but that was skill we did not need to acquire.

While we had no true "characters" in our Division, at least not yet, there were plenty to go around outside the block. There was "Earl, the Pearl", a short, scrawny, Chief Petty Officer. He did not smoke, drink, or swear, his most gruesome epithet being, "You sausage!" which came out as "Thauthage", as he had lisp. Earl was the Base Disbursement Clerk. He had a small office, and a very large safe, stuffed with money, and he was the bane and despair of the Master-at-Arms because Earl tended to forget to close and lock the safe when he went home at night. As rumour had it, the Master-at-Arms had begged, pleaded, threatened and then, one Friday morning, acted.

Friday mornings meant Ceremonial Divisions, with a Guard, the Band, and everybody who could walk on parade. As we were forbidden to set foot on the parade square until the bugler sounded "Markers", everybody milled around the edges, waiting. One Friday morning in the tenth week of our course someone noticed a large cardboard box set dead centre of the square. There was some confusion as to what it was doing there, and what it contained. Nobody thought it might be an infernal device - nobody was angry with anyone that we knew of and none of the Divisional Officers had received death threats of late. The Lieutenant-at-Arms, an officious prick, was more or less forced to go out and examine the strange box. He seemed to sniff it before tapping the box lightly with his finger. When nothing happened he poked it with the tip of his sword - in those days all officers wore swords on parade. When the box did not blow up he squatted down and carefully opened the top of the box, which wasn't sealed and fell back on his butt, much to the general merriment of the assembled ship's company. It turned out that the box contained the contents of Earl's safe, thousands of dollars, every penny of which Earl was responsible for.

Poor Earl had a nervous breakdown, or close to it. He didn't know how the money had got from his safe to the parade square. He swore up hill and down dale that he had locked the safe, at least he thought he had. He was hauled before the Commanding Officer, cautioned, fined $50.00 and sent away to sin no more. He was also detailed a Yeoman whose sole job was to make sure that the safe was locked every night.

For weeks Earl mooched around, waiting for someone to come and try to rob him again. He accused, amongst others, the Lieutenant-at-Arms, the Executive Officer, and the Master-at-Arms who was, as it turned out, the culprit. He had been called out of his bed by the Shore Patrol, who had, in the course of their normal duties, checked the offices in the Admin Building. The Master-at-Arms, finally at the end of his tether, had scooped the cash, found a box, and Earl the Pearl and the Lost Treasure of Cornwallis became legend.

Lieutenant Martel, our Divisional Officer, was also a character. He was one of those men who knew how to inspire, knew when to crack the whip and when to back off. He had a wicked sense of humour, and did not suffer fools gladly. High on the list of Lieutenant Martel's List of Fools was the Lieutenant-at-Arms, Lieutenant Unwin, a slim, short, Bandy rooster of a man who strutted about in patent gaiters and found fault with anything and everything he set eyes on. He was, as the saying went, all "Gate and Gaiters", mouth and obsession with his twin Bibles, Queen's Regulations and Orders, and Base Standing Orders, which he would quote, chapter and verse, at the drop of a hat. He also had a special venomous hate of for New Entries. Nothing they did pleased him and he seemed go out of his way to find fault with them.

Naturally obnoxious, Lieutenant Unwin's mood was not improved when he celebrated the Feast of the Passed Over, for the second time, in June. The writing was on the wall, and he knew it and the knowledge that his commission in Cornwallis would be his last became a festering sore.

Lieutenant Martel, for the most part an easygoing man, did his best to deflect Unwin's bile, and for the most part, succeeded. He and the Lieutenant-at-Arms had a knock down, drag out fight one morning after Unwin complained that our rhythmic stamping as we ran our morning run was out of sync! Lieutenant Martel told Unwin to shove his telescope, which he always carried clutched in the pit of his left arm, where the sun don't shine. Relations took a definite downhill turn after that.

Things were relatively quiet, though, until the end of our 12th week of training. Two things happened. First we were issued more kit: summer white drill uniforms. We were also detailed off, with St. Laurent Division to form the Guard at our Passing Out Parade, our graduation parade, when Vice-Admiral H.S. Rayner, Chief of the Naval Staff, would inspect us.

