Date: Fri, 20 Jun 2003 07:50:08 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

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

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

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). My e-mail address is
paradegi@rogers.com


The Boys Of AURORA - CHAPTER 2


The Phantom opened his eyes, cursed, and sat up. He glanced at the bedside
clock and groaned loudly. It was 0430 and the room was dimly lit by the
thin light of the emerging dawn, which reminded The Phantom that once again
he'd forgotten to draw the curtains. He looked around and then fell back on
the bed, reached for the other pillow and pulled it to him, drinking in the
scent of the man he had slept with. Which led The Phantom to wonder just
where the man he had slept with was at the moment. Presently the sound of
rushing water came to him and answered his question.

Hugging the pillow that The Gunner had slept on with one arm, The Phantom
pulled the bedclothes over his head and he was gradually drifting back to
sleep when he heard the bedroom door open. He peeked from under the covers
and saw The Gunner's bare behind, pale in the weak sunlight that washed
over the room, as he bent over his overnight bag. The Phantom whistled
softly. "Nice ass, for an old man," he giggled, then reached over and
turned on the bedside lamp.

The Gunner pulled on a clean pair of underpants and sat on the bed. "A
man's ass is like fine wine," he said smugly. "The more it ages the better
it gets, smartass." He leaned down and gave The Phantom a kiss. "And what
are you doing up at this hour?"

The Phantom returned the kiss and hugged his lover. "I woke up missing your
ass trying to push my ass out of the bed."

The Gunner chuckled. "Sleep while you can, Phantom." He arched an eyebrow
mockingly. "Are you telling me that I'm a restless sleeper?"

"Last night you were," replied The Phantom as he pulled himself into a
sitting position. "Not like the last time we slept together. You hardly
moved. But then, . . ." A salacious grin broke his handsome, boyish
features. "We had been screwing our brains out so I guess . . ."

"Don't be crude, Phantom," returned The Gunner sharply.  Almost immediately
he regretted his curtness. "I'm sorry, Phantom, I'm still half asleep. I
don't function all that well on only three hours sleep."

The Phantom hugged him. "You are the strangest guy, Gunner."

The Gunner returned the hug. "How so?"

"You curse like a navvy," replied The Phantom as he threw back the
covers. "Yet if I swear or make a crude remark you get upset."

"I'm not upset, Phantom. I just don't like it when you cheapen what we
have. I love you so very much and 'screwing our brains out' does not
describe what we do." The Gunner smiled fondly at his lover. "I would also
like to think that you would one day not only think like an officer, but
act like one, and speak like a proper gentleman."

"More lessons," moaned The Phantom. "And what makes you think I might ever
be a proper gentleman?"

"Because I have a plan," replied The Gunner. He snickered evilly. "It's
called making a silk purse out of a sow's ear!"

"Oh really?" drawled The Phantom. "Well, we will just see about that!" He
deliberately reached down and rubbed his hand across the soft glans of his
equally soft penis. "Right now, though . . ." he raised his soft penis and
waved it enticingly at The Gunner.

"No, Phantom." The Gunner's voice was firm. "The day is starting and I have
too much to do. Play time is over!"

"Jesus, you are cranky!" complained The Phantom. He got out of bed,
scratched himself and stretched. "I'm glad that I'm a morning person."

"Just you wait!" growled The Gunner. "Wait until you've stood watch on
watch for five days solid and we'll see just how much of a morning person
you are."  "Watch on watch?" The Phantom frowned, perplexed. The Gunner had
just started teaching him the Watchkeeping system when he had decided that
the man had betrayed him and ended the lessons.

"Yes. You are on duty for four hours, then off duty for four hours." The
Gunner yawned explosively. "And I am not cranky. I'm tired."

The Phantom snickered and sat down beside The Gunner. "Yeah, you are."

"Tired? Cranky?"

"Both. But I love you anyway." The Phantom draped his arms around The
Gunner's shoulders. "And I'm sorry about what I said. I'm also sorry we
didn't get to make love last night." The Gunner held the boy close. The
Phantom nuzzled The Gunner's neck and he revelled in the fresh, clean smell
of the man. "When I was little I used to crawl onto my Dad's lap every
chance I got. When I was there I felt warm, and safe. He made me feel like
I was the only person in the world. When I'm with you I feel the same way."

"You're a little too big to be sitting on anybody's lap and as far as I am
concerned you are the only person in the world," replied The Gunner, the
warmth of his voice reinforcing his sincerity.

The Phantom gave The Gunner a peck on the lips. "Let's go back to bed. We
didn't make love last night and I wanted to so much!"

"If memory serves someone very dear to me hit the sack and promptly fell
asleep," observed The Gunner dryly.

