Aurora Tapestry

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned.

IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on.

My thanks to those of my readers who wrote offering suggestions and words of encouragement. I enjoy hearing from all of my readers and I do answer all e-mails.

Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 4

Friday began for the Phantom with the usual hurry-up and wait associated with his mother's travelling anywhere. When he opened his eyes he saw that it was still very dark outside and from downstairs he could hear the soft muttering of voices. As he climbed out of bed and pattered in his boxers down to the bathroom he wondered if his parents had stayed up all night arguing.

As he peed The Phantom watched his morning woody deflate. "Strange," he thought, "that I haven't even thought of jerking off." But then, he'd had no reason to beat off, no reason at all. He had an active and satisfying sex life now, not like last year, nor even part of this summer, when he'd snuck into the barracks and pleasured the cadets. Then he beat off at least four times a day, every day, and always after being with one of the cadets. Which added at least two more jerks to his daily tally. Chuckling, The Phantom got into the shower thinking, "I was as bad as Thumper!"

As he soaped himself The Phantom let his mind drift back to that night when he had visited Regulating Petty Officer Tom Vernon, known to one and all as Thumper, whom many acclaimed as the all-time masturbation champion of HMCS AURORA. Thumper would beat off at the first hint of a hardon and didn't care who knew it. It was, he explained, his only sex life and besides, who were the other cadets to talk? They all did it, just not as frequently.

Thinking of Thumper, The Phantom's hand moved down to his soft, soap-covered penis. With his fingers he stimulated the domelike, pink glans of his dick and felt the flesh under his palm begin to harden. In a way Thumper was the author of all that had come to pass.

The Phantom had been on one of his nightly forays. He had visited Ray in the Cooks Barracks first. He always did that. Ray was, well, Ray: a very special young man who would always hold a special place in The Phantom's heart. In a way, he was in love with Ray, and always would be. Ray had been his "first", in many ways. Ray's penis had been the first that The Phantom had ever sucked. A guy always remembered his first blowjob. It didn't matter if he was giving or getting, he always remembered.

After visiting Ray, The Phantom had carried on to the Staff Barracks. He had discovered that the senior cadets were just as horny, and just as susceptible to his services, as the cadets in the other barracks. He had visited Tyler, the Master at Arms, and Val, the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, both fine, handsome, well-endowed specimens. After finishing with Val, The Phantom had walked into the Gunroom and surveyed the two rows of bunks. He debated visiting the Twins, but thought better of it. To The Phantom, the Twins had been the Grail, the sum and total of everything beautiful in a male. A quick grope and a fast slurp just didn't seem right when it came to the Twins. He had looked at Harry, far down the Gunroom, but Harry was straight - or so The Phantom had thought at the time - and while Harry boasted and bragged about what would later become known as the Pride of the Fleet, The Phantom had thought that Harry would not appreciate waking up and finding a masked stranger hanging from the end of it.

The Phantom's reverie of remembrance was interrupted by a loud grunt - his own - as he'd managed to work himself into his usual morning state. He quickly pointed the head of his erection toward the drain and pumped two or three large streams of his thick semen into the swirling water. When he was finished ejaculating he sighed happily and cleaned up the mess.

He left the bathroom, holding his soiled boxers over his crotch, and scampered down the hall to his room. There he found a clean pair of underpants, put them on and then rummaged in the night table for his cigarettes. He sat as close to the open window as he could and smoked, thinking of that night again.

He remembered looking at Roger "Two Strokes" Home, who was a tall, thin, vulpine-faced young man who was not on The Phantom's visiting list. Two Strokes had a hair trigger, hence his nickname, although this was not the reason The Phantom would not pay the Regulating Petty Officer a visit. Two Strokes was a homophobe and therefore did not deserve anything.

The Phantom had turned his attention to the shape in the bunk next to Two Stokes'. Hidden under the counterpane was Tom "Thumper" Vernon. As The Phantom watched, Thumper rolled in his sleep, onto his back, and a smile formed on The Phantom's lips. Thumper could use a little help, and might enjoy feeling another hand, or even a pair of lips, on his always-hard dick.

The Phantom had never really known how the cadets he visited would respond. Most let the thing play out while others had snuffled and rolled away. The Phantom never pressed the issue and had always gone on to another boy when that happened. Thumper had not rolled away and had, in fact responded enthusiastically, more enthusiastically than The Phantom had expected. Thumper, lost in the throes of his very first blowjob, had suddenly sat up when his dick started geysering like a fire hose, blowing his spooge all over the place. The Phantom had been so surprised that he had run like a hare from the Gunroom - to what he thought was his secret hideout, a battered old shack deep on the woods overlooking the causeway that led to HMCS AURORA. What the Phantom had not known was that the Twins had heard and seen everything. Not only that, they had followed The Phantom and the rest, as they say, was history.

The Twins had made love to The Phantom, and he had made love to them. He had taken both Cory and Todd across the river, had felt Todd's firm, strong manhood deep within him, and felt his own manhood throb and spasm deep within Cory. They had been off and on lovers ever since. They had also deliberately interfered in his love life and made it a point to tell The Gunner exactly what they thought of him for his treatment of The Phantom who was, they knew, deeply, passionately, in love with man. The Gunner had then driven through a torrential rainstorm to Comox and The Phantom had found his true love.

Frowning, The Phantom thought of The Gunner. Today, this morning, he was supposed to induct his young lover into the Order. That would not happen now. The Gunner had flown to Toronto to attend his aunt's funeral. While disappointed, The Phantom decided that being inducted, while important, could wait. He just wished The Gunner would not be away too long. He missed the man, missed waking up beside him in the morning, and missed his scent on the pillows and sheets. As he dressed, The Phantom snickered, wondering if The Gunner felt the same way, and would he be in just as big a hurry to return? Then The Phantom thought, no. Funerals took time and The Gunner had responsibilities. He also wondered if there might be a further delay if The Gunner found a Stud Muffin.

When his offer of a ride to the airport was refused, The Phantom kissed his mother and asked, "Please, tell Brendan that I do love him. He's my brother and I hope everything works out well for him."

His mother smiled sadly. "So do I, Phantom." She gently caressed her younger son's cheek and said, "You're becoming a man. One day Brendan will realize how much of man." She put on her hat and picked up her gloves, saying, "Try to understand how your brother feels. In many ways I think he was thinking of you when he asked that you not attend."

"He's chosen a funny way to show it," returned The Phantom softly. "But I mean it, Mom. I care for Brendan, and I want him to be happy."

Mrs. Lascelles nodded uncertainly. "Well, dear son, only time will tell," she said with practiced patience. A horn tooting distracted her and she turned away. "The cab is here."

The Phantom helped load his mother's bags into the taxi, watched as it pulled away from the house, and went to work.

When he arrived in the Mess Hall, The Phantom immediately noticed that something was not quite right. It took him a few moments to realize that it was the complete silence, the lack of noise and confusion that up until today had marked every morning for him. He looked around the cavernous hall. The long Formica tables, the sturdy, cadet-proof chairs, were all in place. Behind him the steam table hissed and bubbled, waiting for the trays of food to be brought out. Everything was the same except everything was different. The tables were empty and the cadets, except for the Staff Cadets, had all gone home.

The Phantom smiled warmly at the remembrance of the past two months. He remembered as if it were yesterday all the details. Over there the Band, horn blowers, flute tooters and drummers, always sat together, with Harry, their Drum Major who, mentor, judge, jury and sometimes executioner, kept them in line with threats and love. Close by was the table were the Sea Puppies, brand new, bare-assed cadets who had never been away from home before, sat in a gaggle, laughing and giggling, squirming and teasing Harry, their Sea Daddy. Harry loved his Sea Puppies and guarded them zealously and woe betide a cadet that dared come near a Sea Puppy when Harry was around. At another table had sat the Bugle Band, led by Sylvain, with little Andre as "Sticks", the lead drummer. Both boys were from Quebec and chattered away in what passed as French in the Belle Province, the buglers ignoring them, or at least Sylvain, whom they disliked.

On the far side of the room were the tables reserved for the high-priced help, there the table where the Regulating Petty Officers - Thumper, Two Strokes, Fred, and Jon - sat, trying to look aloof and professional as only Regulators, and cops, could look. The Phantom wondered if they ever thought of Alfie, a short, stocky black youth who had been sent home early in the training year after an attack of appendicitis. The Phantom had always thought that Alfie was good folks, and decided to get Greg, the Ship's Writer, to give him Alfie's home address.

In the corner were two smaller tables, one reserved for the officers, the other for the Chief Petty Officers. The Phantom walked over and saw that both tables had been set properly for breakfast, which meant that Matt and Kevin were around somewhere. Both cadets had extended their tour of duty, Matt because he did not want to leave AURORA, ever, and Kevin, who was in love with Ray, and didn't want to leave him, ever. The Phantom made a small adjustment to one of the place settings. For breakfast neither Matt nor Kevin would be overworked. Except for Kyle and Andy, all of the officers - those who were left - lived in town. The Phantom knew that the YAG crews, officers included, would be eating lunch and dinner in the mess hall but felt sure that he, and his two remaining stewards, could handle it, inwardly thankful that of all the stewards Matt and Kevin were the most experienced.

As the stewards only served the officers and Chiefs, The Phantom was not over worried. Tyler and Val, the senior cadets, always ate at the Chiefs table. They did this purposely, wishing to give at least the impression of impartiality. Not so the other Chiefs, who had more important places to be, which was with their "people". Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, always sat with his Signalmen (and Andre, who after the trip down to Victoria, deserted the buglers for Nicholas, his lover). The Twins, Chief Gunners and perennially in trouble for one misdeed or another, rarely sat with their gunners. They were social, enjoyed people, and visited from table to table. Unless, of course, they were under punishment when they had to sit in the Defaulters' Dock, which wasn't a dock at all, just another bare table set aside for a special purpose.

Thinking of another table set aside for a special purpose, The Phantom frowned. There, just inside the door, was the table where Petty Officer Paul Greene, known to all as "Little Big Man", and despised by all as a homophobic, foul-mouth, arrogant little turd, always sat at mealtimes. The Phantom did not consider himself to be an unkind person. He liked to think that he cared for every one of the cadets who had passed through AURORA this summer. There had been good ones, there had been bad ones, and then there had been Little Big Man and a shiver of loathing passed through The Phantom's body. Paul Greene was a liar, a sneak, a carrier of tales, a traitor to his mates and deserved no one's sympathy. By mutual consent the young drummer had been cast into the outer darkness with the uncircumcised where he could remain until he was eventually called to a deeper darkness.

Dismissing all thoughts of Little Big Man from his mind, The Phantom turned and was about to go into the galley when he heard a loud crash of something being dropped, and a louder bellow of outrage from Chef. He decided to make himself scarce for a while. Chef tended to use the scattergun effect and The Phantom had no desire to be in the line of fire.

