Sailors Tale

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This chapter contains scenes of graphic sex between consenting adults. As such the usual caveats demanded by law apply.

Copyright 2008 by John Ellison

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Ten

At first I worried that sleeping with Ingram might be dangerous. We shared the room with Andy, and we certainly did not want him walking in on us. I also felt that sooner or later our trucking out to Dartmouth whenever we had free time might draw attention to us. This didn't happen. In point of fact our relationship outside of our room enhanced our reputations.

Ingram had been a bit of an introvert, not wanting to draw attention because of the nature of his job. He didn't want to become too involved, at least socially, with anyone for fear that he would let slip that he was a Narc. I was hesitant lest someone think that Ingram and I were more than "just good friends"!

As it happened nothing of the sort happened. What helped was that the Navy was such a small, insular world, one was expected to bond, to become close to other men, to form friendships that endured for a lifetime. It also helped that Ingram and I became true buddies. The sex was great, which goes without saying, and Ingram was a competent, caring lover. He was also more of a bottom than a top, and while I did have the experience of his huge monster (eleven and a half inches fully hard - I know, because like Andy I measured the thing) he always went slowly and carefully, although I did not really enjoy waking up in the middle of the night, with Ingram crowding me out of my bed, snuffling and clasping me in a death-like grip and what felt like a telephone pole shoved up my butt! Ain't love grand?

Not that we were in love. I did care for Ingram, and he cared for me, in his own way and fashion. Neither of us wanted to commit to anything beyond being fuck buddies. While we did become closer, and had similar interests, friendship was far more important than our sex lives. He understood that if he came wandering in from the showers, waving his pecker at me, and if I was not in the mood, he would have to take care of business himself. I understood that some nights Ingram would only want to hold me, or me to hold him. Living three lives, one as a normal, run of the mill sailor, one as a secretly gay sailor, and one as an undercover narcotics cop was stressful and took its toll. Regular sex helped, but I managed to convince him that he needed other outlets, and hiding in the room after work was simply not what I wanted.

We began to go out together. We had drinks in the Fleet Club, and drank beer in the North End Tavern, where we played pool and pretended to scope out the Fishing Fleet, and Ingram joined the sports program. Chief Toner was ecstatic when Ingram tried out for the swim team and the water polo team. What the other guys thought of Ingram appearing, wearing only a tight Speedo, I can only imagine. Ingram and I volunteered to help out with the Base Little League teams, he as umpire and I as third base coach.

Quite intentionally we became good friends and, again unintentionally, we acted like good buddies will, accepting each other, but never letting a friendship stand in the way of a good fight! Ingram and I had a very public scrape during one of the Little League Games and he threw me out! I called him a few choice names (all right, a lot of choice names). He was congratulated for his patience and forbearing, and I was censured for using bad language in front of the Little Leaguers.

As a forward for the Water Polo Team, Ingram was a fast, determined, and vicious player! Once, when the other team was short a player, I was volunteered and Ingram and I ended up playing on opposite sides. I fouled him (deliberately if the truth were told - we were losing and he was heading for another goal). The ref missed the foul and Ingram missed his shot. I, fool that I was and am, just had to gloat, and Ingram, not pleased at all, retaliated. He ambushed me and bit me! The sumbitch not only bit me, he bit me on the butt! This the ref saw (hardly difficult as I yelped and thrashed like a virgin on her wedding night), and Ingram was ejected for ungentlemanly conduct! The other boys thought it all a hoot and while I fumed they made Ingram into a sort of hero, not only gifting him with the nickname "Animal", but bought an oversize, studded collar and chain, and thereafter he was led (by me) into the pool while he growled and pretended to slash at me.

About a month after Ingram and I began our relationship, Andy moved out, preferring civilian digs ashore with his new "friend" to our company. This worked for both Ingram and me, although our relative privacy did not last too long.

From April to September, Stadacona was packed with hundreds of Naval Reservists on course, and every one of them needed a place to rest his weary, pointed little head. Not only were we gifted with one of the "Shads" (for "Shadow Navy", as we called them), but Andy's bed was removed and replaced by a double decker bunk, so we had two new room mates, which meant the end of our in-room trysts.

Fortunately we still had Don, who was pleased as punch that I had finally settled down. I introduced Ingram to Harry and Rachel. Aside from lamenting that Ingram wasn't Jewish (nor was I, but no matter) they accepted Ingram into their home. Ingram adored Rachel and fell in love with her cooking. He swore that it might worth turning Jewish, just to eat Kosher! I sniped that he was halfway there, being Jewish where it counted. Rachel giggled and Harry glowered. I swear the older he got the more he became a proper prude!

New Year's Day, 01 January 1969. Black Wednesday. The day had arrived. We had all been ordered down to Clothing Stores where we were re-kitted in the new green uniform of the Canadian Armed Forces. We were given new rank badges to sew on the sleeves of our uniform jackets and shirts, and cute little gold anchors to wear on the collar of the jacket, to show that we were now members of Maritime Command. The RCN was soon to be as dead as Kelsey's nuts. The White Ensign, since 1910 the flag of the Royal Canadian Navy, was to be replaced with a new ensign, and the Navy crest retired to a dark corner of Admiralty House, which was slated to be come a museum. It would be replaced with a badge showing the three symbols of the soon to be gone services, and become known as the "Family Crest".

No one wanted unification, except the politicians in Ottawa, and those who were close to retirement swallowed the anchor. Admirals retired, as did the Chiefs and more than one Petty Officer. Those close to retirement, or who had 20 years in, sent in their papers. Many Lower Deckers, those with their time in, also retired, while others counted the days to the end of their enlistments and made plans that did not include the CAF.

As 1968 wound down more and more familiar faces disappeared. A fog of gloom seemed to descend over the Dockyard, and Stadacona. There were a great many "retirement parties", but no one really seemed to have his heart in them. The Stad Band, faced with an exodus of musicians, never seemed to play anything bright and sprightly anymore. A kind of lethargy seemed to descend and nobody seemed inclined to do any serious work. We were no longer dedicated sailors. Our traditions were gone, our Flag dishonoured, and we no longer had our Official Numbers, who told anyone exactly where we enlisted. We would use our Social Insurance Numbers in the future, which told a casual observer absolutely nothing.

Christmas passed quietly for me. I went home to Toronto, endured my uncle's indifference as best I could, and escorted my aunt around town. I had a so-so time and, with Ingram waiting for me back in Halifax, I did not go near a steam bath.

Ingram met me at the airport and on the long, winding drive into Halifax, chattered away, regaling me with the latest rumours and scandals, and the parties planned to celebrate the coming New Year. This alone set my suspicious nature into overdrive. Ingram never chattered. He was usually tight lipped and never spoke two words when one would do, and he never gossiped.

I listened and then said quietly, "All right, enough, out with it."

Ingram gave me a look of innocence. "Out with what?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "Ingram, until now a cemetery at midnight is noisy compared to you! You're up to something."

Squirming uneasily in his seat, Ingram slid the car past a lumbering tank truck and inhaled. "Um, I have some bad news." He glanced uneasily in my direction and continued, "Of course, it could be good news, if you want it to be."

My chest tightened and I felt my stomach sink. I had a very good idea of what was coming. "You've been drafted," I said flatly.

I was not at all surprised, for it was inevitable, and while I knew that the day would come, I had refused to think about it. Ingram and I had spent far too long ashore in the normal Navy scheme of things. Our training program called for three years at sea, usually an initial posting following our Trades Training. This would be followed by a three year shore posting, usually in a school, improving our knowledge and upgrading our Trade level, or preparing one for promotion. In addition to trades training, one also had to undergo two Leadership Courses: Junior, which qualified one for promotion to Petty Officer, and Senior, which qualified one for Chief Petty Officer. Once the three year posting ended one could reasonably expect to be sent back to sea.

Every officer and rating had a "Career Manager", or "Career Mangler" if he screwed up and drafted you to a place you did not want to go. Although much-maligned, the Career Mangler was conscious of what the Navy needed, and not what you wanted.

After my initial sea posting in St. Laurent, posting ashore to Stadacona, not to mention the time I spent in England on my gunnery course in Whale Island, I could reasonably expect to do the three year commission ashore, and then be back in a ship. This did not happen, for several reasons.

Egotism makes me say that I was the best, and of course the best had to be kept and cosseted. Reality, however, had a great deal to do with my staying firmly ashore. To put it bluntly, thanks to the growing American debacle in Vietnam, and the burgeoning anti-war movement, a career in the military was not popular. The economy was booming and potential recruits could, and did, make a lot more money in Civvy Street than they could ever hope to earn in the Navy. Add in the essential fact that Canadians were not enthralled with military service. In point of fact, Quebecers were firmly in the anti-Military corner, and while yes, thousands did rally to the Colours during both World Wars, thousands more did not, including the arrogant toad of a Prime Minister, who was vociferous in his condemnation of American involvement in Vietnam and his admiration of "the freedom loving people of North Vietnam".

