Date: Thu, 29 Jan 2004 19:38:53 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 4

AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and
times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an
environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is
a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or
places, is purely coincidental.

My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and
attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some
of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly
politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have
a different opinion or outlook. Others are so Liberal in their thinking
that they make Hillary Clinton look like Attila the Hen! And then there are
those that are into "causes". Please, do not write me hooting and hollering
about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into
causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be
warned.

IN 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms
were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought
to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976
influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.

As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in
sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces,
cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if
you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of
erotica, please move on.

My thanks to those of my readers who wrote offering suggestions and words
of encouragement. I enjoy hearing from all of my readers and I do answer
all e-mails.


Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 4

Friday began for the Phantom with the usual hurry-up and wait associated
with his mother's travelling anywhere. When he opened his eyes he saw that
it was still very dark outside and from downstairs he could hear the soft
muttering of voices. As he climbed out of bed and pattered in his boxers
down to the bathroom he wondered if his parents had stayed up all night
arguing.

As he peed The Phantom watched his morning woody deflate. "Strange," he
thought, "that I haven't even thought of jerking off." But then, he'd had
no reason to beat off, no reason at all. He had an active and satisfying
sex life now, not like last year, nor even part of this summer, when he'd
snuck into the barracks and pleasured the cadets. Then he beat off at least
four times a day, every day, and always after being with one of the
cadets. Which added at least two more jerks to his daily tally. Chuckling,
The Phantom got into the shower thinking, "I was as bad as Thumper!"

As he soaped himself The Phantom let his mind drift back to that night when
he had visited Regulating Petty Officer Tom Vernon, known to one and all as
Thumper, whom many acclaimed as the all-time masturbation champion of HMCS
AURORA. Thumper would beat off at the first hint of a hardon and didn't
care who knew it. It was, he explained, his only sex life and besides, who
were the other cadets to talk? They all did it, just not as frequently.

Thinking of Thumper, The Phantom's hand moved down to his soft,
soap-covered penis. With his fingers he stimulated the domelike, pink glans
of his dick and felt the flesh under his palm begin to harden. In a way
Thumper was the author of all that had come to pass.

The Phantom had been on one of his nightly forays. He had visited Ray in
the Cooks Barracks first. He always did that. Ray was, well, Ray: a very
special young man who would always hold a special place in The Phantom's
heart. In a way, he was in love with Ray, and always would be. Ray had been
his "first", in many ways. Ray's penis had been the first that The Phantom
had ever sucked. A guy always remembered his first blowjob. It didn't
matter if he was giving or getting, he always remembered.

After visiting Ray, The Phantom had carried on to the Staff Barracks. He
had discovered that the senior cadets were just as horny, and just as
susceptible to his services, as the cadets in the other barracks. He had
visited Tyler, the Master at Arms, and Val, the Cadet Chief Gunnery
Instructor, both fine, handsome, well-endowed specimens. After finishing
with Val, The Phantom had walked into the Gunroom and surveyed the two rows
of bunks. He debated visiting the Twins, but thought better of it. To The
Phantom, the Twins had been the Grail, the sum and total of everything
beautiful in a male. A quick grope and a fast slurp just didn't seem right
when it came to the Twins. He had looked at Harry, far down the Gunroom,
but Harry was straight - or so The Phantom had thought at the time - and
while Harry boasted and bragged about what would later become known as the
Pride of the Fleet, The Phantom had thought that Harry would not appreciate
waking up and finding a masked stranger hanging from the end of it.

The Phantom's reverie of remembrance was interrupted by a loud grunt - his
own - as he'd managed to work himself into his usual morning state. He
quickly pointed the head of his erection toward the drain and pumped two or
three large streams of his thick semen into the swirling water. When he was
finished ejaculating he sighed happily and cleaned up the mess.

He left the bathroom, holding his soiled boxers over his crotch, and
scampered down the hall to his room. There he found a clean pair of
underpants, put them on and then rummaged in the night table for his
cigarettes. He sat as close to the open window as he could and smoked,
thinking of that night again.

He remembered looking at Roger "Two Strokes" Home, who was a tall, thin,
vulpine-faced young man who was not on The Phantom's visiting list. Two
Strokes had a hair trigger, hence his nickname, although this was not the
reason The Phantom would not pay the Regulating Petty Officer a visit. Two
Strokes was a homophobe and therefore did not deserve anything.

The Phantom had turned his attention to the shape in the bunk next to Two
Stokes'. Hidden under the counterpane was Tom "Thumper" Vernon. As The
Phantom watched, Thumper rolled in his sleep, onto his back, and a smile
formed on The Phantom's lips. Thumper could use a little help, and might
enjoy feeling another hand, or even a pair of lips, on his always-hard
dick.

The Phantom had never really known how the cadets he visited would
respond. Most let the thing play out while others had snuffled and rolled
away. The Phantom never pressed the issue and had always gone on to another
boy when that happened. Thumper had not rolled away and had, in fact
responded enthusiastically, more enthusiastically than The Phantom had
expected. Thumper, lost in the throes of his very first blowjob, had
suddenly sat up when his dick started geysering like a fire hose, blowing
his spooge all over the place. The Phantom had been so surprised that he
had run like a hare from the Gunroom - to what he thought was his secret
hideout, a battered old shack deep on the woods overlooking the causeway
that led to HMCS AURORA. What the Phantom had not known was that the Twins
had heard and seen everything. Not only that, they had followed The Phantom
and the rest, as they say, was history.

The Twins had made love to The Phantom, and he had made love to them. He
had taken both Cory and Todd across the river, had felt Todd's firm, strong
manhood deep within him, and felt his own manhood throb and spasm deep
within Cory. They had been off and on lovers ever since. They had also
deliberately interfered in his love life and made it a point to tell The
Gunner exactly what they thought of him for his treatment of The Phantom
who was, they knew, deeply, passionately, in love with man. The Gunner had
then driven through a torrential rainstorm to Comox and The Phantom had
found his true love.

Frowning, The Phantom thought of The Gunner. Today, this morning, he was
supposed to induct his young lover into the Order. That would not happen
now. The Gunner had flown to Toronto to attend his aunt's funeral. While
disappointed, The Phantom decided that being inducted, while important,
could wait. He just wished The Gunner would not be away too long. He missed
the man, missed waking up beside him in the morning, and missed his scent
on the pillows and sheets. As he dressed, The Phantom snickered, wondering
if The Gunner felt the same way, and would he be in just as big a hurry to
return? Then The Phantom thought, no. Funerals took time and The Gunner had
responsibilities. He also wondered if there might be a further delay if The
Gunner found a Stud Muffin.

******

When his offer of a ride to the airport was refused, The Phantom kissed his
mother and asked, "Please, tell Brendan that I do love him. He's my brother
and I hope everything works out well for him."

His mother smiled sadly. "So do I, Phantom." She gently caressed her
younger son's cheek and said, "You're becoming a man. One day Brendan will
realize how much of man." She put on her hat and picked up her gloves,
saying, "Try to understand how your brother feels. In many ways I think he
was thinking of you when he asked that you not attend."

"He's chosen a funny way to show it," returned The Phantom softly. "But I
mean it, Mom. I care for Brendan, and I want him to be happy."

Mrs. Lascelles nodded uncertainly. "Well, dear son, only time will tell,"
she said with practiced patience. A horn tooting distracted her and she
turned away. "The cab is here."

The Phantom helped load his mother's bags into the taxi, watched as it
pulled away from the house, and went to work.

******

When he arrived in the Mess Hall, The Phantom immediately noticed that
something was not quite right. It took him a few moments to realize that it
was the complete silence, the lack of noise and confusion that up until
today had marked every morning for him. He looked around the cavernous
hall. The long Formica tables, the sturdy, cadet-proof chairs, were all in
place. Behind him the steam table hissed and bubbled, waiting for the trays
of food to be brought out. Everything was the same except everything was
different. The tables were empty and the cadets, except for the Staff
Cadets, had all gone home.

The Phantom smiled warmly at the remembrance of the past two months. He
remembered as if it were yesterday all the details. Over there the Band,
horn blowers, flute tooters and drummers, always sat together, with Harry,
their Drum Major who, mentor, judge, jury and sometimes executioner, kept
them in line with threats and love. Close by was the table were the Sea
Puppies, brand new, bare-assed cadets who had never been away from home
before, sat in a gaggle, laughing and giggling, squirming and teasing
Harry, their Sea Daddy. Harry loved his Sea Puppies and guarded them
zealously and woe betide a cadet that dared come near a Sea Puppy when
Harry was around. At another table had sat the Bugle Band, led by Sylvain,
with little Andre as "Sticks", the lead drummer. Both boys were from Quebec
and chattered away in what passed as French in the Belle Province, the
buglers ignoring them, or at least Sylvain, whom they disliked.

On the far side of the room were the tables reserved for the high-priced
help, there the table where the Regulating Petty Officers - Thumper, Two
Strokes, Fred, and Jon - sat, trying to look aloof and professional as only
Regulators, and cops, could look. The Phantom wondered if they ever thought
of Alfie, a short, stocky black youth who had been sent home early in the
training year after an attack of appendicitis. The Phantom had always
thought that Alfie was good folks, and decided to get Greg, the Ship's
Writer, to give him Alfie's home address.

In the corner were two smaller tables, one reserved for the officers, the
other for the Chief Petty Officers. The Phantom walked over and saw that
both tables had been set properly for breakfast, which meant that Matt and
Kevin were around somewhere. Both cadets had extended their tour of duty,
Matt because he did not want to leave AURORA, ever, and Kevin, who was in
love with Ray, and didn't want to leave him, ever. The Phantom made a small
adjustment to one of the place settings. For breakfast neither Matt nor
Kevin would be overworked. Except for Kyle and Andy, all of the officers -
those who were left - lived in town. The Phantom knew that the YAG crews,
officers included, would be eating lunch and dinner in the mess hall but
felt sure that he, and his two remaining stewards, could handle it,
inwardly thankful that of all the stewards Matt and Kevin were the most
experienced.

As the stewards only served the officers and Chiefs, The Phantom was not
over worried. Tyler and Val, the senior cadets, always ate at the Chiefs
table. They did this purposely, wishing to give at least the impression of
impartiality. Not so the other Chiefs, who had more important places to be,
which was with their "people". Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, always sat
with his Signalmen (and Andre, who after the trip down to Victoria,
deserted the buglers for Nicholas, his lover). The Twins, Chief Gunners and
perennially in trouble for one misdeed or another, rarely sat with their
gunners. They were social, enjoyed people, and visited from table to
table. Unless, of course, they were under punishment when they had to sit
in the Defaulters' Dock, which wasn't a dock at all, just another bare
table set aside for a special purpose.

Thinking of another table set aside for a special purpose, The Phantom
frowned. There, just inside the door, was the table where Petty Officer
Paul Greene, known to all as "Little Big Man", and despised by all as a
homophobic, foul-mouth, arrogant little turd, always sat at mealtimes. The
Phantom did not consider himself to be an unkind person. He liked to think
that he cared for every one of the cadets who had passed through AURORA
this summer. There had been good ones, there had been bad ones, and then
there had been Little Big Man and a shiver of loathing passed through The
Phantom's body. Paul Greene was a liar, a sneak, a carrier of tales, a
traitor to his mates and deserved no one's sympathy. By mutual consent the
young drummer had been cast into the outer darkness with the uncircumcised
where he could remain until he was eventually called to a deeper darkness.

