A Sailor's Tale is a work of fiction. It is set in the waning days of the Royal Canadian Navy and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The descriptions of HMCS Stadacona are as the author remembers them. However, additional sites have been added to enhance the story.
This story contains descriptions of homosexual sex between consenting adults. If reading, downloading, or possessing stories of this genre is illegal in your home state, province, county or town, please move on. If you are not of legal age (18/21 depending where you live) please move on.
Comments regarding the story may be addressed to my home site: paradegi@rogers.com
I have an additional site, Aurora Roundtable which, while originally designed for followers of the Aurora Series of books, can also be used as a commentary site for Sailor: http://ca.groups.yahoo.com/group/Aurora Roundtable/
I try to answer all e-mails and comments - except flames.
A Sailor's Tale (c) 2006 by John Ellison
Chapter Six
As the train rattled down toward Halifax, the pain subsided and with Don's help I cleaned away the blood from my split lip. I was able to stand up, with help, but the pain returned. Seeing my grimace, Don insisted that he "have a look." Before I could protest he unbuckled my belt, pushed down my bell-bottoms and Pusser drawers, and exposed my bruised and distended scrotum!
I don't know what was more embarrassing, standing in the middle of a railway carriage with my trousers and pants down around my ankles, or having Don poke me gently in places I had never been poked before by another man, except by a doctor. Having my term mates commenting on my upper deck fittings did not help the situation at all!
"Jesus," exclaimed Harry after taking a look, "you sure did a number on your balls! Look how swollen they are!"
Don, who was in the process of lifting one of my testicles with his finger, sniggered. "Harry, you are one dumb Jew! His balls are their normal size!" He scowled slightly and looked up at me. "A little swollen, but no damage, I think."
I was about to retort that someone who had only two years of pre-med was hardly experienced enough to know what a set of swollen balls looked like. I didn't, because Don tweaked the glans of my penis, which caused me to jump. He lowered his brow, trying to look professional. "The glans corona isn't damaged at all, and the meatus is normal," he said.
"The whatus?" asked Ted Hanson.
"You'd call it a 'piss slit', you ignorant hillbilly!" snapped Don. "Turn around," he told me.
"Huh? What for?" I yelped in protest.
As I turned to allow Don's examination, Drew Hanson opined, "Well, you sure can't call him a hairy-assed sailor!"
"Don't you guys have anything better to do?" I growled. "And what's the big deal? You've seen me naked every morning for weeks!
"Hah!" sniped Dusty Miller. "You scuttled out of your bunk with your little woody poking out of your drawers, and into the washplace so fast it was like you was runnin' a marathon!"
My sense of humour returned, briefly. "That's because I knew you were looking, and lusting after my perfect, manly body!"
I did not hear Dusty's retort - dirty, I am sure - because Don pressed against my side and a bolt of pain lanced through my body. "Jezus fuckin' Christ!" I howled.
"You might have a bruised kidney," said Don with a look of concern. He sounded very professional, and quite unlike the Don I knew when he asked me if I had noticed any pink or red colouration in my urine. This irked me. I wasn't that hurt, for Christ's sake, so I told him that since I hadn't gone pee since before we boarded the train, I wouldn't know until I did pee, but that if there was any discolouration he'd be the first to know.
"Temper," Don muttered as he helped me pull up my boxers and bells. "I'm serious, kid. Any sign of blood, you head for Sick Bay." He moved on to inspect my neck. "Fucker did a number on you," Don whispered flatly as his fingers probed my neck.
"I . . . I . . . I don't know what you're taking about!" I managed to stammer. "I fell down onto the railway track!"
Don did not reply. He moved to stand in front of me and as he used both hands to gently feel my neck he look directly into my eyes and mouthed one word: "Winger!"
After helping me to sit down in my seat, Don gave his diagnosis. Aside from a wicked bruise on the inside of my left leg, my dangly bits seemed to be okay. I had a large bruise over my left kidney, and bruises on my neck. The cut lip had stopped bleeding, but he suspected there would be a small scar. "To accent your 'manly' beauty," he cracked.
"Bugger that," I snarled in reply. "Do you have any aspirin?"
Don looked at me and shook his head. "Old son, it will take more than aspirin to take away the hurt you're feeling."
"You don't know what you're talking about," I insisted. I was not about to tell Don, or anyone else for that matter, how I felt and why I was feeling the way I did."
Sighing, Don left the seat and found his travel bag. He returned and handed me a small bottle. "Aspirin won't help you. This might." Then he said ruefully, "At least until you sober up."
After thanking Don I took a sip from the bottle. It was Pusser's rum. I looked questioningly at him, wondering how he had come by the potent liquor. He might have been 22 years old, but as a recruit he had not, as none of us had, been allowed to draw a tot back in Cornwallis.
"Oh, I have my sources," said Don enigmatically. Then he turned and went off to mollify Harry Oppenheim after calling him "one dumb Jew" and to play cribbage.
As I sipped I dismissed Don from my mind, trying to determine what I was to do next. Don might suspect that something had been going on between Winger and me, but he would never say anything. The other guys would also keep silent. We were term mates after all, and only the lowest rat in the bilge would snitch on a term mate. I was more or less secure and while the thought would stay with me always, I really had no fear of being turned in. That would come later.
At the moment, I was more concerned about staying in the Navy, and how I would go about doing it. I had a certain advantage going for me in that I was in the Navy. As strange as this might sound, I had learned that there are certain jobs which the general public automatically assumes "have no queers". There are, to many people, no gay policemen, no gay firemen. Sports teams, be they football, baseball or whatever, have no gay players. It was not allowed for some reason, and everybody knew that fags and queers and all the other pejoratives people labelled gays with, did not play sports. Sports were much too rough for gays, don'tcha know.
Much the same impression was held about the military, which had never made any secret about homosexuals not being allowed to serve under any circumstances. That there were gays in the military did not matter. It was the perception that gays could not, and did not, serve was all that counted.
As a closeted gay man, I had to decide what to do and it came to me that people are more prone to believe someone who acts as they expect a sailor, or a soldier to act. If you were in any way "different" eyebrows would be raised, and fingers pointed.
So it was that on that long, rickety train ride to Halifax I found the determination to prove to the straight world that I, as a gay man, would beat them at their own game. I would be, in their eyes, everything a man should be. I would become a square jawed, true blue, courageous, honest, upstanding example of young Canadian manhood. I would do manly things in manly ways. I would unflinchingly, and without complaint accept every job assigned to me and do it better than anyone had ever done it. If they wanted faultless uniforms they would get it. Spit-shined shoes. No problem. You would be able to shave using the mirror polish of my boots. A lover of manly sports, played in manly ways? I was your man. I could not and would not be a red-necked homophobe. I would be a straight shootin' fella who didn't quite understand how a guy could be that way. I would not condemn him, but I would gently turn such a man away, lest he infect me. The straight world wanted a man and the straight world would get such a man.
