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, do's and don'ts that I don't see or hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature, or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). My e-mail address is paradegi@rogers.com

The Boys Of AURORA - CHAPTER 2

The Phantom opened his eyes, cursed, and sat up. He glanced at the bedside clock and groaned loudly. It was 0430 and the room was dimly lit by the thin light of the emerging dawn, which reminded The Phantom that once again he'd forgotten to draw the curtains. He looked around and then fell back on the bed, reached for the other pillow and pulled it to him, drinking in the scent of the man he had slept with. Which led The Phantom to wonder just where the man he had slept with was at the moment. Presently the sound of rushing water came to him and answered his question.

Hugging the pillow that The Gunner had slept on with one arm, The Phantom pulled the bedclothes over his head and he was gradually drifting back to sleep when he heard the bedroom door open. He peeked from under the covers and saw The Gunner's bare behind, pale in the weak sunlight that washed over the room, as he bent over his overnight bag. The Phantom whistled softly. "Nice ass, for an old man," he giggled, then reached over and turned on the bedside lamp.

The Gunner pulled on a clean pair of underpants and sat on the bed. "A man's ass is like fine wine," he said smugly. "The more it ages the better it gets, smartass." He leaned down and gave The Phantom a kiss. "And what are you doing up at this hour?"

The Phantom returned the kiss and hugged his lover. "I woke up missing your ass trying to push my ass out of the bed."

The Gunner chuckled. "Sleep while you can, Phantom." He arched an eyebrow mockingly. "Are you telling me that I'm a restless sleeper?"

"Last night you were," replied The Phantom as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "Not like the last time we slept together. You hardly moved. But then, . . ." A salacious grin broke his handsome, boyish features. "We had been screwing our brains out so I guess . . ."

"Don't be crude, Phantom," returned The Gunner sharply. Almost immediately he regretted his curtness. "I'm sorry, Phantom, I'm still half asleep. I don't function all that well on only three hours sleep."

The Phantom hugged him. "You are the strangest guy, Gunner."

The Gunner returned the hug. "How so?"

"You curse like a navvy," replied The Phantom as he threw back the covers. "Yet if I swear or make a crude remark you get upset."

"I'm not upset, Phantom. I just don't like it when you cheapen what we have. I love you so very much and 'screwing our brains out' does not describe what we do." The Gunner smiled fondly at his lover. "I would also like to think that you would one day not only think like an officer, but act like one, and speak like a proper gentleman."

"More lessons," moaned The Phantom. "And what makes you think I might ever be a proper gentleman?"

"Because I have a plan," replied The Gunner. He snickered evilly. "It's called making a silk purse out of a sow's ear!"

"Oh really?" drawled The Phantom. "Well, we will just see about that!" He deliberately reached down and rubbed his hand across the soft glans of his equally soft penis. "Right now, though . . ." he raised his soft penis and waved it enticingly at The Gunner.

"No, Phantom." The Gunner's voice was firm. "The day is starting and I have too much to do. Play time is over!"

"Jesus, you are cranky!" complained The Phantom. He got out of bed, scratched himself and stretched. "I'm glad that I'm a morning person."

"Just you wait!" growled The Gunner. "Wait until you've stood watch on watch for five days solid and we'll see just how much of a morning person you are." "Watch on watch?" The Phantom frowned, perplexed. The Gunner had just started teaching him the Watchkeeping system when he had decided that the man had betrayed him and ended the lessons.

"Yes. You are on duty for four hours, then off duty for four hours." The Gunner yawned explosively. "And I am not cranky. I'm tired."

The Phantom snickered and sat down beside The Gunner. "Yeah, you are."

"Tired? Cranky?"

"Both. But I love you anyway." The Phantom draped his arms around The Gunner's shoulders. "And I'm sorry about what I said. I'm also sorry we didn't get to make love last night." The Gunner held the boy close. The Phantom nuzzled The Gunner's neck and he revelled in the fresh, clean smell of the man. "When I was little I used to crawl onto my Dad's lap every chance I got. When I was there I felt warm, and safe. He made me feel like I was the only person in the world. When I'm with you I feel the same way."

"You're a little too big to be sitting on anybody's lap and as far as I am concerned you are the only person in the world," replied The Gunner, the warmth of his voice reinforcing his sincerity.

The Phantom gave The Gunner a peck on the lips. "Let's go back to bed. We didn't make love last night and I wanted to so much!"

"If memory serves someone very dear to me hit the sack and promptly fell asleep," observed The Gunner dryly.

"You should talk," returned The Phantom with a small laugh. "Your head barely hit the pillow and you were snoring like a grampus."

The Gunner untangled himself from The Phantom's arms and stood up. He began pulling on his trousers. "Well, my son, you have the option of going back to sleep. I have to get a move on."

"Gunner, it's only 4:30 in the morning. You don't have to be at AURORA until Divisions and that's three-and-half hours away. "

"I still have things to do, Phantom. I have to get on home, load up the uniforms and then go over to AURORA. We've been away for the better part of four days and I can imagine what awaits me."

The Phantom groaned and stood up. "Well, I might as well go in too."

"Why?" asked The Gunner. "Enjoy yourself while you can. Sleep while you can. The day will come when you won't be able to do either."

The Phantom began rummaging in his bureau for some clean underwear. "It won't kill me to go in early with you. Besides, I think we'd better make the most of our time together."

"Mom and Dad coming home?"

The Phantom nodded and padded toward the door. "Pretty soon, now. Once they get home I don't know what we're going to do."

"Is there any coffee?" The Gunner called after The Phantom as he left the bedroom.

"There is if you make it."

After putting the coffee on The Gunner left the kitchen and stood on the broad patio beside the pool where he smoked a cigarette. He did not feel right smoking in the house. Neither of The Phantom's parents smoked and The Phantom confined his clandestine habit to his room and the lingering odour of tobacco smoke would alert The Phantom's parents that he had had a guest during their absence. They would ask questions and . . . "And so it begins," he thought, "the subterfuge, the sneaking around, the whole ball of wax."

He sat on one of the poolside chairs, staring morosely into the dark waters of the pool. With the return of The Phantom's parents they would have to be very careful. One hint that their relationship was anything but platonic and there would be hell to pay. The Phantom was still only seventeen, jailbait, no matter how one looked at it, and he would remain jailbait until his 21st birthday. The Gunner finished his cigarette and fieldstripped it. The less evidence he left of his stay the better for both Phantom and him.

In the kitchen The Gunner poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table, his doubts beginning to overwhelm him. Phantom was so damned young, not quite a boy and not yet, despite his bravado and bluster, a man. The Phantom still enjoyed being a teenager and was, perhaps unknowingly, not quite ready to put away childish things. Like any teenage boy The Phantom was obsessed with sex. Was their relationship, which thus far had been based solely on sex, going to last? In a week or ten days they would separate. Could they sustain a long distance relationship? Could they even sustain their relationship?

Until now The Gunner had always had relations with men his own age with at least, on the surface, mutual interests. Which led him to wonder just what he and The Phantom had in common. His relationship with Joel had foundered on Joel's refusal to allow the Navy to dictate how they would live. The Phantom was willing to enter the Navy. The papers applying for the UNTD were completed, only lacking his father's signature. Yet Phantom, like most teenage boys, was subject to mood swings. This week he was all ready to become a sailor. But what about next week, or, for that matter, next year?

The doubts were returning. There was no reason for it, but there it was. Would Phantom still love him, still want to be with him, a year from now? And what about Ray? Phantom, whether he was prepared to admit it or not, was in love with Ray, who had been Phantom's first boy. The Phantom had also slept with the Twins. Phantom cared for Cory and Todd, but not in the way he cared for Ray, and the Twins had been a learning experience for Phantom. They had shown him the beauty of physical love between men and the Twins loved Phantom as their friend and brother. They would always be there for him. They loved him, but they were not in love with him.

Ray was different because deep within his heart Phantom had Ray's name engraved. It would always be there and he would always have feelings for the sweet, gentle boy who had given himself to Phantom.

The Gunner returned outside and lit another cigarette. Phantom, for all his rueful self-pity, was going to sleep with Ray. They were, sooner or later, going to make love. It was inevitable. They were together constantly. They were friends. They shared the common drudgery of the galley. More importantly, they shared the camaraderie of boys. They had the shared interests of boys, and most importantly, they loved each other. Ray loved Phantom and Phantom had deep feelings for Ray. They had shared a bed in Victoria, and explored each other. The Gunner did not doubt Phantom's feelings of guilt over what had happened in Victoria, just as he did not doubt that nature would take its course and that The Phantom would be together with Ray, and they would be lovers, if only for a short time.

Hearing The Phantom blundering around the kitchen The Gunner wondered if their relationship would survive that one, brief, shining moment with Ray.

The Phantom sipped his scalding coffee and moaned quietly. He was beginning to regret having gotten out of bed. He was dog-tired, and felt it.

"Phantom, for heaven's sake, go back to bed." The Gunner smiled and held the boy's hand.

The Phantom refused. "I want to spend as much time with you as I can. When the folks come home, we won't be able to, will we?"

"No. We have to face the cold, hard facts. Discretion and sneaking around will be the order of the day."

"Bluntly put!" The Phantom grimaced. "What did you do to the coffee, pee in it?"

The Gunner chuckled. "I like it strong, Phantom." Then he sobered. "I have to speak more bluntly, Phantom. I have your reputation to consider. It won't do you or me any good if our relationship becomes public knowledge."

The Phantom sighed and pushed his coffee cup away. "It sure would blow any chance of me getting into the UNTD Program, wouldn't it," he observed, pointing to the large envelope containing his application.

The Gunner nodded his agreement. "I've lived with it all my life, really. I suppose the only thing I was spared was having to tell my folks that I was gay." Rolling his eyes The Phantom moaned, "God, I don't even want to think about that! My Dad will freak. Brendan will go ape shit and probably try to lay a beating on me."

"And your mother?"

The Phantom thought a moment and then said quietly, "I don't know, really. We've never really talked about things like sex, and being gay. I don't know what my folks would say or do."

The Gunner heard the undercurrent of doubt in The Phantom's voice. "Phantom, since I hardly know them, I can't even dare to predict what their reaction would be," he said gently. "Your mother seems to be a very clued-in lady. Your Dad, well, he's a policeman and to be honest, policemen have never been known for their sympathy or support for gays. Quite the opposite."

"I'm going to have to tell them, sooner or later, though," Phantom sighed.

"Yes."

"How do you tell them, Gunner? How do you tell your folks that you're gay, and that you're in love with a man?"

The Gunner looked sadly at his lover and shook his head. "Phantom, if they love you, and I think that they do, very much, they'll accept you for what and who you are. They might not approve of it, but I think they will accept that you're gay, and live with it."

The Phantom smiled and squeezed The Gunner's hand. "For the first time, ever, Stevie Winslow doesn't have a Gunnerism to fall back on."

Smiling thinly The Gunner shook his head. "No, no Gunnerisms on this one," he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "My folks died before I had really accepted the fact that I was gay, so I never really had the experience of telling anyone close to me, except David Clayton, and he was a friend, not family."

"And Chef?"

"Yes, Chef as well, but he suspected long before I told him. He's a pretty smart old bird, even if he is half smashed most of the time."

"The guys love Chef. Joey and Randy adore him and Ray, well, Ray . . ." replied The Phantom warmly.

The Phantom's tone, and the warmth in his voice, was not lost on The Gunner. Ray evoked feelings in Phantom far beyond those of mere sex. He also evoked feelings in Chef that defied explanation. The boy was very special to the old cook because . . . "Ray is replacing the son Chef lost year's ago," The Gunner said quietly.

"Chef had a son?" The Phantom's eyes widened in surprise. Chef did not seem to be the type to marry, let alone marry and have a son.

The Gunner nodded. "The kid would be in his mid-twenties, now. Chef married very young, about age 19, I think. I never met his wife as she was long before my time." He chuckled ruefully. "She loved the lads. I heard stories about her. None good."

"What stories?" The Phantom's ears seemed to visibly perk up and his eyes shone with curiosity. For all his snooping while serving in the dining hall he rarely heard anything juicy about the officers or the staff members. They were a closed-mouth, taciturn lot when it came to gossip about each other.