Dismissing all thoughts of Little Big Man from his mind, The Phantom turned
and was about to go into the galley when he heard a loud crash of something
being dropped, and a louder bellow of outrage from Chef. He decided to make
himself scarce for a while. Chef tended to use the scattergun effect and
The Phantom had no desire to be in the line of fire.

Leaving the Mess Hall, The Phantom walked down the path, thinking about
sitting down and having a quiet smoke, when he saw Stuart, the Chief
Boatswains Mate, and Steve, the Baby Buffer, peering into the windows of
Boatswain Stores. Whatever the two seamen were doing looked interesting so
The Phantom decided to join them. He was within a yard or so of them when
he heard Steve say in a hoarse whisper, "Well, I sure don't think that we
can call him 'Two Strokes' anymore!"

******

Moving from the Boatswains Barracks to the Petty Officers Mess was, for
Stuart and Steve, a welcome change. Instead of 40 boatswains wandering
about, setting the rafters to echoing with their chatter and laughter,
there were only five cadets now living in the Mess. Mike, the Chief
Physical Training Instructor, and Phillip, called The Assistant, had pride
of place and remained in their old beds. Stuart and Steve took over the
bunks previously occupied by Willy and Jack, and Matt was given Mal's old
bunk, with the strict understanding that he would confine his underpants to
plain, white, tighty-whiteys and not air his monster every morning. Matt,
who didn't own anything but white tighty-whiteys, had no desire to change
colours in mid-stream anyway and, while he had a beautiful dick, was not in
the habit of airing it in the morning or at any other time of the day,
thank you.

An added bonus with living in the Petty Officers Mess was that it had its
own attached heads and washplace. Stuart and Steve loved this perk. They no
longer had to jockey for position under the showerheads with a herd of
cadets, and they could stay in there as long as they wanted. And they
wanted.

Stuart and Steve had been friends for years. They lived in adjoining towns
and attended the same district high school. As Sea Cadets they were
constantly thrown together at local corps athletic meets, regattas and
Stuart taught sailing at the marina owned by Steve's father. Until the
evening of the Course Banyan they had been good friends, and nothing
more. That had changed, however, on the beach overlooking the Strait of
Georgia. They had made love, of a sort, and spent much of the night in each
other's arms. Now they were lovers and like most lovers wanted to express
themselves as often as they could. The showers were private in a way in
that Matt always showered before going to bed, and Mike and Phillip, always
up with the birds, would repair to the Drill Shed, work out, and shower
there. Stuart and Steve had plenty of opportunity to make out.

This morning had been no exception. When Steve opened his eyes and looked
around he saw that only Stuart remained in his bed. The other three cadets
were long gone, Matt to the Mess Hall, Mike and Phillip to the Drill
Shed. Steve sat up and looked across to see Stuart sleeping soundly.

Sighing, Steve slipped his hand down the front of his undies and gently
squeezed his morning woody. He would never take a first in size, but he had
a circumcised beauty - as had Stuart, only thicker and longer - and his
balls were just the right size, not too big, not too small, and hanging
quite low in a smooth, hairless sac. Steve felt his dick throb and saw a
small, crystal drop of precum ooze slowly from the small slit in the glans
of his penis. He reached down, slowly wiped away the natural lubricant with
his finger, and then lifted it to his lips, tasting it. He closed his eyes
and lay back, about to masturbate when he heard Stuart's low chuckling.

"Are you going to lie there all day playing with that?" asked Stuart.

"I might," returned Steve. "At least until a better offer comes along."

Laughing, Stuart whipped aside his covers and quickly stripped off his
tighty-whiteys. He shuffled to the head of his bunk where he sat with his
legs spread and his back against the outside bulkhead. He grinned wickedly
as he showed Steve his morning bone. "Now that you mention it," he
snickered.

Steve needed no second invitation. He left his bunk, stripped off his
underpants and sat between Stuart's legs, draping his own legs over
Stuart's, squirming forward until their balls touched. He reached down and
grasped Stuart's penis, pressing it against his own. He began to pump
slowly. "You like?" he asked.

Nodding, Stuart replied. "Big time!" He reached out and with his hand
caressed first Steve's face, then his shoulders, then his chest. "I like it
when you jerk our dicks together like that," he murmured, ever so slowly
pushing forward.

Steve laughed softly and looked down. Their cocks were remarkably similar,
although Stuart's was longer, and thicker. Both had crisp, clean heads
crowning pink shafts. He bottom halves of both their erections were darker
skinned than the rest of their bodies, a darker pink, and while Steve's
circumcision ring, because of his dark colouring, was clearly defined,
Stuart's, who was blond, was hardly discernable at all. The skin on both
their shafts was smooth as silk, hiding an inner hardness, and warm.

Continuing to pump, Steve gazed lustfully into Stuart's deep blue eyes. "Do
you want me to blow you," he asked huskily.

"Nah, just keep on doing what you're doing," replied Stuart with a groan,
raising his hips as much as he could. "Fuck, Steve, I'm almost there!"

Steve could feel his balls tightening and gasped, "Me, too."

Stuart reached out and pulled Steve toward him. They kissed deeply and
continued their kissing, tongues duelling, until Stuart yipped
slightly. Steve felt the warm stickiness splatter against his lower stomach
as Stuart orgasmed. Almost immediately his own dick spasmed and his
ejaculate mixed with Stuart's.

They clung together, moaning softly until their dicks began to
soften. Steve pulled away and whistled softly. "God, that felt good!" he
said with a grin.

"Damn straight," replied Stuart, returning Steve's grin. He glanced down
and saw his sperm-soaked, dark brown public bush. "We better clean up," he
said as he wiped his hand through the wiry hair.

Steve glanced at the closed door that led to the Gunroom. "You're right,"
he said nervously. "With our luck Two Strokes will come trucking in." He
shuffled back and swung his legs over the bed. "I'll be glad to get home,
Stuart," he said over his shoulder. "At least then we can be together and
not worry about people walking in on us."

"I know how you feel," replied Stuart consolingly as he left his bunk. He
snatched up his briefs and slowly cleaned his crotch. "This slap and tickle
bullshit is getting me down." He handed the briefs to Steve so that he
could clean up. "At least back home there are places we can go to be
together."

Steve sighed. He and Stuart had only been lovers for less than two
days. Everything they'd done had been schoolboy antics, sucking each other
off, blowing each other, jerking and generally just messing about. He
realized that he was in love with Stuart, and wanted more out of their
relationship. He patted the mattress and asked quietly, "Stuart, sit with
me a minute?"

"Sure," replied Stuart, recognizing the serious tone in Steve's
voice. "What's up?"

"We have to talk."

"About?"

"About us," replied Steve with a slight nod of his head. "About how far you
want our relationship to go."

Much to Steve's surprise, Stuart leaned over and kissed him gently. "You
may not have noticed, but I'm in love with you," whispered Stuart when they
drew apart. "I've never felt so good about anybody before. I want to be
with you, always."

"Stuart, we're guys," Steve pointed out. "You know what can happen if the
rednecks back home find out about us."

"I know," replied Stuart firmly. His eyes narrowed. "Fuck 'em. I'm in love
with you and I couldn't give a rat's ass what the rednecks or anybody else
thinks."

Steve hugged Stuart close. "I guess that's what I wanted to hear." He
released Stuart and then sat back, resting on his elbows. "Then the next
question is, I suppose, when are we going to have a honeymoon?"

At first Stuart thought Steve was making a joke. Then he realized the
import of Steve's question and his eyes widened. He began sputtering like
the schoolboy he was. "I . . . well . . . I mean . . . are you sure?"

"When two people are in love they usually make love," replied Steve as
calmly as he could. "I want you to make love to me."

"Ah, Steve, uh, well, yes, I want to make love to you, but hell, I've never
done anything like that, you've never done anything like that and well,
it's a big step," protested Stuart.

"I know that." Steve sat up and looked directly at Stuart. "It is a big
step," he said. "I want to take that step. Do you?"

Stuart all but smothered Steve when he grabbed him and growled, "Of course
I do! I just didn't know if you wanted to, and I didn't want to pressure
you in any way." He drew back a bit and blushed. "I, um, I also want you to
make love to me."

Steve's eyes went round with surprise. Stuart had always been the Alpha
male! "You do?"

"I do," replied Stuart with an emphatic nod of his head. "I wouldn't ask
you to do anything that I wouldn't do, and to be honest, I want to know
what it feels like. I want us to be like Nicholas and Andre. I want us to
be lovers, not two guys fooling around."

"Wow," breathed Steve. He smiled widely. "I never thought that you, of all
people, would want to let me . . ."

"Well I do," said Stuart. "My biggest worry is that, well, I'm big, you
know. I mean . . ."

"I know what you mean," replied Steve, laughing. "I'm sure we'll manage."
Then he looked down at his soft penis. "I'm sort of puny, Stuart."

"Yes, you are. But man, can you rise to the occasion," returned Stuart,
laughing broadly.

They heard muffled voices from behind the Gunroom door and drew apart. "We
better shower," said Steve reluctantly.

Stuart gathered up his towel and began walking toward the door leading to
the heads. "Steve, we can wait, you know," he said.

"I don't want to," replied Steve. "I want to do it with you, and the sooner
the better."

As they passed into the shower room Stuart looked thoughtful. "In that
case, we'd better find a place."

"How about Boatswain Stores?" suggested Steve. "We can go there."

Stuart turned on the water and began soaping himself. "Yes, we could." He
began idly soaping the crack of his butt as he thought aloud. "We can
tiddly it up a bit today and then tonight we could . . ." He turned off the
water and looked at Steve. "We'll need Vaseline, I suppose, and some
towels. And Steve, if between now and then you change your mind . . . I
want you to be certain that you want to do it."

Steve moved closer to Stuart and reached down to grasp his lover's soft
penis. "I am certain," he murmured as he began to nibble Stuart's ear. "I
want every part of you, Stuart, I want to feel you, to hold you, to be a
part of you." He could feel Stuart's erection growing and gently massaged
and squeezed it.

Stuart, who was going crazy with lust, grunted and moaned loudly. "Steve, I
don't know if I can get off again!"

Wrapping his free arm around Stuart's waist, Steve pulled him close and
continued to masturbate his lover. He concentrated on the spongy,
arrow-shaped glans of Stuart's penis, caressing slowly with his thumb the
warm flesh. He continued to nibble and lick at Stuart's ears and neck and
knew that he was successful when Stuart's hips began long, slow pumping
motions. All too soon Stuart threw his head back and squealed as his
erection pulsed and spasmed and three large streams of semen flew from the
head of his dick and splattered across the tiles of the shower.

Stuart continued to jerk and grunt until he pulled away quickly. "Not the
head, Steve, please!" he begged desperately. "Not the head!"

Snickering, Steve released Stuart and turned the water back on. God damn
was Stuart sensitive after he came. Steve loved it when he brought Stuart
to such an explosive orgasm that he bucked and twitched like a Dervish for
half an hour afterward. After washing away the evidence of Stuart's
ejaculation, Steve turned off the water. Stuart was leaning against the
tiled bulkhead, grinning stupidly. "God damn can you turn me on!"

Laughing, Steve gave his butt a small wiggle. "Wait until tonight, Tiger!"

******

As they were dressing Stuart remembered that he had given the keys to
Boatswain Stores to Chris so, with Steve following, he went into the
adjoining Gunroom.