How Gatineau Division had been selected I have no idea. We weren't the sharpest, I admit, but we didn't look too sloppy on parade. Much of our drill had been foot drill, and our knowledge of Drill with Arms was minimal. I suspect that the names of all the New Entry Divisions were thrown into a hat and the two that came out were the losers. Or the Gunnery Officer consulted the entrails of a chicken. Not that it mattered, we were the Guard, and our training schedule was changed accordingly.

Each morning, after Divisions, under the gimlet and not too gentle eyes of four of the most intolerant Gunnery Instructors God has ever given breath to, we drew .303's and scabbarded bayonets from the Armoury, adjusted our webbing, and presented arms, sloped arms, fixed bayonets, unfixed bayonets and so on for the next two hours. It was gruelling, but we were assured that we had been chosen because we were the best, which surprised most of us as that particular title was usually given to the platoons of officer cadets, who also trained in Cornwallis.

Being in the Guard not only meant extra drill, but extra work. We set aside one set of our blue uniforms as our No. 1's. The jumper, silk, gunshirt, and bell-bottoms had to be immaculate, and free of Irish Pennants. PO Edgar inspected them almost daily. One of our two pairs of boots was designated our "Parade Boots". They were sent off to the cobbler and half-moon cleats and toe cleats put on the heels and soles. These had to be spit shined and carefully stored in our lockers, like sacred relics, until the day! The scabbards of the bayonets we'd been issued also had to be spit shined, a labour intensive effort as it seemed to take forever to put a base coat on the metal scabbards. As we wore them at every practice the polish rubbed off and we had to polish them all over again when practice was over. Our gaiters and belts had to be blancoed a spotless white, and we still had to keep up our classroom work. It was all very trying.

Being the Guard might have been an honour, but it was, at first, to us, a pain in the ass. However, as the days drew nearer and nearer to the Passing Out Parade a new feeling began to come over us. We were the Guard, we were trained, and suddenly our movements became sharper, our uniforms without reproach. We became The Guard. It was all very inspiring, and we were spurred on by the venomous comments of the Lieutenant-at-Arms, who always manage to find an excuse to stroll by while we were at drill. After his run in with Lieutenant Martel, Lieutenant Unwin did not verbalize his disapproval, but his dark looks, and shaking his head told us what he was thinking. In a way, it spurred us to even greater efforts. We became determined to show the little dickhead just what we could do.

As always happened, the day before the Passing Out Parade was "dress rehearsal" day. In the morning we were marched over to Slops where the balance of our kit was issued to us, more gunshirts, gold wire "Canada" badges, and two white caps, the sign that we were now "trained" and ready to go out to the Fleet! It didn't matter that we could not wear the caps until the actual parade, or that they had to be pummelled and beaten into proper shape. We were sailors at last!

After Stand Easy we formed up on the parade square and Lieutenant Martel put us through a set of preliminary drills. We were not surprised to see Lieutenant Unwin, and the Master-at-Arms stroll by, the one to confirm his opinion that we were the dregs of Creation, the other to make sure that we were Ship Shape and Bristol Fashion and wouldn't make fools of ourselves. Unwin could not say too much, at least out loud, but he didn't disappoint us. The Master-at-Arms looked pained, and was obviously uncomfortable but he couldn't say a word to his superior officer. Unwin walked along, and then, just as he passed the rear file of the Guard he turned and in a voice loud enough for us to hear, told the Master-at-Arms that, "A pack of dogs can be trained to do a better job than that scruffy lot!"

Lieutenant Martel, his anger rising, glared after the departing Lieutenant Unwin and then did something that surprised us all. He shook his head, smiled, and said, "Right, lads, let's have a beer." Seeing the looks on our faces - as New Entries we were not allowed to drink - he assured us that he meant every word. He led us, all 76 of us, behind the Wardroom, spoke to the Chief Steward, and before we knew it we were all sitting around sipping a cold Ohland's. As we sipped we watched as a smile began spreading across Lieutenant's Martel's face. He looked at us and opined that it was unfortunate that the Lieutenant-at-Arms thought that a pack of dogs could do better. He also wondered idly if the good Lieutenant Unwin had ever seen a pack of dogs that had been taught Drill With Arms. Shaking his head he wondered aloud what would happen if a well-trained pack of dogs actually did turn up on parade. We weren't stupid, and we very quickly understood what Lieutenant Martel was getting at. We put our heads together and before very long the Chief Steward poked his head out of the back door of the Wardroom, wondering what all the barking was about.

