Date: Tue, 14 Oct 2003 17:36:44 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases and/or locations, is coincidental, and needed more for
literary license than anything else.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, dos and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites.

To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible Thumpers, Libertarians, the ACLU,
and supporters of the bankrupt and increasingly irrelevant United Nations,
please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever cause you're touting. I
have no time for claptrap.

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

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

What follows is the Prologue and Chapter 1 of the third book in the AURORA
trilogy. In order to understand who is who and what is what should read the
first two books in the series, "The Phantom of Aurora" and "The Boys of
Aurora". There is a cast of characters included in The Boys, and while not
all of them are included in this newest book, the main characters are.

I always enjoy hearing from readers, new or old. I will respond to all
e-mails (except flames). Please write me at my e-mail address"
paradegi@rogers.com


AURORA TAPESTRY - Prologue


The tapestry of The Boys of AURORA has been woven. Threads, bright red,
green and blue, pink and brown, the colours of the rainbow and beyond, have
formed a panorama interlinking the lives of Cory, Todd, Harry, Tyler, Val,
Nicholas and Andre. The colours blend and form to bring knowledge and
discovery to Thumper and Two Strokes, to Jon and Chris, to Rob, Ryan, to
Brian, to Mike and Phillip, known as the Assistant. The fabric, warp and
woof, brings revelation to Randy, to Joey, to Calvin and Simon and gathers
in the Litany of Saints and the Stewards of AURORA, to Stuart and Steve, a
fabric made bright by the love between Ray and Kevin. An awesome magic of
silver and amber joins Kyle, Andy, Mark, Tony and Nathan to the Boys of
Aurora.

Dark threads are woven into the tapestry, for life is unpredictable, the
threads intertwining the lives of Matt, of Sandro, and Sean.

Darker threads, broken and ravelled, perhaps never to know the restorer's
needle, entwine Little Big Man, Greg, Sylvain and Fred.

A brilliant sun in a cloudless sky highlights the colours, and gives
testament to the one, defining, unbreakable thread of gold that touches and
brings hope and love to the colours of the Tapestry, one bright shining,
emerald tinged thread of gold . . . Phantom.

Chapter 1

As the last of the buses carrying the departing cadets trundled across the
causeway the few remaining boys began to disperse. Ray, with Randy, Joey
and Sandro, returned to the galley. There were still meals to cook and as
from today's lunch hour the YAG crews would be eating ashore in the Mess
Hall. The five YAG cooks would continue to live on board their respective
boats, and cook breakfast. They would then report to the galley where Chef,
who had heard of the inadequacies and inexperience of the five junior
cooks, would, as he put it, provide the benefit of his experience and
expertise. The Phantom, when he heard of it, observed dryly to Ray that
five new pink cadet bottoms had been added to the endangered species
list. Chef observed that two old pink cadet bottoms were already on the
list and they had better find something better to do that stand around
gossiping.

The Twins went off to do whatever it was that twins did in their free
time. Harry, although the remaining cadets had sliders, went off to the
School of Wind to begin inventorying the musical instruments. Matt followed
Harry's lead. Every weapon, bayonet, scabbard and sling in the armoury had
to be checked and checked again, boxed and, sometime next week, shipped off
to CFB Comox for safe storage during the coming winter months.

Stuart, Steve, Rob and Brian went off to their barracks to pack. With the
bulk of the cadets gone home the barracks, except for the Cooks Barracks
and the Staff Barracks, would become empty, silent shells. As there was no
point in keeping a whole barracks open for one or two occupants, the senior
hands would be moving into the Staff Barracks sometime this afternoon. Matt
would also be moving into the Petty Officers Mess later in the day. Kevin,
a Leading Cadet and more or less assigned to the galley, moved his gear
into the Cooks Barracks, much to Joey and Randy's delight.

As there were no plans to double up any of the bunks to increase the
capacity of the Gunroom, Sylvain was to move into the Petty Officers
Mess. Still miffed at Harry's appointment as Cadet Chief Drum Major, and
not eager to spend the balance of the summer pigging it with cadets he
considered his "inferiors" in rank and status in the Petty Officers Mess,
Sylvain pleaded "urgent family business" and Green Sheeted. He would be
leaving sometime after dinner when a staff car would pick him up and take
him to Comox Airport. As was customary, he would be paying his own way back
to Montreal.

Mike and Phillip, called the Assistant, returned to their barracks and
began dismantling Little Big Man's cubicle.

In his office Father puffed on his pipe, his rheumy eyes gazing sadly at
the deserted parade square. Behind him Lieutenant-Commander Hazelton -
Number One - enjoyed a cigarette. The tobacco smoke, blue and hazy, hovered
in the still, warm air in the cabin. From time to time, Father rubbed his
chin reflectively with the stem of his pipe. Finally, his raspy voice broke
the silence. "It's done, then, Charles. Another training year done."

Number One nodded slowly. "A strange, wonderful year, sir." He regarded the
end of his cigarette. "Something happened. I can't put my finger on it. All
I can say is that something strange and wonderful happened."

"You felt it too?" asked Father, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"I did."

Father returned to his desk and sat down, pointedly ignoring the large pile
of documents that Greg, the Ship's Writer, had placed there. He stared
pensively at the pile of papers and then pushed them aside. "I can't help
but think that those boys have something wonderful waiting for them." He
smiled weakly. "These are times when one wishes one could see the future."

Number One nodded slowly. "Of course, one cannot," he said
presently. "Still, I can only hope that the future will be good to all of
them." He suddenly reached into his pocket and felt the small object
resting there. "I also hope that my time will have the same . . . results."

