Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.
This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions, customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.
As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.
This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.
I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com
The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 24
For the first time in living memory, Chef was on parade. Not only was he on parade, he was fully booted and spurred. His white, Number 11 uniform, was so stiffly starched and crisply ironed that the Cookery Branch, which was formed up behind him in a perfectly sized platoon, expected cracks to appear in the startlingly white fabric every time Chef moved. On his head Chef wore a brand new white cap fitted with an RN Chief's badge, which Chef preferred over the RCN pattern badge because of the fineness of the workmanship and the richness of the embroidered gold wire. On each sleeve of his perfectly tailored uniform jacket three gold buttons flashed in the morning sunlight. Above the buttons gleamed gold and enamelled crowns, the small, enamelled jewels so expertly crafted that they flashed and sparkled to rival real gemstones. At his side, hanging from his hidden sword belt (which had been polished to such a gloss that it appeared to be patent leather) was a Warrant Officer's dress sword of an antique pattern. The brass hilt and fittings of the scabbard had, like the belt and slings, been polished and resembled pure gold. One of Chef's lambs was being feted and he would not let down the side.
Behind Chef, scrubbed, polished, freshly barbered and twice inspected, were Randy, Joey, and the Litany of the Saints, with Ray to the front and Sandro on the right flank. They were all on their best behaviour, wearing their best uniforms. One of Chef's lambs was being honoured and the rest of the flock would not let down the side.
That is not to say that they were not up to their usual deviltry. Side bets were being whispered back and forth. The collar of Chef's uniform jacket was so tight that it seemed to be cutting a groove in his neck and his lambs were waiting patiently to see if his head fell off before, during, or after the parade.
Chef had been determined that the Cookery Branch would, as he put it, shine! To that end he had, at 0715, all but physically ejected the last cadet eating breakfast, predictably Little Big Man, and locked the doors of the Mess Hall. He had then armed himself with a large wooden spoon and mustered the hands. As the galley staff stood to attention he had slowly marched up the front of them, then down the back of them, clucking and muttering.
His inspection finished, Chef fixed a jaundiced eye on his galley lambs and announced ponderously that one of their own was Inspecting Officer this morning and that they, grubby little urchins that they were, would scrub themselves to gleaming, pink perfection and then don their cleanest, SHARPEST, WHITE UNIFORMS, the better to hide their scrawny carcasses. Then, his wooden spoon at the ready, Chef had muttered the age-old word so beloved by Chiefs and Drill Sergeants: "Haircuts!"
The looks on the boys' faces led Chef to hastily assure them that he was well versed in the art of gentlemen's hairdressing, a trade he had learned while confined, as a mere lad, in HMS GANGES. Just what Chef had been doing, as a mere lad or otherwise, in the Royal Navy School for Boy Seamen, nobody dared ask. Seven heads swivelled and looked at Ray. He paled and sat in the chair indicated by Chef and offered a quiet prayer under his breath. Chef darted into his office and returned with a proper pair of barber's clippers. Ray heard the droning buzz of the clippers and closed his eyes.
Chef worked quickly, efficiently and expertly. When he was finished he tapped Ray's shoulder, signalling that he was finished, and held up a mirror. Surprise registered on every face. Chef was exactly what he claimed to be. Ray had a perfect "high and wide" haircut, with just enough left on the top to make a part to the left. Satisfied that they were not going to end up looking like the Last of the Mohicans, each boy sat in the chair in turn and had his hair cut.
Once all the boys had been barbered Chef sent them off to retrieve their uniforms and a change of underclothes. They would, he ordained, shower and change in the galley facilities. On their return Ray and Sandro, under threat of a good paddling, were detailed to supervise. Randy pointed out that he had been washing himself without supervision since he was six, and could even go to the toilet by himself, thank you very much. He further opined that he did not need instructions on how to clean his pecker. This last remark earned Randy a sharp rap on his behind with Chef's wooden spoon and a roared, unveiled threat of a good spanking if Randy did not behave.
While the boys were off collecting their uniforms Chef inspected The Phantom who, under his critical eye, was pronounced adequate. In reality the old fool thought that the boy looked positively regal. Chef was not, however, about to give him a second "Bravo Zulu" just yet. Phantom would only get a swelled head and that would never do.
When the other boys returned and began showering, Chef inspected their uniforms, which they had hung in their lockers. He ignored Joey and Randy, who were eyeing him warily, and clucked and muttered and fussed, with much clicking of his tongue and shaking of his head, poking and lifting the starched white uniforms which were, although he was not about to say it, perfect in every respect.
When the cooks were finished showering they slipped into their clean underpants and formed up in a line in the hallway outside the galley locker room where Chef took one look at Luke's underpants and promptly pitched a fit of monumental, volcanic proportions.