For once the Navy had its act together and when we arrived in Halifax there was a bus waiting at the station to take us to our new training base, HMCS Stadacona, which everyone referred to "Stad".
The base had always been an adjunct to the Dockyard, and was built on the rise of a hill spreading west from the jetties and buildings of the Dockyard, and separated from it by Barrington Street. Until World War II the place had been known as the Halifax Naval Barracks. Scattered about the sprawling grounds were the barracks, a long, sprawling, red brick building constructed in the Edwardian style, which filled most of the north side of the parade square, the base hospital, stores building and further down Gottingen Street was Admiralty House, once the home of the Admiral Commanding the North American Station. Until 1954 it had been used as the Wardroom and was now the Command Library.
World War II saw a huge expansion of the base, which now stretched from North Street, northward along Gottingen Street, seven or so blocks to Russell Street.
The main gate, on Gottingen Street contained a large guardhouse with high, wide, glass windows overlooking the entry, and was home to the Master-at-Arms, called the Jaunty, and the Regulating Petty Officers, called Crushers. Commissionaires, retired servicemen who took their duties very seriously manned the gate itself. As one entered, directly ahead was a block of offices and classrooms, which stretched down the south side of the parade square. To the left was "A" Block, Atlantic Block, a recent construction, which was the main accommodation block for the Junior Rates. To the right was the gymnasium and pool.
Behind the accommodation blocks, and stretching down the parade square were the buildings housing the Fleet Schools, machine shops, classrooms, and so on.
HMCS Stadacona's primary function was the professional training for the deck, gunnery, operations and engineering departments of HMC ships. Two of the schools, the School of Seamanship and the School of Gunnery would be my training grounds for the next eight months. I would spend much of my time in a classroom, learning the theories of my trade. For the first eight weeks I, along with my Cornwallis term mates, would refine our training as seamen. Most of the time was spent in the Boat Shed, which was located in the Dockyard proper. I would also, as part of this training, enjoy the delights of the NBCD School, which was located at Sandwich Battery. Of this part of my training, more later.
The second part of my training would be in the School of Gunnery, and its adjunct, the gunnery range at Osborne Head.
When we arrived at Stad it was, as normal, SNAFU, situation normal, all fucked up. "B" Block was undergoing renovations, so accommodations were, to say the least, limited. There were always courses going on (at the time there were five levels of training for each trade) and 1,000 warm bodies needing a place to lay their heads at night. The Wardroom, which was located at the south end of the base on Lorne Terrace, took care of the officers. As the old Chiefs Mess on Barrington Street had burned down in 1959, Chiefs were accommodated in two "temporary" wartime construction buildings, one for sleeping, and one for drinking. Petty officers had a building down in the Dockyard with a fine view of Bedford Basin and was a favourite saluting base for sail pasts. With "B" block out of commission, that left Atlantic Block, or "A" Block. And the pickin's were slim. To add to the confusion, one of the frigates, HMCS Inch Arran was dry docked, and a place had to be found for 50 or so ratings that normally slept aboard.
When we arrived, draft chits in hand, the Block Corporal, who was in charge of assigning accommodations, almost fainted. He could not call the Accommodations Office. This was a Saturday and all the offices were closed - on the plus side this was great as we could not do an In Routine until Monday and meant that we were free to do as we pleased for the next day and a half. Since we were "unexpected" we ended up in a large, airy room overlooking Gottingen Street and one of the mainstays of Stad life: the North End Tavern.
The room was normally used as transient quarters, and saying that it was bare bones would be an understatement. We had a bunk, period. On Monday the Block Corporal assured us everything would be sorted out . . . he hoped. In the mean time, the Hanson brothers, Don, Fettuccini Alfredo, Harry Oppenheim and myself had a nest.
Ted and Drew Hanson, who had never been out of the sticks before, wanted to go out and explore the city. Don, who claimed to have a friend working in the hospital, declined. Fettuccini, who considered Halifax small potatoes compared to the delights of Toronto, opted for a nap. Harry, who was about as athletic as a slug, declined my invitation to join me in checking out the Recreation Centre. Instead he went ashore with the Hansons, to "keep them out of trouble."
After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I grabbed my bathing suit, my towel, and strolled the very short distance to the Rec Centre, a huge complex just to the south of the block.
The Navy was always big on sports, and encouraged every sailor to participate. Remembering my decision on the train, and that since sports seemed to be such a very big part of a straight's life, I had decided to start here. I figured that the Physical Training Instructors (PTI's) would be looking for bodies to fill out the teams that were always part of Service life, and there were a lot of teams to chose from. I checked out the notice board immediately inside the entry to the sports complex and saw the signup sheets. I could take my pick from boxing, hockey, to lacrosse, to baseball, to football (English or Canadian, not the American abomination), swimming, and water polo. There were also shooting teams, sailing teams and for all I knew a mumblety-peg team, although I didn't see a signup sheet for that. The Crowsnest, "The Magazine of the Royal Canadian Navy", as it billed itself, always seemed to contain at least 16 articles on the doings of the Stadacona, Shearwater and individual school teams.
My chances of getting on as many teams as I wanted to were pretty good. Guys would sign up for the duration of their courses and then, more often than not, ship out to one of the ships down in the Dockyard, where they would sign up for the ship's teams. I decided to go slow, and bide my time.
I went into the pool change room, changed, and went into the pool area. I was a pretty good swimmer, and, since I had lost 20 pounds in CORNWALLIS, I was pretty slim. I dived into the pool, swam a few laps, and climbed out. I wasn't tired, but I had noticed the inevitable PTI lurking at the other end of the pool. He was dressed like every gym teacher I had ever known in high school: shorts, T-shirt, with a whistle on a cord around his neck and a clipboard in his hand. Like any good coach he was checking out the talent.
I walked to the diving board and dove in - a move that did not do my bruised nuts and side any good. I swam up to the surface, and sat down at the edge of the pool, pretending to knock the water from my ears. Within minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around. It was the PTI, Petty Officer Toner, a short, stocky, attractive man with dark hair and a winning smile. He introduced himself. I sat to attention and introduced myself. He told me to relax. "What school?" he asked.
"Seamanship first, then gunnery, PO," I replied.