The Prime Minister, together with his inept Minister of National Defence, was determined to undermine the military presence, small as it was. Both loathed the American military establishment, and both were determined to reduce the Canadian military to little more than a "Home Guard", capable of responding to domestic crises and little else. It was rumoured that Trudeau had decided to withdraw from NATO, which brought a rocket of stupendous proportions from Washington. Lyndon Johnston was not about to let an uppity Conchy dictate American foreign policy and bluntly informed the PM that if leaving NATO was what he wanted, that was fine with him. However, if the balloon went up, and the Russian hordes descended on the Yukon, Canada was on her own. Trudeau, with the ill-grace and pettiness he was notorious for, acquiesced, and took out his pique on his soldiers and sailors and airmen. He also cut the budget and decommissioned ships, notably HMCS Bonaventure and Canada's only aircraft carrier.

Jack Tar was many things; stupid was not one of them. The matelots saw the writing on the wall, and voted with their feet. The cumulative effect of those who would have nothing to do with Unification, those who saw no future in staying in the Andrew and low recruiting rates was palpable. The drain on manpower was equally devastating. Commanding officers despaired of keeping their ships afloat or the commands viable - at one point had it not been for the drafting of Reserves and Sea Cadets operational requirements would not have been met at all.

As more and more trained sailors left, the commanders used guile, bribery, sneaky tactics, anything they could think of to keep the men they needed. What it all meant was that at the end of the day very often if a trained Leading Seaman or Petty Officer swallowed the anchor, there simply was no one available to replace him.

As a consequence the Navy's training schemed was knocked into the hat and men stayed and stayed. Add in the natural inclination of men to settle in one place, put down roots, raise a family, and so on, it all meant very few transfers.

I knew that Ingram was very highly regarded by his superiors. He had remained in his undercover role far longer than normal, and had helped to take down many of the dealers infesting the Halifax docklands and I admitted surprise that he'd been drafted.

At this supposition Ingram shook his head. "I'm getting out," he told me flatly.

Ingram was tired of living a triple life. He was tired of the pretence, and constantly hiding, and denying his true self. He was returning home where he had already accepted a position with his town's police force. He would still be hiding in the closet, but he would be close to his family, and on familiar ground. He knew whom to avoid back home, and was smart enough to know that being a police officer would deflect suspicion from him, and if he needed relief Vancouver was a short airplane ride away. Unless . . .

"I thought to ask you to come with me," Ingram said as we swung off the highway. He saw me about to respond and held up a restraining hand. "I know you don't love me, and that's fine," he said. "But in many ways I love you, and I did want to make a life with you."

After I had recovered from my shock - this was the first time Ingram had expressed any romantic feeling at all, I swallowed and asked, "But?"

Ingram had pulled into a lay-by, stopped the car, and looked at me. "Steve, I'm serious. I want somebody to spend my life with." He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm no fool, and I know that moving back home is going to be tough - hell, living back home is going to be tough. I'll be surrounded by rednecks and evangelicals who think that gays should be exterminated and use biblical passages to justify their hatred and bigotry."

"They why go home?" I asked, incredulous. Given the attitude of the RCN, and the military mind-set in general, it seemed to me that Ingram would be jumping from the fire into a cauldron filled with boiling oil!

Ingram shook his head. "I know, I know, but there are reasons." Before I could say another word he continued on. "My dad's not well. Mom is totally dependent on him and if he dies someone has to take care of her. I'm a farmer and I want to feel the prairie winds again, and watch the grain waving." He smiled weakly. "It sounds stupid, but that's what I want. I hate the city, I hate Halifax."

"You still have to live a lie," I pointed out. "How would you explain me?"

Ingram chuckled sadly. "I wanted to at least try. When I first decided not to re-enlist I thought about us, about how I felt about you. Then I decided it wasn't on the cards."

"Oh?"

"Steve, I've watched you, I live with you, I've . . . I was going to say `fucked you', and you've fucked me, but I think my feelings are deeper than that. I also think that you're too dedicated, to much in love with what you do, to ever leave the Navy. You love the life and I don't."

I had to agree with Ingram. I did love what I was doing. I couldn't see myself living on a farm, watching the grain grow, or milking the cows. Some people are born to be certain things in life and Ingram knew that being a farmer just wasn't for me.

To be honest, I had never considered what would happen when our affair ended, and to be even more honest, I never considered or conceived of a life outside of the Navy. Or a life of domestic bliss such as Don and Fettuccini had. Somehow a little house with a white picket fence simply did not figure in any of my dreams. As for Ingram, while I liked him, as a person and a man, I didn't love him, and I could not then, or now, see myself spending my declining years rocking on a porch with him.

I tried to think of something to say, something that would give Ingram some comfort, but all I could muster up was, "I'm sorry."

Ingram waved my weak response. "Don't be. I knew what you'd say, or not say. Let's just say I've had a wonderful experience and end on a positive note. I'll miss you, I'll probably get drunk one night and call you every name I can think of, but I'll sober up and remember what we have . . . had together."

I reached out and took Ingram's hand in mine. "I'll always remember you, Ingram," I said as I squeezed his hand. "I wish I could say that I wanted us to be together always, but I can't."

Ingram smiled slowly. "Which is why I didn't ask you come with me," he said. "I want you to be happy, and that won't happen if you're stuck in the middle of nowhere with just me and the cows."

Nodding as he finished, I asked, "So, what happens now?"

"Well, I don't leave until the end of April, so . . ." He leaned over and in a quite uncharacteristic public display of affection, he kissed me on the cheek.

While I frankly enjoyed the affectionate gesture, I couldn't help but warn, "You better hope there's no Mounties or MPs driving past!"

Laughing, Ingram pulled away, started the car and wheeled into the line of traffic. "Well, what I thought we'd do is go back to the room and . . ." He grinned and waggled his eyes evilly. "The Shads (we had two Reservists rooming with us at the time) are away on leave . . ."

After a few delightful hours, which ended with both Ingram and I sated, and smiling, I asked him what was on for the evening. It was, after all, New Year's Eve, and while I knew what was coming, I wanted to make our remaining months together as happy as I could manage.

"Well, dinner with the Oppenheims, that's a must," Ingram answered.

As we had both already told Harry and Rachel that we would be there for dinner on New Year's Eve, I nodded. "Okay, dinner with Harry and Rachel."

"Then a party?" Ingram offered.

This gave me pause. Since it was New Year's Eve, it followed that there would be parties all over town. "Anywhere in particular?" I asked.

"Well, there's a party in the Fleet Club." Ingram paused and then said, "It's also a wake."

I knew what Ingram was getting at. With the passing of the RCN only hours away, "wakes", or a reasonable facsimiles of a wake, were planned in every Mess and Wardroom. I asked myself if I wanted to add salt to the wound - at 2359 I would be "Leading Seaman Winslow, RCN", at 0001 I would be "Corporal Winslow, nothing".

". . . Don and Fettuccini are also throwing a bash; it's fancy dress," Ingram was saying when I returned to paying attention to him.

I shuddered. As much as I loved Don and Fettuccini, and as much as I enjoyed their open-handed hospitality, I really did not want to spend the waning hours of 1968, dressed in full riggers, watching half the queens and not a few horny sailors dressed in tutus and sequins, prancing around and doing the hokey-pokey.

While Ingram sensed my unease, he temporized, "Come on, we don't have to stay long, and they're expecting us." Then he added the kicker: "They love you and they're your oldest friends."

Well, he had a point and there was really no way I could, or would disappoint Don or his Italian Stallion. I sighed, smacked Ingram on his bare ass, and crawled out of his bed. "Okay, dinner with Harry and Rachel, one hour at the Fleet Club."

"Don's place?" queried Ingram.

"We get there at 2330 and leave at 0030," I replied firmly. "And you stay away from Kickapoo joy juice!"

Which is what we did. Dinner with Harry and Rachel, and their brood was wonderful, if noisy. The Fleet Club dance was dismal, filled with forced gaiety and the bluster of men whose whole past was soon to be erased. The party at Don's was in full swing. Don had decided to dress, wearing a ball gown and tiara, at least ten pounds of costume jewellery and carrying a wand. He also went around sprinkling what he called "Fairy Dust", gold and silver miniature stars on everybody in sight. Fettuccini had somehow acquired the full dress uniform of a Colonel of the Carabinieri, and looked suitably officious, until he peed in the punch and was banished to the pool area, with the cat. The other guests were as outrageously dressed, including two Napoleons, one Marc Antony (sans undies, as it turned out, under his Roman kilt), one Nefertiti, and two Cleopatras, one being a very senior Commander in the Engineering Branch and both bitching the other's authenticity.