Leaving the Mess Hall, The Phantom walked down the path, thinking about sitting down and having a quiet smoke, when he saw Stuart, the Chief Boatswains Mate, and Steve, the Baby Buffer, peering into the windows of Boatswain Stores. Whatever the two seamen were doing looked interesting so The Phantom decided to join them. He was within a yard or so of them when he heard Steve say in a hoarse whisper, "Well, I sure don't think that we can call him 'Two Strokes' anymore!"

Moving from the Boatswains Barracks to the Petty Officers Mess was, for Stuart and Steve, a welcome change. Instead of 40 boatswains wandering about, setting the rafters to echoing with their chatter and laughter, there were only five cadets now living in the Mess. Mike, the Chief Physical Training Instructor, and Phillip, called The Assistant, had pride of place and remained in their old beds. Stuart and Steve took over the bunks previously occupied by Willy and Jack, and Matt was given Mal's old bunk, with the strict understanding that he would confine his underpants to plain, white, tighty-whiteys and not air his monster every morning. Matt, who didn't own anything but white tighty-whiteys, had no desire to change colours in mid-stream anyway and, while he had a beautiful dick, was not in the habit of airing it in the morning or at any other time of the day, thank you.

An added bonus with living in the Petty Officers Mess was that it had its own attached heads and washplace. Stuart and Steve loved this perk. They no longer had to jockey for position under the showerheads with a herd of cadets, and they could stay in there as long as they wanted. And they wanted.

Stuart and Steve had been friends for years. They lived in adjoining towns and attended the same district high school. As Sea Cadets they were constantly thrown together at local corps athletic meets, regattas and Stuart taught sailing at the marina owned by Steve's father. Until the evening of the Course Banyan they had been good friends, and nothing more. That had changed, however, on the beach overlooking the Strait of Georgia. They had made love, of a sort, and spent much of the night in each other's arms. Now they were lovers and like most lovers wanted to express themselves as often as they could. The showers were private in a way in that Matt always showered before going to bed, and Mike and Phillip, always up with the birds, would repair to the Drill Shed, work out, and shower there. Stuart and Steve had plenty of opportunity to make out.

This morning had been no exception. When Steve opened his eyes and looked around he saw that only Stuart remained in his bed. The other three cadets were long gone, Matt to the Mess Hall, Mike and Phillip to the Drill Shed. Steve sat up and looked across to see Stuart sleeping soundly.

Sighing, Steve slipped his hand down the front of his undies and gently squeezed his morning woody. He would never take a first in size, but he had a circumcised beauty - as had Stuart, only thicker and longer - and his balls were just the right size, not too big, not too small, and hanging quite low in a smooth, hairless sac. Steve felt his dick throb and saw a small, crystal drop of precum ooze slowly from the small slit in the glans of his penis. He reached down, slowly wiped away the natural lubricant with his finger, and then lifted it to his lips, tasting it. He closed his eyes and lay back, about to masturbate when he heard Stuart's low chuckling.

"Are you going to lie there all day playing with that?" asked Stuart.

"I might," returned Steve. "At least until a better offer comes along."

Laughing, Stuart whipped aside his covers and quickly stripped off his tighty-whiteys. He shuffled to the head of his bunk where he sat with his legs spread and his back against the outside bulkhead. He grinned wickedly as he showed Steve his morning bone. "Now that you mention it," he snickered.

Steve needed no second invitation. He left his bunk, stripped off his underpants and sat between Stuart's legs, draping his own legs over Stuart's, squirming forward until their balls touched. He reached down and grasped Stuart's penis, pressing it against his own. He began to pump slowly. "You like?" he asked.

Nodding, Stuart replied. "Big time!" He reached out and with his hand caressed first Steve's face, then his shoulders, then his chest. "I like it when you jerk our dicks together like that," he murmured, ever so slowly pushing forward.

Steve laughed softly and looked down. Their cocks were remarkably similar, although Stuart's was longer, and thicker. Both had crisp, clean heads crowning pink shafts. He bottom halves of both their erections were darker skinned than the rest of their bodies, a darker pink, and while Steve's circumcision ring, because of his dark colouring, was clearly defined, Stuart's, who was blond, was hardly discernable at all. The skin on both their shafts was smooth as silk, hiding an inner hardness, and warm.

Continuing to pump, Steve gazed lustfully into Stuart's deep blue eyes. "Do you want me to blow you," he asked huskily.

"Nah, just keep on doing what you're doing," replied Stuart with a groan, raising his hips as much as he could. "Fuck, Steve, I'm almost there!"

Steve could feel his balls tightening and gasped, "Me, too."

Stuart reached out and pulled Steve toward him. They kissed deeply and continued their kissing, tongues duelling, until Stuart yipped slightly. Steve felt the warm stickiness splatter against his lower stomach as Stuart orgasmed. Almost immediately his own dick spasmed and his ejaculate mixed with Stuart's.

They clung together, moaning softly until their dicks began to soften. Steve pulled away and whistled softly. "God, that felt good!" he said with a grin.

"Damn straight," replied Stuart, returning Steve's grin. He glanced down and saw his sperm-soaked, dark brown public bush. "We better clean up," he said as he wiped his hand through the wiry hair.

Steve glanced at the closed door that led to the Gunroom. "You're right," he said nervously. "With our luck Two Strokes will come trucking in." He shuffled back and swung his legs over the bed. "I'll be glad to get home, Stuart," he said over his shoulder. "At least then we can be together and not worry about people walking in on us."

"I know how you feel," replied Stuart consolingly as he left his bunk. He snatched up his briefs and slowly cleaned his crotch. "This slap and tickle bullshit is getting me down." He handed the briefs to Steve so that he could clean up. "At least back home there are places we can go to be together."

Steve sighed. He and Stuart had only been lovers for less than two days. Everything they'd done had been schoolboy antics, sucking each other off, blowing each other, jerking and generally just messing about. He realized that he was in love with Stuart, and wanted more out of their relationship. He patted the mattress and asked quietly, "Stuart, sit with me a minute?"

"Sure," replied Stuart, recognizing the serious tone in Steve's voice. "What's up?"

"We have to talk."

"About?"

"About us," replied Steve with a slight nod of his head. "About how far you want our relationship to go."

Much to Steve's surprise, Stuart leaned over and kissed him gently. "You may not have noticed, but I'm in love with you," whispered Stuart when they drew apart. "I've never felt so good about anybody before. I want to be with you, always."

"Stuart, we're guys," Steve pointed out. "You know what can happen if the rednecks back home find out about us."

"I know," replied Stuart firmly. His eyes narrowed. "Fuck 'em. I'm in love with you and I couldn't give a rat's ass what the rednecks or anybody else thinks."

Steve hugged Stuart close. "I guess that's what I wanted to hear." He released Stuart and then sat back, resting on his elbows. "Then the next question is, I suppose, when are we going to have a honeymoon?"

At first Stuart thought Steve was making a joke. Then he realized the import of Steve's question and his eyes widened. He began sputtering like the schoolboy he was. "I . . . well . . . I mean . . . are you sure?"

"When two people are in love they usually make love," replied Steve as calmly as he could. "I want you to make love to me."

"Ah, Steve, uh, well, yes, I want to make love to you, but hell, I've never done anything like that, you've never done anything like that and well, it's a big step," protested Stuart.

"I know that." Steve sat up and looked directly at Stuart. "It is a big step," he said. "I want to take that step. Do you?"

Stuart all but smothered Steve when he grabbed him and growled, "Of course I do! I just didn't know if you wanted to, and I didn't want to pressure you in any way." He drew back a bit and blushed. "I, um, I also want you to make love to me."

Steve's eyes went round with surprise. Stuart had always been the Alpha male! "You do?"

"I do," replied Stuart with an emphatic nod of his head. "I wouldn't ask you to do anything that I wouldn't do, and to be honest, I want to know what it feels like. I want us to be like Nicholas and Andre. I want us to be lovers, not two guys fooling around."

"Wow," breathed Steve. He smiled widely. "I never thought that you, of all people, would want to let me . . ."

"Well I do," said Stuart. "My biggest worry is that, well, I'm big, you know. I mean . . ."

"I know what you mean," replied Steve, laughing. "I'm sure we'll manage." Then he looked down at his soft penis. "I'm sort of puny, Stuart."

"Yes, you are. But man, can you rise to the occasion," returned Stuart, laughing broadly.

They heard muffled voices from behind the Gunroom door and drew apart. "We better shower," said Steve reluctantly.

Stuart gathered up his towel and began walking toward the door leading to the heads. "Steve, we can wait, you know," he said.

"I don't want to," replied Steve. "I want to do it with you, and the sooner the better."

As they passed into the shower room Stuart looked thoughtful. "In that case, we'd better find a place."

"How about Boatswain Stores?" suggested Steve. "We can go there."

Stuart turned on the water and began soaping himself. "Yes, we could." He began idly soaping the crack of his butt as he thought aloud. "We can tiddly it up a bit today and then tonight we could . . ." He turned off the water and looked at Steve. "We'll need Vaseline, I suppose, and some towels. And Steve, if between now and then you change your mind . . . I want you to be certain that you want to do it."

Steve moved closer to Stuart and reached down to grasp his lover's soft penis. "I am certain," he murmured as he began to nibble Stuart's ear. "I want every part of you, Stuart, I want to feel you, to hold you, to be a part of you." He could feel Stuart's erection growing and gently massaged and squeezed it.

Stuart, who was going crazy with lust, grunted and moaned loudly. "Steve, I don't know if I can get off again!"

Wrapping his free arm around Stuart's waist, Steve pulled him close and continued to masturbate his lover. He concentrated on the spongy, arrow-shaped glans of Stuart's penis, caressing slowly with his thumb the warm flesh. He continued to nibble and lick at Stuart's ears and neck and knew that he was successful when Stuart's hips began long, slow pumping motions. All too soon Stuart threw his head back and squealed as his erection pulsed and spasmed and three large streams of semen flew from the head of his dick and splattered across the tiles of the shower.

Stuart continued to jerk and grunt until he pulled away quickly. "Not the head, Steve, please!" he begged desperately. "Not the head!"

Snickering, Steve released Stuart and turned the water back on. God damn was Stuart sensitive after he came. Steve loved it when he brought Stuart to such an explosive orgasm that he bucked and twitched like a Dervish for half an hour afterward. After washing away the evidence of Stuart's ejaculation, Steve turned off the water. Stuart was leaning against the tiled bulkhead, grinning stupidly. "God damn can you turn me on!"

Laughing, Steve gave his butt a small wiggle. "Wait until tonight, Tiger!"

As they were dressing Stuart remembered that he had given the keys to Boatswain Stores to Chris so, with Steve following, he went into the adjoining Gunroom.

Todd, who was sitting on his bunk drying his hair after his shower, had no idea where Chris was. Jon, who knew that Chris had given the keys to Two Strokes so that he and Thumper could be alone, could not very well tell Stuart, so he fudged, offering that Chris had mentioned something about going down to the Dockyard for a list of spare parts the YAGs needed.