My reply told the PO that I would be around for at least eight months, more if I cut the mustard and didn't fuck up and went on to Quarters Rate training - the highest gunnery rating.
PO Toner smiled and I could hear the gears turning: baseball season was coming up, as was hockey. The swim team could use a good, strong swimmer, and the water polo team still lacked a defenseman.
As PO Toner mulled over my prospects, and the chances of his winning a few more silver cups and do-das, I tried not to look at him. He was very young for a Petty Officer, and damned good looking in the bargain. He would always have a boyish quality about him and I would later come to learn that he was hopelessly as straight as an arrow and had quite a reputation amongst the Wrens as a swordsman.
At the time, of course, I was sitting there, my feet dangling in the clear water of the pool, with my damned water-shrivelled pecker unshrivelling and I kept telling myself that I was straight! I wasn't going let the man know that damn, he could park his Pusser gummers under my bunk any time he wanted! I barely heard him when he spoke.
". . . Like to swim?" he asked.
". . . Uh, yes, PO. I was on the school team back home."
"Any good?"
"Got a Letter for swimming, in high school. Also one for baseball." Which was true. I had swum with the school team, and played shortstop, also for the school team. We weren't very good and, sadly we lost every year for five years.
"Done your In Routine?"
"Monday morning, PO."
"You'll see me then," he replied. Then he hunkered down beside me. He had noticed my bruises, of course. How could he miss them? The largest, which spread down the inside of my leg, was turning a taxing shade of purple. There was also the light bruising on my neck, and my split lip. "So, how does the other guy look?" he asked pleasantly.
Obviously the Petty Officer was no dummy. "I, uh, I was late for the train and went ass over tip on one of the sleepers," I lied.
PO Toner thought a moment. "Have it your way," he said presently. He really could not probe too deeply. Whatever had happened before I came to Stad was none of his business. What happened afterward would be. I maintained my silence and the PO rose slowly. "You might want to go over to Sick Bay," he advised. "Railway sleepers are nasty critters - almost as nasty as a fist."
Although he knew that I'd been in a fight, PO Toner never asked who with, or why. He walked away and I decided to return to my bunk. My stupidity in trying to prove myself had ended in aching balls and a throbbing headache.
I spent most of the rest the day in my bunk, only arising when hunger drove me out of the room. "A" Block was an all-inclusive place. There was a large, well-equipped dining room and a separate lounge, filled with DND issued Naugahyde sofas and chairs. This room doubled as a sort of Dry Canteen for those of us who were underage and could not use the facilities of the Fleet Club, the official name for what the older hands insisted was the "Wet Canteen". The club, a multi-level, military modern horror, was located across the parade square and halfway down the hill that led to Barrington Street.
The "A" Block lounge was comfortable in its own way. There were Coke machines, tables for chess and checkers, a piano (never tuned so that whenever it was played it sounded like it was in a honkey tonk saloon) and a television set. There were also several shelves of battered paperback books, a photograph and a stack of old LPs. It wasn't much, but it was what the Navy considered proper recreational facilities for good, upstanding, clean-cut Canadian boys. In time I learned that outside the main gate was a different world and that there were recreational facilities available for bad, not so upstanding, clean-cut Canadian Boys.
Sunday morning after breakfast we all decided to go ashore. Halifax was a new place to explore, and since we had nothing better to do, off we went. We wandered about, seeing the sights. They day was warm and sunny, the wind brisk, as it often is. During this stroll I was introduced to one of the characters of Halifax, Mama Camille.
Mama Camille, until her death, was one of the most loved women in the city. She and her husband ran a chippy directly across the street from the Dockyard Centre Gate. It was more than a fish and chips shop: it was a haven. Mama had no sons and for reasons best known to herself she "adopted" every man and boy in the RCN. If you were broke Mama would spot you a meal. If you were feeling low, Mama was always there to listen, to give you a shoulder to cry on, a consoling pat and if you were really down, a kiss on the cheek and words of comfort. Colour, creed, religion, ethnicity, it didn't matter. If you were a lonely Canadian sailor Mama was there for you.
In time I came to know two other "ladies". One was notorious, and always in trouble with the Vice squad. This was Ada. She ran an out-call service and was infamous throughout the city as a madam. Her girls, and they were legion, provided the kind of comfort you couldn't go to your mother for! She provided girls any hour of the day or night and if you didn't have her telephone number in your wallet, every waiter in the bars and taverns that lined Gottingen Street would provide. The girls were hardly in the 1,000-dollar a night category. Their fees were geared to the market, the market being we poorly paid sailors. They usually charged $25.00 and room rental.
Ada was always in the newspapers, and always it seemed, in trouble with the Vice Squad. Why the cops bothered I shall never know. She was a tradition, a Halifax fixture, and provided a service that existed in every seaport in the world. I don't believe that she spent a day in jail, cheerfully paying the fines and going about her business with equanimity. When she died she made the front pages of the Halifax papers, and the inside pages of more than one national rag.
The third "lady" was Hattie. She was a short, dumpy, foul spoken black woman of indeterminate age who took no shit from the riff-raff and had an opinion on anything and everything under the sun. She also provided a very necessary service.
Halifax's Blue Laws were such that you couldn't get a drink legally anywhere after midnight. Nor could you buy booze on Sunday, when the town was as dry as a popcorn fart! Liquor and beer were sold in provincial stores and ID, preferably a card issued by the Liquor Board, was required to purchase the stuff. This card certified that you were of legal age to drink: 21 years old or older, and you could be carded in any of the bars.
Hattie, with cheerful ebullience, paid no attention to the liquor laws. She could, and would, if she knew you, or you were vouched for, provide a little something to help get you over the rough spots. She was the town bootlegger, and proud of it. Her main base of operations was Shannon Park, almost always called "Shaggin' Park", which was the married quarters over on Dartmouth side. She would, however, for a small extra charge, arrange to have one of her many sons deliver the hootch to you, but never to the Dockyard, or to Stad, or to Windsor Park, or Willow Park, the Army bases. Bringing unauthorized booze on board was a Federal offence, which more than one matelot learned to his regret. Hattie, in her long career as the town bootlegger, never ran afoul of the law. Cops need a ready supply as well.
When I returned to our barren room that night I admit that I was in a much better mood than I had been when we started out. I knew the course of action that I would take to protect myself, I had at least four good, solid friends and, while I wanted to deny it, was beginning my first "crush". Petty Officer Toner intrigued me no end. I couldn't wait to sign up for the swim team so that I could see him naked. As I fell asleep that night I was thinking of him and, in the back of my mind, listening to the warning bells. Never tell him, they rang, never indicate to him how you feel. Look discretely, fantasize when you had to, don't touch, don't peek unless you were absolutely sure that no one was looking. Cover your ass and keep your mouth shut.
