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). Please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com

Many thanks to Peter, my editor, who always knows the right phrase to use when I manage to screw up the syntax.

The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 6

After finishing his lunch The Gunner managed, with surprisingly little difficulty, to extricate The Phantom from Chef's clutches. Chef, for once, had more than enough hands available for the work that needed to be done. Martin and Clifford, primed with milk, cookies, and cake, were busily peeling and chopping onions, carrots and celery, which would be roasted with Mr. Fujimoto's prime chickens to give them flavour.

Randy and Joey, behaving themselves, were giving the chickens their pre-roasting bath, cleaning the cavities and salting them. Sandro was industriously larding the baking pans while Ray and The Phantom loaded the dirty lunch dishes into the gaping maw of the dishwasher.

Chef was more than pleased with what the cadets had done during his absence, so much so that he had promoted both Joey and Randy to the rate of Able Cook and was fulsome with his praise of Ray's, Sandro's and The Phantom's ability to cope in extraordinary situations. This caused all five boys to eye him suspiciously.

Chef waxing lyrical with praise was an immediate cause for alarm and usually meant that they would pay for his praise somewhere down the line. Being in an expansive and generous mood Chef had readily agreed to The Phantom taking two hours off work to get his driver's license, conveniently forgetting that The Phantom had come in at 0600, four hours earlier than normal and had been saddled with helping Ray to get breakfast going.

After dropping The Phantom off at the licensing office and leaving his car for the youth to use for his road test, The Gunner walked downtown. It was a typical summer day in British Columbia, warm and sunny and The Gunner had an enjoyable walk, discovering that Comox was actually a pretty little town, with shops and restaurants lining the esplanade bordering the harbour, which was filled with fishing boats and small sailing craft. There was a wonderful view of AURORA across the broad waters of the harbour and he regretted not having a camera with him.

The Gunner spent a pleasant half-hour or so just wandering about, taking in the local scenery, admiring the flowers that seemed to fill every spare inch of open space, watching the tourists, amazed at the activity, which should not really have surprised him. Comox was after, all was said and done, a tourist town, as well as a seaport and, in many ways, a fishing village. It was a small town of neat shops, large wooden homes, and sturdy, steadfast churches. As he wandered the small business district he wondered what life would be like, living in this small piece of Eden. A piece of Eden he had never really seen at all. He drove by the town every morning and every evening and had never really seen it and had only been downtown twice, both times for dinner with Joel.

Continuing his stroll The Gunner stopped and leaned against the metal railing that lined the water side of the Esplanade, enjoying the gentle breeze that blew inland from the Strait, and watching the pleasure craft darting about the harbour.

From the Esplanade he walked on through the town and over to the market area, and was amazed at what appeared to be a magical carpet of flowers, flowers of seemingly endless variety and colour. He admired roses, carnations, Queen Anne's Lace, ferns beyond description, intoxicated by the mingled perfumes of the blossoms.

From the flower market he returned to the main shopping street and found the trophy shop that stocked a wide variety of shields and trophies and supplied many of the small awards and mementoes for both HMCS AURORA and CFB Comox. From the large stock on hand The Gunner chose the shields and crests that would be handed out to the cadets at the Passing Out Parade. He chose the lettering and style for the citations and arranged for delivery. Since the awards would be kept at AURORA rather than going home with the recipient, he also arranged for smaller, separate shields, which would be given to the award recipients.

His business in the trophy shop completed, The Gunner went off and found a small sidewalk cafe where he enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Directly across the street from the cafe was a small shop selling artefacts and relics of ships and the sea. On the sidewalk in front of the shop two long book bins flanked the door. The windows of the shop were crammed with bits and pieces of china, old photographs, menu covers and yellowed passenger lists from long gone liners.

After finishing his coffee and cigarette The Gunner crossed the street and browsed through the somewhat battered selection of books, finding a small, thin volume of the History of the RCN in World War I. A very thin volume, if the truth were told. With only two ancient cruisers, and some small requisitioned yachts and tugs to sail with, and for the most part confined to fisheries patrols, hydrographic and tidal surveys, the RCN had not fired a shot in anger. The Gunner also found a volume on Naval Protocol, which he thought might be a good addition to the Ship's library. He went inside to pay for his selections and was amazed that such a small shop could stock such a huge and eclectic collection of maritime artefacts. There were paintings and models, more pieces of crockery and, in a large cabinet lining the far wall of the shop, a collection of ship's silver. The ship models ranged from elaborate builders models to obvious products of local craftsmen: hand-carved fishing boats, models of CC1 and CC2, Canada's first submarines (vintage 1914), "primitive" models of seafarers and a set of dominoes carved from whale ivory and baleen.

The proprietor of the shop was a small, wizened little man wearing a yarmulke. He was dressed, much to The Gunner's surprise in a lightweight, long-sleeved summer shirt and long trousers, surprising in that almost everybody in town wore the universal rig of the day, shorts, short-sleeved shirt and sandals. When the shopkeeper introduced himself The Gunner detected a slight, European accent. German? Possibly Polish?

"Ah, the Navy's here," said the little man who had introduced himself as Jacob Schoenmann. "Are you from the base or the other place?"

"The other place," replied The Gunner as he handed over the two books. "I work with the Sea Cadets."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his understanding and rang up the purchases using an ancient brass cash register. "Such nice boys. Always so polite."

"They come in often?" asked The Gunner.

"Every once in a while. The models attract some of the boys. I hate to disappoint them when they ask for the plastic model kits, which I don't carry. One, you might know him, goes to the same synagogue as I do in Courtenay."

"That would be Sandro. He's a cook."

"A very nice young man. He does you credit." Mr. Schoenmann handed the books back to The Gunner. "Will there be anything else?"

The Gunner looked around. "You have quite a collection. It's hard to know where to begin."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his agreement and sat down beside his cluttered desk. "Mostly civilian artefacts." He pointed to a long table piled with china plates; crystal glasses and assorted serving bowls and dishes. "When a ship is taken out of service the owners sell off the fittings and fixtures. There's quite an interest in the old liners, you know."

"Pacific liners?" asked The Gunner as he walked to the table. He picked up a small white saucer. In the centre was the burpee, or house flag, of the NYK Line. He noticed that there were several lines represented, CP Steamships predominating.

"Yes, for the most part," replied Mr. Schoenmann. "I do have some things from the Atlantic liners." He indicated a small table on which was a varied collection of brochures, deck plans and menus. "Everybody wants the Atlantic liners. Normandie, the Queens, or the other great liners, ships of the '20's, the '30's, I have a market for, but not the older vessels."

Mr. Schoenmann rummaged through the papers and brought out what appeared to be a small booklet. On the cover were engraved two female figures supporting a plain white star. The bottom half of the cover was an engraving of a ship's compartment, a reception room of some sort. He handed the booklet to The Gunner. The Gunner opened the booklet and saw that it was a dinner menu from the R.M.S. Titanic dated the 14th of April 1912. He read through the menu and chuckled. "They ate well. I would have thought that this would be worth a great deal."

Mr. Schoenmann snorted. "Not much of a market for her, I'm afraid. She sank on her maiden voyage, you know." He picked up a set of deck plans. "The Lancastria, lost in 1940 with great loss of life." He shrugged expressively. "Disaster doesn't sell."

The menu intrigued The Gunner. "Still, it's interesting. What are you asking for this?"

"Everything on that table is $3.00. Look around, enjoy. Perhaps there's something else you'll like. In the mean time, let me show you my Navy items." Mr. Schoenmann pulled himself erect, a small grimace of pain crossing his face. He saw the look of concern on The Gunner's face and held up his hand. "Not to worry, just a little arthritis."

The Gunner returned Mr. Schoenmann's smile and looked around. For a Navy buff there was quite a lot of "Navy things", brass port and starboard lamps, sextants, miniature ship's wheels and binnacles, the Laws of the Navy engraved on glass and brass plaques, some models of corvettes - obviously hand made and very beautiful.

As Mr. Schoenmann was looking for his album of Navy photographs The Gunner could not help thinking that the old man did not get his knobby and misshapen hands and fingers from arthritis.

"Ah, here we are," said Mr. Schoenmann as he held up a large, sepia-coloured photograph. "It's a little faded but interesting." He handed the photograph to The Gunner. "The officers of HMCS RAINBOW in 1910, including the Canine Complement, Able Dogs Driver and Mimi."

The Gunner looked at the photograph and smiled. There were, besides the dozen or so officers, two dogs in the picture. "Surprising they had dogs. Usually the ship's pet was a cat."

"Sailors being sailors are attracted to animals. Believe me, I know."

"Really?"

"Yes, I saw some Naval service in the old country, the Imperial German Navy. I was in the Great War."

"What Branch?"

"In 1914? No branch," replied Mr. Schoenmann with a grin. "In August 1914 I was a Naval Cadet, fresh out of the Academy in Kiel. Later, and after the War, I was a Deck Officer." He settled in his chair and crossed his hands over his surprisingly flat stomach. In the manner of all old veterans Mr. Schoenmann was inclined to reminisce. "I was in SMS DRESDEN, a light cruiser, Captain Ludecke commanding. A fine ship of the East Asiatic Squadron. A good ship, a clean ship."

The Gunner thought a moment. "You were at Coronel . . ."

Mr. Schoenmann nodded. "And the Falklands. What a battle! Every ship but mine was sunk! SCHARNHORST blew up taking Admiral von Spee with her. Also his two sons. Very nice young men."

"Then you were a prisoner as well? HMCS GLASGOW sank DRESDEN while she was anchored in Chilean waters. "

"You know your history, young man!" Mr. Schoenmann slapped the desk in glee. "So often nobody listens anymore to the wanderings of an old man!" The Gunner agreed silently. Too often the experiences of the older generation were dismissed out of hand by the younger generation. "In the event, no, I was not a prisoner," Mr. Schoenmann continued, remembering. "We scuttled the ship and rowed like demons for the Chilean shore. I spent the rest of the war working out of the Embassy in Valparaiso."

"So you had a pleasant war."

The old man shrugged. "I had a pleasant career, which was difficult for a Jew in those days. Still, I managed it. I was an officer, and a genuine war hero. I never rose above the rank of Lieutenant but it was a good life. Until 1933."

"I'm sorry," murmured The Gunner. He had spent many nights at sea curled up in his bunk with a book, almost always history, and he recalled reading of the swift elimination of Jews the Nazis had so insidiously wrought on the pitiful remnant of the German Navy left after 1918.

"Don't be, it was a long time ago." Mr. Schoenmann moved to the large cabinet at the end of the shop. "I managed to survive, at least." He waved his arm to indicate the contents of the shop. "In a way this shop is the result of my survival. In 1939 my family and I were forced to leave Germany. We bought passage on a liner to Cuba."

"The St. Louis", said The Gunner immediately.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his confirmation. "The St. Louis."

Left unsaid was the knowledge that the voyage of the St. Louis was perhaps one of the blackest pages in the history of two nations: Canada and the United States of America.

In May of 1939 the German liner St. Louis, carrying 907 German Jewish refugees sailed for Havana, Cuba, in search of freedom. The Cuban authorities, faced with a wave of vitriolic anti-Semitic propaganda instigated by the local Nazis, refused to allow the Jews to land. The ship sailed, its passengers filled with despair, hoping to find a haven, any haven, anyplace but Germany.

Despite a wave of outrage that assailed them two men, one for political reasons, one because he was anti-Semitic, refused to consider asylum for the Jews of the St. Louis.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, President of the United States, faced with an election in 1940, and influenced by the anti-Semites of his State Department and the vitriolic bigotry of the Midwest and the Bible belt, bowed to political necessity and turned away.

In Ottawa, William L. Mackenzie King, Prime Minister of Canada, influenced by the anti-Semites of his Department of Foreign Affairs and of his own opinion that there were already too many Jews in the Dominion, followed the lead of his American cousin, and the signs reading "No Jews Allowed" went up in the Customs sheds of Halifax and Saint John.

"You landed in Antwerp?" asked The Gunner presently.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded slowly. "And stayed. Some of the passengers went to France and Holland. The lucky ones managed to be accepted by England."

The spectre of the Holocaust, with all its terrors entered the cramped shop. The Gunner's father had seen Dachau, and refused to speak of it. The Gunner's reading had told him that for all but 287 of the Jews of the St. Louis Antwerp had only been a way station on the road to Auschwitz.

"Young man, terrible things happened. Do not dwell on the past." Mr. Schoenmann smiled thinly. "Do not dwell on it, my friend, but always teach your young men to remember it." He bent down and opened one of the doors that lined the bottom of the cabinet. He pulled out a small figurine and handed it to The Gunner. "Enough of my past. A remembrance of your past, I think."

It was a sailor, painted in natural colours, wearing gaiters, web belt, a field pack, and holding a bayoneted rifled at his side. The figurine was mounted on a round wooden base, and was about ten inches tall. "Say, this is very interesting," replied The Gunner as he admired the figurine. "Gosh, It brings back memories." He recalled the mind-numbing drills of CORNWALLIS, the Halifax Natal Day parades he had marched in, the Remembrance Day ceremonies where he had stood stock still, resting on reversed arms, wearing his beloved old blues. "Wherever did you get it?" he asked, totally taken with the little sailor. "I've never seen one before."

"An older gentleman, a collector, quite elderly, he painted them as a pastime."

The Gunner examined the figurine. It was porcelain, glazed, and the painting was very detailed. The little figure was a three-badge stoker. He had a sudden idea. "We're having a Prize Giving next week. I think the boys would much rather have something like this than a plaque."

Mr. Schoenmann smiled. "I'm sure they would. There is a glass dome for it and a small brass plate for some engraving . . ." He clapped his hands. " . . .A most admirable gift."

"Do you have any more?" asked The Gunner.

"Only seven all together. The gentleman who made them, alas, has passed on." Mr. Schoenmann began rummaging through the locker, pulling out the remaining six figurines, in the process pulling out another object. "Each figure has a different trade badge and rating . . ." he was saying when The Gunner interrupted him.