Except for Luke, all the cadets were wearing more-or-less generic, standard issue, run-of-the-mill almost identical, white, cotton briefs. Luke, however, whether by accident, or perhaps design, had pulled on what the Canteen Manager insisted were the latest in fashionable male under garments: bikini briefs. He had laid in a large stock of these garments (together with an equally large supply of personal hygiene supplies) in the hope of cashing in on the water crisis. With the Cadets Laundry back in business the bottom had fallen out of the underwear market and he was now offering the underpants at fire sale prices. The Canteen Mangler had forgotten that the most conservative creature on earth was the sailor. Father took one look at the huge cardboard mounted photo advertisement of a muscular young model showing his all and shook his head, huge clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe, a sure sign that he WAS NOT PLEASED! Harry had been, if anything, even more reactionary after seeing Evan wearing a pair of the offending garments. Evan was directed to either stow the underpants or burn them, preferably the latter, and the Sea Puppies were forbidden to even think about buying a pair. The underpants were so offensive to Harry's sense of the proprieties that he announced that the only way he would ever wear such abbreviated underpants would be if he were dead, and the undertaker put them on him.
Chef, in all his years in the Andrew, had never seen anyone, man, boy, or the ship's cat, in as skimpy a pair of drawers as Luke had put on. Not only were they barely worthy of the name of underpants, they were not white! They were a light grey with ribbed, pale blue stripes. To make matters worse they were cut so low in the front that they barely covered Luke's bits and pieces and exposed a goodly portion of his thick, black, and very curly pubic forest. And if the front portion of Luke's knickers was bad, the back was worse. The briefs were cut so high on his leg, and so little material was used, that his buttocks, as round and as pink as a pair of Easter hams, were fully on view.
For the first time in his life Chef had been speechless. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Fortunately for Luke's safety while Chef was busily hyperventilating Ray had the presence of mind to hustle the boy out of the change room and into the outer darkness, where he was to remain until he could find something decent to wear. That he had nothing on other than the offending briefs was of no consequence. Out Luke went.
After a medicinal brandy Chef went off to shower and change and the cadets began dressing, waiting for Luke to hurry up and get his sorry ass back to the Mess Hall so they could get the next part of the evolution over with. When they were finally ready they all trooped into the dining hall to be inspected yet again by Chef, who was waiting impatiently for them. What they saw caused them to stop and stare for a full minute of stunned silence. Before them stood Chef, resplendent in his faultlessly tailored Number Elevens, medals up and sword at his side.
Ray's eyes all but bugged out of his head. Chef looked . . . magnificent! Gone was the slightly puffy Pillsbury Doughboy dressed in rumpled, food-stained cook's whites, replaced by a smooth shaven, slightly corpulent man in a dazzling, hand-tailored uniform, the snowy whiteness broken by the brightly coloured medal ribbons of the Long Service and Good Conduct Medal, the UN Korean War Medal, the Coronation Medal, and, taking pride of place, the deep blue enamelled cross of the Order of Military Merit.
Sandro's jaw dropped. "Fuck your mother," he muttered in Russian. "He looks like the Grand Duke Valentin Petrovich!" This was, perhaps, as backhanded a compliment ever given to Chef. The Grand Duke, while a tall, handsome, broad figured man, had also been the poster boy for Tsarist corruption, and much referred to by the Bolsheviki when they needed someone to hold up as an icon of all that was wrong with the Romanovs. With typical Russian pragmatism Sandro considered the vilification of the Grand Duke, who in 1916 had been the owner of a munitions factory that supplied artillery shells filled with sawdust to the Imperial Army, as hypocritical coming from the likes of Ulyanov and Djugashvili. In the event, Sandro thought that Chef looked positively royal, and said so.
"He smells like a funeral parlour," snarled Luke, referring to Chef's distinctively flowery after-shave. Luke was still smarting from the bollocking he'd been given and was in no mood for forgiveness.
Ray, Sandro, Joey and Randy gave Luke a collective, unforgiving murderous glare. How dare he speak such treason against their Chef!
Chef, who had overheard Luke, held up his hand. "Now, lads, there will be no bickering this day. Last night you did one another proud, so today all is forgiven."
The look that Ray, Sandro, Joey and Randy gave Luke said otherwise. Nothing was forgiven!
From outside came the sounds of many boots marching rhythmically and muffled commands. The parade was being formed and it was time for the cooks to put in an appearance. Chef nodded toward the door. "Right then, boys. Off we go." Before the boys could charge outside Chef held up his hand. "This is Phantom's day, lads. Make him proud of you!"
Led by Chef, the Cookery Branch took its place in the parade, which had been formed up in strict order of precedence, in two Divisions (a third division, the Field Gun Battery would be added after the Inspection and the parade formed for the March Past) - AURORA Division would lead, with the YAG Division following. Leading AURORA Division would be the Boatswains Platoon (all the gunners being employed elsewhere), followed by the Signalmen; next came the Crushers, who preceded the Engineers. Following the Engineers were the Cooks and Supply types with, last but not least, the Sea Puppies.
The Colour Party would, as always, lead the parade. No "H", as OIC Colour Party, stood fidgeting with his sword and trying to hold onto the pole carrying the Canadian Flag. To his left Evan held grimly onto the Sea Cadet flag while to the right of No "H" Matt stood stock still, looking as pleased as punch, having been given the honour of carrying the White Ensign. Behind them three booted and spurred cadets, their chromed bayonets gleaming in the early morning sun, provided the Escort to the Colours. The Colour Party stood to one side, waiting impatiently to be marched on.