The following morning, Monday, I started the normal routine of any sailor joining a new ship, visiting the Admin building, the Master-at-Arms' office, Sick Bay (where my lip was daubed with Iodine, which burned like buggery), Clothing Stores, and on and on, until every little square in my new Station Card was initialled and stamped. The last office I visited was in the Rec Hall, where PO Toner waited. I was not surprised to see that I had been signed up for the swim team. I also signed up signed up for the Baseball Team and, since it was only one day a week - Sunday, and got me out of Church Parade - the soccer team.
When I returned to the room I found that the elves of Atlantic Block had been busy. The extra bunks had been cleared away, and replaced with three tall, wooden wardrobes. Two rickety chairs had been added as well, together with two square desks bearing the hallmarks of having been made by the Chippy Chaps. Curtains had been hung on the windows, which overlooked the brick wall that surrounded the base, and Gottingen Street. Like it or not this was home for the next few months.
Tuesday morning we began the daily routine of a sailor in training. After visiting the heads and washplace we cleaned into the rig of the day or, in our case, because we would be working off base, work dress, and go for breakfast, which remained remarkably mundane all the time I was in Stadacona: bacon and sausages cooked just this side of immolation, scrambled eggs, red lead, and baked beans. After breakfast, and always just in time not to incite the ire of the Parade Staff, we would straggle down to the parade square. Here we formed into Divisions and promptly at 0800 the White Ensign went up the pole as the bugler sounded "Colours". The chaplain would mumble a prayer and the Executive Officer would shout out IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENTS and then, off we would go, to workshop, classroom or Boatshed.
As apprentice seamen we spent much of our time in the Boat Shed, learning how to tie knots, how to repair the heavy hawsers that held the ships to the jetties, and how to handle small boats; in our case, motorized whalers. We would spend much of our time in the whalers, learning how to come alongside the jetty, which Fettuccini managed to ram a regular basis. Sometimes we would sail in formation, transiting the Dockyard jetties, waving at the sailors painting the hulls of the frigates moored abreast at Jetty 5, admire the bulk of HMCS Bonaventure, Canada's only aircraft carrier, moored at Jetty 4, which was directly under the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge, a bad choice in that from time to time someone would take a header off of the bridge and instead of landing in Bedford Basin would splatter himself, or herself, across the flight deck, which was most annoying to the deck crew who had to clean up the mess. We would continue on past Jetties 3 and 2, and usually turn about at Jetty 1, which was to become much later on the submarine jetty, where the "O" Class submarines would berth.
On days when we had nothing better to do, and the Chief Boatswains Mate was bored with seeing the same old ships and sights, we might navigate across Bedford Basin and visit the old Gun Wharf (Jetty 6) or the old Cable Wharf (Jetty 7), both on the Dartmouth side of the harbour. Other places to visit were the Bedford Magazine jetty, the Seaward Defence jetty near Point Pleasant Park, or the Shearwater jetty. When the wind was brisk we would fit the masts to the boats, lower the centreboard and go sailing.
The course was not all fun and games, however. We worked hard and, because we were going to be gunners, expected to be the best of the best. Not only were we expected to be the best-drilled Division on parade, we were expected to be the Navy Recruiting Officer's poster boys. This played directly into my hands and while it took me a while, I developed a persona that fit perfectly the ideal everyone had of the ideal sailor. My uniforms were pressed to a crispness not seen this side of Whale Island. My gunshirts were starched and ironed to perfection. My cap tally was a joy to behold. My boots were mirrors.
In class I was polite, and correct to a fault. My test scores were above average, but nothing spectacular - don't stand out, but don't hide your light under a basket. My rifle and parade routines were faultless. Much to my surprise I found that I could lead, and when in charge I projected calm authority. I had my shit together and it showed.
I continued my charade with my roommates, and classmates. I was polite, told jokes, and bought a round now and then. Unlike them, I never talked queer, and, never, ever, talked about sex. I could, and did, admire the local female talent. Unlike my classmates I was not overt about it. A slow, sidelong glance, a slight smile of approval was all I gave. If asked I would comment on the young lady's attributes, usually agreeing, sometimes disagreeing with the questioner. Before very long I was firmly established as an okay guy who liked women, at least to look at, which was the most we could do, anyway.
I tolerated the high jinks and grab-ass they all got up to. Up to a point, I went along with what was going on. When it got too rough, or too gay - as sometimes happened - I left. It was guy stuff, it was harmless. I never had to come out and say anything. My reactions, my body language, said, "Hey, guys, play all you like, but, really, that sort of stuff is not for me." Two incidents firmly established my straightness.
My alternate persona continued onto the playing fields and swimming pool of Stadacona. When I wasn't in class, or in my room, I was usually on the playing field that flanked the Rec Hall. Or in the pool. I was away most weekends at meets and games. I was never a star player, but I was a dependable player, always good for a run or two at the ball games, a goal every so often on the soccer matches, and I held my own at water polo, which PO Toner had talked me into signing up for.
I did vary my routine somewhat on paydays. The boys - Don, Harry, the Hanson Brothers and I - would have a slap-up dinner downtown, and then repair to the beverage room of the Lord Nelson Hotel, where the beer was cheap, and the entertainment first rate. Saturdays, if I were not engaged in something, we would spend much of the afternoons in the North End Tavern, where the beer was cheaper and the entertainment rough, usually arguments over whose round it was, cheating at pool, and for variety, a hissing, squalling cat fight, usually when one of the "ladies" discovered that another "lady" was poaching her sailor boy, or he was poking a rival. It's amazing how adept one can become at dodging flying beer bottles in a short period of time.
I was never a drinker, but I did enjoy going out with the boys. What worried me was being carded. I was just eighteen and I did not need a black mark on my record. The Hanson boys didn't give a damn, Don was old enough to drink legally, Harry shared my qualms, and Fettuccini was too interested in picking up a girl anyway. He did, however, solve our problem about being carded. He met a guy who knew a guy who had a friend who would, for a small payment of only $20.00, provide us with a reasonable facsimile of any provincial birth certificate. We all trooped down to a dim little shop on Water Street where the man provided us with our new ID's. I was surprised to learn that I was now 21 years and three months old, and legal.