"What's that?" asked The Gunner, reaching out to take the object. It was a perfect reproduction of Nelson's Column, complete with lions, mounted on a matching stand. He examined the engraving incised on a cartouche that formed part of the decoration. "Presented to the Steamship Lord Nelson by the Corporation of the Town of Nelson, British Columbia, 1923" he read.

"A presentation piece from the town to the ship. The town is still there. The ship was broken up in 1948."

"Ship's silver, then?" The model intrigued the Gunner.

"Plated, I am afraid. It's a nice piece but not a seller. Not much call for table silver these days. At least not from the smaller ships. If it was from one of the Atlantic liners, maybe."

"Still, it's nice. I'll take the figurines and if the price is right, I'll take this."

Mr. Schoenmann thought a moment. "From a Former Naval Person to a Serving Member, would $50.00 be too much?"

"Do you have any more pieces that look interesting?" asked The Gunner. His idea had grown and he knew he now had the perfect way to establish a provenance for the biggest piece of the Dining Room.

The shopkeeper began pulling out his treasures, explaining that since they were all considered too old fashioned, and from ships that no one had ever heard of, there was little market for the larger silver pieces. He found a silver cigar box from the Duchess of Atholl. "A nice ship, one of four sisters," Mr. Schoenmann informed The Gunner. "She was sunk in the Atlantic in 1942." Some silver ashtrays followed. "From the Empress of Asia, another war loss."

"However do you find these things?" asked The Gunner, amazed at the variety of artefacts.

Mr. Schoenmann shrugged. "People steal." he said simply. "I buy what they steal." Then he smiled and chuckled. "Actually there is a large number of collectors interested in souvenirs and artefacts of the old liners. We correspond, we buy, we sell, and we trade with one another."

After the Gunner had made his selections they discussed prices. All were low, as ship's silver was not as popular with the collectors and tourists as were the models and china. They were, Mr. Schoenmann explained, considered old fashioned and little better than dust collectors.

"You'll never get rich charging those prices, Mr. Schoenmann," said The Gunner as he settled the bill.

The shopkeeper smiled grimly and then pulled back the sleeve of his shirt. The Gunner looked and saw the letter and five blurred numerals tattooed there.

"Sometimes, young man, life is all the wealth you need."

After revisiting the trophy shop where he ordered an additional, special shield, and laden down with his purchases, The Gunner was walking back to the licensing office when his Land Rover slid effortlessly alongside of him. He looked and saw The Phantom, a huge grin on his face, waving a small piece of paper. "I'm legal," crowed The Phantom as The Gunner stowed his packages and got into the car. "No sweat."

"I never doubted you for a minute," returned The Gunner as they pulled away from the curb. "Would you mind telling me where we're going?"

"Not at all. I have to do a RAS for Tyler, so we're going to my house. Then to the Kmart."

"A Replenishment at Sea?" He smiled knowingly. "Tyler's out of booze."

"Yeah. What with the two parties and the wet downs, he ran out. You're okay with me doing this, aren't you?"

The Gunner nodded. "Tyler's legally old enough to drink. As long as he keeps it under control, I don't have any objections."

"It's not as if they get blitzed every night, Gunner. The Twins hardly drink at all. And I've never seen any of them drunk . . .well, maybe Harry, but that was only the one time and it was his wet down."

The Gunner laughed. "Phantom, I know they drink, and I know how much they drink. I also know that they don't abuse the privilege, and it is a privilege. I just don't want the Old Man doing rounds on Friday and having a jug fall out of the locker he's inspecting. And why are we doing a pit stop at Kmart?" The Phantom laughingly explained Kevin's laundry woes. The Gunner chuckled, then frowned slightly. "I really don't think it's a good idea, Phantom, for you to replace Kevin's pink drawers. He might take it the wrong way."

"What way?" There was a trace of anger in The Phantom's voice. "He needs the underwear. He can't just wear nothing. It's unhygienic, you know!" The Gunner shook his head. "Phantom, I agree with you up to a point. However, how would you feel if out of the blue somebody bought you some underwear? Wouldn't you be just a little wary and suspicious? Guys do not ordinarily buy underpants for other guys."

"Suspicious?" began The Phantom. "There's nothing to be suspicious about. All I am doing is trying to do him a favour and you make it into something . . .oh SHIT!" He realized now what The Gunner was getting at. "He'll think maybe I'm trying to get into his pants, won't he?"

The Gunner nodded his agreement. "A jug of Clorox bleach would be better, Phantom, safer as well." He gave The Phantom's leg a light pat. "Remember, Phantom, what I told you earlier. People will pick up on something that so far as you are concerned is totally innocent and aboveboard, and make the worst of it. Unless of course you are trying to get into his pants?"

"I most certainly am NOT!" replied The Phantom hotly. "Granted, he's a good looking guy, but he's not my type at all! Why would you even think that I would want to get into his pants?" He waved his hand and the car swerved slightly.

"All I'm trying to do is to help out one of the guys. What's so wrong about that?"

"First of all, calm down and keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel," ordered The Gunner mildly. "I would much prefer that you have your hissy fit after we've stopped the car."

"I am not having a hissy fit, Gunner. I resent what you said." The Phantom's face was stony and there was fire in his eyes. "I'm just trying to help out a guy is all."

"And you should be commended for your charity," said The Gunner with a slight grin.

"Thank you Saint Stephen!" snapped The Phantom sarcastically.

"I am no saint and all I am trying to do is to point out to you that impulsive acts of kindness between teenage males just might be misinterpreted."

"Interpret it any way you like, Gunner," returned The Phantom. "I am not trying to get into anybody's pants. Including yours!" he finished ominously. Then he turned and pretended to look into the driver's side mirror. He smiled a small, evil little smile. The Gunner's words of caution had given him the genesis of a wickedly delicious opportunity: Ray wanted to get into Kevin's pants. Therefore, if getting Ray into Kevin's pants took some new underwear, or Clorox, or whatever it took to smooth the way, it was a small price to pay.

The Gunner was smart enough to know that he was just going to dig himself into a deeper hole if he continued on. He did not doubt that Phantom was up to something. He also did not doubt that he would wait a long time for Phantom to tell him what he was up to. Rather than pursue the issue The Gunner decided to let the matter slide. There was no point at all in going on about it. When Phantom got his knickers in a twist he could not be talked to. The Gunner decided to smooth the waters. "Would you like to know what I bought?" he asked, breaking the silence, his eyes bright with amusement. There was just something so damned, wonderfully, deliciously sexy about Phantom when he sulked.

"No!" The Phantom's voice was cold.

The Gunner did not pursue the issue and presently they were pulling into the driveway of The Phantom's house. "Are you coming in to help or would you prefer to stay out here?" asked The Phantom, as he got out of the car. "I wouldn't want you to think that the neighbours were misinterpreting your actions."

The Gunner raised his eyes to heaven but said nothing. He got out of the car. Smiling, he followed The Phantom into the house.

The Phantom's house offered a cool refuge from the summer heat. It was typical of the middle-class houses of the era in that much of its basement had been converted into a "rec" room.

Reached by a winding, narrow set of carpeted stairs, the room occupied fully half the deep basement. The floor was carpeted with worn, light green carpet tiles. The walls had been lined with fake oak panels. Along one wall was a fully stocked wet bar. The furniture was old, comfortable, overstuffed chairs and sofas, lumpy refugees from the rooms upstairs. The far wall, which bisected the basement, gleamed dully in the harsh light of the overhead fluorescent lights, and was broken by two doors, one at the far end of the bar, the other in the middle of the wall.

The walls of the room were hung with a varied collection of family photographs, almost all of them showing The Phantom and his brother in various sports uniforms and poses: The Phantom, age 8, when he played for the Little League; Brendan in full football gear; The Phantom at 14, wearing a skimpy swimming suit, proudly holding a trophy of some kind. Scattered around the room were trophies for swimming, baseball and football, all testifying to the athletic accomplishments of the two Lascelles boys.

The Phantom slipped behind the bar and walked to the far end where he pushed open the door leading to his father's liquor supply. The Gunner followed and stopped at the doorway to gasp at the sight. To his right was a floor-to-ceiling wine rack, every nook of it containing bottles of wine. Stacked on the floor three boxes high was case upon case of liquors of every description. The Gunner whistled his awe. "Jesus!" he muttered as he examined some of the cases. His eyes widened as he read the brand names: Cutty Sark, Smirnoff, Crown Royal, Vat 69 were some of the brands he immediately recognized. None of the liquor was cheap, he noted. "Your Dad has enough booze here to last a lifetime," he said to The Phantom, who was rummaging around looking for an empty box.

"This is only about half of what he gets," replied The Phantom. "Everybody wants to keep on the good side of the Chief of Patrol." He began opening cases of liquor, choosing bottles with studied care. He knew what his friends in the Gunroom drank. "Every Christmas Eve we have a big block party. All the neighbours get together and sing carols and end up here. We get rid of quite a bit, actually." The Phantom's voice was flat.

The Gunner sighed. Then he growled low. "Phantom, come here, will you?"

The Phantom straightened. There was a small, knowing smile on The Gunner's lips. Despite himself The Phantom responded and moved forward and into The Gunner's open arms. "What?" The Phantom asked as he felt The Gunner's arms encircle his waist, pulling him close to his warm body.

The Gunner gazed into The Phantom's deep, wonderfully green eyes. "You are so cute when you're pissed off at me," he smiled.

The Phantom's lips met The Gunner's. He felt The Gunner's hands slipping down the waist of his trousers and into his boxers. He pulled away and rested his head against The Gunner's strong, broad chest, listening to his soft, whispering voice, feeling the warm hands sliding across his hips and gently cupping his genitals.

"God, you are such a monster," groaned The Gunner as their crotches met.

"And you are such a bastard," returned The Phantom with a giggle.

"I am so! A prime, number one, Grade-A, Canadian bastard who loves you so fucking much it hurts."

The Phantom raised his head and pulled back a little. "In that case, I'll forgive you," he said softly.

"That's very gracious of you," replied The Gunner, "seeing as how I didn't do anything to be forgiven for."

"We'll talk about it later," murmured The Phantom as he allowed himself to be led to one of the lumpy sofas. He chuckled. "A lot later."

The wind had died and the Spit sweltered under the oppressive heat. On the parade square activity had been suspended and the cadets, stripped to the waist, bickered and grumbled as they sat in what little shade there was, sweating and cursing, even the Twins, who had long boasted that the heat did not affect them and that they never perspired. The galley, which had a flat roof, retained the heat, so much so that even with all the windows open to catch so much as a wisp of air, the place was at least ten degrees hotter than it was outside, and everybody was cranky.

After spending a pleasant and satisfying hour together in the basement rec room, The Phantom and The Gunner had stopped at the Kmart and then returned to AURORA to find Chef in full roar. Joey and Randy were pouting, Martin and Clayton were off in one corner scowling and peeling potatoes, Ray and Sandro were snapping at each other and arguing about the sauces that Sandro was supposed to be making for the fish entree. Observing that things were back to normal The Gunner beat a hasty retreat, which earned him a snarling accusation of cowardice from The Phantom.

The Phantom made himself as useful as he could, trying not to let the sight of the half-naked boys distract him. So oppressive was the heat all of the galley workers, except Chef, had stripped off their gunshirts and tees and were working bare-chested, with towels around their necks to help absorb some of the perspiration. The Phantom found the sight of them, with the waistbands of their underpants peeking over their belted trousers, rivulets of sweat coursing down their hairless chests, exciting and strangely erotic, so much so that he welcomed the chance to go into the dining hall and serve the First Dog Watchmen as they straggled in for their supper at 1530.

With the Watchmen fed The Phantom decided to screw the pooch for a while and went out to the loading dock. He undid his shirt and sat on the edge of the dock, flapping his open shirt, trying to cool down. To the west the Dockyard looked deserted. The YAGs had departed somewhere, probably up island, and nothing was stirring down there. Across the all but deserted harbour - even the seagulls had seemingly called it a day - the town of Comox shimmered above the flat calm waters, waters so calm that the cadets would say that the harbour was as flat as piss on a plate. He lay back, supporting his upper body on his elbows. It was, he thought idly, too hot to smoke or fuck.

Ray came onto the loading dock and sat down beside The Phantom. He, like The Phantom, was suffering from the heat, more so because his groin was steaming and the leg bands of his briefs were rubbing him raw. The Phantom saw Ray wince slightly as he rubbed his crotch and advised a good, long shower and a healthy application of baby powder.

"Showers are off, or haven't you heard?" replied Ray. "Jesus, I wish I could just strip naked and jump into the bay."

"Well, its one way to cool off. What happened to the water?"

Ray explained that there was not enough pressure in the pipes that ran from the town, the result of too little water in the reservoirs that stored the water coming down from the mountains. "Everybody's restricted to one shower until the reservoirs fill up again. Greg was around with the order while you were gone. Everybody gets one shower, and everybody has to shower together. Pusser scrubs: one minute of water, one minute to soap up, and one minute to rinse."

"You're lucky then." The Phantom struggled upright and rubbed his shirttail across his chest. "Cooks are exempt. Engineers as well. Cooks because of the hygiene aspect, engineers because they work in the engine room where it's hot all the time."

Ray shuddered. "I love Chef a lot, but not enough to shower with him!" The Phantom joined in Ray's laughter. "Too bad Kevin's not a cook. It would be a good way to check him out."

Ray stared at The Phantom and then shook his head. "I can wait."

"Ray, have you got the hots for him?" The Phantom asked seriously. "I mean, have you got the tingly dick, ball-shrinking hots for him?" The Phantom gave a Ray a devilish smile.

Ray gave The Phantom a fuck off look, and then relaxed. "You saw the fool I made of myself at lunch. What do you think?"

"Not too much of a fool, since I was the only one who noticed." He gave Ray's arm a small squeeze. "Ray, you're allowed to look, you know."

Ray turned and looked at The Phantom. "But, Phantom, I want to do more."

The Phantom chuckled quietly. "Can't fault you there, Ray. Not at all!"