"There was a story going around that when Chef's ship (it was the old SACKVILLE) left Halifax the Bunting Tossers in the Flag Building would run up a signal hoist: He's gone, party at Patty's."

"That was her name?"

"Yes. As I said, she loved the sailors." His eyes clouded. "They lived in Shaggin' Park Marriage Quarters." The Gunner chuckled dryly, without mirth. "When Chef went to sea Halifax Hattie would sit outside his house with a trunk full of booze to sell to all the matelots who came to call," he finished with nostalgic sadness.

"Who or what is a Halifax Hattie?" asked the Phantom. The world, it seemed, was full of strange characters and The Gunner seemed to know them all.

"Halifax Hattie was the local bootlegger. She is a very charming black lady. I loved her. She used to give me credit."

"Gunner!" The Phantom raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"It's true, so help me," insisted The Gunner, raising his hand. "Hattie still writes me and I have an open invitation to visit her whenever I'm in Halifax. She sure came in handy when Chef came home and found his flat empty and his wife and kid gone."

"She just up and left?"

"Yes, she did." The Gunner shook his head. "The buzz was she'd hooked up with a Chief Stoker who was retiring out west somewhere. She emptied the house and that was that."

"And Chef has never seen his son since?"

The Gunner shook his head sadly. "He never saw the lad again. He looked, and I know he hired a private investigator but it was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed the boy and his mother."

"Poor Chef."

"Indeed. His wife had played her cards very close to her chest and no one really knew who she'd run off with. The investigator chased down the rumours but got nowhere at all. Chef was devastated and, well, he was very lonely and I think more or less just closed down the part of his emotions that allowed him to get close to people."

"He loves Ray, though."

"Yes, Phantom, he loves Ray. For some strange reason Ray has managed to reach that place that Chef has tried so hard to keep hidden. Chef has sort of adopted him. I think, in a way, it makes Chef's real family complete. He has brothers, men who sailed with him, and who would die for him. Sandro is the little brother Chef never had. I'm sure you've noticed how protective he is of Sandro."

The Phantom smiled. "Chef is really proud that Sandro asked him to be part of the minyan for his bris."

The Gunner reached for his pack of cigarettes, thought better of it, and then said, "Chef also has nephews. You, you're the senior nephew. Joey and Randy, though they probably don't know it, are Chef's little brat nephews. Ray now, is his surrogate son. In his own strange way Chef loves Ray. He's giving Ray all the love and attention he can't give to his real son. With Ray, Chef's real family is complete."

"Chef's real family?" asked The Phantom, his curiosity piqued.

"Phantom, your real family is not necessarily the people born under the same roof you were."

The Phantom laughed and threw up his arms. "At last, a Gunnerism! I knew you had one in you somewhere!"

"If you two skates think for one minute that you're going to come in here and mooch an early breakfast, you can think again!" Chef's booming voice shook the rafters of the galley.

"And a very good morning to you too, Chef," replied The Gunner, not at all perturbed at Chef's mood.

"What's the matter with him?" asked The Phantom as he moved out of the line of fire and stood beside Ray.

Ray rolled his eyes. "He's been like that since he came in." He nodded toward Randy and Joey, who were busy prepping the morning bacon and sausages. "And those two have not helped matters at all."

The Makee-Learns saw The Phantom and Ray looking at them and grinned sheepishly. "What did they do?" asked The Phantom.

"Joey dropped a flat of eggs and Randy managed to burn himself and scatter a tray of sausages all over the deck"

"That's guaranteed to set Chef off. Is he hung over, too?"

Ray shook his head. "There's something else," he whispered.

In a louder voice Ray asked The Phantom to help him set up the coffee. They walked into the Mess Hall and began preparing the morning coffee. "Well," asked The Phantom.

Ray looked around. "I think they're doing it," he whispered.

"Who's doing what?" The Phantom hadn't a clue about what Ray was going on about.

"Randy and Joey. I think they're, you know . . ."

"Playing with each other? Sucking each other?"

Ray nodded. "They've been giggling together all morning. Chef sent Sandro over to the Wardroom to get the officers' coffee going and the two brats were supposed to be starting the oatmeal. I turned around and they were gone. I found them in the heads."

"And?"

A look of astonishment filled Ray's wide, brown eyes. "Phantom, they were kissing, like on the lips kissing! And they were feeling each other up!" he finished with a shocked gasp.

The Phantom giggled. "Makee-Learns in love! What will their mothers think?" Ray frowned slightly when he said, "Randy's mother is dead and it's not Joey's mother we have to worry about." He was very upset. "Chef will pitch a fit if he finds out about them."

"So make sure he doesn't," replied The Phantom smoothly. "After the breakfast rush take them into the lounge and tell them to knock it off."

"Oh, no, not me! No way!" protested Ray. His face brightened "You do it, Phantom. You're their Honourary Big Brother. They'll listen to you."

"So are you!" returned The Phantom. "It's not that you don't know what's going on, if Sunday night is anything to go by!"

Ray giggled and blushed. "Yeah, well, we did have fun. But, Phantom, you have more experience, you know, with guys, and things and . . ."

The Phantom realized that sex was something Ray felt very uncomfortable talking about. "Oh, all right! I'll talk to them."

When they returned to galley they found that Sandro had returned. He and the Makee-Learns were busily cutting up fresh fruit and arranging it on trays. Chef and The Gunner were standing by the huge main range. The Gunner was busily cracking eggs into a large metal bowl. " . . .All I am saying, Chef, is that it's the same all over. It doesn't matter if it's the Mess in Cyprus or bloody NADEN."

"It's called a Standard Menu, it's supposed to cut down on waste." Chef handed The Gunner a clove of garlic.

The Phantom and Ray walked over to the range and watched as The Gunner expertly used a knife to crush the garlic clove. He set the garlic aside and began to pour heavy cream into the eggs. "I know that, but that still doesn't mean that you can't jazz things up a bit. Hell, has no one ever heard of Local Purchase?" "Only for fresh vegetables and fruit. Everything else is bulk purchase."

"And tastes like it!" The Gunner set the bowl aside. "I can go into any Mess in the CAF and know that on Friday for dinner there will be a fish entree, veal cutlets, and spaghetti."

Chef was actually a very good cook. His problem was that he was constrained by set menus and recipes. He was not impressed when The Gunner told him that he would cook breakfast for the galley hands. "So? I don't set the menu! All I do is cook the food, and I don't see a problem, so I don't!" protested Chef loudly "And you do very well with what you have," agreed The Gunner. He added salt and pepper to the bowl of eggs and cream. "Now, if I only had some smoked salmon . . ."

"Salmon? Where would I be getting the smoked salmon?" growled Chef.

"In the Cold Store. There's a whole slab of it," offered Ray. "You said we had to keep our mucky paws off of it because it was too expensive to waste on cadets."

"I did NOT!" roared Chef. Sandro and the Makee-Learns jumped and tried to make themselves small. Chef in one of his moods was not on the list of their favourite things. "I said that it was too expensive to put on the menu."

"Same thing," insisted Ray stubbornly.

"Who asked you to butt in?" demanded Chef. He glared at Ray. "What you need is a good hiding!"

"He's much too old and much to large to turn over your knee, Chef," put in The Gunner. "Besides, you're right."

"I am?" This was a new one on Chef. Usually The Gunner delighted in taking the mickey out of him.

"Sure. This isn't the Empress Hotel so fancy dishes aren't called for. But it still would not hurt to vary things a bit." He gestured at the bowl of eggs, "Take breakfast, for instance. Every morning its bacon, sausages, eggs, oatmeal, and pancakes, except for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, when it's French toast. Why not try waffles for a change."

Chef puffed up, a perfect picture of culinary indignation. "Look, boyo, you don't have to cook for 250 people three times a day! I do! You try it before you open your gate!"

The Gunner calmly adjusted the gas under the range and smiled at Chef. "I am not in your class, Chef, and I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job."

"Good."

"What I am suggesting," he emphasized, "is that once in a while you vary things a bit, you know, jazz things up for the hands. They get tired of the same old thing, day after day. You make great duff and your soups are out of this world." Somewhat mollified Chef motioned for The Gunner to continue. He did make great desserts and his soups were works of art. "All you have to do is look at all the gash food that gets dumped," The Gunner pointed out.

Chef thought a moment. The Gunner was right, of course. There was a lot of wastage. "I have to feed 'em by the book. But, maybe, and I said maybe, we can vary things a bit. I'll talk to Andy." He turned to Ray. "Get the salmon."

The Gunner smiled and then returned to his eggs. "Phantom, get some sausages, bacon, and Ray, if there's any parsley, bring it, please."

Chef, who was seeing a side of his friend that he did not know existed, watched as The Gunner cut the thin slices of rosy smoked salmon into small pieces, and placed them in a separate bowl. After asking The Phantom to set the table he put the bacon and sausages into large skillets and set them to cooking. He took another skillet and poured a large portion of eggs into it. With his fork he took a minute dollop of crushed garlic and began to scramble the eggs.

Stirring slowly, and only after the eggs had been scrambled to a standard known only to The Gunner did he fold the pieces of salmon into them. He lowered the heat under the skillet and nodded, stirring the egg and salmon mixture with loving care.

Chef, who had had his moments, realized that The Gunner applied the same deadly seriousness to cooking that he did to all his endeavours. Before very long the most wonderful odours began filling the galley. Sandro and the Makee-Learns, done for the moment, walked over and watched The Gunner cooking. When the food was almost ready The Gunner asked The Phantom to bring him some plates and told the others to sit down at the table.

With brisk efficiency The Gunner plated the food, decorated each portion of the eggs with a sprig of fresh parsley and handed the plates to The Phantom who served the food to the others. Chef was never one to observe protocol if he could avoid it. The Phantom had barely placed the plate of food in front of him when he began eating. Sandro, Joey and Randy followed his lead. Sandro was the first to speak. "It is good. May I please have more?"

Joey and Randy nodded their agreement. They held out their plates in a "more, please" gesture.

The Phantom beamed with pride. His Gunner was not only a great lover but also a great cook. "I'll get it," he offered.

Chef held up his hand for silence. "Gunner, I owe you an apology. These are the best damned eggs I ever ate. Now, tell me how did you learn to cook."

The Gunner shrugged. "Just sort of picked it up as I went along. Some cooks on board ship can't parboil shit. I learned to cook in self defence!"

"You didn't get that little trick about the garlic from some cook book," said Chef. "Would there be more of the eggs, perhaps?"

Sandro nodded and went to the stove. "Sausages, too. More bacon?"

"Bring it all. I get that sick of my own cooking that anything new is a treat."

Randy burped loudly. "You cook good, Chef."

"Thank you for the compliment. And don't burp at the table."

Joey giggled and echoed, loudly, Randy's burp. "Yeah, you are a good cook. But, honest, Chef, the guys do complain. They don't say anything to you . . ."

"And why not, may I ask?" Chef speared a sausage and waved it at Joey. "I do the best that I can for those brats."

"We know that, Chef. It's just that you sometimes, well, you scare people," offered Randy timidly.

"I do not!" roared Chef. "A better natured, kinder, softer spoken man you will never find!"

"Yeah, you do," replied Joey, not at all disturbed by Chef's outrage. "You yell at us and because you yell at us we know that you love us. A lot of the officers and instructors, they just sort of pat us on the bum and say run along little boy." He flashed Chef a brilliantly warm smile. "You care about us."

"Okay, I care about you," admitted Chef grudgingly. "That still doesn't tell me what the lads are complaining about."

"The food, Chef, the food," explained Randy patiently. "It's all the same. We line up, we get some really good soup, and a nice salad, and then we get the same stuff. Remember the night you made Chinese food? The guys loved it. It was different from frozen veal cutlets."

"How can I forget? The Twins made a point of spending half the night looking for the ship's cat!" grumbled Chef. "As if I'd go hunting for that mangy thing, much less cook it!" Then he brightened and smiled at his Makee-Learns. "Still, maybe I can do something different every day."

Randy and Joey grinned, then jumped up and ran to Chef. They embraced him and each gave him a big wet kiss on the cheek. "Maybe pork chops?" asked Joey. "I love pork chops."