After lunch we cleaned into our uniforms, took up our rifles, formed up and marched briskly from our barracks to the parade square.

Navy parades always follow the same pattern. After the parade is formed, the parade commander turns the parade over to the Commander - the Executive officer - who in turn hands it into the care of the Commanding Officer, who then gives the whole thing into the care of the Inspecting officer. Officers wear their swords and those who have them sling their gongs. The band plays appropriate salutes and insipid inspection music. It's all very formal, but very inspiring.

As this was only a dress rehearsal, the Commanding Officer and Executive Officer stood to one side of the half-moon-shaped inspecting dais, the better to observe. Their places were taken by the Principal Medical Officer, the PMO, a four-ringer, and the Supply Officer, both of whom seemed to have nothing better to do that afternoon. The First Lieutenant would play the role of the Inspecting Officer.

The practice started out as normal. The parade was mustered, markers called, the GI's patrolled the sides and back, snapping and snarling like mastiffs at any imagined movement, the Guard and the Band marched on. Everybody performed their role and then the Inspecting Officer came onto the dais. At this point there was to be a General Salute. The Band Master raised his baton, the trumpeters drained their spit valves, and the snare drummers brought their sticks up parallel to their noses. This was the moment when the Guard Officer, Lietuenant Martel, was supposed to order: "Guard, General Salute, Present - Arms!"

Only he didn't.

What came out was what sounded like a dachshund on heat: "Aroof - Ruff Ruff Ruff, Aroof - WOOF!"

We all knew, of course, what Lieutenant Martel meant and we presented arms with a precision that would have made the heart of an old Whale Island Chief skip a beat. The Band Master dropped his baton, the lead snare drummer dropped a stick, which landed on the head of his drum with a hellacious bang, the Commanding Officer looked around to see if perhaps one of the mutts that infested the Marriage patch had managed to cross Highway One without being turned into road kill (a regular occurrence) and our Division Chief, who was standing on the sidelines, clutched his chest with a look on his face that was either a harbinger of a coronary infarction, or an attack of wind.

Training prevailed, however, and the band, true "artistes" all, crashed out the "General Salute". The First Lieutenant saluted smartly, smiling, for he was in on the game. The Commander, his fingers quivering, clutched the pommel of his sword so tightly that I am sure he left a permanent impression of his fingerprints in the ivory. He could do nothing to stop what was happening. He was a spectator, and all he could to was to "spectate", although nobody doubted that he would wreak vengeance after the parade.

When the last note of the "General Salute" sailed westward over Annapolis Basin, Lieutenant Martel marched forward, saluted and reported the Guard ready for inspection. He growled a reasonable impression of one of my neighbour's poodle chasing a critter, which translated, roughly, into "Guard Ready For Inspection, Lieutenant Martel reporting. Will you inspect, sir?"

The First Lieutenant, almost busting a gut trying not to laugh, his eyes sparkling with glee, returned, "Woof Woof", which we all took to mean, "Yes, please!"

As the First Lieutenant navigated his way through the small throng of spectators that lined the dais behind him. Lieutenant Unwin, who had been growling and rumbling like an altered bulldog, completely ignored the restraining hand of the Master-at-Arms and stepped out, confronting the First Lieutenant. The First Lieutenant could hardly slap down the Lieutenant-at-Arms in front of the assembled ship's company. They were fellow officers, after all, and slapping downs were always done in private. What Unwin said to the First Lieutenant we in the Guard couldn't hear, but what happened next came across loud and clear: The First Lieutenant, leaning slightly forward, let loose with a barrage of snarls, growls, an occasional woof, and at the end, a loud snap! We all gleefully translated this to mean, "Fuck Off, Fool!"

To much tittering and restrained laughter from the peanut gallery, the First Lieutenant inspected the Guard, and while he didn't say a word, his face told it all: we'd done good!