Ray sighed wistfully. "I do want to do something with him, but I don't think he'd go for it."

The Phantom lay back against the cold concrete and covered his eyes with his arm. Then he raised it and looked directly at Ray. "Ray, Kevin is just like every other swinging dick around here, horny. Under the right circumstances . . . you'll never know unless you try."

"But I don't love him!" returned Ray.

The Phantom groaned and shook his head. "What the hell has that got to do with it? Do you really think that I was madly in love when I started visiting guys in the middle of the night? Do you think that the Twins fall in love with every guy they fool around with?"

"Well, no, I suppose not," conceded Ray.

"You fool around with a guy because you both want to fool around! It's that simple. You do not have to rush out the next morning and pick out your china pattern, for fuck's sake." The Phantom sat up and pulled Ray to his side. He put his arm around his winger's shoulder. "Look, what it boils down to is sex. You want it. Kevin might want it. I don't know because I don't know him that well."

"I'd look a right fool if I tried something, now, wouldn't I?" snapped Ray.

"Probably, not to mention getting the shit kicked out of you if he's not into guys."

"That helps a hell of lot. And you sure don't seem all that upset that I want to sleep with another guy!"

The Phantom stared into the bright sunshine. It was time for Ray to get on with his life. "Ray, I am not upset. I want you meet other guys. I love you, yes, and maybe, and I say maybe so that you don't get your hopes up, we may very well sleep together. Fooling around with you is one thing. Making love to you, and having you make love to me, quite another." He stood up and walked to the end of the loading dock, scuffing the metal edge with his shoe. "I love you, and I want you to be happy. In some ways I would like to be the person to bring you to that happiness." He returned to where Ray was sitting, squatted down and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "But I realize that I am not that person. Right now you might think I am, but I'm not."

"And just how am I supposed to find this mythical person?" asked Ray sarcastically.

"You do what every other gay guy does. You meet other guys, you very carefully choose whom you'd like to sleep with, and then you do it."

"But how would I know, and I don't want to chase every set of balls in sight! I'm not some a kind of slut!"

"Nobody asked you to be," replied The Phantom calmly. "You play it smooth, you play it cool. You play it very carefully because you do not want to get a reputation. If you play it right, the guy will make the first move, and when he does that . . ." He sat back and grinned. "You always get the other guy to make the first move. When he does, one thing will lead to another."

"I don't think Kevin's gay, so why would he make the first move?" replied Ray, his tone doubtful.

The Phantom snickered loudly. "Ray, it's call sex and it's called experimenting. Almost every guy I've been with has been straight. They've also all been horny and believe me, a stiff prick has no conscience."

Ray giggled. "Boy, is that right! But Phantom, how will I, I mean how will I know if Kevin is willing?"

The Phantom stood up began doing up his shirt. "Ray, believe me, you'll know."

"That's a help, that is!"

"Okay then, try this on for size. You're horny for Kevin. You want to get in his pants so you have to figure out a way to get him in a situation where you can find out if he'll let you get in his pants, right?" Ray mumbled something about telling him something he didn't know. The Phantom ignored him. He rubbed his chin and then snapped his fingers. "Showers!"

"What about them?" asked Ray, confused.

The Phantom chuckled. "The regular showers are off, right?" he asked.

"Yes, I just told you that!"

"Don't get all huffy, just hear me out." He pulled Ray back into the building and into the washplace. "Voila, showers!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

Ray rolled his eyes. "Okay, showers! Now that I've seen them, just what in the fuck am I suppose to with them and what has Kevin got to do with . . .?"

"Ray, really, can't you just shut up and listen?" asked The Phantom in an exasperated tone.

"Talk!" replied Ray throwing his hands in the air.

"Kevin has got to know by now that the entire Ship's Company is restricted to a three-minute shower, which in this heat is useless." He pointed at Ray. "You are in a position to offer him unlimited water so you wait until he's complaining about not being able to shower and you offer him one here!"

"That's devious." Ray thought a moment. "But yeah, I can do that."

"Just make sure Matt isn't around. With the water restrictions he'll want to take a shower and three's a crowd, if you know what I mean." Then The Phantom waggled his eyebrows and smiled a small, wicked smile. "Unless of course you want to get into Matt's pants, too."

"Phantom!" yelped Ray, shocked that Phantom would even suggest such a thing.

"Okay, okay. Now, that's step one." The Phantom was warming to his plan and the ideas were coming thick and fast. "That will at least give you an opportunity to check him out. If you like what you see you go to the next step."

"Which is?"

"You offer him some clean underwear. You saw how embarrassed he was talking about having nothing but pink pants, so you offer him some nice, clean, white briefs and . . ."

"Which I don't have!" Ray was getting pissed off. Would Phantom ever get to the point? "And even if I did he'd never fit into mine. He's a lot beefier and must outweigh me by . . ."

"I do," interrupted The Phantom. "Briefs. Snowy, white, brand new briefs!"

"You do?"

"I bought them in town this afternoon. I also bought some bleach, but that's a non-starter. If there's no water for showers there won't be any for washing clothes."

"Okay, I take your underwear, which I can't for the life of me understand why you bought them because you never wear briefs and in this heat I'm sorry I have them on . . ."

"I bought them so you can use them, dummy!"

"Me? Well thanks, Phantom, but I have more than enough to last me."

"Not you, you twit. You give them to Kevin. Haven't you been listening?"

Ray shook his head and walked into the locker room where he sat down on one of the battered wooden benches that lined the room. It was beginning to dawn on him that Phantom had put a great deal of thought into this proposition. "Phantom, I cannot understand what you want me to do," he said wearily.

The Phantom sat down beside his friend. "Consider this Lesson One in Seduction 101. First, you get Kevin in the shower. Then, as a gesture of friendship you offer him these extra underpants that you just happen to have in your locker. They're too big for you because I fucked up and got the wrong size. Are you with me so far?"

"Okay, I can go along with that. I always keep extras anyway so . . ."

"Good." The Phantom cut him off abruptly. "Now then, after the shower, and the gift giving, you offer him a cool place to sit down and have a chat. The lounge maybe?" The Phantom thought a moment. "No, Chef's office. There's a fan in there."

"That's some leap forward, Phantom."

"Maybe, but it will work." The Phantom emphasized his words by squeezing Ray's shoulder. "This heat will not let up for a day or three. Unless it rains, which I don't think it will. You offer Kevin a place to keep cool. After all day baking in the sun the barracks will be hot boxes."

"Okay, I con him into Chef's office. Then what? I wave a magic wand?"

Chef began bellowing in the galley. They were wanted. Ray stood up and as they began to walk into the dining hall The Phantom replied, "No, you wait for him to wave his magic penis!" He chuckled knowingly. "What you do is get him to start taking about sex and ask him about his girlfriend - a guy that good looking has got to have a girl friend - and let him carry the ball or balls because I'll bet that before you know it he'll be complaining about how horny he is and how all he can do is jerk off and . . ."

"That's all well and good. What if he's not horny? What if he's not interested?" asked Ray, a note of hesitation in his voice.

The Phantom grinned. "He'll be horny. Hell for all you know he might be horny and gay!"

Ray's jaw dropped. "Kevin, gay?"

"And if he is, my friend, he'll let you know it and if that's the case you wave your magic penis at him and let the good times roll!"

Two hundred-odd miles to the south and east, in the shadows of the foothills that rolled west and north to join the Canadian Rockies, Michael Chan set aside the document he'd been reading and leaned back in his leather chair. He was beginning to get a headache, as he always did when he was forced to read the chicken scratching that his business partners in Hong Kong insisted on using in all their correspondence. He picked up the letter and glared at the Chinese ideographs.

The letter was an insult to his dignity. His business partners, obnoxious and as arrogant as only the Chinese can be, assumed that he was proud of his heritage, which he most assuredly was not! He did not look Chinese; he did not feel Chinese; he did not think Chinese.

Michael had inherited his looks from his grandfather, a loud, raucous, hard drinking, hard-swearing Scotsman and the hardy Scot's genes had given him his height, his slimness, his warm, dark brown eyes and high cheekbones. As a young man he had bemoaned his only two "Chinese" features: his hair, which was straight and very black, and what he called his Chinese eyes. The first he kept short, the second had been, from Michael's perspective, "corrected" by cosmetic surgery. Michael, who owned what was reputed to be the best Chinese restaurant in Vancouver, with all the Chinese flummery and frippery expected in such a place, categorically refused to allow anything remotely Chinese to intrude in any other aspect of his private life, including his house.

As soon as he could Michael had left the family compound, a huge, Regency complex built around two large courtyards. The house, which stood directly to the north of his own home, contained a series of large, multi-roomed apartments housing his aunts, uncles and innumerable cousins. He snorted contemptuously at the thought of so many people living cheek-by-jowl, all related and all of them fighting and screaming in their abominable Cantonese! Was it any wonder that even though the place was just beyond the red brick wall that marked the northern boundary of his estate he only visited once or twice a year?

Michael had deliberately turned his back on all things Chinese. He had left his family home to live in an apartment until the estate he now owned came on the market. He had purchased the 64-acre estate, torn down the nondescript wooden house that had stood in the grounds, and built his house in the manner of a classical 18th Century, Georgian, country house.

The house suited his character and lifestyle. Solid, quiet, classical, symmetrical, the plain orange-brown Banbury Stone bricks accented with limestone trim; the grounds of the estate filled with flowers and trees; the rooms filled with carefully selected antique English furniture; the walls were wood-panelled or painted in soft colours, and hung with fine 18th century portraits (including a Turner and two Lawrences) and landscapes, including four by Constable. It was the home of a solid, quiet, cautious man.

Michael Chan was a cautious man. The nature of his business demanded it. Every day every room was swept for listening devices by a very well paid technician using the most up-to-date and state-of-the-art detection equipment. Around the perimeter of his sprawling official estate were motion and sound sensors and any intruder, no matter how small, was immediately detected and identified by closed circuit television monitors that were watched and manned every hour of the day and night in the Security Control Room, a steel and concrete bunker located in the basement.

A shadow crossed the windows looking out onto the wide terrace outside his office. Michael looked up and saw one of the Security men passing by. The man, like all the men employed to guard and patrol the grounds, was young, not more than 25, and Chinese. He had been carefully recruited in Hong Kong and even more carefully trained by Major Meinertzhagen, ex-Guards, ex-SAS, and Chief of Security. The perimeter guards were a concession to his Hong Kong business partners. There were certain lines that even he dared not cross.

Thinking of the Major caused Michael to glance at his watch, a wafer-thin, plain, Patek Phillipe. Not yet 4:30. In a few moments Laurence and Noel, nominally under-butlers, would enter and arrange the tea things. Promptly at 5:00 the Major, as he did every day, would knock discreetly and enter. They would take tea and discuss the day's events and the security arrangements for the Conclave.

Michael rose from his desk and walked to the floor-to-ceiling French window that overlooked the terrace and the formal gardens. He was pleased to see that the English gardeners were almost finished with their plantings. He was so pleased that he made a mental note to increase the bonus each of the gardeners would receive when they finished their work and boarded their flights for home. He opened the door and walked onto the terrace. It was really a beautiful afternoon. There was a cooling breeze blowing from the mountains. The new plantings had taken well and the lush, green expanse of lawn was perfectly groomed. The terrace was immaculate, without a speck of dust, a twig, not even an errant ant to mar the flagstone surfaces.

The gardens were in full bloom. Closest to the house were the roses he so loved, filling the air with their scents and pleasing the eyes with their wonderful colours, reds of every shade, yellows, pale gold, lavender, the colours of the rainbow and more, each bush a masterpiece of the horticulturist's art, each bearing an illustrious name: 'Reine Victoria', 'Tartarus', 'Duchesse de Montebello' and so on. Bourbon roses, Old Growth Roses, Hybrid Teas and Noisettes. The list went on and on.

Nearest the terrace was Michael's favourite rose, officially called 'Anna de Diesbach'. He much preferred its other name: 'Gloire de Paris.' Behind him, carefully trimmed, was what many considered to be the apotheosis of Noisette roses: the magnificent 'Gloire de Dijon' climbing upward toward the eaves of the house.

Thinking of the roses caused him to frown. His rose gardens were without doubt the finest and richest in the province. The seasonal flower gardens, banks and beds of rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias, magnolias, fuchsias and hydrangeas were just as magnificent, as were the Broadleaf Maple, Choke Cherry and Black Hawthorne trees that bordered the estate. Off to his right, surrounding the old stable yard and mews was a grove of flowering Pacific Dogwood. The combination of trees and flowers presented a wonderful portrait. Which no one ever saw.

Michael clenched his fist. Another reason to hate his heritage. He might live in a fine house in British Properties; he might own furniture and paintings that caused collectors and museum curators the world over to salivate with envy. No matter that Karsh and Beeton had photographed his gardens. In the end it gained him nothing for at the end of the day his name was Chan! Had his name been Chandler the world would have beaten a path to his door. Instead, only two people had had the courtesy to call on him: Catherine Leveson-Arundel and Mary Randolph Putnam, the President and Past President of the Rose Society of British Columbia. Both ladies called regularly for tea, and both had left behind a small gift, Mrs. Arundel the 'Dijon' and Mrs. Putnam a cutting from her own prize-winning 'Paris'.

He glanced at the clear, cloudless sky then looked across the lawn and beyond the line of trees that bordered the estate. He could see the slate roofs and tall chimneys of the houses that marked what was called, for simplicity's sake, the East Village. There was another, smaller village to the south, and one to the north. There was no West Village due to the simple fact that he did not own, as he did the hundreds of acres to the East and South, the land to the west. The acreage to the west, thousands of acres of virgin forest, Douglas Fir, White Spruce and Lodgepole Pine, was Crown Land, and not for sale at any price.