Father shook his head slowly. "Charles, it only happens once in a very
great while, once in a hundred ships, I think. I've seen it before. I've
seen it when for no good reason a ship's company comes together in a way
that no mortal can describe or understand. Perhaps it's the very ship that
they're in, perhaps it's a unique combination of men." His shoulders
slumped. "I can only hope that you have a small measure of what we've had
this year."

The Executive Officer nodded slightly. He understood what the Commanding
Officer was saying. He understood what was bothering Father. He absently
fondled the object in his pocket.

Number One looked at Father's sad, lined face and thought, "Perhaps it's
time, after all."

******

Fifteen years earlier Charlie Hazleton had stared out of the multi-paned
window of a high ceilinged conference chamber and sighed heavily. He
watched as a gaggle of tourists strolled down the wide, cobblestone jetty
and prepared to board HMS VICTORY, permanently moored in Portsmouth
Dockyard as a national historical site. One of the tourists, a tall,
heavyset man, would have trouble navigating the decks of the ancient First
Rate. Her mess and gun decks had been built for 18th Century men, and even
Charlie, who was by no means tall, had found himself ducking constantly to
avoid bashing his head against the timbers and low deckheads of Nelson's
flagship.

Behind Charlie the other members of the Court argued volubly, and
loudly. The guilt of the Accused had already been established. There was no
doubt at all. Thinking back, Charlie sighed. Dear God, there was a
preponderance of evidence against the poor man. And the quality of the
evidence could not be doubted. A wry smile crossed Charlie's lips. He would
have thought that MI-5, MI-6, Metropolitan CID and the rag tag and bob tail
of the security world, including the CIA, would have had better things to
do with their time than follow a mild, sad little naval Lieutenant about
London, and into a Turkish bath!

Turning, Charlie listened as the President of the Court, a loud, red-faced,
stout Lancashireman, expounded forcefully on poufs and degenerates. Two of
the other six members of the court nodded their agreement. There could be
no mitigating circumstances, no hope of leniency. The Accused was guilty of
crimes against Nature, and the Law, Civil and Military, was quite
clear. There could be no exceptions, no special circumstances. To make
matters worse, the Americans, in the form of two beetled-browed,
black-suited agents from the CIA, were demanding access to the Accused - so
far refused and bugger the "Special Relationship" between Britain and the
United States!

If only the Accused had been a nonentity from the Catering Branch, someone
whose only function in life had been to make sure that the Admiral's sherry
decanter was full and the Mess Accounts balanced. Damn and Hell, Charlie
thought angrily, why couldn't he have been a man who did nothing but count
the sheets in someplace quiet, Chatham, for instance, or Devonport. But,
no, he had to go and be a bloody Russian linguist, and not only a Russian
linguist, but possessed of an analytical mind of awesome intelligence, so
much so that he could look at a message composed of supposedly random
series of numbers and letters - a code within a code within a code - and in
no time at all begin reading aloud the contents.

Once again Charlie sighed. The Accused was the golden boy of Brize Norton,
an intelligence monitoring station so secret that evening mentioning the
name of the place aloud could get a man two months detention for violating
the Official Secrets Act. The Accused could read, translate and intuitively
know exactly the import of what was contained in the signals that flowed in
a seemingly unending river from the Soviet Navy Headquarters, located in
the Admiralty Building in Leningrad. There messages to surface ships
loitering in the Caribbean off Cuba - the Sovs were up to something there,
although no one knew just what, and with the disaster at the Bay of Pigs,
barely four months before, and still fresh in American minds, nobody was
taking any chances there. There was also a string of messages to a
submarines lurking off the eastern seaboard of America. Most
distressing. The Soviets were roiling the waters from Murmansk to Miami,
from Vladivostok to Vienna and the Americans wanted answers. They also
wanted the head of any man, woman or child who was, in any way,
collaborating with the Russians.

And therein lay the rub.

Charlie Hazleton had heard the testimony, had read the intelligence
reports, and could not, in good conscience, condemn the Accused for being a
Soviet agent. There was no evidence of that at all. The Accused lived a
solitary existence, his whole life seemingly wrapped up on his work. Once a
month, however, he took the late train to London. Surveillance records
showed that upon arrival at Waterloo the man would hail a taxi, and proceed
to a nondescript, sooty bricked, anonymous building in Hackney. The
building housed a Turkish bath, which offered, amongst other services, paid
companionship. And what possible connection a pimply faced, gap-toothed
youth from the slums of Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs could possibly have
with the Russians - except to offer his body at 50 pounds the time -
Charlie could not see. The boy was barely literate, and his speech larded
with local colloquialisms so incomprehensible that anyone not born and bred
in the docklands could not possibly understand and the Russians would need
a cryptographer to make any sense of them!

As the argument raged behind him Charlie listened and the more he listened
the more he realized that the trial was no longer about espionage, or
whether or not the Accused was open to blackmail. What the trial was about
was setting an example, of pandering to the Americans who, it seemed, could
not abide homosexuals in their precious Armed Services.

Dismissing the loud voices Charlie returned to staring out the window. He
was hardly unaware of homosexuality. That it existed in all cultures, at
all levels, he well knew. He had first encountered it in his prep
school. His parents, solid working class though they might be, had aspired
to middle class respectability and had managed to scrape together the fees
that would gain their only son entry to a decent public school, Gennis
Abbey School, in Norfolk. Here, as was the custom, he had "fagged" for one
of the senior boys, running errands, fetching cream buns from the local
bakery, shining his shoes, and so on. Nothing onerous and the boy, whose
name was Ishmael, had never intimated that he lusted after Charlie's rather
plump 10-year-old bottom. Charlie quickly learned that while Ishmael might
not be interested, there were plenty of others who were. The second night
of his first term, as he lay in his lumpy bed, he felt a hand on his thigh,
which hand then travelled down to poke and prod his immature
genitals. Charlie, frightened, had rolled away, and threatened to scream
bloody murder. The unknown hand had been withdrawn and as the rustle of
bare feet died away Charlie had placed his hands protectively over his
parts.