Also waiting to be marched on were the Guard, led by Kyle and Brian, both of whom scurried to and fro down the three ranks, checking equipment and muttering maledictions. Looking bored, Young Brown, the bugler, stood at the rear left flank of the Guard, behind Chad. To the rear right flank was Mal, looking like a thundercloud. All in all, he'd rather be diving. To the right of the Guard was the Band, shuffling and scratching.
In front of the Band, Harry stood grasping his mace and muttering under his breath. He had long recovered from Andre's revelation, and was now mentally dithering about how in the hell was going to manage to pay his fine. Lashing out big bucks for a stupid mistake, such as dropping his Mace, would just about break him. He cursed inwardly whoever it was who had started the tradition that if the Drum Major for any reason dropped his Mace, he was liable to buy a round for the Band. Harry wished it were only a round. Booze was ten cents a double shot in the Comox Junior Rates Mess. Buying Cokes, and hamburgers for the 35 musicians would cost him, even at Canteen prices. His eyes slid across the field to where Todd was standing, tending his guns, and Harry wondered if his lover had a few extra bucks squirreled away in his underwear.
After placing The Phantom in the tender care of the Commanding Officer, The Gunner joined Doc for a stroll along the assembled parade. Unlike The Gunner, Doc was resplendent in dress whites, a sword at his side, and scarlet cloth separating the gleaming gold braid on his shoulder boards.
"Will you look at Chef," muttered The Gunner as they walked past the Cooks Platoon. Chef, as puffed up as a pouter pigeon, stood foursquare in front of his lambs.
"I see him," replied Doc out of the corner of his mouth. "He looks thinner, but very . . . Navy!" He looked quickly at the sword Chef carried in his left hand. "Now, where in the hell did he get that sword? I haven't seen that pattern since old Admiral Mainguy's funeral!"
"Perhaps he nicked it off the old boy's box?" offered The Gunner with a grin.
"I wouldn't put it past the old fool," replied Doc with a snort. He turned and smiled slyly. "Why don't you go over there and ask him where he got his sword?"
The Gunner gave Doc a look of pretended terror. "Not me! No way!" he whined. "I learned a long time ago never to ask Chef silly questions when he has a bloody great knife in his hand!"
Number One stood on the steps of the Mess Hall and glanced at his watch. Before him stretched the parade, which had been sized, dressed and turned inboard. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, grasped his sword and marched smartly in front of Andy, who was acting as Deputy Parade Commander. After receiving Andy's report on the number of officers and cadets on parade, Number One told the American to take post, and waited until Andy had marched to the rear of the Sea Puppies' platoon.
It was very quiet, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the blue and white striped collars of the cadets. Number One looked left, looked right, and then began. "PARADE . . . PARADE," he roared, "STAND AT . . . EASE!"
263 cadets smartly executed the movement.
"PARADE . . . HO!" bellowed Number One, using the ancient and traditional order for bringing the Ship's Company to attention. "PARADE, MOVE TO THE RIGHT IN COLUMNS OF DIVISIONS . . . RIGHT . . . TURN!"
As one entity the Parade turned to the right, pointing south toward the parade square, and the Reviewing Stand.
Number One marched to the front of Tyler. Behind Tyler, Dave Eddy, the Boatswain Divisional Officer, braced slightly. Number One had the eye of an eagle when it came to mistakes in dress or deportment and Dave was taking no chances.
"MARCH ON THE GUARD AND BAND!"
To a single drum beat the Guard and Band took up their positions at the head of the parade. When these two units were in place Number One glanced at the Colour Party, which was standing, waiting, perhaps twenty yards away. "PARADE . . . TO YOUR COLOURS SALUTE!"
At this order Kyle and The Colour Party began their march. The Band struck up The Maple Leaf Forever and played until the Colour Party was in its place of honour directly to the front of the Band.
Once again all was silence. Number One took in a deep breath and was about to give the order to march off when his eye caught the movement of a flag being raised up the flagpole. He grinned and stifled a laugh. Nicholas had Eight Up, Flag Number 8, the Signalmen's way of cocking a snook at the brass hats. He chuckled. "Enemy In Sight, indeed!"
Number One heard movement to his right as the car that would carry the Inspecting Phantom and the Commanding Officer drove up. He straightened. "PARADE WILL MARCH OFF, COLOUR PARTY LEADING . . . BY THE RIGHT . . . QUICK . . . MARCH!"
With three drum rolls as an intro the Band struck up the rollicking tune Under the White Ensign. Phantom's Parade had begun.
Todd stood stiffly at attention in the exact middle of the wide "V" formed by the saluting gun caissons, limbers and their attendants. To his right, Number One gun crew was under Nick's able command. To Todd's left, Anson had command of Number Two Gun. In the point of the "V" the two guns, their barrels pointed toward the Strait of Georgia, had been checked and checked again. Flanking the guns loaders, layers and firing numbers waited, lined up in their proper positions and kneeling down on their left knee, their hands primly folded atop their right knees. Behind, and to the right of the guns were the Gun Captains, Cory on Number One, Dylan on Number Two.
