Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2004 19:11:58 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 22

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons
living or dead is purely coincidental. HMCS Aurora did not and does not
exist. Descriptions of buildings, places, etc., are figments of an
overactive imagination!
	The story is set in 1976, a time of different mores and traditions,
and a different cultural scene. Please do not confuse today with yesterday.
	While there are no sex scenes in this chapter the overall theme of
the book deals with unprotected sex between consenting adults and teenage
boys. Please always practice safe sex. The life you save may be your own.
	My thanks to Peter who has once again proven himself to be the best
editor on Nifty. His insight and pithy comments frighten me at times, but
he is invariably correct.
	My thanks to all who purchased a copy of the first book in the
Phantom series. I apologize for the publisher's web site. They seem to be
up and down on a whim! The book is also available at Amazon and as well as
BarnesandNoble. If the PublishAmerica site is down, or cranky, you might
try the two alternative booksellers.

Comments are welcome. Flames are not. Please write me at my home address:
paradegi@rogers.com


Aurora Tapestry


Chapter 22

	Ray enjoyed being Chief Cook. He no longer had to get up at the
crack of nowhere and wrestle with the stoves. He also didn't have to listen
to Sandro grumbling, or Randy and Joey giggling. By the time he finished
his morning routine they had been all grumbled and giggled out and well
away into the breakfast preparation. All Ray had to do was supervise,
although he did much more work than was expected of him, as became a proper
Chief Petty Officer Cook!
	The barracks was eerily empty with everybody gone. Ray was looking
forward to going home, but not looking forward to going home. This barren
expanse of wood and weather-beaten shingle had been his home for two months
and he would miss it. He would also miss Kevin.
	As he showered, Ray wondered just how he and Kevin would manage
some time together after they went home. Kevin had sworn that he would come
to Ottawa, book a room at the "Y", and make love for days. Ray giggled
happily at the thought of him and Kevin in a room together. Kevin was a
wonderful lover, and Ray adored him.
	As he turned off the taps to the shower Ray frowned. Kevin and he
had not had sex for what seemed like days. Chef, for reasons best know to
Chef, had been staying over and sleeping on the pull out couch in his
office, which sure fucked up a guy's sex life! Chef was up to something,
spending a lot of time on the telephone, drinking hardly at all and being
as secretive and obtuse as the Walrus when he confronted the oysters!
	Leaving the barracks Ray walked over to the Mess Hall and inspected
the dining room. Everything was ready - Phantom had seen to that, of course
- and he saw the coffee was ready, with cream and sugar out, the steam line
was hissing, waiting for the trays of bacon, sausages and red lead to be
placed and that fresh loaves of bread were piled by the long rank of
toasters. Everything was as ready as it should be except . . . the room was
empty!
	Muttering a curse, Ray marched purposefully into the galley. He had
told Sandro that the dining room could not be left unattended - you never
knew who would show up early - and someone had to be there when the
appliances were on. Ray didn't care who, whether it be Randy or Joey, or
even that red-haired skate, Calvin Hobbes, who seemed to spend more time in
Aurora than he did at home! Ray wondered where Calvin slept, if he slept,
as he was never in the Cooks Barracks of a night. Probably in Barracks 2,
which was where the Signalmen, Bunting Tossers and Sparkers normally slept,
Ray thought as he entered the galley. Not that he was complaining. Calvin
was a good kid, and a hard worker and Chef like him, which was a blessing,
because Chef could be a right bugger if he disliked someone, especially
officers and . . .
	Ray stopped dead in his tracks, not quite believing the scene
before him. In front of the door to Chef's office was the entire galley
staff! Randy and Joey were on the deck, bent forward, with their ears
pressed to the minute crack under the door. Towering over them, Sandro had
his ear pressed against the door, while Calvin had his ear pressed against
the flimsy wooden bulkhead!
	Before Ray could react, Sandro, who had heard the Chief Cook's
shuffling footsteps, turned his head and raised his finger to his lips,
demanding quiet. Then he motioned Ray forward.
	"What?" Ray mouthed as he joined Sandro.
	Sandro pointed forcefully at the closed door and mouthed, "Phantom"
in reply.
	His curiosity piqued, Ray bent down and pressed his ear against the
door, and listened. The words were muffled, and sometimes indistinct, but
it was evident that Phantom and Chef were having quiet words.