The next morning, in the sinks, Charlie had had a hurried, whispered
conversation with "Froggy", The Honourable Lucian Throgmorton, his newest
friend and now confidant. Froggy had explained that sometimes, if the
younger boys were willing, the older boys would visit them, which was good
for a wank, and sometimes, not often, a good suck. Charlie understood
neither terms. Froggy explained at length. He also assured Charlie that no
one would force him to do anything.

Charlie had never heard of such things. Froggy explained that it happened
all the time. He also warned Charlie to stay clear of George Hendley and
Walter "Tinker" Bell, two fifth formers who had the distressing habit of
sticking their wangs - ugly, hairy things - up the bums of unsuspecting
first formers. Shuddering, Charlie had quickly assured Froggy that he had
no wish to suffer such a fate, or to have his penis wanked or sucked, thank
you very much. Froggy had shrugged, noted that a good wank was very
satisfying, and strolled off for his breakfast.

For the next six years Charlie had been an interested, and
non-participating, observer of the boys who attended Gennis Abbey. He
learned who would, and who would not, participate in the after hours
activities, in which boys actively sought out other boys, and managed to
keep his bum from being violated and his penis from being wanked or sucked.

Charlie's memories of Gennis Abbey came flooding back. He realized now that
while the boys might pleasure each other in the dark of night, in the light
of day they were the same boys he associated with every day. Nothing seemed
to have changed their attitudes, or their inability to master Latin, or
Greek, or impede their skill at football. He knew that Froggy had taken up
with Anthony Fasciano, a dark-haired, sloe-eyed boy whose father was the
Third Assistant Undersecretary at the Italian Embassy. He also knew that
Froggy, for all the sex he was having with Anthony, remained the same
happy-go-lucky, laughing boy he had always been. Anthony was still the star
of the First XV, scoring goals with careless ease at every match. They
might be wanking and sucking and fucking the nights away, but they remained
the same!

>From Gennis Abbey Charlie had gone on to Britannia Royal Naval College and
his opinion that preferring the company of gentlemen - as it was delicately
phrased - had very little to do with one's ability to function, or perform
one's duties. A clot was a clot and it mattered not a damn if he was
servicing a messmate in the washplace during the Middle Watch.

Charlie's opinions were reinforced as he progressed in rank and
responsibility. As he travelled from shore posting to sea and back again,
he learned that homosexuals could, and did, function quite well and
frequently performed better than their so-called "normal" peers. Whom one
slept with had nothing to do with how one did one's duty.

Charlie also learned that while homosexuals were not supposed to serve in
any of the Services, they did, with distinction and honour. That they were
there was either studiously ignored or at the least, tolerated. It was, for
the most part, a live and let live world. Of course, there were always
Nubians in the fuel supply, who raved and ranted, parroting the American
line that homosexuality was incompatible with military service and declared
that poufs and fags were to be unceremoniously removed.

" . . . Abominations, deviates and deserving no pity," the President of the
Court bellowed, drawing Charlie's immediate attention. "Hitler had the
right idea. Put them in camps somewhere."

"Really, Herbert," drawled Commander (E) Cornish, the Senior Member. "Next
you'll be having 'em wearing pink triangles."

"It would certainly identify them, and make their extermination easier!"
returned the President of the Court. "They must be rooted out! There is no
place for such . . . detestable creatures in the RN!"

"If any person in the fleet shall commit the unnatural and detestable sin
of buggery and sodomy with man or beast, he shall be punished with death by
the sentence of a court martial," quoted Commander Longford from his chair
in the corner of the room. "The 27th Article of War . . . or was it the
26th?" he finished with a wry smile.

"Really, Dicky, that was written in 1757!" Commander Michaelson, a large,
white-haired man, pushed his chair away from the long table littered with
reports and notes and bits and pieces of paper. "We can't do that, and well
you know it! You're as bad as Corny!"

Commander Longford waved his hands airily. "I am merely demonstrating how
perfectly ridiculous this whole charade is."

"Charade?" exploded the President of the Court. "Do you not realize the
implications, the consequences of what has happened?"

"What consequences?" asked Commander Longford mildly. "There was no breach
of security, no passing of state secrets, no pillow talk whatsoever." He
pointed a long, elegantly manicured finger at the President of the
Court. "You yourself refused to allow those charges against the Accused."

The President of the Court puffed up a bit, smoothed the lapels of his
faultlessly tailored Number One uniform, adjusted his medals, and
sniffed. "British fair play, Dicky!" he returned.

Lieutenant Race, the youngest member of the court, ran his fingers through
his thinning blond hair. "The fact remains that the Accused was found in an
enclosed cubicle, naked, with another male, a male, I am forced to remind
you all, who is known to the police as a prostitute!"


"Perhaps they were playing 'If you show me yours, I'll show you mine'",
reposted Lieutenant-Commander Hogg with a low chuckle.

"Now who is being ridiculous?" demanded the President of the Court, his
smooth face turning red. "You all seem to find this . . . this creature an
object for your pathetic attempts at humour!"

Dicky Longford cocked an eyebrow. "Humour?" He shook his head and a hard
glint came into his eyes. "I find nothing humourous about this drumhead
court at all!"

Before the President of the Court could reply, Charlie spoke up loudly. "I
agree! We are sitting here condemning a man for being homosexual. We pay no
attention to the very good work that he's done for the Crown, and still can
do for the Crown! He's the best damned Russian linguist we have. He's been
given a very good gong for all his cryptographic work, and you . . ." he
pointed his finger at the President of the Court. " . . . You want to send
him down for two years, take away his medals and pension, and dismiss him
with infamy from Her Majesty's navy!