Todd, who was sitting on his bunk drying his hair after his shower, had no
idea where Chris was. Jon, who knew that Chris had given the keys to Two
Strokes so that he and Thumper could be alone, could not very well tell
Stuart, so he fudged, offering that Chris had mentioned something about
going down to the Dockyard for a list of spare parts the YAGs needed.

Grumbling about dipsticks, who never returned anything, Stuart decided to
wander down to the Stores. If Chris was looking to replenish YAG stores
from his own resources there was a good chance that he was in Boatswain
Stores taking stock.

As they approached the long, low, wooden-frame building Steve pointed with
his chin. "The door is closed."

"Shit," swore Stuart. "Where the hell can Chris be? I don't want to spend
half my day looking for him and I still haven't had breakfast!"

"Well, maybe he's inside. If he is just grab the keys and we can head over
to the Mess Hall," replied Steve easily.

As he approached the door leading into Boatswain Stores Steve reached out
his hand to turn the knob when he thought he heard something. At first he
dismissed the low sound as just the wind, but when he heard another,
higher-pitched noise, he stopped and peered through the dirty glass of the
window. What he saw made him take a step back, his jaw dropping in
shock. "Holy fuck!"

Steve, who was not paying attention, almost ran into Stuart. "What's the
matter with you?" he demanded. "Can't you watch where I'm going?" He saw
the look on Stuart's face and where Stuart's shaking finger was
pointing. "What?" he asked.

"Steve, you won't believe what's going on in there!" Stuart managed.

Giving Stuart a look, Steve nudged the Buffer aside and looked into
Boatswain Stores. His eyes widened as he saw . . .

Thumper was lying on his side with his left leg up and extended
outward. Behind him, also on his side, was Two Strokes, who was holding up
Thumper's leg with his left hand while tightly gripping Thumper's shoulder
with his right. Two Strokes' eyes were closed and his nostrils were
distended. His hips were making slow, methodical pumping motions and a
blind man could see what they were doing.

Feeling his dick starting to get hard, Steve reached into his shorts and
began playing with himself as he watched, mesmerized, the erotic scene
before him. "Holy mackerel!" he breathed. "It's the Honeymoon Hotel!"

Stuart, who had never before seen two guys fucking, or anybody fucking for
that matter, pushed Steve aside and peered inside. He watched as Two
Strokes' body suddenly stiffened, and then saw Two Stokes thrust upward,
his face as mask of indescribable pleasure. At almost the same time Stuart
heard a loud squeal and watched, entranced, as Thumper's cock jerked and
began squirting a long, thin stream of semen a good foot across the weather
beaten deck of Boatswain Stores.

Steve, who had managed to see everything, snickered. "Well, I sure don't
think that we can call him Two Strokes anymore."

"Who can't you call Two Strokes?" came a voice from behind them.

Stuart and Steve wheeled and saw The Phantom looking at them. Both cadets
broke into wide grins. "Phantom, you have to see this!" exclaimed Steve as
he pointed toward the door. "You will not believe what is going on in
there!"

By this time Two Strokes and Thumper, lost in lust, euphoria, or after
glow, had rolled together and were kissing passionately and fondling each
other's still hard erections. The Phantom's sharp eyes took in the scene
and then grew as round as dinner plates as Thumper wiggled and squirmed his
way between Two Strokes' legs. He started thrusting and Two Strokes raised
his legs and drew them back.

"Hell and sheeit," drawled The Phantom slowly as his own dick began to
harden and push out the front of his shorts, much to Steve's delight.

"Verrrry impressive, Phantom," observed Steve with a giggle. "What are they
doing now?"

The Phantom grinned in embarrassment, reached down and adjusted his raging
erection so that it was not too noticeable, and said, "Well, Thumper is
either making like his namesake, or Two Strokes is getting his cherry
popped!"

Stuart and Steve, not wanting to miss out on a good thing, jockeyed for
position and stared into the window. "Two Strokes is definitely getting his
cherry popped!" announced Stuart. Then he added, most uncharacteristically
so far as The Phantom was concerned, "Lucky bastard!"

The Phantom, who had never considered that Stuart, who was always so
determinedly male, would think such a thing, stared at the tall, slim
Buffer and then stood back. That Steve would admire the lump in his shorts
was also surprising. This sudden turn of events, Two Strokes and Thumper,
Stuart and Steve, needed thinking about.

"And bang goes Thumper!" chortled Steve. "Look at him go!"

The Phantom suddenly felt embarrassed, embarrassed not only for his
prurience at lurking outside a window watching two boys he considered his
friends getting it on, but also for Thumper and Two Strokes, who would not,
as The Phantom himself would not, appreciate somebody snooping on what was,
in the final balance, a most personal moment. He reached out and pulled
Stuart and Steve's shorts, forcing them to step backward. "I think it's
time we left," he said forcefully.

"Ah, come on, Phantom," wheedled Steve. "I've never seen such a sight!"

"Would you like it if I stood by, or Thumper, or Two Strokes, stood by, and
watched while you and Stuart fucked?" asked The Phantom as forcefully as he
could. "Well, would you?"

Stuart ducked his head and turned red. In light of what he and Steve wanted
to do later that day, and why they had come down to Boatswain Stores in the
first place, he had to answer truthfully. "Um, no."

Steve did not even have to think of an answer. While he wanted Stuart -
desperately - he did not want Stuart in front of an audience. He shuffled
his feet a bit. "You're right, Phantom, we shouldn't be watching."

As the three boys crept away as quietly as they could, and walked toward
the Mess Hall, Stuart observed quietly, "We shouldn't say anything about
this. What Thumper and Two Strokes get up to together is their business,
right?"

"Yeah, their business," agreed Steve with a sideways glance at Stuart. He
hoped that catching the two Regulators would not make Stuart rethink their
plans. "It's their business, right enough."

The Phantom picked up on the nervousness that seemed crackle around the two
Boatswains, and rightly deduced that something had either happened between
the two of them, or was about to happen. "I'm not saying a word, to
anybody," The Phantom said firmly as the walked up the stairs of the Mess
Hall. He saw Steve and Stuart nod their agreement and then thought, "But I
am going to tell The Gunner that I have four more names for his list!"

******

Inside the galley The Phantom found Chef was off on a tear. He was berating
Randy and Joey, and not pulling any punches. He also found Cory sitting at
Chef's desk, leisurely eating a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages
and baked beans.

"I don't know where you put it all," observed The Phantom as he joined
Cory. "You eat like a horse and never gain an ounce!"

Cory grinned around a forkful of scrambled eggs. "Clean living, keeping
active, and a satisfactory sex life," he said.

The Phantom didn't know whether to laugh or looked shocked. Cory's
refreshing bluntness bore more than a kernel of truth, particularly his
satisfactory sex life. The Phantom was more than aware that Cory and Sean
Anders, the Command Chief Petty Officer of the YAG Squadron, were lovers,
although Cory was reticent in the extreme when it came to details about
their relationship. The Phantom, never one to pry, reached out and snagged
a piece of bacon. "What's Chef on about," he asked as he looked over to see
the old cook brandishing his spoon at Randy and Joey, who seemed completely
oblivious to his anger.

Cory shrugged. "It would seem that Chef wants those two to mind their
manners, what with the cooks coming up from the Dockyard later on."

Chef's bellowing confirmed Cory's assessment. "You'll be the morals of
decorum," thundered Chef. "I'll not be having you two spalpeens spying on
the new lads in the showers, or sneaking off to the lounge whenever the
urge takes you!"

Randy, who had seen the new cooks, and had no tearing great desire to see
them in the showers, or anywhere else for that matter, tried to
temporize. "Chef, we have to shower! You . . ."

"Shower, but no peeking!" returned Chef with a wave of his spoon.

Joey, who shared Randy's opinion of the new cooks, hastily put in his
oar. "Chef, we have to 'peek'. We can't help but peek! They'll be naked!"

Chef, caught up short for once, thought quickly. "There'll be no
pattyfingers, then!" he snarled. "You two are as curious as monkeys and
you'll contain your curiosity!"

"That's one way of putting it," Kevin whispered to Ray. They were standing
at the doorway leading to Chef's office, watching the show. "I recall the
time I showered with them," Kevin continued, "and they scoped me out! Hell,
Randy wanted to . . ."

Chef, who had heard Kevin's whispering, turned and glared at him. "And
don't think I've forgotten about you two!" he roared. "You are both, the
whole of you, senior cadets and I expect you to set an example for the
younger ones!"

Sandro, who was hiding in Dry Stores, snickered. Chef had the eyes of an
arctic fox, and the ears of a wolf. He also had spies everywhere, or so
Sandro thought. He knew everything and Kevin and Ray using the office as a
honeymoon bower was obviously very high on Chef's list of little known
things about well known people. Sandro had no intention of leaving Dry
Stores until Chef wound down. He was not about to put himself, or his
secrets, in the line of Chef's fire and brimstone. Besides, he thought, he
and Chad had been very careful so Chef could not possibly know about what
they did in the lounge.

Chef knew, and his bellow calling Sandro from Dry Stores confirmed
it. "You've had your night under the pale moonlight, Sandro, so you have,
so there will be no singing of dirges of regret, or after carolling 'God
Save The Tsar' when your memory drifts back to the Gardens of Ballymeara!"

"The what?" asked Cory.

"I haven't a clue," replied The Phantom truthfully. Where Chef found all
these geographic delights he had no idea, although he suspected that they
existed primarily in the ever-present bottle of Pusser Rum that Chef sipped
on continuously.

Chef wheeled and for the first time seemed to be aware that The Phantom had
come into the galley. "Ah, Phantom lad, what a joy to see you," he
exclaimed, his face beaming with pleasure. "We have some talking to do,
lad, so enjoy your breakfast." He returned to laying down the law to the
cooks. "You will, the whole of you, present a professional, dedicated
façade to all concerned! I'll not be having idle gossip . . . gossiping all
over the place!"

Randy, Joey, Kevin, Ray and Sandro bobbed their heads. "Yes, Chef," they
said in unison, although Randy could barely hide the twinkle in his eye and
Joey choked back a snicker.

Chef saw the twinkle, and heard the choking. "And while I am on the
subject," he began, a dangerous glint in his eye, "there will be no
sneaking away to the Dockyard!" His glare told Randy and Joey exactly what
Chef was on about. "And, my lads," continued Chef with an authoritative
wave of his spoon, "there will be no Chief Thornton sniffing around, at
least not until I've been after asking his intentions!"

Neither Randy nor Joey wanted Chef giving Phil Thornton the third
degree. Phil was nervous enough about their relationship, which they had
initiated when they'd come across the older boy sprawled on the beach after
a disastrous encounter with one of the serving wenches who had attended the
end of course barbeque. Poor Phil had shot his bolt before entry (which
Harry was gleefully spreading all over the ship) and both young cooks did
not want their night of lechery - where Phil had redeemed himself 8 times -
to become common knowledge. "Chief Thornton is just a good friend," whined
Randy. "He likes us!"

Chef grunted non-comittally. "Better than most, I'm thinking," he
growled. "And I am still asking him his intentions." He waved his spoon
majestically. "Now, to work, the whole of you. Start prepping the fish and
Sandro, come away with you, we'll have the roast pork as well as the fish!"

As the cooks scattered to serve breakfast and start prepping the lunch
entrées, Chef waddled to the table and sat down. "Ah, a hard morning, so it
is." He looked around suspiciously. "And where is my medicine?"