The battery waited patiently while the parade marched down, a single, unified body, every arm swinging in unison, not a foot out of step. With measured tread the cadets marched on. A Life On the Ocean Wave replaced Under The White Ensign as the Band passed the Headquarters Building. On they marched, wheeling smartly onto the parade square, marching and wheeling into line and down the dusty square toward the Flag Staff. Just when it seemed that Number One would crash into the wooden dais he slid into "Mark Time" and three seconds later the bass drum thumped the parade to a halt. It was time for Colours.
Nicholas, flanked by two Signalmen holding the already bent on flags, saluted smartly. "Colours, Sir!" he roared. At the same time Young Brown lifted his bugle to his lips and the Band Officer raised his arm.
"Very good! Make it so!" replied Number One.
Young Brown bugled the Still and the Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur's arm came down. The Band, with attendant drum rolls, began playing God Save The Queen as the colours rose slowly up the Flag Mast. When the Royal Anthem was finished the Band drum-rolled into O, Canada.
When the last note of the anthem finished Dirty Dave the Deacon, wearing a new cassock and surplice, his stole draped around his neck, stepped forward. It was time, as laid down in QR&Os (Cadets), for prayers.
Todd paid little attention to the tableau being played out on the parade square. His whole focus was on the front door of the Mess Hall. Presently The Phantom, accompanied by the Commanding Officer, exited the Mess Hall. "Stand By The Guns!" Todd bellowed.
The gunners leaped to attention and then into action. Layers quickly elevated their pieces; loaders rammed blank rounds into the breechblocks; firing Numbers slammed home the breech blocks and grasped their lanyards and the Gun Captains raised their arms.
Watching carefully, Todd waited with professional patience. His gunner's eye had never failed him and when The Phantom was just settling onto the back seat of the car Todd began the age-old ritual used by gunners from time immemorial to begin a proper gun salute. "If I wasn't a gunner, I wouldn't be here! Shoot!"
Cory brought his arm down sharply. "SHOOT!" he bellowed and Number One gun thundered.
The door to the car had barely shut with a soft thunk when Number One gunned roared. The Phantom started and looked at the Commanding Officer, who was comfortably settled beside him in the back seat. Father reached over and patted The Phantom's knee. "Not to worry, laddie. They are firing a salute in your honour, not shooting at you." He chuckled at the memory of the Twins alleged attempt to assassinate Little Big Man. "Drive slowly, now, Steven," he said as an aside to Steve. "It won't do to get ahead of the guns."
Steve glowered and looked into the rear view mirror, giving Father a dirty look. If he was told one more time to drive slowly he would park this fucking boat and they could all walk! Father ignored Steve's glowering.
Another gun roared and Father smiled confidently. "Right on the mark. Young Todd is a cracker jack of a gunner! If I had had him in the old WHISHART we'd have shortened the war by six months, and no danger!"
The Phantom, who had no doubt that Todd was the complete gunner, nodded his agreement. He then began to fuss and fidget. Father gave his knee another reassuring pat. "Not to worry, Phantom. Number One will be with you every inch of the way," he said paternally. "All you have to do is to look important and smile every now and then. I have the utmost confidence in you."
The Phantom smiled weakly. "I'll pee myself," he muttered.
"Well do try to miss my shoes, dear boy," responded Father. "I just bought them, you know."
As the car approached the Reviewing Stand, The Phantom spotted the Side Party, two lines of capless boys, three Americans to one side, three Canadians to the other, that lined the short walkway leading to the dais, a brass railed, wooden platform decorated with braided and knotted ropework. He also saw Bobby Baugnier and Simon Keppel standing importantly on either side of the roadway.
"What are they doing there?" asked The Phantom.
"You're being given the Royal Treatment, me dear," Father replied easily. "A seven gun salute, fit for an Admiral at least. The last round will be fired immediately young Simon opens the door on your side. The moment your foot hits the ground Stuart will sound the Still on his call and the three Boatswains of the Side Party will pipe the side. The other three, the American lads, are just for show."
The Phantom groaned. "A gun salute; a Piping Party; side boys and car boys! What else should I expect?"
"Those rat bags gave you no hint as to what to expect?" asked Father, concerned.
"Not a word," confirmed The Phantom with a low moan. "I just know that I'm going to screw up!"
"Nonsense! If you think that way you will screw up, as you put it," said Father soothingly. He gave The Phantom a kind look and smiled. "Look at it this way, me boy. You are the Inspecting Officer. You can do no wrong." He looked ahead through the windscreen of the car. "We're almost there, so listen to me. Once you leave the car I shall be your escort to the dais. All you have to do is walk through the Side Party and step on the dais. Easy-peasy, as they say."
The Phantom gave Father a sour look but said nothing.
"Once you step on the dais you stand to attention. Number One will give the order for a General Salute. Remember your timing." He began to demonstrate. "The Guard will have their rifles at the shoulder. Once the order to present arms is given they bring their right hands over and slap the shoulder piece. That's one. Three seconds later they raise their rifles from their shoulders and turn it outboard. That's two. Three seconds after that they bring their rifles down and that's when you snap off a Pusser salute." He looked at The Phantom, a slight look of doubt on his face. "You do know how to salute?" he asked.