Commander Longford looked at Charlie Hazelton strangely, but said nothing.

"You want to throw away years of training and service," Charlie continued
forcefully, his anger rising, "which has cost the Crown at least one
hundred thousand pounds, destroy a man, all because he happens to be being
something he cannot help being! It's ludicrous!" He sat down in his chair
and glared at the President of the Court.

"Trust a bean counter to mention money," sniffed the President of the Court
maliciously.

"There is no need to take that tone," returned Charlie, his voice calmer
that he felt. His heart was pounding and while he knew that the President
of the Court was a mean, vindictive man who could, and would, have his
pound of flesh, he threw caution, and possibly, his career, to the
winds. "Men such as the Accused are not found in trees! They are recruited
directly from university, trained at great cost, given great
responsibility, praised and rewarded with promotion, and then told that
they cannot be what they were born to be!"

"The man's a queer," snarled the President of the Court with all the venom
his bigoted soul could produce. "He has sex with other men! He takes the
penis of another man in his mouth! He bends over and allows another man to
put his penis in his rectum! He . . ."

"I am sure that we are all aware of the mechanics of the thing," drawled
Commander Longford slowly. "That is not the point."

"The point being?" asked The President of the Court coldly.

"The point being that I agree with Charlie," returned Commander Longford
just as coldly. "I see no benefit in sending the Accused to prison, or to
dismiss him from the navy. He still has much to offer, and I cannot, and
will not subscribe to the idea that he cannot serve simply because he
happens to be homosexual." He leaned forward and stared long and hard at
the President of the Court. "Just as I refuse to be influenced by the bias
of our American cousins."

For a moment the President of the Court could not think of a reply. He
could not deny that influence had been used in this case, nor could he deny
that the American Defence Attaché had sat in the Visitors' Gallery for the
length of the trial. As much as he hated the idea, the President of the
Court knew full well that Grosvenor Square was never far from Admiralty
Arch. "The Americans have nothing to do with this trial, Dicky! I threw out
all the charges dealing with espionage, or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't," replied Dicky Longford. "I am simply trying to find an
equitable, and fair, solution. I cannot see sending the Accused away."

"You, we, have no choice," said Lieutenant Race. "The Accused is an officer
and the Naval Discipline Act, and The Queen's Regulations for the Royal
Navy are quite specific. Homosexuals, when found out, must be severely
dealt with. They cannot, under any circumstances serve." He smiled smugly
at the President of the Court, who smiled just as smugly back.

"Regulations and Instructions not withstanding, we do have options,"
Charlie pointed out. We don't have to send him to Chatham Nick; we don't
have to disgrace him on parade. We can release him without any further
fuss, which is what should have happened in the first place!"

"No, we cannot!" roared the President of the Court. "The circumstances will
not allow us to! The Accused is an officer, an officer serving in a very
important and highly secret installation. He betrayed every trust placed in
him! He is a pitiable creature, to be sure, but he has committed a crime
against decency and morality! The law, whether military or civil, allows us
no leeway!" He pulled the handkerchief delicately stuffed up the sleeve of
his uniform jacket, wiped his lips and then stared down the other members
of the court. "We will show his kind just what the Navy thinks of him, and
them. We will make an example of this vile . . . thing . . . and we will
ensure that the fear of a righteous and unforgiving God is put into all of
them." He reached for the Sentencing Warrant. Once again he looked harshly
at the members of the court. "And remember, the First Sea Lord, and the
Lords Commissioners, expect each and every one of you to do his duty!"

******

After appending his signature to the Sentencing Warrant, Charlie Hazelton
moved back to the window. His hand was shaking and he cursed himself
silently for being the coward he was. "Something must be done," he
muttered.

"Something must be done," repeated Commander Longford, who had left the
table and come to stand beside Charlie. He twirled the large gold and
enamel ring on his right hand slowly, the massive, oval, table-cut ruby set
in the ring sparkling with a special fire in the sunlight streaming through
the windows. "Something indeed must be done."

******

Perhaps it was time, after all. Charles Hazleton removed the ring from his
pocket and slipped it on the ring finger of his right hand. "Something will
be done," he growled, his voice low, and barely audible.

The Commanding Officer, lost in his own thoughts, started. "Did you say
something, Number One?" he asked.

Number One nodded slowly but before he could answer the Commanding Officer
there was a soft tap at the door.

Greg poked his head into the office. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a
trunk call from Toronto for The Gunner."

"Who is it?" asked Father, his curiosity piqued.

Greg shrugged. "A man. He says he's The Gunner's uncle Edward." He pointed
at the telephone of the Commanding Officer's desk. "He says it's very
important."

Father glanced at the blinking light on the telephone. "Did you not try The
Gunner's line?"

Greg looked hurt. Of course he'd tried The Gunner's line. "There was no
answer," he explained simply.

"Well, I had better take it, then," replied Father. As he reached for the
telephone he looked at Greg. "Check the galley, or the Drill Shed. The
Gunner has to be in either of those places. The galley first as I suspect
he's still seeing the last of the boys away."

******

The Gunner was not in the galley. He was in Chef's office and from the way
Chef and The Phantom were carrying on it looked as if not only had the
crops failed, the creek had risen and the ship's cat had succumbed to a
sudden, terminal illness.

On the near end of the settee, Chef was bellowing and blowing like a sea
lion into an oversize napkin, weeping and staring at a small photograph he
had taken from his wallet. On the far of the settee The Phantom sat rocking
back and forth, the gold watch and chain that the stewards had presented to
him cupped in his hands. Tears streamed down his tanned face and he
sniffled constantly.