"You should talk," returned The Phantom with a small laugh. "Your head
barely hit the pillow and you were snoring like a grampus."

The Gunner untangled himself from The Phantom's arms and stood up. He began
pulling on his trousers. "Well, my son, you have the option of going back
to sleep. I have to get a move on."

"Gunner, it's only 4:30 in the morning. You don't have to be at AURORA
until Divisions and that's three-and-half hours away. "

"I still have things to do, Phantom. I have to get on home, load up the
uniforms and then go over to AURORA. We've been away for the better part of
four days and I can imagine what awaits me."

The Phantom groaned and stood up. "Well, I might as well go in too."

"Why?" asked The Gunner. "Enjoy yourself while you can. Sleep while you
can. The day will come when you won't be able to do either."

The Phantom began rummaging in his bureau for some clean underwear. "It
won't kill me to go in early with you.  Besides, I think we'd better make
the most of our time together."

"Mom and Dad coming home?"

The Phantom nodded and padded toward the door. "Pretty soon, now. Once they
get home I don't know what we're going to do."

"Is there any coffee?" The Gunner called after The Phantom as he left the
bedroom.

"There is if you make it."

******

After putting the coffee on The Gunner left the kitchen and stood on the
broad patio beside the pool where he smoked a cigarette. He did not feel
right smoking in the house. Neither of The Phantom's parents smoked and The
Phantom confined his clandestine habit to his room and the lingering odour
of tobacco smoke would alert The Phantom's parents that he had had a guest
during their absence. They would ask questions and . . .  "And so it
begins," he thought, "the subterfuge, the sneaking around, the whole ball
of wax."

He sat on one of the poolside chairs, staring morosely into the dark waters
of the pool. With the return of The Phantom's parents they would have to be
very careful. One hint that their relationship was anything but platonic
and there would be hell to pay. The Phantom was still only seventeen,
jailbait, no matter how one looked at it, and he would remain jailbait
until his 21st birthday. The Gunner finished his cigarette and
fieldstripped it. The less evidence he left of his stay the better for both
Phantom and him.

In the kitchen The Gunner poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table, his
doubts beginning to overwhelm him. Phantom was so damned young, not quite a
boy and not yet, despite his bravado and bluster, a man. The Phantom still
enjoyed being a teenager and was, perhaps unknowingly, not quite ready to
put away childish things. Like any teenage boy The Phantom was obsessed
with sex. Was their relationship, which thus far had been based solely on
sex, going to last? In a week or ten days they would separate. Could they
sustain a long distance relationship? Could they even sustain their
relationship?

Until now The Gunner had always had relations with men his own age with at
least, on the surface, mutual interests. Which led him to wonder just what
he and The Phantom had in common. His relationship with Joel had foundered
on Joel's refusal to allow the Navy to dictate how they would live. The
Phantom was willing to enter the Navy. The papers applying for the UNTD
were completed, only lacking his father's signature. Yet Phantom, like most
teenage boys, was subject to mood swings. This week he was all ready to
become a sailor. But what about next week, or, for that matter, next year?

The doubts were returning. There was no reason for it, but there it
was. Would Phantom still love him, still want to be with him, a year from
now? And what about Ray?  Phantom, whether he was prepared to admit it or
not, was in love with Ray, who had been Phantom's first boy. The Phantom
had also slept with the Twins. Phantom cared for Cory and Todd, but not in
the way he cared for Ray, and the Twins had been a learning experience for
Phantom. They had shown him the beauty of physical love between men and the
Twins loved Phantom as their friend and brother. They would always be there
for him. They loved him, but they were not in love with him.

Ray was different because deep within his heart Phantom had Ray's name
engraved. It would always be there and he would always have feelings for
the sweet, gentle boy who had given himself to Phantom.

The Gunner returned outside and lit another cigarette. Phantom, for all his
rueful self-pity, was going to sleep with Ray. They were, sooner or later,
going to make love. It was inevitable. They were together constantly. They
were friends. They shared the common drudgery of the galley. More
importantly, they shared the camaraderie of boys. They had the shared
interests of boys, and most importantly, they loved each other. Ray loved
Phantom and Phantom had deep feelings for Ray. They had shared a bed in
Victoria, and explored each other. The Gunner did not doubt Phantom's
feelings of guilt over what had happened in Victoria, just as he did not
doubt that nature would take its course and that The Phantom would be
together with Ray, and they would be lovers, if only for a short time.

Hearing The Phantom blundering around the kitchen The Gunner wondered if
their relationship would survive that one, brief, shining moment with Ray.

******

The Phantom sipped his scalding coffee and moaned quietly. He was beginning
to regret having gotten out of bed. He was dog-tired, and felt it.

"Phantom, for heaven's sake, go back to bed." The Gunner smiled and held
the boy's hand.