Ingram and I left the party on time and drove back to the barracks, the church bells of Halifax ringing louder as we crossed over the MacDonald Bridge. In our room we shared a bottle of cheap champagne, made out a little, and then went to bed, our arms entwined.

We missed the final obsequies for the Royal Canadian Navy. While we partied at Don's a hearse pulled up to the main entrance of the Chiefs and Petty Officers Mess on Barrington Street. From the building emerged a procession of senior Chiefs, carrying a long, carved, rosewood box - a coffin of sorts. The box was lead lined, and the bottom had been pierced with holes. Inside, resting on a cushion, actually a neatly folded White Ensign, were the buttons, crowns and crossed anchors of their former ranks. Once the coffin was loaded, a cortege was formed and proceeded up Barrington to the North Gate of the Dockyard.

Turning into the Dockyard the line of cars followed the hearse to the Boat Shed where the coffin was lowered onto a bier of sorts that had been built over the centreboard casing of the whaler. After the Last Post was sounded eight Chiefs manned the sweeps and pulled into Bedford Basin. Here they backed water and waited while the Command Chief Gunnery Instructor read "The Order for the Burial of the Dead" from the Divine Service Book for the Armed Forces, finishing at the stroke of midnight, when a dull thud, the firing of a gun from the Citadel, broke the still air and announced the dawning of the New Year. As the rumble of the gun dissipated the coffin was tipped over the side of the whaler and the symbols were consigned to the care of those who had gone before. "At the going down of the sun . . ."

We slept away New Year's morning and did not attend any of the traditional Levees, which in any event were sparsely attended. It had been the custom to put on your best No. 1 uniform, put up your gongs (if you had them) and then call on the Lieutenant Governor, the Base Commander, the Chiefs and Petty Officers, make your number, have a weak drink and a nibble, and then retire to your own Mess and greet visitors. The army usually showed up in their dress uniforms and more often than not their bands, which put on impromptu concerts. The booze flowed and a good time was had by all.

On this New Year's Day this did not happen. We were forbidden to wear our proper uniforms, having instead to clean into the new, green suit designed for "The Canadian Armed Forces".

Instead of going to Levee, I cleaned into long johns (the weather had turned bitterly cold), blue jeans and a sweater and went out to Don's where I spent the day helping him and Fettuccini nurse their hangovers and consoling a sapper from the Engineers who was dressed as Nefertiti and inconsolable that Marc Antony preferred the arms of Cleopatra to him.

With the passing months, and Ingram's departure, I became morose and disillusioned. I missed the big goof dreadfully, and while he wrote almost daily, letters did not replace the warmth and touch of him. Don and Fettuccini, as always, tried to make up for Ingram's absence, and for once did not drag a line of willing Stud Muffins through the house for my dalliance and pleasure.

Harry and Rachel, and their kids, were a source of understanding as well. Harry wanted to introduce me to a nice Jewish boy of his acquaintance, but I didn't need the angst of Jewish guilt. To be honest, I simply wasn't interested. I wanted Ingram, and no one else.

To add to my depression the full effects of Unification were becoming more and more evident. Nobody cared anymore, and a cloud of disappointment seemed to descend on Jack Tar and his mates. We were no longer professionals, simply men doing a job, and I think it indicative of the way the lads felt when one afternoon a group of ratings I had sent off to help Iroquois come alongside returned from Jetty 4 much sooner than I expected. When I asked them why, one of the boys informed me that the Killick in Charge had secured at 1630 (the normal end of our work day) with the announcement that as the ship was still not alongside (and would not be for another hour or so) he was not about to hang around - he didn't get paid overtime!

Those of us who cared tried to keep up the old ways, and the old traditions. It was, of course, a losing proposition. From my perspective the only ones who stuck around, aside from the usual collection of Lower Deck Lawyers, Barracks Stanchions and Queen's Hard Bargains, were those who knew which way the wind was blowing and profited thereby. Officers who should never have been commissioned in the first place suddenly wore an extra half-stripe, or a full stripe, and parroted the party line. Able Seamen and Killicks who before had been conspicuous by their absence when any real work needed to be done, suddenly wore the rank of "Master Seaman", an appointment rather than a promotion, and parroted the party line. Work that should have been done wasn't, or if it was, was done haphazardly and during "working hours", and at the whim of Hellyer's Hookys. Incidents of drug use increased, and alcoholism seemed to become a way of life. Friday at noon the Dockyard and ships alongside emptied as everybody took "Sliders". The weekend became sacrosanct and nobody dared suggest any sort of work on a Saturday or Sunday.

As the months passed, my malaise increased. I wasn't happy, there was a definite void in my life without Ingram, and I plain needed a change. I put in for a sea posting, which was refused. I put in for a posting to another base, again refused. I despaired of ever leaving Halifax! I continued in my work, a man out of place as it were, doing my job, but never satisfied.

My memories of this time are hazy, in fact, almost non-existent. The reason is simple: I began to drink. I was careful not to drink on duty, and while I might have shown up on parade hung over and nauseous, I still managed to maintain the grim, trim façade of my profession. I ate lunch at my desk, but come 1635, I was parked at the corner table in the Fleet Club, drinking beer. Deep down I knew that I wasn't solving a damn thing. I also knew that daily letters and the occasional telephone call simply weren't doing the trick. It did not help that the daily letters became weekly, and then monthly. Nor did the frequent mention in the letters of a new deputy sheriff, a young man named "Brick". I read between the lines and called for another round. The telephone calls stopped, and then the letters.

My drinking increased and I knew I was well on the way to hitting rock bottom. I knew that I had to do something so I went to see Chief Edgar, my rabbi and friend. He listened to me and decided that a sea voyage was in order. I was very quickly drafted to HMCS Huron, a new 280-class destroyer, then part of STANAVFORLANT, the Standing Naval Force Atlantic.

This was a squadron of frigates, destroyers and at least one supply ship/oiler that patrolled and exercised in the North Atlantic constantly, and included ships from at least six navies, always the American and Canadian, but varied with warships from England, Germany, Holland and Belgium.

We would exercise, fuel, and complain constantly about the Yanks, who never seemed to shut up! During the day the radio frequencies burbled, burped, went dit and dah, as they chattered away with each other, the other ships, and I assume NATO Headquarters in Brussels and the Pentagon in Washington. At night their signal lamps flashed and blinked. They drove everybody crazy and were quite put out when they realized that nobody was paying the slightest bit of attention to them. They were even more put out when they realized that a priority signal about a Russian nuke boat loitering on the starboard beam was ignored completely - the crew of the Iroquois was at the time in the hangar watching a Sod's Opera. When the shouting and tumult died down everybody went back to monitoring the communications channels, at least for a little while.

As part of our duties we also "showed the flag", which meant port visits. This always meant lots of receptions on the quarterdeck, trips ashore to see the sights, and whores lining the jetty. There was a hard core group of women who seemed to follow the fleet up the English Channel and were waiting at every port, to the chagrin of the local talent, or so it seemed to me. The same old faces and the same old scantily clad ladies always seemed to be waiting.

Each port visit was unique. In Portsmouth we anchored out at Spithead and duty boats waddled back and forth between the line of ships and the Dockyard. Bus excursions were laid on and the boys went up to London, discovered Piccadilly, then the sex capital of the Kingdom, and returned laden with sex toys, inflatable dolls, and triple "X" rated movies. The dolls and movies I could understand. However, what Jolly Jack planned to do with dildoes of every shape, colour and dimension I shuddered to think about!

In Amsterdam and Hamburg a trip to the local red light districts was always part of the tour, and more than one healthy young Canadian came back to the ship with the gift that keeps on giving and a prescription for a Pecker Checker's Cocktail.

In Kiel, the birthplace and home of the West German Navy, the arrival of the foreign ships meant party time. The Germans, dour and officious as they tended to be, were great hosts, and German beer with schnapps chaser are a one way ticket to a Padre's Course and rehab.

In Stockholm we were met by a horde of "independent movie producers", actually makers of mass-produced porn, looking for new talent. Waving fistfuls of Yankee dollars, these impresarios offered to make Jack's every sexual fantasy come true. Jack responded to the lure - after all, it is very difficult to refuse the opportunity to get your dick sucked, get laid, get drunk, and get paid for it while you're doing it! I have no idea how many of my shipmates succumbed, but I did later see a grainy black and white flick where I was sure the "star" was a man who is now a well-respected Bishop in the Anglican Church!

