Boys of Aurora

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions, customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also contains proscriptions, restrictions, dos 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 my home address: paradegi@rogers.com

I apologise for the delay in posting this chapter. There were some editorial issues that had to be settled and, when almost done, we had our power outage. I lost nothing, as my computer was not flashed up, except that most precious commodity, time. Things are more or less back to normal so I hope to publish future chapters in a more timely manner.

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 29

Todd lay beside Harry, staring into the darkness at the dimly lit, smoke-stained ceiling of the Unwinding Room. Harry was snoring softly, his huge body taking up most of the narrow settee that they were lying on. His arm was thrown across Todd's chest and the Pride, flaccid, warm, and still wet from their recent sex, pressed softly against the equally warm flesh of Todd's thigh.

Their lovemaking had started, as it always did, with their undressing each other. They then proceeded to heavy petting, for Harry adored kissing and fondling his partner. Their foreplay ended, as it always did, in a mutually satisfying sixty-nine, which was the prelude to a slow, gentle session of serious lovemaking, with Harry, always the dominant, Alpha Male, going first. Harry was, for all his bull moose antics, a considerate lover and never failed to please Todd, who in turn always managed to bring Harry to a roaring climax.

Tonight, however, Harry had been off his feed, tired and, so he claimed, stressed from what had been a very trying day. Dropping the Mace had been the cause of his borrowing money, something he hated to do, and then he'd been forced to supervise his Bandsmen, all of whom seemed to have hollow legs! They had also proved obstreperous in the extreme while they were in Comox, some wanting to go swimming, others wanting to spend their money, and Harry's, in the local arcade playing endless, mindless games.

At first Harry had been his usual, undemanding self. He had slowly stripped Todd naked, taken him in his arms, and gently and slowly kissed his way down Todd's body. They had fallen onto the settee and from then on everything changed. For some reason Harry, who adored having the Pride sucked, was unusually and annoyingly aggressive. Todd had little enthusiasm for deep throating. He wanted to taste, to feel the Pride in all its glory and sweetness, to have his taste buds titillated and stimulated by the smoothness and warmth that the Pride possessed and generated. His normal method was to slowly suck the Pride into his mouth, savouring the first five or six inches, suckling and enjoying the moment. Tonight Harry had been overcome with lust and thrust savagely into Todd's mouth while he sucked hard and fast on Todd's erect penis. Fortunately Harry, when he was in this state, ejaculated quickly.

For the moment spent and satisfied, Harry had cuddled close to Todd, wrapped his arm around Todd's chest, and promptly fallen asleep. He was still sleeping, his soft zephyrs of warmth teasing Todd's nipple.

In a way Todd was quite happy that tonight had ended as it had. Sean's question lay heavy on his mind. He knew that while he did love Harry, he was not in love with Harry. Unlike Sean, neither he nor Harry was prepared to sacrifice everything for their love.

Harry stirred in his sleep and his hand began to rub Todd's taut, warm belly. He moved his head and began to suckle gently on Todd's left nipple, much as a babe would seek sustenance from its mother. As he suckled Harry began mumbling softly. Todd, who could feel the Pride rubbing slowly across his thigh as it rose, reached around and began to stroke the back of Harry's head.

"Nice," mumbled Harry between sucks on Todd's nipple. He moved his hand down and found Todd's soft, warm penis. "Love you," he said with a soft groan. "Don' leave me . . .sweet boy . . ."

At first Todd thought that Harry was awake, and was continuing on with their love ritual. Then he realized that not only was Harry still sound asleep, he was dreaming and he was dreaming about . . .

"Nice . . ." repeated Harry. "Nice little boy dick." He began to pump his hips slowly, rubbing the underside of the Pride against Todd's thigh. He stopped his sucking and pulled Todd close, his hips never losing their rhythm. "Love you," muttered Harry. "Do it . . . do it when you're older, sweet boy . . ." He buried his face into Todd's neck and suddenly he thrust violent upward. "Oh, GOD! STEFAN!"

Todd felt the Pride twitch and pulse and then felt the warm wetness as Harry ejaculated his semen over his thigh and waist. He listened, stricken, as Harry muttered Stefan's name over and over again, his violent thrusting not easing until he was empty. As he collapsed Harry muttered a long, mournful cry, "STEFAAAN!"

Giggling, the three boys slowly pushed open the door to the galley lounge and looked around. "See, I told you there'd be no one around," whispered Joey.

"I'm still not sure . . ." replied Simon.

"Do you want to play like we did at the beach?" asked Randy. He reached out and squeezed the small bulge in Simon's gym shorts.

Simon nodded slowly. In all his young life he had never imagined that anything could feel so good. Randy and Joey were careful and very adept teachers. For two boys so young they certainly knew a lot of ways to make a boy feel good. As Randy continued to squeeze and fondle him, Simon closed his eyes and moaned softly. God, had they made him feel good! They had done just about everything he had fantasized during his nightly - and sometimes daytime - masturbation sessions. He had learned how wonderful it was to have his cock sucked, and to suck a cock! How glorious it was to squirt into a warm, sucking mouth and that the taste of another boy's semen was delightful.

Joey reached over and began to push down Simon's shorts and tighty-whiteys. "There's nothing to worry about, Simon," he said huskily. "The Duty Watch never comes in here."

Before he knew it, Simon was as naked as the day he'd been born. Randy and Joey were the same. They stood, three naked boys, grinning at each other.

"Are we going to . . ." Simon ducked his head. " . . . "You know?"

Joey shook his head. "That's special, Simon. We told you that you only do that with someone you really love." He brightened Simon's eyes when he finished with, "But you can rub your dick up my crack. Randy's too."

Simon laughed and reached out, fisting the young boy cocks of his friends. "Okay!"

The Phantom's eyes fluttered and he squirmed slightly as his mind tried to determine if he was asleep or awake. He felt . . . nice. Warm, comfortable . . . nice. He could feel something soft and curly tickling his nose and breathed deeply, his senses absorbing the sweet, light, slightly musky, clean smells of boy. He was vaguely aware of a weight on his chest and waist, and of a warm presence snuggled against his body. His brain began to digest the feelings caressing his body and he smiled. Then his eyes snapped open. He raised his head. No wonder he smelt the glorious scent of boy! He was in bed with a boy! He was in bed with . . . MATT!

The Phantom raised his head slowly and, in the pale, wan moonlight streaming through the window saw that Matt was cuddled against him. Matt's head was resting on The Phantom's chest, his body snuggled close against The Phantom's, with his arm lightly resting across The Phantom's stomach. The Phantom shook his head, trying to clear his sleep-fogged brain. Jesus! What in the hell was he doing in bed with Matt? He tried to think. He wasn't drunk because he'd only had three beers all night. If he wasn't drunk and he wasn't dreaming, then Matt actually was in his bed. With his free hand The Phantom reached down and felt his waist. He still had his boxers on and a quick glance confirmed that Matt was wearing faintly glowing, cotton tighty-whiteys.

Breathing a sigh of relief, The Phantom reasoned that since they both had their underwear on, and he couldn't smell or feel anything that would indicate otherwise, they had not done anything. But what in the hell was Matt doing here? And why was he lying so close to him, so close that The Phantom could feel the ridge of Matt's crisp glans pressing into his thigh. Once again he reached down and slipped his hand through the fly of his boxers. He felt his soft penis. The head was spongy, warm and dry. He ran his hand through the curls of his pubic bush. Clean. He cupped his balls. Low-hanging. Normal. He breathed another sigh of relief.

While distracted by Matt's warm breath that wafted in soft, rhythmic gusts across his nipple, The Phantom tried to remember everything that had happened tonight. He'd talked to The Gunner. He'd talked to Nicholas, confirming that he would be staying aboard and would help with whatever scheme Nicholas had in mind. Had Matt been around? He thought again. Yes. After cleaning the Gunroom and the Chiefs Mess, Matt had stayed behind, spending most of the night hovering close to Todd and mooning about.

Matt stirred in his sleep and his arm tightened around The Phantom's waist. He rubbed his nose softly against the warm flesh of The Phantom's chest and muttered something, The Phantom couldn't understand what. Whatever Matt had said, he sounded happy.

While the feel of Matt's body against his was pleasant, The Phantom knew that the boy's presence, in this cabin, in this bed, was not at all proper. Matt should be in his own bed, alone. All either of them needed was for the Duty Roundsman to come into the Gunners Barracks and find Matt's bed empty. The Phantom could imagine the ensuing hue and cry, especially if official word got back to Matt's father.

Not wanting to wake his young friend too abruptly, The Phantom rubbed his face in Matt's fresh-smelling blond hair and lightly squeezed Matt's shoulder. "Matt, wake up," The Phantom whispered.

Matt stirred, squirmed a bit, and opened his eyes. He looked up and saw The Phantom looking back at him. "Hi, Phantom," he murmured. He rubbed the side of his face against The Phantom's chest and closed his eyes again.

The Phantom growled low. "Matt, you have to wake up. You have to get up and go back to your barracks!"

Matt, half-awake, shook his head. "No."

"Damn it, Matt, wake up!" snapped The Phantom in an exasperated tone. "And don't tell me no!"

Matt rubbed his face again. "Okay, I won't."

"Tell me no or get up?"

"Both."

"MATT!"

"All right, keep your shorts on," returned Matt. He struggled and pushed himself higher up the bed until his head was level with The Phantom's. He gave The Phantom a peck on the cheek and grinned. "You smell nice, you know that?"

"So do you," replied The Phantom. "Which is beside the point! What are you doing here? How did you get in?" The questions tumbled rapidly from The Phantom's mouth. "Do you know what could happen if anyone should walk in here?"

Matt raised his head and sighed low. "The door's locked. I made sure of that." He giggled. "Which is more than you did! You left the door unlocked."

"I left it unlocked because Nicholas is coming to give me a shake." The Phantom pushed Matt away and sat up. He looked directly at the boy, who was lying back, completely unfazed by The Phantom's concern. "Will you tell me just what you are doing here?" demanded The Phantom.

Matt stretched and reached out his hand to stroke The Phantom's jaw line. "I heard you telling Nicholas that you were going to sleep aboard. I waited until the Duty Watch did Rounds and I came over." He snickered.

"That does not explain how you ended up in my bed, in your underpants!"

"I rarely sleep in my Number Ones, Phantom," replied Matt glibly. He sat up and his hands reached out and pulled The Phantom's face close to his own. "As to how I 'ended up' in your bed? I wanted to do this." He leaned forward and their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss.

The Phantom tried to struggle but Matt's hands held him close. Before he knew it his mouth opened and they were Frenching. Matt groaned and released The Phantom's head. His arms moved, his hands running rapidly up and down The Phantom's body.

Before both of the boys realized what was happening they were on their knees, their hips crushed together, their lips nipping and sucking, their arms wrapped around each other's warm body. The Phantom felt his penis harden and poke out of the fly of his boxers. Matt thrust his hips and rubbed his cotton-covered erection against The Phantom's.

The Phantom broke their kiss. "This is wrong, Matt. We shouldn't be . . ."