The Phantom gave Father a withering look. "Of course! It's the first thing The Gunner taught me!"
"No need to get huffy, old son. One was only asking," replied Father without rancour. He realized that the boy was terribly nervous and must be forgiven any testiness. "Now, if all goes well, the second the rifles drop the Band will play a salute. You hold your salute until Number One orders everybody to 'Shoulder Arms'."
"But I wait until the Guard's rifles are back on their shoulders, the last movement!" announced the Phantom, a note of triumph in his voice. "I remember that!"
"Well done, Phantom!" Father chuckled and once again gave The Phantom's knee another pat. "Now, then, once the salute is done with, Number One will walk up and greet you. He will tell you how many hands are on parade, the usual bumf, and then ask if you wish to inspect."
"He's fucked if I say no!" The Phantom turned at least three shade of red when he realized what he had just said. "Sorry, sir, it just popped out!"
Father laughed heartily. "The perverse imp in me makes me wonder what Number One would do if you did say that!" He regained control. "However, it's never happened." He continued on. "After Number One asks you to inspect you say, 'Yes, please', and carry on. You first inspect the Guard. There will be no music. Number One will be with you. He's an old hand at this sort of thing so you should have no worries."
The car was just drawing abreast of the Reviewing Stand when The Phantom blurted out again, "I'm going to do something stupid! I know it!"
"No, you are not," ordered Father sternly. "And if you do, make certain that you do not pee yourself! It causes yellow stains, you know. Very bad on a white uniform!"
Steve braked the car so smoothly that for a moment neither The Phantom nor Father realized that the behemoth had stopped. "Well, we're off," said Father. "You wait until I get 'round to your side of the car," he ordered as Bobby opened the door for him.
As instructed The Phantom waited while the Commanding officer left the car and walked around the back of it, then came to attention in front of Simon Keppel, who had been detailed off to be Starboard Car Boy. Father nodded and Simon opened then car door, then saluted smartly.
As The Phantom swung his legs and made to exit the car a long, shrill note, blown of a Boatswains Call, the Still, rent the still, quiet air. Out of the car The Phantom instinctively acknowledged Simon's salute, smiling at the stern-faced boy. "Thank you, Simon," he said. Simon beamed and all but wiggled with pleasure. He thought that The Phantom didn't even know his name!
As The Commanding Officer fell in behind The Phantom and walked down the short aisle of cadets, the American Cadets warbled The Side on their calls. As The Phantom's foot touched the dais Stuart blew the Carry On and Father flashed a look at Number One and nodded. The Phantom, by thanking Simon, had demonstrated that he had the touch and would do well.
When The Phantom, now the Inspecting Officer, was settled on the dais, Number One shouted the order, "PARADE, GENERAL SALUTE . . . PRESENT . . . ARMS!" and began the intricacies of a sword salute, raising his sword until the hilt was just in front of his nose then, as the Guard performed the third and final movement of the Present Arms, bringing his sword sharply down and back, resting the hilt against his right buttock.
To the rear of the Guard Harry, at the order "Parade", raised his Mace on high. When the Guard brought their .303's down and out in the Present, he released his grip, allowing the Mace to slip quickly through his fingers, tightening his grip just as the head touched his gloved fist.
From the sidelines The Gunner watched amazed. In front on him, ranged rank on rank, was the parade. At Number One's order swords flashed in the early morning sunlight, every hand moving as one - even Chef. Beside him Doc muttered, "Holy Shit!"
As the Guard snapped to Present Arms, The Phantom brought his right hand up smartly, saluting the Parade. At the same moment Fozzy, bass drummer extraordinaire, thumped out the drum intro and then the Band crashed into Garb of Old Gaul, the light, rollicking music filling the parade square. When the last, spirited note of the Salute ended abruptly Number One gave the order to "Shoulder Arms". Once again swords flashed in the air. He marched to within three paces of the dais, repeated his sword salute and, stony faced, reported the Parade ready for inspection, and asked The Phantom if he would inspect. As stricken look came over the boy's face. "Ah, . . . Yes . . . Please. And what do I do now?"
Number One stifled his smile. "Just come down off the dais and walk toward the Guard. I'll be to your right and one step behind."
The Phantom left the dais and, as directed walked toward the Guard. Number One whispered as they walked, "Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent will ask you to inspect. All the Divisional officers will ask you the same thing. Just say, 'Yes, please', and carry on. They will basically lead you down the ranks."
"Do I say anything other than 'Yes, Please'?" asked The Phantom.
"Of course. You might want to speak to one or two cadets in each Division. You can remain silent, or chatter away like a magpie," replied Number One as they came near Kyle, who was fidgeting and trying not to remember that he had to pee. "You are the Inspecting Officer, after all . . ."
"And can do no wrong!" finished The Phantom sourly.