"You'll get the back of me hand, boyo!" growled Chef as he pushed the boy away. He was secretly pleased at the show of affection but dared not let the Makee-Learns know it.

"And stuffed green peppers." Randy gave Chef a big hug. "My mother used to make them."

Chef returned Randy's hug. He knew all about the boy's mother. "We'll see, Randy." He lightly patted Randy's behind. "Now, go and finish your breakfast." Chef toyed with his food for a moment then smiled. "I'll work out something. Variety from now on."

The boys grinned at Chef and The Gunner beamed. "What price a Chef, then? A kiss from his Makee-Learns and he's putty in their hands."

"Bollocks to you, Gunner. You're as bad, and don't deny it."

"Okay, I won't."

Chef quickly returned to his grumpy mode. "Andy will kill me. He's a good lad but he's as tight as a frog's arsehole when it comes to spending money."

"Not when it comes to the cadets," replied The Gunner. "He'll just have to scrounge a little harder."

"That he will," agreed Chef.

"Besides, he likes to eat just as much as the rest of them. He'll do it."

"Good. I just hope I don't regret it. First it's the stuffed green peppers for Randy, the pork chops for Joey, next it will be sauerkraut and bratwurst for Harry."

"So? Give them what they want." The Gunner poured himself a cup of coffee, sipped, and grimaced. "A chef with your talents should be able to carry it off. In fact, I can't for the life of me think why you're not working in Civvy Street."

"I like the Navy, and I like these brats." Chef gestured expansively. "When the time comes, in four or five years, I'll send in my papers." He gestured toward the third plate of eggs that Sandro was eating. "You still haven't told me how you learned to cook scrambled eggs that way."

The Gunner shrugged. "Not much to tell. When I was on course in England my Term Lieutenant got invitations to all these country places. He'd take one of the guys from my course along to be his doggy, you know, lay out his clothes, run his bath . . ."

"His servant, you mean," interrupted Chef tartly.

"Yes," agreed The Gunner. "His servant. When my turn came we went to this really huge house in the country. Not only was I the Lieutenant's doggy I helped serve lunch and dinner. The cook showed me how to make scrambled eggs. End of story."

Chef snorted. "If it's anything like Admiralty House in Halifax you worked like a dog and got treated like dirt. Those English aristocrats can be pretty snooty."

"Well, I admit that all the glitz and glitter was in the front of the house. But I enjoyed myself and I met some very nice people. There were some snobs but most of the people I served were pretty down to earth. They lady of the house, who was a duchess, swore like a trooper and smoked like a chimney."

"You met a real duchess?" asked Randy, whose only connection with the aristocracy was what he read in the newspapers.

"Sure did. I had to call her 'Your Grace' and bow whenever I met her."

"Did you meet the Queen?" asked Joey, his eyes as wide as Randy's.

"Not the one you're thinking of," muttered Chef.

The Phantom giggled and The Gunner glared at him and Chef. "It was an experience I do not regret," said The Gunner with dignity. "It's not everyone who has been in service in one of the stately homes of England."

"Complete with one of the stately homos of England trying to get his hand down the front of your BVDs," Chef whispered to himself.

The Phantom, who was sitting beside Chef, heard him. He was in the middle of drinking his glass of milk and he began laughing so hard he could not swallow. A huge spray of milk flew out of his nose.

The Gunner gave Chef an icy stare. He wasn't at all sure what it was that Chef had said but it must have been a lulu. He assumed a hurt air. "I don't see what's so funny, Phantom, and I will remind you that if it had not been for my service a certain Cadet Chief Steward would not have gotten his cheeks kissed and his bum patted for all the good work he did at Father's luncheon."

"Sorry, Gunner, the milk went down the wrong way."

"Humph. Just wait until you want me to show you how to serve a proper dinner."

"Dear God, don't give him any ideas," growled Chef. "He'll be having the finger bowls with the lemon slices in them on all the tables and a change of china with every course."

All five cadets looked at each other, then at The Gunner. Seeing their looks The Gunner explained. "In a proper dinner not only is there a very right way of serving it, each course is served on a different patterned plate. It's very impressive."

"And a hell of a lot of extra work. Five glasses just for the water and the booze, plus at least five different china patterns, plus all that silver. You just serve it. It's the poor galley hands who have to do the washing up."

"It does look impressive, though," replied The Gunner. He pointed to the plastic plate in front of him. "Melmac dinnerware and stainless steel forks just don't cut the mustard."

"We have different colours," offered Joey. He held out his plate. "Mine is green. Chef's is yellow, and yours is blue."

The Gunner chuckled. Every serving plate and dish that wasn't stainless steel was indestructible Melmac, which came in an assortment of colours, including salmon pink. "It's not the same." The Gunner ruffled Joey's hair. "Thanks anyway, boychick."

Joey beamed and squirmed with pleasure. Being called "boychick" was high praise, usually reserved for Petty Officers and above.

"If you want class put in for a Draft. The only class around here is third," sniped Chef. "The next thing I know you'd be wanting a steward behind every chair and linen table cloths."

"Not at all," returned The Gunner. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to throw a tablecloth over the officers table. Or the Chiefs table."

"If you want table clothes and cruiser routine put in a Draft Chit for HMCS bloody ONTARIO." Chef snorted disdainfully. "Tablecloths!"

The Gunner considered, given Chef's mood, that it might be best not to remind the old cook that HMCS ONTARIO, an ex-RN light cruiser, had been paid off in October of 1958, and shortly thereafter sold to a Japanese shipyard for scrap. Instead he said equably, "Since we don't have any tablecloths, we don't have to worry, do we?"

Chef looked uncomfortable. He coughed, then admitted grudgingly. "Actually we do."

"We do?"

Chef nodded. "This place is victualed and supplied just like any other ship in the fleet. And that includes crockery, glassware and linen for the Wardroom. Melmac for the hands, do-dah, do-dah."

"The class system is alive and well, still."

Chef nodded and grinned. "Special privileges for special folks, with the china and linen napkins for the Wardroom, and plastic and paper for the Lower Deck. It never changes." The Gunner nodded his agreement. According to Regulations Officers and Chiefs and Petty Officers were entitled to their own messes, something not possible in AURORA. "Anyway," Chef continued with studied indifference, "if you're interested, it's all in the Wardroom Pantry Stores."

The Phantom stood up and began gathering up the breakfast dishes. "If you like, I can come in early and set up the tables for the officers and the Chiefs and Petty Officers," he said quietly.

With his parents due back home by the weekend The Phantom planned on spending every night until then either in his own bed with The Gunner or in The Gunner's bed. With The Gunner coming in well before 0600 he could stay with him and have the perfectly good excuse that The Gunner was giving him a ride to work. Volunteering to come in ahead of the breakfast rush would be a perfect cover.

"What about your real work? And just what did you have in mind?" asked Chef. He could always use an extra hand around the galley. "And I don't have any money in the budget to pay you extra."

"I don't need any extra money," replied The Phantom as he handed the pile of dirty plates to Randy. "I'm up anyway and all I do is mooch around the house. Setting the tables won't kill me. I have to be here for 1000 anyway."

Chef shrugged indifferently. "Suit yourself. So long as you still do your regular work I've no objections. See me after breakfast and I'll give you the keys to the Pantry Stores. It's right beside Linen Stores."

With the breakfast rush over The Phantom and Ray left the galley and walked over to the Stores building. Chef had given The Phantom the keys to the Wardroom Pantry Stores and an inventory list. As expected the Stores were quiet. It was just past 0730 and the place did not open until after Divisions and most mornings Rob did not open up until 0830.

The boys peered into the open area that held Clothing Stores and then walked down the short corridor leading to the small room that held the Wardroom supplies. As they passed Linen Stores they both heard a loud groan. "Somebody's in there," whispered Ray.

The Phantom nodded and pointed to the door. "Maybe Rob came in early?"

Ray nodded and slowly opened the door leading to Linen Stores. He stuck his head into the room, and then very quickly withdrew it. He turned and looked at The Phantom, his face turning white, his eyes bulging wide.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?" The Phantom gave Ray a slight shake.

"Ph . . . Pha . . . Phantom," stammered Ray. "They're . . . Pha . . ."

"What the hell is the matter," demanded The Phantom. "What's wrong?"

"Phantom, it's Rob and Ryan. They're . . . fucking!" Ray managed to get out.

"They are WHAT?"

"Shh," whispered Ray as he nodded his head vigorously. "They're really going to town in there."

They heard another, sharper moan. "Jesus, Ray, in Linen Stores?" The Phantom could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

Ray, more composed now, pointed. "Look for yourself."

The Phantom slowly and as quietly as possible opened the door to Linen Stores. He looked in and very quickly withdrew. He grinned at Ray. "Well, they are fucking," he whispered as he pushed the door slightly and looked back into the room.

Ryan was lying on the deck, his aft end propped up by a pile of pillows. Kneeling between his outspread legs was Rob, who was holding Ryan's legs just under the knees, spreading them out and backward. Rob's hips were thrusting savagely, driving his stiff penis piston-like into the slim, dark haired boy's body.

Ryan was moaning, whispering for Rob to fuck him. With his left hand he felt and pinched his nipples while with his right he was masturbating furiously, the deep purple head of his penis covered then uncovered as his hand pulled and pushed his thick foreskin rapidly up and down his sleek, thick shaft.

As The Phantom watched, his own erection growing in his pants, Rob threw his head back, his mouth gaping, grimacing as his orgasm began raging through him. "Gonna . . . gonna . . . gonna cum in your ASS," he growled as he thrust viciously forward and into Ryan's body. "AAAAAGH, AAAAAGGGHHH," he moaned as his orgasm engulfed him.

When Rob's cum-cry heralded his ejaculation, Ryan's body arched and he began making short, sharp jerks in sync with his lover's thrusts. The head of his penis was completely exposed as a long, thin stream of his cum flew outward, hitting him on his chin. Another stream, less strong than the first, landed on his chest. Ryan was groaning loudly as his hand pumped more and more of his thin juices from his body.

Shaking his head and grinning evilly, The Phantom quietly closed the door and motioned for Ray to follow him down the corridor. He saw that Ray's cook's whites were tented and that his face was flushed with desire. The Phantom opened the door leading to the Wardroom Pantry Stores, deliberately leaving it open. He could feel his dick quivering and he was panting slightly for he was very horny, not having had sex since Sunday night in Victoria. He began flipping through the inventory list that Chef had given them, willing his erection to subside, feigning indifference to what he had just witnessed. He cared very deeply for the shy young man standing beside him but he did not want Ray to get any ideas.

Ray, his own stiffy pressing anxiously against his underpants, desperately wanted to have sex with the boy he loved above all others. He could see that The Phantom was hard, and that a large wet spot had appeared in the front of his thin white trousers. Ray sighed. The last time they had been together had been so wonderful that he threw caution to the winds and reached out his hand, brushing it against the front of The Phantom's trousers. With a sad shake of his head The Phantom moved away. "Ray, not here, okay?"

"Please, Phantom," whimpered Ray.

"No, Ray." He embraced Ray, and then held him at arm's length, looking directly into his eyes. "Ray, I've told you, I can't give you what you want. I've told you how much you mean to me, and how I do love you."

"Then make love to me, Phantom."

The Phantom shook his head. "Ray, I love you. I am not in love with you. I love The Gunner and if I slept with you that would be betraying his love. I can't do that to him."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both." The Phantom released Ray and sat down on a large wooden crate. "Please understand, Ray," he began slowly, not wanting to in any way to hurt his friend. "I love you, and I won't deny that the thought of sleeping with you, of making love to you is very appealing. I am not going to lie and say that what we did in Victoria, what we did here, wasn't good, because, man, it was better than good." As Ray sat beside him, The Phantom stroked the boy's face gently. "Would you like it if you and I were together and I turned around and slept with somebody else?" he asked gently.

Ray thought a few moments, and then nodded slowly. "I understand, Phantom." He turned and looked at the boy he wanted to love him. "Understanding doesn't mean that I don't want it to happen, because I do." He sniffled and ran his hand under his nose. "We better get started. Chef will be wondering what became of us."