The Phantom refused. "I want to spend as much time with you as I can. When
the folks come home, we won't be able to, will we?"

"No. We have to face the cold, hard facts. Discretion and sneaking around
will be the order of the day."

"Bluntly put!" The Phantom grimaced. "What did you do to the coffee, pee in
it?"

The Gunner chuckled. "I like it strong, Phantom." Then he sobered. "I have
to speak more bluntly, Phantom. I have your reputation to consider. It
won't do you or me any good if our relationship becomes public knowledge."

The Phantom sighed and pushed his coffee cup away. "It sure would blow any
chance of me getting into the UNTD Program, wouldn't it," he observed,
pointing to the large envelope containing his application.

The Gunner nodded his agreement. "I've lived with it all my life, really. I
suppose the only thing I was spared was having to tell my folks that I was
gay."  Rolling his eyes The Phantom moaned, "God, I don't even want to
think about that! My Dad will freak. Brendan will go ape shit and probably
try to lay a beating on me."

"And your mother?"

The Phantom thought a moment and then said quietly, "I don't know,
really. We've never really talked about things like sex, and being gay. I
don't know what my folks would say or do."

The Gunner heard the undercurrent of doubt in The Phantom's
voice. "Phantom, since I hardly know them, I can't even dare to predict
what their reaction would be," he said gently. "Your mother seems to be a
very clued-in lady. Your Dad, well, he's a policeman and to be honest,
policemen have never been known for their sympathy or support for
gays. Quite the opposite."

"I'm going to have to tell them, sooner or later, though," Phantom sighed.

"Yes."

"How do you tell them, Gunner? How do you tell your folks that you're gay,
and that you're in love with a man?"

The Gunner looked sadly at his lover and shook his head. "Phantom, if they
love you, and I think that they do, very much, they'll accept you for what
and who you are. They might not approve of it, but I think they will accept
that you're gay, and live with it."

The Phantom smiled and squeezed The Gunner's hand. "For the first time,
ever, Stevie Winslow doesn't have a Gunnerism to fall back on."

Smiling thinly The Gunner shook his head. "No, no Gunnerisms on this one,"
he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "My folks died before I had really
accepted the fact that I was gay, so I never really had the experience of
telling anyone close to me, except David Clayton, and he was a friend, not
family."

"And Chef?"

"Yes, Chef as well, but he suspected long before I told him. He's a pretty
smart old bird, even if he is half smashed most of the time."

"The guys love Chef. Joey and Randy adore him and Ray, well, Ray . . ."
replied The Phantom warmly.

The Phantom's tone, and the warmth in his voice, was not lost on The
Gunner. Ray evoked feelings in Phantom far beyond those of mere sex. He
also evoked feelings in Chef that defied explanation. The boy was very
special to the old cook because . . . "Ray is replacing the son Chef lost
year's ago," The Gunner said quietly.

"Chef had a son?" The Phantom's eyes widened in surprise. Chef did not seem
to be the type to marry, let alone marry and have a son.

The Gunner nodded. "The kid would be in his mid-twenties, now. Chef married
very young, about age 19, I think. I never met his wife as she was long
before my time." He chuckled ruefully. "She loved the lads. I heard stories
about her. None good."

"What stories?" The Phantom's ears seemed to visibly perk up and his eyes
shone with curiosity. For all his snooping while serving in the dining hall
he rarely heard anything juicy about the officers or the staff
members. They were a closed-mouth, taciturn lot when it came to gossip
about each other.

"There was a story going around that when Chef's ship (it was the old
SACKVILLE) left Halifax the Bunting Tossers in the Flag Building would run
up a signal hoist: He's gone, party at Patty's."

"That was her name?"

"Yes. As I said, she loved the sailors." His eyes clouded. "They lived in
Shaggin' Park Marriage Quarters." The Gunner chuckled dryly, without
mirth. "When Chef went to sea Halifax Hattie would sit outside his house
with a trunk full of booze to sell to all the matelots who came to call,"
he finished with nostalgic sadness.

"Who or what is a Halifax Hattie?" asked the Phantom. The world, it seemed,
was full of strange characters and The Gunner seemed to know them all.

"Halifax Hattie was the local bootlegger. She is a very charming black
lady. I loved her. She used to give me credit."

"Gunner!" The Phantom raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"It's true, so help me," insisted The Gunner, raising his hand. "Hattie
still writes me and I have an open invitation to visit her whenever I'm in
Halifax. She sure came in handy when Chef came home and found his flat
empty and his wife and kid gone."

"She just up and left?"

"Yes, she did." The Gunner shook his head. "The buzz was she'd hooked up
with a Chief Stoker who was retiring out west somewhere. She emptied the
house and that was that."