For six months I managed to behave myself, and even laid off the booze a bit. I had fun, but never managed to hook up with anyone. I returned to Halifax at the end of the cruise out of my funk, but still feeling empty and unfulfilled. I despaired of ever actually hearing a shot fired in anger and resigned myself to the life of a peacetime sailor.

Then, out of the blue came the answer to my prayers in the form of the International Commission of Control and Supervision, a UN boondoggle if ever there was one.

Having joined the Navy under the misapprehension that the service would "make a man of me" I often wonder exactly what it was I was supposed to be doing. It occurred to me one day that the main purpose in keeping a standing Army, or Navy, was to defend the country. Defending the country meant fighting in a war. What better, and nobler, way to prove your manhood than to go to war. The only problem was, there was no war. Canadians hadn't fired a shot in anger since the "Korean Police Action" (and wouldn't until the Gulf War). There was Vietnam, and Canadians were fighting in Nam - as American soldiers.

I had no objection to going to war. I did object to being shot at and wasn't all that keen about it. I had all but given up further proving my manhood when along came the Paris Peace Accords, supposedly ending the conflict in Vietnam. Both sides had agreed to a "peace in place", to not escalate the war, and only to replace worn out equipment. The lines established were not to be breached, front line units were not to be reinforced, and new territory was not to be seized, all pending an eventual settlement between the two Vietnams, and all under the inept supervision of the United Nations.

I admit that I have never lost my distrust, disdain and contempt for the United Nations. I also never subscribed to the bankrupt concept of "Peace Keeping". How Lester Bowles Pearson (but always called "Mike" for some reason), one time Prime Minister, ever managed to fly that particular kite is beyond me. How anyone thinks that he can sit down and talk a belligerent into mending his ways, using reason and logic, also escapes me, as does trying to deal with people who are ideologically incapable of understanding either, or so filled with religious zealotry that they are incapable of reason. Democracy, not the best form of government, simply does not work in some countries. Pleading and wheedling simply don't work. Placing armed soldiers, and giving them orders not to shoot or interfere unless shot at, only ends in an extended casualty list, and inept generals who haven't got the courage of a cat and drive past while men under their command are massacred by ignorant tribesmen.

From the Belgian Congo to Kosovo the United Nations Peace Keeping efforts have failed. Lives have been lost through indifference and ignorance. Vietnam is a classic case of the inability of the UN to enforce anything.

In 1973 the United Nations was tasked with supervising the provision of the Paris Peace Accords. In summary, the UN, in the form of the International Commission of Control and Supervision (ICCS) was to supervise the cease-fire, the withdrawal of troops, the dismantlement of military bases, the activity at ports of entry and the return of captured military personnel and foreign civilians. It was to report on the implementation, or violation, of the Peace Agreement and Protocols. As the world's leading proponent of appeasement, collaboration and Peace Keeping, Pierre Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada and political heir to Mike Pearson, sent his Minister for External Affairs, Mitchell Sharp, scampering to New York as fast as his hands and knees could carry him, to offer Canadian participation in the ICCS. Trudeau also called for "professional military personnel" to help enforce the Protocols.

Needless to say, given anything the United Nations was involved with, things did not work out quite the way they were planned. The ICCS was asked to provide observers to ensure that all sides kept to the rules. That no one did is a matter of record. The United States pulled out, and the VC, the NVA and ARVN kept shooting at each other. To my way of thinking it was just dangerous enough for the UN observers to qualify as a war. I went to my rabbi, Chief Edgar, whined and pleaded, opened my big mouth and the next thing I knew I was sitting in an airplane, on my way to Saigon.

Saigon, Paris of the East, or so it was called, sprawled untidily along the broad, muddy waters of the Saigon River, a busy commercial waterway crowded with junks, sampans and ships of all sizes and purpose. The city seemed to be covered with a haze of smog from the industrial factories that lined the highway leading from Than Son Nhut airport into the city, except when it rained, as it did every afternoon during the seemingly interminable and aptly named rainy season.

To my jaundiced eye, Saigon bore very little resemblance to the classic capital of France. In fact, I thought the place looked more like Dodge City on a bad day. Many of the buildings were arcaded, and those that weren't had large verandas stretching to the edge of the sidewalks. While there were wide, tree-lined boulevards, notably Tu Do Street and Nguyen Boulevard, most of the streets were narrow, and at times nearly impassable. Architecturally, Saigon might bear a superficial resemblance to Paris, but when it came to traffic, the French had nothing on the Vietnamese.

The streets were filled with vehicles, from lumbering buses to Honda motorcycles, bicycle rickshaws, cyclo-pousses, and the blue and yellow Renaults of the taxi fleet that serviced the town. Interspersed were military vehicles of all types, Deuce-and-a-halves predominating, carrying supplies and soldiers, and jeeps carrying a minimum of a dozen camouflage clad soldiers, each carrying an automatic weapon and wearing an oversize piss-pot helmet. Civilian vehicles abounded, usually Citroens (the French influence predominating in all things), interspersed with American made cars and vans, the colour of which usually identified the agency the drivers and passengers worked for. For instance, the U.S. Embassy preferred white Chevrolets and a nondescript grey or black Ford announced the presence of the CIA. Everybody knew it, and everybody pretended they didn't. Everybody also leaned on their horns and weaved in and out of traffic, trying to avoid Saigon Cowboys on their unmuffled Japanese made mopeds, slow moving carts pulled by placid water buffalos and Mama-sans who darted in and out of the street with sublime indifference.

Adding to the din of the traffic was the incessant chattering of people! The sidewalks, each one of which seemed to be lined with makeshift shops selling everything from black market cigarettes to pho and roasted meats, were packed. The Vietnamese, it seemed, love to stroll, at least when they weren't squatting on the curbside, smoking, or arguing vociferously over the price of a melon. There were young, very beautiful girls wearing the traditional garb, ao dais, usually flowing white, Buddhist monks in saffron robes and carrying their begging bowls, Roman Catholic nuns in white habits and starched wimples, also begging alms for the many orphanages the Orders supported, together with French colonials in from the countryside for the day, although most of them seemed to prefer sitting at the outdoor cafés that seemed to occupy every corner, sipping café noir (a bitter brew) and sniffing at the Americans, civilians for the most part, who were rash enough to risk the wrath of the more nationalistic Vietnamese who chaffed at the "betrayal" of the Paris Peace Accords.

There were, too, soldiers. At almost every major intersection, or what passed for one, there was a sand-bagged military check point. Armed solders patrolled every street, while their off duty comrades in arms shopped and flirted with the hookers, over made up and under dressed girls in high heels who plied their ancient trade in the myriad bars and cafés. Now that the Americans were no longer present in thousands in the city, the young solders had reverted to their ancient custom of walking hand-in-hand together, no longer fearful of being labelled "queer" by ignorant American farm boys who had no conception of Vietnamese culture or tradition.

Overall, exacerbated by the dust and smog and noise, was the heat, relentless, humid, debilitating heat, and the moment I stepped from the air-conditioned coolness of the Korean Air jet that had carried me from Hong Kong to Saigon, it was as if I had slammed into an impenetrable stone wall.

Unaccustomed to the heat, I began to sweat like the proverbial pig. As I walked from the stairs of the jet to the terminal on the civilian side of the air base, I could feel the strength drain from me. I was somewhat restored as I entered the terminal to clear customs. The building was air-conditioned, and I basked in the coolness as I cleared customs - a perfunctory process involving a brief glance at my passport and visa (both stamped "Diplomatique") by a uniformed flunky, a loud thump as the documents were validated by a rubber stamp, and a languid wave of dismissal.

Outside the terminal I joined my fellow ICCS members, two sergeants from the Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry (PPCLI) and an "Air Command" warrant officer who had partaken of too much airline hospitality on the flight. We piled into a Ford van painted CF green for the trip into town, a hot, dusty ride because the air conditioning didn't work and all the windows had to be open to catch the slightest breeze. We passed through the military check point and the main gate and as we weaved into the traffic I noticed a triangular plot of land separating the entrance and exit points. On it stood a billboard on which it was proclaimed: "THE NOBLE SACRIFICE OF ALLIED SOLDIERS WILL NEVER BE FORGOTTEN."

We were driven to the Canadian Embassy, a large, stone, French style building on Dong Koi Street. Here we were met by the Military Attachés clerk, Master Warrant Officer Bolan, a bespectacled, grizzled, disillusioned old Chief Writer (he claimed to have been a plank owner of HMCS Niobe, which I never doubted an instant) who welcomed us grumpily and set about handing out chits for combat gear, chits for meals, and assigning us quarters. My travelling companions were initially disappointed in their assignments: rooms in the Canadian villa in the ICSS Compound. The Compound, containing separate villas for the signatories - Hungary, Poland, Indonesia and Canada, was located at the head of Ly Thai To Boulevard, in the western reaches of Saigon's residential district.