After their enforced exercises the Twins returned to the Gunroom, bickering every inch of the way from the parade square to the barracks. Cory was determined that this time Todd was not going to win the argument. They showered, then returned to the Gunroom to clean into the rig of the day. Naked as jays they stood side-by-side, looking daggers at each other. Cory reached into his locker and with great ostentation pulled out a clean pair of white boxers. He looked at Todd, sniffed disdainfully, and slipped on the underpants.

Todd, seething, again searched the bottom of his locker. He knew exactly what he had packed for Victoria, and what he had left behind. Somewhere along the line his last clean pair of shorts had gone missing. Seeing Cory put on clean white boxers he realized that his earlier accusation was wrong because the pair he was missing were light blue in colour. He groaned inwardly. If he knew Cory at all his brother would never let him forget making that accusation.

With all the exaggerated gesturing of The Sun King at his morning levee, Cory pulled on clean socks and then slipped a clean and heavily starched gunshirt over his torso. "Ah, Todd, there is nothing quite like the feel of fresh, clean, clothing on your skin. You really should try it sometime," he said brightly, enjoying his brother's discomfort. "Remember, Mummy always says to wear clean undies because . . ."

"Give it a rest, you half-wit," snarled Todd. He grimaced and pulled the boxers he had worn yesterday, and slept in, back on.

"Oh, so now I'm a half-wit as well as an undies thief!" exclaimed Cory.

"No, you're just a half-wit," returned Todd.

"Aha!" Cory bowed to his brother. "So you admit that you were wrong."

"I admit nothing. What I do admit is that you are always taking my underwear. You wear your things once, and leave them all over the place, and then you borrow mine."

Todd's sarcasm was not lost on Cory. "I most certainly do not, Todd!" He stuck his nose in the air and sniffed ostentatiously. "I have more self-respect than to wear your stained old rags."

"And just what in the fuck is that supposed to mean?" demanded Todd, his choler rising.

Cory waved his hand airily. "Exactly what it means," he replied with great hauteur.

Todd clenched his fists. "That did it, you small-balled, little-dicked, son of a . . ."

"Small-balled? Little-dicked?" yelped Cory. "You are hardly one to talk! Why even Two Strokes on a bad day can muster up more dick that you could ever . . ."

They had not seen that Greg had returned from the showers, nor did they see him, a towel wrapped firmly around his waist, staring at them, then lowering his brows. Greg was in a foul mood. He had not slept well, and he was still seething after his ill-fated meeting with Harry. He was not about to put up with any of the Twins' nonsense. "Why don't you both just shut the fuck up!" he bellowed.

Shocked at his outburst, the Twins stood slack-jawed and watched as Greg walked to his locker, ripped off his towel and pulled a pair of clean briefs out of his locker. "Every fucking morning it's the same thing!" Greg threw the underpants at Todd, hitting him square in the face. "There, there are some clean underpants. Wear them, smell them, or eat them for all I care! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The Twins looked at each other and shook their heads. They both had a fairly good idea of what was bugging Greg's ass. "Come on, Greg, I don't need your briefs, honest." Todd liked Greg and did not want to start anything with him. "Yeah, he can have a pair of mine. It's no big deal," offered Cory.

"If it's not such a big deal then why are you fighting?" Greg angrily pulled on some clean briefs and then his gunshirt. "I am sick to death of you two, do you know that? Every day you fight and yell and try to beat the piss out of each other and then you go off and fuck each other's brains out!"

A deathly silence fell over the Gunroom. Two Strokes, Chris, Jon, Fred, Thumper, Nicholas and Harry stopped what they were doing and turned to look at Greg, who had unwittingly broken one of the cardinal unwritten rules of the Gunroom. No matter how angry you became, no matter what the provocation, you never, ever, for any reason, made reference to the Twins' sexuality.

Todd turned red and for a moment Cory looked as if he was going to break down in tears. Harry quickly lumbered forward and put himself between Greg and the Twins. "Greg, it would be best if you just got dressed and left for a while," he said quietly.

"Why?" demanded Greg hotly. "I live here, too, Chief!" He spat out Harry's rank as he pulled on his bell-bottoms and savagely buckled his belt. He bent down, pulled on his boots, straightened defiantly and glared at Harry. "I live here too."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Yes, you do. I would like to see you continue to live here with us." He was outwardly very calm, which was deceptive. Both Cory and Todd saw that the veins in Harry's neck were distended, a clear sign that he was very close to erupting.

Nicholas placed his hand on Greg's elbow. "I don't know what's biting your ass, man, but knock it off. Go and cool off."

Greg shook himself free of Nicholas's restraining hand. "And why should I?" he sneered. "If I was some skinny-assed scrawny git from Edmonton you wouldn't . . ."

A low growl rose from Harry's throat and he took a step toward Greg.

"Oh, shit!" whispered Nicholas.

The Twins did not hesitate. They jumped on Harry and forced him back. "For Christ's sake, get him out of here," ordered Todd as he struggled with Harry.

Two Strokes and Thumper joined The Twins in trying to restrain the visibly enraged Harry. All four boys managed with difficulty to push Harry back and onto Todd's bunk.

"Will you get him out of here?" yelled Cory as Harry began using every ounce of his great strength to force the other cadets away.

Chris and Jon joined the struggle while Fred grabbed Greg and spun him around. "You fucking half-fucked fool!" snarled Fred. He snatched up Greg's cap and slammed it on to the back of Greg's head. "Harry will kill you for that!"

Nicholas and Fred began pushing Greg toward the door leading to the barracks yard, roundly ignoring the shouting, protesting Greg. "Go, Greg, just go somewhere, anywhere so long as it's away from here!" Nicholas yelled at Greg.

Between them the cadets managed to keep Harry pinned down while Nicholas and Fred pushed Greg out of the Gunroom. Harry struggled, realizing that he was no match for four cadets, stopped his effort to get at Greg. "I'm all right. You can let go of me, now," he told the Twins with deceptive calmness.

"Only if you promise not to kill Greg," said Todd, breathing hard from the exertion of trying to hold Harry down.

Harry nodded slowly, his face serene. "I give my word, I won't kill him."

"Or hurt him?" asked Cory. He had known Harry too long and while he would willingly trust Harry with his life, he also knew that Harry could be a sneaky bugger when he put his mind to it.

Harry gave the Twins a reluctant smile. "My word on it. I won't hurt him or kill him."

"Let him up," directed Todd. He let go of Harry and flopped on Cory's bunk. Harry had given his word. He would not harm Greg in any way.

Nicholas and Fred returned after hustling Greg out of the barracks. They and the other cadets finished dressing and went off to breakfast, leaving the Twins with Harry. Todd and Cory sat on Cory's bunk and watched as Harry finished dressing. When he was done he gently touched Stefan's picture, then turned to look at The Twins. "I wouldn't really have hurt him, you know," he said softly.

"We know," replied Todd.

"He shouldn't have said what he said about you." Harry walked down the Gunroom and sat on Todd's bunk. He reached out and placed his huge hands on their knees. "I'm sorry."

The Twins shrugged in unison. "We've heard worse," sighed Cory. "He should not have said what he said about Stefan."

Harry looked sadly at his two friends. "Now I know the hurt you feel when someone cracks off about your being gay. I guess I better to get used to the cracks about me and Stefan." Todd moved and sat beside Harry, embracing him, holding him close. Cory moved to the other side of Harry and repeated the gesture. Harry accepted their gesture. "I'm okay, you know," he murmured softly, his smile genuine.

"We know," said Cory. "We just want you to know that you are never alone. We will always love you."

"We fell in love with you the first day, back in Kingston, remember?" Todd kissed Harry's cheek.

"Yeah. We were so little." Harry gave Todd a squeeze. He chuckled softly. "Two dick hairs among the three of us."

Cory giggled. "You had both of them."

"You counted them every night before Lights Out," said Todd. He rubbed Harry's chest. "We used to wonder what it would be like to make the Pride of the Fleet stand up and fire a volley."

Harry snickered. "Back then it would have been a dry fire exercise." He paused, gave the Twins a dirty smile, and then continued. "Not that it stopped me from beating off thinking of you guys." He coloured. "That's was when I fell in love with you both." His blush deepened. "I still feel the same way."

"We rather thought you felt that way about us," said Cory gently. "Then, when you kissed us the morning of our Promotion Boards, we knew." He rubbed his cheek against Harry's smooth, beardless cheek.

Todd's lips met Harry's and they kissed long and passionately. When Todd withdrew, smiling, Cory's lips replaced his brother's. As their kiss grew deeper Harry's tongue found Cory's. He moaned softly, and then pulled away. "We better stop because if we don't the Pride of the Fleet will put to sea . . ." Each in turn, the Twins reached down and felt Harry's crotch. "A" gun mount was manned and ready. Harry squirmed and pulled back. "You guys make me feel things only Stefan could make me feel."

"Which Greg couldn't?" asked Todd slowly.

Harry nodded. "Which Greg could not!" He stood up, adjusted his hardon and then bent over and quickly kissed Cory and Todd. "Greg can't understand that it's only sex between him and me. With Stefan, and yes, with you, what I feel is deeper. I love Stefan, and I want to be with him, always. I love you two skates, but I know that you don't love me the way Stefan does. Not that it's a bad thing, because it isn't."

Todd looked up at Harry. "If you felt that way about us, why didn't you say something?"

Cory heartily agreed with his brother. "You would not have had any problems in putting your parade boots under our bed! Hell, Harry, even though you do toot your own horn all the time you have got to know that you are one hunk of a guy!" He looked steadily at Harry. "You must know that the Pride could have sailed into half the bunks in this camp and found a safe haven!"

Harry grinned. He had seen the appreciative looks and heard the soft sighs that oft time marked his passing. Then he frowned. "Guys, I'm not stupid. I've known for a long time the way I feel about some guys. At first I tried to tell myself it was just a stage, you know, that I'd grow out of it. That was stupid. I never outgrew the way I felt. When I first started fooling around with my brother I told myself it was just sex, you know, what guys do together. It happens all the time, and no big deal. I liked it, a lot, and I wanted to do more with him."

"But you didn't?" asked Todd.

"No. All we ever did was beat each other off. What we did was just two brothers fooling around a bit. Before you ask, we didn't go any further, and I don't think he would have, because we were afraid. What we were doing was wrong. Everybody said so, the Church, our teachers, our parents, the other guys we went to school with. Then you two came down the pike and I got really confused."

"Us? What did we have to do with it?" Todd looked at Cory, who shrugged.

"You were queers," said Harry, embarrassed. He gave the Twins a sad look. "That was how we all thought of you back then. I don't mean to be insulting, but that's the way the guys talked back then, queers, faggots, you know the drill." The Twins nodded knowingly. "But you didn't act like queers! Everybody said that queers lisped, and acted more like girls than guys, and didn't like sports. They couldn't fight, and if you turned your back on them they'd grab you and try to make you be like them." Harry stood up and began pacing. "I couldn't understand it. You guys were smart, good looking and damn it, you acted straighter than I did. You swam; you played soccer, and football. You didn't take shit from anyone. Everybody liked you. And you never made a move on anybody."

"Harry, we might be gay but we are not sluts," remarked Cory, his tone hard.

Harry stopped and quickly grasped Cory's hand. "I never meant to infer . . ."

"I know," said Cory with a sigh. "It is just that one gets so tired of . . ." He straightened perceptively. "Contrary to popular opinion, Harry, we do not follow the old axiom that we've never met a dick we didn't like." He hugged Todd. "I love Todd, and he loves me. We are brothers, we are friends, and we are lovers. We are also two absolutely normal males. We like the same things you do. We do the same things you do. The only difference is that we have sex with each other, and sometimes, other guys. We are not all that different from any other swinging dick on this Spit."

Harry resumed his pacing, choosing his words carefully. "I know, Cory, I know!" He chuckled quietly. "But understand please, that back then, when we were all only what, thirteen? Back then, when you made friends with me, I didn't know what to think. I wanted to be your friend, but . . ." He shook his head. "Back then I was really afraid that the other guys would think bad things about me because of my friendship with you."

"We are also used to that," said Todd quietly. "Guys we do not want to have sex with, but want to be friends with, they shy away."