Grumbling about dipsticks, who never returned anything, Stuart decided to wander down to the Stores. If Chris was looking to replenish YAG stores from his own resources there was a good chance that he was in Boatswain Stores taking stock.

As they approached the long, low, wooden-frame building Steve pointed with his chin. "The door is closed."

"Shit," swore Stuart. "Where the hell can Chris be? I don't want to spend half my day looking for him and I still haven't had breakfast!"

"Well, maybe he's inside. If he is just grab the keys and we can head over to the Mess Hall," replied Steve easily.

As he approached the door leading into Boatswain Stores Steve reached out his hand to turn the knob when he thought he heard something. At first he dismissed the low sound as just the wind, but when he heard another, higher-pitched noise, he stopped and peered through the dirty glass of the window. What he saw made him take a step back, his jaw dropping in shock. "Holy fuck!"

Steve, who was not paying attention, almost ran into Stuart. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Can't you watch where I'm going?" He saw the look on Stuart's face and where Stuart's shaking finger was pointing. "What?" he asked.

"Steve, you won't believe what's going on in there!" Stuart managed.

Giving Stuart a look, Steve nudged the Buffer aside and looked into Boatswain Stores. His eyes widened as he saw . . .

Thumper was lying on his side with his left leg up and extended outward. Behind him, also on his side, was Two Strokes, who was holding up Thumper's leg with his left hand while tightly gripping Thumper's shoulder with his right. Two Strokes' eyes were closed and his nostrils were distended. His hips were making slow, methodical pumping motions and a blind man could see what they were doing.

Feeling his dick starting to get hard, Steve reached into his shorts and began playing with himself as he watched, mesmerized, the erotic scene before him. "Holy mackerel!" he breathed. "It's the Honeymoon Hotel!"

Stuart, who had never before seen two guys fucking, or anybody fucking for that matter, pushed Steve aside and peered inside. He watched as Two Strokes' body suddenly stiffened, and then saw Two Stokes thrust upward, his face as mask of indescribable pleasure. At almost the same time Stuart heard a loud squeal and watched, entranced, as Thumper's cock jerked and began squirting a long, thin stream of semen a good foot across the weather beaten deck of Boatswain Stores.

Steve, who had managed to see everything, snickered. "Well, I sure don't think that we can call him Two Strokes anymore."

"Who can't you call Two Strokes?" came a voice from behind them.

Stuart and Steve wheeled and saw The Phantom looking at them. Both cadets broke into wide grins. "Phantom, you have to see this!" exclaimed Steve as he pointed toward the door. "You will not believe what is going on in there!"

By this time Two Strokes and Thumper, lost in lust, euphoria, or after glow, had rolled together and were kissing passionately and fondling each other's still hard erections. The Phantom's sharp eyes took in the scene and then grew as round as dinner plates as Thumper wiggled and squirmed his way between Two Strokes' legs. He started thrusting and Two Strokes raised his legs and drew them back.

"Hell and sheeit," drawled The Phantom slowly as his own dick began to harden and push out the front of his shorts, much to Steve's delight.

"Verrrry impressive, Phantom," observed Steve with a giggle. "What are they doing now?"

The Phantom grinned in embarrassment, reached down and adjusted his raging erection so that it was not too noticeable, and said, "Well, Thumper is either making like his namesake, or Two Strokes is getting his cherry popped!"

Stuart and Steve, not wanting to miss out on a good thing, jockeyed for position and stared into the window. "Two Strokes is definitely getting his cherry popped!" announced Stuart. Then he added, most uncharacteristically so far as The Phantom was concerned, "Lucky bastard!"

The Phantom, who had never considered that Stuart, who was always so determinedly male, would think such a thing, stared at the tall, slim Buffer and then stood back. That Steve would admire the lump in his shorts was also surprising. This sudden turn of events, Two Strokes and Thumper, Stuart and Steve, needed thinking about.

"And bang goes Thumper!" chortled Steve. "Look at him go!"

The Phantom suddenly felt embarrassed, embarrassed not only for his prurience at lurking outside a window watching two boys he considered his friends getting it on, but also for Thumper and Two Strokes, who would not, as The Phantom himself would not, appreciate somebody snooping on what was, in the final balance, a most personal moment. He reached out and pulled Stuart and Steve's shorts, forcing them to step backward. "I think it's time we left," he said forcefully.

"Ah, come on, Phantom," wheedled Steve. "I've never seen such a sight!"

"Would you like it if I stood by, or Thumper, or Two Strokes, stood by, and watched while you and Stuart fucked?" asked The Phantom as forcefully as he could. "Well, would you?"

Stuart ducked his head and turned red. In light of what he and Steve wanted to do later that day, and why they had come down to Boatswain Stores in the first place, he had to answer truthfully. "Um, no."

Steve did not even have to think of an answer. While he wanted Stuart - desperately - he did not want Stuart in front of an audience. He shuffled his feet a bit. "You're right, Phantom, we shouldn't be watching."

As the three boys crept away as quietly as they could, and walked toward the Mess Hall, Stuart observed quietly, "We shouldn't say anything about this. What Thumper and Two Strokes get up to together is their business, right?"

"Yeah, their business," agreed Steve with a sideways glance at Stuart. He hoped that catching the two Regulators would not make Stuart rethink their plans. "It's their business, right enough."

The Phantom picked up on the nervousness that seemed crackle around the two Boatswains, and rightly deduced that something had either happened between the two of them, or was about to happen. "I'm not saying a word, to anybody," The Phantom said firmly as the walked up the stairs of the Mess Hall. He saw Steve and Stuart nod their agreement and then thought, "But I am going to tell The Gunner that I have four more names for his list!"

Inside the galley The Phantom found Chef was off on a tear. He was berating Randy and Joey, and not pulling any punches. He also found Cory sitting at Chef's desk, leisurely eating a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages and baked beans.

"I don't know where you put it all," observed The Phantom as he joined Cory. "You eat like a horse and never gain an ounce!"

Cory grinned around a forkful of scrambled eggs. "Clean living, keeping active, and a satisfactory sex life," he said.

The Phantom didn't know whether to laugh or looked shocked. Cory's refreshing bluntness bore more than a kernel of truth, particularly his satisfactory sex life. The Phantom was more than aware that Cory and Sean Anders, the Command Chief Petty Officer of the YAG Squadron, were lovers, although Cory was reticent in the extreme when it came to details about their relationship. The Phantom, never one to pry, reached out and snagged a piece of bacon. "What's Chef on about," he asked as he looked over to see the old cook brandishing his spoon at Randy and Joey, who seemed completely oblivious to his anger.

Cory shrugged. "It would seem that Chef wants those two to mind their manners, what with the cooks coming up from the Dockyard later on."

Chef's bellowing confirmed Cory's assessment. "You'll be the morals of decorum," thundered Chef. "I'll not be having you two spalpeens spying on the new lads in the showers, or sneaking off to the lounge whenever the urge takes you!"

Randy, who had seen the new cooks, and had no tearing great desire to see them in the showers, or anywhere else for that matter, tried to temporize. "Chef, we have to shower! You . . ."

"Shower, but no peeking!" returned Chef with a wave of his spoon.

Joey, who shared Randy's opinion of the new cooks, hastily put in his oar. "Chef, we have to 'peek'. We can't help but peek! They'll be naked!"

Chef, caught up short for once, thought quickly. "There'll be no pattyfingers, then!" he snarled. "You two are as curious as monkeys and you'll contain your curiosity!"

"That's one way of putting it," Kevin whispered to Ray. They were standing at the doorway leading to Chef's office, watching the show. "I recall the time I showered with them," Kevin continued, "and they scoped me out! Hell, Randy wanted to . . ."

Chef, who had heard Kevin's whispering, turned and glared at him. "And don't think I've forgotten about you two!" he roared. "You are both, the whole of you, senior cadets and I expect you to set an example for the younger ones!"

Sandro, who was hiding in Dry Stores, snickered. Chef had the eyes of an arctic fox, and the ears of a wolf. He also had spies everywhere, or so Sandro thought. He knew everything and Kevin and Ray using the office as a honeymoon bower was obviously very high on Chef's list of little known things about well known people. Sandro had no intention of leaving Dry Stores until Chef wound down. He was not about to put himself, or his secrets, in the line of Chef's fire and brimstone. Besides, he thought, he and Chad had been very careful so Chef could not possibly know about what they did in the lounge.

Chef knew, and his bellow calling Sandro from Dry Stores confirmed it. "You've had your night under the pale moonlight, Sandro, so you have, so there will be no singing of dirges of regret, or after carolling 'God Save The Tsar' when your memory drifts back to the Gardens of Ballymeara!"

"The what?" asked Cory.

"I haven't a clue," replied The Phantom truthfully. Where Chef found all these geographic delights he had no idea, although he suspected that they existed primarily in the ever-present bottle of Pusser Rum that Chef sipped on continuously.

Chef wheeled and for the first time seemed to be aware that The Phantom had come into the galley. "Ah, Phantom lad, what a joy to see you," he exclaimed, his face beaming with pleasure. "We have some talking to do, lad, so enjoy your breakfast." He returned to laying down the law to the cooks. "You will, the whole of you, present a professional, dedicated façade to all concerned! I'll not be having idle gossip . . . gossiping all over the place!"

Randy, Joey, Kevin, Ray and Sandro bobbed their heads. "Yes, Chef," they said in unison, although Randy could barely hide the twinkle in his eye and Joey choked back a snicker.

Chef saw the twinkle, and heard the choking. "And while I am on the subject," he began, a dangerous glint in his eye, "there will be no sneaking away to the Dockyard!" His glare told Randy and Joey exactly what Chef was on about. "And, my lads," continued Chef with an authoritative wave of his spoon, "there will be no Chief Thornton sniffing around, at least not until I've been after asking his intentions!"

Neither Randy nor Joey wanted Chef giving Phil Thornton the third degree. Phil was nervous enough about their relationship, which they had initiated when they'd come across the older boy sprawled on the beach after a disastrous encounter with one of the serving wenches who had attended the end of course barbeque. Poor Phil had shot his bolt before entry (which Harry was gleefully spreading all over the ship) and both young cooks did not want their night of lechery - where Phil had redeemed himself 8 times - to become common knowledge. "Chief Thornton is just a good friend," whined Randy. "He likes us!"

Chef grunted non-comittally. "Better than most, I'm thinking," he growled. "And I am still asking him his intentions." He waved his spoon majestically. "Now, to work, the whole of you. Start prepping the fish and Sandro, come away with you, we'll have the roast pork as well as the fish!"

As the cooks scattered to serve breakfast and start prepping the lunch entrées, Chef waddled to the table and sat down. "Ah, a hard morning, so it is." He looked around suspiciously. "And where is my medicine?"

"Where you left it," replied Cory, pointing with his fork at the bottle hidden in the wastebasket under the desk.