Matt's lips silenced him. "Why? It's what I want," he whispered when they drew apart.

"It's wrong," insisted The Phantom.

"No, it's right," replied Matt. He pulled The Phantom down and they lay together, foreheads touching, their hips close. Matt reached down and felt the warm length of The Phantom's erection, his fingers dancing lightly over the curving, spongy head. "I know that you don't love me, Phantom. I know that you're not Marcus, or Todd. I only know that I want to be here with you."

"Matt, I do love you."

Matt laughed ruefully. "Don't go near the 'little brother' card, Phantom. You love me, yes. I love you. When I told you that I wanted to sit on the steps of the Mess Hall with you, and sneak into your bedroom so that you could make love to me, I meant every word of it." He pressed his fingers against The Phantom's lips, stifling any protest. "I want you, Phantom. I want to feel your body against mine. I want to feel you in me. I want you to give me what Marcus wouldn't, what Todd won't, give me. I want you to make love to me."

"Matt, I'm in love with The Gunner."

"And I'm in love with Todd. I will always be in love with Todd. But he's not here. He's over in the School of Wind, with Harry."

"Matt, be reasonable. I understand your frustration, your anger, your disappointment with Todd, but . . ."

Matt slowly shook his head. "I want to be loved, Phantom. To be loved as only another boy can love me. I want to be held close. I want to hear my name whispered, to feel another boy's warmth. Just once I'd like to feel all of that, Phantom! Just once I want to feel loved!"

"Why me?"

Matt chuckled. "Because if I had not been foolish enough to fall in love with Todd, I would have fallen in love with you."

The Phantom looked deeply into Matt's eyes and knew that the boy was serious. He also knew that Matt was wrong. Matt was in love with him. Matt wanted him. He slowly pulled himself up on his left elbow, and then leaned his head forward. Once again their lips met. Matt's arms reached out and enveloped The Phantom. A low moan escaped his lips.

The Phantom pulled away and sat up. He reached down and his fingers found the wide elastic band of Matt's briefs. He slowly pulled them down until Matt's hard, 5-inch erection, released from the tight, constricting cotton, bounced lightly against his hard, smooth stomach.

The Phantom pushed down his underpants and tossed them aside. He leaned forward again and wordlessly began his act of love.

"Ah, Stevie, I cannot complain," said Chef as he took another sip of Nelson's Blood. "Fair winds and a following sea I've had. You can't deny it."

"I wouldn't even try," replied The Gunner sourly.

"I've had some times, I have. And I've met some fine men. Friends, many friends, Stevie." He raised his glass in a toast. "Even you." The Gunner cringed. Chef was off and running. "Ah, yes, I remember well the first day I ever laid these two eyes on you," meandered Chef, a far away look in his eye. "A skinny, whey faced lad you were."

"Whey faced! I was scared shitless!" responded The Gunner. "There I was, standing on the Quarterdeck of the old COLUMBIA, with the Duty Quartermaster and the Corporal of the Gangway barricaded in the Quartermaster's Shack, hugging each other . . ."

"They were very much in love, Gunner."

"BULLSHIT! They were as scared shitless as I was because you were chasing the Officer of the Day around the Quarterdeck with the biggest meat cleaver I've ever seen!"

Chef seemed to think a moment. "So I was." He scowled. "The little bastard was nicking my sticky buns. I was very fond of them sticky buns."

"You didn't have to chase him with a meat cleaver! You scared him out of two years growth!"

"It's a good thing the Spirit Locker was open," said Chef with a grin. "I'd have pranged him for certain, and no danger, if he hadn't locked himself in there."

"No danger? It took three Chippy Chaps, the Padre, the Old Man and a blow torch to get him out!"

"Still, he was the happiest Subbie in the Fleet, he was, when they did get him out." Chef's ample belly shook with laughter. "Drunk as a lord, he was. But happy!"

The Gunner laughed uproariously. "Chef, you're an old sinner and I'll miss you." "Miss me? Why would you miss me? I'm not going anywhere," replied Chef, looking around the living room of the suite he occupied in the Warrants and Sergeants Mess of CFB Comox.

"I've spoken with Phantom, Chef," replied The Gunner quietly.

Chef reached for the rum bottle and freshened both their drinks. "It's time, Stevie. "I'm young enough to start over. I'll go out with an Honourable Discharge, and a pension. I've had a good run, but it's time."

"I just hope you know what you're doing, Chef."

"I do. God has given me a second chance. I'm not going to fuck it up again."

"You didn't fuck it up the first time," replied The Gunner with some heat. "Your ex-wife is the one that ran off with the boy!"

Chef shook his head sadly. "I know, I know. The lad is lost to me, and well I know it." His face brightened. "But Ray is not, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that he's taken care of. I'll be there for him if he needs me, just as you'll be there for your Phantom."

"Sometimes I think that it will be Phantom taking care of me!"

Chef chuckled. "He's a smart lad." He looked sternly at The Gunner. "You mustn't smother him, Stevie. He's still young, and needs space to grow."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that he needs to be with boys his own age." He fixed The Gunner with a heavy eye. "In many ways he reminds me of you when your were that age - calm, controlled, Toledo steel wrapped in silk, yet, underneath, full of love and compassion. He's in love with you, and that's a fact, so it is, but at the same time he loves other boys."

The Gunner nodded. "The Twins, and Ray."

"Yes, and Ray. Ray adores him, and if Kevin is half the man I think he is, he'll understand. As will you."

The Gunner sighed. "I know, Chef. In a way I should be angry when he goes off with, well, Cory or Todd, or Ray. I can't be because I know it's just his expression of his love for those boys." He reached for the bottle. "I'm jealous, damn it. And I'm angry because I can't seem to accept that it's going to happen. Hell, I want it to happen. I want him to know life!"

Chef nodded sagely. "You have to accept, Stevie! Oh, he'll not be promiscuous. He's not the type. From time to time, particularly in those times that you're not around, he'll meet someone and they'll have a brief affair, which will be over as quickly as it began. It won't happen often, but it will happen. He won't embarrass you, or himself. Just as you won't embarrass him when it happens to you!"

"Me? I . . ." The Gunner stopped speaking and took a deep drink of rum. "We talked, Phantom and me, before about this. Strangely, he's comfortable with the fact that I just might meet an Ordinary Seaman Stud Muffin . . ."

"A what?"

"Phantom's name for a ship that might pass in the night." He sighed and grinned softly. "We both know that our lives are intertwined, that eventually we'll be together. We also know that yes, there will be times when we'll . . . stray?"

"Stray?" Chef shook his head. "You've not made a commitment to each other. He's far too young and so are you!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you." Chef's steely gaze bore into The Gunner. "Neither you nor that boy are ready for the housekeeping and the little house with the white picket fence. "You've got too much to do, and he's got too much to learn."

"I have?"

"You have. You are the Chancellor of an Order that needs rebuilding. Michael chose you to be his Chancellor, Stevie. He would not have done that if he did not think you were the man for the job. The Order needs you, and it needs more Phantoms."

"The Proctor has returned, I see," said The Gunner with a wry grin.

"He never went away," returned Chef. The grin that was forming on Chef's face faded. "Ah, so you know then." He nodded and muttered, "Sure and it is of no consequence or importance for you would have found me out sooner or later." Chef then straightened his massive shoulders and looked at The Gunner, his eyes as hard as flint. "There's a job to be done, and we both have a part in it." His shoulders sagged slightly. "Stevie, there is a fight coming, a war if you will. The Order will need leaders, and it will need foot soldiers."

"One Thousand Laurences," remembered The Gunner aloud.

Chef nodded firmly. "You're to find them. I'm to persuade them that being gay is no sin, not immoral and certainly nothing to be ashamed of. We will both be busy. So busy that I will use my terminal leave to travel about the country, talking to the boys you chose. You've made a start, but only start."

"Chef, I happen to have a career, and I am too young to retire."

"But not too young to take some time off, Stevie. You need to get away for a while."

"I most certainly do not!" growled The Gunner. "You know, and Michael knows, that the best and most fertile recruiting grounds are in the Forces."

Chef waved away The Gunner's protest. "You need to get away!" He grabbed The Gunner's hand and held it tight. "You feel too much, my Chancellor and friend. I see the way you look at the boys when they are all on parade, in their tiddly blue uniforms. You see in them the old days, the good days, before the politicians fucked everything up. You want to bring back the past." Chef gave his friend a long, sorrowful look. "You can't. The past is the past. Remember it, cherish it, but live in the present and look to the future."

"I'm a traditionalist, damn it!" declared The Gunner as he pulled his hand away. "I admit it! I want the old ways back!"

"Well, you can't have them," replied Chef calmly. "They are gone, and nothing you can do can ever bring them back. You have to make a decision, Stevie. You have to accept the unacceptable and move on! Step back, use that quick and analytical brain of yours and think! When your draft is up, move on. Get away. Find a beach and sit on it. Think about what you have to do, and how you want to do it! You've lost your happiness, Stevie. Go away and find it again." He noticed that their glasses were empty again. "When you've found it, come back. You've five years to make up your mind. You can re-enlist at any time during those five years and you won't have lost anything."

The Gunner stood up and walked to the window overlooking the small park in front of the Warrants and Sergeants Mess, not really seeing the dimly lit baseball diamond in the far corner or the weather beaten wooden bleachers that flanked home plate. For a long time he stared into nothingness. "You're right, Chef." He grimaced and then a smile broke his face. "I hate it went you're right."

"I've had a lot of practice," replied Chef, returning The Gunner's grin.

The Gunner seemed not to hear. "I lie there, at night, in the dark, with Phantom lying beside me, all warm and cuddled up against me like a puppy, and I wonder how long he'll be with me. Will I lose him? Am I doing the right thing by loving him? Then I think about how I was the one who put the Navy bug into him! When he goes away to sea, or I do, will he find someone he wants more than he wants me?"

"You will not lose him, Stevie. He's a lad, true, and like all lads, he'll be sowing some wild oats. He's a gay male and it's the nature of the beast. When he's ready, he'll settle down with you."

"I wish I could be as sure as you are, Chef," returned The Gunner. He turned about and returned to the table. "It's hell losing someone you love."

"Now, damn it, you stop that!" exploded Chef. "Here we go again, you and your lost love. You can't lose something you never had!" He pointed a stern finger at The Gunner. "You moan on about that cocksucker in CORNWALLIS . . ."

"If there is one thing he never was, it was a cocksucker," interrupted The Gunner.

"NO MATTER," roared Chef, setting the glasses to rattling. "He was a bigoted, moralizing little son-of-a-bitch. He still is!"

The Gunner gasped and his eyes widened with surprise. "You know . . ."

Chef nodded briskly. "When I first approached you, back in the dawn of time, to become a member of the Order, you told me what had happened. The Order takes nothing at face value, and never, ever, allows anything, or anyone, to have an adverse effect on its members if it can help it." He shrugged. "Discreet enquiries were made. When Michael decided that you would be his Chancellor, Rick Maslen sent that young gumshoe he's living with out on a errand." He snickered and shook his head. "Young Britnell is half bloodhound!"

"I saw Glenn in Victoria. He never said a word, never let on . . ."