"And Chef has never seen his son since?"

The Gunner shook his head sadly. "He never saw the lad again. He looked,
and I know he hired a private investigator but it was as if the earth had
opened up and swallowed the boy and his mother."

"Poor Chef."

"Indeed. His wife had played her cards very close to her chest and no one
really knew who she'd run off with. The investigator chased down the
rumours but got nowhere at all. Chef was devastated and, well, he was very
lonely and I think more or less just closed down the part of his emotions
that allowed him to get close to people."

"He loves Ray, though."

"Yes, Phantom, he loves Ray. For some strange reason Ray has managed to
reach that place that Chef has tried so hard to keep hidden. Chef has sort
of adopted him. I think, in a way, it makes Chef's real family complete. He
has brothers, men who sailed with him, and who would die for him. Sandro is
the little brother Chef never had. I'm sure you've noticed how protective
he is of Sandro."

The Phantom smiled. "Chef is really proud that Sandro asked him to be part
of the minyan for his bris."

The Gunner reached for his pack of cigarettes, thought better of it, and
then said, "Chef also has nephews. You, you're the senior nephew. Joey and
Randy, though they probably don't know it, are Chef's little brat
nephews. Ray now, is his surrogate son. In his own strange way Chef loves
Ray. He's giving Ray all the love and attention he can't give to his real
son. With Ray, Chef's real family is complete."

"Chef's real family?" asked The Phantom, his curiosity piqued.

"Phantom, your real family is not necessarily the people born under the
same roof you were."

The Phantom laughed and threw up his arms. "At last, a Gunnerism! I knew
you had one in you somewhere!"

******

"If you two skates think for one minute that you're going to come in here
and mooch an early breakfast, you can think again!" Chef's booming voice
shook the rafters of the galley.

"And a very good morning to you too, Chef," replied The Gunner, not at all
perturbed at Chef's mood.

"What's the matter with him?" asked The Phantom as he moved out of the line
of fire and stood beside Ray.

Ray rolled his eyes. "He's been like that since he came in." He nodded
toward Randy and Joey, who were busy prepping the morning bacon and
sausages. "And those two have not helped matters at all."

The Makee-Learns saw The Phantom and Ray looking at them and grinned
sheepishly. "What did they do?" asked The Phantom.

"Joey dropped a flat of eggs and Randy managed to burn himself and scatter
a tray of sausages all over the deck"

"That's guaranteed to set Chef off. Is he hung over, too?"

Ray shook his head. "There's something else," he whispered.

In a louder voice Ray asked The Phantom to help him set up the coffee. They
walked into the Mess Hall and began preparing the morning coffee. "Well,"
asked The Phantom.

Ray looked around. "I think they're doing it," he whispered.

"Who's doing what?" The Phantom hadn't a clue about what Ray was going on
about.

"Randy and Joey. I think they're, you know . . ."

"Playing with each other? Sucking each other?"

Ray nodded. "They've been giggling together all morning. Chef sent Sandro
over to the Wardroom to get the officers' coffee going and the two brats
were supposed to be starting the oatmeal. I turned around and they were
gone. I found them in the heads."

"And?"

A look of astonishment filled Ray's wide, brown eyes. "Phantom, they were
kissing, like on the lips kissing! And they were feeling each other up!" he
finished with a shocked gasp.

The Phantom giggled. "Makee-Learns in love! What will their mothers think?"
Ray frowned slightly when he said, "Randy's mother is dead and it's not
Joey's mother we have to worry about." He was very upset. "Chef will pitch
a fit if he finds out about them."

"So make sure he doesn't," replied The Phantom smoothly. "After the
breakfast rush take them into the lounge and tell them to knock it off."

"Oh, no, not me! No way!" protested Ray. His face brightened "You do it,
Phantom. You're their Honourary Big Brother. They'll listen to you."

"So are you!" returned The Phantom. "It's not that you don't know what's
going on, if Sunday night is anything to go by!"

Ray giggled and blushed. "Yeah, well, we did have fun. But, Phantom, you
have more experience, you know, with guys, and things and . . ."

The Phantom realized that sex was something Ray felt very uncomfortable
talking about. "Oh, all right! I'll talk to them."

When they returned to galley they found that Sandro had returned. He and
the Makee-Learns were busily cutting up fresh fruit and arranging it on
trays. Chef and The Gunner were standing by the huge main range. The Gunner
was busily cracking eggs into a large metal bowl. " . . .All I am saying,
Chef, is that it's the same all over.  It doesn't matter if it's the Mess
in Cyprus or bloody NADEN."

"It's called a Standard Menu, it's supposed to cut down on waste." Chef
handed The Gunner a clove of garlic.