At the edge of the parade square The Gunner and Doc promenaded. They had no duties to perform and so they promenaded, watching closely as the parade routine unfolded, The Gunner nervously rubbing and rubbing his palms against the legs of his trousers. Doc, whose eyes were as sharp as his tongue, watched as The Phantom smartly returned Kyle's salute and then walked over to inspect the Guard. Doc was from the Old Navy, and could spot a mistake at 100 yards. He watched in silence as The Phantom, with Kyle at his side and Number One trailing once pace behind, walked slowly down the front of the Guard, stopping at every fourth or fifth guardsman to chat and smile. "Either you've been coaching that kid or he's a natural," growled Doc.
"He is good," beamed The Gunner as he watched The Phantom finish his inspection of the Guard and move on to the Boatswains Division.
"Good? Look at him!" Doc grinned. "That little bugger is having the time of his life out there. You'd think that he'd been born to the purple!" He glanced down at the ring that The Gunner was nervously twirling round and round his finger. "Pax Vobiscum, frater," he said quietly.
Almost automatically The Gunner replied, "Et cum spiritu tuo, frater." Then he started and stared, first at Doc, then at the ring on Doc's finger, which was almost identical to the one he was wearing, the only difference being that Doc's arms reflected his medical background. The Gunner did a double take. "You?"
Doc smiled broadly. "Not professed, and do not get your hopes up, Stephen. Mrs. Reynolds has first bid on my tired old bones."
"Well, I will be damned and go to hell!" The Gunner regarded Doc with newfound respect. He had not known that Doc was a member of the Order, professed or otherwise. He had known about Chef - who had been his sponsor - but not about Doc.
"According to the tenets of the established churches there is every possibility that you will go to hell, and burn in the hell fires of abomination," replied Doc smoothly. "I, on the other hand, being a moral, upright, Christian gentleman, shall see the Glory of God!"
When The Gunner stopped laughing he said, "You are a sly old goat. I never knew that you were a member of the Order!"
Doc shrugged. "You would have found out, eventually, Chancellor." He rubbed the side of his nose and gave The Gunner a conspiratorial smile. "Michael Chan has a long reach."
"You never wear the ring," replied The Gunner.
"Oh, I do, just not often," said Doc. "The thing does play hell with latex gloves and when I have to give a rectal examination . . ." he finished with a straight face.
The Gunner almost choked trying to stop laughing. When he regained his composure he looked at Doc and asked, "You are Surgeon-In-Ordinary to the Order, I take it?"
"For ten years past," replied Doc, nodding his affirmation. His eyes shifted to the assembled cadets. "How many, do you think?"
"Candidates?" The Gunner thought a moment. "I have a list. Perhaps a dozen out of twenty or so possibilities."
Doc nodded toward The Phantom, who was walking down the rear rank of the Boatswains Platoon. "Including your young man?" he asked. He looked evenly at The Gunner. "You are, after all . . . close."
The Gunner coloured slightly. "Yes," he admitted slowly. "We are . . . close."
Doc made no comment at The Gunner's admission. He'd been around the Horn a time or six and had learned that relationships happened when they happened. "You are considering him, I trust?" he asked presently.
"I've spoken with him," replied The Gunner with a short nod of his head. "As has the Proctor." He saw Doc's eyebrow rise up. "He was here, the Proctor, and spoke with the boy."
"And?"
"This morning Phantom asked me to take him under my protection."
Doc nodded sagely. "The first step. When do you plan to hold the ceremony?"
"Friday, I think. I'll have to have the Ritual sent out from Vancouver. I was going to ask Chef to be a cosponsor, but now, with you available, I think . . ."
"Of course, of course," interrupted Doc. "I'll be happy to do it." He gave The Gunner a strange look, then grinned. "You don't know, do you?"
"What don't I know?"
Doc chuckled and shook his head. "What a sly, secretive old fox he is!" he said, almost to himself.
"Who?"
"Chef. He's the Proctor!" announced Doc.
"He's the what?" The Gunner, who had known Chef for years and years, could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Chef? Our Chef?"
"Of course, our Chef, you ninny," returned Doc, a disgusted look on his face. "He's the only one we have!"
"But . . . Chef . . . the Proctor?"
"And why not?" asked Doc. "He's a very intelligent, compassionate man under all that blubber. He's doing an excellent job and don't you gate off and tell him that I told you." He waved his hand toward the Parade. "Now then, Stephen, look at young Lord Louis out there." He nodded his head firmly. "Born to the purple, I say. Born to the purple!"
While he had not, as Doc put it, been born to the purple, The Phantom had taken to heart The Gunner's dictum that bullshit will baffle brains any day of the week. Not that he needed to bullshit his way through the Inspection. The Phantom found, after inspecting the Guard, that it was really a simple procedure with the added bonus, as he later told The Gunner, of being able to legally look at a cadet's bum without the danger of being accused of being a pervert.
The Phantom also found, as his initial nervousness dissipated, and as he began to inspect the Boatswain Platoon, that little snippets of information that he had overheard, and stored in his retentive memory, little bits and pieces of tittle-tattle, of home towns, brothers, sisters, families, names and nicknames, came tumbling out of whatever storage bin his brain had stuck them in.