"Where you left it," replied Cory, pointing with his fork at the bottle
hidden in the wastebasket under the desk.

"Ah, so there it is," beamed Chef. He rummaged around in the wastebasket
and dredged up a large, stoneware jug that he had acquired from somewhere
and insisted on using as, he declared, it didn't leak. After pouring an
extra large dose of his medicine Chef sipped and looked at The Phantom, who
was trying unsuccessfully to make himself as inconspicuous as
possible. "Phantom, darlin'," said Chef with an infectious grin. "You look
well rested."

So far as The Phantom was concerned any questions, or concerns about a
cadet's health by Chef were immediate causes for alarm. Chef, although a
kindly old soul, rarely asked about anything, and when he did it usually
meant trouble, for someone, usually the cadet being questioned. "I'm fine,
Chef," replied The Phantom warily. "Couldn't be better."

"Ah, youth," breathed Chef wistfully. "How well I remember when I was your
age. Foot loose and fancy free, I was. Like the Zephyr of Tara I was,
floating wherever the wind took me!"

Both Cory's and The Phantom's eyes widened. The thought of Chef floating on
anything but the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean, which was the only body
of anything big enough to hold the fat old man, failed to gel in either
boy's mind. The picture of Chef as a 'zephyr' of Tara, or anywhere else,
also failed to materialize.

Chef sipped his medicine, belched softly and then looked fondly at The
Phantom. "Now, then, Phantom, I've been having a most pleasant chat with
young Cory here . . ." he smiled evilly at Cory, who cringed. " . . . And
he thinks, and I agree with him, that it is time your education moved on."

The Phantom was a little miffed. Cory was usually the most outgoing of
persons, and had always been open and aboveboard and never discussed his
friends behind their backs. Whatever "education" Chef had in mind was bound
to be onerous, and knowing Chef, rife with moans, groans, drips and
complaints. The Phantom also could not even begin to think what education
Chef had in mind. If Chef had it in mind to teach him how to cook - which
was all The Phantom could think this 'education' could be - he had another
think coming! After giving Cory a black look that said, "You are dead!" The
Phantom turned to Chef. "It's a little too late, Chef, to teach me how to
cook!"

Chef did a double take. "Whoever said that?" he demanded. He turned to
Cory. "What have you told him?"

Cory leaned back and held up his hands. "Nothing, honest Chef." Then he
sniggered. "He just came in and with you bellowing all over the place I
couldn't hear myself think, let alone talk to Phantom!"

"It's me own galley and I shall bellow in it if I care to," returned Chef
as he assumed a hurt air. "Just as you squeal and yip like a Londonderry
shoat in the Gunroom when Harry is after biting your wee pink bottom!"

"How the hell did you . . .?" began Cory, dropping his fork and staring at
Chef.

"I have my ways," replied Chef with irritating vagueness. "But 'tis not me
we are talking about, 'tis Phantom, darlin' lad that he is, that demands
our attention."

The Phantom rolled his eyes. He could not think of a single reason to
demand anyone's attention, least of all Chef's.

"Now then, Phantom, young Cory came strolling down the path this fine
summer morn, happy as a lad . . ."

"The last time I looked he was a lad!" grumped The Phantom sourly. His tone
and look said that Cory might not make it any further down the path.

"Come on, Phantom," pleaded Cory. "You know I always get up before
everybody else and I thought I drop by to pass the time of day and Chef and
I got to chatting and . . ." Cory had no desire to antagonize The
Phantom. His idea was a good one, and besides, a fellow never knew when he
might need a little tender, loving care and Phantom was the best when it
came to a little therapeutic one on one.

"Plotting, you mean," snarled The Phantom. He gave Chef a stern look. "Can
you not just come right out and tell me what you're up to, you and this
. . . familiar . . . of yours!" he finished venomously.
	"Ah, Phantom, 'tis a viper's tongue you have when you wish to,"
sighed Chef. "And here we are, as innocent as cherubs, thinking only of
your welfare."
	"My welfare?" exclaimed The Phantom. "The last time Cory thought of
my welfare I ended up standing in the middle of the Ship's Office,
buck-assed naked, with my drawers in one corner and my . . ."

"You didn't complain!" returned Cory. "In fact you all but purred when Todd
. . ."

"Silence" roared Chef. "Enough of this bickering." He gave The Phantom and
icy stare, and then gave Cory an even icier look. "Now then, as the dust
has settled, the bugle shall sound truce."

"He started it," replied Cory, with a hurt look on his face and a finger
pointing at The Phantom. "But he's just being himself. Stubborn!"

"Cory, my spoon is not so far away," warned Chef. "Nor is your wee pink
bottom."

Cory reached down and placed his hands protectively around his "wee pink
bottom". Then he looked at The Phantom. "I had an idea. Nobody says you
have to go along with it. Chef thinks it's a good idea, and if you'll shut
up and listen, you might think so too!"

Unable to stay angry with Cory, The Phantom nodded. "I'm listening and if
this in any way involves taking my clothes off, I'm out of here!"

"How suspicious you are, Phantom," said Chef equably. "But, no matter. As
an intelligent lad you'll see that we only have your best interest at
heart."

"I'll bet!" retorted The Phantom.

"We do," insisted Cory.

"Now, then, hush." Chef took another drink and regarded The Phantom with
affection. "You know, Phantom lad, that you are dear to me old heart and
when Cory came to me with his idea I thought it was just the ticket for
you. You need something in your young life, and Cory has come up with just
the thing!"

"And I don't have to take of my clothes?"

"Of course not," replied Chef. "Mind, I do suggest that you disrobe when
you go to bed. The other lads might think you strange if you didn't."

"The other lads?" The Phantom gave Chef a quizzical look. "What other
lads?"

"Why, the ones you will be sharing the Gunroom with," replied Chef as if
the whole matter had been settled.

"What would I be doing going to bed in the Gunroom?" asked The Phantom. "I
don't live in the Gunroom!"

"Not yet," replied Chef. "But you will be, if you agree that is."

"I will?" The Phantom shook his head, still not understanding what Chef and
Cory wanted of him.

"Phantom, Cory has suggested, and I agree, that you need to be with the
other lads for a while. You've been accepted as one of them, but you have
not experienced being one of them."

"It was Harry who got me to thinking," interjected Cory with his usual
honesty. "We were setting up the Gunroom for the new guys who are moving in
and he said that it was nice to have all the Boys of AURORA together." He
left off protecting his "wee bottom" and reached out for The Phantom's
hands. "Phantom, you are one of us. We all want you to be with us, if only
for a little while. Right now you're our shipmate. I want us to be
messmates!"

Stunned at Cory's suggestion, The Phantom sat back and glowed. "Ah, Cory, I
never . . ." he began, colouring. "You mean that?"

"Of course he means it," said Chef. "He wouldn't have said it if he
didn't!" His eyes clouded a bit. "Ah, Phantom, what a fortunate lad you
are, to experience the comradeship, the camaraderie of a mess deck!"

"The yelling, the screaming, the belching, the farting, underpants hanging
from the end of a bunk," began Cory with a snicker. He continued on
dreamily. "Fred and Two Strokes chucking shit at Thumper, Greg moping
about, Nathan drooling over Nicholas and then . . ."

"Nathan? What has Nathan got to do with it?" asked The Phantom.

"The Yanks are staying on and there was no room for Nathan in the Chiefs
Mess so we put him in a bunk over Fred's," explained Cory quickly. "Now,
where was I, oh, yes, Nathan was drooling. Next we move on to morning
woodies, and Phantom you have not lived until you've seen the Pride after
'Action Stations' have sounded or . . ."

"Enough!" growled Chef. He gave Cory a sharp wrap on the top of his head
with his knuckle. "You'll be frightening the lad to death with your talk of
Harry and the Pride, great beast that it is!" He turned to Phantom,
ignoring Cory. "So, then, Phantom, will you consider it?"

"Well, yes, I think I'd like that," replied The Phantom. "My mother left
today for Regina and my dad, well he's busy with work, so I'll be spending
most of my time here anyway." He did not add that with The Gunner away he
had no other place to go.

"That's settled then." Chef clapped his hands. "You'll move in tonight and
I'll help you with the inventory of the Admiral's Dining Room."

The Phantom smiled weakly. Chef was determined to inventory the dining room
before it left AURORA. "I guess, so," he said glumly.

>From the office came the sound of the telephone ringing. Chef, who firmly
believed that the telephone was the instrument of the Devil and never
brought good news, ignored the ringing. "Now then, Phantom, cheer up. I
told you that I would help you, and we've made a start, what with the notes
I gave you. Why, between us we'll have the job done in no time flat! And
just think on, you'll be with your mates." He leaned forward and
grinned. "Well do I remember my days in the mess deck. Why, I was never
happier than when I'd crawl out of me 'mick and see the lads, my friends,
my mates and . . ."

"Chef! Telephone!" interrupted Ray loudly.

"Why did you not let the thing ring?" demanded Chef with a grimace. He
waved his hand airily. "If it's that thieving spalpeen of a Base Supply
Officer tell him I'll have the reports to him when I have them to him."

"It isn't," replied Ray patiently.

"Well, then, who is it?"

Ray shrugged. "He didn't give his name. All he said was that it's important
and that he was a Benares boy. What's a 'Benares'?"

As The Phantom and Cory watched, Chef slowly pushed away from the
table. There was a strange look in his eyes as he whispered, "It's the cry
of a drowning boy." He stood up, straightened his back, and without another
word lumbered into his office and closed the door.

******

Eugen Arenberg remained impassive as his penis jerked and deposited his
morning contribution into the sucking mouth of the obscenely obese old
man. There had been a time when Eugen would have been writhing in delirium
from having his dick sucked but now it was just a release. There was a time
when Eugen delighted in pleasing his latest protector but now all he wanted
to do was to get it over with, and was thankful that with Herr Percy all he
had to do was to lie on the chaise, spread his legs and present his penis
for sucking, once in the morning, and once in the late afternoon. He also
thanked God that he did not have to do what Sepp had to do, which was fuck
the old man vigorously and as roughly as possible.

>From across the pool came a high-pitched giggle. That would be Gottfried,
the youngest of the three boys whom Herr Percy "protected". Gottfried was a
whore and how he had ever been allowed to participate in the game Eugen
could not understand.

Eugen had been on the game a long time, seven years of pleasing old men,
beginning when he was 8 when he had been sold to pay his mother's debt to a
vicious drug dealer. Eugen could barely remember his mother, or the town
where he was born. Unlike Sepp and Gottfried, who were from the waterfront
slums of the grimy old Baltic port of Rostock, Eugen was from West Germany,
from the old town of Muenster, a place that he did not remember at all.

When he was younger Eugen had tried to recall his childhood. Memories came
in patches, brief vignettes: his mother entertaining men at all hours of
the day and night; his mother lying sprawled across the filthy bed that
dominated their one-room "apartment", drunk on raw vodka or high on the
morphine she injected into her veins five and six times a day. He never
dreamed of his father because he never knew who his father was. His mother
could not tell him because she herself did not know. His father could have
been any one of a hundred men, perhaps two hundred, for his mother was a
very cheap whore, and serviced anyone who had the price, usually ten
deutchmarks. As a little boy Eugen had fantasized that his father had been
a great man, a German knight perhaps, a man who had fought in the war,
dying with honour on the field of battle. As he grew older Eugen realized
that his father had more than likely been an anonymous factory worker.