******

	Chef sat calmly behind his desk, his hands folded, fingers
entwined, as he listened to what The Phantom had to say. Gone was the
buffoon, the Falstaffian character, and gone was the alcoholic
stumblebum. Only the Proctor remained.
	The Phantom had asked, his face serious, his green eyes calm, to
speak privately with the Proctor. Chef, who had been more or less expecting
such a request, had nodded and indicated the sofa. Once he was seated, The
Phantom, calmly, rationally, and with tightly controlled emotions, had
related his dream.
	When The Phantom finished speaking, Chef rubbed the side of his
nose. Phantom was impetuous, true. He was also impulsive and prone to
making snap decisions - mostly the right decisions - but always those
decisions had been based on fact and cold, clear logic. But a dream?
	Clearing his throat noisily, Chef looked directly at his young
charge. "As much as I applaud your motives and intentions, Phantom, I do
not feel that allowing you to go off and wage a war, a war that is of no
concern of yours, a war in which I believe there will be casualties, a war
. . ."
	"You have no say in the matter" interjected The Phantom. "I believe
that Sylvain was coming home, home to his brothers. I cannot and will not
ignore his call."
	Chef's temper threatened to get the better of him, but he
maintained control. "You cannot base your actions on a dream!" he
exploded. "You cannot pass through a dark and deadly valley . . ."
	"Where is your ring?" asked The Phantom unexpectedly.
	"My ring? Why it's here, in the desk drawer," replied Chef,
wondering what The Phantom was up to this time. He was about to open the
drawer to show his ring to Phantom when the boy's voice stopped him.
	"You are the Proctor and on your ring, which is of heavy gold, set
with a table cut ruby, there are two coats of arms," said The Phantom
calmly.
	Surprised, for he knew that The Phantom had only seen his ring
once, Chef nodded.
	"One of the arms is that of the Order." The Phantom was not asking
a question, he was telling Chef a fact.
	Chef nodded. "So it is, yes."
	"Your coat of arms consists of a red, 'X'-shaped cross on a blue
background. The cross has a shamrock on top of it and on each of the three
leaves there is a crown, an Imperial Crown. This is surrounded by a blue
border which in turn has a border of small green shamrocks," said The
Phantom. He gestured toward Chef's desk. "Go ahead, look."
	Chef, who had never really had a good look before, found his ring
and saw that The Phantom's description had been correct. He looked at the
young man, somewhat awed. "And you saw this ring in your dreams?"
	Shaking his head, The Phantom chuckled low as he replied, "No. It
was on your surcoat." He saw the quizzical look on Chef's face and
continued. "You were with us, Chef."
	"I was? And what, then, was I doing?"
	"You were down in the muck with the rest of us," replied The
Phantom with a smile. "The officers, except for Andy and Kyle, were up on a
hill, behind us. The Gunner was there, but you were down in the muck with
the rest of the knights. Joey and Randy, the Litany, Ray, Kevin, and
Sandro, were with you as well. You had a huge battle axe and it gleamed in
the rays of the morning sun!"
	"A battle axe?" asked Chef. Then he grinned. "Serves me well and
good for always waving me cleaver about." He raised one eyebrow as he
questioned, "Ray, Kevin, me two Brats? And the Litany?"
	From outside the closed door came a low gasp. "It would seem that
the mice are stirring," observed The Phantom. "But yes, all of them."
	Thinking a moment, Chef said, "Well, lad, you either have a very
vivid imagination or what you saw was real."  Chef also wondered to himelf
where Phantom's all too vivid 'dream' had had its Genesis. Some aspects
smacked too much of what was happening back east. Phantom was not the type
of lad to go rummaging through desks, and Chef knew with certainty that
Phantom had not been in communication with Michael or The Gunner. He was
about to ask some probing questions when he remembered that he had left his
notes scattered about the office, notes that after a casual glance would
arouse the curiosity of any lad, especially Phantom! Rather than pursue his
own negligence, Chef repeated simply, "A vivid imagination!"
	"You believe me?" asked The Phantom, surprised.
	"I do," returned Chef. Before The Phantom could respond, he held up
his hand. "I cannot think, however, that you have been called to war. While
I admit to you, frankly, that there is indeed a war being waged, you cannot
be a part of it."
	"Chef, I am a part of it!" replied The Phantom with
spirit. "Sylvain came to me, not you, not any of the others! He was coming
here to tell me about something he heard or saw, something that has to do
with what The Gunner is investigating. Sylvain saw or heard something when
he was at his uncle's house in Ste Anne de Beaupré. I intend to find out
what that something was!"
	"And just how do you intend to do that?" asked Chef, his voice low,
and perhaps a little dangerous. "Dead men tell no tales, unless you expect
poor Sylvain to sit up in his coffin and tell you all he knows!"
	The Phantom took umbrage at Chef's flippant remark and bristled. "I
expect no such thing, Chef. I am well aware that Sylvain is dead!" Then, as
his emerald eyes flashed, The Phantom continued icily, "I have my own
money. I will pay my own way to Quebec City and I can rent a car there."
	"It pains me to inform you, Phantom, that you are not 18, and
therefore the rental companies will not give you a vehicle," responded the
old cook, his tone just as icy as the boy's.
	"Then I'll take the bus," returned The Phantom firmly. "I'm
going. I would like to have the Order's help, but if it is refused, so be
it."
	"You are not of the Order, Phantom," said Chef coldly. "And under
the Rule you cannot be until you have attained 18 years and three months in
age."
	The Phantom made to rise. "It would seem, then, Chef, and Proctor,
that we have nothing further to discuss. I would have preferred to be one
of The Gunner's 'Laurences', but no matter."
	Chef quickly waved The Phantom back down. "There is much to
discuss, lad!" he ordered. "Now sit down and let me think!"
	"What is there to think about?" demanded The Phantom. "Your Rule
says that I cannot be a knight. It does not say that the Order cannot help
me."
	Sighing explosively, Chef stared at The Phantom for nearly a
minute. "You do not know what this is about!" he said presently. "There is
every possibility that men will die!"
	"I know," replied The Phantom quietly. "Just as I know that there
are young men and boys at risk. You told me that!"
	"I did," agreed Chef. "What I did not tell you was that The Gunner,
and the Order, are investigating what he believes is a world-wide ring of
paedophiles, with boys being bought and sold as sex slaves. We do not know
how many there are. We do not know the stature of the men involved. We do
know that one of the ringleaders is a man who will not hesitate to do harm
to any who threatens his empire."
	"Which is why The Gunner needs all the help he can get, why he was
recruiting '1,000 Laurences'," replied The Phantom. "Tell me that is not