This was proven to The Phantom when he walked past the second Boatswain in the first rank of the platoon. The boy was wearing the Cadet Medal of Excellence, one of the few gongs a cadet could aspire to, apart from life saving medals. The medal was awarded by the Royal Canadian Legion and The Phantom also remembered that the cadet's name was Clarke, that he was from Coquitlam, had been to AURORA the year before, and suffered from a slight stutter. Clarke had not been one of the boys The Phantom had visited, this year or last. He stopped in front of Clarke and gestured at the blue-yellow-blue ribbon and silver circle hanging from the cadet's left chest. "May I compliment you on your award, Leading Cadet?" he said with a smile.
Leading Cadet Clarke, who was accustomed to vacant-eyed, silent Inspecting Officers barely going through the motions, passing him by without so much as a glance, could barely stutter a reply. "Uh . . . Th . . . Th . . . thanks, Phantom," he managed.
"I'm sure that you deserved it, Knobby," replied The Phantom, calling the boy by the traditional nickname all Clarkes were gifted with the minute they took the Queen's shilling. The Phantom pretended not to hear Fred hissing at Clarke that he was not supposed to call the Inspecting Officer by his first name.
After exchanging a grin with Dave Eddy, the Deck Officer, The Phantom stopped again, this time in front of a slim, dark haired, sloe-eyed cadet named Patterson. The Phantom remembered that Patterson had been to AURORA last year, as a New Entry. He also remembered that it had been Patterson's first time away from home and he had been so homesick that he had, for the better part of his course, cried himself to sleep in Harry's arms. "I hope that you're enjoying yourself here, Able Cadet Patterson," said The Phantom. "Mind, it will soon be all over and you'll be on your way home."
Patterson, who had heard Fred's hissing, was properly respectful when he replied. "I'd rather stay here, Chief."
"Oh, really? Why?" The Phantom's face showed his surprise.
"My mother had a baby," said Patterson. He made a horrible face. "A girl. The thing is always squallin' or poopin'!"
The Phantom was quick off the mark. "Sounds like some of the cadets I know!"
Patterson grinned. "Yes, Chief, but all of the guys can wipe themselves after they poop!"
Laughing, The Phantom walked away, listening as the Band, which had been playing The Middy, segued into Gilbert and Sullivan's Buttercup. He inspected the Bunting Tossers and then went on toward the Cooks Platoon. The Phantom groaned and looked around. "I suppose I shall have to look each one of them over?"
"Unto the ninth generation and all of the YAGs," intoned Number One. He smiled. "And the ship's cat, if it's on parade."
The Phantom grinned mischievously. "I don't see the cat. I guess that we'll just have to settle for Chef."
The Inspection Party approached the Cooks Division and Ray, Sandro, Joey, Randy and The Litany (including Luke), broke into wide grins. Chef, as behoved a Crown Chief, remained impassive. As they neared Chef, Number One, in a mischievous mood, leaned over and whispered, "Chef looks suspiciously thinner than normal. A fiver says that he's wearing a corset!"
The Phantom was so shocked at the very idea of Chef cramming his pudgy body into a corset that he had to stop and pretended to be looking back until he could regain his composure. He managed not to break into giggles but his green eyes were bright with hidden laughter. He could not, of course, ignore Chef who was, after all, his friend and mentor. "Good morning, Chef," he said carefully, the vision of Chef in a corset swimming through his brain.
Chef, who had no idea what was going through The Phantom's mind, saw the stricken look on the boy's face. "Phantom, dear boy, are you all right?" he asked, concerned. "The collar of your jacket, it's not too tight, is it?"
Behind him The Phantom could hear Number One choking back his laughter and almost strangling himself in the process.
"No . . . no . . . Not at all Chef." He waved his hand slightly. "You look . . . wonderful, Chef!"
"As I should, my lamb, as I should."
"An example to us all," put in Number One, eyeing Chef carefully for evidence of whalebone and canvas.
"Nothing to it, sir," replied Chef. "All it takes is clean living, a balanced diet, and a good tailor to give a chap a sense of well-being and fitness. Mind, I do feel . . ." he forced a cough, " . . . A bit constricted in the chest . . ."
This time it was The Phantom's turn to almost strangle trying to choke back his laughter.
As he continued on with the Inspection, The Phantom experienced a sense of déjà vu. He remembered many of the cadets from last year - boys from the Western provinces seemed to train mainly in Western venues - and he saw that three boys whom he had visited during the warm summer nights last year, had returned: Glenn Beuscher, who was a giggler and had gained weight; Phillip Thornton who had been a smashing looking boy last year and who was still stunning to look at, despite his black, horn rimmed spectacles; and Cameron Millard, now an Acting Sub-Lieutenant and serving in 319 YAG. Cameron was tall and thin, with wheat-blond hair that was thinning rapidly. He had a baby-face, a button nose and a freshness about him that he would never lose. The Phantom remembered him well. Cameron's penis was as long and as thin as the rest of his body, and topped with the longest foreskin The Phantom had ever seen. Said foreskin was Cameron's pride, joy, and perennial plaything, and he had, before he'd been lobotomized and become an officer, delighted the cadets of Kingston by his frequent demonstrations of masturbating by only manipulating his excess skin.