"Danke, Eugen, that was very nice," came the voice of Herr Percy.

Eugen smiled as winningly as he could. He saw that the old fool had put in
his teeth, which at last made him look presentable. "I am happy to please
you, Herr Percy," Eugen replied softly, in German, pretending that he was
actually as happy as he appeared.

Percy Simpson leaned forward and gently squeezed Eugen's foreskin. A small
drop of semen oozed from the thin sheath of skin and Percy raised it on his
fingers to his lips. He smiled, his stained dentures hideous to behold. He
smacked his rubbery lips as he said, "So sweet."

Eugen's stomach turned but he remained stoic. With any luck Herr Percy
would tire of them and replace them with a new trio of boys. Or, and much
more likely, Herr Percy would retire upstairs and take his pleasure with
the little boy. The boy had been brought to the house two nights ago and,
so far as Eugen knew, Herr Percy had not gone near him. But he would, and
Eugen prayed that Herr Percy was as gentle with the boy as his first man
had been.

While he could never recall in detail his childhood, Eugen had almost total
recall when he chose to think about the men he had been sold to. The first
had been an Arab, a very wealthy man who represented his country's oil
industry and came to Germany on a regular basis. Eugen remembered a long
drive from Muenster to Bonn, and a huge, secluded estate where he had been
barbered, bathed and powdered. Next a saturnine man in a flowing,
embroidered caftan and an elaborate burnoose, had examined him, paying
particular attention to his stubby penis, smiling happily at the looseness
of Eugen's foreskin.

Eugen had then been taken into a bedroom, a huge room filled with wonderful
treasures, where another man, darker than the first, had placed him on the
bed and penetrated him. Eugen remembered his deflowering as if it were
yesterday and in the remembering was thankful that the Arab had been
gentle. Of course the first time had been . . . horrible. Eugen had
screamed and struggled but the Arab had been persistent. Then, much to
Eugen's surprise, the Arab had carried the weeping boy into the bath,
bathed him, gently salved his torn rectum and anus with soothing balms,
cooing and murmuring endearments that Eugen did not understand.

Eventually Eugen came to enjoy his time with the gentle Arab and had
deluded himself into thinking that he would remain with the Saudi
prince. He was greatly disillusioned when, shortly before his thirteenth
birthday he had been returned to the man Eugen knew only as "Der Chef". Der
Chef was the organizer, the go-between, and the man who arranged for the
boys to be bought and sold. Der Chef had explained to a confused and very
upset Eugen that the Arab preferred his boys to be young, prepubescent was
the word Der Chef used, which Eugen came to understand were boys who had
not yet reached puberty, boys who could not produce sperm. But, Der Chef
had said, not to worry. Eugen was a schatz, a treasure, and there were
other men who would find him enchanting.

Eugen's second protector had been a pedantic, boring Englishman, who lived
in a large, sprawling farmhouse in the Cotswolds. The Englander had been
undemanding and seemed to actually care for Eugen. He had also been shocked
to learn that Eugen could barely read or write and had immediately set
about educating the young German boy. Sending Eugen to school was out of
the question, but the Englander was a man of means and education and had an
extensive library. He taught Eugen how to act, how to talk, how to dress
and in the end Eugen came away with a firm grounding in the classics, and
speaking English with an Oxford accent. He also came away with a small
horde of gold. Whenever the Englander came to Eugen's room he always left a
sovereign on the night table.

>From England, Eugen had been sent to America, to Kentucky, where a venal
old man protected him and shared him with his son, a teenaged boy who
verbally abused Eugen and always referred to him as "that German
cocksucker!" and always slapped him after Eugen had sucked his cock. At
least, Eugen temporized, he had learned to ride a horse.

>From America Eugen had been returned to Europe. A Frenchman followed the
American and his son. Then came a Russian, after whom there were two
Germans. Life for Eugen was series of one-night stands and the occasional
fortnight or so at some exclusive resort. In a way it was a very useful
education in that he learned how to project the image of an educated,
cosmopolitan young man. Which was more than could be said for Sepp or
Gottfried, neither of whom could speak English, and both of whom were
crude, ignorant peasants, happy to offer their bodies and enjoy the good
life, never giving a thought about tomorrow.

>From across the pool Eugen heard Gottfried's high-pitched squealing. "Herr
Percy, ich kommen! Ich kommen!" Looking across the clear, blue, cool waters
of the pool Eugen saw that Gottfried was grinding himself into Sepp's
crotch. Sepp's heavy trunk of a penis was deeply imbedded in Gottfried's
ass and he was grunting loudly. Eugen watched as Herr Percy hurried as fast
as he could around the pool and lowered his body to his knees. Gottfried
pushed down his erection, pulling back his foreskin as he did so, about to
give Herr Percy his second contribution of the day.

Eugen tried to ignore the squeals and grunts. He tried to tell himself that
he should just ignore the barnyard noises. After all, Sepp and Gottfried
were basically young animals whose only purpose was to serve and service
their protector. In a way Eugen could not understand why he was even here
in this huge, concrete, Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired excrescence of a
house. He knew that both Sepp and Gottfried fulfilled Herr Percy's beau
ideal of a young German male. Both were blond and both were well
endowed. Sepp was stocky, with a smooth hairless chest and a thick, blunt,
uncircumcised penis and pendulous testicles. Gottfried, as blond as Sepp,
had a long, thin penis, the head sheathed with a wrinkled tube of skin.

Eugen thought that somewhere in his ancestry there was a dark-haired man
who was chuckling at Herr Percy's nonsense. Eugen was dark haired, with a
slim body. His penis, as long as Sepp's, only sleeker, and much
smoother-skinned, ended in a wafer-thin sheath that covered half the
glans. His testicles, unlike Sepp or Gottfried's, hung low in a smooth,
hairless scrotum. Eugen knew that he was a handsome young man and well
worth the 10,000 deutchmarks Der Chef had charged for him. He also knew
that if he continued on the game he would command, eventually, even higher
prices as an escort. Der Chef dealt in quality boys of all ages, from nine
to very early twenties. Eugen however, did not want to continue on the
game.

>From time to time Eugen had dreamed of getting out, of fleeing, of
hiding. He was tired of being the plaything of old men. Being a playmate to
these men had become less than pleasant. Eugen was not attracted to these
men, quite the opposite. He found them repulsive and unattractive. He was
attracted to Sepp and Gottfried, even if they were dumkopfs, so ignorant
that they both thought that Herr Percy was Jewish because his penis was
beschnitten. In fairness, Eugen had thought much the same when he had first
seen the Arab naked. The Arab had explained to the mesmerized young boy
that circumcision was a fatwa, a requirement of his faith. The young
American had also been circumcised, and he had been a Southern Baptist!

Dismissing Sepp and Gottfried from his mind, Eugen concentrated his
thoughts on the possibility of escape. The house, which was in an area of
the large city of Toronto called the Bridle Path, was isolated. He did not
know his way around the city, and every time he and the others had left the
house they had been closely guarded, and driven everywhere. Herr Percy had
a great deal of money invested in the three boys and was not about to let
one of them get away.

Eugen was not worried about money. He had the gold sovereigns that the
Englander had given him, some small pieces of jewellery, gold cufflinks, a
watch, and the ring set with a large diamond that he had stolen from the
Kentuckian. Identification would be a problem. His passport - Swiss this
time around - had been taken from him as soon as he and his minder cleared
customs. He supposed the document was in the safe hidden behind the
portrait of Herr Percy's mother in the master bedroom upstairs. His youth
was against him as well. He was, according to his passport, 16 years of
age. In truth, Eugen did not know how old he was. He had travelled so many
times under false documents that he was not even sure that Arenberg was his
real name.

Still, Eugen wanted to risk it. He knew that he would be told to get ready
to move on. It always happened and there was always the chance that his
next protector would turn out to be a pervert who enjoyed hurting his
boy. Eugen did not want to risk that. He would rather live on the streets
in a strange city than return to Germany, to a new protector.

Standing, Eugen watched as Herr Percy left Gottfried's semen-slimed penis
and bent over, preparing to receive Sepp's thick, unsheathed
tumescence. Disgusted, Eugen turned away and looked around and then, for
some reason, he looked up and saw, staring back him, the dark, sad eyes of
Troubridge, Herr Percy's butler, staring back at him. Eugen shuddered and
hurried into the house.

****** " . . . It's disgusting!" exclaimed Joseph as Troubridge turned away
from the window. "If I had known, if I had so much as an inkling, I would
never have agreed to come into service in this house!"

"I understand completely," muttered Troubridge. He did understand. No one
with any claim to decency wanted to work for Percy Simpson.

"Then you'll understand why I am leaving without notice!" snapped
Joseph. "I am not spending another night here." He waved an irate finger
toward the window. "It was bad enough with the three boys out there,
prancing about naked half the time - well, except for the dark one - and
having to listen to them moaning and groaning the night away. I even put up
with that disgusting, revolting display every morning and afternoon but I
won't, I can't . . ." Joseph drew in a deep breath. "You must know about
the boy! For God's sake, Troubridge, he can't be any older than eight or
nine years old!"

Troubridge sighed wearily. He knew all about the boy in the spare
bedroom. He was nine, and Russian. He also knew that the boy would not be
harmed, really. Mr. Percy had long since passed the age when he could do
anything other than fellate his boys. Not like the old days, when there was
a new young boy almost weekly.

Unable to bring himself to contemplate the abuse the young Russian would
endure, Troubridge turned and sat behind his desk. He pulled out the
chequebook that he used for the staff payroll, wrote a cheque and handed it
to Joseph. The sum written on the cheque was large, far larger than any
severance Joseph would normally hope to be awarded. Both men knew it for
what it was: a payoff, a guarantee that what Joseph had seen and heard in
his year or so as under butler would never be spoken of again.

"You might as well know that Traudl and Ermgard are also leaving," said
Joseph as he pocketed the cheque.

"I will prepare their cheques," replied Troubridge woodenly. "And I will
have your references ready before you leave."

******

Troubridge stared blankly at the closed door. The defections were
complete. Cook, who had been with Mr. Percy almost as long as Troubridge
himself, had left two days ago and now Joseph and the two maids. Keeping
staff, once they learned of what was going on, was impossible. Nothing
would induce them to stay, not the high salaries, not the extra cash
bonuses on their birthdays and name days, or Christmas. Nothing would keep
them in the house once they found out about the boys.

It had been that way for as long as Troubridge could remember. It was not
only here in Toronto, but in the house in Montreal, and the secluded estate
near Bracebridge. Domestic staff came and went with almost as much
regularity as the boys.

Thinking of the boys, Troubridge buried his head in his hands. Joseph did
not know the half of it, a quarter of it, not a smidgeon of a minuscule of
it! Troubridge was a perfect example of the saying that said if you wanted
to know the measure of a man, you should ask his butler. For 22 years
Troubridge had measured Percy Simpson, had witnessed the orgies attended by
Percy's friends, important friends, generals, senators, Members of
Parliament and more. Troubridge had cleaned up the messes and deliberately
turned a blind eye. Foster, the man he had replaced had warned him of his
soon to be former employer's peculiarities. But Troubridge had let the
glitter of gold cloud his judgement and before he knew it he was in too
deep, knew too much, and could not flee the terror.