what he is doing in Toronto!"
	Chef looked embarrassed. The lad was smarter than Chef realized and
the old cook could not, and would not lie to him. "At the moment, Stevie
darlin' has a few . . . helpers. One is a knight; the others are not. They
are at the moment gathering information, assessing it, and making their
plans." He looked sternly at The Phantom. "As you should be doing."
	A wry smile crossed The Phantom's lips. Chef was no fool. "I think
I know what I need to do," he said presently. "I do know how to contact The
Gunner." Seeing the quizzical look on Chef's face, The Phantom continued,
"I have the telephone number he left on the Emergency Leave Form."
	Chef cleared his throat noisily. "The Chancellor is adamant that
neither you, nor any of the other cadets, become involved in this
. . . matter."
	"Really," drawled The Phantom. "Then let me remind you Chef, as
delicately as possible, I am not a knight. I am a free agent prepared to
offer his services to the Order." He smiled slyly. "I also know someone who
knows the Grand Master."
	Just as slyly, Chef looked at The Phantom. He could see the image
of the Twins lurking in the background, but no matter. "Knowing the Grand
Master and convincing him that you can be of assistance are two different
matters."
	The Phantom's thin lips pursed slightly. "It does no harm to speak
to him. He will speak to me," he said confidently. "Or why else would he
have approved your appointing a guardian?"
	Although he tried, Chef could not contain his surprise. "And what
do you know of this . . . 'guardian'?" he asked carefully. "Damn," he
thought angrily. "I told Arnott to keep his mouth shut!"  Chef frowned
slightly. "And there had been that not so secret signal that Phantom had
received from the young lieutenant."
	The Phantom seemed to know exactly what Chef was thinking. He
smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "In my dream, which everybody seems
determined to disbelieve, Colin Arnott was there, near me always, and a
voice which I could not recognize said something about a guardian."
	There was another shocked gasp and quiet shuffling from the other
side of the closed office door. Chef gave the door a baleful look. "The
mice are listening, damn their eyes," he growled.
	A knowing look caused The Phantom's emerald green eyes to sparkle
with humour. "They'll find out all about it at breakfast, if I know my
messmates," he advised with a small chuckle.
	"There are times when I think we have a branch of Reuters around
here!" retorted Chef. "But, no matter." He looked evenly at The
Phantom. "Lieutenant Colin Arnott has not yet been made your guardian - the
correct title is 'Custodis Princeps', by the way - but yes, I have spoken
with him."
	"And?"
	"And he will be the Guardian of Princes," returned Chef. "That is
not negotiable."
	"Did you plan on telling me about it?" demanded The Phantom, his
anger rising.
	"By and by," returned Chef as calmly as he could. He gave The
Phantom a small, evil smile. "Is it that the lad is not pleasing to you?"
he asked.
	"My relationship with Colin is neither here nor there!" snapped The
Phantom huffily. "My complaint is that I was not told."
	"You did not need to be told. At least not yet!" growled Chef in
reply. "I am asking if he pleases you!"
	"For the record, not that it is any of your business, or the Grand
Master's, or the Order's, yes, damn it, he pleases me!" returned The
Phantom, blushing pinkly.
	"Then I chose well," said Chef blandly. "He stays."
	"Are you saying that the Order will accept me?" asked The Phantom,
his eyes widening. Chef's sudden change of tack was puzzling. "Or are you
up to something?"
	"I am up to nothing," replied Chef innocently. "And I did not say
that the Order will accept your 'assistance'."
	"What are you saying, then?" demanded The Phantom. "Will I go to
Ste Anne de Beaupré with just my friends, or will I have the Knights of
Saint John of the Cross of Acre with me?"
	Chef, who knew that Michael Chan was fully prepared to accept The
Phantom and his friends, no matter what the Chancellor said, debated his
answer. "The Rule of the Order declares that a candidate must have eighteen
years and three months of age before he can be knighted," he pointed
out. "You will not be eligible until . . ." He made a quick mental
calculation. "February of next year." He cocked his head. "And many of the
boys are too young in any event. Why Randy and Joey have not yet attained
the minimum age for candidate knighthood!"
	"There are the others. They are as old as me," replied The Phantom
confidently. "As for Randy and Joey, they are old enough to make their own
decisions. I will not attempt to influence them in any way."
	"You already have," thought Chef knowingly. "Well, they will
certainly tell you, I am sure," he said aloud. "You do know that the whole
of them are listening at the keyhole."
	"I know."
	Nodding, Chef stood up and turned his back on The Phantom. For a
long time he stared out of the window of his office seeing, but not seeing,
two of the YAG cadets lounging outside of the guardhouse. Michael Chan was
not desperate, at least not yet. He had resources of manpower that he could
draw on, to be sure. But many of the men were Chinese, and all of the
others contract employees. The former might be counted on for their
loyalty, while the latter . . .? Who knew? They were for the most part
glorified security guards. Could a man who accepted a money wage be relied
upon? To give his life, if necessary? To take a life, if necessary?
Sighing, Chef returned to his seat. "Phantom, do you know what a 'Bar of
Justice' is?"
	Chef was not at all surprised when The Phantom nodded his head
affirmatively. "Last night, after we'd had time to absorb the news of
Sylvain's death, I was feeling low, and . . ." The Phantom began
slowly. His features softened and flushed. "Tyler was there for me, to
comfort me and I, well I told him the truth about me, about what I'd done."
	"Everything?" questioned Chef. The Phantom did not know that The
Gunner had come calling late in the night to talk of strange doings in the
dark of the moon by a certain green-eyed, jug-eared youth. Pursing his lips
and steepling his fingers, Chef nodded for The Phantom to continue.
	"Tyler told me about his talk with The Gunner when they were out at
the ranges. He told me his secret passwords and I told him mine. We
talked."
	"About the Order?"
	"Yes. Val heard us - we were on the stoop at the time - and then we
went into the washplace for a drink." The Phantom smiled impishly. "Cory
came in for a pee and of course had to join in the conversation."
	"Being a natural joiner," returned Chef dryly. "But, no matter."
	"Cory has no use for the Order," said The Phantom flatly. He saw
the startled look on Chef's face and added, "Well, he doesn't. His father
is a member, as I'm sure you know, and Cory is not quite the dingbat he
lets on to be. He's heard things, and seen things. He knew about the Bar of
Justice, so he told us."
	For a few moments Chef pondered just how far he should continue his
examination of Phantom, and what the lad knew. Then he remembered that the
mice were skittering at the door and decided that Phantom would tell them