"Did you hear him then, Stevie?" bawled Chef. He lifted the napkin to his
nose and blew stentoriously. "Did you hear what he called me? 'Papa Chef',
so he said." A fresh spate of tears rolled down Chef's cheeks. "Ah, the
dear, sweet lad!"

A wail of happiness rose from The Phantom. "They gave me a watch! A gold
watch! Me!" he shook his head and joined Chef in siren bawl of joy.

The Gunner prayed for the Almighty to give him strength. He stared at the
two men and shook his head. "Why are you crying?"

"Because we're so happy!" blubbered The Phantom. He held out the
watch. "Look, Stevie, a gold watch. The stewards gave it to me!"

"Now I do need a drink!" declared The Gunner. As he poured himself a small
drink from Chef's ever-ready bottle he gave his friends a pitying
glance. Really, this was too much! He downed his drink in one gulp and sat
between Chef and The Phantom.

"Listen you two," began The Gunner, his voice soft and tinged with the
humour that danced in his eyes. "You are behaving as if you'd just been
told that the world was about to come to an end." He draped his arms across
Chef's and The Phantom's shoulders and gave them both a slight hug. "You
should be happy!"

"We are," cried The Phantom.

"You don't understand, Stevie," thundered Chef.

"Ah, but I do." The Gunner turned and took Chef's hand in his and turned to
gaze lovingly at The Phantom. "You have both given two gifts to them, gifts
so precious and wonderful that the recipients can hardly understand them,
are in wonder of them, and grateful for them. They responded to those gifts
in a way that expressed their appreciation for those gifts."

Chef blew his nose and then wiped his eyes. "And what gifts are they,
then?" he asked with a loud sniff.

"The gifts of love and trust," replied The Gunner with a soft smile. He
turned to Chef. "You have chosen Ray as your surrogate son and he has
chosen you as his surrogate father. Ray knows that you will always love him
and trust him, that you will never betray him and, as a true father must
and should, you will always hold him dear to your heart. No matter where
Ray goes, or what he does, you will always be there to guide him, to
console him when he needs consolation, and love him when he needs your
love. You have accepted Ray as he is, without conditions. He is returning
the love you have given him, Papa Chef."

The Gunner's words caused a new flood of tears. Chef shook with
emotion. "And curse the man who destroys his son, who abandons him. Curse
him in this world, and damn him in the next." Three stentorian blasts into
his sopping napkin followed. "A father is no father if he rejects a son."

"Which Ray knows you will never do," replied The Gunner. He turned to The
Phantom, who was still blubbering happily. "As for you, Phantom, you did
something about a problem the cadets have been grumbling about for years."

"I did?" asked The Phantom, his eyes wide with surprise. He hurriedly wiped
his eyes with his hand. "What did I do?"

The Gunner reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean
handkerchief. "Here, wipe your eyes."

The Phantom did as he'd been told, smiled sheepishly, and then asked again,
"What did I do?"

"Do you remember the day of the baseball game?" asked The Gunner in reply.

The Phantom thought a moment, and then nodded. "Cory flashed the world." He
grinned slightly. "Nicholas pulled Cory's shorts down and . . ."

"Yes, he did," interrupted The Gunner. "But that is not what I am talking
about." He gently placed his arm around The Phantom's shoulder. "Afterward
there was a party in the Gunroom. Harry got a little, well he drank a
little too much."

"Got as pissed as Mrs. O'Leary's billy goat," snickered Chef.

The Phantom leaned forward and looked at Chef. "I thought she had a cow,"
he said with a grin. "It kicked over a lantern and burned down Chicago."

"So it did," replied Chef breezily. "She also had a goat, which being
Irish, was fond of the poteen. As is Harry."

"Will you stop it!" growled The Gunner. He gave Chef a dirty look and then
returned to his story. "Harry had one over the mark, and got a little
philosophical. He also complained that even though he and Tyler, and Val,
all the senior cadets, were old enough to function in the real world, as
cadets they could not. No one seemed to understand that they were quite
capable of doing their jobs without supervision."

Chef, more composed than The Phantom, could recall a certain incident where
the cadets, notably the Twins, could have used some supervision. He
decided, however, that now was not the time to remind The Gunner of flying
tompions and outraged little men.

"I remember," said The Phantom seriously. "They also talked about how
everybody seemed to be ignoring the younger cadets." He smiled
softly. "They started Operation Warm Fuzzy."

"So they did," interjected Chef. "A fine, noble thing it was, too."

"And what Phantom did was also a fine, noble thing." The Gunner gave his
young lover a small squeeze. "You took your stewards under your wing. You
taught them well, and you trusted them. No one had ever done that
before. You let them get on with what was expected of them. You corrected
them when they needed it, and you never dwelled on their mistakes. You
showed them that they could be trusted, and you trusted them. And that, my
dear Phantom, means a lot to a teenage boy."

Chef smiled fondly at the young man he had come to love as dearly as a
son. "Stevie is right, Phantom. You have the touch. And remember, remember
what the boys told you?" Before The Phantom could reply Chef answered his
own question. "They would follow you to the Gates of Hell and beyond for
it, so they would."

The Phantom stopped his sniffling and smiled shyly. "I didn't mean to, I
didn't think that I was doing anything special. I just treated them like I
wanted to be treated."

"You treated them as young adults, and not as children. That is the point,"
said The Gunner with a grin. "Harry complained, and the other boys echoed
him, that as a cadet the officers had a tendency to forget that they were
young men, and not little boys. You showed your stewards how things should
be done and that, Phantom, is all there is to it." He reached down and took
the watch from his young lover's hand. "This is their gift of love to you
for trusting them." He frowned. "And I wonder just how much of the purchase
price was subsidized," glancing slyly at Chef.