The Phantom and Ray walked over to the range and watched as The Gunner
expertly used a knife to crush the garlic clove. He set the garlic aside
and began to pour heavy cream into the eggs. "I know that, but that still
doesn't mean that you can't jazz things up a bit.  Hell, has no one ever
heard of Local Purchase?"  "Only for fresh vegetables and fruit. Everything
else is bulk purchase."

"And tastes like it!" The Gunner set the bowl aside. "I can go into any
Mess in the CAF and know that on Friday for dinner there will be a fish
entree, veal cutlets, and spaghetti."

Chef was actually a very good cook. His problem was that he was constrained
by set menus and recipes. He was not impressed when The Gunner told him
that he would cook breakfast for the galley hands. "So? I don't set the
menu! All I do is cook the food, and I don't see a problem, so I don't!"
protested Chef loudly "And you do very well with what you have," agreed The
Gunner. He added salt and pepper to the bowl of eggs and cream. "Now, if I
only had some smoked salmon . . ."

"Salmon? Where would I be getting the smoked salmon?" growled Chef.

"In the Cold Store. There's a whole slab of it," offered Ray. "You said we
had to keep our mucky paws off of it because it was too expensive to waste
on cadets."

"I did NOT!" roared Chef. Sandro and the Makee-Learns jumped and tried to
make themselves small. Chef in one of his moods was not on the list of
their favourite things. "I said that it was too expensive to put on the
menu."

"Same thing," insisted Ray stubbornly.

"Who asked you to butt in?" demanded Chef. He glared at Ray. "What you need
is a good hiding!"

"He's much too old and much to large to turn over your knee, Chef," put in
The Gunner. "Besides, you're right."

"I am?" This was a new one on Chef. Usually The Gunner delighted in taking
the mickey out of him.

"Sure. This isn't the Empress Hotel so fancy dishes aren't called for. But
it still would not hurt to vary things a bit." He gestured at the bowl of
eggs, "Take breakfast, for instance. Every morning its bacon, sausages,
eggs, oatmeal, and pancakes, except for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday,
when it's French toast. Why not try waffles for a change."

Chef puffed up, a perfect picture of culinary indignation. "Look, boyo, you
don't have to cook for 250 people three times a day! I do! You try it
before you open your gate!"

The Gunner calmly adjusted the gas under the range and smiled at Chef. "I
am not in your class, Chef, and I'm not trying to tell you how to do your
job."

"Good."

"What I am suggesting," he emphasized, "is that once in a while you vary
things a bit, you know, jazz things up for the hands. They get tired of the
same old thing, day after day. You make great duff and your soups are out
of this world." Somewhat mollified Chef motioned for The Gunner to
continue. He did make great desserts and his soups were works of art. "All
you have to do is look at all the gash food that gets dumped," The Gunner
pointed out.

Chef thought a moment. The Gunner was right, of course. There was a lot of
wastage. "I have to feed 'em by the book. But, maybe, and I said maybe, we
can vary things a bit. I'll talk to Andy." He turned to Ray. "Get the
salmon."

The Gunner smiled and then returned to his eggs. "Phantom, get some
sausages, bacon, and Ray, if there's any parsley, bring it, please."

Chef, who was seeing a side of his friend that he did not know existed,
watched as The Gunner cut the thin slices of rosy smoked salmon into small
pieces, and placed them in a separate bowl. After asking The Phantom to set
the table he put the bacon and sausages into large skillets and set them to
cooking. He took another skillet and poured a large portion of eggs into
it. With his fork he took a minute dollop of crushed garlic and began to
scramble the eggs.

Stirring slowly, and only after the eggs had been scrambled to a standard
known only to The Gunner did he fold the pieces of salmon into them. He
lowered the heat under the skillet and nodded, stirring the egg and salmon
mixture with loving care.

Chef, who had had his moments, realized that The Gunner applied the same
deadly seriousness to cooking that he did to all his endeavours. Before
very long the most wonderful odours began filling the galley. Sandro and
the Makee-Learns, done for the moment, walked over and watched The Gunner
cooking. When the food was almost ready The Gunner asked The Phantom to
bring him some plates and told the others to sit down at the table.

With brisk efficiency The Gunner plated the food, decorated each portion of
the eggs with a sprig of fresh parsley and handed the plates to The Phantom
who served the food to the others. Chef was never one to observe protocol
if he could avoid it. The Phantom had barely placed the plate of food in
front of him when he began eating. Sandro, Joey and Randy followed his
lead. Sandro was the first to speak. "It is good. May I please have more?"

Joey and Randy nodded their agreement. They held out their plates in a
"more, please" gesture.

The Phantom beamed with pride. His Gunner was not only a great lover but
also a great cook. "I'll get it," he offered.