"Ah, so there it is," beamed Chef. He rummaged around in the wastebasket and dredged up a large, stoneware jug that he had acquired from somewhere and insisted on using as, he declared, it didn't leak. After pouring an extra large dose of his medicine Chef sipped and looked at The Phantom, who was trying unsuccessfully to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. "Phantom, darlin'," said Chef with an infectious grin. "You look well rested."

So far as The Phantom was concerned any questions, or concerns about a cadet's health by Chef were immediate causes for alarm. Chef, although a kindly old soul, rarely asked about anything, and when he did it usually meant trouble, for someone, usually the cadet being questioned. "I'm fine, Chef," replied The Phantom warily. "Couldn't be better."

"Ah, youth," breathed Chef wistfully. "How well I remember when I was your age. Foot loose and fancy free, I was. Like the Zephyr of Tara I was, floating wherever the wind took me!"

Both Cory's and The Phantom's eyes widened. The thought of Chef floating on anything but the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean, which was the only body of anything big enough to hold the fat old man, failed to gel in either boy's mind. The picture of Chef as a 'zephyr' of Tara, or anywhere else, also failed to materialize.

Chef sipped his medicine, belched softly and then looked fondly at The Phantom. "Now, then, Phantom, I've been having a most pleasant chat with young Cory here . . ." he smiled evilly at Cory, who cringed. " . . . And he thinks, and I agree with him, that it is time your education moved on."

The Phantom was a little miffed. Cory was usually the most outgoing of persons, and had always been open and aboveboard and never discussed his friends behind their backs. Whatever "education" Chef had in mind was bound to be onerous, and knowing Chef, rife with moans, groans, drips and complaints. The Phantom also could not even begin to think what education Chef had in mind. If Chef had it in mind to teach him how to cook - which was all The Phantom could think this 'education' could be - he had another think coming! After giving Cory a black look that said, "You are dead!" The Phantom turned to Chef. "It's a little too late, Chef, to teach me how to cook!"

Chef did a double take. "Whoever said that?" he demanded. He turned to Cory. "What have you told him?"

Cory leaned back and held up his hands. "Nothing, honest Chef." Then he sniggered. "He just came in and with you bellowing all over the place I couldn't hear myself think, let alone talk to Phantom!"

"It's me own galley and I shall bellow in it if I care to," returned Chef as he assumed a hurt air. "Just as you squeal and yip like a Londonderry shoat in the Gunroom when Harry is after biting your wee pink bottom!"

"How the hell did you . . .?" began Cory, dropping his fork and staring at Chef.

"I have my ways," replied Chef with irritating vagueness. "But 'tis not me we are talking about, 'tis Phantom, darlin' lad that he is, that demands our attention."

The Phantom rolled his eyes. He could not think of a single reason to demand anyone's attention, least of all Chef's.

"Now then, Phantom, young Cory came strolling down the path this fine summer morn, happy as a lad . . ."

"The last time I looked he was a lad!" grumped The Phantom sourly. His tone and look said that Cory might not make it any further down the path.

"Come on, Phantom," pleaded Cory. "You know I always get up before everybody else and I thought I drop by to pass the time of day and Chef and I got to chatting and . . ." Cory had no desire to antagonize The Phantom. His idea was a good one, and besides, a fellow never knew when he might need a little tender, loving care and Phantom was the best when it came to a little therapeutic one on one.

"Plotting, you mean," snarled The Phantom. He gave Chef a stern look. "Can you not just come right out and tell me what you're up to, you and this . . . familiar . . . of yours!" he finished venomously.

"Ah, Phantom, 'tis a viper's tongue you have when you wish to," sighed Chef. "And here we are, as innocent as cherubs, thinking only of your welfare."

"My welfare?" exclaimed The Phantom. "The last time Cory thought of my welfare I ended up standing in the middle of the Ship's Office, buck-assed naked, with my drawers in one corner and my . . ."

"You didn't complain!" returned Cory. "In fact you all but purred when Todd . . ."

"Silence" roared Chef. "Enough of this bickering." He gave The Phantom and icy stare, and then gave Cory an even icier look. "Now then, as the dust has settled, the bugle shall sound truce."

"He started it," replied Cory, with a hurt look on his face and a finger pointing at The Phantom. "But he's just being himself. Stubborn!"

"Cory, my spoon is not so far away," warned Chef. "Nor is your wee pink bottom."

Cory reached down and placed his hands protectively around his "wee pink bottom". Then he looked at The Phantom. "I had an idea. Nobody says you have to go along with it. Chef thinks it's a good idea, and if you'll shut up and listen, you might think so too!"

Unable to stay angry with Cory, The Phantom nodded. "I'm listening and if this in any way involves taking my clothes off, I'm out of here!"

"How suspicious you are, Phantom," said Chef equably. "But, no matter. As an intelligent lad you'll see that we only have your best interest at heart."

"I'll bet!" retorted The Phantom.

"We do," insisted Cory.

"Now, then, hush." Chef took another drink and regarded The Phantom with affection. "You know, Phantom lad, that you are dear to me old heart and when Cory came to me with his idea I thought it was just the ticket for you. You need something in your young life, and Cory has come up with just the thing!"

"And I don't have to take of my clothes?"

"Of course not," replied Chef. "Mind, I do suggest that you disrobe when you go to bed. The other lads might think you strange if you didn't."

"The other lads?" The Phantom gave Chef a quizzical look. "What other lads?"

"Why, the ones you will be sharing the Gunroom with," replied Chef as if the whole matter had been settled.

"What would I be doing going to bed in the Gunroom?" asked The Phantom. "I don't live in the Gunroom!"

"Not yet," replied Chef. "But you will be, if you agree that is."

"I will?" The Phantom shook his head, still not understanding what Chef and Cory wanted of him.

"Phantom, Cory has suggested, and I agree, that you need to be with the other lads for a while. You've been accepted as one of them, but you have not experienced being one of them."

"It was Harry who got me to thinking," interjected Cory with his usual honesty. "We were setting up the Gunroom for the new guys who are moving in and he said that it was nice to have all the Boys of AURORA together." He left off protecting his "wee bottom" and reached out for The Phantom's hands. "Phantom, you are one of us. We all want you to be with us, if only for a little while. Right now you're our shipmate. I want us to be messmates!"

Stunned at Cory's suggestion, The Phantom sat back and glowed. "Ah, Cory, I never . . ." he began, colouring. "You mean that?"

"Of course he means it," said Chef. "He wouldn't have said it if he didn't!" His eyes clouded a bit. "Ah, Phantom, what a fortunate lad you are, to experience the comradeship, the camaraderie of a mess deck!"

"The yelling, the screaming, the belching, the farting, underpants hanging from the end of a bunk," began Cory with a snicker. He continued on dreamily. "Fred and Two Strokes chucking shit at Thumper, Greg moping about, Nathan drooling over Nicholas and then . . ."

"Nathan? What has Nathan got to do with it?" asked The Phantom.

"The Yanks are staying on and there was no room for Nathan in the Chiefs Mess so we put him in a bunk over Fred's," explained Cory quickly. "Now, where was I, oh, yes, Nathan was drooling. Next we move on to morning woodies, and Phantom you have not lived until you've seen the Pride after 'Action Stations' have sounded or . . ."

"Enough!" growled Chef. He gave Cory a sharp wrap on the top of his head with his knuckle. "You'll be frightening the lad to death with your talk of Harry and the Pride, great beast that it is!" He turned to Phantom, ignoring Cory. "So, then, Phantom, will you consider it?"

"Well, yes, I think I'd like that," replied The Phantom. "My mother left today for Regina and my dad, well he's busy with work, so I'll be spending most of my time here anyway." He did not add that with The Gunner away he had no other place to go.

"That's settled then." Chef clapped his hands. "You'll move in tonight and I'll help you with the inventory of the Admiral's Dining Room."

The Phantom smiled weakly. Chef was determined to inventory the dining room before it left AURORA. "I guess, so," he said glumly.

From the office came the sound of the telephone ringing. Chef, who firmly believed that the telephone was the instrument of the Devil and never brought good news, ignored the ringing. "Now then, Phantom, cheer up. I told you that I would help you, and we've made a start, what with the notes I gave you. Why, between us we'll have the job done in no time flat! And just think on, you'll be with your mates." He leaned forward and grinned. "Well do I remember my days in the mess deck. Why, I was never happier than when I'd crawl out of me 'mick and see the lads, my friends, my mates and . . ."

"Chef! Telephone!" interrupted Ray loudly.

"Why did you not let the thing ring?" demanded Chef with a grimace. He waved his hand airily. "If it's that thieving spalpeen of a Base Supply Officer tell him I'll have the reports to him when I have them to him."

"It isn't," replied Ray patiently.

"Well, then, who is it?"

Ray shrugged. "He didn't give his name. All he said was that it's important and that he was a Benares boy. What's a 'Benares'?"

As The Phantom and Cory watched, Chef slowly pushed away from the table. There was a strange look in his eyes as he whispered, "It's the cry of a drowning boy." He stood up, straightened his back, and without another word lumbered into his office and closed the door.

Eugen Arenberg remained impassive as his penis jerked and deposited his morning contribution into the sucking mouth of the obscenely obese old man. There had been a time when Eugen would have been writhing in delirium from having his dick sucked but now it was just a release. There was a time when Eugen delighted in pleasing his latest protector but now all he wanted to do was to get it over with, and was thankful that with Herr Percy all he had to do was to lie on the chaise, spread his legs and present his penis for sucking, once in the morning, and once in the late afternoon. He also thanked God that he did not have to do what Sepp had to do, which was fuck the old man vigorously and as roughly as possible.

From across the pool came a high-pitched giggle. That would be Gottfried, the youngest of the three boys whom Herr Percy "protected". Gottfried was a whore and how he had ever been allowed to participate in the game Eugen could not understand.

Eugen had been on the game a long time, seven years of pleasing old men, beginning when he was 8 when he had been sold to pay his mother's debt to a vicious drug dealer. Eugen could barely remember his mother, or the town where he was born. Unlike Sepp and Gottfried, who were from the waterfront slums of the grimy old Baltic port of Rostock, Eugen was from West Germany, from the old town of Muenster, a place that he did not remember at all.

When he was younger Eugen had tried to recall his childhood. Memories came in patches, brief vignettes: his mother entertaining men at all hours of the day and night; his mother lying sprawled across the filthy bed that dominated their one-room "apartment", drunk on raw vodka or high on the morphine she injected into her veins five and six times a day. He never dreamed of his father because he never knew who his father was. His mother could not tell him because she herself did not know. His father could have been any one of a hundred men, perhaps two hundred, for his mother was a very cheap whore, and serviced anyone who had the price, usually ten deutchmarks. As a little boy Eugen had fantasized that his father had been a great man, a German knight perhaps, a man who had fought in the war, dying with honour on the field of battle. As he grew older Eugen realized that his father had more than likely been an anonymous factory worker.

"Danke, Eugen, that was very nice," came the voice of Herr Percy.

Eugen smiled as winningly as he could. He saw that the old fool had put in his teeth, which at last made him look presentable. "I am happy to please you, Herr Percy," Eugen replied softly, in German, pretending that he was actually as happy as he appeared.