Chief Bolan, a man of many moods and firm opinions, loathed the ICCS. According to him, and I found out later, truthfully, the American taxpayers were being screwed royally. Not only did they pay the salaries of the Communist representatives, they were on the hook for their maintenance. The Poles and Hungarians enjoyed a lifestyle they could never hope to have at home. Not only were they given well-appointed and well-furnished villas to live in, they were waited on hand and foot by a staff, which included a major domo, a cook, maids, and gardeners. The Americans also provided transportation, cars to travel into the city and, on the rare occasions when the "commissioners" mustered up the courage to stir themselves, helicopters to take them into the boonies, complete with armed U.S. Marines. Life, apparently, was very good.

I did not remind the Chief that as an officially accredited member of the ICCS, I was also sucking on the American teat. Not only was I being paid well - my normal rate of pay, plus danger pay and isolation allowance, I was also, as were the other representatives, granted PX and "officer's" privileges. Life was going to be very good!

If Chief Bolan loathed the ICCS, there are no words in the English language to describe his feelings toward the Communists, all of whom, despite the multiplicity of organizations, he lumped together as "Charlie". Charlie did not live in the ICCS compound. The North Vietnamese had a compound out at Tan San Nhut, where the South Vietnamese could keep an eye on them. Here the North Vietnamese strutted arrogantly, refused communications with anyone connected with the American Embassy (the feeling was mutual), and generally made themselves pains in the ass with their constant complaints and communications alleging violations of the peace accords.

As I listened to the Chief, and later, I very quickly came to the conclusion that the peace accords in general, and the ICCS in particular, were the biggest cluster fuck since Dieppe. Nobody talked to anybody, the Poles and Hungarians were too busy living the life of Riley, and the North Vietnamese were busy complaining and slowly encroaching southward. The ICCS representatives knew this, but refused to venture outside of their comfortable compound. They had tried it once and been fired on by VC ground troops, and it seemed that getting shot was not part of their job descriptions.

As for the Americans, they also knew what was going on, but at the time of my arrival, were almost rudderless as they awaited the arrival of their new Ambassador (the delusional Graham Martin). They would communicate only through the ICCS, pointing out violations and, when it became certain that nothing said was being paid attention to, lapsed into silence. The Americans made no bones about not trusting anyone remotely connected with the ICCS.

I listened to the Chief's ranting and when he was finished, I asked, "Then why am I here?"

The Chief snorted and replied, "Buggered if I know!"

I too was buggered if I knew what we were supposed to be doing. According to our mandate we were to supervise the withdrawal of American forces in Vietnam, monitor prisoner exchanges and authenticate equipment and munitions replacement. According to the peace accords neither side could reinforce their forces in the field. They could replace equipment and ammunition expended, and only up to pre-protocol levels. This worked only on the South Vietnamese side. Chinese and Russian freighters were taking numbers to come alongside in Haiphong, each ship laden to the gunwales with shells, tanks, fighter planes and war materiel. Of course the North Vietnamese claimed that they were only recipients of agricultural and humanitarian aid from their "fraternal brothers". We couldn't confirm or deny the claims as we were not allowed into the port to supervise the unloading.

So it was that I became a minor clerk to Chief Nolan. I pushed papers, and every so often I would supervise the replacement of ammunition supplies for the South Vietnamese Army. I would take a chauffeured ride out to Ton San Nhut, watch the unloading of the resupply planes, give a cursory glance to the proffered paperwork, and return to the Embassy, where I would sign a statement. The Chief would shrug, countersign, and then give me the rest of the day off. Truth be told, I spent much more time exploring the city than I ever did actually working.

My day began in the Majestic Hotel, where I was billeted. The hotel, located at the corner of Tu Do Street and Ben Bach Dang, the riverfront road, was comfortable and surprisingly clean. My room was large and very comfortable, with an attached bath, and a small balcony where I would sometimes sit and sip Scotch and watch the river traffic and enjoy the view of the docks and Khanh Hoi, the southern district of the city.

I would usually start my day with a bowl of pho, purchased from one of the street vendors that occupied every spare bit of sidewalk. Pho is a soup, filled with noodles and meat, chicken or beef and vegetables. Refreshed, I would walk to the embassy, elbowing aside beggars, street vendors, hookers and the hordes of Mama-sans, Papa-sans and street urchins.

Arrived at the embassy I would endure the Chief's latest diatribe, push some papers, and motor out to the DAO compound at the airport. The compound, officially a part of the American Defence Attaché's Office, was a collection of wooden buildings with tin roofs, a labyrinthine affair that confused anyone not actually working there. I would check the incoming manifests and, if there was a shipment coming in, wait for it. If nothing was due in, I would return to the embassy and lunch with the Chief. The embassy had an excellent canteen, and all the food was flown in from Canada daily.

After lunch I was on my own.

During the American presence the sex industry had been booming. Every city block had at least one café or night club staffed with lithesome ladies who would, for a price, help a lonely soldier away from home forget that there was a war on. Loud music blared, scantily clad girls beckoned . . . you get the picture. For those who rode another bus, there were discreet hideaways where boys could be boys. At the height of the American presence Saigon had been wide-open and anything went. Now, in the early summer of 1973, business was bad. Many of the nightclubs were closing or had closed, and others had been transformed into legitimate cafés, serving dubious meals and watered down drinks.

In addition to the downturn in customers, the girls were faced with a determined effort by the city authorities to clean up the city. The new ordinances were enforced by the National Police and the Military Police (know as "White Mice" by the civilian population, for the white-painted helmets they wore), both of which organizations were justly feared.

There was also the curfew. The streets had to be cleared by midnight, and no one, except emergency and military vehicles and personnel were allowed on the streets after the air raid siren sounded. If you were caught away from home you stayed where you were. The White Mice would pounce if you so much as stuck your nose outside the door, and from the stories I heard spending a night in custody was something to be avoided at all costs.

In the main I did my exploring during the day. I was interested in the opportunities for those who "rode a different bus" and discovered that if one was careful, opportunity abounded! There were several cruising grounds, although most of the custom was Vietnamese.

A popular place was the Cercle Sportif, where the elite of Saigon gathered around the pool, or in the first class restaurant, or strolled in the expansive gardens. Here the jeuneusse doré, wearing the briefest swimming costumes that Paris had to offer, preened and stroked their golden-hued, slim bodies. Gathered at the tables surrounding the huge pool were older Vietnamese men and women, French colonials in white linen suits, and an ever dwindling number of Americans, almost all attached to one of the U.S. agencies or the Embassy. I would sit and sip an aperitif and watch as assignations were cultivated and smile knowingly as the two soon to be lovers drifted into the gardens. It was all very discreet, of course, and very French!

For those who preferred the rougher sort, there were hole-in-the-wall cafés with a bedroom, or bedrooms, in the back, where the waiters, all light, pretty young men, served more than what was on the menu. For those who wanted a quick fix, there was a grotty little place just over the New Port Bridge in Khanh Hoi that specialised in one thing only: a blow job.

The front of the house was the usual collection of rickety tables and chairs, and one could, if one was contemplating suicide, eat the food offered. There was a large bar, usually crowded, and, just inside a curtained doorway, a large stone trough down which water flowed continuously. From time to time one of the customers, usually American contractors with beer bellies, and a cornered market on Hawaiian shirts, would follow one of the waiters into the back. Soon the waiter would return, spit explosively in to the trough and carry on out front serving and waiting for the next customer.

I was there one night when two young men, U.S. Marines from the embassy by their crisp civilian clothes and buzzed hair, availed themselves of the services offered. Both went back with the youngest of the waiters, and both obviously got their money's worth. The boys returned to the main room looking flushed and a little embarrassed. They sat down and I could hear one whisper huskily, "Told you guys did it better!"

The other nodded and rubbed his crotch reflectively. "Yeah, it was great, better than I expected, but damn, I thought they swallowed!"

At first I was very skittish about exploring Saigon's sex hovels. While the Oriental males can be beautiful creatures, I knew what I liked, what I was accustomed to, and while I looked and admired, I stuck to my old caveats, and never bedded one of them, and frankly had all but given up in finding someone to help dispel the ennui of service in Saigon.

Then . . .

I had been in a Saigon a month when I found a place that more than lived up to the city's reputation, a place filled with young men that amply fulfilled my expectations.