I was relatively happy and I was firmly established as straight. I would have been much happier if I had had a sex life, other than my right hand, and my fantasies, and I had plenty of them. I could picture, in my mind's eye, the genitals of every member of every team I played on. Some were blessed by God, others short changed by the Deity. Some were beautiful, most just so-so. The main player, however, in my fantasies, was PO Toner. My crush on him had deepened, and from the moment I saw him naked, I could not get him out of my mind. He was good looking, but hardly devastatingly handsome. He was also somewhat hairy, with a good pelt of chest hair, a thick, unruly pubic bush, and legs blackly dusted with hair. I was also very intrigued by his penis. Most circumcised guys have a scar of some sort or another. Usually it is just a light tan ring. Not so with the Petty Officer. His penis was thick, about three inches soft, with a classic, clean-lined and ridged helmet. What intrigued me was that he actually had a thin ridge of skin about an inch down the shaft. I never saw him erect, so I never knew if the ridge smoothed out into a proper ring. But hot damn! Did I want to!
I never did, of course. We did not socialize outside of the team venue and on the two occasions I did see him, at the cinema on Gottingen Street, he was with a girl, a different girl both times. He played the field apparently and was straighter than I pretended to be! He remained my fantasy, my beau ideal, and nothing ever happened. Which is more than I can say for my roommates.
Living with three straight guys was not a problem for me. I had long since got used to seeing the Hanson brothers or Harry naked. Both Ted and Drew were smooth young men, and Harry was almost as desirable. But they were familiar, family, and I had no designs on their bodies. Neither, it seemed had Don.
We all knew that Don was gay, but he never broadcast it. We all knew that when he went out after we were finished for the day, or for the weekend, to "meet a friend", that chances were that he would end up in the sack with another guy. He never told us where he went, or whom he was with. He never bothered anyone, and since he was a hell of a nice guy, we never spoke about his homosexuality, keeping to the unspoken conspiracy that if we didn't talk about what Don did, it didn't happen. We also silently agreed that what Don did was none of our business.
As loyal messmates we regarded Don as a friend and brother. And in many ways he was. He was a good guy, and looked and acted perfectly normal, not effeminate at all He was also a soft touch and by payday half the class owed him money, which he never made any great effort to collect. He was as smart as hell, and led the class academically and in practical seamanship and later, gunnery. He was always ready to help the slower learners. If he had a failing it was that he made no bones about his admiration for all things male, which was in some ways not a gay thing at all.
I had seen it before, in gym in high school, and lately when I first stripped down with the swimming team. I had barely lowered my boxers when one of the guys whistled loudly and drew attention to my balls. Now, I am blessed there, and I admit it. I was short changed in the dick department, but what the hell, you play with the cards you're dealt with - not that I was doing any playing. The same thing happened when I showered after the first baseball game I played. At first I was a little embarrassed but quickly learned it was all part of being a jock and it t has never ceased to amaze me that straight guys with good bodies and big dicks and balls thought nothing about other guys admiring them.
Don knew this and could always be counted on to make a comment. He would flatter the hell out of Fettuccini and Harry, our resident hunks, and they acted as if he was only giving them their due! When they woke up with a hardon, as we all did at one time or another, they would call Don's attention to it, and he would comment approvingly. When the Hanson brothers cleaned into their tight, ass hugging Number Ones they asked Don how they looked.
"Tight enough in the chest, Don?"
"Just right."
"Okay across the butt, Don?"
"Perfect, you'll knock 'em dead."
I have to admit that the Hanson brothers did fill out the old blue uniforms a treat. That dear old blue uniform was the best uniform ever made for showing off a guy's body. It was very tight, very form fitting and, since we all wore Pusser shorts, those who had it got to flaunt it. There's more than a grain of truth in the old lyrics that say all the nice girls love a sailor.
We were a very close-knit crew, and very loyal to one another, and we were so comfortable with Don that we teased him about his boyfriends, and his sex life. Nothing serious, and Don would always laugh and not take offence. We in fact became so comfortable that that Fettuccini Alfredo, would smack Don on the ass with a towel and announce that while he might be a queer, he was our queer. Don had bonded with us and we would not rat on him.
Being my usual dickhead self, I made no comment. I cultivated a quiet, calm demeanour. I was polite to Don and I joked with him. I reminded him from time to time of how he had been the only man who had ever got close to my dick and balls. Don would always reply that he felt honoured, but wished that I had offered him something a little more to work with.
It was all in jest, and I never heard or saw Don do or say anything out of the ordinary. He was just Don. He had his friends; the other guys had theirs. I wrongly assumed that nothing would ever happen between any of my mates and Don. But it did.
As the weeks passed and we settled into our routines, and came to know the lay of the land, we made new friends. We also found other places of entertainment, although the North End Tavern was our normal stomping grounds. There were always plenty of single women in the bar and Ted and Drew Hanson hooked up with two girls, which for a week or so at least eliminated their need to sneak off to give each other relief. Harry Oppenheim joined a local Temple and began to keep time with a sweet young Jewish girl. Fettuccini, who always bragged about his ladies back home, went to a bingo at the Lions Hall and met a woman. She was married to a Leading Engineer who was away at sea, and had two kids back in Shaggin' Park, but she and Alfredo clicked and for a while he spent a lot of his free time across Bedford Basin.
It was a Friday night five weeks into our course. I knew everybody's routine by now and did not expect to see anyone when I returned late from an exhibition water polo match in Shearwater. Harry would be at Temple and he always stayed late to continue his courting of his nice Jewish girl. Ted and Drew would be propping up a table in the North End Tavern, drinking beer and hoping to get lucky. Don would be off somewhere, doing whatever it was he did when he went ashore.
I sometimes worried about Don. There was a very small, very well hidden gay community in Halifax, and only one bar that had a reputation of being gay. The Halifax PD knew about the bar and kept it under more or less constant observation. Every so often the cops would raid the joint and check IDs and God help the sailor dumb enough to be caught in there. Don would never go there.
Don was not dumb and I assumed that he had hooked up with another sailor assigned to the base. Don was very discrete and never mentioned any names. He also never introduced any of his "special friends" to us and he had not, so far, brought anyone "home".
So it was that I really never expected to find anyone about. Then I remembered Fettuccini. The dumb fuck had pissed in the pickles, big time. He'd been spending all of his free time with the grass widow out in Shaggin' Park, and he never made a secret of the fact that they were doing more than playing happy families. He was one happy Italian boychick let me tell you. He had hickeys on parts of his body where no Christian should have a hickey and I swear his massive pepperoni was red from all the workouts it was getting. He also bragged, constantly. He was big boy, with big needs, and the grass widow of Shaggin' Park knew ways to make a man happy that were not in the Kama Sutra!