what he knew anyway! Chef was also concerned about Cory's low opinion of
the Order which, since Cory was destined for great things if Michael Chan
had anything to say about it, was unfortunate. With an almost imperceptible
nod of his head Chef decided that the Proctor would soon visit young Cory
Arundel, and returned to his role as Proctor, and Devil's Advocate. "Then
you are aware of the seriousness of the Bar? Of what could be required of
you?"
	"Yes."
	Chef leaned forward, his eyes kind, his face soft. "Phantom, it has
been determined that the men involved, those actually selling the innocent
lads, will face a Bar of Justice. If found guilty, there is only one
punishment: Death by hanging. Can you tell me, on your honour, that you
could knowingly pass such a sentence, that you could be responsible for the
execution of a man?"
	"Could you?" returned The Phantom. "Have you ever been responsible
for the death of a man?"
	Without hesitation, Chef nodded. "Not directly, but indirectly,
yes, I believe I was."
	"I beg your pardon?"
	"When I was in the old Sioux, when I was a boy seaman, an
apprentice cook, she was part of the squadron the RCN sent to
Korea. Sometimes we sailed in company with Cayuga, sometimes with
Athabaskan, sometimes the flag, HMCS Ontario."
	A nostalgic look came over Chef's face. He remembered the days of
his youth but like all true old veterans, true heroes, he never spoke of
his wartime experiences. To do so seemed, at least in Chef's mind, to trade
on the blood of those who did not return, to reduce one to the status of a
rear echelon drone, whose only claim to fame would be to forever remind
others, through his brag and bluster, "What he had done in the war!"
	"Part of our job was to interdict the coastal supply routes that
the Koreans and the Yellow Peril were using," continued Chef. "We would
receive fire missions and bombard the coastal defences, trucks, trains,
whatever was moving. I was, as I have said, a mere lad, a boy seaman, fit
for little else except to have his bummed patted!" He laughed
caustically. "There's more than a little truth to that song about the cabin
boy!"
	The Phantom started and stared at Chef. "You didn't . . ." he began
carefully.
	"I did not," harrumphed Chef. "The Chaplain (P), Mr. Bradley-Smith,
looked after us and made certain that none of us ended up in a hammock we
should not have been in!" For some reason Chef smiled. "His eldest son is a
Surgeon-Lieutenant down in the dockyard in Esquimalt. He's a fine young
gentleman and perhaps you'll meet him one day."
	The Phantom thought that if this Surgeon-Lieutenant was as fine a
young gentleman as Chef thought him to be, he would meet Surgeon-Lieutenant
Bradley-Smith sooner or later. He said nothing, however, merely nodding his
head.
	"In the event, Phantom, as a cook apprentice and too young to be of
much use otherwise, I was detailed off as an ammunition handler during
Action Stations. I would pass the shells up to the guns. The guns would
fire, and so yes, I suppose that indirectly I have killed a man."
	"Or men," observed The Phantom. "But that is not what you
meant. You want to know if I believe that some men deserve to be put to
death, and would I pass sentence on them, knowing that they would die."
	"And your answer?"
	"Yes. Without fear or favour, I would," replied The Phantom
firmly. "I take responsibility for my actions. You take responsibility for
your actions. Why should I expect another man to not do the same?"
	"There are many who would not," replied Chef sadly.
	"I know it," said The Phantom.
	"Then I will make enquiries," said Chef slowly.
	"The Order will help, then?" asked The Phantom, his face
brightening.
	"I did not say that," returned Chef. "Do not be making a mountain
just because you've found a molehill! I said that I would make enquiries
with the proper authorities. I make no promises."
	Shrugging, The Phantom nodded. He understood Chef's reluctance, and
while he did want the Order to be involved, he was still determined to
begin his quest and crusade. He then remembered his promise to
Tyler. "There is one other thing," he said quietly.
	"Do not be making demands, Phantom," warned Chef.
	"I am not making demands. I am merely asking that you, or the Grand
Master, make a consideration."
	"Which is?" growled Chef. "Damn the lad! Why does he have to be so
bloody sure of himself! He knows that the Order will bow to his demands,
and he is demanding!"
	 "Sandro," replied The Phantom simply.
	Chef's eyes widened. "Sandro? What about him?"
	Outside the door the mice stirred to look at a thoroughly confused
Sandro.
	"If the Order wants me, as I think it does, it must also want
Sandro. He is my brother, he is on The Gunner's list, and he will be a
knight with me."
	"Phantom, let me remind you, as delicately as possible," began
Chef, turning The Phantom's own words on him, "that the Order is a
Christian Order of Knights. Sandro is Jewish."
	"And you pay lip service to Christianity, as I do," retorted The
Phantom, who would have no discrimination of any kind in the Order he
envisioned. "The Order has made provision for knights who are not gay. They
can make provision for Sandro." He stared levelly at Chef, his green eyes
clear and hard. "No Sandro, no Phantom!" he declared.
	The Phantom's declaration set up a muted chorus of whispered
squeaking beyond the office door. Chef glared at the door and muttered a
very filthy word. Then he recovered. "I suppose that a Special Remainder
could be issued - I am only thinking, mind you - and that he could be,
well, let us say, an Amicus Curia, a Friend of the Court."
	"Not good enough," replied The Phantom, rising to his feet. "Sandro
is my brother. He will be a knight."
	The firmness in The Phantom's voice gave Chef pause. Finally he
nodded. "I will make enquiries," he answered grudgingly. "But . . ."
	"But what?"
	"If the Grand Master approves, things will be done properly. You
will not coerce me, or the Grand Master, into rushing into things." Chef
nodded toward the door. "The mice will have questions. What you tell them
is your concern. Remember also, Phantom, that you must be sure in your own
mind, firm in your own conviction, about what you are asking, about what
you are thinking of doing."
	"I am very sure, Chef," The Phantom replied reassuringly.
	"Then go and find a quiet place. Think about what you plan to do,
and how you will do it. Sit on the loading dock and smoke your
cigarettes. Think, Phantom, and when you are ready, come to me."
	"And the others?" The Phantom asked slowly.
	"If they are sure in their own minds, if neither you, nor anyone
else, has coerced them, then I will ask the Grand Master. They must make up
their own minds. They must be willing to take responsibility for their
actions and they must be willing to follow Phantom Lascelles out of their
own volition."
	"Very well," replied The Phantom. "And Chef?"
	"Aye, lad?"
	"Thanks."
	"I've done nothing, nothing at all."
	"But you will, Chef, you will," said The Phantom confidently.
	"Damned pestiferous boy!" thought Chef as The Phantom pulled open
the office door and set the mice to scattering. Chef reached for the
telephone.