From time to time I would see representatives of the other SEATO countries that had supplied troops to Vietnam. There were Aussies (Australians) and Kiwis (New Zealanders), easily identified by their distinctive bush hats and dark green jungle fatigues, South Koreans, either slim and trim wearing American fatigues and berets, or short and squat, also wearing fatigues and berets. There were also Filipinos, and a smattering of Taiwanese, but they tended to stick to themselves, and apparently spent much of their free time in Cholon, the Chinese district.

Like the Americans, their Allies were drawing down at a rate of knots, but enough of them remained to help with the cleanup to be noticeable. They rarely appeared in the more notorious of establishments, although they did frequent the infamous Mimi's Flamboyant, where a generation of young American males lost their wallets and their virginity.

I would meet the Aussies or the Kiwis from time to time, always on official ICCS business and for the most part they took my breath away. They all seemed to be magnificently slim and fit, all seemed to be blond, and were brash and outspoken and friendly as all hell. I wondered where they went to relax and if they were as lusty and outgoing as their reputations made them.

To my surprise, I found out, in spades, one stifling hot day while I was sitting on the terrace of the Majestic, drinking cold beer. I was idly watching the foot traffic passing the hotel when I saw an Aussie, tall, and damned handsome, pushing his way through the crowds that thronged Ben Bach Dang Road. Impulsively I stood up, threw a handful of piasters on the table, and followed him.

Perhaps three blocks down the road I came to a semicircular park surrounding a statue of an ancient Vietnamese naval hero. Radiating from the park were a few short streets lined with villas and, on one corner, a three-story, French style building. Affixed to the wall beside the double doors of the entry was a small brass plaque announcing that this was the "Hotel de Paris".

I saw the Aussie enter and thought, what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and followed him inside. I had discovered the unofficial Antipodeans Cultural Centre!

Originally an hotel privée owned by an impossibly rich French planter, who had succumbed to too much sun, too much sex, and too much Absinthe after 30 years in Indo-China, the house had been turned into a very exclusive residential club, membership by invitation only, and limited to members of the Australian and New Zealand Forces. When the planter died just before the latest war began, it had been taken over by another rich Frenchman, Honoré (I never knew his last name; he never offered it and it was considered bad form to ask), who had spent time in Australia and developed a taste for Bondi Boys. For reasons of his own, and never revealed, Honoré despised Americans, and wouldn't have one in his hotel. He loved his Australians and New Zealanders, however, and made a place for them to gather and be themselves.

The hotel was meticulously clean, and well-staffed with house boys and waiters. The main floor was given over to a lounge, a bar, and a restaurant that served the best barbecue in town. There was a swimming pool, and a tennis court, always filled with scantily clad young Aussies or Kiwis.

Upstairs there were bedrooms and two small suites of rooms, always available, for just a little extra on the bill. The food in the restaurant was excellent, and expensive, and the wine list ran for ten pages. Nothing, it seemed, was too good for the Aussies and their New Zealand brothers.

At first I was reluctant to intrude. This was, after all, a private preserve so to speak. However, as luck would have it one of the Aussies I did more or less constant business with, was in the bar, saw me, and waved me in.

Once inside the bar, and having reassured Honoré that was in no way an American (the uniform I wore told him that), I was given a guest card, and all privileges. Within hours I thought I had died and gone to heaven!

I had long ago learned that homosexuality exists in every culture, so was not surprised when I learned the hotel was a haven for gay Australians and New Zealanders. It was a quiet place where they could gather, enjoy their exuberant lifestyle, and frankly have as much sex as one could stand. Everybody in the place knew that their time in Vietnam was short, and was determined to make the most of it. At times the place reminded me of a barracks, with naked and semi-naked men wandering all over the upper two floors, where the bedrooms were, with attendant noise and homoerotic tomfoolery of the type I experienced in Cornwallis. Nobody gave a damn who was sleeping with whom; what mattered was that they all had a good time doing it.

The bar was packed every night, with tall, handsome men speaking in strange accents and drinking beer in quantity (the beer was imported from Australia and potent). I spent many a happy evening with the boys, laughing and admiring them, and listening to them chuck shit, which is an art form. No one was safe, not even me, or the Vietnamese houseboys, who were supposed to be off limits (Honoré could never understand anyone wanting to bed a Vietnamese, who were, in his opinion, ignorant peasants and only interested in the money they could earn if they snuck upstairs to one of the bedrooms).

Well, I couldn't blame the houseboys. Damn near every Aussie and Kiwi was a walking wet dream, tall, beyond good looking, muscular and with dangling bits to dream about. I never met one who was not exactly what I fancied and was firmly disabused of my ignorance the first time I questioned one of the boys I spent some time with. He laughed at me, and told me that, "everybody's cut, mate, been doin' it for years!"

I wasn't about to complain and I learned that the practice had actually come into being when the prisoners of war came home. Apparently, given the filth and heat of Changi and the other POW camps where the Australians were held, the doctors decreed circumcision for everybody. Given the multitude of strange organisms that were and are rife in Southeast Asia, I can well understand the caution. Nobody, as one Kiwi stated, wanted to end up with something growing under his foreskin or having the thing rot off.

Pleased, I sampled Australian and New Zealand hospitality with abandon. I noticed that the Australians were much more open about their sexuality, and had a devil-may-care attitude. They were there to enjoy themselves and this they did with a vengeance. The New Zealanders were a little more reserved, but just as exuberant in private.

For a little over a month my life more or less revolved around the Hotel de Paris. I would book off work after lunch and head back to my digs in the Majestic. Here I would change into shorts and a loose, short-sleeved shirt, shove my feet into Jesus boots and stroll down to the hotel. After a restorative beer in the bar it was time for a swim in the hotel pool, where I was introduced to a unique piece of Australian clothing marketed under the brand "Aussiebum". I could well understand why it was called that because Aussie bum was on full display! The bathing suit was made of a thin, filmy material that clung to the body like a second skin, and was so revealing, especially when wet, that nothing was or could be left to the imagination. It was low on the hips and high on the sides; a delicious little bit of nothing that intrigued and beckoned.

After my swim it was time for another beer, this time at pool side. I would sit at a table, served by a pretty young waiter wearing the Vietnamese version of an Aussiebum, and while I sat and sipped the boys would drift in. They would swim and then sit with me, and we would gossip, usually about who was "short" and due to ship out soon. When I first began visiting the hotel there were about two hundred Aussies and perhaps a hundred Kiwis in more or less regular attendance. All too soon, however, their numbers began to dwindle. The two companies of Aussies soon became one, and then barely a platoon. The same held true for the Kiwis, although their rate of return back home seemed quicker. Eventually there were only about two sections of Aussies still attending, men providing security for the Australian embassy. The Kiwis stopped coming altogether simply because they had all gone home.

While I had a great deal of fun in the hotel, I knew that it would all come to an end sooner rather than later. The end came quite suddenly when Honoré received his visa for Australia. He, or his clients, had pulled the right strings and Honoré walked around with a huge smile on his face, despite his claims of losing money every day he stayed open.

Rather than open the place up to the hordes of monied Vietnamese, Honoré decided to throw a monster party and close down for good. He had a buyer for the hotel, a Chinese, who wanted to turn the place into a boarding house for the displaced Chinese refugees from the northern districts. He paid off the houseboys and other staff, opened the bar and, while the whole affair had all the overtones of a wake, it was a hell of a party and kept me in war stories for many months afterwards.

With the hotel closed, I underwent a lifestyle change in that I avoided the more overt cruising places. I began to frequent the terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel, which had bar, a rattan cave built against the back wall of the terrace. I rarely sat there because this was the haunt of the resident ladies of the evening - not that any of them were, and some were of somewhat ambiguous gender. I would sit at one of the tables near the pool, and people watch. Many of the drinkers were American journalists, as despised a breed then as they are now. Some of the drinkers were beefy, loud, civilian contractors, Americans who, when they were not building or repairing the infrastructure of the country, were drinking and entertaining the whores they attracted in droves. I avoided them, and usually managed to visit the hotel on the nights I knew they'd be elsewhere.

When the crowd of drinkers became too boisterous, or the hookers too demanding, I would retire to the rooftop café, an oasis of quiet, a garden of peace, far above the noise of the streets and the roar of the crowds. I would sit and gaze at the stars so far above, or watch the fireworks as the VC committed yet another violation of the Accords, ignoring the manmade thunder as yet another outlying village fell to the ever advancing little men in black pyjamas and conical straw hats. Here, on the rooftop of the hotel, I met Matthew, Matthew Alexander Bodine.

My interaction with Americans was minimal, confined primarily to delivery reports and picking up rosters of prisoners exchanged and so on. The ICCS teams were, so far as the Americans were concerned, "Guilt by Association". Merely by supporting the Paris Accords we were regarded suspiciously and it was a given that every word sent, printed or uttered by them to an ICCS representative went directly to the NV compound at the speed of light.