"And why should he, may I ask? He's an investigator. He investigated and reported what he investigated! As I said, you're rid of young CORNWALLIS. He's as big a prick now as he was back then."

"He is?"

"He is," confirmed Chef. "He's married, has a son, poor little bugger. He left the Andrew on an early out and went back to school. He's a junior loan officer with Barclays' Bank. Quite respected. He is also a lay preacher in his church. He doesn't smoke, drink, or use profanity and only fucks in the missionary position!"

"Chef!"

"Well, perhaps he varies it a little," said Chef, grinning evilly. "Glenn didn't get into the bedroom!" He sobered. "But he heard the man preach. His sermon was all fire and brimstone and thundering against deviants, perverts and unnatural men. He's a pip, is the lad. No wonder his wife looks like she was weaned on a stoker's dick!"

The Gunner gagged involuntarily. "Jesus, Chef!"

"He is not in the equation. The point is that you've been mooning after something that never existed. Tear up that snap of him that you carry in your wallet! Rip it up and forget you ever knew him."

"All right, damn you," barked The Gunner abruptly. He pulled out his wallet, found the tattered picture of the first boy he had ever loved, and tore it into small pieces. "There, over and done with!"

Chef nodded sagely. "You did the right thing."

"I'm also going to do another right thing. Pour me a drink, please."

Chef did as he was told and waited impatiently for The Gunner to continue. "Well?" he asked, his impatience getting the better of him.

"I'm thinking, you buffoon!"

Chef threw his arms in the air. "Jesus, Mary and all the Saints. A first!"

"Fuck you, Chef!" snarled The Gunner.

"Not in your lifetime, my man," returned Chef with a leer. "Many have tried, none have succeeded."

The Gunner ignored Chef's lasciviousness. "My twelve years are up in November 1978. I'll take my gong and get out." Chef nodded his approval. "I'll do my thing, for a while. Then I'll take some of the money my uncle is always trying to get me not to spend and spend it."

"Dare I ask on what?"

"On a college education." He looked seriously at the Chef. "If the Order is to succeed, it's going to need educated men as officers. I'll go back to school, and re-enrol, only this time as an Officer Candidate."

"Sit your Petty Officers Boards first, Stevie," advised Chef. "That way the powers that are will make you an Acting Sub-Lieutenant when you re-up."

"I never thought of that," admitted The Gunner. "But, yes, that is exactly what I will do. Once back in the Andrew I can work from within. Who knows I might even get my ass promoted!"

Chef smiled wickedly but said nothing. Stevie did not know it, but he was going places. That had been guaranteed when the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor, the then Proctor of the Eastern Priory, mentioned that he had a young gunner who just might be a worthy candidate. He'd just paid for a funeral for a poor young lad - gay, or so it was said - and a plot of land to bury the poor boy in. Name of Stephen Winslow and Chef please be gentle. And, oh yes, there is also a young Midshipman, name of Clayton. Keep an eye on him, Chef, there's a good fellow. Chef looked at The Gunner who was looking back at him. "You will do well, I vow," was all Chef said.

"Good! Now can we get drunk?"

"I thought that's what we were doing," replied Chef. He downed his drink and poured another. "Did I ever tell you, Stevie me boy, how I almost lost me virginity in a monastery?"

The Gunner almost fell out of his chair. "Lost your WHAT?"

"Me virginity," replied Chef, looking reflective. "It was when I was in the old EDGARVILLE - the last corvette but one, and a vicious bitch she was! She'd roll on a freshly watered lawn and the Old Man was a Tartar, so he was! We were up off the Queen Charlottes, doing what I don't remember, when one of the condensers went wonky. I'm not at all sure just what went wrong. You know me, Stevie, I have no head for the mechanicals at all."

The Gunner seriously doubted that statement. If he knew Chef at all the man could probably build an engine room with nothing more than twine, some baling wire, a few pots and pans and bloody great cleaver!

" . . . As usual the Stokers had their thumbs up their bums," Chef was going on, " . . .And the long and the short of it was that we had to put in somewhere so NADEN could scrounge up a part for the bloody thing!"

"Where you found a monastery?"

"Please don't interrupt, Stevie," grumbled Chef. "We pulled into a pretty little port on the mainland, Milford Haven it was called. There was the Legion on one hill, and the monastery on the other. Very pretty it was."

"The Legion?"

"Yes . . . NO, ye great mug! The monastery!" Chef gave The Gunner an evil look. "If you don't care to hear this story I shall remain silent!"

The Gunner laughed. "Oh, please Chef, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Chef snorted. "Well, as I was saying before I was so wantonly interrupted, there was this monastery. Trappists they were. A contemplative Order of monks spending their lives in perpetual adoration of Our Lord and . . ." Chef gave The Gunner a baleful look. " . . . Silence. A hard life, Stevie, so the next time you take to complaining, I shall remind you of it."

"I'm sure you will," replied The Gunner dryly.

"Attached to the monastery was a vineyard. They grew their own grapes and made a premium wine and brandy. Well, there was nothing for it but to arrange a visit for the lads. To the winery we went for a wee taste of the nectar."

The Gunner rolled his eyes. At times Thunderbird had been nectar to Chef.

"Well, I had a wee drop of the wine, then some of the brandy - an excellent brandy it was, too. I shall have to see if there's a bottle in Comox when next I honour that provincial village with my presence."

"The mon-as-ter-y?" prodded The Gunner.

"I'm getting there, Stevie. How can I spin a dip if you insist on interrupting me?"

"Sorry, I'll keep quiet."

"Good." Mollified by The Gunner's insincere apology, Chef moved on. "You know that while I do enjoy the brandy, it does not enjoy me. I had a slight migraine, and the boys were making so much noise that I had to leave. I strolled into the cloister of the place. Ah, sure and it was grand, so it was, all flowers and grass. Very peaceful and serene I remember thinking, as I promenaded. Then, suddenly, there he was."

"A monk?"

Chef puffed up like a blowfish. "Of course a monk! Who did you think it would be, the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

The Gunner held up his hands in supplication, nodding yet another silent apology.

"I was in white, he was in brown." A sudden thought struck Chef. "I wonder, Stevie," he asked innocently, "and do they wear drawers under that sackcloth?" Chef fortified himself with yet another drink of rum. "He also had a gleam in his eye. Well, I knew full well what the wee man wanted. I also knew that he wasn't going to get it from me. So off I went, with him chasing me. 'Round and 'round the cloister we went. Like the Grand National it was, with him huffin' and puffin' and me shrieking like a virgin on her wedding night . . ."

"CHEF!"

Cory spread the blanket over the bed in the decrepit shack, hiding the stains and mildew. He looked at Sean, who was surveying the littered floor and the window, vacant of glass.

"It's not much, but it is private," said Cory sitting down on the bed.

"It's fine, Cory," replied Sean as he joined Cory on the bed. He looked at Cory, who was sitting with his hands folded protectively over his crotch. He reached and tenderly touched Cory's bruised face. "We don't have to, you know."

Cory grinned impishly. "What makes you think that we are going to do 'you know'?" he asked.

Sean coloured and squirmed. "Stupid move!" he thought angrily. "I only meant that if we are going to be together, as lovers, we will sooner or later, make love. We do not have to do it here, now."

Cory slipped his hand down the front of Sean's shorts. His eyes widened in surprise. "Hell, Sean, you must mean that. You're not even hard!"

"I do mean it, Cory," replied Sean as he pulled Cory's hands from his shorts. "Although one admits that one wants to make love to you . . ."

"Sean?" said Cory, his voice low and seductive.

Sean swallowed. "Um, yes Cory?"

"Will you shut the fuck up and take off your clothes?"

For Matt there was no Heron Spit; there was no AURORA; there was neither Wardroom nor tiny cabin filled with moonlight. There was only The Phantom, his hard, heated body thrusting rhythmically into him.

Matt's legs were wrapped around The Phantom's waist; and his arms grasped The Phantom's upper body tightly. With each firm, gentle thrust into him a wave a magnificent ecstasy rolled through Matt's body. He was panting, trying to keep from screaming out at the overpowering pleasure that consumed him.

The Phantom lay on Matt, his hips pumping. He was gasping, his breathing harsh as he buried his face in the warmth of Matt's curving shoulder. He had slipped his hands under Matt's shoulders and he held the boy tightly as the pressure began to grow in his groin. He could feel the beginnings of his orgasm building deep within the base of his always gently thrusting penis. As he approached his climax he groaned and clutched Matt tightly.

Matt was experiencing feelings so indescribably wonderful that his entire being was focused on the waves of pleasure that took him higher and higher into the ether of delight. He was barely conscious of the warm wetness that leaked continually from his own turgid, engorged erection. He knew only the screaming delight as The Phantom thrust deeply into him, knew only that the constant friction of The Phantom's thrusting body against the sensitive underside of his penis was sending him flying into a place he had never gone before. The waves of glory began crashing against him and Matt began to whimper softly.

Above him The Phantom began growling deep in his throat. He was approaching . . . climbing . . . He threw back his head and his body stiffened and great waves of wonder rippled and eddied from his balls. His penis, buried deep in Matt's body, jerked and pumped.

Matt could feel The Phantom's orgasm as it rippled through the boy's deeply imbedded penis. He could feel the sculpted glans expanding, could feel the first small gush of warm semen, then a tidal wave, then another, as The Phantom thrust rapidly in short, sharp, jabs.

Panting, barely breathing, The Phantom collapsed on Matt. He exhaled a long, low moan. What had begun with The Phantom taking Matt's slim, perfect, circumcised penis in his mouth and slowly sucking him to Nirvana, continued on to The Phantom's tongue penetrating his rosebud, setting Matt to growling and whimpering with unimagined pleasure.

Matt's now forgotten flash of pain, as the slick, curving mushroomed head of The Phantom's hard penis pushed aside the natural barrier of his sphincter, had been replaced by exquisite sensations that sent Matt's spirit soaring upward.

They lay together, breathing heavily, until The Phantom pulled away. He rolled on his side, pulling Matt with him. Their lips met and they kissed deeply. For Matt this was the happiest night of his young life, a night that he wanted to live over and over again. He ravaged The Phantom's mouth with his tongue, tasting over and over again the sweet joy of The Phantom until reluctantly he pulled away.

For a long while they remained silent, each lost in the post-euphoric nether world that Matt had never before experienced. He felt The Phantom's arms reach out and envelop him and for the first time since Marcus last made love to him Matt felt warm, and wanted, and loved. He reached up and stroked The Phantom's smooth cheek. "Thank you, Phantom," he whispered softly. "Thank you for giving me your love."

The Phantom rubbed his cheek against Matt's. "You will always have my love, Matt," came his whispered reply. "You will always be my little brother and you will always be in my heart."

Matt was exhausted from their lovemaking and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. "I love you Phantom," he murmured as he slowly drifted into sleep.

The Phantom held Matt close and they slept softly until a quiet, persistent rapping on the door and Nicholas's harsh whispers for Phantom to get up brought them awake.