Chef pushed himself erect and spluttered under his breath. "That is neither
here nor there. Now, then, Phantom, we've spent too much time away from the
lads. God only knows what they're up to, the spalpeens," he growled as he
made a hurried departure from his office.

The Gunner laughed quietly as Chef left the office and then turned to
embrace The Phantom. "I am so very proud of what you have done, Phantom."
He gently kissed the youth's warm, curving lips. "So very proud."

The Phantom beamed and returned his lover's kiss. "I learned from you," he
whispered. He hugged The Gunner tightly. "I love you, Stevie."

"I know." The Gunner's reply was a whisper.

"Do you think maybe we could slip away for a while?" asked The Phantom, his
eyes sparkling. "I would really like to . . ."

Before The Phantom could expand on exactly what he wanted to do with The
Gunner they were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. As the two
lovers drew apart Greg stuck his head in the door. "I'm sorry, Gunner, but
Number One sends his compliments, and will you come to the Commanding
Officer's cabin?"

"Now?" asked The Gunner, disappointed. He looked apologetically at The
Phantom, who smiled softly and shrugged phlegmatically. The Gunner turned
to Greg. "Do you know what he wants?"

Greg knew, but was not about to inform The Gunner of what caused the
Commanding Officer to shake his head sadly as he hung up the
telephone. "It's important," was all Greg said.

******

As The Gunner, trailed by Greg, approached the Headquarters Building he
noticed Calvin Hobbes sitting on the lower step looking forlorn. He gave
the boy a smile and a slight pat on the shoulder as he passed. "Are you
waiting for a bus?" The Gunner asked.

"My brother," replied Calvin, scowling. "He was supposed to pick me up an
hour ago." He craned his neck, looking to see if his brother's green Austin
was trundling noisily across the causeway.

"I'm sure that he's just running late," replied The Gunner as he passed
into the building.

Calvin sniffed and craned his neck again. Mikey had promised! He had sworn
up hill and down dale that he would pick Calvin up and take him home,
which, as the crow flew, was only a mile or so to the north, in
Sunningdale, a small, upscale suburb on the coast. Calvin lived in a large,
sprawling house across the Marine Parade from the newly opened Windsor Arms
Hotel, a posh resort that attracted big spenders from south of the border
in droves.

Calvin thought a moment and remembered that Mikey had mentioned that he
might try to get a job in the new hotel. Then Calvin dismissed the
thought. Mikey was much too lazy, and much too horny, to waste valuable
time working when he could be out prowling for pussy. Which was more than
likely exactly what the big goof was doing!

Sighing, Calvin debated walking home. He could also, if his luck was in,
beg a ride from Nicholas, if the Yeoman was going to the base. Perhaps Chef
was going into town? Calvin considered all his options and groused softly
at the 5-mile Rule, which said that any cadet who lived within five miles
of a training venue was not entitled to transport. Sunningdale was a part
of Comox, and Calvin had no choice in the matter. If he could not beg a
ride home, he could walk, or wait.

He sat on the steps of the Headquarters Building, growing more and more
impatient, waiting for a ride that in all likelihood was not about to
come. The few remaining cadets went about their business, not actually
ignoring the strawberry blond haired Calvin, but not going out of their way
to pay him any attention, either. Calvin knew it was not that the others
didn't care for him. They were just much too busy preparing the barracks
for the winter. Calvin knew that the long barracks rooms had to be stripped
of everything: bunks, lockers, tables, mattresses, everything. The fittings
and fixtures would then be loaded onto trucks and sent off to CFB Comox
where the mattresses would be steam cleaned and stored. A crew of
professional cleaners laden with waxing machines, scrubbers and assorted
cleaning gear would descend next week and scour the barracks blocks clean.

As he watched the hustle and bustle, Calvin wished that he had dressed a
little cooler. He was in full Number 1s, dress Blues, which looked great on
his teenage body, but which also made him sweat like a pig. The sun, high
in the sky, was hot and there was no shade at all on the steps of the
building. Eventually the sun, the heat, and a grumbling stomach drove
Calvin to the Mess Hall. He slumped in a chair and pouted, mentally calling
his brother all the dirty names that he could think of - and after spending
14 days in AURORA, with Harry and the other cadets, Calvin could think of
quite a few.

The Phantom, as usual, was in and out of the dining hall. He saw Calvin
sitting off by himself and walked over and sat down beside the boy. Calvin,
for all his boasting to Simon, was actually a little intimidated by The
Phantom. Phantom was gorgeous and Calvin, while very much in love with
Simon, would have loved nothing better to invite The Phantom around to the
Old Guardroom for a little remedial instruction and recreation.

His green eyes sparkling, The Phantom regarded the red-haired boy and
smiled inwardly. He saw Calvin blushing and knew instinctively the effect
he was having on the young cadet. Both Ray and The Gunner had insisted that
there was a special something about The Phantom that attracted boys to him,
and The Phantom saw no reason to doubt that Calvin was attracted. The
Phantom also suspected that after this morning, when Calvin had accompanied
Simon Keppel to the bus, both boys were more than just friends and last
night, after the beach party, something very special had happened between
them. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Calvin's
forehead. "It's not the end of the world, Calvin," The Phantom said
gently. "You'll see him again."

Calvin stared, wide-eyed at The Phantom. "You know?" he asked, his voice a
small whisper, a whimsical smile forming on his face.

Nodding, The Phantom returned Calvin's smile and then said, "I know." He
leaned forward. "What I can't figure out is where you did it! There aren't
too many places . . ." His voice trailed away. Actually, there were a few
places; most of them occupied last night, if the looks on the faces of some
of the senior cadets were any indication.

"The Old Guardroom," admitted Calvin reluctantly. Then he brightened. "And
Phantom, it was so wonderful. Simon, he . . . Oh, gosh, Phantom Simon is
. . ."