When the parade finally ended we fully expected a rocket from someone in authority. This didn't happen and we were encouraged, as we marched off and passed platoon after platoon, we heard muted comments, such as "Good on ya", "Right on, mates", and one "Well done the Sprogs!" Those comments alone made what we had done all the more worthwhile, and being called children didn't bother us at all.

After we returned our rifles we returned to our block, fully expecting the wrath to descend. It didn't. Lieutenant Martel came back with us and studiously ignored the washtub that had mysteriously appeared during our absence and was placed in the middle of the mess deck, filled with ice and bottles of beer, and surrounded by stacked plastic beer glasses!

We cleaned into our sports gear and began the process of preparing our uniforms for the parade next morning, scrubbing, ironing and bashing our new white caps into shape. The old Division Chief, looking as merry as an elf, came in and began to make the rounds, ostensibly checking to make sure that we would look our prettiest the next day. He never said a word about what happened on the parade square and denied all knowledge of a large jug that had suddenly appeared beside the washtub of beer. He pretended to sniff the contents of the jug, tipped it up and sipped the contents of the jug, and smiled.

Coughing, and pretending to be all Gate and Gaiters, the Chief observed that alcohol on the mess deck was strictly forbidden, but then again, he didn't see the point in gashing good Pusser rum! He hefted the jug and opined that there might, just might, be a tot in it for everybody. Not enough "To off whatever's in a mug when offered by a friend Bob's-a-Dying", which we took to mean a real down home piss-up, but enough to wet our whistles and get a glow on. We later learned that the beer had come from the Gunnery Division and the rum from the Chiefs Mess. Adequate supplies had also been delivered to St. Laurent Block. It was very clear that Lieutenant Unwin was not the most popular man aboard.

The results of our "Dawg Day Afternoon" were really low-key. Nothing happened to us sprogs, but Lieutenant Martel did receive a rocket, a little one, from the Commander. As for Lieutenant Unwin, he was so shaken by what had happened, and humiliated beyond belief, he never appeared the next morning. He had spent the afternoon after the practice, in the Wardroom drinking "Gin and It," gin with a splash of Angostura bitters until he fell of his bar stool and had to be helped home to his long suffering wife, who put him to bed and decamped for her mother's.

I spent the last night of my time in Cornwallis watching and thinking, polishing my boots and sipping my tot. I listened to my mates as they exchanged cracks and insults, and for the first time I realized that what we had was over, the friendship would remain, but the closeness that had been mine for 15 weeks was about to end. I also realized that I would miss them, and that while we would meet again, we would never again all be together. I could feel Winger's bare arm brush mine as he sat beside me making slow, concentric circles on the toe of his parade boots, polishing and polishing, bringing them to diamond-like brilliance.

I was in a quandary, for I knew how I felt about Winger, and I didn't know what to do. I wanted him, I thought I needed him, and I didn't know how to tell him. Fear of his reaction kept me silent for 15 weeks. Fear that he might hate me when I told him how I felt, kept my true feelings locked inside me.

Winger was my mate, my best friend, and I worried and worried. We had done nothing wrong, never even played grab ass with each other. Sex had never been a part of our friendship, no matter how much I might have wanted it to be. Of course sex, no matter what the form, was the one thing that supposedly never happened in Recruit School.

I looked up and saw PO Edgar, helping Harry put the finishing touches on a new silk they'd just sewn and wondered if the PO knew what happened when he left us at night.

We were all healthy young men, with a normal young man's appetite. That appetite had to find release in some way and I came to realize that the PO, if not QR&O's, understood. If you put a group of young men into virtual isolation, deny them the normal outlets of female companionship, inevitably they would end up seeking solace from each other, or in masturbation, which is what happened.

The Military to this day steadfastly refuses to believe that a 17- or 18-year-old male has certain itches that need to be scratched, sometimes not often, sometimes as often as time and privacy allowed. Beating off was as natural as breathing, and everybody did it. One of the first things we all learned was how to master the art of the silent jerk off. Everybody went to bed with a "shot mat," an old T-shirt, a towel, or a hanky. We all knew that masturbating was a chargeable offence, the evidence of it being cum stains on our sheets, which we changed once a week, and which were rightly assumed were examined carefully by the PO Storekeeper for suspicious stains. Still we did it.