The relatively few Americans in town were all attached either to the Embassy, in various diplomatic posts, or as part of the Security Force (all Marines). There was a large contingent of Army and Air Force types assigned to the Defense Attachés Office (DAO), which was located in a sprawling complex out at Tan Son Nhut.

In town the Americans favoured certain hotels and bars, usually the Caravelle or the Central Palace. The military types and spooks avoided the Continental Palace because the hotel was frequented by the media, many of whom had rooms there, which was another reason for "official" Americans to avoid the place. I was therefore surprised when on the evening of the 11th of May 1973 I watched as a tall, muscular figure halted at the entry to the rooftop café.

He was very tall - 6' 2" I later learned - with a slim, muscular build that hinted at hours spent in the gym complex out at the DAO's compound. He walked gracefully, but firmly, which screamed "military background" to his seat. As he walked to his table the tiki lights set his dark red hair to glittering, as if he'd sprinkled gold dust in it. As he drew closer I saw that his well-cut suit (Brooks Brothers, where he bought all his clothing) was spotless and well-pressed. His shoes were burnished, the ebony toes reflecting the lights as he stepped smartly. He had that air, that crispness of body and clothing that all Marines never seemed to lose, no matter how long they had been away from the Corps. He was a beautiful man, no doubt about it, and I fell immediately in lust.

Of course, the rooftop café of the Continental Palace Hotel was the last place in town where one would expect a gay pickup to be made. The management went to great lengths to keep the riff-raff out, confining the whores to the main bar on the ground level of the hotel. Then too, there was always a reporter of some sort lurking around, usually the wire men from Reuters or AP, but sometimes a talking head from one of the Networks back home. With these leeches just waiting for a bit of scandal to brighten the evening news a wise man trod carefully.

While I glanced warily in the man's direction, I concentrated on pretending to pay attention to the ruckus that seemed to be going on to the west of the airport. As I was sitting at the railing that surrounded the café, I had a ringside seat as the muffled sounds of exploding mortar rounds drifted toward the city, the night sky brightened by the fireworks of the incendiaries. I was so engrossed in the scene unfolding before my eyes that I did not hear, or sense the figure that had silently moved to stand beside me.

"The bastards are at it again," came a deep resonant voice. I looked up to see the man, grim-faced, staring toward the battlefield. He then looked at me and shook his head. "Not that you or your kind will do anything about it!"

Staring back at the most beautiful pair of emerald green eyes I had ever seen, I managed, "I know."

It was lame, but it was the truth.

"Well, hell, I shouldn't shoot the messenger, I suppose," the man said with a resigned shrug. He held out his hand. "Matt Bodine."

I shook the proffered hand and introduced myself and offered a drink. He sat down with a curt, "Why not?" and returned to watching the show.

After ordering (Jack Daniels, rocks) I turned and studied Matt's face. I had already noticed his eyes, and now I gazed at his perfect, square-jawed face, the chin square, the cheeks that perfect peaches and cream complexion so many redheads have. His face was slightly sunburned, which almost, but not quite, hid the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was a truly handsome man.

If he noticed my staring he pretended not to see it. "I suppose you'll send somebody out in the morning." I detected a slight drawl in his voice.

"It's a violation, so I suppose that yes, eventually somebody will move their lazy ass and wander out there eventually," I said, not quite keeping the disgust from my voice.

At that moment the waiter placed Matt's drink in front of him. As his hand reached out to take up the glass I noticed that on the ring finger was the distinctive emblem of a graduate of the Chesapeake Bay Home for Wayward Boys: his class ring. "So," I thought, "he's a ring knocker. Navy? Marines?" From Matt's bearing and crispness of carriage, I suspected the latter.

My words caused him to sit back in his chair and gaze carefully at me. "You don't sound like some typical peace-keeping bullshit spouting Canadian to me," he said evenly.

I laughed and returned, "I'm not. If anybody steps out from behind the barricades and asks me what I think, well, God invented napalm, didn't he?"

Matt laughed heartily and raised his glass in salute. "Careful, you might get a reputation as a wannabe baby killer," he said sourly.

"I don't want to kill anybody, but napalm sure takes care of a lot of ailments," I replied.

Again Matt laughed. "Especially Charlie!"

I returned his salute with my glass and began to expound on my anger and frustration at what the ICCS was not doing. Matt listened patiently and then nodded. "You sure don't sound like a peace keeper!" he opined dryly.

"I'm not! I think it's the most fucked-up military philosophy to come down the pike in years," I retorted. I finished my drink and waved to the waiter for another round.

As the second drinks were placed before us Matt looked at me and said, "Let's forget the war for a minute. Where are you from?"

I told him my story and he told me his. He was a son of West Texas, having grown up on a hard scrabble ranch that was only good for raising chickens and kids, both this side of the poverty line. While he loved Texas, Matt hated the isolation and poverty and managed to wangle an appointment to Annapolis. Given his bulk and his expertise on the high school gridiron, he played football for Navy, although his career came to an abrupt end at the 1963 Army/Navy game where he blew out his knee. He graduated as a "Star Midshipman" and opted for the Marine Corps. Following further combat training, he was sent to Vietnam, arriving at his duty post in Hue one day before the Tet Offensive shattered the relative calm of the country. He had gone on to serve three tours but, like every true vet I have ever met, did not expound or expand upon his days in country. Later I saw a photo testimonial of his courage and dedication. It was a photo, taken when he was promoted to Captain. He was wearing full US Marine Corps regimentals and on his chest were a Navy Cross, and three Purple Hearts.

There was another photo, posed and formal, that stood in a silver frame on the bedside table. It was confirmation of what I had assumed while watching Matt speak. When he spoke Matt had a tendency to emphasize his words by short, sharp, waves of his hands. I saw, on the ring finger of his left had a plain gold band. The photo was of Matt and a smiling, blonde woman who looked as if she'd been a cheerleader (she had) and three boys, all red haired and all spitting images of their father - Matt. That Matt was married did not bother me. We were both far from home, and we both knew that whatever relationship developed between us would be short-lived and once he, or I left Vietnam, it would be over. I learned that I was not his first, nor would I be his last, male lover. Matt enjoyed the company of men, and if he was careful, there was no reason why he could not continue to do so.

We chatted for a while and then Matt asked if he could buy me supper. It was obvious to me, given the softness Matt's voice, the gentle movements of his hands that he was on the make. I didn't mind at all.

As we ate we played by the rules. We didn't talk about sex. We didn't give any indication that we both wanted sex. We chatted about the war. We chatted about his job. We chatted about the characters that abounded in Saigon; we commiserated over the futility of the Peace Accords and the corruption of the Vietnamese. We were deeply involved in a discussion into the validity of the allegation that certain Vietnamese generals had smuggled heroin out of the country in the coffins of dead U.S. servicemen when we were interrupted by the air raid sirens blaring. I looked up and swore softly. "Half hour to curfew," I told him needlessly.

Matt shrugged. "You don't have to worry. Let's have a night cap and you can stay at my place."

I looked at him. "Your place?"

"I live here," Matt said with a wave of his arm, indicating the hotel. "I have a large suite. There's an extra bedroom. You're welcome to stay."

The choice was mine. I could accept the offer or leave, and spend the night on one of the sofas in the lounge downstairs. If I accepted the offer, which after all was the use of his spare bedroom, I still had the option of not sleeping with him. I wasn't desperate - yet - and he intrigued me, so I accepted.

He had a spacious suite just below the now closed roof garden bar. There was a large balcony and we sat outside, watching the light show as the ARVN shelled the VC somewhere in the countryside out by Tan Son Nhut. The night was warm and very humid, and I was sweating heavily. He seemed as cool as the iced Jack Daniels he was drinking, but then he had been in-country a long time.

Once again we avoided talking about his role in what was going on, and mine. We weren't spies, of course, but he was technically still a belligerent. I was a neutral, of course, but suspected of working for the other side so it was best not to talk about the war.

The siren sounded again. Midnight and I knew that it was too late to leave the hotel. As the last of the noise faded Matt leaned over and put his hand on my thigh, just close enough to my crotch so that I got the message.

"Looks like you're stuck here for the night," he murmured.

I looked at his hand, but didn't move it away. "Looks like," I agreed.

He took his hand from my thigh, got up, went inside, and returned with fresh drinks. I took the drink and raised it towards him. "You don't have to get me drunk, you know."

Matt shrugged. "You in the mood?" His pants had tented out, but not too much. At least, I thought, he's not a horse and he was definitely in the mood.