Percy Simpson leaned forward and gently squeezed Eugen's foreskin. A small drop of semen oozed from the thin sheath of skin and Percy raised it on his fingers to his lips. He smiled, his stained dentures hideous to behold. He smacked his rubbery lips as he said, "So sweet."

Eugen's stomach turned but he remained stoic. With any luck Herr Percy would tire of them and replace them with a new trio of boys. Or, and much more likely, Herr Percy would retire upstairs and take his pleasure with the little boy. The boy had been brought to the house two nights ago and, so far as Eugen knew, Herr Percy had not gone near him. But he would, and Eugen prayed that Herr Percy was as gentle with the boy as his first man had been.

While he could never recall in detail his childhood, Eugen had almost total recall when he chose to think about the men he had been sold to. The first had been an Arab, a very wealthy man who represented his country's oil industry and came to Germany on a regular basis. Eugen remembered a long drive from Muenster to Bonn, and a huge, secluded estate where he had been barbered, bathed and powdered. Next a saturnine man in a flowing, embroidered caftan and an elaborate burnoose, had examined him, paying particular attention to his stubby penis, smiling happily at the looseness of Eugen's foreskin.

Eugen had then been taken into a bedroom, a huge room filled with wonderful treasures, where another man, darker than the first, had placed him on the bed and penetrated him. Eugen remembered his deflowering as if it were yesterday and in the remembering was thankful that the Arab had been gentle. Of course the first time had been . . . horrible. Eugen had screamed and struggled but the Arab had been persistent. Then, much to Eugen's surprise, the Arab had carried the weeping boy into the bath, bathed him, gently salved his torn rectum and anus with soothing balms, cooing and murmuring endearments that Eugen did not understand.

Eventually Eugen came to enjoy his time with the gentle Arab and had deluded himself into thinking that he would remain with the Saudi prince. He was greatly disillusioned when, shortly before his thirteenth birthday he had been returned to the man Eugen knew only as "Der Chef". Der Chef was the organizer, the go-between, and the man who arranged for the boys to be bought and sold. Der Chef had explained to a confused and very upset Eugen that the Arab preferred his boys to be young, prepubescent was the word Der Chef used, which Eugen came to understand were boys who had not yet reached puberty, boys who could not produce sperm. But, Der Chef had said, not to worry. Eugen was a schatz, a treasure, and there were other men who would find him enchanting.

Eugen's second protector had been a pedantic, boring Englishman, who lived in a large, sprawling farmhouse in the Cotswolds. The Englander had been undemanding and seemed to actually care for Eugen. He had also been shocked to learn that Eugen could barely read or write and had immediately set about educating the young German boy. Sending Eugen to school was out of the question, but the Englander was a man of means and education and had an extensive library. He taught Eugen how to act, how to talk, how to dress and in the end Eugen came away with a firm grounding in the classics, and speaking English with an Oxford accent. He also came away with a small horde of gold. Whenever the Englander came to Eugen's room he always left a sovereign on the night table.

From England, Eugen had been sent to America, to Kentucky, where a venal old man protected him and shared him with his son, a teenaged boy who verbally abused Eugen and always referred to him as "that German cocksucker!" and always slapped him after Eugen had sucked his cock. At least, Eugen temporized, he had learned to ride a horse.

From America Eugen had been returned to Europe. A Frenchman followed the American and his son. Then came a Russian, after whom there were two Germans. Life for Eugen was series of one-night stands and the occasional fortnight or so at some exclusive resort. In a way it was a very useful education in that he learned how to project the image of an educated, cosmopolitan young man. Which was more than could be said for Sepp or Gottfried, neither of whom could speak English, and both of whom were crude, ignorant peasants, happy to offer their bodies and enjoy the good life, never giving a thought about tomorrow.

From across the pool Eugen heard Gottfried's high-pitched squealing. "Herr Percy, ich kommen! Ich kommen!" Looking across the clear, blue, cool waters of the pool Eugen saw that Gottfried was grinding himself into Sepp's crotch. Sepp's heavy trunk of a penis was deeply imbedded in Gottfried's ass and he was grunting loudly. Eugen watched as Herr Percy hurried as fast as he could around the pool and lowered his body to his knees. Gottfried pushed down his erection, pulling back his foreskin as he did so, about to give Herr Percy his second contribution of the day.

Eugen tried to ignore the squeals and grunts. He tried to tell himself that he should just ignore the barnyard noises. After all, Sepp and Gottfried were basically young animals whose only purpose was to serve and service their protector. In a way Eugen could not understand why he was even here in this huge, concrete, Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired excrescence of a house. He knew that both Sepp and Gottfried fulfilled Herr Percy's beau ideal of a young German male. Both were blond and both were well endowed. Sepp was stocky, with a smooth hairless chest and a thick, blunt, uncircumcised penis and pendulous testicles. Gottfried, as blond as Sepp, had a long, thin penis, the head sheathed with a wrinkled tube of skin.

Eugen thought that somewhere in his ancestry there was a dark-haired man who was chuckling at Herr Percy's nonsense. Eugen was dark haired, with a slim body. His penis, as long as Sepp's, only sleeker, and much smoother-skinned, ended in a wafer-thin sheath that covered half the glans. His testicles, unlike Sepp or Gottfried's, hung low in a smooth, hairless scrotum. Eugen knew that he was a handsome young man and well worth the 10,000 deutchmarks Der Chef had charged for him. He also knew that if he continued on the game he would command, eventually, even higher prices as an escort. Der Chef dealt in quality boys of all ages, from nine to very early twenties. Eugen however, did not want to continue on the game.

From time to time Eugen had dreamed of getting out, of fleeing, of hiding. He was tired of being the plaything of old men. Being a playmate to these men had become less than pleasant. Eugen was not attracted to these men, quite the opposite. He found them repulsive and unattractive. He was attracted to Sepp and Gottfried, even if they were dumkopfs, so ignorant that they both thought that Herr Percy was Jewish because his penis was beschnitten. In fairness, Eugen had thought much the same when he had first seen the Arab naked. The Arab had explained to the mesmerized young boy that circumcision was a fatwa, a requirement of his faith. The young American had also been circumcised, and he had been a Southern Baptist!

Dismissing Sepp and Gottfried from his mind, Eugen concentrated his thoughts on the possibility of escape. The house, which was in an area of the large city of Toronto called the Bridle Path, was isolated. He did not know his way around the city, and every time he and the others had left the house they had been closely guarded, and driven everywhere. Herr Percy had a great deal of money invested in the three boys and was not about to let one of them get away.

Eugen was not worried about money. He had the gold sovereigns that the Englander had given him, some small pieces of jewellery, gold cufflinks, a watch, and the ring set with a large diamond that he had stolen from the Kentuckian. Identification would be a problem. His passport - Swiss this time around - had been taken from him as soon as he and his minder cleared customs. He supposed the document was in the safe hidden behind the portrait of Herr Percy's mother in the master bedroom upstairs. His youth was against him as well. He was, according to his passport, 16 years of age. In truth, Eugen did not know how old he was. He had travelled so many times under false documents that he was not even sure that Arenberg was his real name.

Still, Eugen wanted to risk it. He knew that he would be told to get ready to move on. It always happened and there was always the chance that his next protector would turn out to be a pervert who enjoyed hurting his boy. Eugen did not want to risk that. He would rather live on the streets in a strange city than return to Germany, to a new protector.

Standing, Eugen watched as Herr Percy left Gottfried's semen-slimed penis and bent over, preparing to receive Sepp's thick, unsheathed tumescence. Disgusted, Eugen turned away and looked around and then, for some reason, he looked up and saw, staring back him, the dark, sad eyes of Troubridge, Herr Percy's butler, staring back at him. Eugen shuddered and hurried into the house.

****** " . . . It's disgusting!" exclaimed Joseph as Troubridge turned away from the window. "If I had known, if I had so much as an inkling, I would never have agreed to come into service in this house!"

"I understand completely," muttered Troubridge. He did understand. No one with any claim to decency wanted to work for Percy Simpson.

"Then you'll understand why I am leaving without notice!" snapped Joseph. "I am not spending another night here." He waved an irate finger toward the window. "It was bad enough with the three boys out there, prancing about naked half the time - well, except for the dark one - and having to listen to them moaning and groaning the night away. I even put up with that disgusting, revolting display every morning and afternoon but I won't, I can't . . ." Joseph drew in a deep breath. "You must know about the boy! For God's sake, Troubridge, he can't be any older than eight or nine years old!"

Troubridge sighed wearily. He knew all about the boy in the spare bedroom. He was nine, and Russian. He also knew that the boy would not be harmed, really. Mr. Percy had long since passed the age when he could do anything other than fellate his boys. Not like the old days, when there was a new young boy almost weekly.

Unable to bring himself to contemplate the abuse the young Russian would endure, Troubridge turned and sat behind his desk. He pulled out the chequebook that he used for the staff payroll, wrote a cheque and handed it to Joseph. The sum written on the cheque was large, far larger than any severance Joseph would normally hope to be awarded. Both men knew it for what it was: a payoff, a guarantee that what Joseph had seen and heard in his year or so as under butler would never be spoken of again.

"You might as well know that Traudl and Ermgard are also leaving," said Joseph as he pocketed the cheque.

"I will prepare their cheques," replied Troubridge woodenly. "And I will have your references ready before you leave."

Troubridge stared blankly at the closed door. The defections were complete. Cook, who had been with Mr. Percy almost as long as Troubridge himself, had left two days ago and now Joseph and the two maids. Keeping staff, once they learned of what was going on, was impossible. Nothing would induce them to stay, not the high salaries, not the extra cash bonuses on their birthdays and name days, or Christmas. Nothing would keep them in the house once they found out about the boys.

It had been that way for as long as Troubridge could remember. It was not only here in Toronto, but in the house in Montreal, and the secluded estate near Bracebridge. Domestic staff came and went with almost as much regularity as the boys.

Thinking of the boys, Troubridge buried his head in his hands. Joseph did not know the half of it, a quarter of it, not a smidgeon of a minuscule of it! Troubridge was a perfect example of the saying that said if you wanted to know the measure of a man, you should ask his butler. For 22 years Troubridge had measured Percy Simpson, had witnessed the orgies attended by Percy's friends, important friends, generals, senators, Members of Parliament and more. Troubridge had cleaned up the messes and deliberately turned a blind eye. Foster, the man he had replaced had warned him of his soon to be former employer's peculiarities. But Troubridge had let the glitter of gold cloud his judgement and before he knew it he was in too deep, knew too much, and could not flee the terror.