Andy was half asleep when he heard the moan. He opened his eyes and rubbed the sleep from them and listened again. There, another one. He reached behind him and gave Kyle's soft penis a quick yank. Kyle yelped and pushed Andy's hand away. "What the fuck!" he snarled.

"Shut up and listen."

"All I'm going to hear are your screams when I pull your dick out by the roots!" returned Kyle. He sat up and looked around the darkened room. "What time is it?"

Andy shushed Kyle and held up his arm. "How the hell would I know? Am I wearing a watch?" he whispered tartly in reply.

Kyle gave Andy a dirty look, lay back down and pulled the covers over his head. Andy gave him a punch. "What?' he snapped, sitting up again.

"I told you I heard something," replied Andy. He threw the covers back and got out of bed.

"All right, you heard something. What? Yells, screams, a bomb going off?"

"The last time I heard that sound I was in a room in a whorehouse in Danang," said Andy as he padded to the door. He opened the door to their cabin and stuck his head out. He looked around and saw nothing. Every door in the corridor was closed and the lounge area was a darker hole in the dark hallway.

"For somebody who was supposed to be fighting a war you certainly seem to have spent a lot of time in whorehouses!" retorted Kyle. He sniffed audibly.

"I'm telling you I heard something. It sounded like a guy getting his rocks off!" insisted Andy.

Kyle cocked his head and listened carefully. Except for Andy's and his own breathing, he heard nothing. Then he leaned his ear against the bulkhead, listening to hear if No "H" or Wally were up. "I can't hear anything."

Andy grinned. "You don't suppose that No "H" and Wally . . .?" he left his statement unfinished.

"Now I know that you are out of your Gyrene mind!" Kyle snuggled back under the covers. "No 'H' is engaged to be married and Wally is married and has umpteen kids. You heard the building settling. It creaks and moans, you know." He yawned mightily. "Now come back to bed and would you please keep those bloody big feet of yours on your own side of the bed! Jesus, I have never known anybody to have feet as cold as yours."

"That's what I get from all those nights in the boonies. Cold feet!" Andy grumbled as he crawled into bed. He snuggled closer to Kyle and his hand slipped between his lover's legs. "My feet might be cold but I do have big feet and you KNOW what they say about guys with big feet!"

Kyle snickered. "They lie." His hand moved slowly across Andy's warm thigh. "But I still love you anyway." He rolled on his side. "And, since we're up . . ."

Todd slowly pushed Harry's enveloping arm away and left the settee. He sat across from the sleeping boy he loved and knew that no matter what they had now, or in the future, Harry would never be happy, would never be satisfied without Stefan in his life. Stefan would always be in Harry's thoughts and dreams. It would not matter whom Harry was with. There would always be three people in Harry's bed.

Todd laid his head back against the cushioned settee and sighed. What, he wondered, was he to do? He loved Harry, but not deeply. Harry, in return, was devoted to him. Harry would never harm him, or hurt him in any way and, in his own way Harry would always love him.

It was not just the sex. Todd was convinced of that. Their relationship was one of love and understanding, held by two boys who cared very deeply for each other. Their relationship was also temporary. It would not last, most importantly of all because neither of them wanted it to last. Todd did not want to end their time together. But could he live with Harry's continuing infatuation with Stefan? Could anybody live with . . .?

Harry stirred, stretched, and sat up. He looked blankly around the room, trying to orient himself. He saw Todd sitting across from him. "What are you doing there?" he grumbled. He shivered. "I'm cold and I need someone to keep me warm." He reached out his arms and waggled his fingers. "Come on, Todd."

Todd shook his head and remained where he was. "Harry, would you mind if we just went back to the Gunroom?" he asked quietly. "I'm tired and I would just like to go to bed."

Harry thought a moment. "But, Todd, we haven't . . ."

"Not tonight, Harry, please?" replied Todd. He knew exactly what Harry meant. He was frankly not in the mood to make love to Harry, even though Harry enjoyed their coupling. "I'd like to go to bed and sleep."

Harry uncoiled himself and hurried to Todd's side. "You're not sick, are you?" he asked, his face a mask of concern. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I couldn't stand it if you . . ."

Todd reached up and stroked Harry's face. "You didn't hurt me, Harry. I'm not sick. I'm just tired. It's been a long day and to be truthful . . ." He rubbed the bruise under his eye slowly. "Cory has a hell of a left hook."

"Dammit," exploded Harry. "I am such a fucking jerk! Here you are, all banged up and I drag you over here. All I was thinking about was myself, about the Pride putting to sea! Dammit, I should have thought about you."

"Harry, I'm not at death's door. I'm a little sore," replied Todd, a note of fondness in his voice. "I'll be perfectly fine." He stood up and began searching for this clothing. "Let's just get dressed and go back to Gunroom."

Harry, all but prostrate with guilt over his imagined selfishness, quickly agreed. He stood up and then said quickly, "Wait. I have something for you."

Before Todd could reply Harry's taut, tight, melon-like butt was disappearing through the doorway. In only a few short minutes he was back. He held out an accordion file folder. "Here," he said softly. "This is for you."

Todd took the folder. "What is it?"

"All the music for Garb of Old Gaul," replied Harry as he began dressing. "I want you to have Phantom's Salute. The parade was your idea. You deserve to have something to remind you of what a wonderful, thoughtful person you are." His face darkened. "That music is Phantom's, and will never be played here in AURORA again."

Todd watched as Harry pulled on his clothes, thinking that the gesture was typically Harry. Vain, selfish and all bluster one minute, sweet and sentimental the next. He smiled as Harry turned to look at him. He would stay with Harry a little longer. He would wait until Harry drove his pickup up to the front door of the house. He held out his hand. "Come on, Harry, I'll walk you home."

Andy's senses began to activate. Alarm bells began ringing in his head and he started awake. There it was again, a footstep. No, a series of footsteps and . . . He sat up slowly, carefully pulling back the covers of the bed. He listened carefully, and then nodded slowly. Yes, there were footsteps; there were strangers in the Wardroom.

Back in the dawn of time, when he was in the 'Nam, Andy's instructors had emphasized over and over again that while you always listened for the ordinary, you also listened for the extraordinary. The denizens of Vietnam, animal, vegetable or mineral, screamed, fought, fucked, slithered, roared and bellowed at high volume. They never shut up, from the elephants of the Central Highlands who trumpeted, to the monkeys who screeched and chattered, to the people, all of whom talked as loudly as they could and sounded like a herd of ducks fucking. When everything was making as much noise as possible, the jungle was safe. It was only when a deathly quiet fell over the canopy of trees that warning signals went off. When everything was quiet a grunt knew that Charlie had come into the area. Silence meant danger. Silence, when even the snakes in the trees stopped their slithering, meant death.

It was the same in the real world. Everyday sounds, sounds that a man became accustomed to, were quickly absorbed. Here, in AURORA, everyday sounds included bugle calls, the roar of a bus or truck from Base, the sounds of cadets chattering (they resembled the monkeys in many ways), Harry bellowing and the Twins nattering, all were everyday sounds. In the Wardroom the sounds of the inhabitants were ingrained in Andy's subconscious. Familiar sounds made commonplace by repetition, Wally's heavy tread as he walked around the lounge or his cabin; Dave scampering in the middle of the night, followed by the tinkling sound of him peeing; No "H" settling himself, with sighs and happy groans, into his bunk; Kyle snuffling and scratching in his sleep. Andy knew them all and he knew what he was hearing now was not ordinary.

As he crept slowly toward the door through the darkness of the cabin, Andy he could hear muffled voices. There were people outside and from the high-pitched giggling, Andy knew that the cadets were prowling.

"What . . .what is it?" Kyle mumbled sleepily. He sat up and stared as Andy put his ear to the door.

"Cadets," whispered Andy, waving Kyle to silence.

"Maybe its Kevin, come for another look at your parts," snickered Kyle.

"Be quiet!" Andy ordered as he listened again. He heard a door open slowly, more muffled words, and then footsteps retreating. Andy remembered his Marine training and waited. Never assume that just because things seem to be back to normal that they are, the instructors had advised. WAIT! WATCH! LISTEN!

Andy cracked the cabin door open slightly, and peered out. His line of vision was obscured, and all he could see was the dimly lit corridor leading toward the lounge. He was about to open the door wider when the door to Cabin 5 creaked open and a blond head popped out, looked around and then pulled the door wider. Andy blinked in surprise. Matt?

What in hell was Matt doing in Cabin 5?

"It's clear," whispered Matt over his shoulder. He stepped into the corridor and gestured for someone, who was still inside Cabin 5, to hurry along.

Andy watched as Matt was joined by . . . The Phantom!

"We have to be quiet, Matty," said The Phantom. He began to walk stealthily down the corridor toward the door leading to the outside. "We do not need an officer waking up and catching us."

Impulsively Matt leaned up and kissed The Phantom' cheek. "I don't care if one does."

The Phantom grinned and returned Matt's kiss. "Andy and Kyle would understand," he said quietly. "But let's not tempt fate." He pushed the door open. "Now come on, Nicholas is waiting for us."

Andy shook his head in wonder and opened the cabin door. He promptly stumbled over two boxes that had been placed before the door. As Andy crashed to the deck snarling epithets about guttersnipes and horny cadets, Kyle switched on the reading lamp. His eyes widened. Andy had missed the large photograph that had been taped to the upper panel of the door. Kyle had not. "Holy Jesus!" he breathed as he pointed at the photo.

Andy scrambled upright and stared with concern at his lover, who was pointing a shaking finger at something behind him. Andy reached out and flicked the light switch, flooding the cabin with light. He looked to where Kyle was pointing, swallowed, and swore a long, almost breathless, "Jesus Murphy!" Pushing the door all the way open to bathe it with the harsh ceiling light, Andy stared at the photograph; a large photograph of him! A 20x24-inch photograph of him sitting on the makeshift throne that the cadets had built over the pit they had dug on Texada Island. A large colour photograph of him sitting with his legs spread, his genitals dangling for all the world to see as he sat there on the throne, a shit-eating grin on his face, a roll of toilet tissue in one hand and giving the photographer an I-got-the-job-done thumbs-up.

Kyle was beside himself with glee. "They gotcha! They really gotcha!" he howled between gales of laughter. He did not know it yet but his laughter would turn to blushes when Dave Eddy, perennially an early riser, found another equally large photo of Kyle propped against the fireplace in the lounge. A photograph of Kyle posing like some muscle-bound exhibitionist, arms fully extended as he strained to show what little muscles he owned, his right leg thrust back, with his parts dangling for all the world to see.

"The little bastards!" snarled Andy as he stripped the photograph from the door. "And what are these?" He handed the photo to Kyle, who was frankly admiring it and proclaiming what a good likeness it was when Andy handed him one of the packages.

"What's this?" Kyle asked as he put the photograph aside.

"How will I know until I open it?" grumbled Andy. "This one has your name on it. The other one has mine."

Both junior officers sat on Kyle's bed as they gingerly stripped the wrapping paper from the packages, revealing a cardboard box. "It isn't a bomb, is it?" asked Kyle nervously.

"Don't be stupid," returned Andy. "Who would want to send a bomb to the Howdy Doody of the Sea Cadets?"