We went inside. It was like walking from an oven into a refrigerator. We began stripping. He took off his soaking shirt. His chest was magnificent, with well defined pecs and a flat stomach. He had no chest hair at all. He dropped his pants and I saw that his dick was sticking straight out of his white boxers.

I don't know, really, what I was expecting. Mat was a big man, and I suppose, thinking back, I expected he would be proportional in all things. Ha! Was I in for a surprise!

Matt was beautiful. Matt was muscular. He was kind, considerate, romantic and thoughtful. He had been given so many other gifts that I should not complain, but damn it, he had the smallest dick this side of the Vietnamese boys I'd seen stripping off in the change rooms of the Circle Sportif! Soft, on a thick, two-inch shaft rested a perfect, pink helmet, really as beautiful as the rest of his body. Hard, his penis extended all of four inches, and to enhance the illusion of length and bulk Matt shaved his pubes, which when they grew in were a bright, carroty colour.

As I watched, Matt pushed down his boxers and his cock bounced up and down. At the base of his shaft his testicles, somewhat small, hung in a loose, silky sac dusted with carroty hairs. I looked closely and saw the thin, barely discernable colouration above his ring. Except the size, Matt was perfect. His penis was very pink, not at all discoloured, looking healthy and very clean.

When I was naked he reached out and felt my hard shaft, and juggled my balls. Then he fell to his knees and I felt his warm, wet mouth engulf the head of my cock. I felt his tongue lapping and slurping on my shaft and head, and then his teeth as he gave me gentle little nips. The whole effect was electric. I could feel by balls swelling and knew that it would not be long . . .

"Jesus man, I'm close . . ." I warned. If he wanted to pull back and let me cream his face, now was the time. He ignored me and began to suck harder. I crested and blew about a month's worth of seed down his throat. He sucked and swallowed every drop, then licked and swallowed me clean, leaving no trace of my cum on my cock. I pulled out of his mouth and dropped to my knees.

Up close I saw the thin circumcision line and the proud glans leaking precum; I saw the gentle curve of his cock as it thrust outward from his body. I saw the smooth, clean lines of his bared glans slowly turning crimson. I took him in my mouth and sucked all the way down to the base of his shaft. Surprisingly, it was tasteless, like the taste you get when you suck your thumb. He kept his dick so clean he had scrubbed away the oils and musk that give each dick its distinctive taste.

He pumped his hips slowly, fucking my face. His hands clasped the back of my head and I felt his fingers rubbing the stubble. Then he pulled away and together we walked into the bedroom. I lay on the bed and watched him fumble in the drawer of the night table and bring out a tube of lubricating jelly. He liberally oiled his dick and it glistened in the light of the overhead fixture. I lay on my stomach and stuck my ass in the air. His fingers, thick with lubricant oiled my anus and rectum. I had half expected some foreplay, a rimming at least, but he was obviously having none of it.

I felt his fingers withdraw and then his dick head as he positioned himself. In one sharp, violent thrust he was in. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass as he began to pump. His dick was thick enough that I didn't have to tense my muscles, and I have to admit there was no pain. It packed my ass so perfectly that every stroke stimulated me to a delightful level of pleasure. My dick had stiffened and the tip of it rubbed against the bedcover with every stroke and thrust. He moved in and out, thrusting harder and harder. My pre-cum oozed and puddled under my dick head and I began to feel it tingling, the cum rising in my balls again.

Matt began pumping at an amazing speed and he started to groan, low, at first, then rising to a full bull roar as his dick thickened and he drove it home. His dick swelled and I felt his cum filling my ass. Within seconds my second load spewed forth, ejaculating onto the covers. The feeling in my dick was indescribable. I matched him shot for shot.

He kept thrusting hard, and with each thrust he shot more cum into me and groaned noisily. He thrust a final load into me, whimpered, and collapsed on my back, breathing heavily, and I felt him panting in my ear. I had shot within seconds. He lay there, mewing like a kitten as his cock softened in my ass.

When he was completely soft he pulled out and rolled off me, and lay on his back, his arm covering his eyes. "Oh, God, that was good." he rasped. He was still breathing heavily from the exertion of fucking me. I reached over to touch his dick, thinking to start round two. It was slick and glistening with lubricant, his cum, and my fluids. He pushed my hand away. "Sorry."

He got up quickly and went into the shower. I heard the water running so I put on my shorts and rummaged around for the booze cabinet, which I found, and poured a hefty drink. He was an obvious a one shot a night wonder. But I figured, what the hell, I'd gotten my rocks off, he'd gotten his rocks off, so we were even.

When he returned he poured himself a drink. He sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled ruefully.

"Sorry about that. It's just that once I'm gone, it's over. You're not angry, are you?"

I shrugged. "Happens with some guys. No big deal."

Matt chugged his drink and stood up. He pulled back the bedclothes. "Well, me for bed," he said. "You want to stay here or use the other bedroom?"

I shook my head. "Think I'll stay up a bit, if you don't mind. I need a shower anyway."

He nodded and pulled the covers over his body. I showered and went out onto the balcony where I sat in my boxers, drinking vodka and tonic, watching the on-going festival of lights.

Our first night together set the general pattern for the next month. Every day we would meet, sometimes at the Cercle Sportif, where we could swim and check out the bronzed, oiled, slim-bodied sons of the local Vietnamese elite. Sometimes we met in the bar of the hotel. It depended on his day. He was busy trying to wind down his country's involvement in Vietnam and actually worked a full day. After drinks we had dinner, for which he insisted on paying. He was very generous, unlike my last partner, and I really had no complaints. After dinner we would go up to his suite. He would blow me. I usually sucked him a bit before hand, to get him lubed up, and then he would fuck me. We were usually finished well before the curfew siren sounded. There was no use in trying more than once. In all the time we were together he only came twice on one occasion. After our first go round he put a video in the machine he had borrowed from his office - they were just coming on the market then, and usually only government offices had them - and played a fist film, all young studs and hard dicks. He jacked up as we watched so I took him in my mouth and sucked him to a crashing orgasm. He collapsed on the couch and wouldn't let me touch him for the rest of the night.

When we were finished, and if it was early enough, I would take a cab over to a bar in Tu Do Street where the last remnants of the Aussie and New Zealanders hung out. The bar was a well known pickup joint it was obvious why they were there. As an extra service the bar owner rented out the rooms upstairs, mostly by the hour, but, if things got hot and I picked up a real winner, I could get a room for the night. It cost me a small fortune in booze and room rent, but I don't begrudge a penny. If it was close to curfew I went back to the Majestic and had a good night's sleep.

Matt and I saw each other as much as possible and on the weekends we tried to get out of the city. About the only place safe to go to was China Beach, a pale shadow of its former self when the bar of the Officers Club was notorious for the action to be found there. We would swim, drink, and eat in the restaurant before retiring to the villa we had rented.

It was in the restaurant of the recreational complex at China Beach, where I ate a polluted lobster and ended up spending the next three months in one hospital or another. I'm afraid I scared the shit out of Matt. I had barely finished the lobster when I started vomiting and convulsing. He thought I was dying and took charge and got me back to Saigon and into the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital, where they pumped my stomach and filled my ass full of antibiotics. I was so bad I had to be medevac'ed to Japan, to another hospital. I spent two weeks in intensive care and was so badly off I was given the Last Rites of the Episcopal Church. Vatican II was, to me, another betrayal, and I wanted nothing to do with the Catholic Church and had taken care that my identity tags were stamped C of E. Fortunately, I was young, and strong, and I had no intention of proving the doctors right by dying. My recovery was slow, but I made it.

I had been in Japan about a month when Matt breezed through one afternoon, hauling a huge gift basket of fruit and gourmet food, none of which I could eat. He was on his way home and would not be back. He filled me in on all the latest gossip, including which general or high government official had suddenly decided to send his wife, or wives, and children, mistress and fortune on an extended visit to relatives in Singapore or Hong Kong. He also brought greetings from Chief Nolan, who was still at the embassy, although he could no longer complain about the ICCS. Canada had resigned and everybody connected with it went home on the 31st of July 1973. The Chief had no use for the newest members of the ICCS team, the Iranians, whom he dismissed as rag heads.

I enjoyed the afternoon with Matt, but when he was about to leave I told him I couldn't eat the food he'd brought me, and he should ask the nurse to distribute to patients who could. Matt gave the basket to the head nurse, who I think knew that we were two lovers saying goodbye and left us alone. Then he gave me a gold ID bracelet with my name engraved on it. I apologized for having nothing to give him. He leaned over and whispered that I'd given him the best sex he'd had in many years, which was more than enough. I reached down and copped a feel. He kissed me tenderly on the forehead and left the ward.

Two weeks later I was back home in Canada, a Draft Chit for Esquimalt in my hand. I had returned to the real world.