Although it was only 7:00 in the morning, Troubridge poured a large drink and drank it down in one gulp. He'd been doing more of that these past few years. Alcohol. Booze. Hooch. At times the alcohol was the only thing that kept the demons at bay, and deadened the sounds of drunken laughter, shrieks, groans, moans and sighs that screamed in every room in every house that Percy Simpson owned. Booze that lulled him into fitful sleep and made him remember home. He could still remember the cobblestone streets, the ancient buildings, the towering smoke stacks of the power plant that dominated the river and the housing precincts around it. He had left Battersea a terrified little boy, and returned shortly after he left an even more terrified little boy. If only he had stayed in Battersea, with Mum, and Dad, and his brothers and sisters! But he had not and now he rued the day.

The sound of deep male grunting distracted Troubridge from his memories. He dared not return to the window for fear of what he might see, although he knew exactly what he would see: the heavy set German, Sepp, would be mounting Mr. Percy, who would be squeaking and puling as the boy pummelled him savagely. There had been a time when Mr. Percy had been much more circumspect, more discreet, when he was with one his boys. Now, it seemed, the old man felt secure, safe in the knowledge that his money would, as it always had, buy off anyone who poked an inquisitive nose into his affairs, or if the money did not work, secure in the knowledge that a simple telephone call would take care of any unpleasantness.

Shuddering, Troubridge opened his desk drawer and pulled out a large, bound ledger book. He made an entry and closed it with a loud snap. This ledger, this record, was the latest in a series of ledgers. They were all safely hidden where only he could find them. They were, collectively, his insurance policy, for in them he had recorded, chapter and verse, everything he knew about Percy Simpson, his boys, his friends and the men who supplied Percy with any boy he desired. Troubridge was no fool, and he had recorded names, dates, amounts paid; everything he could find out, snoop out, ferret out, he recorded. He knew details, minutiae that Percy Simpson had long forgotten. Troubridge even knew the name of the man who ran the whole operation, which in itself could bring a death warrant if he so much as muttered it in his sleep.

Like any good servant, Troubridge was not beneath stooping to listen at keyholes. He had also cultivated the image of not being seen or heard. He had become such a fixture in Percy Simpson's perverted life, knew so many secrets, that Percy automatically assumed that he could be trusted. Because of this assumption Percy, whether through laziness or the fact that he was in his dotage, had grown sloppy. Troubridge had overheard some very interesting conversations when Percy was bellowing down the telephone line to his friends and fellow boy lovers.

Everything Troubridge heard went into his ledger. He knew that one of Percy's friends, a banker, had complained about the quality of boys being sent out. Troubridge could understand that. More and more the boys were, well, low class, ill-bred louts. Sepp and Gottfried were prime examples. Neither of them cared a fig about anything but eating, sleeping and having sex, which they had constantly, and all over the damned house! It was not like the old days, when care had been taken and the boys given at least a rudimentary education in dressing and speaking properly. The boy Eugen was an example of the quality that had been on offer back then. But not now. The new man, the one whom the German boys called "Der Chef", was not interested. He was supplying a product. If a man wanted a boy he could have one, for a price. Boys could be rented for any length of time, or purchased outright. Who cared if the boy could read or write? He was there to provide pleasure, nothing else.

Troubridge feared two things. He feared discovery of Mr. Percy's perversions. Troubridge knew that if the authorities, the police, learned of what went on in the houses Mr. Percy owned, that a case could be made against the butler as an accessory, before and after the fact. He had, as a good butler should, minded his own business, and never questioned the goings on. The police would surely want to know why he had kept silent, had never reported what he saw and heard. Troubridge was hoist on his own petard.

The second thing that Troubridge feared was death. He had faced death once before. That had been in 1940 and a short, stocky boy had snatched him from the jaws of watery death. What lay in store for him was far worse than drowning. Edmund Stennes, known as Der Chef, knew many ways to kill, each more terrifying that the last. From snatches of overheard conversations between Percy and his friends, Troubridge knew that the STASI and the KGB had trained Stennes and that he reserved a special fate for those who betrayed him, and his operation. As Percy had put it to his banker friend, Stennes had learned his trade in the cellars of the All Russia Insurance building on Dzerzhinsky Square.

Percy's sinister words had haunted Troubridge's dreams and he doubted that, should the time come, that there would be anyone there to reach out the saving hand.

In 1940 the War was less than a year old. The Germans had overrun Poland with lightning speed. France and the Low Countries were occupied. The Royal Navy and hundreds of little boats manned by civilians had snatched the BEF off the broad, sandy beaches of Dunkirk. In England invasion was expected any day. While the front was quiet - people talked of a "Phoney War" - England remained firm. To a generation influenced by Orwellian tales of death falling from the skies, of great cities smashed to rubble by massive aerial bombardments, and official government reports that predicted casualties in the hundreds of thousands should the Luftwaffe come calling, the newsreels of the Blitzkrieg in Poland and the Stukas ravaging the huddled masses of Tommys on the beaches had confirmed civilian fears and heightened their terror. The newspapers, feeding on the public's frenzy, wrote editorials, questions were asked in Parliament. What, the costermongers and merchants demanded to know, was the Government going to do to protect them, and their children?

The Government, led by a combatant and defiant Winston Churchill, did what it could, for they too knew all too well the power of the Luftwaffe. The London Underground, with its deep tunnels, was impervious to assault from the air, and could shelter thousands. Public buildings, churches, hotels, had their cellars stocked and strengthened. Limited resources - the material lost at Dunkirk had yet to be replaced - had been deployed as best as could be, and batteries of anti-aircraft guns were sited around the capital. Hitler thundered from his rostrum in the Kroll Opera House: "Er kommt Er kommt!" In the silence of the ancient, historic chamber of the House of Commons, Winston volleyed back: "We shall fight on the beaches . . . we shall never surrender!"

The blathering of the Government, and the whining tirades of the tabloids, meant nothing to the Troubridge family. Elsie Troubridge, an irrepressible South Londoner, had more important things to worry about than some poxy German flying about and dropping a bomb on her terrace house. She had children to feed and care for. She was more concerned about putting a decent tea on the table than she was about some Bohemian Corporal. With the rationing, and the rise in prices, it was make do and hope that the butcher had a little extra on the ration. She also had to worry about her two eldest boys, Lloyd George and Neville, who had been called up and were in some Godforsaken hole on the Brecon Beacons. Neither did she worry about Margaret Rose or Lucy, who had jobs now, making ammunition for the Army. Her husband, Brian, with typical British working class aplomb, pooh-poohed the Government's warnings. The Hun had shot his bolt and any day now would be coming, hat in hand, looking for an Armistice. Everything would be settled by Christmas. There would be no further hostilities. Everybody said so down at the pub. Stood to reason, didn't it? Hitler had no claims on England and made no bones about it. Brian had heard it on the wireless, and if you couldn't trust the BBC, whom could you trust? Elsie had no reason to worry, no reason at all.

But Elsie did begin to worry when the postman dropped a small pamphlet into the letterbox. It had been printed by the Battersea Council and advised all residents of evacuation routes in the event that the Embankment, which held back the Thames, was breached. Residents were invited to attend a meeting at the Council Hall, where a full explanation would be made.

Elsie packed the kids off to bed, put on her good hat, and went to the meeting. There she learned that the Battersea Power Station, a massive structure with four huge stacks that towered over the whole district, was an obvious target in the event of aerial bombardment. As the power station was sited on the river, there was a possibility that the Embankment would be breached and the waters of the Thames come crashing down through the narrow streets of Battersea, which lay in a shallow depression, the streets a good six feet lower than mean low tide. The whole area surrounding the power station could be a sea of water and the Council had to take measures.

When Elsie returned home she made a pot of tea and sat in her parlour, thinking. She wasn't worried about the older kids. They could run if they had to. Brian, the great lug, if he was at work in the power station, was more than capable of looking after himself. If he were home, and sober, he could still take care of himself. Elsie, while a little overweight, had no worries about herself. That left her youngest, Harry, a boy of six, whom everybody in typical South London fashion called "Our 'Arry". If Our 'Arry were home, Elsie could tend to him quick enough. But what if he were in school? The dingy old pile was overcrowded and the teachers couldn't be expected to look after one particular child when there were hundreds running about.

The next morning Elsie went to the ARP station and asked about what might happen if the Embankment was breached. The wardens, who had been briefed by the War Ministry, assured her that such a thing, while possible, was highly unlikely. The Germans were content to squat on their heels in France and were not about to send a Stuka over just to inconvenience Elsie. While she saw the logic in the wardens' argument, Elsie still had doubts. She was a mother and she wanted to make sure that Our 'Arry was around for a great many years to come. In that case, the wardens said, why not take advantage of the evacuation scheme. Elsie could send her youngest into the country or, if she were that worried, to Canada. The Government was evacuating children from the cities and the scheme was available to anyone who cared to enquire. Elsie put down Our 'Arry's name.

As the early summer progressed and still the Germans stayed across the Channel, Elsie thought that she'd been worrying for nothing. She did fret a bit when, on the 10th of July 1940, the Germans began the air campaign that would be recorded in history as the Battle of Britain. Her fears subsided, however, when she read in the newspapers, and heard on the wireless, that the bombers were concentrating on the channel convoys, the radar stations along the south coast, and the RAF aerodromes. The cities were ignored as the Heinkels and Stukas concentrated on strategic targets far from London.

As July became August Elsie went about her normal routine. She found herself, however, watching the skies over London. She saw the contrails high in the sky as the Hurricanes and Spitfires chased errant German bombers, the near exhausted RAF pilots stemming the tide.

In Berlin, Hitler raged at Goering and demanded that the RAF be eliminated. The invasion barges were waiting at the French ports. The Wehrmacht had gathered the necessary troops and they were chafing to take the bit! Goering answered the criticism with Adler Tag - Eagle Day - and on the 13th of August the Luftwaffe began an all out, continuous assault against the RAF.

Elsie was unaware of the strategies, the tactics, or the horror of the air war raging around her beloved city. She spent her day standing on line, trying to find enough food to put on the table, gossiping with her friends, clucking and shaking their heads over this, or that, lad posted as missing, and wasn't it a shame about St. Gile's Church, destroyed when the one raid had hit Cripplegate?

The raid, on the 25th of August 1940, had been a mistake. A squadron of Dorniers, off course, had dropped their bombs over what they thought was Thameshaven, and bombed London. Winston Churchill could not let the bombing of London go unavenged and the dust and debris from the Wren church had hardly settled when the RAF sortied against Berlin, which, as in the raid on London, caused little physical damage. It did, however, so fracture the Nazi psyche that Hitler flew into a pathological rage and ordered harshly in his hard, Austrian accent: "Straf London!"

On the 7th of September the air raid sirens howled and the low drumming of aircraft filled the skies over London. By noon the docks were ablaze, and whole sections of the East End were engulfed in a firestorm. Elsie had snatched Our 'Arry from his bed and in a panic had stumbled down the steps leading to the cellars of the Council Hall, where she joined hundreds of terrified women and children as the crump of exploding bombs, the crashing of falling buildings, and the clanging of bells as the emergency vehicles tried to navigate through the debris blocked streets to fight the fires that filled the air with choking black smoke.