Chef held up his hand for silence. "Gunner, I owe you an apology. These are
the best damned eggs I ever ate. Now, tell me how did you learn to cook."

The Gunner shrugged. "Just sort of picked it up as I went along. Some cooks
on board ship can't parboil shit. I learned to cook in self defence!"

"You didn't get that little trick about the garlic from some cook book,"
said Chef. "Would there be more of the eggs, perhaps?"

Sandro nodded and went to the stove. "Sausages, too. More bacon?"

"Bring it all. I get that sick of my own cooking that anything new is a
treat."

Randy burped loudly. "You cook good, Chef."

"Thank you for the compliment. And don't burp at the table."

Joey giggled and echoed, loudly, Randy's burp. "Yeah, you are a good
cook. But, honest, Chef, the guys do complain. They don't say anything to
you . . ."

"And why not, may I ask?" Chef speared a sausage and waved it at Joey. "I
do the best that I can for those brats."

"We know that, Chef.  It's just that you sometimes, well, you scare
people," offered Randy timidly.

"I do not!" roared Chef. "A better natured, kinder, softer spoken man you
will never find!"

"Yeah, you do," replied Joey, not at all disturbed by Chef's outrage. "You
yell at us and because you yell at us we know that you love us. A lot of
the officers and instructors, they just sort of pat us on the bum and say
run along little boy." He flashed Chef a brilliantly warm smile. "You care
about us."

"Okay, I care about you," admitted Chef grudgingly. "That still doesn't
tell me what the lads are complaining about."

"The food, Chef, the food," explained Randy patiently. "It's all the
same. We line up, we get some really good soup, and a nice salad, and then
we get the same stuff. Remember the night you made Chinese food? The guys
loved it. It was different from frozen veal cutlets."

"How can I forget? The Twins made a point of spending half the night
looking for the ship's cat!" grumbled Chef. "As if I'd go hunting for that
mangy thing, much less cook it!" Then he brightened and smiled at his
Makee-Learns.  "Still, maybe I can do something different every day."

Randy and Joey grinned, then jumped up and ran to Chef. They embraced him
and each gave him a big wet kiss on the cheek. "Maybe pork chops?" asked
Joey. "I love pork chops."

"You'll get the back of me hand, boyo!" growled Chef as he pushed the boy
away. He was secretly pleased at the show of affection but dared not let
the Makee-Learns know it.

"And stuffed green peppers." Randy gave Chef a big hug. "My mother used to
make them."

Chef returned Randy's hug. He knew all about the boy's mother. "We'll see,
Randy." He lightly patted Randy's behind. "Now, go and finish your
breakfast." Chef toyed with his food for a moment then smiled. "I'll work
out something. Variety from now on."

The boys grinned at Chef and The Gunner beamed. "What price a Chef, then? A
kiss from his Makee-Learns and he's putty in their hands."

"Bollocks to you, Gunner. You're as bad, and don't deny it."

"Okay, I won't."

Chef quickly returned to his grumpy mode. "Andy will kill me. He's a good
lad but he's as tight as a frog's arsehole when it comes to spending
money."

"Not when it comes to the cadets," replied The Gunner. "He'll just have to
scrounge a little harder."

"That he will," agreed Chef.

"Besides, he likes to eat just as much as the rest of them. He'll do it."

"Good. I just hope I don't regret it. First it's the stuffed green peppers
for Randy, the pork chops for Joey, next it will be sauerkraut and
bratwurst for Harry."

"So? Give them what they want." The Gunner poured himself a cup of coffee,
sipped, and grimaced. "A chef with your talents should be able to carry it
off. In fact, I can't for the life of me think why you're not working in
Civvy Street."

"I like the Navy, and I like these brats." Chef gestured expansively. "When
the time comes, in four or five years, I'll send in my papers." He gestured
toward the third plate of eggs that Sandro was eating. "You still haven't
told me how you learned to cook scrambled eggs that way."

The Gunner shrugged. "Not much to tell. When I was on course in England my
Term Lieutenant got invitations to all these country places. He'd take one
of the guys from my course along to be his doggy, you know, lay out his
clothes, run his bath . . ."

"His servant, you mean," interrupted Chef tartly.

"Yes," agreed The Gunner. "His servant. When my turn came we went to this
really huge house in the country. Not only was I the Lieutenant's doggy I
helped serve lunch and dinner. The cook showed me how to make scrambled
eggs. End of story."

Chef snorted. "If it's anything like Admiralty House in Halifax you worked
like a dog and got treated like dirt. Those English aristocrats can be
pretty snooty."

"Well, I admit that all the glitz and glitter was in the front of the
house. But I enjoyed myself and I met some very nice people. There were
some snobs but most of the people I served were pretty down to earth. They
lady of the house, who was a duchess, swore like a trooper and smoked like
a chimney."