At first everybody, from Winger on down to Dusty Miller, the youngest member of the Division, tried to beat off as quietly as possible. It was embarrassing, after all, to be caught choking your chicken, but it was either spank the monkey or blow up!

At first we all pretended nothing of the sort went on once the lights went out. Later, when we had come to know each other, hearing someone doing the dirty became the butt of jokes and ribbing. Knowing that Winger was happily taking care of business in the next bunk never bothered me, just as hearing Fettuccini Alfredo huffing and puffing away became a normal, expected part of mess life. Eventually nobody said anything, although an occasional "Thank God, he's done!" would float through the darkened block.

That is not to say that there was no sex going on, something that always bothered me because in a way the acts betrayed the trust placed in us by PO Edgar. He was always there for us, always ran interference when he felt it necessary, and was gentle with his few expressions of disapproval. He trusted, when he left at the end of the day, "went ashore" as he put it, that we would behave properly. Many years later he told me that he'd known what was going on, that it always happened and short of tying our hands to the bed frame, what was he supposed to do? I confess with no little shame that I never told him about the Hanson brothers, or Don.

The PO spent long hours with us every day, never going ashore most nights until "Last Post" had been sounded. He lived ashore with his family in the marriage patch across Highway 1 and I know he devoted far more time to us than he did to his wife and three sons. I met them one Sunday morning after church, and I must say that I agreed with him when he said that his sons favoured his wife, a pretty little thing. His sons were tall and blond, with proper Navy haircuts. The two older boys wore long trousered suits, starched white shirts and ties. The youngest, Aaron, was dressed the way a proper young boy of the time was supposed to dress for church: short trousers, white ankle socks, a matching jacket, a white shirt and dark bow tie, and spit-shined oxfords. PO Edgar had a handsome clan, and we never truly appreciated the personal sacrifices he made for us. Had I had a better understanding I might have told him what really went on.

The Hanson brothers were, and I suppose still are, fine, handsome men, blond, perhaps too good looking for their own good, and boys any mother would be proud to call her own. Of course, mother might not approve of what they did as soon as the block door slammed shut behind PO Edgar.

While the rest of us would clear up what we were doing, and settle into bed, Ted and Drew would wait until the lights went out and then sneak out the back fire door. They had found a bolthole and there they proceeded to do what they had been doing every night since they reached puberty: they gave each other needed relief. Most nights, or so I later came to understand from their snickering, they would just jerk each other off. Some nights, however, after a particularly stressful day, Drew would lower his head and take his brother into his mouth. Ted would, when he was finished, reciprocate. They never did anything with anybody else, and they went to great pains to never let us know what they were doing, or where they were doing it. As I say, it was something they had done for years, and saw no reason to stop now. It was a brother thing, and that was all there was to it.

What they were doing was also dangerous. The Crushers patrolled the barracks blocks constantly, and there were the Night Roundsmen, who checked every block to make sure that we were in bed and that there was nothing amiss. Still, Ted and Drew did it, and never gave it another thought.

Don also felt the need to take the night air. He always waited until the Hanson brothers returned and then he was gone, to return in the morning hours to settle in his bunk with what I thought was a satisfied, happy little sigh.

We all suspected that Don was as queer as a duck. He acted a little odd, true, but he never made a move on any of us. He participated in the usual mess deck nonsense, and while his eyes did sparkle brightly whenever he saw Fettuccini walking about with a bone on, he never reached out to touch. As far as Don was concerned we, his messmates, were off limits, period. For our part, while we might wonder where Don went at night, we never asked. He was one of us, a mate, and you never, ever, squealed on a mate. Winger, who might grumble and mutter his dark suspicion that Don had found another "playmate" of like persuasion - which as it turned out, he had, a sick Bay Tiffy with the keys to the hospital linen stores - kept his mouth shut, especially after being confronted by Harry Oppenheim, who dared Winger to say what everybody thought and report Don to the Chief, or PO Edgar. So far as Harry was concerned if Don was getting his rocks off with a like-minded matelot, who cared? He wasn't swinging from Winger's dick, was he? What Don did was his business, and none of ours.