Although it was only 7:00 in the morning, Troubridge poured a large drink
and drank it down in one gulp. He'd been doing more of that these past few
years. Alcohol. Booze. Hooch. At times the alcohol was the only thing that
kept the demons at bay, and deadened the sounds of drunken laughter,
shrieks, groans, moans and sighs that screamed in every room in every house
that Percy Simpson owned. Booze that lulled him into fitful sleep and made
him remember home. He could still remember the cobblestone streets, the
ancient buildings, the towering smoke stacks of the power plant that
dominated the river and the housing precincts around it. He had left
Battersea a terrified little boy, and returned shortly after he left an
even more terrified little boy. If only he had stayed in Battersea, with
Mum, and Dad, and his brothers and sisters! But he had not and now he rued
the day.

The sound of deep male grunting distracted Troubridge from his memories. He
dared not return to the window for fear of what he might see, although he
knew exactly what he would see: the heavy set German, Sepp, would be
mounting Mr. Percy, who would be squeaking and puling as the boy pummelled
him savagely. There had been a time when Mr. Percy had been much more
circumspect, more discreet, when he was with one his boys. Now, it seemed,
the old man felt secure, safe in the knowledge that his money would, as it
always had, buy off anyone who poked an inquisitive nose into his affairs,
or if the money did not work, secure in the knowledge that a simple
telephone call would take care of any unpleasantness.

Shuddering, Troubridge opened his desk drawer and pulled out a large, bound
ledger book. He made an entry and closed it with a loud snap. This ledger,
this record, was the latest in a series of ledgers. They were all safely
hidden where only he could find them. They were, collectively, his
insurance policy, for in them he had recorded, chapter and verse,
everything he knew about Percy Simpson, his boys, his friends and the men
who supplied Percy with any boy he desired. Troubridge was no fool, and he
had recorded names, dates, amounts paid; everything he could find out,
snoop out, ferret out, he recorded. He knew details, minutiae that Percy
Simpson had long forgotten. Troubridge even knew the name of the man who
ran the whole operation, which in itself could bring a death warrant if he
so much as muttered it in his sleep.

Like any good servant, Troubridge was not beneath stooping to listen at
keyholes. He had also cultivated the image of not being seen or heard. He
had become such a fixture in Percy Simpson's perverted life, knew so many
secrets, that Percy automatically assumed that he could be trusted. Because
of this assumption Percy, whether through laziness or the fact that he was
in his dotage, had grown sloppy. Troubridge had overheard some very
interesting conversations when Percy was bellowing down the telephone line
to his friends and fellow boy lovers.

Everything Troubridge heard went into his ledger. He knew that one of
Percy's friends, a banker, had complained about the quality of boys being
sent out. Troubridge could understand that. More and more the boys were,
well, low class, ill-bred louts. Sepp and Gottfried were prime
examples. Neither of them cared a fig about anything but eating, sleeping
and having sex, which they had constantly, and all over the damned house!
It was not like the old days, when care had been taken and the boys given
at least a rudimentary education in dressing and speaking properly. The boy
Eugen was an example of the quality that had been on offer back then. But
not now. The new man, the one whom the German boys called "Der Chef", was
not interested. He was supplying a product. If a man wanted a boy he could
have one, for a price. Boys could be rented for any length of time, or
purchased outright. Who cared if the boy could read or write? He was there
to provide pleasure, nothing else.

Troubridge feared two things. He feared discovery of Mr. Percy's
perversions. Troubridge knew that if the authorities, the police, learned
of what went on in the houses Mr. Percy owned, that a case could be made
against the butler as an accessory, before and after the fact. He had, as a
good butler should, minded his own business, and never questioned the
goings on. The police would surely want to know why he had kept silent, had
never reported what he saw and heard. Troubridge was hoist on his own
petard.

The second thing that Troubridge feared was death. He had faced death once
before. That had been in 1940 and a short, stocky boy had snatched him from
the jaws of watery death. What lay in store for him was far worse than
drowning. Edmund Stennes, known as Der Chef, knew many ways to kill, each
more terrifying that the last. From snatches of overheard conversations
between Percy and his friends, Troubridge knew that the STASI and the KGB
had trained Stennes and that he reserved a special fate for those who
betrayed him, and his operation. As Percy had put it to his banker friend,
Stennes had learned his trade in the cellars of the All Russia Insurance
building on Dzerzhinsky Square.

Percy's sinister words had haunted Troubridge's dreams and he doubted that,
should the time come, that there would be anyone there to reach out the
saving hand.

******

In 1940 the War was less than a year old. The Germans had overrun Poland
with lightning speed. France and the Low Countries were occupied. The Royal
Navy and hundreds of little boats manned by civilians had snatched the BEF
off the broad, sandy beaches of Dunkirk. In England invasion was expected
any day. While the front was quiet - people talked of a "Phoney War" -
England remained firm.  To a generation influenced by Orwellian tales of
death falling from the skies, of great cities smashed to rubble by massive
aerial bombardments, and official government reports that predicted
casualties in the hundreds of thousands should the Luftwaffe come calling,
the newsreels of the Blitzkrieg in Poland and the Stukas ravaging the
huddled masses of Tommys on the beaches had confirmed civilian fears and
heightened their terror. The newspapers, feeding on the public's frenzy,
wrote editorials, questions were asked in Parliament. What, the
costermongers and merchants demanded to know, was the Government going to
do to protect them, and their children?

The Government, led by a combatant and defiant Winston Churchill, did what
it could, for they too knew all too well the power of the Luftwaffe. The
London Underground, with its deep tunnels, was impervious to assault from
the air, and could shelter thousands. Public buildings, churches, hotels,
had their cellars stocked and strengthened. Limited resources - the
material lost at Dunkirk had yet to be replaced - had been deployed as best
as could be, and batteries of anti-aircraft guns were sited around the
capital. Hitler thundered from his rostrum in the Kroll Opera House: "Er
kommt Er kommt!" In the silence of the ancient, historic chamber of the
House of Commons, Winston volleyed back: "We shall fight on the beaches
. . . we shall never surrender!"

The blathering of the Government, and the whining tirades of the tabloids,
meant nothing to the Troubridge family. Elsie Troubridge, an irrepressible
South Londoner, had more important things to worry about than some poxy
German flying about and dropping a bomb on her terrace house. She had
children to feed and care for. She was more concerned about putting a
decent tea on the table than she was about some Bohemian Corporal. With the
rationing, and the rise in prices, it was make do and hope that the butcher
had a little extra on the ration. She also had to worry about her two
eldest boys, Lloyd George and Neville, who had been called up and were in
some Godforsaken hole on the Brecon Beacons. Neither did she worry about
Margaret Rose or Lucy, who had jobs now, making ammunition for the
Army. Her husband, Brian, with typical British working class aplomb,
pooh-poohed the Government's warnings. The Hun had shot his bolt and any
day now would be coming, hat in hand, looking for an Armistice. Everything
would be settled by Christmas. There would be no further
hostilities. Everybody said so down at the pub. Stood to reason, didn't it?
Hitler had no claims on England and made no bones about it. Brian had heard
it on the wireless, and if you couldn't trust the BBC, whom could you
trust? Elsie had no reason to worry, no reason at all.

But Elsie did begin to worry when the postman dropped a small pamphlet into
the letterbox. It had been printed by the Battersea Council and advised all
residents of evacuation routes in the event that the Embankment, which held
back the Thames, was breached. Residents were invited to attend a meeting
at the Council Hall, where a full explanation would be made.

Elsie packed the kids off to bed, put on her good hat, and went to the
meeting. There she learned that the Battersea Power Station, a massive
structure with four huge stacks that towered over the whole district, was
an obvious target in the event of aerial bombardment. As the power station
was sited on the river, there was a possibility that the Embankment would
be breached and the waters of the Thames come crashing down through the
narrow streets of Battersea, which lay in a shallow depression, the streets
a good six feet lower than mean low tide. The whole area surrounding the
power station could be a sea of water and the Council had to take measures.

When Elsie returned home she made a pot of tea and sat in her parlour,
thinking. She wasn't worried about the older kids. They could run if they
had to. Brian, the great lug, if he was at work in the power station, was
more than capable of looking after himself. If he were home, and sober, he
could still take care of himself. Elsie, while a little overweight, had no
worries about herself. That left her youngest, Harry, a boy of six, whom
everybody in typical South London fashion called "Our 'Arry". If Our 'Arry
were home, Elsie could tend to him quick enough. But what if he were in
school? The dingy old pile was overcrowded and the teachers couldn't be
expected to look after one particular child when there were hundreds
running about.

The next morning Elsie went to the ARP station and asked about what might
happen if the Embankment was breached. The wardens, who had been briefed by
the War Ministry, assured her that such a thing, while possible, was highly
unlikely. The Germans were content to squat on their heels in France and
were not about to send a Stuka over just to inconvenience Elsie. While she
saw the logic in the wardens' argument, Elsie still had doubts. She was a
mother and she wanted to make sure that Our 'Arry was around for a great
many years to come. In that case, the wardens said, why not take advantage
of the evacuation scheme. Elsie could send her youngest into the country
or, if she were that worried, to Canada. The Government was evacuating
children from the cities and the scheme was available to anyone who cared
to enquire. Elsie put down Our 'Arry's name.

As the early summer progressed and still the Germans stayed across the
Channel, Elsie thought that she'd been worrying for nothing. She did fret a
bit when, on the 10th of July 1940, the Germans began the air campaign that
would be recorded in history as the Battle of Britain. Her fears subsided,
however, when she read in the newspapers, and heard on the wireless, that
the bombers were concentrating on the channel convoys, the radar stations
along the south coast, and the RAF aerodromes. The cities were ignored as
the Heinkels and Stukas concentrated on strategic targets far from London.

As July became August Elsie went about her normal routine. She found
herself, however, watching the skies over London. She saw the contrails
high in the sky as the Hurricanes and Spitfires chased errant German
bombers, the near exhausted RAF pilots stemming the tide.

In Berlin, Hitler raged at Goering and demanded that the RAF be
eliminated. The invasion barges were waiting at the French ports. The
Wehrmacht had gathered the necessary troops and they were chafing to take
the bit! Goering answered the criticism with Adler Tag - Eagle Day - and on
the 13th of August the Luftwaffe began an all out, continuous assault
against the RAF.

Elsie was unaware of the strategies, the tactics, or the horror of the air
war raging around her beloved city. She spent her day standing on line,
trying to find enough food to put on the table, gossiping with her friends,
clucking and shaking their heads over this, or that, lad posted as missing,
and wasn't it a shame about St. Gile's Church, destroyed when the one raid
had hit Cripplegate?

The raid, on the 25th of August 1940, had been a mistake. A squadron of
Dorniers, off course, had dropped their bombs over what they thought was
Thameshaven, and bombed London. Winston Churchill could not let the bombing
of London go unavenged and the dust and debris from the Wren church had
hardly settled when the RAF sortied against Berlin, which, as in the raid
on London, caused little physical damage. It did, however, so fracture the
Nazi psyche that Hitler flew into a pathological rage and ordered harshly
in his hard, Austrian accent: "Straf London!"

On the 7th of September the air raid sirens howled and the low drumming of
aircraft filled the skies over London. By noon the docks were ablaze, and
whole sections of the East End were engulfed in a firestorm. Elsie had
snatched Our 'Arry from his bed and in a panic had stumbled down the steps
leading to the cellars of the Council Hall, where she joined hundreds of
terrified women and children as the crump of exploding bombs, the crashing
of falling buildings, and the clanging of bells as the emergency vehicles
tried to navigate through the debris blocked streets to fight the fires
that filled the air with choking black smoke.