Cory shook his head and sighed. "At first it hurt. It really hurt that guys were afraid to be our friends because we were gay. I think what hurt even more was that one day they were there, you know, with us, having fun together, just being friends, and then someone would say something and the next day, the same guys who were our friends only the day before, they avoided us, they acted like we didn't exist anymore."

"That's when we decided to just say fuck them!" Todd grinned widely. "We just said, if you don't like us, then that's fine. But if you don't like us because we're gay, then fuck you! We have every right to be who we are, and what we are. We have every right to be Sea Cadets. The fact that we are gay has no bearing on how we do our jobs, on how we act or anything."

"And you told the others that!" Harry stopped his pacing and sat on the Gunroom table. "God, did I admire you for that. I still do. You guys have the courage to stand up and fight! Last year, when Little Big Man started his nonsense, you fought back. When Two Strokes started, you fought back!" Harry buried his face in his hands. "I love you both. I wanted to be with you both. But because I was afraid of what people would say, I couldn't do anything about it. I told myself that I could be your friend. As much as I wanted to, as much as I dreamed about it, I could not allow myself to become your lover. I tried not to think about you two."

"But you were thinking about us," interjected Todd.

Harry stared at the Twins, and then rasped a deprecating, caustic laugh. "Yes," he admitted. "I was thinking about you, and every year I would go home and think and think about you!" He slid down to sit dejectedly on the bench that flanked the mess table. "I knew what I was thinking, what I was wanting, was forbidden. I could not allow myself to think those things about you, because if I did that I would be admitting that I was queer!"

"Now, Harry, really," began Cory. "Just because you had two isolated affairs with other boys . . ."

Harry fixed Cory a steely glare. "Cory, do not make excuses for me, or for what I did. I was a fool and I know it. I was a coward as well."

"Oh come off it," sniff Todd. "You? A coward?"

Harry nodded firmly. "Todd, I refused to believe the truth. I refused to admit that I was gay. I was beating my brother off every day, feeling his dick, feeling his balls! I was lusting after you and Cory, but I would not admit what I was. I made up all sorts of excuses for what I was doing. It was a guy thing, just things brothers did." His hands gripped the bench he was sitting on. "I wouldn't let myself be gay. I went out for the football team. I went hunting. I dated girls. I did everything that I could think of not to be gay. Then every summer we'd be together, us three, and the old feelings would come back. God, did I want to go to bed with you both! But I could not let that happen. I hid the way I felt. I became loud, brash, all-male Harry! Harry the man!"

"You were doing a damned good job of it," opined Cory. "At least until Stefan came along."

Harry grinned a sad grin and then a wistful look came over his face. "The first time we were together was the morning after the party we had. Remember? Little Big Man squealed to The Gunner?" The Twins nodded. "I was down on the jetty when Stefan came along. I was angry, and sad that one of us could do such a thing. Squeal, I mean. Then Stefan came along and he, well, he made love to me! Can you imagine? A thirteen-year-old kid came on to me and made love to me! He wanted me! No one else, just me! At first, I was scared and then, God, it just felt so wonderful, so right, and for a week, Jesus, was I happy. He was in love with me, and I was in love with him! I didn't care what people thought! I loved him. I still love him."

"We know. We were there, remember?" Todd placed a hand over Cory's. "We know how you feel. I've been in love with Cory from, well, forever. He makes me mad, so mad sometimes that I could kill him. He infuriates me at times. Then he comes along and gives me a quick feel, or a kiss on the cheek, and I can't stay mad at him. He feels the same way about me."

Cory nodded his agreement. "So you see, Harry, we know exactly how Stefan feels about you and how you feel about him."

"You understand then, why I can't be what Greg wants me to be! I like him, the sex is great, but I do not love him and I never will. He can't understand the difference between my love for Stefan and my affection for him. He wants more than I want to give. To be honest, guys, he wants me to fuck him and I can't do that."

Cory looked incredulous. "For heaven's sake, why not? It's a perfectly natural part of any gay boy's sex life. Hell, a straight guy thinks nothing of getting laid by any girl who will lay him. Why should a gay boy feel any different?"

"Cory's right, you know," said Todd. "In the straight world a guy is expected to at least try to put the make on his girlfriend. If she comes through, well, nobody thinks anything of it, really. His friends are all envious because he's gotten laid."

"The difference is that I don't want to fuck Greg. I know it's stupid, but I just don't want him to be the first guy I fuck." He shrugged. "I suppose in the back of my mind I'm telling myself that my first time should be with Stefan but that isn't going to happen any time soon."

"Greg is willing to take his place," offered Cory with a snicker. He saw Harry's irate look and hurried on. "No offence, Harry, but sooner or later you are going to want to make love. If Greg is willing . . ."

Harry's look was glacial. "No. Greg is a hypocrite! We fooled around in Victoria big time! He liked what we did together and he wants to do it again. I don't!" "But why?" asked Todd reasonably. "Greg is a nice guy. Obviously you like him or you would not have slept with him!"

"Todd, Greg refuses to admit that he's as gay as I am. He likes the sex part of our relationship. He likes sucking the Pride and me sucking him. He likes everything we did but refuses to admit that he's gay. He's falling in love with me but he still thinks that it's just experimenting, just a guy thing. If I'm going to fuck him, or let him fuck me, I want a little more than what he has to offer. He might want a summer fuck, I don't!"

"So then, you're not going to be fucking anybody any time soon?" asked Todd doubtfully. Harry was a normal male with raging hormones and Todd seriously doubted that Harry's resolve was as strong as he thought it was.

"Not Greg," insisted Harry firmly.

"Not Todd? Not me?" hinted Cory.

Todd elbowed his brother. "Don't pay him any mind, Harry. You're high on his wish list."

"I'd be insulted if I wasn't," laughed Harry. He left the bench and sat between the seated Twins, spread his massive arms around and hugged them. He deliberately did not answer Cory's question because he did not know the answer. He wanted to experience every aspect of his sexuality and he expected that one day he would have proper sex with another boy. He might, in the right circumstances, be with either one, or both, of the Twins. He would not, however, make his way to Greg's bed. "I want Greg to be my friend, somebody to fool around with when we feel like it, somebody to be with when we feel like it. I like him. I like him a lot, bit I will not fuck him and if he can't understand the way I feel, then I am truly sorry."

The bugle sounded the call for breakfast and The Twins extricated themselves from Harry's bear hug. "And what about us?" asked Todd as they left the Gunroom and headed for the Mess Hall.

"Well, to be honest, I won't say no." Harry grinned and punched Cory lightly on the shoulder. "There is one thing, though."

"No fucking?" asked Cory, his face hiding his disappointment and his curiosity at Harry's refusal to commit himself.

Again Harry did not answer. He gave his friend a wave and a look of disgust and then said with a leer, "Cory, the next time you want to have a live fire exercise with the Pride can you at least let me take it out of my pants?"

Sub-Lieutenant David Eddy mooched around the Wardroom, feeling sorry for himself and remembering bitterly the suggestion Chef had made to him. Until that ill-fated ride up from Victoria he had always considered himself to be a competent and able young officer, popular with the hands and young enough to enjoy the pranks and jokes that the cadets were always getting up to. Chef's words had cut deep.

Dave had seen the near mutiny that had ensued when Nigel pushed Phantom aside that day in the Mess Hall and he in no way considered himself to be in a league with that particularly sorry example of an officer. He was not a martinet, and Dave had never abused a cadet in any way. He remembered his days as a young Sea Cadet, remembered how he had been treated by sundry officers and was determined to conduct himself properly at all times. He enjoyed being with the other boys and, at times, he considered himself to be more like the senior cadets than the older, more mature officers. That having been said he also he felt that as an officer he was entitled to respect. He was expected to lead the cadets, and in return he was given certain privileges and perks, which did not include having his clothes ripped off and his privates fondled.

What particularly galled Dave was Chef's attitude, implying that it was his own fault and that he should grin and forget it. He did not consider that he had an "attitude." Quite the contrary, he thought angrily. He had been a cadet always, having joined the Navy League Cadets when he was only 8 years old. He had progressed to the Sea Cadets at age 12, and gone right up through the ranks. He'd been Chief of his Corps, and Camp Chief in Kingston and later, Victoria. He'd been told that with his experience he was just the right sort to be a Sea Cadet Officer. Dave had always prided himself on his dedication to duty. Sure, he'd fooled around, like they all did. But he had always respected his officers. He had always given them the respect their rank called for and now that he was an officer he expected the same.

Still, Chef's words bothered Dave and nagging doubt ate at his very soul. Had he done the right thing? More and more he was learning that leadership was not something that could be learned in a school, or in books. Oh, the theory of it could be taught, but so far it had been Dave's experience that he could use all the theories he wanted, and sure as fate something would happen to upset all the theories ever written. When the shit hit the fan sometimes the theories worked. More often they didn't.

The Book said that as an officer he was to take charge and maintain good order and discipline. The Book said that leadership was the ability to lead a group of men in a direction they did not particularly wish to go, to reach a common goal that they did not really want to reach.

Dave had heard Andy and Kyle earlier when they came in to have their morning coffee. He had, unkindly, pointedly ignored them, too full of his own musings to be bothered. He was vaguely aware that he had been in a bloody mood after Chef had dropped him at the Wardroom door last night and that he'd been downright snarly to his fellow officers. So now, in addition to having Chef pissed off at him, he was no doubt in Andy and Kyle's bad books.

He was beginning to think that he should have left everything well enough alone, and was slowly realizing that he had not tried to lead at all. What he had done was to throw his rank around. Which meant that the Master at Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, boys he considered to be his friends, boys he had been a cadet with, were probably pissed off at him as well.

Dave decided, just as the bugle blew the call to breakfast, that there was nothing for it but to go and see his Divisional Officer who was, in his case, the Executive Officer. He would ask to speak to Number One directly after they finished the morning Staff Meeting.

After breakfast The Gunner walked over to the Headquarters Building and into the Ship's Office. He greeted Greg, receiving a sullen "Good morning" for his trouble.

The Gunner ignored the Yeoman's sullenness. He would not let Greg's fit of distemper spoil the day. He checked his mailbox, which was, as he expected, chock-a-block, full of the usual directives and junk that any military service produces ad nauseum. There was a letter from his uncle, who while he was a nice man, was also a banker and forever complaining if he, The Gunner, dared to touch his inheritance.

"It's not as if it's not my money," thought The Gunner. He ripped open the envelope and read the formal, stilted phrases of complaint. His uncle was taking him to task for withdrawing $5,000.00 from his account and investing the money in what his uncle called a wild and harebrained scheme of Joel's. Computers, his uncle advised most seriously, were never going to fly. They were huge, ungainly, and only the government could afford them. Who was this Gates chap? What exactly did this fly-by-night Microsoft Company hope to achieve?

The Gunner flipped to the last page and read his uncle's closing remarks. " . . . In short, Stephen, I strongly advise you that such a venture as Mr. Gates', and by definition, your friend, propose, is doomed to failure. As your friend and financial advisor I must urge you to contact Mr. Lee and attempt to recoup your money.

"On a personal note, dear nephew, I must tell you that your Aunt Joan is not well, and is, in fact, suffering a terminal illness. As she has always been fond of you she asks that you return home for a short visit."

The Gunner sighed heavily. His aunt, a perfect foil for her pedantic and boring husband, had been very kind to him over the years. He would have to make a flying visit to Toronto very soon, probably in September, before the first of the Reserves began their winter training schedule.

The Gunner was about to leave the Ship's Office when Greg, who had been sorting through more mail and for some reason muttering and grumbling to himself held out a large, cream coloured envelope. "Another one, Gunner." Greg pointed to the small, discreet, and finely engraved ducal crest in the upper left corner of the envelope. "Do you know the Pope?"

The Gunner's gaze took in the regal crest and the flowing, copperplate writing on the front of the envelope. He smiled thinly. "In some ways, someone much more important, Greg." He hurried to his office and opened the envelope. After quickly scanning the piece of paper the envelope had contained he sat down in his chair. For the better part of five minutes The Gunner stared into space, stunned, a little frightened, in awe at what he had read.

He slowly reread the letter, taking in the conjoined crests of the Order and the Grand Master, the heavy, engraved Gothic lettering of the Latin script filling one side of the page and the equally rich Palace script on the other.