"At least I don't go around wagging my weenie at the stewards!" retorted Kyle as he ripped open the box. "What the . . . it's an album!"

"And what an album?" said Andy. He showed the first photograph in his album to Kyle. The photo was a duplicate of the one Andre had propped against the Wardroom fireplace. "And just what in the hell were you doing here?" he asked sharply.

Kyle looked and coloured slightly. "Well, we were fooling around, posing like we were a bunch of body builders. You should see the one they took of Harry."

Andy shook his head. "I'm not sure that I want to," he said with a slight grin. "And, HOLY CHRIST!"

Neither Andy nor Kyle heard the cabin door open or saw Dave Eddy, who had been awakened by the sound of Andy stumbling around when he fell over the boxed albums, seen the light, and decided to visit. His eyes flickered across the two naked officers, and then stared intently at the large photograph of Andy, arms and leg spread as he leaped from the bow of a whaler. "My, you do take a good picture!" he proffered, the overhead light dancing from the braces on his teeth as he grinned widely. He looked pointedly at Andy's crotch, then at the picture, then at Andy again. "A very good picture!"

Sean reached down and slowly ran his fingers through Cory's dark blond pubic hairs. He nuzzled Cory's chest and sighed happily. Their lovemaking had been intense and wonderful. "I love you," he whispered.

"I know," said Cory as he reached up and stroked Sean's hair. "If this were a movie you would ask me if it was good for me, too."

Sean giggled. "If this is a movie then I hope it never ends." He looked up at Cory's smiling face. "I've never made love before."

"Now you have," replied Cory easily. "Good, wasn't it?"

Sean laughed, sat up, and kissed Cory passionately. "Good does not begin to describe what we just had!" he exclaimed. "There are no words to describe what just happened between us!"

"I glad, because I do want to make you happy," replied Cory. He reached down and held Sean's flaccid, flushed penis gently. It was slick with their body juices and he ran his thumb across the top of Sean's slick, warm glans.

Sean grimaced and sucked in his breath sharply. He saw the concerned look on Cory's face and smiled thinly. "Sorry, it's just that the end of my penis is very sensitive after I ejaculate."

Cory rolled his eyes and released Sean's 'sensitive' penis. "Jesus, Sean, why can't you just say that your dick is sore after you cum?" he complained rudely. "It's not unique, you know."

Sean, anxious not to get Cory going, quickly agreed. "I know, I know, and I . . ."

"Don't apologize," said Cory. He reached over and took Sean's hand. "I think we should talk a little. About us."

Sean nodded. "I meant what I said, Cory. I want to be with you, always."

"As strange as it may seem, Sean, I want to be with you." Cory grinned slightly.

"You're a very good lover, and I do care for you."

"But?"

"Not the 'but' you're thinking of," replied Cory with a slight shake of his head. "I just want you to realize what you could be getting yourself into. We've our whole lives ahead of us and I want you to be sure. That's one 'but'."

"I am sure." Sean's voice was firm and steady. "I am very sure!"

Cory raised a questioning eyebrow. "There is also Todd . . ."

"He's your brother. You love him. From time to time you'll want to be with him. I know and I understand," replied Sean. His face softened. "Just as I know the other 'but' is Philip . . . Phantom."

"What?" cried Cory in astonishment.

Sean lay back and put his hands under the back of his head. For a long time he stared at the dark ceiling above the bed. "When I had my conversation with Phantom I had the definite impression that your relationship is deep, very deep." He looked at Cory. "You've slept with him, I take it?"

Cory nodded slowly. "I have, yes."

Sean nodded. "He cares for you, Cory. He never came out and said that you and he were lovers, but I think I know by the timbre of a man's voice the depth of his emotional attachment to another man. And the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name."

Cory rolled slightly and put his head on Sean's chest. "I can't promise you fidelity where Phantom is concerned, Sean. He means so much to me, has done so much for me, and Todd, and a lot of other boys. If he needs me, I'll go to him. If he wants me, I'll be with him. I'll live with you; in time I'll love you. I'll try to make you as happy as you deserve. Just please, do not ask me to give up Phantom. I can't."

"You love him, then?"

"Yes, but in a special way. We've been together, and I suspect that we'll be together again. I need you to understand that. I also need you to understand that I am not going to be Phantom's partner. He's hopelessly in love with . . . someone else. One day, they'll be together. Phantom and I will never be together the way you and I will be together."

"You ask a lot, Cory."

"Would you rather I lied, or went sneaking off with Phantom? He is very special to me, and I won't lie about the way I feel towards him. I'd like you to understand my feelings and I am telling you about them because I want our relationship to be open and honest." Cory sat up and hugged his knees. "Once I've, no, once we have decided just what our relationship will be, there will be no more boys, or men. No more Nathan. I'll be loyal to you, and you only."

Sean reached up and stroked Cory's smooth, bare leg. "I know you will. That is why I want you, why I love you. I accept that you and Todd, and yes, Phantom, have a special love that I can only try to understand. I only hope that I can share that special love one day."

Cory smiled softly. "Sean, you already do. Tonight was not some one-night stand. I wanted you to make love to me and I want you to be my partner." He lay back down and stroked Sean's hairless, thin chest. "Do you want to be my partner?"

Sean leaned over and gave Cory the deepest, most sincere kiss he could. "Does that answer your question?" he asked when they parted. "I want you and yes, I want to be your partner."

"Good." Cory sighed deeply. "I just wish that we could be together, you know, soon."

"We're together now. We'll be together as much as possible when we go home." Cory shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I want to live with you, to be with you. But we can't."

"No, we can't," replied Sean. "I told you how my parents would feel about us. I have to think about what will happen when they do find out about us. It won't be easy, but I will be with you."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Cory. He rose up and looked at Sean's perplexed face. "Is there something I should know?"

"Cory, I start UBC in September," began Sean. "The more I think about it the more I want to be a doctor. That means four years of premed, four years of medical school, then internship and then specialization. I can swing it with student loans and hopefully a scholarship. One of the reasons I'm joining the Naval Reserve is because I will get paid while I'm on duty. I'll need the money, to be frank."

"Your parents won't help?"

Sean laughed caustically. "Oh, my dad will pay my tuition and my lab fees. I have to pay for my books and living expenses, and residence fees if I decide not to stay at home. I couldn't, and, wouldn't, expect to him to keep me while I'm at the university." He shook his head. "However, I'm thinking ahead. If my parents find out that I'm not only gay, but have made a commitment to another boy, they'll turn me out. They won't contribute one red cent. I'll be on my own and if they find out about us I just might be living with you sooner than we both think we will."

"I can help," said Cory softly. "And before you get all pouty hear me out."

"I don't want what money you have, Cory. I'm not some gigolo out to get my hands on your bank account."

"You wouldn't get much," replied Cory truthfully. "My father is rich, not me. I have an allowance, and that's it until I'm 21."

"What happens then?" growled Sean. "Is your allowance stopped and you have to live by your wits?" Sean was determined to make Cory very aware that he had no interest sharing Cory's wealth.

Sean's sarcasm was not lost on Cory, who ignored his new lover. He forced a laugh. "Hardly. On my 21st birthday I inherit the money my grandmother Leveson left me. I can do whatever I want with the money and since we're going to be partners . . ."

"NO!"

"Come on, Sean, why 'No'?"

Sean's eyes bore into Cory's. "Because that is the way it's going to be. I'll love you with all my heart. I'll put up with your antics; I'll walk from Burnaby every day just to be with you. BUT I WILL NOT TAKE YOUR MONEY!" Sean folded his arms across his chest. "I would appreciate it if the subject were not raised again."

Cory rubbed his cheek against Sean's chest and his hand reached down to cup his lover's testicles. "All right, Sean. No more talk of money," he said, wondering if the Order had a little cash set aside for deserving young knights. He would talk to The Gunner about Sean. But first . . .

"It's hell getting old," thought Chef as he finished his business in the bathroom. First thing, every morning, out of bed, and into the heads. After flushing the toilet and washing his hands Chef returned to his bedroom and sat at the small writing desk that stood opposite his rumpled bed. On the desk was a small pile of documents and a photograph contained in a leather frame.

As he did every morning and always before going to bed at night Chef picked up the photograph and stared at the picture. It had been taken the afternoon the boys had returned from their sailing trip. He remembered the day well. He'd been standing on the jetty, watching the two whalers, each festooned with underwear, slowly coming alongside. He had insisted that Stevie take Ray along for the boat trip, and then fretted and stewed for two days, wondering if the boy was fitting in, was doing well. Then Ray was back, sunburned, windblown, bug bitten, but a happy, vibrant boy who had rushed up the jetty and hugged Chef, his arms barely reaching around Chef's ample belly, and looked up, his eyes filled with love. "I missed you, Chef," he'd said in that little boy voice of his. Four small words and Chef had fallen in love.

Sniffling, Chef put the photograph aside and picked up the first piece of paper in the pile, his service record, computer generated now, not at all like the old records, and as he scanned the paper his eyes fell on the very first entry. Had he ever really been 18 years old? Chef read down the form, seeing that everything was recorded in cold bureaucratese, from his date and place of enlistment, to his present draft in AURORA. Stapled to the service record was another piece of paper that detailed leave due, terminal leave due, and pension payable.

Setting aside the printed records Chef picked up a long piece of linen bond. His old, very old, and first Service Record (RCN), had begun when there was no such thing as a computer. Every item on this bed sheet sized piece of paper, triple folded, was written in ink. He noted his old official number - they did everything by Social Insurance Number these days - was written in thick, black ink by a strong hand. His first ship, his first shore posting. It was all there. He ran his finger across the small triangle printed onto the upper right hand corner of the document. Dark, black as death letters proclaimed: "To be removed if Dishonourably Discharged." Chef snorted. They'd come close a few times, but a glib tongue and a fast-talking Divisional Officer had saved his then skinny behind. He put the Service Record aside. Too late now. No nameless clerk in some dingy office back in Halifax would be taking the scissors and circumcising his record!

His hand found another piece of paper, cream coloured bond, with a bold, squared Royal Coat of Arms Letterhead engraved in red. He read the letter, and then found a blank piece of foolscap. He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and began to write, first the date, Wednesday, 18 August 1976, then the address. In his neat, firm, copperplate handwriting he respectfully declined the offer of employment from Sandringham.

Next he picked up his official request for retirement, read it, and signed his name with a bold flourish. After putting aside his pen he folded the request and put it in an envelope. He would drop off the request, and his letter to Buckingham Palace, in the Base Orderly Room on his way to work.

Work! He glanced at the clock sitting on his bed table and grimaced. 0430. It was time he was stirring. And time that rapscallion Stevie Winslow was moving! Chef lumbered into the darkened living room and saw The Gunner, stripped to his boxers, sprawled across the length of the sofa, one arm dangling, his fingers touching the floor. Chef shook his head. Unlike young Stevie, he could hold his liquor! He walked to the sofa and reached down to shake The Gunner's shoulder, trying not to notice that The Gunner's morning woody was sticking up through the flies of his boxers.