Of course, since a sailor was getting it on a regular basis, and was happy as a pig in a puddle, the Fates decided to right the balance. Fettuccini had bought a beat-up old 1955 Ford, which ran well, most of the time. He would drive back and forth between Stad and Shaggin' Park almost every night. Then it happened. First, the grass widow had come up with something new. We never knew what, but it must have been a doozy because Fettuccini stayed later than he normally would. He left her house and the damned car wouldn't start. Instead of calling a cab, which would have been the sensible thing to do, Fettuccini went back inside for Round Two. When he finally disentangled himself from the grass widow the sun was peeking over the entrance to the harbour. Leaving the wreck on the side of the road - where it sat for a week until hauled away to the impound by the police traffic department - he called a cab, and off he went. What he hadn't bothered to do was check the damned time!
Overnight leave expired at 0600, not 0608 and there was always a sharp-eyed, square-jawed, Regulating PO hanging around the gate to enforce good order and discipline. Fettuccini's cab pulled in at 0608, according to the Charge Sheet, and he was promptly in front of the XO charged with Coming On Board Late, contrary to regulations.
Since we were on board a stone frigate, this was not all that bad a charge. Fettuccini still had two hours to go before he had to be on parade at Divisions, and most of the Crushers would have turned a blind eye. Eight minutes more or less weren't going to cause the world to come to a crashing halt. But the Crusher was young, and newly promoted into the Branch, and orders were orders and Naval Justice must be done.
For minor infractions, such as coming aboard late, coming aboard drunk, and so on, one was charged and appeared at XO's Requestmen and Defaulters. Requestmen was exactly what it sounded like. A sailor had to request permission to say, start shaving. This was usually made a matelot who had grown a full set - moustaches were not allowed, full beards were - and wanted a change. Requests to cease shaving were never granted to hard sea trades because a full set would not allow a proper seal for the Chemox Breathing Apparatus we wore fighting fires. There would be requests for leave, to take a course, and so on, all minor stuff.
Defaulters was also relatively minor stuff, misdemeanours that didn't warrant the time and expense of a court martial. The accused would be marched onto the quarterdeck - hence the phrase, "March the guilty bastard in", ordered to "Off Caps!" and Naval justice would prevail. The Accused would stand before the XO, the Master-at-Arms would read out the charge or charges in a loud, authoritarian voice, and the XO would find you guilty or, if he wasn't in the mood to play God, would remand you to Captain's Requestmen and Defaulters so he could find you guilty. It was a very simple process and was usually over in a few minutes.
Coming aboard late was good for a fine, or stoppage of leave, rarely both. Fettuccini who had been late, admitted to his crime and threw himself on the mercy of the court. His Divisional Officer, a young Sub-Lieutenant, who was acting as "Accused's Friend", spoke up, saying that Alfredo was good sailor, young, perhaps inexperienced but with potential. That would normally have ended it. But the XO just had to go and ask Fettuccini if he had anything to say in his defence and the dumb prick just had to go and say that while he was guilty, he didn't think that some jumped up meathead should have the power to put him in the rattle for eight lousy minutes.
Fettuccini's remark was not well received by the Master-at-Arms who grumbled under his breath and growled. Calling one of his minions a jumped up meathead was insult, which he always assumed was also directed at him, which it was. He was a miserable old sod and deserved every name he was called.
The Executive Officer, not being terribly anxious to get on the Jaunty's bad side, heard the muted grumbling. He could not charge Fettuccini with an insult to a superior - the insult was considered testimony. But the XO could, and did, make it clear that he did not approve of lowly, bare-assed Ordinary Seamen insulting the Master-at-Arms. He sentenced Fettuccini to 14 days stoppage of leave.
Now, one would assume that a young, lusty, and horny Italian boy who always claimed that he had been born with a hardon - which given Alfredo's constant state of tumescence I could well believe - and who had been getting his end wet on a nightly basis, would suffer some sort of traumatic shock at being cooped up on base for two weeks. Not so our Alfredo. He took his punishment like a man with stoic equanimity. He had fucked up, pissed in the pickles, and he would serve his sentence like a man. I was about to compliment him on his sense of honour and fortitude when he queered his pitch by telling me that while a boy's best friend was his mother, his second best friend was Mrs. Fist with her five lovely daughters. He'd survive the two weeks with Mrs. Fist and then return to his dolly, who would no doubt make up for his enforced absence in ways that we, poor sods who weren't gettin' any, could only imagine.
He lasted exactly eight days.
Our room was at the extreme north end of the block, on the third floor. You walked down the length of the block until you came to a side corridor on the left. At the end of this corridor was the door leading to our room. I was not really thinking about too much at the time, although I did notice that two of the three overhead light fixtures were still dark. I'd reported the damned things to the Block Corporal a week before but as usual nothing had been done. I was grumbling to myself, wondering if perhaps the Block Corporal also had a dolly in Shaggin' Park and was spending time there instead of replacing light bulbs, and I almost didn't hear the low, full-throated animal moan as I opened the door.
The lights were out but there was enough moonlight streaming through the windows to see and what I saw caused my jaw to drop and my eyes to all but bulge out of my head. Don was lying on his bunk, on his stomach, as naked as a jay, and with his legs spread. Lying on top of Don, between Don's legs, was Fettuccini, as naked as a jay and it didn't take a road map or a college degree to know what he was doing.
Don had a look of ultimate ecstasy on his face. I couldn't see Fettuccini's face because his nose was buried in the hollow of Don's neck. His arms were under Don's body and as I watched he clutched Don closely. I also watched as his hips slowly rose and fell, as his butt muscles clenched on the down stroke and his thick, muscular shanks rippled with the instinctive rhythm of sex. Alfredo was long-dicking Don with a gentleness I never gave him credit for.
Neither man noticed me entering and I quickly stepped back into the corridor and closed the door as softly as I could. My heart was pounding and while I was tempted to take another look, I didn't. I beat a very hasty retreat to the North End Tavern where I joined the Hanson brothers. Drew remarked that I looked like I had seen a ghost. I lied and told him that I'd been done an injury by one of the Shearwater players (which they assumed to be a smack in the nuts) and ordered a round of beer. Ted opined that I seemed to be making a habit out of getting whacked in the nuts and maybe I should see a doc about it. I told them both to shut up and ordered more beer.
For the next hour I sat there, watching Ted and Drew putting the moves on anything that was female and with a pulse, and getting nowhere. Then two Dockyard mateys began bickering over the affections of slatternly bottle blonde - why I couldn't understand. She was well known for giving blow jobs out behind the tavern and would have taken both of them on. Tempers flared, voices rose, and the fists began flying. The bartender reached for the bar telephone and began dialling the number for the Halifax PD. Every sailor in the joint headed for the exits.