The news the letter contained was important. The Grand Master of the Order, an old-fashioned, never rock the boat, maintain the status-quo, type of man, had died and a Conclave to elect a new Grand Master had been called.

The death of the Grand Master was not unexpected. He had been, after all, 90 and in his dotage. What was totally unexpected, so far as The Gunner was concerned, was the second piece of information that the letter contained.

With shaking hand he placed the letter on his desk, barely able to absorb the message the letter contained, awed that he, a man of little wealth and low station should be offered, could be even considered for, such an honour. He had only just been confirmed as a Professed Knight of Honour, which meant, as the letter advised, he was now a Candidate for higher office, specifically, Chancellor of the Order, the man responsible for accepting or denying any and all applications for membership in the Order.

He allowed his mind to wander, imagining the power and authority he would have if he were elected. He smiled broadly. Phantom! Phantom could join. He could propose and accept The Phantom as a Page of Honour of Profess and a Candidate Knight. The Twins, Harry, perhaps Val and Tyler. God, imagine the good they could do. Then The Gunner frowned.

Pages of Honour of Profess were sacrosanct. They could not be approached in any way. Sex between a Page and a Knight was forbidden (even if the page were a "Professed" gay male). The Gunner chuckled, imagining Phantom's reaction if he were told that they could not have sex for the next three and a half years. Or the Twins! Lord, would the no sex rule get them going! Still, it was all pie in the sky if he came out of the Conclave as he had entered it. Better to adopt a very discreet wait and see attitude.

He picked up the telephone and dialled an outside number. On the second ring his call was answered. "Acceptasne nominationem, frater?" asked a voice. The question was spoken, as it always was, in perfect Latin, and had a wealth of meaning.

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine that come before you, boys and men, you alone will choose will bring honour and credit to the Order?

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine you alone will be responsible for the actions of those boys and men?

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine only those chosen by you will one day lead the Order down the long and dangerous road called the Future?

Accept?

The Gunner did not hesitate to answer the question. "Accepto, frater," he replied quietly.

"Pax tecum."

The line went dead and The Gunner slowly replaced the handset. He had heard that voice, the voice of the Camarlengo, before, and not that long ago.

The Gunner knew that secrecy was always paramount with the Order. Yet never in his wildest dreams would he have pictured Michael Chan as Camarlengo and Chancellor of the Ancient and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre in North America.

Lieutenant-Commander Charles Oliver Hazleton, Executive Officer of HMCS AURORA sat in his wood-panelled office enjoying the morning. Thus far the day had unfolded, as it should. The sun had risen, a glorious ball of fire, over the Rockies and the Strait of Georgia. The Commanding Officer had confirmed that the Flag Officer, Reserves and Cadets had approved his appointment as CO for next year, the Staff Meeting had been brief and the cadets were all going about their business in a calm and efficient manner. "Life," he thought, "is good."

Which meant he should immediately reach for his tin hat because something was going to happen. It always did.

He had joined the Royal Navy at the age of 17, as a Cadet at Britannia Royal Naval College. He had joined with the firm intention of making the Navy a career and, as he grew older, the firm intention of making his career as pleasant and uneventful as possible and had chosen his field of endeavour with much care. He would join the Pay Branch. Nothing ever happened in the Pay Branch.

Charles Hazelton's career had been unspectacular. He had not won the telescope in Britannia, nor had he aspired to the Captain's Sword in his training ship. He had risen at respectably decent interval in rank, and lived what he considered was the life of a gentleman. He had managed, by attending the right courses and befriending the right people, to avoid anything as strenuous as sea duty. All things being equal he could look forward to ending his career as a Captain (P), living in a large, well-built (and, more importantly, rent-free) house courtesy of the RN, signing papers in the morning and golfing in the afternoon, dining with the Captain's Secretary once a month and lunching with the Admiral's Staff Captain once a fortnight. He had married at a late age, as was expected of him, and looked forward to years of contentment. Unfortunately, two things marred his horizons.

The first was the Korean War, every minute of which he served in the most ill-fated, ill-found, top heavy, cantankerous light cruiser to ever slide down the ways of John Brown's Shipyards. He had joined her at Invergordon, and from Invergordon to Portsmouth she had rolled. From Portsmouth to the Bay of Biscay she had yawed. During gunnery exercises in the Bay when they had fired a broadside to port she had rolled so far to starboard that the stewards, when she finally recovered what was for her a small measure of stability, took to wearing their life jackets and the Bootnecks set up camp in and around "Y" turret (which they manned during Action Stations). In very short order the Quarterdeck looked like a Bedouin encampment, minus the sheep, which, knowing the Royals, surprised everybody.

From the Bay of Biscay to Cape Town the cruiser not only rolled and yawed, she had pitched. From Cape Town to Hong Kong she rolled, pitched, yawed, and for good measure decided to corkscrew in any kind of a sea. He had been seasick and no amount of Dramamine could cure him.

For two years and a bit he had pigged it on the Korean Coast, dodging Red Chinese shells, North Korean bullets and once, American rockets when the ship had been mistakenly identified as the flagship of the North Korean navy. Fortunately no one had been killed, although the Admiral's cabin was never the same, even after repairs.

In 1964 Number One was enjoying a leisurely existence on the South Coast of England, as a Paymaster Lieutenant Commander when he ran afoul of the "Geddes Axe". Misnamed for a long dead First Lord of the Admiralty, the Geddes Axe was a generic term used when the inevitable "personnel restructuring" happens after any war, or when the government needed the money to waste on social welfare schemes, Members of Parliament boondoggles, and aid to uncaring and ungrateful Third World nations. Ships were sent off to the breakers' yards and sailors pensioned off. No matter what it was called it was the sack all the same. He'd been declared redundant, surplus to requirements, given a whacking great buyout, a minuscule pension, kissed on both cheeks, patted on his thin behind, thanked for his past Service to the Crown and sent on his way.

Rather than sit in some dingy, cold cottage in the South of England, Devon or perhaps Cornwall, raising chilblains and Pomeranians, Number One had decamped to the New World where he settled in Comox, was offered a Commission as a Sea Cadet Officer, which he quickly accepted, and now, having risen in rank, this time through diligence and hard work, his future, at least for the next three years, was assured. He would be Commanding Officer of HMCS AURORA and then it would be time to move aside and let the younger bloods take over. One of whom he expected to toddle over any time to either complain about his treatment at the hands of the cadets or to put in his papers.

Number One was not a stupid man. He admitted to laziness, but stupidity, never. He had spent much of his life helping his superiors to manage men. He had seen good officers, and he had seen bad officers. The young man who would soon visit him had the potential to be a very good officer indeed.

On his desk was Dave Eddy's personnel file. All the right signs were there. Dave was destined, if he did not give up his commission as far too many Sea Cadet offices did, to be a star. He was young, intelligent, and got on well with his superiors and his cadets. He had been nurtured from a very young age in the Navy League crèche, and matured in the Sea Cadets.

If anything, Dave Eddy lacked training and depended far too much on his past knowledge and experience as a cadet. His experience as an officer, however, was limited and in many ways he had forgotten that he was no longer a cadet, all the while continuing to think and act like a cadet. Dave was an officer who must, through careful training and guidance, be made to think and act, as an officer should.

Shortly before Stand Easy Dave Eddy knocked on the Executive Officer's door and was granted entry. He was offered a cup of tea and a cigarette. The first he accepted, the second he declined.

Number One had learned through experience that young officers tended to reticence and embarrassment whenever they felt the need to consult higher authority. They were usually so inexperienced and so afraid of making even the smallest mistake that they made tended to go off on a tangent of self-doubt and recrimination. Dave was no exception. Number One listened patiently and quietly as Dave, in fits and starts, and between sips of tea, related his tale of woe. That Number One knew all about it having, as was his habit, discussed the whole weekend with The Gunner and Chef after the Staff meeting, was beside the point. The point was to listen to a troubled young officer.

As Dave talked Number One nodded sympathetically from time to time. When Dave finished Number One filled his pipe, tamped down the tobacco, spent enough time lighting the weed, and then puffed contentedly. "Tell me, young Dave," he asked presently, "at the end of the day, what happened?"

Dave thought a moment. "The Gunner came out, blew his whistle, and the cadets got out of the pool."

"Properly dressed?"

Dave hesitated, and then answered quietly. "Except for Harry and Greg. They were only wearing towels. The rest all had their suits on."

"But the two boys were covered?"

"Yes, you really couldn't see anything."

"So modesty was preserved and morals protected?"

"Yes."

"And you do not understand why they paid attention to The Gunner and not to you?"

"Yes. That and them, um, feeling me up in the pool."

Number One blew a great cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and then regarded his visitor. "Dave, let me begin by saying first off that I am not of the 'respect the rank, respect the man' school of leadership. I have known officers of the most exalted rank whom the lads would not follow to the loo, let alone into battle. I have also known officers of somewhat lowly rank and status whom the men would follow to the very gates of Hell. To paraphrase an old saying, some men are born leaders, some men attain leadership, and others have it thrust upon them." Number One leaned forward across his desk and pointed the stem of his pipe at Dave. "You cannot demand respect. You must earn it! The boys will respect your rank, that goes without saying, and they will obey you, albeit grudgingly. They will not respect you until you give them damn good and sufficient reasons to respect you."

Dave squirmed uneasily. "Sir, I only gave them an order!"

"Why? Were they fornicating in the pool?" Dave shook his head; no. "Was there improper conduct of any kind that would lead you to give that order?"

"Well, they were taking each other's swimming suits off!"

"Of course they were! A battle tactic! Take down a man, or a boy's, trousers, and for that one vital moment the antagonist has the advantage. I should be very upset if all the boys had stripped off, but they did not. Of the what, 50-odd boys who were in the pool perhaps ten, perhaps five, lost their suits?" Dave very reluctantly nodded his agreement. "The boys were engaged in a battle. Very enthusiastically engaged from all reports. Like all boys each team wanted to win. We see it every day, on the parade square, when they are playing baseball, or soccer. Hell, we train them to win, to never give up!"

Dave began to feel like a very small schoolboy. He recalled the afternoon when Nicholas had pulled down Cory's shorts as he rounded third base, heading for home, and the winning run in the baseball game. He had done nothing then, and remembering that he had done nothing, hoped the Executive Officer would not bring that up.

"Dave, my dear, dear boy! You are nineteen years old and for some reason you've decided to forget what life was like when you were a mere cadet." Number One tapped the smouldering remains of his pipe into the crystal ashtray on his desk. "You forgot what it was like to have fun."

"Sir?"

"Our whole purpose is to continue the Navy League's programme. We enrol young boys into the Navy League Cadets with a view of them enrolling in the Sea Cadets. We enrol boys into the Sea Cadets with a view to them joining either the Permanent Force or the Reserves. The whole idea is a natural progression to an end: maintain the Fleet."

"I know that, sir," replied Dave slowly. "That's how I started."

Number One nodded. "In a way you are the Poster Boy for the programme. You've done exactly what was hoped for. Having done it, I want to ask you this question: in your journey to AURORA, did you have fun?"

"Well, yes. If I hadn't enjoyed it and had fun, I don't think I would be here."

"Well done, Dave!" Number One clapped his hands. "You've got it in one! You've learned a lot, and while you were learning, you had fun!"

"But . . ."

Number One waved Dave's "but" aside. "We work hard, we play hard. Last weekend we bussed the entire Ship's Company 150 miles to Victoria. We had them marching on a hot parade square most of one afternoon. We had them march in a long parade through the streets of Victoria, with drums beating and flags flying. We gave them a few hours off, to have fun, and then we had them performing a very complicated evolution for the peasants! We, in short, worked their little behinds off!"

"It was a long weekend," conceded Dave.

"Yes, it was. The point, however, is that while we worked them hard we gave them time to have some fun. Time, I might add, that the Commanding Officer authorized."

Dave's shoulders sagged. "Then I came along and blew it."

Number One nodded his agreement. "Yes, in a way you did. I, however, prefer to think of it as a learning experience for you. The first lesson to be learned is that young men, and to a certain extent, older men, have very different ideas of what fun is. Your idea of fun is obviously diametrically opposed to the lads' idea of fun. To their way of thinking they were doing nothing wrong, then along came you riding your moral high horse." Shaking his head Number One grinned slightly. "Obviously you have never had to deal with Royal Marines. Their idea of fun is going ashore on a run wearing fancy dress."