Chuckling quietly The Phantom held up his hand. "I get the picture." Then
he reached out and took Calvin's hand in his. "Simon is very special to me,
Calvin, and I know that you are very special to him. Please don't hurt
him."

Calvin saw that The Phantom was very serious. "Oh, I would never do that,
Phantom," Calvin said emotionally. "I love him! I really, honestly, love
him!" A dreamy expression came over Calvin's face. "Gosh, do I love him!"

The Phantom tried to stifle a snicker that rose in his throat. He was
unsuccessful, which earned him a dirty look from Calvin. The Phantom
immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, Calvin, but it's just that at times I
find it hard to believe that guys as young as you and Simon can fall in
love."

"Well we can!" snapped Calvin, glowering fiercely.

"So I've come to realize," replied The Phantom flatly. He was not at all
surprised, for he had long since understood that a boy knew before he
entered the thrall and throes of puberty, or very quickly learned when he
had sorted out his feelings, what he liked to do and what he liked to have
done to him. The Phantom knew because he had gone through it all.

Like his parents, The Phantom had automatically assumed that he was
incapable of knowing his true sexuality at an early age. After all, the
prevailing thought was that a nine or ten-year-old male could not possibly
know anything about anything as base as sex.

What nobody seemed to consider was that from an early age a boy realized
that God had given him toy unlike all others. If you rubbed it, or twiddled
it, scratched it, stroked it, or fondled it, some very nice feelings
resulted. Later, as a boy grew older and entered puberty, he began a long
period of hormonal imbalance, of wondering, of thinking, and quite
naturally enjoying the toy that God had given him. Thinking and wondering
often led to experimenting with other boys, which led, eventually, to a boy
determining, at least in his own mind, just what he was.

Some boys enjoyed the experimentation, and moved on. Many boys, the vast
majority, while they enjoyed what they were doing at the time, quickly
determined that what they had done was really not what they wanted to
do. They moved on an became the stereotypical boys that their parents,
their teachers, their priests and ministers wanted them to be: straight,
heterosexual and, at the end of the day, cookie-cutter images of their
fathers, and all their male relatives, back to the dawn of time.

The Phantom had known that he was gay almost from the get go. There had
been no great epiphany, no great gettin' up mornin' at all. He just knew
that he liked boys. He knew that he had feelings for boys, not deep to be
sure, but feelings nevertheless. He knew that he liked looking at other
boys, and looking at their dicks and balls. The Phantom was queer, knew it,
lived with it, and tried to get on with his life.

What The Phantom also knew instinctively was that he could never reveal his
innermost feelings to anyone. Being queer was not something a guy announced
at the church social, or sent engraved notices to friends and family
announcing the fact. He also knew that he could never show his true
feelings, no matter what the provocation. He had to be very careful in his
voyeurism, and never overtly intimate his true intentions. It took a great
deal of will power not to put the moves on another guy. Showering with his
schoolmates was an ordeal. Boning up in the showers was the kiss of death,
almost always resulting in the poor unfortunate who did being branded a
queer, or a faggot. The Phantom had taken to sneaking into the boys'
washroom before gym class for a quick jerk. He also threw himself into
every sport he played, competing fiercely and almost always tiring himself
out so much that he could hardly raise a finger, much less an erection.

As he grew older, and developed a relationship with Sam, and then with the
Twins, and lately with The Gunner, The Phantom came to realize that being
"queer" was a state of mind. He considered that he was exactly like every
other boy he knew in Comox, and here in AURORA. He had the same hopes, and
dreams, and fears that they had. The only difference was that his thoughts
turned to boys, while his friends in Comox, and many of his friends here in
AURORA, thought about girls. His friends knew what they liked, and what
they wanted, as did The Phantom. He was also, like his friends, capable of
forming friendships that were based on mutual respect and love, with sex
having nothing whatsoever to do with the relationship. The Phantom thought
the world of Sandro, but he didn't want to sleep with the young Russian. He
thought that Kevin was one hunk of a boy, but Kevin didn't turn his
crank. Both cadets were handsome, muscular, with excellent fittings. They
just didn't have that special mystique that appealed to The Phantom.

Ray had it, as did the Twins. The Gunner most definitely had it and it was
obvious that so far as Calvin was concerned, Simon had it in spades.

As he half listened to Calvin declaring his undying love for Simon, The
Phantom came to realize that the greatest bugbear that many gays faced, the
age of their partners, was so much nonsense. Falling in love, or having
special feelings for another person, be they boy or girl, had nothing to do
with age. Age had nothing to do with those feelings at all. A guy felt what
he felt when he felt it and it didn't matter a damn if he was 14 or 44. A
guy knew, and that was all there was to it!

"I love Simon," Calvin was saying when The Phantom returned from his
musings. "You can hate me if you like, Phantom, but I'll still love Simon."

Stunned, The Phantom looked at Calvin. "Now why would I hate you, Calvin?"
he asked. "There is nothing wrong with you loving Simon. He's a very nice
boy."

Calvin gave the older boy a quizzical look. "I don't think you understand,
Phantom," he said slowly. "I'm gay! Last night Simon and me, we, us, well
we, we . . ." He squared his shoulders and glared defiantly at The
Phantom. "We just did!"

The Phantom understood exactly what Calvin was too embarrassed to
say. Laughing quietly he winked at Calvin. "There's no need to go into
details, Calvin." The Phantom shrugged expressively. "Simon is very special
to me. He's just beginning to understand about his innermost feelings and
. . ."


"We didn't do anything wrong!" interrupted Calvin, his eyes narrow and his
face suffused with anger. He seemed to be daring The Phantom to say
something against what they had done. "We didn't do anything that we both
didn't want to do!"
	"I understand that," replied The Phantom, nodding slowly. "It's
just that, well, Simon is pretty naïve and last night, while you and he
were together . . ."