The villages, only five or six small cottages each, housed the members of the outside Security Force. Unlike the men who patrolled the grounds inside the high brick walls, this force was composed of Brits, with a sprinkling of Americans, every man either ex-SAS or ex-Rangers or Navy SEALS, and each man handpicked for the job. The outside men were quite deliberately Caucasian. They roamed the woods and farmlands outside the estate in a variety of disguises and ostensibly for a variety of reasons. There were nature and riding trails meandering through the forests and the sight of hikers and riders was commonplace. As the Major had pointed out, having white hikers and riders was much more sensible in a place where, except for Michael's own family, any Chinese in evidence was more likely to be there to wash the laundry rather than ride the horses.

Michael heard the clatter of the tea table being laid and wondered if either of the two men preparing the tea things would be on duty tonight. Both men were white, as were all members of the Household Staff. Both men were ex-Royal Marine Commandos and had been sent off to school in England to learn their cover trades as under-butlers. It was, he thought, a bit much to ask them to be footmen during the day and then have them wandering the house half the night on guard duty. He would speak to the Major.

Michael re-entered his office and murmured his thanks to the two men. They nodded in acknowledgement and left the room quietly and discreetly. Michael sat back and thought of his own lifestyle. Quiet, discreet, low-key and very conservative in all things. Major Meinertzhagen, who was listed on the household accounts as the Comptroller, was a case in point. His outward facade belied his inner steel and ferocity.

The Major might wear impeccably tailored, double-breasted, pinstripe suits (tailored by the best Bond Street bespoke tailor, whom Michael also used). He might speak in the dulcet and cultivated tones of a Sandhurst graduate (which he was). He might also, if provoked, or requested to do so, inflict great physical harm, quietly and discreetly, of course, as witnessed only this morning when the Major had joined him for coffee and quietly informed him that Gerry James Omanski would ride in no more parades.

Dismissing thoughts of the lowlifes of Vancouver and Victoria from his mind, Michael settled into one of the Hepplewhite pale-green and gold upholstered armchairs that flanked the Sheraton tea table. Almost immediately the door leading from the corridor opened and Laurence, dressed now in his formal livery of brass-buttoned, black tailcoat, buff waistcoat, Windsor collar and plain black necktie, entered carrying a large silver salver of sandwiches. Behind him, immaculately dressed as always, followed Major Meinertzhagen carrying a large wicker basket filled with yet more papers. After setting the basket on Michael's desk the Major joined him at the tea table, adjusting the knife-edged trousers of his black, pinstriped suit. His heavily starched white shirt gleamed; his Guards tie was perfectly knotted.

Michael glanced at the wicker basket of papers, and then nodded to Laurence. "Thank you, Laurence, I shall pour."

Laurence bowed his head and left the room. They sat in silence, sipping their tea, enjoying the exquisite brew. All too soon business would intrude on their quiet interlude. "I've had Hambleton's latest sales catalogue in the post," said the Major, taking a sandwich. "Mrs. Putnam's Constable is listed."

Michael cocked an eyebrow as he reached for a smoked salmon and watercress sandwich. "An admirable lady."

"Formidable as well," murmured The Major. Mrs. Putnam feared no man, including Major Meinertzhagen.

"We must see that she receives a good price." Michael turned and glanced at the painting over the carved marble fireplace: Constable's Flatford Mill. "Harwich Lighthouse will make an admirable addition to the collection, don't you think?" The Major nodded his understanding. He would attend the auction and soon enough the painting would hang in Michael's house. Michael offered a plate of Queen Alexandra sandwiches to the Major. "Thank you, no, Michael." Setting aside his teacup he patted his flat stomach and smiled. "They are very good but one must watch one's figure." Michael chuckled. The Major was fanatical about his weight and keeping in what he called "fighting trim."

The Major's refusal was their signal to begin the evening's work. They always followed the same routine: a cup of tea, a sandwich or two, a remark concerning friends or acquaintances, and then, business. "General Minh has requested a meeting," began the Major tentatively, broaching a subject that he knew would raise his employer's hackles.

"No. Let him do business with his own kind." Michael's voice was hard.

The Major stifled an exasperated sigh. The General, once Commander of the 3rd Military District in Vietnam, had fled with his family and his fortune intact. Outwardly an urbane, civilized, cosmopolitan Francophile, he was in fact a vicious, venal, greedy little man who had more than once demonstrated that he was not to be trusted. Michael loathed him and would not meet with him for any reason. The Major, being a pragmatist, moved on. "Uncle Harry Lee sends his thanks for your assistance with the Omanski problem."

Michael waved this away and picked up a piece of pastry. "The man was a nuisance. Had he confined his nonsense to annoying Uncle Harry he would have been ignored. His disrespect for the military was not to be countenanced."

This caused the Major to smile. Michael had never served a day in any military, yet his respect for it was legend. He admired their order and discipline. The military also figured largely in his plans to expand the Order. Which led him to inform Michael, "Laurence and Noel have made application to join the Order."

Michael's eyes widened. "Really. Ordinary or professed?"

The Major coughed delicately. "Professed." There were some things, in particular a man's sexual orientation, that he disliked mentioning.

Michael smiled a small smile. "Really, Richard, you are such a prude. It is not that you do not know what the Order is about, or who comprises the membership of the Order."

The Major smiled thinly and shrugged. "Frankly I was surprised when they declared themselves. They certainly kept that part of their lives close to their chests."

"The Royal Marines are not known for tolerating homosexuals in their ranks. Quite the opposite, I should think."

"As bad as the Guards Regiments," replied The Major sadly. "But not surprising. Homophobia is endemic in the British Forces."

Michael thought carefully before he replied. The Major was a very private man and revealed nothing of his past by word or deed if he could help it. "I have always admired your sense of honesty and fair play, Richard, not to mention your loyalty to your men."

Meinertzhagen squirmed in embarrassment. He had only done what any gentleman would have done. "RSM Chard was with me in Malaya, and in Vietnam. He was a fine soldier"

"Still, your loyalty cost you a great deal."

"Not really. It was time to move on in any case." The Major's tone was one of finality. The matter was closed for the moment.

Michael was wise enough to end the discussion of the Major's past. "Both men are aware of the first requirement?"

The Major nodded. "It is not necessary in Laurence's case. His mother gave him his gift for life before she took him home from hospital. Noel has spoken to Doctor Reynolds and understands the procedure. He thinks it a small price to pay."

Michael nodded. "They will need three professed knights to sponsor them."

"That should not be a problem. They are fine lads and better Marines. If I were professed I would sponsor them in a minute. As it is I can only recommend to you that their candidacy be accepted."

Michael thought a moment. "Mention the sponsorship to Richard Maslen. He's already sponsoring his young friend. He will accept your recommendation. Stephen Winslow as well.

Meinertzhagen looked sceptically at Michael. "Bit of a conflict of interest there, perhaps?"

"Why?" demanded Michael.

One of the Major's roles was that of Devil's Advocate. "Willoughby and Hunter will use it against him once they learn of it," he pointed out. "As they will use his age to argue against his election as Chancellor. He is only, what, 26?"

Michael stood and began to pace the antique Wilton carpet that covered the hardwood floor of the office. He did this as a means to vent his almost uncontrollable anger. "Let them try!" he snapped. "They are meddlesome, senile old men and because of them, and those like them, the Order has become moribund and hidebound, going absolutely nowhere, filled with old queens who are more interested in molesting their Pages than in the good of the Order." He pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand. "Willoughby has been Receiver of the Common Treasure for 30 years and has not increased our revenues by one penny. Hunter has been Hospitaller for 26 years and because there are no hospitals to administer he has done exactly nothing for 26 years! Neither of them have done a thing to increase our membership."

The Major nodded coldly. "They've already complained that I've refused to send the hearses for them."

Michael laughed mirthlessly. In the mews were kept the "hearses": two Rolls-Royce Phantom V limousines and three Daimler limousines, all painted in Royal maroon livery. A full-time mechanic kept them in perfect working order. They were rarely used. Michael eschewed ostentation in everything, including his motorcars. "You will send the most nondescript rental cars you can find," he said coldly. "They will ride in them or take the bus."

The Major nodded.

"Major, I must have Winslow!" Michael declared suddenly. "He is part and parcel of what I want to do for the Order. We must expand! We must have young men of hope and courage. We must!" He sat down and rubbed his forehead wearily. "There are winds of change blowing through our land. The old ways are going. Many are already gone. Old prejudices are being blown away. Our time has not yet come, Major, but it will come and we must have young men of vision and daring in the vanguard. Young men like Stephen Winslow and the young men he will find for the Order."

"He would be invaluable, given that he is so involved with the younger members of the Armed Forces," agreed the Major.

"He is indeed. At the moment he is involved with training 200 young men. Who knows how many of them could become members of our Order better than Stephen? How many of those boys who will soon become men will respond to him? He is a great friend of the Arundel boys. I know for a fact that he is involved with a young man, a civilian."

At the mention of Cory and Todd the Major cringed slightly. He had met them, and considered them obnoxious, disrespectful brats. They, in turn, considered him an officious old wreck, and called him Major Nuisance behind his back. The last time the Twins had visited the estate with their mother they had spiked the Major's drink of Kahlua and milk with Ex-Lax, a chocolate flavoured laxative. Fortunately, he had not required hospitalization.

Michael had seen the cringe but ignored it. It his own way, in his own time, Richard would have to make his peace with the Twins. "In September Stephen returns to the Reserve Training Unit and every weekend from then until next April he will be training young Reservists from every province west of Ontario. From April to September every fortnight he will welcome, and train, 40-odd different and diverse Reservists from all across the country! Think, Richard, think of the opportunities he will have to assess and evaluate hundreds of young men!"

"I agree, but there is still the Council . . ."

Michael pointed at Richard. "Hear me, Richard, and mark me well. Though the Heavens may fall, Steven Winslow will be Chancellor of the Order before the sun sets on Saturday!"

At 1700, as the fiery orange sun began its descent into the western horizon, those cadets who felt like eating, and were willing to change into the rig of the day, straggled into the Mess Hall. Most preferred to stay in or near the waters of the swimming beach, hoping for an errant breeze to cool the air.

Those cadets who ate, and there were relatively few, stuck to salads and cold drinks, emptying the jugs of ice water and fruit drinks. Chef, who had been this route before, was not worried. The uneaten roast beef would appear again as hot beef sandwiches. The haddock he would flake and make into a kedgeree for breakfast.

With so few cadets eating Chef, after sternly warning them not to lop off anything vital, set Randy and Joey to carving the roasted chickens (pans of roast fowl filled every flat surface in the galley). Ray and Sandro manned the food lines, with few takers. It was so slow that The Phantom left Matt and Kevin to attend to the officers and Chiefs, and went into the galley to go over his idea about the meal chit with Chef. Chef thought it a good idea and agreed to take The Phantom's draft to the Base printing office the next day. He had to attend a meeting there in any case so it was no bother to him.

Greg came in, cranky, and delivered The Phantom's typed and collated lesson plans. Doc came by and after handing out salt pills to all and sundry sat down with Kyle, Andy and Dave Eddy, insisting that they join him in a refreshing cup of tea.

Little Big Man slithered in, early for once, and ate a double portion of roast beef, potatoes and vegetables. While Sandro's back was turned he went 'round the buoy and snagged a second piece of cake. Ray saw him, but let it pass. It was far too hot to argue with evolutionary U-turns such as Little Big Man.

Harry, grumpy and out of sorts, came by and collected his Bandsmen. Martin he sent off to Cleaning Stations, scrubbing out the Chiefs heads and washplace. Clifford was sent to the School of Wind where he joined four other brass players. Together they would form a Brass Quintet and play at the Captain's Garden Party.

Chef returned to the dining hall where he grumbled at Tyler about the lack of hands and the amount of work that had to be done. Tyler looked at Val who nodded, left, and returned with four of the Duty Hands. These Chef employed buttering the hundreds of slices of bread that would be needed for tomorrow's sandwiches.

At 1800, when the Second Dog Watchmen closed up Harry, who was Duty Chief, sent over some additional hands. These, with Matt and Kevin supervising, were employed in cleaning the tables and scrubbing the decks in the dining hall and the galley.

With dress restrictions lifted the Twins came 'round to cadge something to eat. They were dressed in shorts and sweat-soaked tees and The Phantom took pity on them and made sandwiches.

Shortly after the Twins entered, David, Billy and Chad with, as The Phantom had expected, Nick in tow, returned and announced that they would like to become stewards.

Nick was as tall as Chad, but not as beefy. A typical gunner he kept his blond hair cut short, high and tight on the sides, with just enough on top to make a part.

Aaron and Killian, also gunners, came in and asked about becoming stewards. Aaron was short, but well muscled, with dark red hair and freckles. Killian was clean and trim, with lightly curling blonde hair and a rosy pink complexion. He had perfect teeth and a ready smile.

Pleasantly surprised that he had so many volunteers The Phantom called Matt and Kevin over and gathered all the cadets together in one corner where he began to explain their duties and his plans to train them properly. Presently they were laughing and enjoying their first lesson.

Ray left the steam table and joined The Phantom and the other boys. He liked being with them and enjoyed their bantering and silly jokes. He also enjoyed sitting beside Matt and sneaking quick glances at Kevin.

The Twins, with Tyler and Val, sat to one side, sipping ice water, watching the antics of the other cadets, and listening to Tyler trying to convince them that it was in their best interests to have a Chiefs and Petty Officers Mess Dinner. Harry rolled in with Chris, Harry complaining loudly and profanely about the iniquities of brass players and the stupidity of the Canteen Mangler for allowing the Coke machine to go dry.

Chris, who'd been sitting around the Gunroom moping (Jon was Duty), had accompanied Harry to the Canteen and then, when they found that there was no cold pop available, to the Mess Hall, where there was at least ice water. He was trying to mollify Harry, to no avail. They joined Tyler's group. Engrossed in their own affairs, nobody noticed the thin figure sitting glowering in one corner of the dining hall.

Little Big Man's steel-grey eyes narrowed as he looked daggers at the cadets gathered around the tables. The embers of envy and hatred smouldered deep within him. God, how he hated them, all of them.