Winger, much to his distress, had to admit to the logic of Harry's tirade. He never squealed on Don, and he never squealed on me.

During that last night, as I watched and listened to my messmates, I had a niggling feeling that something was not quite right. At first I could not put my finger on it, and then I realized that we were all more or less cut from the same cloth - we were all white. We were supposed to be a cross-section of Canada, but we were not. There were boys in my Division from Ontario, from Manitoba, from Newfoundland and from Nova Scotia, from New Brunswick and Cape Breton Island, and we were all white. It was a sad commentary of the times that there were very few people of colour in the Navy then, no blacks, no Orientals, no Aboriginals and in fact, a mere ten years earlier there had been none at all in the Navy. Until 1952 Naval recruits had to certify that they were of "pure European descent", which was interpreted as whites only, no Jews or Coloured need apply. Racism and prejudice was not confined to small town Ontario.

I also had a lesson in the demographics of the times. Back home I had often peeked to see what my mates looked like. Aside from Piers Gaveston, and his dick of death, everybody looked the same, and up to a point, everybody in my division looked more or less the same as I did. What I did discover, though, was that there were subtle differences. What I saw was that nearly every boy born west of Quebec had undergone a refit. There were exceptions, however, to this rule of thumb. Fettuccini Alfredo, although born in Toronto, had original fittings. I recalled the Mennonite boys back home and put this down to Fettuccini's coming from an ethnic background and religion that did not conform to the prevailing mores. Fettuccini boasted a long, veined tube of flesh that he was inordinately proud of, and when it became angry stood up to I swear nine plus inches of thickness, the foreskin drawn back to reveal a huge plum-like head. I could well understand after seeing him in all his glory why he left four girls wailing on the platform back in Toronto. The only one who came close to Fettuccini was Harry Oppenheim, who had a beauty, sleeping or aroused.

My conclusion was further buttressed by the one Newfoundlander in the barracks, and two of the four Haligonians. All of them had original fittings.

At first it was very difficult to sit back and try not to look. Of course at first we all did, checked each other out, and commented, for or against, until eventually it became just part of living with a bunch of guys. While I might have had the shape and size of every dick in the mess etched in my brain, still I looked, never commented, and never touched. I did, sometimes, fantasize about the other guys, but as the weeks passed I found myself more and more being attracted to Winger. He was no looker, and certainly would never win a blue ribbon for what he had between his legs but . . . he was handsome in my eyes and his image filled my thoughts nightly.

Graduation Day finally arrived. Once the parade was over we would scatter, some to Halifax, some to Esquimalt, wherever our trades training took us. Throughout out our training, aside from the usual marching, drilling, sports, PT and classroom work, we were subjected to a barrage of aptitude tests. These were supposed to give the Navy an idea where we would best fit in the great scheme of things. We had been asked, at the beginning of our course, what trade we would like to follow, with two alternates. I chose gunnery, for no particular reason, followed by Boatswain, and the Regulating Branch. Again, I had no real intention to follow the latter two courses, but we had to put something down. Don, with two years of pre-Med under his belt, opted for Sick Bay Attendant. Harry had put down Gunnery as his first choice, as had the Hanson brothers. Winger had opted to become a Naval Communicator.

The parade went off without a hitch, with no one making a fool of himself, and no barking. The Admiral was gracious, and complimented the New Entries, now Ordinary Seaman as signified by our brand new Pusser white caps, on our drill and general turnout. We left the parade square feeling rather proud of ourselves and none of us wanted to think about what was to come next.

After stowing our rifles and returning our webbing, we went off to begin our Out Routines. The first office we went to would determine our fate. This was the Admin Office and here we received our Draft Chits. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I had got my wish - I was drafted to the School of Gunnery in HMCS Stadacona. Winger was staying in Cornwallis, drafted to the Communications School. Just about everybody had got what they asked for, except for Don. He'd been drafted to the Gunnery school, as had the Hansons, and Harry. Don grumbled and mumbled and then went off, vowing to remuster at the earliest opportunity. The rest of us finished our Out Routine and finished packing.