"Get up, Stevie me lad," said Chef. "It's time we were stirring ourselves."

"Fuck off and leave me to die in peace," snarled The Gunner, showing the effects of being halfway between very drunk and woefully hung over.

"You are much too young to die. Now get out of your bed, and be a good lad," wheedled Chef.

"Go away, you fat leprechaun!" The Gunner waved his arm wildly. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Not on my settee, you're not," returned Chef. "Will you get up, then?"

"NO!"

"Ah, well then, you leave me no choice." Chef reached out and his fingers gave the tip of The Gunner's morning woody a sharp thump.

The Gunner, his greatest possession under attack, sat bolt upright and yelped loudly. Chef, certain now that The Gunner was awake, and had his attention, did a lumbering pirouette around the room. "Gunner's got a hardon! Gunner's got a hardon!" he crooned in a singsong voice. He continued his little dance, Hyacinthe Hippo costumed by Omar the Tentmaker, laughing and singing his little song.

"At least I can get one!" snapped The Gunner as he stuffed his woody back into his underpants. "Which is more that I can say for an old poop of my acquaintance."

Chef stopped his dancing and assumed a hurt air. "Ah, Stevie, 'tis a cruel man who takes the mock of a poor, old sailor, so he is." Then he grinned widely. "Such a phenomenon is not unknown to me, I'll have you know. Why only last week I woke up with the most wonderful erection." His grin turned to a crestfallen look of sadness. "Then I had a pee and the thing went south with the rest of me attributes!"

The Gunner groaned and held his head in his hands. "I don't know what got into me!" he mumbled between groans.

"About a gallon of Captain Morgan Issue Rum," replied Chef. He began puttering about the small kitchenette. "I'll put the kettle on and we'll have a nice cup of tea. It will settle your stomach." He looked at The Gunner and shook his head. "Why don't you go into the bogs and have a good spew. You look decidedly unwell."

"I am unwell," growled The Gunner. He lay back against the sofa cushions. "It's all right for some, those that have galley slaves to do all the work. I've got a ton of papers to shuffle AND I've got to get into town and pick up some trophies."

"You've plenty of time, and so you do." Chef began hunting for the tea bags. "It's not yet 0500 and you don't have to be on parade at all this morning. Now, sit up and I'll make your tea."

"I don't know what you're in an all-fired hurry for," mumbled The Gunner. He hiccoughed and grimaced. "God, I am going to be sick." He shuddered and belched.

"It's not that I don't trust the lads, but you never know," said Chef, a crafty look on his face. "They might take it into their heads to stick their little fids into something they shouldn't stick their little fids into."

The Gunner grew pale. "Chef, they're your lads. They would never do anything like that."

As the kettle whistled Chef got out two cups. "So many an officer has thought, Stevie. Ah, I could tell you many a story about officers' cooks, and stewards, and the things they did with their little puds."

The Gunner's faced went grey. "I'd rather you didn't."

"Take the steward in the old METIS. A terrible wee man he was. Hated officers with a passion," replied Chef, pretending not to have heard The Gunner. "Why he became a steward I shall never know." He tried to look reflective. "From Labrador City he was. Tall and lanky, like a reed, he was. The boy would be after dipping his wee man in the First Lieutenant's sherry."

"Chef, please don't."

"Every night before dinner down would come the First Lieutenant to the Wardroom. 'Steward,' he'd shout. 'A sweet sherry!' Well, the steward would give him a sweet sherry, so he would."

"Chef, for the love of God, don't tell me how he sweetened the sherry!" "Stevie, are you sure that your all right? You've become positively green about the gills."

"Thanks to you and your sweet sherry!"

"We had rum," replied Chef. "It was the First Lieutenant of METIS who had the sweet sherry. The silly man never caught on that the steward, just before he'd bring the glass out would pull out his wee man and dip the end of it in the glass of sherry."

The Gunner felt his stomach heave.

"The steward's wee man was like him, long and lanky. He'd not been given the gift for life and had a foreskin on him as long as a bishop's nose! He'd dip his wee man in the First Lieutenant's sherry and swish it about. And when he was really pissed off he'd skin his wee man back and . . ."

The Gunner bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door.

"I take it you don't want to know about the special tartar sauce the steward made up every Friday," shouted Chef. "The captain said it was the best he ever tasted, and had a special bite to it!" He began cackling as wracking heaves echoed from the bathroom. "Hehehe. Works every time!"

Simon Keppel was in the half-world between sleep and wakefulness. He felt tired, but very happy. That he was tired was not surprising. Joey, Randy and he had not slept for more than an hour or so after sneaking out of their barracks and into the galley lounge. They had, as Randy put it, played, and played and played! Simon was exhausted!

Simon was lying between Randy and Joey, with his 3-inch erection firmly imbedded in Randy's firm, round butt cheeks, with his right arm was draped across Randy's thin waist. His fingers were idly toying with Randy's marginally longer boner. Behind Simon, Joey snuffled in his sleep and Simon thought that very soon Joey would turn and imbed his boner in his butt cheeks, which was as close as either of the other two boys would allow Simon to get to their bums. Not that Simon was complaining. He would have liked to do what Randy and Joey did, but both of the boys insisted that you only did that with someone very special and Simon should save himself until that very special boy came into his life.

Snickering, Simon began to slowly pump his hips and his fingers began to twirl around Randy's throbbing, miniature erection. Simon began panting as he felt the wonderful tingling harbinger of pleasure building in his tightening balls. He started groaning and began to thrust rapidly, very quickly reaching the pinnacle and not at all aware of the muffled shouts and laughter coming from somewhere in the Mess Hall.

Spent, his orgasm draining from his body, Simon slowly came back to reality. He was startled to hear a shout, muffled and indistinct, but definitely a shout. He sat up and listened intently, his face growing pale. Someone was out there. He quickly shook Randy. "Randy, the Duty Watch!" he whimpered.

Randy, who had been enjoying Simon's version of Wakey-Wakey, opened his eyes. "Why did you stop? It felt good."

Simon shook Randy again. "Listen, somebody's out in the dining room. It's the Duty Watch!" he whimpered, a note of panic in his voice.

Randy listened and gave Simon a withering look. "Don't be stupid. The Duty watch is sound asleep in the Guardhouse." He grinned. "Sounds like a party out there." He sat up, reached across Simon's body and gave Joey's plump bum a poke.

"Wha . . . Simon, I told you . . ." snarled Joey, not at all pleased at being so rudely awakened.

"It wasn't me," whined Simon as he struggled from the nesting bodies.

"It was me," announced Randy. "Get up. Something's going on out in the dining hall." He stood up. "Where are my undies?"

"Where you left them," snapped Joey as he knuckled the sleep from his eyes. He listened and cocked his head at Randy. "Whoever it is they sure are making a lot of noise." He joined the other two boys in scrambling for his underpants. He did not realize that the pair of white briefs he pulled on were Simon's, who had put on Joey's briefs. Later Simon would have the devil's own time in explaining to his mother how a pair of someone else's underpants ended up in his laundry.

The three boys left the lounge and crept, barefoot and wearing only tighty-whiteys, down the corridor leading to the dining room, which seemed to be lit up. Joey pushed open the door leading from the corridor to the dining room and stuck his head out. On the far side of the room Ray and Kevin, also clad only in their white briefs, stood in the doorway of the galley, staring at the scene before them.

In the middle of the room Nicholas and The Phantom were studying something. Andre, together with Matt, was putting boxes on top of what looked like place mats set on the Chiefs' table.

"What I had in mind was we put these all in a row," Nicholas was saying as the three boys walked over. "You know, just like they were in the whaler."

The Phantom nodded. "Good idea. But how do you know who was where?"

Nicholas laughed and held up a life-size enlargement, black and white, of what was obviously a picture of a male, bent forward at the waist, with only his well-curved butt, legs, and a seductive hint of testicles dangling between his spread legs showing. Two hands spread the butt cheeks, exposing the puckered little hole. "This is Andy." He pointed. "See the scar on his right butt?"

Randy, Joey and Simon craned their necks to look at the photograph. "Holy fuck!" gasped Joey. "I can see his shit hole!"

"A HAIRY shit hole," amended Kevin who, with Ray, had come out of the galley to see what all the commotion was about.

"What in the hell . . ." began Ray. He braced against Kevin as he leaned to look at the photo in Nicholas's hand.

Nicholas snickered at the sight of the two boys in their underpants. "This is only one of the pictures I took. If you like it so much . . ."

Ray grimaced. "Pictures of assholes, literally speaking, don't turn me on."

"It's a good job that I didn't put any of them in your album," returned Nicholas with a grin.

"My what?" Ray looked at Kevin, who shrugged.

"Your album. Which is sitting on your bunk and which you would have seen had you been in your bunk." Nicholas looked at the two now blushing boys, thinking that he did not blame Ray one bit for spending the night with Kevin. He let his eyes take in Kevin's firm, muscular chest, the crisply contoured muscles of his stomach, and the bulge in Kevin's tighty-whiteys. The cotton material barely concealed the smooth, pink length of Kevin's soft penis, the glans, large, clean and flushed, clearly outlined.

The Phantom followed Nicholas's gaze and smiled appreciatively at the sight of Kevin's briefs-clad body. Kevin was one hell of a hunk with his clothes off. Then he turned to the three younger boys who were hovering and, if The Phantom was seeing right, drooling over Kevin.

"Where the hell did you three spring from?" asked Nicholas.

"And where's your pants?" demanded Ray.

"In the lounge," replied Joey easily, ignoring Ray's scowl. "We slept there last night." He gave Nicholas an impudent grin. "Got any more of those?"

"Yes, and no you can't see them," replied Nicholas. "At least not yet," he muttered under his breath,

"Go and put some clothes on," ordered The Phantom. "Ray, you too. Kevin, would you please get dressed and help Matt with the set up?"

Grumbling, the five boys went off to change. Nicholas snickered and shook his head. "It seems that Andre and I are not the only two having a 'special' friendship." He cocked an eyebrow. "Ray and Kevin?"

The Phantom swallowed and coloured slightly. He nodded slowly.

Nicholas rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He was, however, secretly pleased that Ray and Kevin were together. Hell, Ray was positively glowing!

"Tell me again just how you plan on arranging the pictures," said The Phantom, quickly changing the subject.

"In exactly the same order they were in when they mooned us," replied Nicholas.

"How are you planning to do that?" asked The Phantom, surprised. "Let's face it, one bum hole looks pretty much like another." He grinned. "Some are just hairier than others." He took the picture of Andy's scarred behind from Nicholas. "They were all bending over and pulling their cheeks apart. You can't see anything but bum!"

Nicholas roared with laughter. "True, up to a point," he said. "However, there are clues."

"Pardon?"

"Clues! For instance, we know that they were all lined up, stern to bow. Andy was first, then Chris, then Steve, then Rob, then Stuart, followed by Greg, with Val forward."

The Phantom thought a moment. "Seems right, from what I can remember."

"The camera does not lie!" intoned Nicholas. "I took these pictures in sequence. Each frame is numbered so all I had to do was to make sure that the numbers of the prints, which I wrote on the back, followed sequentially."