He had spent much of the afternoon, his pen filled with venom, detailing the latest atrocities committed against him, the pages of the letter he was writing filled with hatred against the Twins who had ridiculed and mocked him; hatred against Tyler and Val for believing the lies and slanders of the other cadets and sending him into exile; hatred against The Phantom, who had cost him what few friends he had, and hatred against his brother who had abandoned the teachings of his parents, the Brotherhood and the church and allowed himself to be corrupted by perverts and molesters. God, how he hated them all.

Paul Greene's hatred of his brother had been growing within him from almost the day of Matt's arrival, when he had attended the Chiefs and Petty Officers' wet downs. Little Big Man's hatred had deepened and become wormwood and gall as he watched Matt's popularity grow. He watched with hate-filled eyes as Matt, who was sitting beside The Phantom, put his arm around his friend's shoulders - an innocent gesture signifying little. Little Big Man all but spat in disgust at Matt's gesture. God, how he hated them all. His eyes narrowed. "Look at them," he thought angrily, "fawning over the little faggot!"

As Little Big Man watched Cory said something to Matt. Little Big Man was too far away to hear what Cory had said, but he was close enough to see Matt laugh and flip Cory the bird, then stand up and wiggle his ass at him. God, he growled low, that his own brother could do such a thing!

His own brother, a fucking queer! And all because of the Twins!

Little Big Man, hiding in his dark corner, his hatred bubbling over, had never known love and never having known it would never understand that love, innocent and sexless, could and did exist in the bonds that grew among teenage boys. He could never understand Matt's popularity, not realizing that Matt was everything he was not.

Where his brother wandered through life with a sneer on his thin, arrogant face and snarling insults, Matt was happy and smiling, friendly to everyone. He liked everybody, including Matron. Two Strokes, a boy not known for his forbearance and tolerance of gunners, enjoyed Matt's company when he came to visit in the Gunroom. Matt had done nothing special at all, merely shown both Matron and Two Strokes a little respect. Matt never, for instance, used Two Stroke's nickname, even behind his back, always referring to him by his full name and rate.

Matt had managed to endear himself with Matron simply by visiting the Sick Bay and showing an interest in what she did and listening politely to her complaints. He would drop by unannounced, just to pass a little time, sometimes after Secure, sometimes during Stand Easy, and join Doc and Matron in a cup of tea and chat. In the end Matron thought him a lovely boy and Doc tried to talk him into considering a career in medicine.

Unlike Little Big Man, who skived off at any opportunity, Matt hated to be idle. His job as Weapons Yeoman was neither all that difficult nor time-consuming. To fill in his day he visited Sick Bay to chat with Doc and the Matron. He would wander into the galley looking to help out if needed, which Chef appreciated. Matt liked being The Phantom's Assistant Chief Steward, admitting to himself that he had a bit of a crush on the older boy. He felt comfortable with Phantom and instinctively knew that he could, for some reason he did not quite understand, tell Phantom anything without fear of recrimination or displeasure. Unlike his brother, who refused to allow any feelings that remotely suggested love to enter his soul, and verbalized his contempt for those who expressed such feelings, Matt was not afraid of his feelings of special fondness for The Phantom, nor for his frank adoration of the Twins, particularly Todd, whom, as he had admitted to The Phantom, he loved.

Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist. Matt was not. He readily accepted the Twins for what they were, two wonderful, caring boys who happened to be gay. He would not allow the bigotry that consumed his brother to blight his friendship with them.

The Twins in turn loved Matt. At first, as they later freely admitted, their attraction to him had been more than just friendship. Matt was a strikingly handsome young man of the type that appealed to both Cory and Todd. He stood 5'7" tall, with short, blond, slightly curly hair, had clear, sky-blue eyes, a firm, slim, and very trim body, a ready smile, and a friendly disposition.

Matt was aware that he was attractive to both Todd and Cory (more so after their inspection of him in their motel room back in Victoria), just as he was aware that in his own way he was attracted to them, Todd more than Cory to be sure, but attracted to them, though not, as he often told them, sexually.

The Twins accepted Matt's often declared straightness without too much disappointment. They liked him, and they wanted to be friends with him, so they were. Their friendship with Matt did not, however, prevent them from teasing him unmercifully. As they grew closer they quickly learned that Matt gave as good as he got and adamantly refused to allow their teasing to upset him because he knew that it was not malicious (as it had been with his brother) and that teasing him was just one of their ways of showing affection for him.

Only one thing marred Matt's relationship with the Twins and The Phantom: fear. Not the fear that he might be homosexual. Matt had been very much in love before and, given the feelings he had for Todd, he did think that his feelings for boys far out weighed his feelings for girls. Being gay was not, to Matt's way of thinking, the end of the world. He could accept being gay. What he feared, what gave him nightmares and made him break into a cold sweat, were the reprisals that would be visited upon him when he returned home if his brother had even an inkling of the closeness of his relationship with the Twins or The Phantom. What he feared most, however, was the utter devastation that would descend upon him if either his brother or his father had the merest hint that he might be gay. They did not need proof, only suspicion, and because of their suspicion they would very likely kill him.

The personification of Matt's fears sat watching the cadets as they laughed and chucked shit at one another, engaging in the harmless banter of teenage boys as they accused each other of all manner of sexual peccadilloes, with each other, with imagined females, and in Harry's case, an animal or two. The more he listened the angrier Little Big man became. Time and again, in lecture after lecture, in sermon after sermon, he had been told that such talk was perverse and sinful. Seething with righteous anger Little Big Man watched as Matt nonchalantly rested his elbow on The Phantom's shoulder, laughing at something one of the boys had said.

Harry quite unknowingly set Little Big Man off. He stood up, stretched, and then did what he always did from unconscious force of habit: he reached into his shorts to adjust The Pride before sitting down.

Little Big Man, almost blind with disgusted rage leapt to his feet. Matt might be too stupid to recognize a nest of Sodomites when he saw one but he was not. Enough was enough. He walked to where Matt was sitting and grabbed him by the arm. "Get up, now!" he snarled at the totally startled Matt.

Matt struggled free. "What the . . ." He glared at his brother. "What the hell is your problem, Paul?"

"You associating with these . . ." Little Big Man, a contemptuous look on his face, waved his arm, indicating the entire group.

"They're my friends," countered Matt angrily. "Fuck off, Paul, and leave me alone."

Too far gone Little Big Man reached out and grabbed Matt's arm again. He raised his fist. "You're coming with me, Matt, away from this nest of . . ."

Matt cringed. He had seen the look on Paul's face before. Little Big Man drew back his other arm. Matt needed to understand and the only way for him to understand was . . .

Kevin's hand flashed out, encompassing Little Big Man's fist. He twisted, yanking Little Big Man's arm backward as he did so. "Let him go, asshole," ordered Kevin quietly. "Let him go or I break it." Little Big Man, writhing in pain, released Matt. Kevin, a sneer curling his lips, twisted his arm viciously. "Matt told you to fuck off. Why don't you?" he asked, releasing Little Big Man. Little Big Man took a step backward and looked around the semicircle of cadets. The four gunners who had been washing the deck had dropped their mops and were staring stonily at him, their fists clenched. Matt was one of them and they always took care of their own. Harry was half out of his seat, struggling to get away from Val who had wrapped his arms around Harry's waist and was trying, not without difficulty, to hold him back. Cory, angry beyond endurance, was muttering threats at Little Big Man and at Todd who had wrapped his arms around his brother and was holding him back. Cory was in a killing rage and Todd embraced him tightly. He knew what would happen if Cory got loose.

The Phantom, growling incoherently and mad with rage, was slowly rising in his seat, his fist so clenched the knuckles were white. "I warned you, you little FUCK!" he yelled as he rose to his full height. Before he could leap on Little Big Man strong hands pushed him down.

"Phantom, sit down now!" ordered Tyler who had suddenly appeared behind The Phantom's chair. He glared at Little Big Man. "Get out, now!" he ordered, pointing toward the door. "Get out before I let them have you."

Little Big Man looked at the faces of the cadets. For the first time in his life he saw the face of real, unmitigated hatred. He was bright enough to know that he had crossed a line but too stupid to let it go. "You come with me now, Matt, and I'll forget about everything I saw."

"LIAR!" screamed Matt. Had not Ray held him back he would have attacked his brother. Years of physical and mental abuse, of beatings and bruises, of hatred and bigotry had festered within Matt. The great monstrous carbuncle that had sapped his spirit and driven him to the brink of self-destruction burst when he screamed the one word: LIAR. Still struggling, trying to get away from Ray's surprisingly iron-like grip, Matt yelled again. "LIAR! You've been a liar all your life. You've done nothing but hate all your life. You are a liar and a bigot and a racist and YOU ARE NO BROTHER OF MINE!"

Little Big Man nodded brusquely. "I know what you are now, Matt," he hissed. "When I get home . . ." he began dangerously.

Matt dug in the pocket of his bell-bottoms and a silver coin flew through the air and dropped at his brother's feet. It was a twenty-five cent piece. "Why wait?" asked Matt with a lopsided grin. "The telephone's in the breezeway flats. I'm sure the Beast of Uplands will take a collect call from you!"

Little Big Man sputtered angrily. "How dare you talk about Dad like that! All he wants, all I want . . ."

"What you want is what you think I'm getting!" Matt's voice was a scalpel slash through his brother's brain.

Little Big Man was livid. His fists were clenched and he shook with impotent rage. Rage and shame, for The Beast was stirring deep within him. Matt's thinly veiled accusation of homosexuality was a telling blow. He took a step forward.

Kevin stepped in front of him. He ignored the strangled cries of outrage behind him as The Phantom, in a murderous rage, demanded that Tyler release him. To his left Cory was struggling vainly against Todd's tight grip, cow-kicking at his brother, growling like a caged animal. "Go ahead," whispered Kevin ominously. "Oh, please, go ahead and try something!"

"Leading Gunner BERKELEY!"

Tyler's roar brought all struggling to a screeching halt. Three heads popped out of the serving hatches as Sandro, Joey and Randy looked out to see what was going on. Chef, a menacing look on his face and a cleaver in his hand, pushed open the serving door.

"Yes, Master at Arms?" Kevin was coldly, determinedly, calm.

"You WILL back away, Leading Gunner!"

"Master at Arms!" Kevin acknowledged Tyler's order and took one very small step away from Little Big Man.

"Petty Officer Greene!"

"Master at Arms?" spat Little Big Man.

"Get out, NOW, and report to my office at 0600."

Little Big Man, defeated for the moment, nodded curtly, wheeled, and slammed from the Mess Hall.

The door had barely slammed closed behind Little Big Man when Matt wailed, sobbed and collapsed against Ray. Todd released his brother and before Ray could react took Matt in his arms, hugging him close. Matt buried his head in Todd's shoulder and began sobbing. "Oh fuck, man, oh fuck," he wept softly. "I am so dead."

"No, no," whispered Todd, his cheek pressed against Matt's soft hair. "No, shush, now, it will be all right."

"Todd, you do not understand."

Cory joined Todd and Matt. He embraced them both. The other boys, stunned, moved closer, reaching out to touch and stroke their sobbing friend and shipmate. They were all so engrossed in trying to comfort Matt that they did not hear three muffled oaths as Chef smacked one large and two small firm, well-packed bottoms. They did not hear Chef's muttered command for Sandro and the Brats to get back to work. They did not hear Chef come into the dining hall. In one hand Chef held a tumbler half full of dark rum. In the other were two bottles of Pusser's Neats. He handed the tumbler to Matt and placed the bottles on the table. "Drink it, Matt, and no argument." Chef looked at Tyler. "I know, a service matter between Chiefs."

Todd set Matt down in a chair and pushed the drink toward him. "You heard Chef, drink it."

Matt nodded dumbly and picked up the drink. He was beginning to regain control of his emotions. "Chef, I'm not much of a drinker and this is rum . . ."

"Matty, will you just drink the fucking rum!" Tyler gestured toward the tray of plastic glasses. "The rest of you, get a glass. One for Chef, too."

Chef shook his head. "Thank you, my boy, but no. This is your show Tyler lad. If you need me I'll be inside." He bent down, patted Matt on the cheek, smiled at him, and left.

Matt took a huge slug of rum and almost choked. Hacking and coughing, he slumped against Todd, who had not left his side. Tyler pounded Matt's back and looked at the other cadets. "This is the real stuff, gentlemen. All of you can have a drink, but mix it with water."

The cadets poured their drinks and as directed, made their way to the water fountain. They sat down at the table, sipping quietly, not knowing what to do. Matt sobbed intermittently, then shook his head. He smiled at Todd. "I'm okay, Todd, honest."

"Maybe," agreed Todd. "And maybe not. But no matter what, Matt, you have friends to help you."

Matt smiled thinly. "My friends are here, Todd, they cannot help me at home." Tyler sat down beside Matt and put his broad hand on Matt's thin shoulder. "Matt, will they beat you?"

Matt nodded slowly. "By the time Paul gets finished I'll be lucky if they don't kill me. He'll never forget or forgive what I said to him."

"Will he call your father?" asked Val. "Is he that low?"

"No and yes," Matt took a sip of his drink. "Paul will wait until he gets home. He gets off on telling tales about me. He likes to see the look on my face when he lies his fucking head off." He took a firm grasp of Tyler's hand. "Paul likes the personal touch," continued Matt with uncharacteristic sarcasm. "Believe me, Tyler, he'll spare no one. By the time he's finished embellishing his story everybody in this room, hell, every swinging dick in AURORA will be a pervert of one kind or another."

Tyler glanced at Todd. So, Matt did not know about his brother's letter writing.

"I'm well and truly fucked, Tyler," Matt declared sadly. "I know it. About the only thing I can do worse is to tell Paul that he's right, I am a faggot." He immediately regretted his words. "Ah, shit, Todd, Cory . . ."

Cory shook his head and smiled. "Matt, we know you're not a queer, or a faggot, or anything like that. As far as I'm concerned . . ."

"And me," interjected Todd.