When the All Clear sounded Elsie had gone up into the Council offices and
asked that her son be sent away. He had been reduced to near idiocy with
fright and she couldn't have that. When it was pointed out to her that her
son's name was already on the list for evacuation she breathed a sigh of
relief.  She was told that there was an evacuation ship leaving in a week
or so, and assured that Our 'Arry would be as safe as houses. Ocean travel
was perfectly safe, and the Germans knew better than to attack a passenger
liner, especially after the contretemps that had followed the sinking of
the Athenia on the first day of the war. Why, the Germans had apologized
and sacked the U-Boat captain. The officials assured Elsie that she had
nothing to worry about. The Huns might be bastards, but they still
respected the Laws of the Sea!

What neither the official nor Elsie had known was that the Hun respected no
laws but his own and Elsie would never have rushed home to pack the one
small bag allowed had she known that the Cunarder "Lancastria", packed with
refugees and soldiers fleeing the advancing German juggernaut, including
hundreds of wounded, had been dive-bombed as she made her way away from the
fires of France, and sunk with great loss of life. The Government, so as
not to cause panic, had suppressed the news.

Having been assured that there was no danger, Elsie saw Our 'Arry onto the
boat train for Liverpool and thus it was that on the 13th of September 1940
the youngster found himself standing on a Liverpool pier, staring up at a
huge - to him - liner whose twin funnels bore the distinctive black, white
and buff colours of J.R. Ellerman and Co, a part of a group of 90 children
and 9 minders. Later in the day he, the other children, the crew and the
other passengers would wave goodbye and sail in the "SS City of Benares",
in convoy, bound for Montreal.

Although saddened at leaving his Mum and Dad behind, Our 'Arry quickly
adjusted to his new adventure. The liner was comfortable, with plenty of
room for exploring and playing, and he did not mind having to share a
Second Class cabin with three other boys. The crew were very nice, and
constantly giving him and the other children treats. There was plenty to
eat, although the food was plain. Not that Our 'Arry cared. It was just
like the food his Mum cooked back home. One of the lounges had been fitted
up as a playroom and there were tons of toys. Our 'Arry had even made a
friend, a short, slightly chubby boy his own age who was travelling in
First Class. Our 'Arry's new friend was a Canadian, at least Our 'Arry
thought his new friend was a Canadian because one day he'd be Canadian and
the next Liverpool Irish! His new friend had been travelling with his
parents (his Mum, whom Our 'Arry never met, was quite ill and the family
had been to Italy, for the warmth) and they were on their way home now.

For three days the ship plodded along. For the children life was a
delight. They could line the rails and wave at the sailors and passengers
on the other ships in the convoy, and at least once a day one of the
escorting destroyers would steam past, siren hooting. Our 'Arry and his new
friend got into deviltry, as boys that age will, and had their bottoms
smacked by Matron, a formidable, no nonsense woman who frightened Our 'Arry
no end. Not so his new friend, who brushed aside the old bat's admonitions
to behave, and wheedled a large piece of super walnut cake out of the Chief
Steward.

While he missed his Mum, and his Dad, and his brothers, and his sisters,
Our 'Arry was happy. He was a little worried about what would happen to him
when the ship reached Montreal but his new friend, with all the confidence
a precocious seven year old could muster, assured him that he would look
out for him. They were mates, right, and mates stuck together no matter
what.

After tea on the 17th of October Our 'Arry and the rest of the passengers
gathered in the lounge for the nightly movie. After the movie the children
were scrubbed and sent to their bunks. As he snuggled up against his
bunkmate, Our 'Arry fell asleep with a smile. His new friend had invited
him up to First Class for a romp and lunch. The food was ever so much
better and he wanted Our 'Arry to meet his Dad, but not his Mum, who was
ill and confined to their cabin.

At 2200 on the evening of the 17th of October 1940, the "SS City of
Benares" was plodding along at convoy speed of 8 knots. On board were 209
crewmembers, 6 convoy staff (Benares was Commodore ship) and 191
passengers, including 90 children and their 9 minders. Heavy weather had
set in and the sea had risen. On the bridge the officers watched the
barometer and nodded. Bad weather meant bad hunting for the U-Boats that
lurked along the edges of every convoy. Bad weather also meant that there
would be no need to zigzag, which made for a smoother ride for the
passengers.

The heavy weather also meant that the lookouts never saw the periscope of
U48 as she lined up for her shot. At 2205 Our 'Arry's happy, pleasant,
complacent maritime world came to a thunderous end as the torpedo slammed
into the liner.

The initial pandemonium and confusion was quickly brought under control as
the crew, well trained in evacuation drills, and the minders, trumpeting
orders to remain calm and to "Be British!" mustered the children at their
allocated boat stations. Our 'Arry, thrown from his bunk by the force of
the explosion, had been scooped up by a crusty old Anglican nun, and
carried to his lifeboat and handed over to one of the stewards, who placed
Our 'Arry midships and ordered him to stay still!

His teeth chattering from fear and cold, Our 'Arry felt the swung-out boat
being lowered. As the small wooden boat drew nearer to the roiling grey sea
he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his lifebelt and his coat, which
the children had been told time and time again by their minders to always
keep near them. His fear of the sea replaced by Matron's hard hand, Our
'Arry began to cry. The steward in charge of the boat was about to turn and
slap the puling brat and was unprepared for the swamping sea that upended
the lifeboat, spilling all aboard into the cold, dark waters.

Our 'Arry, terrified beyond all comprehension, began screaming
hysterically, thrashing madly as wave after wave engulfed him. He was even
more terrified when he realized that he couldn't swim and was not wearing
his life jacket. He felt himself being pushed down, down and down into the
depths and then suddenly there was a huge explosion as the North Atlantic
waters inundated the boilers of the ship. Our 'Arry was pushed violently
upward and flung into the air, his arms and legs thrashing wildly. Almost
immediately he sank again when a hand grabbed his pyjama top and pulled his
head out of the water.

Struggling madly Our 'Arry tried to get away. He felt a sharp slap and saw
the face of his new friend. "Help me!" he shrieked. "Save me! I can't
swim. Don't let me die! Don't let me die!"

Our 'Arry's new friend slapped him again. "Nobody is going to die! Stop
wiggling!"

His new friend's voice was calming and very authoritative so Our 'Arry did
as he was told. "We're not going to die?"

"Not if I can help it!" returned his new friend, who was swaddled in a huge
life jacket, and bobbing up and down with the rolling of the waves. He
clasped Our 'Arry and told him to hold on tight. Both boys, clutching each
other desperately, trod water as a huge wave rode them up, over the crest,
and down, sending them crashing into an upright boat. Hands reached out and
before they knew it both boys were safe. Someone threw a blanket over the
boys as they huddled in the bottom of the lifeboat and held each other. Our
'Arry wept tears of gratitude. "I shall never forget, Algie. Honest, I
swear, I swear."

******

Troubridge was startled by the sudden silence. He walked to the window and
saw that the pool area was empty, which meant that the boys had gone to
their rooms - Sepp and Gottfried shared a bedroom and bath; Eugen slept
alone - and that Percy was floundering around in his oversize bathtub,
washing away the mucky effluvia of the morning's activities and no doubt
trying to raise the dead.

Dismissing Percy and the boys from his mind, Troubridge returned to his
desk where he began a fruitless search for servants to replace the three
leaving later in the day. None of the agencies wanted anything to do with
Percy Simpson, or Troubridge. In the end Troubridge found a new agency that
would, with the greatest reluctance, and only at premium rates, supply
dailies to cook and clean.

Less than satisfied at the new domestic arrangements Troubridge went below
stairs to his pantry. This was Friday, and on Friday he polished the Second
Silver that was used for everyday dining. The First Silver, and the plate,
was polished every third Monday. Troubridge lived by rote and routine and
he saw no reason to change his ways now. When the silver was polished
Troubridge put away the cleaning supplies and went into the library. He
always dusted in there on Friday, not allowing the maids - when there were
any - to touch the magnificent collection of books, prints and pamphlets.

As he entered the wood-panelled, book-lined room Troubridge surprised
Eugen, who was sitting in a wing chair next to the fireplace. Troubridge
had not been at all surprised to see Eugen. The young German was a reader,
and very careful when he took a book from one of the shelves. Troubridge
had noticed that Eugen preferred the classics, in English, which was a
delight. Sepp and Gottfried never read anything except the dirty magazines
Percy kept in a special drawer in his bedroom desk.

Troubridge also noticed that Eugen was properly dressed in a lightweight
summer suit, stiffly starched white shirt and a conservative tie. The
butler did not have to look to know that the boy's shoes were highly
polished. Which pleased Troubridge no end. A well-shined pair of shoes was
the mark of a gentleman, and in marked contrast to Sepp and Gottfried, who
were nothing more that ignorant savages who sloped around the house in
their pants, or ratty jeans and T-shirts.

In many ways Troubridge felt drawn to the young, dark-haired German
boy. Eugen had a grace and dignity of expression that Troubridge never saw
in others these days, a quality he had grown accustomed to in his younger
days.

Safely ashore after being rescued from the dangers of the sea by HMS
HURRICANE, Our 'Arry had been given into the arms of his Mum, who vowed
that never again would her 'Arry be way from her. In time 'Our Arry
received a huge award, fifteen pounds, which his Mum put into a savings
account for him with the local building society.

By 1942 the Blitz, as everybody called the furious bombings, had
abated. There were still bombings - out of spite, Elsie thought - and half
of Battersea was a rubble-strewn wasteland. Elsie was no longer in
Battersea because there was nothing, really, to keep her there. Her oldest
boy, Lloyd George, had never returned from the beaches of Dieppe. Neville's
regiment had been shipped off to Hong Kong, which had capitulated to the
Japanese on Christmas Day, 1941, and the War Office had sent a telegram
saying that Neville was a prisoner of war. Brian, with two sons gone, had
joined the RN and was at sea constantly. Her daughters were no longer at
home, being housed in rooms provided by the factory where they worked.

Elsie tried to keep up, Lord knew she had tried, to keep going. She still
had Our 'Arry at home, what there was of her poor little, battered, terrace
house. She had been bombed out twice and returned to find more and more
damage and while the local council had made some repairs, the rain still
came in through the boarded up windows. She never knew when the gas would
be on and even though she lived less than a mile from the Battersea Power
Station, the electricity failed constantly. Which meant that she could
neither cook nor heat the one room still habitable in the house. Everything
was rationed and it was becoming more and more difficult to find food and
she spent hours on line, every day. Fresh fruits and vegetables were a long
ago memory. Our 'Arry was suffering as well. He always seemed to have a
cold, and spent more time huddled under a pile of blankets on the little
cot that she had made up for him than he did in school. Not that he was in
school all that much, as the students seemed to spend more of their time in
the shelters than they did in classes.

As Christmas approached Elsie took stock and then reached for "The
Telegraph". She scanned the Situations Vacant column and, finding just what
she was looking for, reached for a pen and a piece of paper. Three weeks
later she and Our 'Arry were comfortably warm in a snug room in the large
country house where she had taken up the position of Cook.

The lady of the house, Mrs. Williams-Moore, was the widow of a general and
lived in the grand manner. There was a definite social structure below
stairs and the Staff was treated with formal courtesy. The Butler was
addressed by his first name, the footmen by their last. The housemaids were
always given the honourific "Mrs." Elsie was addressed as Cook. Guests
still came and everybody dressed for dinner. It was if there were no
shortages, no denials of anything, and the war a foreign thing easily
ignored.