******

	As "Wakey-Wakey" echoed through the Gunroom, calling the cadets to
their morning showers, no one moved. When the last note of the bugle call
died away, Tyler stood up slowly. Cory's heartfelt outburst, and Fred's
declaration that Phantom would not be alone, had stirred the Master-At-Arms
deeply. He needed time to think, and he needed time to speak with The
Phantom.
	Tyler stared at his messmates and then decided. "We have much to
think about," he said quietly. "Cory has told us of miracles, Phantom has
told us of dreams. Some of us believe in miracles, and in dreams. Others
. . ." he looked at Two Strokes, " . . .have reservations, but no
matter. Our friend and messmate, our brother, is going to ask us to join
him in what he thinks is a worthwhile purpose. Fred has already decided."
	There was a muted chorus of agreement from the assembled cadets.
	"Now is not the time for us, I think," said Tyler. "Each of us must
make up his own mind. Do we believe Phantom's dream? Do we join him in his
crusade?"
	Tyler's blue-eyed gaze once again swept the table.
	"I want each of you to search his heart, to consider what Phantom
has told us, what Cory has said. I want each of you to think very carefully
on what you have been told." He turned to Cory. "There are others who need
to be told."
	Cory nodded. "Sean, and Phil Thornton in the YAG Squadron. And
Matt."
	"Rob, Steve and Stuart," said Todd. "And Brian."
	"And the cooks," murmured Val. "And that little brat Calvin
Hobbes. He's always with Randy and Joey," he added with a smile.
	"I'll take care of Calvin," advised Nicholas. "He's on my slop chit
anyway. And I'd also like to be the one to speak with Matt."
	Cory's right eyebrow rose imperceptibly and a small smile formed at
the corner of his lips. He said nothing, however. Matt was a gunner, not on
Nicholas' slop chit. Cory now knew that his suspicions about Matt and
Nicholas had been confirmed. He was happy for Matt. He was happy for
Nicholas. For some reason he did not think of André at all.
	"And . . . I'll speak with Stuart and Steve," said Chris. "They're
Boatswains so I suppose they're on my slop chit."
	"We'll go together," offered Val. "Stuart and I are old friends,
after all."
	Welcoming Val's help, Chris nodded. "Who will speak to Rob?"
	"I will," replied Tyler.  "I'll speak to Sean and Phil," offered
Cory.
	"That leaves Brian for me," said Todd. "As for the cooks, my guess
is that Phantom will talk to Ray, who will talk to Sandro, and the Brats
and Kevin will be eavesdropping!"
	"Scratch the cooks, then," responded Tyler at Todd's little joke.
	Two Strokes stirred uneasily. "What about Greg?" he asked quietly.
	Tyler's eyes filled with a sadness he truly felt. "Greg has given
us his answer," he said slowly. He straightened. "This afternoon we have a
make and mend. At 1400 I would ask that you all return - those of you who
wish to return. If you return I will know that you wish to hear the rest of
Cory's history of the Order. If you find another place to be, then I will
honour your decision. Thank you, and I think we should now get ready for
Divisions."
	"White uniforms, please," said Val as he rose to his feet. "The
Commanding Officer is going to offer a prayer at Divisions. It is the best
we can do for Sylvain."

******

 	Michael Chan listened carefully as Chef related what had transpired
in his office. From time to time Michael frowned but said little. Finally,
when Chef was finished, Michael spoke. "You are the Proctor, my Lord. What
is your decision?"
	Chef expelled a long, low sigh, and then answered, "Cromwell."