"You met a real duchess?" asked Randy, whose only connection with the
aristocracy was what he read in the newspapers.

"Sure did. I had to call her 'Your Grace' and bow whenever I met her."

"Did you meet the Queen?" asked Joey, his eyes as wide as Randy's.

"Not the one you're thinking of," muttered Chef.

The Phantom giggled and The Gunner glared at him and Chef. "It was an
experience I do not regret," said The Gunner with dignity. "It's not
everyone who has been in service in one of the stately homes of England."

"Complete with one of the stately homos of England trying to get his hand
down the front of your BVDs," Chef whispered to himself.

The Phantom, who was sitting beside Chef, heard him. He was in the middle
of drinking his glass of milk and he began laughing so hard he could not
swallow. A huge spray of milk flew out of his nose.

The Gunner gave Chef an icy stare. He wasn't at all sure what it was that
Chef had said but it must have been a lulu. He assumed a hurt air. "I don't
see what's so funny, Phantom, and I will remind you that if it had not been
for my service a certain Cadet Chief Steward would not have gotten his
cheeks kissed and his bum patted for all the good work he did at Father's
luncheon."

"Sorry, Gunner, the milk went down the wrong way."

"Humph. Just wait until you want me to show you how to serve a proper
dinner."

"Dear God, don't give him any ideas," growled Chef. "He'll be having the
finger bowls with the lemon slices in them on all the tables and a change
of china with every course."

All five cadets looked at each other, then at The Gunner. Seeing their
looks The Gunner explained. "In a proper dinner not only is there a very
right way of serving it, each course is served on a different patterned
plate. It's very impressive."

"And a hell of a lot of extra work. Five glasses just for the water and the
booze, plus at least five different china patterns, plus all that
silver. You just serve it.  It's the poor galley hands who have to do the
washing up."

"It does look impressive, though," replied The Gunner. He pointed to the
plastic plate in front of him. "Melmac dinnerware and stainless steel forks
just don't cut the mustard."

"We have different colours," offered Joey. He held out his plate. "Mine is
green. Chef's is yellow, and yours is blue."

The Gunner chuckled. Every serving plate and dish that wasn't stainless
steel was indestructible Melmac, which came in an assortment of colours,
including salmon pink. "It's not the same." The Gunner ruffled Joey's
hair. "Thanks anyway, boychick."

Joey beamed and squirmed with pleasure. Being called "boychick" was high
praise, usually reserved for Petty Officers and above.

"If you want class put in for a Draft. The only class around here is
third," sniped Chef. "The next thing I know you'd be wanting a steward
behind every chair and linen table cloths."

"Not at all," returned The Gunner. "Still, it wouldn't hurt to throw a
tablecloth over the officers table. Or the Chiefs table."

"If you want table clothes and cruiser routine put in a Draft Chit for HMCS
bloody ONTARIO." Chef snorted disdainfully. "Tablecloths!"

The Gunner considered, given Chef's mood, that it might be best not to
remind the old cook that HMCS ONTARIO, an ex-RN light cruiser, had been
paid off in October of 1958, and shortly thereafter sold to a Japanese
shipyard for scrap. Instead he said equably, "Since we don't have any
tablecloths, we don't have to worry, do we?"

Chef looked uncomfortable. He coughed, then admitted grudgingly. "Actually
we do."

"We do?"

Chef nodded. "This place is victualed and supplied just like any other ship
in the fleet. And that includes crockery, glassware and linen for the
Wardroom. Melmac for the hands, do-dah, do-dah."

"The class system is alive and well, still."

Chef nodded and grinned. "Special privileges for special folks, with the
china and linen napkins for the Wardroom, and plastic and paper for the
Lower Deck. It never changes." The Gunner nodded his agreement. According
to Regulations Officers and Chiefs and Petty Officers were entitled to
their own messes, something not possible in AURORA. "Anyway," Chef
continued with studied indifference, "if you're interested, it's all in the
Wardroom Pantry Stores."

The Phantom stood up and began gathering up the breakfast dishes. "If you
like, I can come in early and set up the tables for the officers and the
Chiefs and Petty Officers," he said quietly.

With his parents due back home by the weekend The Phantom planned on
spending every night until then either in his own bed with The Gunner or in
The Gunner's bed.  With The Gunner coming in well before 0600 he could stay
with him and have the perfectly good excuse that The Gunner was giving him
a ride to work. Volunteering to come in ahead of the breakfast rush would
be a perfect cover.

"What about your real work? And just what did you have in mind?" asked
Chef. He could always use an extra hand around the galley. "And I don't
have any money in the budget to pay you extra."