"Yes, and Todd. We've heard it all before. Please, do not apologize." Cory looked around the room, daring someone to disagree with him. The other boys said nothing. They all knew that the Twins were gay and while some of them might not comfortable with the Twins' sexuality, they were at least tolerant of it.

"Still, I'm sorry," insisted Matt, glancing discreetly at Phantom who had insisted that the word not be used in the dining hall. The Phantom pursed his lips and remained silent.

Harry stood looking thoughtfully at Matt. "What will happen, when you get home?" Matt sobbed, then straightened. "Paul will tell my father everything he thinks he knows. He'll add a few juicy details - it doesn't matter that they're not true - and my Dad will either beat the living shit out of me or throw me out into the street."

"Come again?" Harry came from a loving, caring family. Family was everything and no one, no son, was ever rejected.

"He'll beat me, then he'll throw me out after telling me to come back here to my . . ."

"Queer friends?" finished Val.

Matt nodded. "That's what he'll say. Sorry, but that is exactly what he'll say."

For a moment no one moved. Then Kevin stood up. He walked to Matt, knelt on one knee and placed his hand on Matt's leg. "Matt, I live in a row house in Hamilton. It's not much, and my Dad, he works in a steel mill, but he loves me, he loves all his kids. I share a room with my older brothers. They're real perverts but if you need it, and don't mind perverts, my bed is yours. I can sleep on the couch."

Matt giggled through his tears at Kevin's description of his brothers. Before he could comment that he didn't mind perverts, as most of the guys he knew were perverts, Ray let out a yelp. "Hamilton!" he snapped indignantly. "Now why would he want to go there?" he demanded to know. "You come to my place, Matt. Rockcliffe is a hell of a lot closer to Uplands than Hamilton is. I'll kick my brother out and you can have his bed. He can sleep on the couch!"

"Balls to that," snapped Val. "You get your ass out to Saskatoon! You want family? Hell man I got more family than there are soldiers in the Eyetalian Army! You come out to my place. My Mama will stuff you full of pasta and put some meat on you! My Pops will teach you how to make grappa and . . ."

"Turn him into a bootlegger!" boomed Harry. "Matt, you get your skinny ass one forty miles due north of Winnipeg, Matt. Farm life, that's the life!"

The Phantom snorted. "Really, Harry, now why would he want to do that? You had six brothers when you left the farm and you're always bitching about having to share a room with one of them. Or is it all of them?" He turned and gave Matt a squeeze. "You come to Comox. It's a one horse town, but the folks are friendly, and my Dad's a real pisser!"

"And a cop." Nick waved his finger at Matt. "You come home to Gananoque. Now that's the place. I live in a houseboat and it's wall to wall babes in heat during . . ."

"As if you'd know what to do with a babe in heat!" Chad turned and grinned at Matt. "Haliburton, that's the place. God's country. There's hunting and fishing, and . . ."

Before he knew it Matt had instructions to come and live in twenty different and diverse towns, villages and cities (and one farm). The boys were so busy extolling the virtues of their home places that they did not see The Gunner push open the galley door and peek slowly into the dining hall.

Todd listened quietly. Matt's vulnerability touched a chord deep within him and he realized that for all his denials, he was starting to fall in love with Matt. "Matt will come to live at Number Two Clarence Square," he said suddenly. His voice was very firm and positive, so positive that Cory shot him a questioning look. Todd ignored his brother and continued on. "My folks already know what is going on. We told them all about the bruises, and other things, when we saw them in Victoria. My dad can't do much, Matty, but he's already got a friend looking into your situation."

"He has? But, Todd, I'm . . ." Matt was about to say that he was just another cadet and that Todd owed him nothing.

"You're our friend, Matt, never forget that," replied Todd with some emotion.

"Besides, I figure it's time I got a new baby brother."

"What's wrong with the one you have?" asked The Phantom. "He seems okay to me."

"Good, you keep him." Todd grinned at Cory, who grinned back. "You try living with him."

"I wouldn't mind," replied The Phantom. He waggled his eyebrows at Cory, who gave The Phantom a salacious leer back.

Todd pretended not to have seen the looks and sniffed disdainfully. "Just wait until you have to share a house with him. He's forever leaving his dirty underpants all over the house, in his room, in the library, in my room. Then he steals mine!"

Cory's lips curled in mock anger. "Talk it up, cock cheese." He looked at Matt, a huge grin breaking his face. "Todd has an underwear fetish, he likes to sniff my shorts. And his feet stink because he has this aversion to water."

"They do not, scrotum breath!" retorted Todd.

The other boys began to laugh so hard that all further arguments between the Twins ceased. The Gunner laughed quietly at the exchange and looked at Chef. "Well, one thing's certain, young Matt will never have to worry about where he's going to lay his weary head."

Chef agreed sombrely. "A sad thing, this, Stevie. Is there nothing we can do?"

The Gunner thought a moment. "The Command Chief Gunnery Instructor is a good friend of the Base Chief Warrant Officer at Uplands. A word to him might help." "Phone him Stevie. Use the phone in my office."

The Gunner nodded. "I'll do what I can, Chef."

"Do your damnedest to get through to the Chief that Matt is in danger. I feel it, Stevie, Ray feels it and so does Phantom."

"I'll do what I can," replied The Gunner. "So will the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor." And so will a certain ex-SAS Major, when I explain the situation to him, he finished silently.

Ray finished wiping down the stainless steel serving tables and glanced around the galley. Finally, they were finished. The sandwiches were made and packed in the boxes, the chicken carcasses were in the huge soup kettles, waiting for tomorrow, when Chef would add the celery, carrots, onions, water and bouquets garni that would turn them into stock. Kevin, Joey and Randy were just finishing the last of the cleaning. Chef had gone home, as had Phantom and The Gunner. The dining hall was empty.

The cadets, after their run in with Little Big Man, had not stayed all that long, drifting away when they had finished their drinks. Matt had wanted to stay and help with the box lunches but Tyler had insisted that the Twins take him back to his barracks and put him to bed. Shortly after the Twins left with Matt, Tyler, Val and Harry returned to the Gunroom taking, as Chef noted snidely, the bottles of rum with them.

Making the box lunches had not been all that time consuming. The Defaulters had buttered the bread while Chef cut the cakes and pies that would accompany the sandwiches. Sandro had put the cans of juice in the cardboard boxes so it was just a matter of setting up an assembly line, making the sandwiches, bagging them, and putting them in the boxes. Everybody had mucked in, even The Gunner, after he had made some mysterious telephone calls in Chef's office.

Ray glanced at the clock. It was 2215 and time to call it a day, and time for a shower. He waved Kevin and the Brats over and told them to take off. Tomorrow would be a long day for the cooks. Not only was there breakfast to be made, they had to hand out the box lunches and spend the day on the ranges.

"My bed sure will look good," said Kevin as he stripped off his sodden gunshirt. "A shower will do me a world of good."

Joey giggled. "You're too late. Showers are off."

"What?" Kevin stared at the clock and then groaned. "Fuck, he's right."

Ray pretended to have forgotten the shower restriction for the cadets. They were supposed to have showered at 2130, all together, with the Killicks of the Mess timing them. Kevin sniffed his armpits and rubbed his gunshirt across his firm, muscled stomach. "Jesus, I stink."

"He can use our showers, can't he Ray?" asked Randy, unaware of his serendipity. Thank you, Randy! Ray sighed inwardly. Maybe, just maybe this would be easier than he thought. "Sure he can," agreed Ray without hesitation. He gestured toward the far end of the galley. "Go and get some clean things and then come back and shower."

"What about the restriction?"

Ray noticed that Kevin was still rubbing his hard stomach with his gunshirt. He also noticed that the band of Kevin's briefs that peeped about the waist of his trousers was a pale pink. He also noticed that Kevin had a clearly defined and very curly treasure trail leading from under the waist of his trousers to his cute navel. Ray could feel the end of his dick tingling. He turned and began wiping down the already clean counter top. The sight of Kevin's half naked body was turning him on and, while he would not say no to a session with Kevin, he did not want to telegraph his desires by showing off the growing lump in his pants. Not in front of Joey and Randy in any case. He was not about to tempt fate with those two.

"We're cooks so we can shower any time we like," explained Joey.

"Which is what you're going to do now," instructed Ray. "The pair of you need it, bad."

Kevin laughed and punched Joey's shoulder. "I think he means you stink."

Both Randy and Joey could hardly argue the point. They did stink, their bodies smelling of grease, and food, and early adolescent sweat. Ray watched them go, Randy and Joey to the showers, Kevin to his barracks to fetch a change of clothing. He smiled at the sight of Kevin's firm butt and sighed. "Well, if nothing else," he thought as he reached down to adjust his raging hardon, "at least I'll get to see what Kevin's hiding under those pink drawers!"

Kevin hurried to Barracks 8 where he dug out a clean pair of shorts, some socks and his Pusser gummers. He did not bother with any clean briefs. When he had told Phantom that everything he owned was dyed pink he was not exaggerating, and had had to borrow a clean gunshirt from Billy to wear when he served the lunch crowd. Kevin had also borrowed a second gunshirt from Nick to wear when he served dinner. He was, however, all right for tomorrow as every cadet had been issued combats, which, since they were brand, spanking new, he had not needed to wash. As he pulled his clean shorts from his locker the back of his hand brushed against the rough material of the combats that hung there. "Shit," he muttered. The combats were as rough as a badger's arsehole and would probably scratch his ass and parts to rat-shit because there was no way he was wearing pink underpants again. His barracks mates had had a field day this morning when he was forced to put on the fucking things and he was not about to have a repeat performance.

Mind it could have been worse. He could have pulled his bonehead play back home. He had three brothers, the two older boys, Kieran and Connor, steel puddlers. Now that would have been a real disaster because when you came from the toughest part of Steel Town one colour you did not wear was pink, and older brothers knew no mercy when little brothers fucked up.

Gathering up his clean clothes Kevin left the barracks. At the far end of the row of barracks he could see the island of light that marked the Mess Hall, and as he drew near the huge building he saw two of the lights go out. Ray, he thought, closing up for the night.

Kevin walked through the darkened dining hall and into the washplace and as he stripped off his soiled, sweat-stained clothes he could hear the water running in the showers. Naked, Kevin went into the showers and saw Randy and Joey grab-assing and splashing each other. They looked him up and down as he walked over to one of the showerheads and turned on the water.

Paying no attention to the Makee-learns, Kevin soaped up, luxuriating in the lukewarm, body cooling water, did not notice as the two boys positioned themselves, Randy on Kevin's right, Joey on his left, and he was so engrossed in scrubbing away the day's sweat and grime that he did not see them carefully examine every inch of his body. He was about to reach down and scrub away the day's spunk from his genitals when he heard Joey gasp loudly. "Wow!"

"Yeah, wow!" echoed Randy.

Kevin turned his head rapidly to either side and saw the two wide-eyed boys staring at his crotch, a little stunned at their open admiration of his penis and testicles. He glanced down at his parts, looked at the two boys, then at himself again. Both boys' almost identical penises were soft, hanging over low-hanging sacs containing small oval balls. Compared to them he was huge.

"Gosh, it sure is big," said Joey. He licked his lips and grinned at Randy. "It's bigger than Phantom's or Ray's."

Randy nodded his agreement. "And a lot thicker."

Kevin, who was hearing more than he wanted to hear, dropped his hand over his exposed dick and balls. "Don't you guys have anything better to do than to check me out?" he demanded. He was embarrassed at their open curiosity. While this was not the first time that his parts had drawn admiring glances from the other guys while he was in the showers, he drew the line at little boys.

"No," answered Joey frankly. "It's nice. Can we touch it?"

For a moment Kevin lost himself in joining the mutual admiration society's examination of his most private member. He couldn't blame them for looking. He did have a nice set of upper deck fittings, even if he did say so himself. His flaccid, perfectly circumcised penis rose out of his thick, dark and very curly pubic bush, hanging over his very large, oval balls which were contained in a high hanging, smooth, almost hairless sac. Kevin knew to the fraction of an inch exactly how long his dick was. He and Adam Preston, his best friend, had fooled around one Saturday morning last spring and measured their dicks. Kevin soft measured exactly 4.3 inches from root to tip (they were using his mother's measuring tape) beating Adam by and inch and a half. As for when they both got hard, well now, that was a whole different story, which Adam refused to believe at first, so they measured twice. Kevin hard stood proudly upward, 7.3 inches of firm flesh, and almost 5 inches around. The downside of the afternoon's measuring was that Adam was awed and a little afraid of what his fondling produced and would never do anything but jerk his best friend off.

"So, can we touch it?" repeated Joey.

Before Kevin could tell them that no, they definitely could not touch his dick, two sharp cracks in quick succession echoed through the showers. Both boys yelped, jumped, and grabbed their stinging bottoms. They turned, snarling, to see Ray standing behind them, his palms open.

"That hurt, God Damn it!" yelled Joey as he rubbed his smarting behind.

"Yeah, it hurt, Ray!" Randy looked back to see if there was a mark on his round, pink butt.

"Good!" snapped Ray. "I meant it to! What did Phantom tell you two clowns about behaving yourselves?" He pulled both boys to the far side of the room, ignoring Kevin's puzzled look. Ray bent his head and spoke softly. "Look, I didn't really mean to hurt you and I should not have smacked your asses, but guys, you just can't go around checking out other guys like that."

Randy and Joey knew that Ray was right, and they nodded slowly.

"You don't know Kevin all that well," continued Ray quietly. "What if he was like Little Big Man?"

Joey gulped and his eyes bulged. "Jeez, Ray, we never thought of that."

"And he does have a real nice dick," offered Randy. "Almost as nice as yours."

Ray knew the beginning of a snow job when he heard it. "Enough already!" He grinned slightly. "We'll talk about that tomorrow. It's late. I want you both to get dry and get to your beds. Will you do that, please?"

Joey glanced at Randy who nodded ever so slightly. Joey beckoned Ray to bend lower. "Can we come back later?" he whispered in Ray's ear. "Please?"

"A lot later, okay? Wait until the Duty Watch have done Rounds."