******

	Surgeon-Lieutenant Daniel Bradley-Smith wearily opened the door to
his room in the Wardroom Annex of CFB Esquimalt and breathed a sigh of
relief. His roommate, a slightly overweight boat driver, was not in his
bed. As he closed the door Daniel smiled slightly. After the weekend he'd
had he did not need the Shadmiral whining and moaning.
	As he stripped off his hospital greens, Daniel hoped that the
telephone would not ring. He needed sleep, badly. As the newest, and most
junior intern on staff at Base Hospital, he'd just finished a 38-hour shift
in the Emergency Room. He had dealt with the remnants of a three-car
smash-up on the highway leading from the JOUT training base at Albert
Head. One dead, three Reservists in hospital for the next three weeks or
so. He had patched up the battered wife of a senior Chief, the aftermath of
a "domestic dispute" that would never be investigated or acted upon. He had
sutured slashed cheeks and a cracked skull, the aftermath of a punch up in
the Fleet Club. All roads might lead to Rome but in Victoria if a service
member was involved, the ambulance stopped at the CFB Esquimalt
Hospital. The list of injuries and mayhem went on and on.
	Stepping out of his boxer underpants, Daniel saw his reflection in
the mirror that hung on the door of his oversize locker. The figure staring
back at him was not the same young man who had arrived in Esquimalt, a
freshly minted Surgeon-Lieutenant with his MD from the University of
Toronto Medical School clutched in his hand, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and
ready to take on the world. The Navy had paid for his MD and he owed them
five years of his life.
	He had not counted on the long hours, the constant stress and
strain, on the infighting and intrigue that seemed to permeate every aspect
of his waking hours, of constantly watching his back, of trying not to
listen to the gossip, of forever bowing and scraping to lesser men simply
because they had more gold bars on their shoulder boards than he. He had in
the course of his one year in Esquimalt seen incompetence, malfeasance and
sheer laziness on the part of his peers and superiors. He had listened to
the constant complaining about how hard done by everybody was, how there
was little money for new equipment, of this or that piece of diagnostic
equipment being put "Out of Service" because it was too old and there was
no money to replace it or fix it.
	Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, MD, BSc, was not a happy camper.
	He looked at his reflection and shook his head. The young man that
had once looked back at him was gone. Daniel was 28, with dark brown hair
and clear, bespectacled eyes. He had a trim, 30-inch waist and a firm,
40-inch chest. He was not all that tall, and while he would never turn
heads, he wasn't that bad looking. He long prided himself on looking at
least five years younger than he actually was, with a fresh complexion and
a sparkle in his eyes. There was no sparkle in the eyes staring back at
him, and the face was pasty white from too many nights spent in a busy
emergency room.
	Grunting, Daniel looked down at his parts. Even his dick looked
tired! Daniel had always thought that he had a great looking set of upper
deck fittings. God knew he'd seen enough in the past year to know what he
was talking about. Now, however, his penis, a pale, delicate pink with a
firm-domed, circumcised head, looked pale white. His testicles, which were
firm and oval, and once hanging just so, now seemed to droop.
	Leaving the mirror, and the imagined horror he saw there, Daniel
went to his bed and lay down. He had dreamed of becoming a doctor. He would
be a healer, in a way assume God-like ways, and make a mark for himself. He
had studied and studied, taken extra courses, worked his not so skinny ass
off and he'd made it! Made it to what? If he was honest with himelf, he'd
made it to being a commissioned drone, which was selfish and misleading, he
admitted.
	As a lowly intern, Daniel had rotated through the various wards and
disciplines and in the doing had managed to learn quite a lot. He had
worked in OB/GYN, paediatrics (where his skill as a circumciser was much
admired. He left hardly a hint of a scar), surgery, Recruit Medicals, and
now, Emergency. Of all the disciplines, recruit Medicals had been the
worst.
	As he lay in his bed, Daniel stared at the whitewashed overhead
ceiling. The stress and strain of internship had been multiplied many times
by the sight of a dozen or more naked young men lolling about the office
waiting for their scrotums to be squeezed, for their penises to be
examined, and their rectums to be probed. It had been all Daniel could do
to remain calm and not give rein to his natural inclinations.
	Daniel had had his first true experience at the age of 21. He had
known that he was gay from the age of twelve or so, certainly by the time
he had entered puberty. There had been the usual schoolboy experimentation,
always ending when curiosity had been satisfied. Daniel, too aware of what
society, and his schoolmates, thought of "fags", kept his secret well. All
through high school he had managed to avoid temptation. All through his
freshman, sophomore and junior years in Queen's, where he read for his
pre-med degree in Sciences, he had avoided any entanglement, convincing
himself that the life of an undergrad, with its rallies, rushes, parties
and kegs and kegs of beer, was all he needed. He could participate, enjoy
his life, and not worry about becoming involved. And then came Josh.
	Josh was a god. Tall, blond, with thick thighs and a firm, round
ass, hung like a horse, Josh. Daniel had roomed with him and for months had
drooled and dreamed in silence. As much as he could Daniel had avoided
anything sexual. He had actively encouraged Josh in his quest for pussy, as
Josh had put it, congratulated him when he scored, and commiserated when
had not. And then came Christmas.
	Under normal circumstances Daniel would have gone home a week
before the holiday, to spent time with his parents, and his two younger
brothers. Josh would have gone off to Mariposa, to spend time with his
people; normal, Christmas routine. Then both decided to attend a frat
party. Daniel was never quite sure what happened, other than that they both
had gotten smashed out of their minds. What he did know was that as they
staggered drunkenly back to their room in the residence, Josh had slipped
his arm around Daniel's waist and nuzzled him gently on the neck.
	Daniel was in heaven. Once inside their room, Josh had made love to
Daniel, slow, albeit drunken love. For the first time in his life Daniel
had responded, as his romantic soul needed him to respond. Their first
session of lovemaking had been wild, exciting, and extremely satisfying.
	Much to Daniel's surprise, Josh had not skulked away the next
morning. Far from being consumed with guilt, Josh had admitted that he had
been trying for months to think of a way to get into Daniel's bed. Daniel
had responded that all he'd had to do was ask, and could they make love
again. Josh's return smile was heart melting.
	Daniel fell in love. He worshiped Josh and convinced himself that
when the school year ended they would find a place together. It did not
matter that Daniel had been accepted at the U of T School of Medicine. He
had Josh. It did not matter that Daniel was committed to five years with
the Canadian Armed Forces, who had been footing the bills. He had
Josh. Nothing mattered. He had Josh.
	As a Naval officer, Daniel Bradley-Smith had been rated on each and
every Fitness Report as being a superior, or outstanding officer. He had
proven himself in crisis situations, was a calm, cool, doctor, who
invariably managed by tact and politeness, to get his point across. All in
all, Daniel Dane Bradley-Smith, MD, was as fine a sawbones as the Navy had
seen in years.
	However . . .
	As a lover, and in love, Daniel Bradley-Smith was a hopeless
romantic. He loved snuggling and cuddling, both before and after sex. He
adored the little touches one lover made to another, scented candles in
every room, a bottle of fine wine in the cooler, rose petals on the bed. He
knew that his romanticism betrayed his feminine side, but he didn't
care. He was hopelessly, shamelessly, and wonderfully in love.
	Two nights before the official end of courses, and school, Daniel
had wandered about the shops of Kingston, Ontario. He bought candles, he
found a wonderful claret, and visited the florist. He visited the butcher
for that perfect prime rib roast, the greengrocer for russet potatoes and
spent a happy half-hour examining each tuber, choosing only those of
uniform size and colour; he bought green beans and exquisite baby
carrots. Then, daringly, he stepped into the chemist's and found a small
box of scented bath oil.
	Returning to their small efficiency flat in the seniors' residence,
Daniel had prepared for his man's homecoming. Josh was always back in the
flat at six on the dot, except when there was football practice. Tonight,
after writing his final examination, Josh would be tired, and would welcome
the fine meal, the wine, and the extra little touches that Daniel had
spread throughout the place.
	As the meal cooked, Daniel bathed, cleansing himself in preparation
for his lover's return. After his bath he donned fresh, clean underpants,
and a robe that Josh had given him for Christmas. He decanted the claret,
poured a small glass - after their first drunken encounter they both agreed
that being at least halfway sober helped their lovemaking. He settled
himself on the sofa, and waited as the clock ticked slowly toward what he
hoped would be the beginning of a wonderful night of bliss.
	Daniel waited, and waited. The roast prime rib shrivelled in its
juices. The russet potatoes turned into mush and the vegetables wilted into
tasteless pellets.
	Daniel cried for two days. He would not leave the flat, would not
answer the door. Finally an old Prof, hurriedly summoned by one of Daniel's
co-ed friends, managed to gain entry. He held the weeping young man,
listened as he poured out his heart, and by just being there, helped Daniel
through the first crisis of his life. Josh was gone, indeed had left the
morning of Daniel's shopping expedition. He had packed his bags, written
his exam, and driven away. Daniel had not seen or heard from his first
lover since that day.
	Shocked into reality, Daniel had gone on to Toronto. He immersed
himself in his studies, worked in two hospitals, partied with his
classmates and never allowed himself to become involved. He never revealed
his homosexuality to any of his fellow medical students. He had no affairs,
although several hints were dropped. He did join a fraternity of sorts, but
thought little of it these days. He got on with his life. He would not
allow himself to be hurt again.
	Daniel debated - briefly - on whether or not to seek release in the
only way open to him. He had no close friends to confide in, and he dared
not declare himself to any of his fellow officers. Being gay was bad
enough. Being a gay officer was tantamount to painting a target on his
forehead for the SIU bozos to fire pistols at. A gay non-commissioned
sailor faced a few days in cells if discovered, and a 5e discharge - Not
Advantageously Employable.
	The Navy loathed publicity and rather than make a production out of
it, quietly discharged its unwanted sailors. Not so its officers. Officers
were expected to be gentlemen, and straight. Being queer was letting down
the side and that was something a proper gentleman never did. Officers were
special targets and SIU never missed an opportunity to bring one down. An
officer found in what was euphemistically called a "sensitive situation"
could depend on being pilloried, his family informed of his shame, a
stretch in Edmonton, and a small notation made on his personnel file that
told the world exactly why he or she had been turfed.
	Daniel rolled on his side. Sleep was more important and he would
worry about his future later. Right now he wanted to think about the lads
on his JOUT course, when he showered with them. Think about how they were
so . . .
	The jangling of the telephone broke Daniel's reverie. Cursing, he
stumbled toward the ringing instrument, hoping as hs hand lifted the black
plastic receiver from its base, that he was not being recalled to the
hospital.