The Phantom scoffed, "Hardly clues!"

"I agree," replied Nicholas. "We all agreed that there would be no names, or faces to identify, right?"

The Phantom nodded. "We want to embarrass them, not get them arrested!"

"True. But, if you know what to look for, you can tell who is who!"

"Come on, Nicholas. A bum is a bum!" The Phantom looked at the photograph again. "You took these in black and white, so skin colouring, hair colour, are out."

Nicholas nodded. "But not the details." He pointed to the jagged scar on Andy's behind. "We all know about Andy's scar. We saw it enough." He walked to the table and pulled out another 20x24 picture and held it out to The Phantom. "That's Val."

The Phantom looked. The subject was bent over, cheeks spread. The bottom of his ball sac was just visible, as was the tip of his penis. "How can you tell? You can't see anything. Except for Andy's scar, they are all pretty much the same!"

"Look at the right hand," instructed Nicholas.

The Phantom looked and grinned. "Well, I'll be damned. He's wearing a ring."

Nicholas nodded. "So is Stuart, but Stuart's dick is longer than Val's, and you can clearly see it." He handed the photo of Stuart to The Phantom. "Also, Stuart's ring has no stone in it. Val's does."

The Phantom laughed and shook his head. "And how do you plan on displaying them?"

"Like I said, in sequence, on the far wall." He reached for some more photos. "What do you think of using these?"

The Phantom looked at the photos and paled. Each one was a waist to thigh photo of a naked male, genitals on display. He gulped when he saw his own photo. "Nicholas, we said that we wouldn't use any of the pictures of the other guys," he managed to gasp. Then his eyes widened. "You didn't . . . the officers and please don't tell me . . . THE GUNNER?"

Nicholas grinned wickedly. "My mother did not raise a fool, Phantom." He shook his head. "I thought about using their pictures but decided I liked my ass where it is."

"That's a relief. The Gunner will have a fit as it is when he sees what we've got going on in here!"

"As big a fit as when he sees what's tacked to the inside of his office door?" The Phantom's jaw dropped. "Nicholas . . ."

"Don't worry, Phantom, I made sure that none of the officers' pictures, or The Gunner's, will be on public display." He snickered. "Except for Kyle's. Andre propped his against the Wardroom fireplace!"

"He did?"

"Yep. Full colour, too." He held out another large photograph. "Now, what do you think of this?"

The Phantom stared in disbelief at the photograph, and then shook his head. "Harry will either kill you, or being Harry, puff and crow!" He smiled. "Mind you, it is a very good likeness." He held the picture out to get a better view. "A very good likeness," he murmured, as he looked at the full frontal picture of Harry, naked, and jumping up with obvious joy. The Pride and the Escorts, every curve, ridge and fold detailed, were in full view. It was a magnificent photo of a magnificently handsome boy. The Phantom remembered when it had been taken. Harry had just scored what would prove to be the winning goal in a game of beach soccer, and was celebrating loudly. The Phantom also remembered that the Twins, on the opposing, and losing team, were expressing their disdain by waving their willies at Harry.

"Harry, being the vain git that he is, will love it," opined Nicholas. "And, knowing him, he'll want to know why I didn't enlarge it more." He took the photo from The Phantom and shook his head. "The best I can do is 20x24 inches. I could have gone a bit higher, but then you lose definition."

"Then Harry would kill you," said The Phantom with a laugh. "It would never do to have the Pride lose definition."

Nicholas returned the laugh. "So, where shall we put this? Above the galley door, perhaps? Maybe on a easel so that when the guys first come into the dining room they . . .?"

Chef's old jalopy pulled alongside the Mess Hall just as the cadets were being dismissed from morning PT. Chef parked the car carefully and then grunted and groaned his way out of the car. He stood up, stretched, and sucked in a huge lungful of air. "A fine morning, Stevie," he bellowed, frightening the seagulls that were having breakfast in the depths of the garbage dumpster. "And the start of a fine day! I can feel it in me bones!"

"After what you packed away last night I'm surprised you can feel anything," returned The Gunner sourly as he got out of the car.

"Ah, Stevie, don't spoil the day or me mood," replied Chef with a grin. "Now come along and I'll make you a nice, settling breakfast. Weak tea, dry toast, a custard perhaps."

The Gunner followed Chef into the galley and saw that the place was humming. With breakfast for all the cadets only a scant ten or so minutes away, the galley staff were hurrying to get everything ready. Chef nodded complacently. They were good lads, all of them, and he would hate to see them go tomorrow. Well, except for the Litany. Impudent little buggers they were.

The Gunner helped himself to a cup of coffee - black - and looked around. "Where's Phantom?" he asked Ray, who was hurrying by with a tray of bacon. For some reason the boy blushed redly.

"He's in the dining room, Chief," replied Ray as he hurried past.

The Gunner shrugged and took another look around. For some reason the boys seem unusually, well, giggly. Randy and Joey were busy making pan fried potatoes and snickering. They were also shooting looks at Chef and giggling. Sandro, not a morning person, and usually humming some Russian dirge, was actually smiling as he stood at the grill flipping ham steaks. The Litany, bustling in and out with flats of eggs and loaves of bread for the toaster, were also snickering and looking to where Chef was standing.

Chef, while he wondered what had gotten into the boys, said nothing. The place was running like a well-oiled machine. He wasn't about to interfere, his motto being that if it wasn't broke, don't fix it. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down, gesturing for The Gunner to join him.

"They all seem happy," said The Gunner, nodding with his head as he sat down opposite Chef. "Not their usual surly selves!"

"Ah, Stevie, they are boys. Boys are happy one minute, pouty the next." He sipped his coffee, made a face, and added three spoons of sugar to the liquid. "Never let a Russian make the coffee, Stevie," he said as he took another tentative sip. "I think they boil their socks in it."

The Gunner gagged. "That's all I need."

"Now, Stevie, you get that coffee down you, and if it doesn't come right back up I'll fix you something soothing." He heard loud guffawing from the dining room. "Now then, what are they up to now?"

The Gunner listened. "Sounds like a party," he grumbled. "This is bad coffee . . . Chef, where are you going now?"

"There is too much levity of the morning," replied Chef ponderously. "Much too much levity.

Chef bustled out of the galley and into the dining room. The Gunner was sipping his coffee and not paying attention to the sudden silence that had descended. He was just raising his cup to his lips went a horrendous scream rent the air.

"OOOOOH, MYYY GAAAAAAAAAWD!"

Chef's bellow of shock and outrage was followed by a horrendous crash of something being dropped on the deck. The Gunner, his hangover and aching head suddenly forgotten, leaped to his feet and fought his way through the scrum of galley cadets blocking the doorway. In the dining room he saw Chef, his right hand clutching his chest, his left pointing a shaking finger at the portrait of Harry Triumphant, being helped to a chair by The Phantom and Ray.

The Gunner looked around and saw the photographs. BUMS! Boy bums! PENISES. Cadet Penises! "Holy Jesus!" he swore when he recovered from the shock.

"I doubt He's up there!" howled Chef. "My heart! I can't stand it." He clutched his chest. "The place looks like the Leman Street Yeshiva on bath night!"

Before Randy or Joey could utter a smartass comment The Phantom and Ray clapped their hands over the young boys' mouths. Randy squirmed and broke free. "Where's Leman Street," he asked in a loud whisper.

"In the East End of London you ignorant lout!" yelled Chef. "And a yeshiva is a school where nice Jewish boys go to learn how to be rabbis! Nice boys who don't go around taking pictures of each other's . . ." He groaned piteously. "For sure, 'tis me heart. Twenty-five years in the Andrew, and never a black mark against me. Now . . ." He pointed around the room. "Look, Gunner. "'Tis me death, I tell you!"

The Gunner was not going to ask what Chef was doing in a yeshiva, in East London, or the downtown business section of Hell for that matter. He did not want to send Chef off on one of his reminiscences, at least not with so many impressionable boys about. "There is nothing wrong with your heart, Chef," he said calmly. "And it's not as if you've never seen a dick before." The boys tittered and The Gunner glared them into silence.

"I MIGHT HAVE," roared Chef. "But the Lieutenant Bloody Governor hasn't!" He fell back in his chair. "A restorative. Aye, a wee drop of something to restore me old heart."

Both The Phantom and Ray rolled their eyes. The Phantom turned to Sandro. "There's a jug of something in Chef's office. Find it and pour him a glass before I have a heart attack!" Sandro grinned and hurried into the galley.

Chef continued his grumbling. "An array of anuses! Dear God!" He clutched The Gunner's hand. "What if Number One sees them? Or Father? They're not well, you know. They could very well keel over and drop dead in fright!"

"Number One is going directly from his house to the airport to meet the Lieutenant Governor," replied The Gunner smoothly. "And Father isn't due aboard until 0900."

Chef gave The Gunner a dirty look and noticed that he was losing his audience. The cadets had decided that Chef's fit of histrionics was just one of his usual shams, and went about their normal business. Randy and Joey helped Ray to clean up the bacon he had dropped all over the deck and the Litany went off to inspect the photos. By this time the other cadets, hungry for their breakfasts had started to stream into the dining room. Chef listened to their tittering, and outright laughter as they started to compare pictures and, since Harry's was the only identifiable picture, wondering loudly whose dick was whose. Seeing The Gunner laughing Chef scowled. "Laugh if you will, Stevie. But who's to say that there's not a snap of you up there?" He gave The Gunner a sly grin.

The Gunner quickly searched out The Phantom. "There isn't . . ." he began, his face paling.

"Of course not," replied The Phantom. "We wouldn't do that to you. There is no picture of you, at least not . . . here."

The Gunner noticed the pause and looked levelly at The Phantom. "Where?"

The Phantom snickered. "Your office. A nice big one. It shows all your wrinkles!"

"Damn Two Strokes," snapped The Gunner. He was about to hurry to his office when Sandro reappeared. He was holding a glass of something. "What's that?" demanded The Gunner.

"Sherry," replied Sandro in all innocence.

None of the cadets could understand why The Gunner suddenly clapped his hands over his mouth, turned deathly white, and ran into the galley heads as Chef roared and shook with laughter.

The Great AURORA Photo Expose, or Staff Cadets Revealed, was not the immediate success Nicholas had hoped it would be. Far from being insulted Stuart, Steve and Rob were flattered and insisted that they should have been consulted when the grand title "Pride of the Fleet" was awarded. Stuart and Rob should have been. Both boys were the proud owners of fine, handsome jewels. Steve remained unconvinced that he was out of the running (because of size) and thought that points should have been awarded for physical beauty, symmetry and colour. Greg, when he saw his picture, shuddered and demanded a re-shoot, saying that Nicholas had not captured his best "side". Nicholas retorted that an asshole was an asshole and that Greg fit the bill in more ways than one!

Mal, who had aired The Monster before PT, was forced to endure the slings and arrows of Willy and Jack's wit as they inspected the photos. They had been forced to listen for weeks while Mal declaimed the beauty and size of his Monster. Now that they had photographic proof that the Monster was not monstrous at all, they informed Mal that he was sorely lacking, not only in aesthetics, but also in size. Willy opined that, except for an exceedingly ugly foreskin, which was half his dick anyway, Mal had nothing to write home about and Jack expressed the hope that in future the Monster would be aired at the dark of the moon, if only to hide its minuscule and insignificant size! Mal had not been amused.