Ted, Drew and I joined the exodus. The last thing we needed was to be caught with fake ID and we headed for the room. I hurried ahead, praying that Don and Alfredo had finished and that the coast was clear. When I opened the door to the room I found that I needn't have worried.
Don and Fettuccini were both in their own bunks. Fettuccine was snoring loudly, lying on his back with a huge tent in his covers. Don was on his side, snoring softly. He sounded exactly like a purring cat.
Ted and Drew, who were no longer the sweet farm boys fresh from the milking shed, were not fooled. Ted nodded first at Alfredo, then at Don, and then at his brother, a huge, shit eating grin on his face. Drew looked at Alfredo, looked at Don, and then at his brother, a huge shit eating grin on his face. They knew, and so much for trying to keep a secret!
At first I worried about what the other boys would say to Don and Fettuccini and I thought that Don and the Italian stallion getting it on might cause some dissention. I needn't have bothered. The Hanson boys couldn't resist sniggering and giggling whenever Alfredo or Don got anywhere near each other, and ragged them unmercifully for days but they eventually settled down. Harry cultivated a "whatever floats your boat" attitude. He also felt that if he didn't see anything, he couldn't talk about it, and if he couldn't talk about it everything was speculation and rumour.
I remained aloof to the goings on. I made no comment to any of the participants. So far as they knew, I was indifferent to what they had done. It was not my place to comment or do anything about it. I was part of the Mess, one of Nelson's Band of Brothers, a man of integrity and honour who played the game fair and square and who would never squeal on a mate. So far as I was concerned what they did was their business. They weren't hurting anybody, and they confined their activities to the room, and when everybody was out.
For once I was not pretending. I really had no interest in having sex with Don, or Fettuccini. Not so Ted and Drew, and at least once, Harry. Knowing that Don would help them out in times of need, or so they assumed, led first Ted, and then Drew, to wait for a private moment and then sidle up and mention that maybe Don could help them with a little problem they had. Don was always willing to accommodate a mate and once again everything was quiet and discreet. Don would never take them on together, nor would he allow them to fuck him. That was something he reserved for Fettuccini, especially after Alfredo found out that his Shaggin' Park dolly had been busy during his enforced incarceration and taken up with a PO Telegrapher who hailed from Newfoundland and was even more endowed that Fettuccini was.
Harry did surprise me. But then again he had his needs just like everyone else. He was not being satisfied elsewhere, that was for sure. His nice Jewish girl was just that, a nice Jew girl who did not put out and wasn't about to until she had a ring on her finger and stood with her man under the chupah and the groom crushed a napkin wrapped glass under his heel. Don was not so demanding.
In keeping with my persona of straightness I did not visit Don. I did chuck a little shit at him and the others for good measure, but I was just a buddy who knew what they were up to, understood why they were doing it, wasn't at all interested in it. As Harry would say, I was such a shmekele!
Well, I was a dick, in English or Yiddish. I was pretending to be something I wasn't, secretly mooning over a man I knew deep down I could never have, and refusing to look a gift horse in the mouth! But I was determined to stay my course and while my mates walked around, smiling, I looked at the world with stony, frustrated eyes.
We continued with our training and life went on as usual. As part of our training we were bussed out to the NBCD School at Sandwich Battery for a day of fun and frolic learning how now to shore up a bulkhead and how not to fight shipboard fires. Drew Hanson shoved the nozzle of a fire extinguisher directly into a pan fire, which resulted in a blowback and he ended up in Sick Bay with second-degree burns to his arm. The course ran so long that when we were finally finished crawling around the "Torch", as the fire-blackened mock-up of a ship's compartment was called, the showers were locked. We had to board the bus back to Stad smelling, as the driver called in, "Like an Arab's armpit" and made to crowd to the back of the bus.
The last week of our seamanship training was spent on board ship, so that we could gain some practical experience. We all trucked down to Jetty 5, home to the Second Canadian Escort squadron. Ted and Drew had been drafted to HMCS Fort Erie, Don and Fettuccini to HMCS New Waterford - money had changed hands in the Manning Office to ensure that they stayed together - while Harry and I were drafted to HMCS Lanark.
We spent the week learning shipboard routine, standing watches, and generally playing silly buggers. It was not onerous duty, but it did give as an insight into living on board a real ship. We slept in hammocks, which I found to be much more relaxing than a bunk, especially with the movement of the ship rocking me to sleep. We learned how to steer a ship, which is not as easy as you think, line handling, and the seemingly hundreds of mundane tasks that were second nature to a shipboard sailor.
Nothing much of note happened on this cruise except an incident which, if anything enhanced my reputation as a straighter-shootin', honest sailor.
The second night out to sea I was on the quarterdeck with a bunch of the guys, admiring the seascape and the sunset. As always happened, we chucked shit at each other, and some of them got playful. I was not paying attention and didn't notice when someone - to this day I don't know whom - snuck up behind, reached up between my legs and gave my cojones a squeeze. I was so shocked I leapt like a seal, did a gainer over the starboard squid mortar, right into the TASI, who had just come on deck. He broke my fall, made sure that I hadn't done myself an injury, and laid into the jokers, and demanded to know who had done the dirty deed.
Since I didn't know who had done the dirty on me, I couldn't tell him. The guys didn't know this so this further established me as a guy who wouldn't rat on a mate to the PO. When they apologized to me I accepted with a good grace, and never again referred to it. I was now established as a good guy who didn't hold a grudge.
We returned ashore, had our bums patted and our cheeks kissed - metaphorically - by the Chief Boatswains Mate, and were sent off to the tender mercies of the Chief Gunnery Instructor in the Drill Shed to learn the intricacies of the care and feeding of the 4.7-inch naval gun, the importance of trajectory, plunging fire, the difference between star shells, HE and AP shells, loading and laying a gun, everything we needed to know to be qualified gunners.
When we weren't in class, or the Gun Shed, we were in the Drill Shed or on the parade square, bashing away and perfecting our Drill With Arms routines - The Gunnery Department supplied all honour guards, a jealously guarded traditional role.
The seasons changed, along with them Halifax weather. The warm, sun-drenched days of summer and early autumn gave way to rain, and snowstorms, frigid temperatures and ice-covered streets. Christmas came and went. There was a monster dance in the gymnasium of the Rec Hall where the Hanson brothers fell in lust - again. Harry brought his nice young Jewish girl, who was rather plain if the truth were told, who confided that her father was not at all happy with her keeping time with a sailor! She also told me that since the Jewish community in Halifax was small, beggars could not be choosers, and Daddy would just have to get used to it!