When the All Clear sounded Elsie had gone up into the Council offices and asked that her son be sent away. He had been reduced to near idiocy with fright and she couldn't have that. When it was pointed out to her that her son's name was already on the list for evacuation she breathed a sigh of relief. She was told that there was an evacuation ship leaving in a week or so, and assured that Our 'Arry would be as safe as houses. Ocean travel was perfectly safe, and the Germans knew better than to attack a passenger liner, especially after the contretemps that had followed the sinking of the Athenia on the first day of the war. Why, the Germans had apologized and sacked the U-Boat captain. The officials assured Elsie that she had nothing to worry about. The Huns might be bastards, but they still respected the Laws of the Sea!

What neither the official nor Elsie had known was that the Hun respected no laws but his own and Elsie would never have rushed home to pack the one small bag allowed had she known that the Cunarder "Lancastria", packed with refugees and soldiers fleeing the advancing German juggernaut, including hundreds of wounded, had been dive-bombed as she made her way away from the fires of France, and sunk with great loss of life. The Government, so as not to cause panic, had suppressed the news.

Having been assured that there was no danger, Elsie saw Our 'Arry onto the boat train for Liverpool and thus it was that on the 13th of September 1940 the youngster found himself standing on a Liverpool pier, staring up at a huge - to him - liner whose twin funnels bore the distinctive black, white and buff colours of J.R. Ellerman and Co, a part of a group of 90 children and 9 minders. Later in the day he, the other children, the crew and the other passengers would wave goodbye and sail in the "SS City of Benares", in convoy, bound for Montreal.

Although saddened at leaving his Mum and Dad behind, Our 'Arry quickly adjusted to his new adventure. The liner was comfortable, with plenty of room for exploring and playing, and he did not mind having to share a Second Class cabin with three other boys. The crew were very nice, and constantly giving him and the other children treats. There was plenty to eat, although the food was plain. Not that Our 'Arry cared. It was just like the food his Mum cooked back home. One of the lounges had been fitted up as a playroom and there were tons of toys. Our 'Arry had even made a friend, a short, slightly chubby boy his own age who was travelling in First Class. Our 'Arry's new friend was a Canadian, at least Our 'Arry thought his new friend was a Canadian because one day he'd be Canadian and the next Liverpool Irish! His new friend had been travelling with his parents (his Mum, whom Our 'Arry never met, was quite ill and the family had been to Italy, for the warmth) and they were on their way home now.

For three days the ship plodded along. For the children life was a delight. They could line the rails and wave at the sailors and passengers on the other ships in the convoy, and at least once a day one of the escorting destroyers would steam past, siren hooting. Our 'Arry and his new friend got into deviltry, as boys that age will, and had their bottoms smacked by Matron, a formidable, no nonsense woman who frightened Our 'Arry no end. Not so his new friend, who brushed aside the old bat's admonitions to behave, and wheedled a large piece of super walnut cake out of the Chief Steward.

While he missed his Mum, and his Dad, and his brothers, and his sisters, Our 'Arry was happy. He was a little worried about what would happen to him when the ship reached Montreal but his new friend, with all the confidence a precocious seven year old could muster, assured him that he would look out for him. They were mates, right, and mates stuck together no matter what.

After tea on the 17th of October Our 'Arry and the rest of the passengers gathered in the lounge for the nightly movie. After the movie the children were scrubbed and sent to their bunks. As he snuggled up against his bunkmate, Our 'Arry fell asleep with a smile. His new friend had invited him up to First Class for a romp and lunch. The food was ever so much better and he wanted Our 'Arry to meet his Dad, but not his Mum, who was ill and confined to their cabin.

At 2200 on the evening of the 17th of October 1940, the "SS City of Benares" was plodding along at convoy speed of 8 knots. On board were 209 crewmembers, 6 convoy staff (Benares was Commodore ship) and 191 passengers, including 90 children and their 9 minders. Heavy weather had set in and the sea had risen. On the bridge the officers watched the barometer and nodded. Bad weather meant bad hunting for the U-Boats that lurked along the edges of every convoy. Bad weather also meant that there would be no need to zigzag, which made for a smoother ride for the passengers.

The heavy weather also meant that the lookouts never saw the periscope of U48 as she lined up for her shot. At 2205 Our 'Arry's happy, pleasant, complacent maritime world came to a thunderous end as the torpedo slammed into the liner.

The initial pandemonium and confusion was quickly brought under control as the crew, well trained in evacuation drills, and the minders, trumpeting orders to remain calm and to "Be British!" mustered the children at their allocated boat stations. Our 'Arry, thrown from his bunk by the force of the explosion, had been scooped up by a crusty old Anglican nun, and carried to his lifeboat and handed over to one of the stewards, who placed Our 'Arry midships and ordered him to stay still!

His teeth chattering from fear and cold, Our 'Arry felt the swung-out boat being lowered. As the small wooden boat drew nearer to the roiling grey sea he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his lifebelt and his coat, which the children had been told time and time again by their minders to always keep near them. His fear of the sea replaced by Matron's hard hand, Our 'Arry began to cry. The steward in charge of the boat was about to turn and slap the puling brat and was unprepared for the swamping sea that upended the lifeboat, spilling all aboard into the cold, dark waters.

Our 'Arry, terrified beyond all comprehension, began screaming hysterically, thrashing madly as wave after wave engulfed him. He was even more terrified when he realized that he couldn't swim and was not wearing his life jacket. He felt himself being pushed down, down and down into the depths and then suddenly there was a huge explosion as the North Atlantic waters inundated the boilers of the ship. Our 'Arry was pushed violently upward and flung into the air, his arms and legs thrashing wildly. Almost immediately he sank again when a hand grabbed his pyjama top and pulled his head out of the water.

Struggling madly Our 'Arry tried to get away. He felt a sharp slap and saw the face of his new friend. "Help me!" he shrieked. "Save me! I can't swim. Don't let me die! Don't let me die!"

Our 'Arry's new friend slapped him again. "Nobody is going to die! Stop wiggling!"

His new friend's voice was calming and very authoritative so Our 'Arry did as he was told. "We're not going to die?"

"Not if I can help it!" returned his new friend, who was swaddled in a huge life jacket, and bobbing up and down with the rolling of the waves. He clasped Our 'Arry and told him to hold on tight. Both boys, clutching each other desperately, trod water as a huge wave rode them up, over the crest, and down, sending them crashing into an upright boat. Hands reached out and before they knew it both boys were safe. Someone threw a blanket over the boys as they huddled in the bottom of the lifeboat and held each other. Our 'Arry wept tears of gratitude. "I shall never forget, Algie. Honest, I swear, I swear."

Troubridge was startled by the sudden silence. He walked to the window and saw that the pool area was empty, which meant that the boys had gone to their rooms - Sepp and Gottfried shared a bedroom and bath; Eugen slept alone - and that Percy was floundering around in his oversize bathtub, washing away the mucky effluvia of the morning's activities and no doubt trying to raise the dead.

Dismissing Percy and the boys from his mind, Troubridge returned to his desk where he began a fruitless search for servants to replace the three leaving later in the day. None of the agencies wanted anything to do with Percy Simpson, or Troubridge. In the end Troubridge found a new agency that would, with the greatest reluctance, and only at premium rates, supply dailies to cook and clean.

Less than satisfied at the new domestic arrangements Troubridge went below stairs to his pantry. This was Friday, and on Friday he polished the Second Silver that was used for everyday dining. The First Silver, and the plate, was polished every third Monday. Troubridge lived by rote and routine and he saw no reason to change his ways now. When the silver was polished Troubridge put away the cleaning supplies and went into the library. He always dusted in there on Friday, not allowing the maids - when there were any - to touch the magnificent collection of books, prints and pamphlets.

As he entered the wood-panelled, book-lined room Troubridge surprised Eugen, who was sitting in a wing chair next to the fireplace. Troubridge had not been at all surprised to see Eugen. The young German was a reader, and very careful when he took a book from one of the shelves. Troubridge had noticed that Eugen preferred the classics, in English, which was a delight. Sepp and Gottfried never read anything except the dirty magazines Percy kept in a special drawer in his bedroom desk.

Troubridge also noticed that Eugen was properly dressed in a lightweight summer suit, stiffly starched white shirt and a conservative tie. The butler did not have to look to know that the boy's shoes were highly polished. Which pleased Troubridge no end. A well-shined pair of shoes was the mark of a gentleman, and in marked contrast to Sepp and Gottfried, who were nothing more that ignorant savages who sloped around the house in their pants, or ratty jeans and T-shirts.

In many ways Troubridge felt drawn to the young, dark-haired German boy. Eugen had a grace and dignity of expression that Troubridge never saw in others these days, a quality he had grown accustomed to in his younger days.

Safely ashore after being rescued from the dangers of the sea by HMS HURRICANE, Our 'Arry had been given into the arms of his Mum, who vowed that never again would her 'Arry be way from her. In time 'Our Arry received a huge award, fifteen pounds, which his Mum put into a savings account for him with the local building society.

By 1942 the Blitz, as everybody called the furious bombings, had abated. There were still bombings - out of spite, Elsie thought - and half of Battersea was a rubble-strewn wasteland. Elsie was no longer in Battersea because there was nothing, really, to keep her there. Her oldest boy, Lloyd George, had never returned from the beaches of Dieppe. Neville's regiment had been shipped off to Hong Kong, which had capitulated to the Japanese on Christmas Day, 1941, and the War Office had sent a telegram saying that Neville was a prisoner of war. Brian, with two sons gone, had joined the RN and was at sea constantly. Her daughters were no longer at home, being housed in rooms provided by the factory where they worked.

Elsie tried to keep up, Lord knew she had tried, to keep going. She still had Our 'Arry at home, what there was of her poor little, battered, terrace house. She had been bombed out twice and returned to find more and more damage and while the local council had made some repairs, the rain still came in through the boarded up windows. She never knew when the gas would be on and even though she lived less than a mile from the Battersea Power Station, the electricity failed constantly. Which meant that she could neither cook nor heat the one room still habitable in the house. Everything was rationed and it was becoming more and more difficult to find food and she spent hours on line, every day. Fresh fruits and vegetables were a long ago memory. Our 'Arry was suffering as well. He always seemed to have a cold, and spent more time huddled under a pile of blankets on the little cot that she had made up for him than he did in school. Not that he was in school all that much, as the students seemed to spend more of their time in the shelters than they did in classes.

As Christmas approached Elsie took stock and then reached for "The Telegraph". She scanned the Situations Vacant column and, finding just what she was looking for, reached for a pen and a piece of paper. Three weeks later she and Our 'Arry were comfortably warm in a snug room in the large country house where she had taken up the position of Cook.

The lady of the house, Mrs. Williams-Moore, was the widow of a general and lived in the grand manner. There was a definite social structure below stairs and the Staff was treated with formal courtesy. The Butler was addressed by his first name, the footmen by their last. The housemaids were always given the honourific "Mrs." Elsie was addressed as Cook. Guests still came and everybody dressed for dinner. It was if there were no shortages, no denials of anything, and the war a foreign thing easily ignored.