Mike was depressed for all of five minutes, telling Phillip, called the Assistant, that there wasn't a dick on display that was as small as his. Phillip replied that while Mike's dick might never win a size contest, he at least knew how to use it. He waggled his eyebrows and both cadets decided to forego breakfast.

Ray had expected Kevin to be upset. After all, they were lovers, and more or less committed to each other. Having your lover's jewels on display was hardly the 'in' thing, so far as Ray was concerned. Kevin was not at all upset. He grinned and drew a smile from Ray by telling him that his dick was cute, and it was the first time he'd seen the thing soft!

Thumper, with Two Strokes, came into the dining room. Thumper studied the photograph of Two Strokes' parts and grinned. "Not bad, Roger," he said. "But, do you really fuck with that thing?" Two Strokes, muttering curses under his breath at Nicholas's perfidy, went off to fetch his breakfast. Nicholas smiled happily. Revenge, while still a dish best eaten cold, had been exacted, and while the dish was small, it was delicious indeed.

Dave Eddy, still chuckling at the thought of seeing Andy's picture, with the added attraction of discovering a photograph of Kyle's naked body displayed in Wardroom lounge, gasped at the sight of so many dicks. When he saw that at each place at the officers table there were glossy 11x14 photographs of both his messmates, he grinned and shook his head. Up to now he had only half-believed the stories about the sailing trip. As he took in the photographs a twinge of regret flashed through him. Andy and Kyle had been a part of something very special, and he hoped that in time they would both realize it. Then he went off to examine the other photos, wondering if perhaps someone had taken a snap of him as he emerged from his impromptu dip in the motel pool back in Victoria.

No "H", with Wally Higman, had trailed Dave into the dining room. He examined the photos carefully and then voiced the thought that while Andy was impressive, he'd never catch a codfish with that thing and as for Kyle, well, he might catch a lobster, if it was old and myopic. Wally roared with laughter and offered to send pictures of his two infant sons, both of whom, or so he claimed, had Andy and Kyle beat by a mile.

The Phantom caught Nicholas's eye, his smile mirroring the Yeoman's look of blissful satisfaction. The true perpetrators of the great offence had finally suffered humiliation.

Sandro, with his own circumcision looming in the not too distant future, took the opportunity to comparison shop, while Ryan, with his circumcision healing nicely, thank you, took the opportunity to compare ring positions of the penises on display.

The Sea Puppies entered the dining hall in their usual horde, chattering and generally making nuisances of themselves. They were all fresh from their morning shower. They thought that the pictures were a hoot, and since they had been checking each other out for weeks, wandered about, commenting rudely on the barely more mature opposition. Bobby Baugnier stood in front of the photograph of Harry and, remembering the contest to determine who best owned the next contender for the title, studied Harry's picture carefully. When Evan walked over to stand in front of the picture Bobby looked him up and down, looked pointedly at the Pride and then more pointedly at Evan's crotch. "How old are you again?" he asked with a malicious glint in his eye.

"Fourteen. Why?" replied Evan, a little stunned at the photograph of Harry.

"You better hope for a growth spurt," Bobby said with a smirk. He looked directly at what was in truth a respectable fourteen-year-old bulge in Evan's bell-bottoms. "A big growth spurt!"

Chef, his humour gone, lay prostrate with shock on the sofa in his office, bewailing his fate, sipping at a large glass of 'medicine' The Gunner had poured for him, moaned, groaned, and generally bitched to the heavens.

Secretly thinking that the whole thing was a delicious hoot, The Gunner pretended to sympathise, but added, "Come on, Chef, they're only some photos from the sailing trip. There's nothing out there that you couldn't find in any reputable art gallery or photo museum."

"If the museum was in Soho, or Greenwich Village!" snarled Chef in return. He took a huge drink of his high-octane medicine. "Naked young men," he moaned. He fixed The Gunner a baleful look. "With one old man thrown in to add balance and perspective!"

Ignoring Chef's insult, The Gunner continued, "Now Chef, it's not as bad as all that. You have seen naked men before and you did say that the pictures in the dining hall looked like bath night in a yeshiva, so it's not that . . ."

"That was different!" Chef moaned loudly, drained his glass and held it out for a refill.

Chuckling, The Gunner refilled Chef's glass with the 175-proof medicine. "How is it different?" he asked. "They are only some pictures of the boys having fun, being boys, swimming . . ."

"Swimming naked!" Chef pointed out.

"So what? You can't stand - sorry, lie - there and tell me that you never went skinny dipping," returned The Gunner. "Even you were a lad once!"

Chef gave The Gunner a malevolent glare, and then affected a nostalgic air. "Well, I do admit to that." He smiled wistfully and took a sip of his medicine. "Ah, well do I remember those days of my youth, swimming with me schoolboy chums, sunning ourselves on the banks of the River Liffey."

"What were you doing on the banks of the River Liffey? I thought you were raised in Newfoundland."

"So I was," countered Chef. "That does not mean I was never on the banks of the River Liffey," he finished enigmatically.

The Gunner wondered if he should take a drop of Chef's medicine, hair of the dog, and all that, and definitely helpful when Chef was off on a tear.

"Ah, such innocence we had back then, Stevie. Like St. Honoria's Cherubs, so we were."

The Gunner gave Chef a strange look. He wasn't at all sure that there was a St. Honoria in the Calendar of Saints, although he was sure that the Saint's name was not pronounced to rhyme with gonorrhea!

"Ah, well do I remember the long, warm days of summer as we idled on the banks the Liffey," Chef went on, his eyes half closed, and lying through his teeth. "It was heaven, Stevie, sheer heaven, what with the life-giving sun fair warm on our skins, and a warmth in our hearts after giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin that it was summer, and not spring, and that we had not to contend with the depredations of the Liffey salmon.

The Gunner started, and almost reached for the bottle. "Salmon? What salmon?" he demanded.

"Why, the salmon of the River Liffey," replied Chef, his tone implying that only an idiot did not know about the salmon. "Ferocious beasts they are, as long and as thick as a drover's arm, so they are, and as evil-tempered as a Mother Superior at a meeting of the Holy Rollers, when they're in spawn."

Despite himself, The Gunner started to snicker. "Come on, Chef, you don't really expect me to believe that!"

Chef rolled himself into a sitting position. "'Tis all true, Stevie, on me oath," he replied, placing his hand over his heart. "They spawn in the spring, great herds of them, so there are, fighting the torrent of the river as it roars down to the Irish Sea. 'Tis a glorious sight, so it is, with the beasts leaping and splashing. I shall take you there one day."

The Gunner's eyes drifted to the bottle of medicine. He had no doubt where the Liffey salmon leaped gloriously.

"Every spring up the river they would come," Chef went on, a smile forming on his lips. "There would be no swimming then for the creatures, wicked things that they are, take delight in nipping at the appendages of unsuspecting schoolboys, so they do. Sure and 'tis no great pleasure having your appendage nipped by a fish, Stevie."

The Gunner groaned and threw up his hands. "Dammit, Chef!"

Chef laughed uproariously, spilling half his drink. He held out his glass for a refill and as The Gunner poured, said, "The pictures will be coming down soon enough, I'm thinking."

The Gunner nodded. "I told you about the other boat mooning us?"

Chef nodded. "Schoolboy pranks." He chuckled softly. "Ah, Stevie, there's hope for our Navy yet, with boys such as them coming in." He fixed The Gunner a look. "You'll be having a wee word, though, with the lads, about the albums?"

"I will," replied The Gunner firmly. He thought a moment. "Mind you, I think the boys will know enough to keep the albums their secret."

"They're smart lads, to be sure," agreed Chef. He stood up and waddled toward the door. "And you must show me the contents of the book that I heard Phantom tell you is sitting on your desk."

"Uh, Chef, well I," began The Gunner, embarrassed. He didn't know that Chef knew about his album.

"But save it for a gloomy day, a day when the heavens fair weep with rain. "'Twill be good for a laugh and cheer us both!" He halted, and leered at The Gunner. "Better yet, we'll take a swim in the River Liffey, in the spring, and tempt the wee fishies with your appendage!"

At the Chief's table the food was growing cold. Those cadets of the sailing trip who had not helped with the decorations, had passed down the steam line, loading their trays with their usual hearty breakfasts and, chattering excitedly at the artwork, went to their usual places, where they were surprised to find their personal gifts. The food forgotten, Rob, Two Strokes, Tyler, Val, and the others, their habitual hunger suppressed by curiosity, opened the boxes to find the beautiful faux-leather albums.

Tyler and Val, who were sharing the Chiefs table with Mark and Tony, opened the albums carefully, not expecting to find . . . more pictures. Tony, his eyes all but bugging from his head, snickered as Tyler turned the pages of his album. Mark, his eyes wide at the wonder of the photographs, viciously elbowed his lover and recognized what Tony did not. Where Tony saw only naked boys with flaccid fittings, Mark also saw beauty, artistic beauty in the composition of the pictorial compositions. Where Tony saw dicks and balls and bums, Mark saw masterful renderings of natural, healthy, magnificent forms of teenage youth.

Mark looked around the room and saw the other cadets who had been on the sailing trip, poring over their albums, perusing Nicholas's selections. Some sat, mouths agape, somewhat stunned. Others, Harry included, slowly turned the pages of their albums, reminiscing silently, remembering the circumstances of where, and when, each photo had been taken, ignoring the laughter and excitement the albums evoked from the other cadets.

In small groups the junior cadets gathered around their Chiefs, their meals forgotten as they looked at the photos, the boys slowly coming to the realization that before them was a photographic record of something very special.

As they leafed through their albums Tyler, Val, Harry, the Twins, Ray, Two Strokes, Chris, Greg, Stuart and Steve, quickly discovered that each album was unique, and that every photo reflected the particular interests and sensibilities of the individual for whom each album had been assembled. And they found, as Mark had found, the beauty; not only in the subjects, but also in the way each picture had been crafted.

As the comparisons continued individual cadets would look up to smile at Nicholas, who was standing quietly off to the side, their smiles expressing appreciation and gratitude. Cory, who had learned more about the project after Sean had left the harbourside cafe, quietly let it be known that Andre had also contributed greatly to the effort, especially his obvious artistic talents.

As more and more cadets murmured their appreciation and thanks, Nicholas beamed and motioned for Andre to stand beside him. He placed his arm around the smaller boy's shoulders and drew him to his side. As Nicholas smiled and squeezed his lover repeatedly, Andre smiled lovingly at Nicholas and shyly at the other Chiefs.

In the galley doorway The Gunner and Chef, who had been mystified at the sudden silence that had fallen over the dining hall, looked at each other and knew instinctively what the other was thinking. Chef nodded slowly. What had begun as an act of revenge, had become a collaboration of love, and another unseen bond of friendship had been forged between the Band of Brothers, between the Boys of Aurora.