"Fancy dress?"

"Costumes on this side of the Atlantic," explained the Executive Officer. "For some reason it is almost traditional that the Royal Marines wear fancy dress when they go ashore to get drunk. You have not lived until you've seen a Bootie in a lace-trimmed corset, fish net stockings and a garter belt." Dave shuddered. Number One chuckled. "You also forgot that the moment you took your Commission you crossed a bridge. You became "them" as opposed to "us". As an officer you are the perceived enemy whose whole purpose in life is to make their lives as miserable as possible."

"Which I confirmed by trying to interfere," admitted Dave, more to himself than to Number One.

"Yes. To the minds of those cadets all they were doing was enjoying themselves, in their free time. Then you, the officer came along, on your high horse, full of moral indignation, piss and vinegar, waving your stripe-and-a-half at them, and for no good reason that they could see, attempting to deny them their right to enjoy themselves. You paid the price. As I once did."

"You did?"

The Executive Officer nodded and laughed quietly. "It may be hard to believe, but I too was once a young and inexperienced officer. Like you I was full of moral indignation, piss and vinegar. I too ignored the fair warnings from more seasoned, more experienced men. Number One scratched his nose and thought a moment. "Looking back, I rather think that I felt insulted that a Lower Decker would have the temerity to offer me, an officer, advice on how to handle a drunken sailor. I was an Officer! I had been trained, I thought, on how to deal with the lads. Little did I know! All you lost were your trousers. I got a right good thump in the head!"

"Dear Lord!" exclaimed Dave. Striking a superior, particularly if he were an officer, was almost a flogging offence in the Navy.

"Indeed. It was entirely my own fault, of course. I went into town one Saturday afternoon to shop and came upon the Shore Patrol - a Petty Officer and two ratings. They were attempting to deal with a very drunken matelot who had, for reasons best known to himself, taken it into his mind to climb upon the town's War Memorial."

"The War Memorial?"

Number One nodded sagely. "In itself an act of sacrilege, at least to my young and patriotic mind. The rating had decided that the statue on the Memorial bore a striking resemblance to his brother! Nonsense, of course, but then, the lad was very drunk." He sighed heavily and continued. "My first fundamental mistake was ignoring the Petty Officer's advice. I do not know why it is but whenever an officer is told by a ranking NCO not to do something, or when the NCO says, 'I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir' we just must go off and do it! It was a mistake because I was doing something I was not trained to do, specifically, getting a drunk down from a monument, and, more importantly, it was not my job in the first place. I was interfering, you see."

"As I was?" asked Dave, hoping against hope that the Executive Officer would not agree with him.

"As you were," agreed Number One dryly. "You were basically told by two very senior Ratings and one fellow officer to mind your own business. Both The Gunner and Chef, contrary to what you thought, knew exactly what was going on, knew exactly what to do if the situation gave promise of getting out of hand, and how to put a stop to it if and when the time came!" Number One grinned. "First lesson learned: always listen to your NCOs. They usually know what they're about!" He leaned back in his chair and continued his lecture. "Back to my drunken matelot. He refused to listen to me, of course, and continued holding an animated conversation with that bloody statue. So what did I do? I waved my rather pitiful one stripe at him and ordered him to descend on pain of arrest! Second lesson learned?" He shrugged. "Never issue an order to a drunk, and never issue an order you should know full well will either not be obeyed, or will be obeyed so grudgingly that the lads will never willingly listen to you again. They will obey you, but only because your rank says they must. They won't thank you because they think you are wrong in issuing such an order, and they will not trust you again."

"Sir, I thought I was doing the right thing," interrupted Dave.

"Of course you did or you would not have done it in the first place. But think on my lad, think on. What real harm was being done? They were wrestling and having a hell of a good time. They were doing no harm whatsoever. To their minds your order was an unfair order, with no room for argument so far as they were concerned."

Dave considered the Executive Officer's remarks carefully. He ran over in his mind the events of the day, and a picture began to form. The cadets had not been doing anything but having a hell of a good time. The more he thought about the scenario the more he realized that while yes, bathing suits had been removed, they had also very quickly been put back on. He thought about how embarrassed he had been when his shorts and T-shirt had been stripped off of him and realized that no self-respecting male would ever flash his parts at members of the audience, no matter what the sex. Harry and Greg had taken the trouble to find something to cover themselves with. They had not emerged from the pool unclothed. None of the boys had. Those who had been stripped had very quickly retrieved their swimsuits. He sighed heavily and looked searchingly at the Executive Officer. "I over-reacted, didn't I?"

Number One nodded. "You did. You misread a situation, you did not listen to the advice given you by more experienced people and in the end, sadly, you ended up embarrassing yourself."

"I didn't think things through," muttered Dave.

"Precisely!" Number One pointed the stem of his pipe at the young officer. "Our boys let you off easy. They happen to like you, as an individual, and in time you will laugh at what a silly ass you made of yourself!" He smiled. "As an officer the worst fate to befall you is to lose your credibility with the hands. While it is quite human to over react to a situation you must take great care when you assess a situation. If you overreact or if you, out of sheer bloody-mindedness issue an order the hands know is wrong, and if you ignore the warnings given you, then you have no one to blame but yourself. If you find yourself in the casualty ward, you have no one to blame but yourself." A slight frown broke Number One's features. "We will consider the matter closed and give thanks that there will be no further repercussions."

"Sir?" asked Dave. The Executive Officer's sudden change of mood was disturbing. "Dave, as an officer you must understand that any order you give could have further consequences, consequences that you did not anticipate and that you, at the end of the day, heartily wish had never happened."

"Your matelot?"

"My inebriated matelot," corrected Number One with a small sigh. "Looking back, and realizing now what happened, I regret what I did because in retrospect he was really not doing anything harmful. He was having a rather pleasant conversation with a statue. It never occurred to him that he might fall and do himself an injury. It never occurred to him that he looked ridiculous. He was minding his own business and felt, rightfully so, that I should be minding mine."

"But sir, he was drunk!"

"Of course he was. Do you think he would have climbed up fifteen feet to talk to a bronze statue if he were sober?" ask Number One sharply. Then he chuckled and cocked his head, softening the moment.

Dave chuckled. "No, I guess not."

Number One nodded rubbed his chin reflectively. "The lad would, of course, in the fullness of time, have climbed back down to terra firma, been charged by the appropriate authority, and paid the penalty. He was quite happy where he was, and the Shore Patrol knew it. They were prepared to out wait him." He stood up and walked around his desk and sat on the edge of it. "Dave, You do understand that what we both did was an error in judgement?" Dave nodded his understanding.

"We should not have done what we did, not you in Victoria, nor I Pompey. In both our cases there were perfectly capable ratings about to look after things. In my case the Petty Officer knew what should be done, as did the Shore Patrol ratings. I suspect that the drunken tar on the Monument knew as well." He pointed at Dave. "In your case our lads knew that you were technically in the right, but for the wrong reasons. There were senior NCOs and another officer telling you the right way to handle the situation and you ignored them. For your unwarranted and unwanted interference you were thrown into the pool and had your clothing removed. I on the other hand got a right good thumping!"

"He hit you? That's a chargeable offence."

Number One nodded ruefully. "Don't I know it! Not that I charged him because it was my own damned fault that he hit me. Unlike you, when the lad came down from his perch I did not beat a hasty and somewhat undignified retreat. Oh no! I had to not only wave my one stripe at him, I waved my Commissioning Scroll and both volumes of Kings Regulations! I added insult to injury by telling him that he was a disgrace to the uniform. I then proceeded to tell him that he was on a charge, several charges, actually. Conduct prejudicial and all that, public drunkenness, insulting an officer, offering insult to an officer, and a few others I really can't remember. I was a Tartar!" He smiled and shook his head. "I insulted a man who had just gone through a war. He had a DSM and the Military Medal. Plus two Mentions in Dispatches. By telling him he was a disgrace I offered a far greater insult to him than he had to me, which, in reality, he had not done! He only told me to sod off and let him alone. He then quite rightly punched me in the eye. He got 14 days Confined To Cells, I got a rollicking from my Divisional Officer and a very stern lecture from the Commanding Officer on how not to antagonize Jolly Jack when he's ashore." He gave Dave a knowing look. "You understand, young Dave, the point that I am trying to make?"

"I think so, yes. You didn't stop to think what would happen when you interfered. The matelot was a war hero and because you stuck your oar in, didn't think of the consequences he had a black mark against him. Which could have been avoided had you walked away and let the ratings take care of business."

"By not thinking I caused a good man irreparable harm. He lost time and part of his pension because of it. You were lucky. My matelot will never forgive me. Your matelots have probably forgotten all about the incident."

"Chef thinks I should turn in my papers," said Dave quietly.

"Whatever for? The matter is closed. You've been counselled and you now understand the error of your ways." He gave Dave a searching look, "There is one other thing, however.

"And here comes the other shoe dropping," thought Dave, cringing slightly. He knew that he had gotten off much too lightly.

"What you have got to learn, laddie, is that as an officer you cannot be all hail fellow well met one minute and Captain Bloody Bligh the next. You have got to learn than you must be fair, firm and friendly. You have got to think about what reaction your orders will cause, and before you issue an order you have got to be damned sure that it is the right order." Number One stood up and motioned for Dave to follow him. As they left the office he turned and grinned widely. "We'll go over to the galley and have a cup of Chef's coffee. If we speak to him nicely perhaps he'll sweeten it from that bottle of good Navy rum he keeps in his desk."

As they passed the parade square they saw the cadets marching and counter-marching, practising their Passing Out Parade. "You know, when I was their age I always thought that the best part of a Passing Out Parade was the prize giving. We never do that, and I think we should."

Dave nodded his agreement. "The senior cadets would like that. Usually all they ever take away from one of these places are their memories."

"I shall talk to Father about it. Ah, here we are." They mounted the galley steps and entered the building. Number One looked directly at Dave and said coolly, "You should know, Dave, that I would not have accepted your resignation."

"No?"

"Getting thrown in a pool and having your privates fondled is no excuse to resign. What the lads did to you comes, I think, under the heading of 'testing the officer'. They do it constantly, you know. When an officer is being bloody-minded, as you were, the troops will not rest until in some small way they get back their own. So, they push the envelope by putting you in a position which, under the guise of a joke, they test you, to see how you react." He chuckled. "They are looking to see just exactly what you would do after they've had their fun with you. What they did to you was harmless and not at all vicious. They were testing you, and now they are waiting to see how far you will carry it."

"It's over," replied Dave firmly. "I was a fool, I know it, sir."

"Good. I say that because you have learned a lesson. Let the knowledge of that lesson lighten your burden and let it ease your pain." He laughed quietly. "Console yourself also with the fact that all they did was to debag you. Me, I almost lost me manhood!

Dave gave the Executive Officer a strange look. "Sir?"

"The beggars talked me into being the test weight for a jackstay transfer. It was the middle of November and I foolishly agreed to do exactly what they wanted me to do. There I was, happy as a clam, being pulled back and forth, thirty feet or so above the very cold surface of the River Dart.

"I remember thinking that it was not all that bad when the damned Marine Bugler sounded Stand Easy. I looked around and there I was, hanging over the exact middle of the river. I looked about and on one shore stood the sending party, on the other the receiving party, all grinning at me. I was foolish enough to think that the Load Master would give the order to heave in on the in-haul."

"He didn't?"

"Did he like hell! He shouted out 'Check away on the jackstay, check away on the in-haul' and down I went, waist deep in the coldest water in the South of England. Dear God, I could feel my quite unused knackers shrivelling down to the size of a currant and . . ."

Greg's outburst aside, The Twins had had a very busy, but pleasant morning. Half the gun crews were off in classes and the remaining cadets were older and seasoned hands who needed very little supervision. After a dry run of their part in the Ceremony of the Flags the Twins set their cadets to cleaning and polishing the long-barrelled guns and went to sit in the shadows of the Headquarters Building.