Don and Fettuccini, a couple now, also came, although they didn't dance. Since there was no booze served at the dance, they had called Halifax Hattie and spent most of the night getting pleasantly snookered.
I danced with several Wrens, one of whom wanted to take me home with her. She wasn't bad looking, but clingy, and of course, not what I wanted at all. What I wanted was also at the dance, with yet another girlfriend, and he spent his time dancing with her, his hand firmly against her behind, dancing so close that Don snidely remarked that if the girl didn't watch out she'd get pregnant by osmosis!
Seeing the object of my night time fantasies with a girl put me in a bitchy mood and tiring of dancing, I told my Wren that while I would dearly love to go home with her, I had been the recent recipient of a Pecker Checker's Cocktail, the result of my last run ashore and more or less in quarantine for another 30 days! She went off in a huff and I went to the bar, where I drowned my sorrows in Coca-Cola and illegal shots from the bottle Don had hidden in his jumper.
New Years came and went. It was 1963 now and I continued down my lonely road. I applied myself to my studies, and to making myself the best thing since sliced bread to ever hit the Drill Shed. I must have done something right because I overheard the Chief Gunnery Instructor (who sat at the right hand of God) tell the Master-at-Arms that I was "for Whale Island." The Jaunty told me that I had impressed the Chief and that when anyone impressed the Chief they impressed the Deity Himself.
Life in our room was more or less the same. With Don and Alfredo more or less married, in manner of speaking, the Hanson boys returned to haunting the North End Tavern. Harry was well on his way to the altar with his nice Jewish girl, and I stayed faithful to Mrs. Fist and my fantasies.
As the winter progressed, and since the only sport on offer was hockey, which I didn't play, I began to spend time in the Fleet Club, which was located at the far end of the parade square, through a gate and halfway down the hill that led to Barrington Street. Since I was still "UA" I couldn't drink but the atmosphere was pleasant, there was a small library and television room and once you got to know them the bartenders (all sailors) would turn an occasional blind eye if someone came up to the bar and bought an extra drink for the non-drinker sitting at the table.
The Fleet Club offered a variety of entertainment in the form of card games, darts, and pool. Once a week there was a bingo, and every other Saturday a meat roll, where we rolled dice for cuts of beef. Whenever I won, which was seldom, I always gave my prize to Harry, who took it to his dolly.
There was also, again weekly, a 50/50 draw. Tickets were $0.50 each. You wrote your name and number on the back and took your chances. The winning number was always drawn by a member of the audience, thus avoiding accusations of collusion, fiddling, or sticky fingers on the part of the bar staff. One night Don, Alfredo and I attended the draw and I was called up to draw the winning ticket. I drew Don's name.
By this time Don had managed to gain a reputation. No one could outright accuse him of doing anything wrong, but everybody knew that he and Alfredo were together. Don had also put in a request to remuster to the Medical Branch as a Sick Bay Tiffy, and everybody knew what that meant.
The bartender, a notorious homophobe, when I showed him the winning name, muttered that had he been doing the drawing that name would never have come up. His remark ticked me off and for once I did not have to pretend. Don was, I told him, my mate, and what he did, or did not do in his free time, was none of our business. I also told the bartender that he should not label a man on rumour and speculation. I was the picture of honesty, probity, and honour when I said that Don had won the draw, and to return his ticket to the drum would not be right.
Don got his money - $ 27.50, a small fortune back then. Since Stevie Straight Arrow had been holding court for weeks in the place, this incident helped make me blessed when the bartender pointed at me and loudly proclaimed "There sits the straightest man I have ever met!"
Jesus was I good. And, Jesus, was I miserable. I was Young Canada on the hoof, brave, steadfast, and, thanks to the Chief Gunnery Instructor, who proclaimed himself to be my Rabbi, destined for great things. I played by the rules of the society I lived in and was being rewarded. It was all a fucking lie. What I really wanted to do was stay behind one night after gym and cuddle with PO Toner, muckle on to his shapely dick, and suck on him until his head caved in.
That never happened. Our course came to an end, and we went our separate ways. I kept in touch with the Hanson boys, who did their three years and returned home to marry, and raise corn and babies on their farm. I danced at Harry Oppenheim's wedding reception, a huge, and I suspect horribly expensive affair, held in the ballroom of the Lord Nelson Hotel. Harry settled down to married life with his nice Jewish girl in a house in Armdale, a wedding gift from her parents. He too eventually sent in his papers, went to Mt. St. Vincent University, and is now a high-powered barrister, still married, with a house in Admiral's Cove, and the yeshiva, as he calls his six sons.
Both Don and Fettuccini, both aware that their liaison would sooner or later become common knowledge, bided their time and at the earliest opportunity left the Navy as well. Don, with two years pre-med to his credit, was accepted at St. Mary's University and is now on the staff of the Queen Elizabeth II Hospital as a Trauma surgeon. Alfredo took a job with the Halifax Shipyard and while at work he is renowned as a lusty, brawling, hard-drinking Dockyard matey, he still goes home every night to Don, and their house on the Northwest Arm.
PO Toner and I remain friends. He's older now, and greying at the temples, but still a damned fine handsome man. He still looks young, and is married. We see each other two or three times a year, whenever I am in Halifax. We have a sherry in the Wardroom and reminisce of the days of our youth. If he knows that I still harbour deep feelings for him he never lets on. We're friends, we enjoy each other's company, and that says it all.
On Friday, the 1st of March 1963, I was rated an Able Gunner and handed a draft chit for HMCS St. Laurent. The Hanson boys were drafted to Esquimalt. Harry, because of his impending wedding, lucked out and was drafted to the School of Gunnery. Once again money changed hands in the Manning office and Don and Fettuccini were drafted to HMCS Inch Arran. The next day they went house hunting.
We called Halifax Hattie and had an impromptu party that started in the Drill Shed and ended in our room. Don got weepy, kissed us all and made us swear to keep in touch. Harry invited us all to his wedding and made Don promise that he wouldn't wear a dress! Fettuccini, drunk as a Lord, swore his love for Don, and was miffed when we all asked him what else was new. The Hanson boys put a Beatles' record on their recently acquired phonograph and, in honour of Don and all the help he'd been to them, performed a strip tease! Don took their nonsense in stride and opined that since he'd seen them naked almost every day for months, they really did not have to bother.
We all ended up in a love fest, holding each other, for we all knew that never again would be together as a group. We all realized that the days of our youth were behind us. We would forever be as one with each other, but we would be apart. That was the way of it. Sometimes.