From the YAG crews The Phantom marched on to inspect the gun crews. Todd was as puffed up as Chef. His crews had performed exactly the way he had trained them and exactly the way that he wanted them to perform. After thanking Todd for the gun salute The Phantom walked over to where Cory was standing at attention. Cory was as sunny as the day, his early morning confrontation with his brother forgotten. He was genuinely happy to see The Phantom and grinned widely.
"Good shooting, Chief," said The Phantom as he made a small wave toward the gun and its crew.
"Thanks, Phan . . . I mean, Chief." Cory, as did all gunners and most boys, liked to have his efforts complimented, even if the compliment came from Phantom. "The boys did a good job."
Number One turned and smiled at Todd who, as Battery Commander, accompanied the Inspection Party. "The best trained crew I've seen in years, Chief Arundel. I'm sure that Father will be pleased."
"Oh, he is," said The Phantom. "He told me that if he'd had Todd . . ." He paused a moment, and then continued on. " . . . And the gunners . . ." He waved his hand toward the assembled Gun Crews. " . . . in his old destroyer the war would have been over six months earlier." A little lie but, The Phantom decided, the looks on the faces of the boys in the guns crews made the lie a truth, and worthwhile.
The last unit on Parade to be inspected was the Band. Harry, who was as proud as a peacock, for the Band had surpassed even his high standards, grinned like a baboon when The Phantom thanked him for all his hard work, and couldn't think of a thing to say, which was a first. The Phantom walked along the ranks, stopping here and there to speak to one of the musicians. He deliberately stopped and thanked Fozzy for the smashing intro he had played on his bass drum for the salute.
Fozzy, who until now thought that no one, The Phantom included, knew that he existed, or how important the bass drum is to any band, blushed and shuffled his feet. The Phantom, who had heard Harry's oft-stated assertion that Fozzy was queer for drums, and creamed himself at every performance, hurriedly thanked the boy again and walked on, hoping that Fozzy did not talk himself into a little "accident". Fortunately for The Phantom's peace of mind he would never find out that Fozzy never went on parade without an extra thick wad of bum wipe crammed down the front of his Jockeys and that the bass drummer had already had his little "accident", exactly as Harry had predicted, indicated by a particularly forceful thump on the last beat of the introduction to Garb of Old Gaul.
When the Band was inspected Number One escorted The Phantom back to the Reviewing Stand. The third and final part of the inspection would now take place. After asking The Phantom's permission to Carry On, Number One returned to his place in front of the parade. At his shouted orders the parade turned right. The drums began crashing and like a well-oiled, finely tuned machine the parade marched off, the stirring notes of Heart of Oak sending chills up and down every spine and making The Phantom wonder if The Gunner's 'spirits' included a few old musicians.
"Remember, Phantom, to look 'em in the eye," muttered Father as the Colour Party neared the dais. The Phantom nodded imperceptibly that he understood what he was about.
As the Band continued to thump out Heart of Oak, each division in turn passed the Reviewing Stand, wheeled left, marched up the parade square and wheeled right, marching purposefully across the width of the broad field. To the right and behind the dais stood The Gunner, his heart filled with pride and memories. He watched with increasing awe and surprise as the cadets executed, in turn by Divisions, a flawless Right Turn Into Line, even Wally Higman, who lumbered and had two left feet. In one straight line the parade marched toward the dais.
Directly behind the Drum Line, pounding madly on his bass drum, Fozzy approached Nirvana. The wet bathroom tissue in his shorts no longer bothered him. His mind was whirling with the feelings of delight that swirled upward from his nether regions. He had weathered the drum intro to the Salute and now he, and he alone, would halt the parade with his drum.
Standing as he was on the dais The Phantom towered a foot or so above the cadets on parade and had a very good view of their faces. Todd and Cory, each standing in front of their now limbered-up gun crews, were impassive. Chef's face was flushed and Randy and Joey were grinning like loons. As he watched the parade approaching The Phantom's gaze fell on Fozzy. His face was scrunched up and he seemed to be breathing heavily, which did not surprise The Phantom in that the bass drum, in addition to being bulky, was damned heavy.
When the parade was about halfway down the parade square the cadets began marking time. They would continue to do so until Fozzy beat them to a halt. Panting, the sweat rivering down his face, Fozzy, lost in a world he only found when beating his drum, raised his lambskin mallets and pounded his drum, two beats, followed by two quick beats, and the final, piece de resistance beat. On the final, thunderous beat, Fozzy shivered and squirmed and a look of bliss came over his ruddy face. In front of the Band, Harry raised his eyes to heaven. He knew what had happened on the last beat of the drum. Fucking Fozzy! Jesus, talk about a hair trigger.
There followed another flurry of drumbeats and the parade Advanced In Review Order, the Band blaring out Nancy Lee, the traditional RCN tune used when the parade Advanced In Review Order. The parade marched seventeen paces and halted automatically. Number One bellowed and The Phantom was saluted for the final time.
In front of the Band, Harry shook his head slowly as he held his salute, the last beat of the drum intro to Garb of Old Gaul still echoing in his ears. Jesus, Fozzy, three times in one parade!