******

	In the Public Affairs Office of the CFB Esquimalt Headquarters
Building, Lieutenant (N) David Clayton signed off on the last of the
overnight signals, scratched absently at his crotch, and looked at his
watch. Two more hours and he'd be off watch. Two more hours and he could
turn over the desk to the day man, nip back to his barracks room, shower
and then off he would go for a full week's leave.
	Wondering where he would go, up island to the beaches, or perhaps
across to Vancouver, David turned in his chair and looked out at what was
promising to be a wonderful, glorious day. What if, he was thinking, he
strolled by the WRCNS Barracks and . . .?
	The burbling soft tone sound of an outside call coming into his
office broke David Clayton's train of thought.
	"What now?" he growled to himself. "Please, no rapes, murders or
mayhem!"
	He picked up the telephone receiver and growled, "Public Affairs,
Lieutenant Clayton speaking, sir!"

******

	In Comox and Courtenay, Commander Stockdale, Lieutenant Commander
Hazelton and Surgeon-Lieutenant Commander Reynolds went about their early
morning routines.
	Father showered, trimmed his beard, and smiled. He had been up half
the night listening to the squalling of his grandson, thinking what a
wonderful thing it was to have a boy baby in the house!
	Not at all disturbed at the bawling of a lad who demanded his
morning feeding, Father was wandering down the corridor toward the kitchen
when the loud clanging - Father's growing deafness made turning the ring
volume of the telephone up as high as it would go - disturbed his morning
good humour.
	"Damn and blast," Father snarled under his breath. "And what have
the little brats been up to this time?"