Mrs. Williams-Moore also fell quite in love with Elsie's little boy. She took Our 'Arry under her wing and taught him, as she had taught her sons - one in the RN, another in the Guards and off in the desert somewhere consorting with Arabs and Blackamoors - the proper way for a young English gentleman to conduct himself. Once again Our 'Arry was cosseted and coddled and spent the balance of the war safe and happy.

When the war ended Elsie stayed in Cornwall. As Our 'Arry grew older Mrs. Williams-Moore interested herself in his future. She saw to it that he attended the local village school and helped him with his homework. She also carefully groomed his thinking to a career in domestic service, which was an honourable profession, after all, and well-trained footmen and butlers were highly desired commodities.

When he was seventeen Our 'Arry was graduated from the local comprehensive school with two A-Levels and three Os. At Mrs. Williams-Moore's urgings he applied to, and was accepted by, Thanet Catering College. As Mrs. Williams-Moore was paying the bills, Our 'Arry was happy to oblige.

Two years later and now know as "Henry", the young Troubridge was in service to HRH Princess Alice, sister of the late King of Blessed Memory, George V, and great aunt to HM the Queen. From Princess Alice, Troubridge had moved on to Kensington Palace as under-butler to Princess Margaret. The Royals were always poaching each other's servants and Troubridge imagined that it was only a matter of time before he would be summoned to Clarence House, or Buckingham Palace. He was content to wait, however, and had no urge to leave his princess. Quite by chance he had met Nicholson Foster, who was in London with his employer and was butler to one Percy Simpson. Foster had been vague about what his employer was doing - as was proper - and had mentioned in passing that he was retiring. Lured by a whopping salary and promises of regular bonuses, Troubridge left a world of quiet gentility and Royal dignity, where young men dressed properly and spoke in measured, cultured voices, for one of the lower rings of the Inferno, where boys cavorted naked and crawled into the footmen's beds while they slept.

Shuddering at the memory of what he had left behind, Troubridge acknowledged Eugen's murmured, "Good morning, Mr. Troubridge", and checked to see that the morning papers had been arranged properly. There was a most definite way that the papers should be laid out on the library table and as usual Joseph had got it all wrong. As he rearranged the papers Troubridge thought he heard a soft rustling and turned to see Eugen quickly shove a folded bit of paper into his pocket.

Seeing the butler staring at him, Eugen shrank back in his chair. "Please, Mr. Troubridge, I beg of you, I am doing nothing wrong," he whispered in his Oxford-accented English.

At first Troubridge was at a loss as to what Eugen as talking about. Then he realized what it was that the boy was hiding. It was a map, a cheap handout to be found in any petrol station. The boy was planning on doing a bunk!

For a long while Troubridge stared at the pale-faced boy. Then, much to Eugen's surprise, the butler raised his finger to his lips. Then he moved quickly to the door, and then motioned for Eugen to follow him. Troubridge led Eugen into his pantry and motioned for him to sit. "You can't do it, boy!"

Shaking his head firmly, Eugen declared passionately, "I am doing it, Mr. Troubridge. I will not go back."

Giving Eugen a sad look, Troubridge tried to reason with the young German. "Where will go? You cannot live on the streets! The police here will detain you, and discover who you are, why you were brought here. They will send you back and you know what will happen . . ."

"I will not go back," Eugen snarled in reply. "You do not know what to is to be a whore! You have not done what I have done! Do not tell me I cannot leave! I am going."

Troubridge leaned against the tall cabinet containing the silver. "They will try to find you."

"I know. I will hide. Toronto is a large city. There are places to hide and I will find one."

"You will need money, papers."

Eugen looked at the butler, trying to determine if he were a friend, or an enemy. Troubridge's tone had been calm, without a hint of anger. He decided to chance that Troubridge was a friend. "I have a little money . . ."

"I do not want your money," replied Troubridge. "Do not insult me by offering money."

A look of surprise came over Eugen's slim, smooth face. "I do not understand." Then a different look replaced the one of surprise.

Troubridge saw the look and shook his head. "And I do not want you."

"You speak in riddles. You do not want money; you do not want my body. What do you want?"

A strange look came into Troubridge's eyes. "A long time ago, when I was younger than you have ever been, a hand reached out and saved me. It is time I repaid a long outstanding debt."

Eugen's eyes widened. "You will help me?"

"Yes. I don't know how, but I will." He stood thinking and then asked, "Sepp and Gottfried?"

"No!" Eugen's lip curled into a disdainful snarl. "They are whores. They will never leave the game. They have no sense and they have no shame. They enjoy what they do, the lives they live. Better the plaything of a rich man than a life of misery back home."

"Then say nothing to them," instructed Troubridge. "Be patient. I will help you, but you must be patient and you cannot, under any circumstances, let on that I am helping you."

"I am not an idiot," Eugen pointed out. "But you must hurry."

"Whatever for?" asked Troubridge, surprised at Eugen's intensity.

Lowering his voice Eugen explained. "When we were in Vancouver, Herr Percy and his friends found trouble. They belong to something called the Order, and they have been stealing from the Order. Der Kanzler, the Chancellor of the Order, I mean the man in charge, he was very angry!" Eugen lapsed into German. "Später wurde, der Kanzler Großartigen Meister der Reihenfolge gewählt . . . The Chancellor was elected the new Grand Master and Herr Percy and his friends, they left very quickly." A look, not quite of fright, more of awe, crossed Eugen's face. "This man, he is very powerful, I think, and not because he was elected Grand Master. There is something else, but what I do not know. I do know that Herr Percy fears him greatly. Herr Percy told his friends that it was time to wind up their part in the operation. His friends were very angry but agreed in the end. The banker said that they must contact Der Chef and the Stock Broker he said that Herr Percy must send his boys away, return them to Der Chef. We will all of us, Sepp, Gottfried, and I, we will be sent home and if Der Chef thinks that we know anything . . ." Eugen shrugged expressively.

Troubridge understood. "Do you know if Percy contacted 'Der Chef'?" he asked.

"I do not know," replied Eugen truthfully. "We left Vancouver and came here. Sepp, or Gottfried have said nothing so I cannot tell you."

Troubridge knew enough to know that Stennes would make certain that the three boys would never tell anyone what they knew. The chance remark that Percy had made to his friends echoed through his mind, "Stennes can take care of business. He learned his trade in the cellars of the All Russia Insurance building." Troubridge shuddered involuntarily. He turned to Eugen. "I will help you escape. You must be patient and you must act as normally as possible."

Eugen nodded. "That is the easy part," he said with a grim sadness. "So long as I am available in the morning, and at tea time, they do not bother me."

"Good, then." Troubridge reached out and patted Eugen's shoulder. "We will get out, my boy, together."

Someone had once said that if you want to get a group of Brits together, form an association. The English were, and are great joiners, delighting in membership in regimental associations, navy associations, civilian associations and the like. If the dues were small, and there was an annual meeting, with a chance to meet one's own kind, well, the Brits would join. Troubridge was a typical Englishman. When, fifteen or so years ago he had received a letter announcing the formation of a Benares Association, where the survivors could keep in touch, relive the dreadful day, and have a jar or three together, Troubridge had sent off his five pounds. For his money he received a monthly newsletter and a list of members. He had never had the time to attend any of the reunions, but he did manage to keep up with what his fellow survivors, and their families, were doing.

After leaving Eugen, Troubridge returned to his office. He knew that he could not do what he needed to do, alone. Spiriting Eugen out of the house was child's play. Percy rarely inquired after his boys and so long as they were available when he wanted one of them, he kept himself busy with his business. Sepp and Gottfried, when they weren't sleeping, or having sex with Percy or each other, spent all day, every day, lounging by the pool or watching the television in the basement games room. They would not be a problem.

Troubridge sat back, thinking. Leaving the house was one thing. Finding sanctuary was another. He and Eugen would need a hole to hide in, a safe house where no one, particularly Stennes, could find them. They would need new papers, perhaps even new identities, and time, time to gather what funds they could, time to retrieve carefully hidden documents and letters, time to remove Eugen's passport from the wall safe. Troubridge reasoned that all this could be accomplished easily. The hardest part, hiding, was what worried him.

Recalling Eugen's remarks about the "Order" caused Troubridge to frown. He knew that Percy belonged to some fraternal organization called the Order of St. John of the Cross of something or other. He wished that he had paid more attention when Percy was laughing and mocking the members of the Order, and remarking sarcastically that they were ripe for the picking, what with the old Grand Master dead and a Chinaman in charge. Troubridge reasoned that if the Order was as ineffectual and useless as Percy thought, then he could not turn to it for help. He didn't know where, or who or what the Order was, anyway. No help there.

As he sat thinking the door to his office opened and Traudl, the upstairs maid, entered. She dropped a bundle of letters on the butler's desk. "The post, Mr. Troubridge," she said in thickly-accented English, "and you know that I am leaving?"

Nodding, Troubridge glanced through the mail. "Your reference will be ready before lunch," he replied absently. He did not hear Traudl leave because his attention had been drawn to a letter.

Ripping open the envelope, Troubridge quickly scanned the contents. The Benares Association was having a general meeting and all members were invited to attend. Included in the package was a list of members and Troubridge's eyes quickly scanned the list. There, there was the name! They were mates, and mates stuck together. Troubridge reached for the telephone.

Finding out just where his rescuer was hanging his hat was not all that difficult. Beside each member's name was his address. Bell Canada had an excellent service and Troubridge was connected to the number provided by the Bell information operator. He panicked momentarily when the man who answered at the other end said that while his friend did live there, he wasn't available, as he was at work. The young man compliantly provided his friend's work number, which Troubridge dialled immediately. He was somewhat surprised when another voice, a very young voice, answered the telephone, and while he waited for his friend to come on the line Troubridge wondered if he was perhaps teaching, or cooking, at some school for boys.

Troubridge fretted impatiently through what seemed like an interminable wait while the youngster who had answered the telephone located his friend. Finally, he heard the voice of the man to whom he owed his very life. "Algie, is that you?"

There was a long pause, and then the strong voice rolled through the earpiece of the telephone. "Faith and I haven't been called that in years!" There was a low, rumbling chuckle and the voice continued, "Sure and it makes me feel as if I'm after living at the bottom a fish tank!"

Somewhat taken aback, Troubridge hastily apologized and spoke his name.

"By all the saints! Our 'Arry!" boomed the voice of his friend in reply. "However did you find me?"

Troubridge did not feel that idle chitchat was necessary. "I need your help," he all but whispered. "Please, help me."

Suddenly the line was silent, and then Algie asked, "What is it, 'Arry?"

When Troubridge finished his confession and hurriedly recounted his fears, Chef rang off. Then he picked up the telephone again and when the line at the other end was answered, spoke the words that he knew would set into motion a rescue operation, "Exquisivi Dominum et exaudit me et ex omnibus tribulationibus meis eripuit me."

To be continued in Chapter 5