The Passing Out Parade was timed so that those of us with a draft could catch the train leaving for Halifax at 1209. There was no time for lunch and just enough time to pack and walk to the station. Winger insisted on accompanying me.

Part of me wanted him to walk me to the station. Another part did not. I was leaving him, which I did not want to do, and had the niggling feeling that I would never see him again. Still, he insisted. We said goodbye to the Chief and PO Edgar, and began the slow walk to the station. The Hanson boys, and Harry and Don, had hurried ahead and Winger and I had an opportunity to say our own goodbyes. He had hoisted my kit bag on his shoulder and I couldn't see his face as I told him how much he'd meant to me, how much I would miss him. We walked along, not pausing to glance at the small flotilla of boats that coasted along the calm waters of Annapolis Basin, as I tried to express in convoluted words how I felt. As we walked along the roadway that paralleled the railway tracks I asked him if we could keep in touch. He replied that he hoped we would. We were wingers, and he liked me a lot.

I should not have done it, but I did. I could not simply leave and say nothing. I had been raised to never lie, never obfuscate, and never quibble. Tell the truth and you never had to keep track of the lies.

I asked Winger to stop, and blurted out my true feelings for him. I told him that I loved him, and that I wanted to be with him always. Winger stared at me and I realized that I had made one very big mistake. I should have listened to his snide cracks about Don being queer, and what faggots the Hansons were. I should have kept my big mouth shut but again, I could not leave without making some expression of how I felt. What I did not realize was that by telling him I loved him I had, unknowingly, but in his eyes, assaulted his morals and insulted his manhood. I should have expected his reaction. Had I been older, or wiser, I would have.

Winger dropped my kit bag and glared at me, hate quickly filling his eyes. He sputtered a bit, then reach out and put his hands around my neck. I grabbed his wrists, but he was very strong, and I could not pull him away. As he squeezed the breath from me he called me every filthy, venom-soaked name he could think of. I was called a cocksucker, a bone eater, gearbox, butt fucker, you name it, and he called me it.

I didn't flinch, and I didn't beg him not to hurt me or to forgive me. I knew instinctively that I had crossed a line that I should not have crossed. I had tried to bring my world into his; a world where people like me did not exist, ever.

My silence, I think, confused him. A queer did not act this way. A queer moaned and cried, and begged not to be hurt. A queer was a coward. He dropped his hands from my throat and raised his fist.

"You disgust me!" he spat, and punched me square in the balls. As I lay writhing on the ground and vomiting my lunch, he gave me a kick in the ribs, and spat on me. He kicked me again. "Fucking fag!" he ejaculated. "Fucking, fucking, fag!" As Winger hurried away I picked myself up, wiped the blood from my face, and slowly walked to the station. I lied and told the others that I'd tripped and fallen against the rail lines. Don was all mother hennish, and helped me clean up. By the time the train arrived I was presentable enough to pass the scrutiny of the Crushers who were always on the platform when a train arrived.

I spent the entire trip to Halifax, hunched in my seat, not eating, not sleeping, refusing even the comfort the others offered me. I had no idea what I was going to do, what was going to happen to me. My physical injuries were minor; my emotional injuries were not. I hurt deep inside. I had loved Winger, he'd been my first love, and his rejection hurt beyond description.

As the train rattled northward through the Annapolis Valley I tried to understand why Winger had reacted so harshly. I was much too young and inexperienced to understand that his motives might have been inspired by fear that his attraction to me had grown into something he could not understand or handle, or by a very real ingrained loathing of queers. I had seen the hatred back home, read it in the newspapers, and heard it in church. Not that it mattered. Winger was lost to me and while I mourned the loss, I also determined never to put myself in that position again, and my closet became deeper and darker.

For a long time after I left Cornwallis I worried that Winger might report me to the Master-at-Arms. He didn't. He was one of my term mates, and a term mate, a messmate, never squealed on a brother. I never saw him again. I did hear that he'd completed his signals course and been drafted to Esquimalt where he served one hitch and took an easy out.

As the train rolled toward Halifax I realized that I could never again express my true feelings to any man. I would not become emotionally evolved if I could avoid it.

I try to tell myself that I got over Winger, but in truth I never did. So much so that even now, forty years later, I keep his picture close to me.