Calvin's hard voice broke The Phantom's speech. "Phantom, I didn't take
advantage of Simon! I didn't fuck him! I made love to him and he made love
to me!" Calvin's lips curled into a sneer. "I ain't Louise Metcalfe, or Amy
Jensen!" he declared angrily. "I don't fall in love until midnight!"

The Phantom had to turn aside to hide his smile. Evidently Calvin had not
heard that Louise had not achieved her goal - although from the giggling
and whispering between certain Brats it was apparent that Randy and Joey
had found the pot of gold at the end of Phil Thornton's rainbow.

"I want to be with Simon, and I know you think that I'm not old enough to
know what I want, but I do," Calvin was saying hotly when The Phantom
turned back to pay attention to the boy. "I know all about being taken
advantage of, Phantom," Calvin spat out.

The Phantom wondered what that was all about, but said nothing.

"I love Simon," Calvin sobbed, "and if you can't understand that, well you
can go to hell." He stood up and snatched up his kit bag. He was about to
stomp away when The Phantom's hand in the crook of his elbow drew him back.

"Calvin, sit down," The Phantom ordered mildly. "I don't think badly about
you, or Simon." He raised Calvin's chin with his finger, thinking that in a
few years Calvin was going to be one stunning young man. "You are your own
man, Calvin, as is Simon. You both love each other, and I understand that
love. I just don't want to see either of you get hurt. Can you understand
that?"

Calvin nodded. "I love Simon," he repeated again. "I will always love him,
and I will never take advantage of him, or try to make him do something he
doesn't want to do." He suddenly threw himself against The Phantom and
hugged him fiercely. "Gosh, damn, hell," he muttered, "I miss him so!"

The Phantom let the boy cry out his frustrations, stroking his back
gently. "Be yourself, Calvin," whispered The Phantom softly. "Love Simon as
he loves you. Never be afraid of who you are, and never be afraid to say
no."

******

The Executive Officer looked at Father when the knock on the door
came. Father shook his head as if to say, "It's my job." Father sighed and
said softly, "Come in, Stephen."

The looks on the faces of the two officers told The Gunner that something
was terribly wrong. Something had happened and he briefly thought that one
of the cadets had been injured. Perhaps one of the buses had been involved
in an accident. Forsaking protocol, his face displaying his very real
concern, The Gunner quickly inquired, "What, er, you sent for me, sir?"

Father looked up and nodded. He indicated a chair. "Steve, please sit
down." As The Gunner sat in the chair indicated Father cleared his throat
and looked at The Gunner, his eyes sad. "I am afraid, Steve, that I must
tell you some sad news."

The Gunner started to rise from his chair. "One of the cadets?"

Father shook his head. "No, they're all fine. It's, well, there's no easy
way to say it, so I shall just say it. Your Uncle Edward rang. He asked me
to tell you that your aunt Margaret has passed away. He would like you to
come home."

The Gunner slumped in his chair. He felt as if he had been kicked in the
stomach. It was not that his aunt's death had been unexpected. The letter
The Gunner had had from his uncle had mentioned that Aunt Margaret was very
ill, and wanted to see him. What sent waves of guilt churning through The
Gunner was the fact that he could have been a better nephew to a woman who
had truly loved him.

Childless, locked in a loveless marriage to a cold, driven man who had no
interests outside of his bank and his social standing, The Gunner's Aunt
Margaret had always been a quiet oasis of love and warmth. She had made a
home for him, a place where he could always go. There were always presents
under the Christmas tree for him, always a turkey dinner with all the
trimmings at Thanksgiving, always a card and a cheque on his birthday,
always a special mass for his parents on the anniversary of their
death. Margaret Winslow had done her best to make a lonely, frightened boy
feel wanted and loved. And now she was gone.

A tear trickled down The Gunner's cheek as he said softly, "I should have
gone to Toronto a month ago. My uncle wrote and told me that my aunt was
very ill. But I put it off. There always seemed to be more important things
that needed looking after."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Stephen," said Father firmly. "It was all
quite sudden. A massive, merciful coronary infarction." The Commanding
Officer reached into his credenza and brought out the rum. "You must not
blame yourself," he insisted as he poured a glass of Nelson's blood for
each of them. "And I've already arranged your leave."

The Gunner looked at the Commanding Officer. "You have?"

"I have," replied Father. He pushed two glasses of rum across the
desk. "Get that down you," he ordered.

The Gunner took a sip of his drink. "I'll have to fly home."

"Of course. Goes without saying," replied Father. "It's all arranged. You
take the red eye from Comox tonight. Sylvain is also going home so you can
be his escorting officer, at least as far as Toronto. I'll have Base
Transport stop by your flat and pick you up. He pointed a bony finger at
The Gunner. "When you've had your wet I want you to go home. Get some rest,
for God knows you won't get much on the flight home."

"I have things that need to be done," protested The Gunner. "The boys
. . ."

The Executive Officer placed his hand on The Gunner's shoulder. He knew how
The Gunner felt about his cadets, about how he felt about one cadet in
particular. "Your boys will be safe and sound, and well looked after," he
said. "They're in good hands."

Commander Hazelton squeezed The Gunner's shoulder gently and an errant ray
of sunshine caused the massive, oval, table-cut ruby set in the large gold
and enamel ring he now wore on his right hand to sparkle with a special
fire.  The sparkle caught The Gunner's eye and he stared up at Number
One. He had no idea that Commander Hazleton was . . . His mouth dropped
open.

Number One nodded slowly and smiled. His look conveyed his message. The
Gunner's boys were in good hands.

To Be Continued In Chapter 2