Both boys grinned. If Kevin had not been present they would have hugged and kissed Ray. Maybe even given his dick a pull. "Thanks, Ray," they replied in unison, grinning.

Ray returned their grin. "Please, please, be very careful, okay?'

Joey and Randy gave Ray a quick hug. As they pulled away Ray whispered again. "And you guys are right. He does have a beaut!"

Kevin was curious about all the whispering but said nothing. He guessed that Ray was giving both of the youngsters shit for looking at him. Not that he minded. Hell, if you got it, you flaunt it.

"Sorry about that," said Ray as he joined Kevin in showering.

"Ah, not to worry. They're just kids, and curious."

"Too curious," returned Ray, embarrassed at his own frank curiosity.

If Kevin noticed Ray doing exactly what he had smacked the Brats for doing he gave no sign. He scrubbed and rinsed, and, not entirely unconsciously, made a show of washing his penis and testicles.

Ray couldn't help himself. He kept darting glances at Kevin, hoping that he would not notice. Ray also offered a silent prayer that he would not pop a boner, but, Oh God, was Kevin beautiful!

All too soon as far as Ray was concerned Kevin rinsed off and walked into the locker area. He quickly rinsed and followed.

Kevin was just finishing drying himself with his towel when Ray came into the locker room. He saw the quick glance the other boy gave him and turned, hiding the smile slowly creeping across his face. Ray was checking him out, which did not bother him in the least.

Ray's heart was beating faster than it ever had before. He was totally mesmerized by the sight of Kevin's naked body. By any standards Kevin was prime, Grade-A Stud! Not only did he have a dick to die for, his body, thanks to frequent yard work after school and workouts in the school gym where he wrestled, was well-muscled, with strong thighs and a hard, firm, stomach. Like all the boys Kevin sported a well-tanned upper body although from his waist down to his crotch his skin was pale white, his tan lines showing that he favoured the brief patterned bathing suit. He had a firm, round, melon-shaped butt, and his nicely shaped legs and firm taut thighs were a lighter shade of tan, and covered from ankle to butt with a dusting of dark brown hairs.

Ray tried to be as nonchalant as he could as he watched Kevin step into and pull on his dark blue gym shorts. "No underwear?" he asked casually.

Kevin scowled and shook his head. "Better bare-balled than pink! I am not wearing pink underpants!

"You going to wear those shorts to bed as well? You can't go buck ass, you know."

Kevin snorted. "Nah. I'll go bollocks free. Unless somebody from the Duty Watch lifts up the covers and looks nobody will ever know."

Ray saw a small opening. He reached into his locker and pulled out the clear-wrapped package of briefs that The Phantom had given him. He threw the package at Kevin who caught it deftly. "You can have those, if you like," he said shyly. Kevin looked at the package and then at Ray. "Hey man, these are new. I can't take your underwear."

"Why not? I think they'll fit you. Phantom got them in town today. The undies he bought are a size too big for me, so you can have them." Ray had just, unconsciously, obeyed one of the rules of the unwritten Code. Every word he had said had been the truth, just not quite all the truth. "It's no big deal," continued Ray. He pulled a clean pair of briefs out of his locker. "They don't fit me, so you might as well have them."

Kevin grinned. "Okay, sure. I'll give you the money for them, okay?" He pushed down his shorts, stepped out of them and ripped open the package of underwear. "Hey, Ray, there's three pair in here."

"So? Keep 'em all. Like I said, they don't fit me."

Kevin nodded his thanks and slowly stepped into the briefs then pulled them up and over his glorious fittings. He made a bit of a show as he reached into the underpants and adjusted his dick. He looked at Ray and grinned. "Gotta put the monster just so," he explained.

Ray returned the grin. "I sure don't have that problem." He was about to look for a clean tee, then decided against it. "So, Kevin, you want to do something, go to the canteen maybe?"

Kevin shook his head. "Nah, thanks anyway. The place will be like a hot box. It's probably as hot as this place." He made a show of wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

"It might be cooler in the lounge," said Ray, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "If there's a breeze we open the windows and it's quite comfortable. That's if you want to, you know, sit and talk?"

"Sure. It beats lying around the mess listening to everybody complain about the heat."

Ray was a little surprised at Kevin's ready agreement. He wasn't about to complain, however, and he was determined to play it as coolly as he could. He led the way into the lounge where there was a breeze coming in through the open widows. A very light breeze to be sure, but a breeze and the room was marginally cooler than the locker room. "Hell, this is almost as bad as the showers," Ray said in an offhand way, hoping he could think of a way to get Kevin into Chef's office.

"It's not so bad," replied Kevin. "At least there's a bit of a breeze."

Ray pretended to agree. He walked to the open window and flapped his arms. "The trouble is, it's from the north. When the breeze is from the north it just blows right on by. What we need is a wind from the west," he babbled, "It comes over the mountains and it's always cool . . ." He turned to see Kevin heading for one of the sofas. The last thing Ray wanted was for the object of his lust to get too comfortable. He decided to act as if he had just had a sudden thought. "Hey, Kevin, I know a better place. Come on."

"You do? Where is it?" asked Kevin as they left the lounge and entered the dining hall, which was dark, lit only by islands of ruby light from the emergency lights spaced around the perimeter of the room.

"Chef's office. Some of his windows face north. There's a fan in there," explained Ray, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice and not adding that there was a first aid kit with petroleum jelly in it. "We'll grab a couple of beers out of the fridge on the way."

"Beer? There's beer in the fridge?"

"Yeah. Here, take my hand. This place is a maze. If you don't know your way around you can run into something and really do yourself an injury."

Kevin extended his hand and felt the warmth of Ray's hand in his. He allowed himself to be led into the galley and over to the fridge.

Letting go of Kevin's hand Ray opened the fridge and took out two beers. He kept the door open for a few seconds, and allowed himself a small glance at Kevin's hard body. Ever so slightly he sucked in his breath. Kevin had a body built for tighty-whiteys. His dick was crisply outlined under the smooth cotton fabric that flowed over the two perfect mounds of his ass. He handed the beers to Kevin and then closed the fridge. Chef's office was only a few steps away.

Ray pushed open the office door and entered. The lights of the Guardhouse, which was located across the roadway, a bare fifty yards from the Mess Hall, dimly lighted the office. "I'll turn on the desk lamp so we can have some light."

"Why bother?" asked Kevin as he moved to the sofa. He sat down, his legs spread, blatantly exhibiting the sweet mounds of his balls and penis.

Ray nodded and reached for the fan that stood on top of the filing cabinet. After turning it on he shut the office door. He turned and for a brief moment his heart stopped. Kevin was sitting at the end of the sofa, his body bathed in the glow of the distant lights. Ray hesitated, feeling his penis stirring, then turned the door lock.

The soft click of the tumbler of the lock turning was not lost on Kevin. He took a sip of beer, looked at Ray and smiled his killer smile. "You going to stand there or are you going to sit down?" he asked with rising anticipation.

Forgetting that his beer was sitting on Chef's desk Ray tried not to be too obvious as he sat down beside Kevin. Close, but not too close.

Kevin stretched his arm along the top of the sofa, and then squirmed a little, seemingly making himself comfortable. His arm was a scant inch from Ray's warm back.

"Um, that was nice, what you did for Matt," Ray began tentatively. He glanced quickly down and admired the bulge in Kevin's briefs.

Kevin brushed away Ray's words. "Matt's a gunner. I'm a gunner. We look after each other. Little Big Man is a prick. I hate pricks." He shrugged and smiled his killer smile again. "I just wish Tyler would have let me, you know, lay a beating on him." He slowly lowered the bottle of beer he was holding to the deck, and then dropped his hand in his lap. He began to fondle his penis.

Ray gulped at the motion. "Ah, well, there's a long lineup to do that."

Kevin smiled and glanced sideways at Ray. He saw where Ray's eyes were riveted, staring directly at his crotch. He also saw the colour rising in Ray's cheeks, as they both recognised the unintentional but clever double entendre in Ray's words. Kevin was laughing inwardly and his eyes sparkled with glee. He'd seen the looks that Ray had been giving him all day and he had a good idea of just what Ray was up to. First the offer of a shower, then the clean briefs. Ray wanted him. Which was fine. He wanted Ray just as badly as Ray wanted him. Kevin's only question was whether to play the game or cut to the chase. He decided to play the its-just-a-guy thing game for a little while. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked abruptly.

Ray hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure."

"Are those two brats queer?"

"Well . . .I . . ." began Ray, stammering.

Kevin moved his arm and his hand found the nape of Ray's neck. He rubbed it slowly. At the same time he moved his leg, touching Ray's warm thigh. He felt Ray jump. "Hey, Ray, its no big deal if they are."

Ray could feel Kevin's warm leg against his. Small beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "I think maybe they're just, you know, experimenting with each other." He shrugged. "A lot of guys, um, they fool around, you know."

Kevin grinned and nodded. "Not much chance of doing that around here." A small look of panic crossed his face. "Not that I want to, not with the kids, I mean."

Ray saw a small opening and took it. "Have you, um, have you ever fooled around, Kevin, I mean with another guy?"

"Sure have!" replied Kevin a huge grin splitting his face. The game had just come to an abrupt end.

Ray almost fainted at the perfection of Kevin's teeth and smile. He managed to get some measure of control and carried on. "You have?"

"Damn straight. It's no big deal, Ray." Kevin continued to rub Ray's neck. He could see that Ray was responding, squirming ever so slightly at his touch. He leaned to one side and breathed slowly in Ray's ear. "I won't say no, Ray."

Ray looked into Kevin's clear, blue eyes and saw a twinkle of . . .amusement? Lust? His eyes returned to Kevin's crotch. Kevin dropped his hand away to reveal his bulge, slightly larger than normal, forming a tent in his briefs. Ray knew a come-on when he saw it. Wordlessly he leaned closer to Kevin and dropped his hand onto the warm, hardening shaft of flesh hidden by the white cotton fabric. He slowly drew his hand along the length of Kevin's quickening erection.

At Ray's touch Kevin raised his hips slightly and his breathing seemed to stop for a moment. "Yeah, oh yeah," he breathed slowly.

Ray turned his body, pressing his now hard penis against Kevin's thigh. He leaned forward and his lips pressed against Kevin's. Kevin struggled a little. He and Adam had fooled around a lot, but they had never kissed. He felt Ray's tongue pressing against his lips, probing gently. He felt the warm hardness pressing against his body and his lips parted, accepting the sweetness of Ray's mouth.

As Ray stroked him softly Kevin let out a low moan. "Mmmmf, God, Ray, does that feel good," he groaned as Ray's finger's found his now leaking dickhead. He shivered as the pleasure coursed through his body.

Ray left Kevin's dick and moved his hand up toward his chest, caressing the soft treasure trail that reached from under the waistband of his new briefs to his navel. Just as slowly Ray's other hand moved downward, then slipped under the waistband of Kevin's briefs, his fingers caressing and stroking the warm, slightly rough underside of his mushroom head.

Briefly Ray rested his hand against Kevin's hard chest. He could feel and hear Kevin's heart beating rapidly under the warm, firm muscles. He moved his head and kissed Kevin's neck, his tongue slowly following the lines of Kevin's smooth collarbone, moving down to Kevin's browny-pink nipples centred in small, round aureoles. Kevin, caught up in the lust that was overpowering him, felt that what Ray was doing to him was more than fooling around. Ray was making love to him and Jesus, Jesus GOD; please don't let him stop doing it!

Ray's tongue flicked across Kevin's left nipple. His lips found the small ferrule and sucked gently, coaxing it to hardness and setting Kevin to writhing and groaning with pleasure. "Please, don't stop," moaned Kevin as Ray suckled his other nipple. He groaned loudly and repeated his plea. "Dear God, do not stop!"

Smiling slyly Ray dropped his hand to Kevin's crotch, finding the massive hardness still hidden by the hugely tented briefs, briefs damp with the precum leaking from Kevin's stimulated, throbbing organ. Resuming his gentle stroking Ray moved his head downward, slipping to his knees as he followed Kevin's treasure trail, sniffing and licking until his progress was stopped by the wide elastic band of Kevin's new briefs. Kneeling between Kevin's spread legs Ray reached up and slowly began to pull down the offending briefs. Kevin raised his hips and his underpants were down and off his body.

Ray gasped slightly as Kevin's penis, released from the constricting cloth, bounced slightly. Almost worshipfully Ray licked along the full length of Kevin's thick, wonderfully soft-skinned hardon. His eyes took in the length of it, the dusky pinkness of it above his circumcision line, the wonderfully formed helmet of it. God, was it beautiful. Wrapping his arms around Kevin's thighs he ran his nose through the dark, curly bush of hair encircling the throbbing shaft. He buried his face in Kevin's groin, marvelling at the wonderful odour of flesh and soap and sweetness that lay there. His moist lips kissed Kevin's balls, nipping gently at the scant hair that lined his love trail. Then he opened his mouth and softly closed it around Kevin's blood engorged helmet.

Kevin writhed, totally overcome by the pleasure coursing through him. He wanted to cum but what he was feeling was so fantastic that he wanted it to go on and on. As Kevin groaned and moaned loudly, Ray grasped the thick base of his erection and took as much of Kevin into his mouth and throat as he could. He moved his mouth slowly up and down the throbbing shaft, sucking steadily on Kevin's jerking dick, causing him to shudder as the ecstasy building deep within his balls engulfed him. Breathing harshly, Kevin moaned loudly. "Ray, I'm gonna cum . . . I can't . . ." Kevin had reached the point of no return. He was going to blow and dear God . . .dear GOD . . .

Ray sucked all the more rapidly, anxious to taste the wonderful nectar that knew was about to burst from Kevin's perfect cock.

Kevin began thrusting gently and before he could warn Ray his dick thickened and spasmed. Holy fuck, he was THERE!

Ray all but whimpered with happiness as jet after jet of thick, warm, sweet ambrosia smashed into his mouth, coating his tongue and throat. He moved his mouth slightly upward, just covering the top part of Kevin's spewing cock. He sucked and swallowed rapidly, not wanting to lose a single drop.