Mrs. Williams-Moore also fell quite in love with Elsie's little boy. She
took Our 'Arry under her wing and taught him, as she had taught her sons -
one in the RN, another in the Guards and off in the desert somewhere
consorting with Arabs and Blackamoors - the proper way for a young English
gentleman to conduct himself. Once again Our 'Arry was cosseted and coddled
and spent the balance of the war safe and happy.

When the war ended Elsie stayed in Cornwall. As Our 'Arry grew older
Mrs. Williams-Moore interested herself in his future. She saw to it that he
attended the local village school and helped him with his homework. She
also carefully groomed his thinking to a career in domestic service, which
was an honourable profession, after all, and well-trained footmen and
butlers were highly desired commodities.

When he was seventeen Our 'Arry was graduated from the local comprehensive
school with two A-Levels and three Os. At Mrs. Williams-Moore's urgings he
applied to, and was accepted by, Thanet Catering College. As
Mrs. Williams-Moore was paying the bills, Our 'Arry was happy to oblige.

Two years later and now know as "Henry", the young Troubridge was in
service to HRH Princess Alice, sister of the late King of Blessed Memory,
George V, and great aunt to HM the Queen. From Princess Alice, Troubridge
had moved on to Kensington Palace as under-butler to Princess Margaret. The
Royals were always poaching each other's servants and Troubridge imagined
that it was only a matter of time before he would be summoned to Clarence
House, or Buckingham Palace. He was content to wait, however, and had no
urge to leave his princess. Quite by chance he had met Nicholson Foster,
who was in London with his employer and was butler to one Percy
Simpson. Foster had been vague about what his employer was doing - as was
proper - and had mentioned in passing that he was retiring. Lured by a
whopping salary and promises of regular bonuses, Troubridge left a world of
quiet gentility and Royal dignity, where young men dressed properly and
spoke in measured, cultured voices, for one of the lower rings of the
Inferno, where boys cavorted naked and crawled into the footmen's beds
while they slept.

Shuddering at the memory of what he had left behind, Troubridge
acknowledged Eugen's murmured, "Good morning, Mr. Troubridge", and checked
to see that the morning papers had been arranged properly. There was a most
definite way that the papers should be laid out on the library table and as
usual Joseph had got it all wrong. As he rearranged the papers Troubridge
thought he heard a soft rustling and turned to see Eugen quickly shove a
folded bit of paper into his pocket.

Seeing the butler staring at him, Eugen shrank back in his chair. "Please,
Mr. Troubridge, I beg of you, I am doing nothing wrong," he whispered in
his Oxford-accented English.

At first Troubridge was at a loss as to what Eugen as talking about. Then
he realized what it was that the boy was hiding. It was a map, a cheap
handout to be found in any petrol station. The boy was planning on doing a
bunk!

For a long while Troubridge stared at the pale-faced boy. Then, much to
Eugen's surprise, the butler raised his finger to his lips. Then he moved
quickly to the door, and then motioned for Eugen to follow him. Troubridge
led Eugen into his pantry and motioned for him to sit. "You can't do it,
boy!"

Shaking his head firmly, Eugen declared passionately, "I am doing it,
Mr. Troubridge. I will not go back."

Giving Eugen a sad look, Troubridge tried to reason with the young
German. "Where will go? You cannot live on the streets! The police here
will detain you, and discover who you are, why you were brought here. They
will send you back and you know what will happen . . ."

"I will not go back," Eugen snarled in reply. "You do not know what to is
to be a whore! You have not done what I have done! Do not tell me I cannot
leave! I am going."

Troubridge leaned against the tall cabinet containing the silver. "They
will try to find you."

"I know. I will hide. Toronto is a large city. There are places to hide and
I will find one."

"You will need money, papers."

Eugen looked at the butler, trying to determine if he were a friend, or an
enemy. Troubridge's tone had been calm, without a hint of anger. He decided
to chance that Troubridge was a friend. "I have a little money . . ."

"I do not want your money," replied Troubridge. "Do not insult me by
offering money."

A look of surprise came over Eugen's slim, smooth face. "I do not
understand." Then a different look replaced the one of surprise.

Troubridge saw the look and shook his head. "And I do not want you."

"You speak in riddles. You do not want money; you do not want my body. What
do you want?"

A strange look came into Troubridge's eyes. "A long time ago, when I was
younger than you have ever been, a hand reached out and saved me. It is
time I repaid a long outstanding debt."

Eugen's eyes widened. "You will help me?"

"Yes. I don't know how, but I will." He stood thinking and then asked,
"Sepp and Gottfried?"

"No!" Eugen's lip curled into a disdainful snarl. "They are whores. They
will never leave the game. They have no sense and they have no shame. They
enjoy what they do, the lives they live. Better the plaything of a rich man
than a life of misery back home."

"Then say nothing to them," instructed Troubridge. "Be patient. I will help
you, but you must be patient and you cannot, under any circumstances, let
on that I am helping you."

"I am not an idiot," Eugen pointed out. "But you must hurry."

"Whatever for?" asked Troubridge, surprised at Eugen's intensity.

Lowering his voice Eugen explained. "When we were in Vancouver, Herr Percy
and his friends found trouble. They belong to something called the Order,
and they have been stealing from the Order. Der Kanzler, the Chancellor of
the Order, I mean the man in charge, he was very angry!" Eugen lapsed into
German. "Später wurde, der Kanzler Großartigen Meister der Reihenfolge
gewählt . . . The Chancellor was elected the new Grand Master and Herr
Percy and his friends, they left very quickly." A look, not quite of
fright, more of awe, crossed Eugen's face. "This man, he is very powerful,
I think, and not because he was elected Grand Master. There is something
else, but what I do not know. I do know that Herr Percy fears him
greatly. Herr Percy told his friends that it was time to wind up their part
in the operation. His friends were very angry but agreed in the end. The
banker said that they must contact Der Chef and the Stock Broker he said
that Herr Percy must send his boys away, return them to Der Chef. We will
all of us, Sepp, Gottfried, and I, we will be sent home and if Der Chef
thinks that we know anything . . ." Eugen shrugged expressively.

Troubridge understood. "Do you know if Percy contacted 'Der Chef'?" he
asked.

"I do not know," replied Eugen truthfully. "We left Vancouver and came
here. Sepp, or Gottfried have said nothing so I cannot tell you."

Troubridge knew enough to know that Stennes would make certain that the
three boys would never tell anyone what they knew. The chance remark that
Percy had made to his friends echoed through his mind, "Stennes can take
care of business. He learned his trade in the cellars of the All Russia
Insurance building." Troubridge shuddered involuntarily. He turned to
Eugen. "I will help you escape. You must be patient and you must act as
normally as possible."

Eugen nodded. "That is the easy part," he said with a grim sadness. "So
long as I am available in the morning, and at tea time, they do not bother
me."

"Good, then." Troubridge reached out and patted Eugen's shoulder. "We will
get out, my boy, together."

******

Someone had once said that if you want to get a group of Brits together,
form an association. The English were, and are great joiners, delighting in
membership in regimental associations, navy associations, civilian
associations and the like. If the dues were small, and there was an annual
meeting, with a chance to meet one's own kind, well, the Brits would
join. Troubridge was a typical Englishman. When, fifteen or so years ago he
had received a letter announcing the formation of a Benares Association,
where the survivors could keep in touch, relive the dreadful day, and have
a jar or three together, Troubridge had sent off his five pounds. For his
money he received a monthly newsletter and a list of members. He had never
had the time to attend any of the reunions, but he did manage to keep up
with what his fellow survivors, and their families, were doing.

After leaving Eugen, Troubridge returned to his office. He knew that he
could not do what he needed to do, alone. Spiriting Eugen out of the house
was child's play. Percy rarely inquired after his boys and so long as they
were available when he wanted one of them, he kept himself busy with his
business. Sepp and Gottfried, when they weren't sleeping, or having sex
with Percy or each other, spent all day, every day, lounging by the pool or
watching the television in the basement games room. They would not be a
problem.

Troubridge sat back, thinking. Leaving the house was one thing. Finding
sanctuary was another. He and Eugen would need a hole to hide in, a safe
house where no one, particularly Stennes, could find them. They would need
new papers, perhaps even new identities, and time, time to gather what
funds they could, time to retrieve carefully hidden documents and letters,
time to remove Eugen's passport from the wall safe. Troubridge reasoned
that all this could be accomplished easily. The hardest part, hiding, was
what worried him.

Recalling Eugen's remarks about the "Order" caused Troubridge to frown. He
knew that Percy belonged to some fraternal organization called the Order of
St. John of the Cross of something or other. He wished that he had paid
more attention when Percy was laughing and mocking the members of the
Order, and remarking sarcastically that they were ripe for the picking,
what with the old Grand Master dead and a Chinaman in charge. Troubridge
reasoned that if the Order was as ineffectual and useless as Percy thought,
then he could not turn to it for help. He didn't know where, or who or what
the Order was, anyway. No help there.

As he sat thinking the door to his office opened and Traudl, the upstairs
maid, entered. She dropped a bundle of letters on the butler's desk. "The
post, Mr. Troubridge," she said in thickly-accented English, "and you know
that I am leaving?"

Nodding, Troubridge glanced through the mail. "Your reference will be ready
before lunch," he replied absently. He did not hear Traudl leave because
his attention had been drawn to a letter.

Ripping open the envelope, Troubridge quickly scanned the contents. The
Benares Association was having a general meeting and all members were
invited to attend. Included in the package was a list of members and
Troubridge's eyes quickly scanned the list. There, there was the name! They
were mates, and mates stuck together. Troubridge reached for the telephone.

Finding out just where his rescuer was hanging his hat was not all that
difficult. Beside each member's name was his address. Bell Canada had an
excellent service and Troubridge was connected to the number provided by
the Bell information operator. He panicked momentarily when the man who
answered at the other end said that while his friend did live there, he
wasn't available, as he was at work. The young man compliantly provided his
friend's work number, which Troubridge dialled immediately. He was somewhat
surprised when another voice, a very young voice, answered the telephone,
and while he waited for his friend to come on the line Troubridge wondered
if he was perhaps teaching, or cooking, at some school for boys.

Troubridge fretted impatiently through what seemed like an interminable
wait while the youngster who had answered the telephone located his
friend. Finally, he heard the voice of the man to whom he owed his very
life. "Algie, is that you?"

There was a long pause, and then the strong voice rolled through the
earpiece of the telephone. "Faith and I haven't been called that in years!"
There was a low, rumbling chuckle and the voice continued, "Sure and it
makes me feel as if I'm after living at the bottom a fish tank!"

Somewhat taken aback, Troubridge hastily apologized and spoke his name.

"By all the saints! Our 'Arry!" boomed the voice of his friend in
reply. "However did you find me?"

Troubridge did not feel that idle chitchat was necessary. "I need your
help," he all but whispered. "Please, help me."

Suddenly the line was silent, and then Algie asked, "What is it, 'Arry?"

******

When Troubridge finished his confession and hurriedly recounted his fears,
Chef rang off. Then he picked up the telephone again and when the line at
the other end was answered, spoke the words that he knew would set into
motion a rescue operation, "Exquisivi Dominum et exaudit me et ex omnibus
tribulationibus meis eripuit me."

To be continued in Chapter 5