******

	In his trim little house, Commander Hazelton, dressed in his
pyjamas and robe, opened the door and brought in the early morning
paper. In the kitchen the kettle was bubbling and the tea things were
ready. Once the tea was made he would carry the tray into the bedroom and
he and his Missus would, as they had every morning for 32 years, read the
paper and dissect the news of the day. He had just settled on to his side
of the bed when from the front hall came the disrupting ringing of the
telephone.

******

	The cottage echoed with silence as Doc Reynolds, showered shaved,
scented and groomed, struggled with the small gold stud that would hold his
stiffly starched collar to his shirt. Doc considered himself to be one of
the last of the Old Guard, someone who still dressed properly. He would no
more consider wearing a shirt with a fitted collar than he would wander
into the front garden of the small cottage he and his wife occupied every
year in his underpants.
	Doc could remember the days when an officer was an officer, and
went ashore properly dressed. Not like today, when the Queen issued the
only hat most of them owned to them!
	His collar fitted, tie tied, and shoes shined and ready to be
donned, Doc brought out his jacket for its ritual brushing. He paid careful
attention to the two rows of four gilt buttons, and the two-and-a-half gold
stripes on each sleeve of the jacket. He admired the crimson cloth between
the stripes and then hung the jacket carefully on the butler's stand that
stood in the corner of his bedroom. Later, after his morning coffee, he
would put up his gongs, run a cloth over his sword belt, and make ready for
the coming ceremony.
	Doc was no stranger to death, of course. He saw it every day back
home in the busy emergency room of the hospital. Still, it grated that one
so young as Sylvain should be called home, much before time, in Doc's
opinion.
	He also felt that they could have done a little more, but with no
Chaplain about and Sylvain not being at all popular, a few prayers at
Divisions was considered sufficient.
	Still, they should have done more, Doc was thinking as the
telephone began jangling in the lounge.

******

	Commander Stockdale looked out over the heads of the assembled
cadets and nodded inwardly. The boys, usually boisterous and full of the
imp, even on a Monday morning, were subdued, and had recited The Naval
Prayer with a special fervour, as if each knew instinctively that this
prayer, reserved for Sailors of the Queen, had taken on a special
significance. A Sailor of the Queen had crossed the bar. He would never
grow old, as the assembled cadets would grow old. Age would not weary him,
nor the years condemn. Still, Father wondered, at the end of the day, at
the going down of the sun, how many would remember Sylvain?
	Behind the Commanding Officer the assembled officers waited with
heads bowed for the final prayer. Doc, Number One, Andy and Kyle were
dressed in full summer dress uniforms, with medals up and swords at their
sides. Across the way Chef, magnificent in his white uniform, stood beside
The Phantom who had, as had the Twins, Tyler, Val, all the young gentlemen,
donned his best white uniform, their buttons and crowns gleaming in the
early morning sunlight.
	Across the parade square the YAG crews were ranged in five
divisions, all dressed in their white uniforms, led by their officers. As
his tired eyes scanned the wonderful panoply before them, a word came into
Father's mind . . . Cromwell.
	He wondered how many would be . . . Never mind, there was work to
be done. Still the word echoed in his brain . . . Cromwell.
	Opening the "Divine Service Book For The Armed Forces", the
Commanding Officer turned to Page 35 of the hard, deep blue covered book;
he began to read the prayer for Commemoration of the Dead.
	"O Lord, the God of Mercy, unto whom all live, and who dost
vouchsafe unto the souls of the faithful departed . . ."
	As he read, still the tocsin rang through his head
. . . Cromwell. As he prayed aloud for God to give Sylvain a place of
refreshment, and a blessed rest, still the clarion call echoed
. . . Cromwell. As Father asked that Sylvain be released from sin and
sorrow, still the word pounded a call to battle . . . Cromwell. As he
beseeched that one day they would all be united with Sylvain the word
sounded again and again . . . Cromwell.
	With the ending of the prayer, Father once again looked out over
the assembled cadets. Cromwell. How many of them, he asked himself, would
join the Crusade, place themselves squarely with the Host, and put them in
harm's way? Cromwell.  How many would take up the call, how many would turn
their faces away? Cromwell.
	A fleeting smile crossed Commander Stockdale's lips. How like
Michael to sound the same watchword that Churchill had chosen as the signal
to the population of England that the German invasion fleet had landed, the
ringing of the church bells sounding the tocsin, calling the people of
Britain, every man, every woman, and every child, calling them to fight on
the beaches, to fight on the landing grounds, to fight in the fields and in
the streets, to fight in the hills. To never surrender.  Cromwell.
	Father turned his head and briefly surveyed the small assembly of
officers. He looked out over the heads of the young boys that made up his
ship's company, boys who were barely old enough to understand what they
were being asked to do, and barely trained to do. How could he, they, how
could they all . . . And then with a clarity that surprised him, the old
Commander realized what Churchill had realized, what Michael had
realized. From deep within the recesses of his brain a small, misquoted
line from the Bible whispered, "And God spoke unto Joshua: It is not the
strength of your army, but the strength of your Faith." Cromwell.
	Commander Stockdale's eyes fell again to the pages of the open
prayer book and he began to pray, perhaps for his boys, more likely for
himself.
	"O Saviour, who didst set thy face steadfastly to go to Jerusalem
to thy Cross and passion; help us, thy weak and wavering disciples, to be
firm and resolute in doing those things that lie before us. Help us to
overcome difficulties and to persevere in spite of failures. When we are
weary and disheartened and ready to give in, do thou fill us with fresh
courage and strength, and keep us faithful to our work; for thy name's sake
. . . Amen"