Kevin continued to pump his hips in sharp, tiny thrusts, groaning as his balls emptied. As the last of his ejaculation dribbled into Ray's mouth he yelped and pulled away. Like many teenagers his dickhead was sensitive after such a voluminous and intense ejaculation, so sensitive that he could not bear to be touched.

Groaning loudly, trying to gain some measure of control, Kevin laid his head back against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. He could feel Ray nuzzling his inner thighs, then running his tongue around his shrinking organ and loosening balls. He looked down. Ray was still kneeling between his knees, staring back at him, his brown eyes soft and warm.

Ray saw Kevin's soft penis, slick with his spit and the scant residue of Kevin's ejaculation, resting atop his wrinkled ball sac. As he watched Kevin's penis slowly slid to one side, coming to rest against his groin.

Kevin reached down and pulled Ray to him. He could feel Ray's hard flesh pressing against his stomach, warm, wet from the precum that leaked in a steady stream from his piss slit. He smiled, kissed Ray and then pulled back. "Oh, man, that was wonderful," he murmured softly. "No, it was beyond wonderful."

Ray grinned and licked Kevin's nose. "Do you have the Duty tonight?"

Kevin shook his head as he giggled and began moving downward, slowly licking the warm soft flesh of Ray's slightly heaving chest.

The Phantom sat morosely on The Gunner's bed slowly packing away the shirt The Gunner had just handed to him. The Gunner's beat up old leather suitcase was on the bed beside him, open, not yet filled with the shirts, boxer underwear, socks, and whatever clothing the man would need for his weekend in Vancouver. Noting the sad look on The Phantom's face The Gunner left the open drawer he'd been emptying and sat down beside the boy. "It's not the end of the world, Phantom. I am coming back, you know."

"I know," admitted The Phantom grudgingly. "I still don't want you to go."

The Gunner sighed. "Phantom, you always knew that sooner or later this day would come."

"So I knew it. I still don't have to like it."

"Phantom, I'm only going for three days at the most. If you mope like this now I really don't want to be around when I go for three months!"

"I'm not moping," snapped The Phantom stubbornly.

The Gunner embraced him and gave the boy a slight squeeze. "Phantom, this time it's me. Next time it might be you. It's the way of it, sometimes. Now come on, let's finish this packing."

The Gunner stood up and returned to emptying his dresser drawer, feeling deep down inside that there was more to Phantom's moping that just his going away for three days. The incident with Matt, probably. "You know, Phantom, this is the first time anybody's ever helped me pack," he said lightly as he handed the boy some rolled socks. "It feels kind of strange." He returned to sit beside The Phantom. "The first time I went away from home there was nobody. I was living with the local Vicar and his wife. As far as they were concerned I was just a boarder, a poor orphan boy who needed a roof over his head until I graduated high school. They were kind, but helping me pack was not in their job description."

"The first time, that was when you went to join the Navy?"

The Gunner nodded. "Yes. I was hardly older than you are right now. I was alone, and very afraid. The first year, it was bad. I was scared, and lonely, and homesick for something that wasn't there anymore."

"Oh, Gunner, I'm sorry! I was being such a jerk again!"

"Don't get all maudlin on me, Phantom," said The Gunner as he moved to the bed. He sat, his back against the headboard, his legs stretched along he mattress, open. "Come here, you little monster." He smiled warmly and held open his arms. The Phantom scooted over and nestled his body between The Gunner's legs. The Gunner wrapped his arms around him and held him close, enjoying the moment. "Before, I never once regretted leaving anyplace," said The Gunner quietly. "Now it's different. Now I have you." He buried his face in The Phantom's hair. "Now I have you."

"And I have you," replied the Phantom softly. "Forever and always."

"Want to fool around?"

The Gunner could feel The Phantom shaking his head, no. Then he giggled. "Well, maybe, a little, later." He raised his head and looked at The Gunner. "I know you don't like me to ask you to do something but . . ."

"You want me to do something about Matt." finished The Gunner for him.

"How do you . . .?"

"Easy, I was listening at the galley door."

The Phantom squirmed and glowered at The Gunner. "That was sneaky, Gunner."

"Oh, was it now?" asked The Gunner, smiling. He gave The Phantom a slight squeeze. "I have to be sneaky. You have that gang of thieves and cutthroats you hang out with who tell you everything they see or hear! You never tell me anything, so I have to sneak around!"

The Phantom snickered. "You gotta do what you gotta do, it's that simple."

The Gunner laughed and rubbed The Phantom's chest. "I wish I saw life as simply as you do, Phantom."

"I'm a simple guy. So, can you help, please, Gunner?"

The Gunner decided not to comment on the plaintive tone in Phantom's voice. The boy was very worried and concerned about his young friend. "Phantom, I met a man today. He was Jewish, and he had a tattoo on his arm." He gently caressed The Phantom's face. "He was a veteran of the First War, a Naval officer. After the war he continued to serve in the German Navy. Then one day he was no longer a Naval Officer. He was just a Jew." He buried his face in The Phantom's hair, smelling the clean freshness of the boy. "I've read the books, Phantom. I've seen the pictures," he whispered. "I listened to that sad little man today and I realized tonight, when I saw Little Big Man in action, I realized that in another time and in another place I was just like that Jew, only instead of a yellow star on my chest I would be wearing a pink triangle."

The Phantom had read the same books, and seen the same pictures. "And Paul Greene would be wearing a black uniform and carrying a stock whip!"

"You know then?"

"Yes. Little Big Man has to be stopped. Somehow, some way."

"We can only do what we can do, Phantom. We cannot resort to violence. That would only play right into the hands of the people he serves."

"Matt's in danger, Gunner." The Phantom closed his eyes and bit his fist. He wanted to tell The Gunner just how much danger they were all in. How much danger he was in. "We have to do something, Gunner!" His voice was hard.

"I know that, Phantom, if you will shut up for one minute, I will tell you what I am already doing."

The Phantom made a face. "Okay, I'm shut up."

"A first. Usually the only time you're quiet is when you're asleep."

"Gunner!" The Gunner nibbled The Phantom's ear, just a little. "I called my friend, the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor. He will call the Base Chief Warrant Officer who will summon Sergeant Greene into his office. He will tell the asshole that there's been a report of child abuse by him, or someone close to Matt. He will also tell him that there had better not be any more reports."

The Phantom snorted. "And that will work?"

The Gunner shrugged. "It will tell the Sergeant that someone outside of his family knows about him beating Matt. If nothing else it just might make him pause before he raises his hand again."

"And if he doesn't pause? You should know Matt is deathly afraid of going home."

"I know, Phantom, I know," replied The Gunner insistently. "Because I know I am also going to talk to another man I know."

"What kind of a man?"

The Gunner hesitated, and then spoke slowly. "Phantom, he's a man who will do everything he can to ensure that Matt is safe. I heard Matt say that his father could very well throw him out of the house. If that happens, somebody will be there to see him safe to wherever he wants to go."

"He'll want to go to Todd," said The Phantom softly. "He doesn't know it, but he's really in love with Todd."

The Gunner was surprised at The Phantom's words. He had never before so much as breathed a word about what the other boys felt or said about each other. "Does Todd feel the same way?"

"He says he doesn't, but I'm not so sure. You saw how Todd reacted after Little Big Man left the dining hall. I think he's going to be in love with Matt sooner or later. Matt will want to go to him. Will your friend be able to arrange that?"

The Gunner ignored the note of doubt in The Phantom's voice, all the while damning the secret he was forced to keep. He wanted to tell The Phantom exactly why Little Big Man had to be handled carefully, but he couldn't. There was far too much at stake. Major Meinertzhagen was a very resourceful man. The question was, of course, was he resourceful enough? "Yes," The Gunner said with all the conviction he could muster.

"Okay. Just remember, I'll hold you to it." The Phantom hoped that the doubt he felt was not echoed in his voice.

"Phantom, I have absolutely no doubt that you will. Now then, are there any more dragons to slay? Is there anything else you might want me to do?"

The Phantom giggled, quickly gave The Gunner a peck on the lips, and smiled. "Well, maybe fool around with me. A little."

Thunder grumbled across the sky and a light drizzle of rain began falling, cooling the scorched and dusty earth and pattering gently on the flat roof of the Mess Hall. Ray, sated, satisfied and sore, awoke slowly, feeling the warm body he was sprawled across squirm slightly. He was lying on top of Kevin, his nose buried in the curve of Kevin's neck, his arm wrapped tightly around his newfound lover's chest. Their dicks, soft, sensitive from their sex, were pressed together. God, it was good. Another low peal of thunder rent the unearthly silence. Ray nuzzled Kevin awake with his tongue. "Wha . . .?" murmured Kevin at the first touch of Ray's warm, moist lips on his neck.

"Come on, Kevin, it's late, we have to go."

Both boys struggled awake. They scooped up their underwear and hurried, naked, from the office, through the galley and dining hall into the showers where they cleaned their bodies of the evidence of their newfound love. As the hot blast of water washed away the dried remnants of their time together Kevin leaned over and kissed Ray's neck. "This isn't a one night stand, is it?" he asked apprehensively. What had happened between them had been wonderful, so wonderful that he could not find words to describe it.

Ray turned off the shower and smiled at Kevin. "Only if you want it to be." Kevin shook his head emphatically. "I don't. Fuck Ray, I don't!

"No regrets?"

"NO! Jesus, it was, it was . . ."

Ray stroked Kevin's warm, smooth cheeks. "For me, too."

As they dressed Kevin looked at Ray, his eyes filled with love. And concern. Until tonight his sexual experiences had been limited to listening to his two older brothers making out and jack-off sessions with Adam. Deep down inside he felt euphoric and fulfilled. He was no longer a virgin and he never wanted the feelings to end. "Ray, tonight was . . . wonderful," he said suddenly. "I, uh, well, um, I hope I didn't, you know, disappoint you. I've never made . . . love before, and well, I . . ."

Ray pulled his shorts up and slipped his tee over his head. Then he leaned over and kissed Kevin deeply. "You didn't disappoint me. You were everything I expected, and more." He saw Kevin's face light up and the special glimmer that came in Kevin's eyes, a glimmer that Ray was not at all sure he wanted to see. He liked Kevin, Lord knew that, but something was bothering him. Something he could not yet put his finger on, something that he would have to think about later, when he was alone. Ray held out his hand. Kevin grasped it and Ray pulled him upright. "It's very late Kevin, and we really can't stay," he said softly.

Kevin grinned sheepishly. He had hoped that Ray might want to . . . but Ray was right. It was very late so he allowed himself to be led out of the change room.

"Why are we going this way?" he asked a little plaintively as Ray led him toward the rear of the Mess Hall.

"We can't go out the main door because they'll see us from the Guardhouse. We'll use the door from the loading dock."

Kevin pulled Ray up short. He nodded with his head. "Ray, didn't we turn out the lights in the lounge before we left?"

Ray looked and saw a small sliver of light coming from under the door leading to the lounge. "Shit, someone's in there," he grumbled.

Kevin went white. "Oh, man, it's Chef. Come on, we have to get out of here!" He began to pull violently on Ray's arm.

Ray jerked himself loose from Kevin's grip. "Calm down, Kevin, it's not Chef. He went home hours ago." He pushed the door to the lounge open and looked in. He gestured to Kevin and walked inside.

The small space was filled with the odour and acridity of sex. Joey and Randy, once Makee-Learns and now Brats, were sprawled on the sofa that stood beneath the open window, their arms and legs entangled, their heads close together. Their small cocklets, smooth, and all but hairless, were touching, Randy's slightly flared arrowhead just touching Joey's classic little acorn. Both were slick with the residue of their lovemaking. They were both sound asleep, snoring softly.

Kevin looked into the lounge and snickered. "It looks like we're not the only ones who spent the night," he whispered.

Ray chuckled. "Well, we can't leave them here. Chef will pitch a fit if he walks in and sees them like that." He grinned broadly. "Dirty little buggers!"

"Does that make us dirty big buggers?" asked Kevin, laughing.

"In more ways than one," retorted Ray. "Come on, give me a hand. We have to get them back to their beds."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

"Carry them, of course," replied Ray. "Now, where are their clothes? Oh, there. Kevin, gather up their stuff. I'll take Joey if you'll take Randy." While Ray slowly lifted Joey from Randy's body and cradled him in his arms Kevin quickly picked up the boys' shorts and briefs from the deck where they had thrown them and stuffed them into the back pocket of his shorts. He gathered up Randy and together they carried the boys from the building, putting the bulk of the Mess Hall between themselves and any prying eyes in the Guardhouse.

Ray could feel Joey's warm bottom in the crook of his arm. He could also feel a cool stickiness. He giggled, but said nothing. Joey squirmed a bit, then nuzzled

Ray's bare chest. "Ray," he mumbled, still half asleep. "Smell nice. Cuddle with me?"

Ray grinned and kissed the top of Joey's head. "No cuddling tonight. You're going to bed."

"Okay. Where Randy?"

"He's fine," replied Ray as they passed the corner of the Mess Hall. "Kevin has him."

Joey opened one eye, looked at Kevin, then closed it. "Kevin nice, too. Has a nice dick. Big!"

"You never mind the size of Kevin's dick. It's time you were in your bed," replied Ray. He looked at Kevin and winked, then smiled a large, pleased, knowing smile.

Kevin ducked his head and returned Ray's wink.

Joey raised his head and whispered fiercely in Ray's ear. Ray grinned at Kevin.

"That's between Kevin and me. A gentleman never kisses and tells, Joey." Joey opened his eyes, peeked coyly at Kevin, then whispered again in Ray's ear. Ray stopped dead in his tracks at the bottom of the steps leading to the Cooks Barracks. He smacked Joey's bare bottom. "You dopes! Next time get some Vaseline. It works a hell of a lot better than spit!"

Kevin laughed so hard that he almost dropped Randy. "Well you DID say that they were dirty little buggers!"