One of the things they liked about spending much of their day on the parade square was that it was the perfect place to watch their world go by. They had seen The Phantom and Ray go into the Stores Building and, later, had seen Rob and Ryan rush out of the Stores Building. Todd snickered at the sight of the two Storekeepers hurrying toward their barracks. "Methinks two young cadets of our acquaintance were doing more than counting the sheets."

Cory giggled but made no comment.

A round of yelling drew their attention to the centre of the square where Sylvain was castigating and berating Andre in a stream of French invective. Andre had a goofy grin on his face and was blushing furiously. He had made a mistake in his timing - which he rarely did, and Sylvain was making him pay for it.

"And to think I used to like Sylvain," said Todd coldly.

Cory looked over and watched as Sylvain, his tirade over, returned to his position in front of the Bugle Band. Cory grunted noncommittally. While Sylvain was very good looking, and had a great body, he did nothing for Cory, and Cory said as much to Todd.

"You just don't like him because he's not a clean-cut all-Canadian boy. If he was you'd be on him like ugly on an ape!" retorted Todd.

"No, not him. He's too moody. One minute he's all happy and horny, the next he's all pouty and horny. He doesn't give me a tingle in my little dick."

Todd grinned. "I'm sorry about that. It's not so little."

Cory returned the grin. "We have anything important on this afternoon?"

"No, why?"

"Well, I was thinking. What say we skive off and go for a swim?"

Todd cocked his head and waggled his eyebrows at his brother. "And?" "I thought we'd do a recce of the woods on the other side of the roadway. Maybe take a look and see if that old shack is still there." Cory grinned lasciviously. "One of the advantages of having a small dick is that the more you exercise it the bigger it gets."

"Sounds like a proposition, sailor," replied Todd.

"It is."

Todd chuckled and nodded toward the Band, which was just tuning up for their run through. They noticed that Little Big Man was back on the right flank of the Drum Line. Little Big Man might be a proven prick, but he was also an excellent drummer. Harry, as Chief Drum Major, could, and did, forgive many sins when it came to his Drum Line.

The Twins watched as Harry put the Band through its paces. The musicians and drummers were really very good and Harry was, as usual, perfect. As they watched Harry Todd's mouth formed a sly smile. "Did you know that Harry felt the way he did about us?"

Cory shook his head. "Nope. Now I wish I had. He was always so fucking macho all the time."

Todd nodded his agreement. "I think we'll wait for him to make the first move."

"You think?" Cory had his doubts but was prepared to defer to his brother.

"When he's ready, when the time is right, he'll let us know."

"Okay."

They watched as Dave Eddy and the Executive Officer walked over to the galley. Number One was waving his arms and making pulling motions. Both officers were laughing and it was obvious that Number One was spinning a dip.

"Dave's not a bad guy, now that he's an officer," offered Todd.

"Still has a small package."

Todd leaned forward and whispered in Cory's ear, "Always remember, good things come in small packages. "

Cory snorted and gave his brother the elbow.

The Phantom and Ray, each boy burdened with bundles and boxes, left Stores and hurried by, all agog about something. The Phantom paused briefly and asked Cory how many of his gunners were lunching with him.

"Oh, shit!" Cory slapped his forehead. "I bloody well forgot." He quickly counted the line of gunners sunning themselves and watching the Band. "I count 24, plus Todd and me. The rest have classes all day so I guess I'll have to invite them tomorrow. Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem. I just have to set up a separate table."

"Come on, Phantom," interjected Ray. "We have to talk to Chef."

"Okay, keep your pants on." The Phantom smiled and nodded to Cory. "We may have a little surprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"Yeah. All I'm going to say is that you will be pleased."

The Twins saw The Gunner walking toward them. He stopped and asked if he could borrow some of their gunners. "I need some help unloading my car," The Gunner explained. "After lunch I'll issue you clowns your new uniforms."

The Twins readily agreed to help The Gunner. Gesturing to the gunners they all trooped over to where The Gunner had parked his car and in short order the new white uniforms were locked away in The Gunner's office.

As Stand Easy approached The Twins returned to their viewing place.

Brian, together with Kyle, had the Guard out, practising with the Band. They were actually pretty good, and Kyle had finally gotten his act together, choreographing his movements, and the Guard's, to the second with the Band's music. Shortly after the bugle sounded Stand Easy they saw Greg leave the Ship's Office and head off in the direction of the Gunroom.

"In a way I feel sorry for him," said Todd as they watched Greg disappear into the Gunroom.

Cory agreed. "It's too bad he confused lust with love. Things might have been better for both him and Harry if he knew the difference."

Todd's face brightened. "Everybody's at Stand Easy. What say we go teach a certain Administrative Writer an object lesson?"

Cory grinned widely. "You know, dear brother of mine, you have a perfectly evil mind."

Todd stood up and rubbed the dust from the back of his well-filled bell-bottoms. "I wonder if Greg remembers the morning he called you 'Tiger'."

The Gunroom was eerily quiet as the Twins entered. Todd carefully locked the door and followed Cory into the Mess.

They found Greg sitting on his bunk, his back against the bulkhead, with his knees drawn up. Greg heard their light footsteps and paled as he saw Todd and Cory enter. He moved quickly into a sitting position and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he moaned as the Twins positioned themselves, one on either side of him. Greg began rocking slowly, mumbling his apologies.

Todd slowly took Greg's hands away from his face and looked into his eyes. Greg did not seem to notice that Cory had slipped his arm around his waist. Greg continued to moan and groan, repeating over and over again how sorry he was. Todd shook him gently. "Greg, stop it! We know you didn't mean what you said."

"I didn't, honest. It's just that, ah shit!" He shook his head and pounded his leg with his fist. "I don't know what the fuck I am, or what I want."

Todd put his arm around Greg's shoulder and with his hand began to gently rub the back of Greg's neck. "You're a perfectly normal 17-year-old guy who's had his first taste of guy sex. You liked it and that frightens you."

"I'm not queer, Todd. I can't be queer!" insisted Greg emphatically. "I like girls! I want to get married and have kids, damn it!"

"Greg, experimenting with Harry does not necessarily make you queer." Todd in fact did think Greg was gay, but too repressed and far too fearful of contravening the social conventions to admit it. "Guys have been doing that since they discovered their dicks! No one thinks any less of you, you know."

"Todd, I sucked Harry's dick!" whispered Greg.

"And he sucked yours," replied Cory. His right arm was firmly around Greg's waist. His left hand rested on Greg's firm thigh. "You're even." He began to slowly rub the warm flesh of Greg's inner thigh.

"I couldn't understand why I felt the way I did," continued Greg. "I'd see him every morning, naked, and almost always with a bone on and I'd think fuck, what a god! I told myself over and over again that I couldn't be feeling things like that. I used to get a bone just thinking about him."

"Harry's a stud, that's for sure," agreed Todd. His left hand drifted around and began to rub Greg's firm stomach. He wondered if Greg realized that he was being expertly and deliberately seduced.

Greg did not seem to hear Todd's voice or feel the hands expertly manipulating his body. "Then, when we went to that party at Sandro's place, and I started drinking that fucking vodka, the more I looked at Harry, the more I wanted to, you know, do things with him. Fuck man, I couldn't help myself. We got into bed and I could feel him against me and, God, did I want to hold him and taste him."

Greg was only vaguely aware of Todd's hand as it slowly unclipped his belt and pushed down his zipper. He felt very warm and pleasant feelings as Todd's hand went under his gunshirt and slowly made it's way up to his nipples. Shuddering as two fingers rubbed and gently pinched his nipples into hard, sensitive nubs, Greg moaned softly, trembling as another hand slowly felt his rising penis through the thin fabric of his underpants. Greg was trying to talk while panting heavily, trying to ignore the most wonderful feelings that seemed to be spreading outward from his balls. "I told myself the next morning, ah, Jesus, please, don't do that," he moaned. "It's wrong . . ."

The Twins ignored Greg's half-hearted protests and continued their seduction. Greg, breathing heavily, began to thrust his hips, moaning and mewing softly, giving himself over to the pleasures that flashed like jagged bolts of lightning through his body.

Todd nuzzled Greg's neck, his warm breath intoxicating. "What did you tell yourself?" he whispered. "Did you tell yourself that you were drunk and it was the booze that made you do what you've been wanting to do ever since you moved in here?" Todd's lips were very close to Greg's right ear. He moved closer and gently kissed Greg's curving earlobe.

Greg felt the sensuous warmth of Todd's wet tongue and shivered. He could feel a warm wetness spreading across the front of his briefs, aware now of the smooth hand that was massaging his hard, curving erection and he began groaning louder as the front of his briefs were pushed down, exposing his thickened organ. Greg could feel the head of his dick being rubbed softly and he pushed his hips slowly upward.

While Todd continued to rub and fondle Greg's chest and nipples Cory began to slowly masturbate the heavily breathing teen. Greg growled and moaned with each slow upward and downward motion of Cory's hand. Greg closed his eyes and gave himself over to the feelings raging through him. He barely heard a voice - he did not know which Twin was speaking - asking him if he wanted to stop.

Overwhelmed with pleasure and lust, all pretence and protests forgotten, Greg shook his head no. He wanted this to happen. Greg could feel his oozing precum being gently wiped from his weeping helmet, could feel his balls contracting, knowing that he was peaking. He could not stop the delicious sensations that crashed against him. "Oh, God," he breathed slowly, feeling the most wonderful feeling a boy could ever feel flowing upward from his now swollen balls. "Ah, SHIT!" he yelped as his dick lengthened and thickened. He was almost . . . NO FUCK . . .HE WAS GOING TO . . . Greg's hips thrust harshly as he fucked Cory's tightly enveloping hand. His cock spasmed and jerked and a thick stream of his juice flew from his gaping piss slip and splattered along the curve of his chin. He thrust again, and another stream flew out and landed on his gunshirt-covered chest. He yelped loudly with each thrust of his hips as his dick orgasmed and his balls emptied. All too soon he was spent and he pulled quickly away from the hand that had brought him upward to indescribable pleasure and down to glorious ecstasy. Greg opened his eyes and, breathing heavily, looked at each Twin in turn. "Dear, God, that was so fucking good." His face was flushed a deep red, and his body tingled in the thrall of the afterglow of sex.

When he had calmed down a bit Todd kissed Greg warmly and, while Cory slipped quietly away to go and wash his hands, Todd pulled Greg close to him. "Did you like it, Greg?" asked Todd softly.

Greg nodded and rubbed his hair against Todd's cheek.

"Did it feel wrong doing it?" Todd's voice was silken soft.

"No, it was wonderful," replied Greg, shaking his head.

"Are you sorry it happened?" Again, Greg shook his head no. "It was just sex, wasn't it?"

"Yes, just sex." Greg pulled away from Todd and straightened his body. He looked at Todd and smiled thinly. "I wish it . . ."

"Don't," murmured Todd as he placed two fingers against Greg's lips. "It was just sex and neither you, nor me, nor Cory want it to be anything else."

Greg smiled wanly. "No, it will never be anything else."

"Now you understand how Harry feels."

Greg closed his eyes, and then opened them. "Yeah, I guess I do." He stood up and pulled off his soiled gunshirt. "I was such a jerk!"

"I know. Now you're not. Now you understand what Harry needs, what Harry wants. He needs you to be his friend. He wants you to be his friend. He needs you to make him feel as good as he makes you feel. He wants you to feel as good as you make him feel."

Greg crumpled his gunshirt into a loose ball and threw it on the bed. "I want him to be my friend. I also want him to make me feel good again."

"No strings? No attachments? On his terms?"

"Yeah. I understand now. At least I think I do. He doesn't want to spend his life with me, and I sure don't want to spend my life with him." He sat down on the bed abruptly. "Fuck, Todd, after what I said to him, Harry will never speak to me again."

Todd stood up and moved past Greg. "Harry is not a man to bear a grudge. If you really meant what you said, talk to him. You might be surprised at what he tells you."

Todd joined Cory who was waiting for him in the lobby outside of the Chiefs Mess. As they walked back toward the parade square Cory sighed explosively. "What's the matter now?" demanded Todd.

"You do realize that by popping Greg's puppy, and making him understand what his relationship with Harry really is, that we've blown any chance of ever getting Harry's boots under our bed!" complained Cory.

Todd sniggered and leaned close to Cory's ear. "You can always dream, Tiger."