"I don't need any extra money," replied The Phantom as he handed the pile
of dirty plates to Randy. "I'm up anyway and all I do is mooch around the
house. Setting the tables won't kill me. I have to be here for 1000
anyway."

Chef shrugged indifferently. "Suit yourself. So long as you still do your
regular work I've no objections. See me after breakfast and I'll give you
the keys to the Pantry Stores. It's right beside Linen Stores."

******

With the breakfast rush over The Phantom and Ray left the galley and walked
over to the Stores building. Chef had given The Phantom the keys to the
Wardroom Pantry Stores and an inventory list. As expected the Stores were
quiet. It was just past 0730 and the place did not open until after
Divisions and most mornings Rob did not open up until 0830.

The boys peered into the open area that held Clothing Stores and then
walked down the short corridor leading to the small room that held the
Wardroom supplies. As they passed Linen Stores they both heard a loud
groan. "Somebody's in there," whispered Ray.

The Phantom nodded and pointed to the door. "Maybe Rob came in early?"

Ray nodded and slowly opened the door leading to Linen Stores. He stuck his
head into the room, and then very quickly withdrew it. He turned and looked
at The Phantom, his face turning white, his eyes bulging wide.

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?" The Phantom gave Ray a slight
shake.

"Ph . . . Pha . . . Phantom," stammered Ray. "They're . . . Pha . . ."

"What the hell is the matter," demanded The Phantom. "What's wrong?"

"Phantom, it's Rob and Ryan. They're . . . fucking!" Ray managed to get
out.

"They are WHAT?"

"Shh," whispered Ray as he nodded his head vigorously. "They're really
going to town in there."

They heard another, sharper moan. "Jesus, Ray, in Linen Stores?" The
Phantom could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

Ray, more composed now, pointed. "Look for yourself."

The Phantom slowly and as quietly as possible opened the door to Linen
Stores. He looked in and very quickly withdrew. He grinned at Ray. "Well,
they are fucking," he whispered as he pushed the door slightly and looked
back into the room.

Ryan was lying on the deck, his aft end propped up by a pile of
pillows. Kneeling between his outspread legs was Rob, who was holding
Ryan's legs just under the knees, spreading them out and backward. Rob's
hips were thrusting savagely, driving his stiff penis piston-like into the
slim, dark haired boy's body.

Ryan was moaning, whispering for Rob to fuck him. With his left hand he
felt and pinched his nipples while with his right he was masturbating
furiously, the deep purple head of his penis covered then uncovered as his
hand pulled and pushed his thick foreskin rapidly up and down his sleek,
thick shaft.

As The Phantom watched, his own erection growing in his pants, Rob threw
his head back, his mouth gaping, grimacing as his orgasm began raging
through him. "Gonna . . . gonna . . . gonna cum in your ASS," he growled as
he thrust viciously forward and into Ryan's body. "AAAAAGH, AAAAAGGGHHH,"
he moaned as his orgasm engulfed him.

When Rob's cum-cry heralded his ejaculation, Ryan's body arched and he
began making short, sharp jerks in sync with his lover's thrusts. The head
of his penis was completely exposed as a long, thin stream of his cum flew
outward, hitting him on his chin. Another stream, less strong than the
first, landed on his chest. Ryan was groaning loudly as his hand pumped
more and more of his thin juices from his body.

Shaking his head and grinning evilly, The Phantom quietly closed the door
and motioned for Ray to follow him down the corridor. He saw that Ray's
cook's whites were tented and that his face was flushed with desire. The
Phantom opened the door leading to the Wardroom Pantry Stores, deliberately
leaving it open. He could feel his dick quivering and he was panting
slightly for he was very horny, not having had sex since Sunday night in
Victoria.  He began flipping through the inventory list that Chef had given
them, willing his erection to subside, feigning indifference to what he had
just witnessed. He cared very deeply for the shy young man standing beside
him but he did not want Ray to get any ideas.

Ray, his own stiffy pressing anxiously against his underpants, desperately
wanted to have sex with the boy he loved above all others. He could see
that The Phantom was hard, and that a large wet spot had appeared in the
front of his thin white trousers. Ray sighed. The last time they had been
together had been so wonderful that he threw caution to the winds and
reached out his hand, brushing it against the front of The Phantom's
trousers. With a sad shake of his head The Phantom moved away. "Ray, not
here, okay?"

"Please, Phantom," whimpered Ray.

"No, Ray." He embraced Ray, and then held him at arm's length, looking
directly into his eyes. "Ray, I've told you, I can't give you what you
want. I've told you how much you mean to me, and how I do love you."

"Then make love to me, Phantom."

The Phantom shook his head. "Ray, I love you.  I am not in love with you. I
love The Gunner and if I slept with you that would be betraying his love. I
can't do that to him."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Both." The Phantom released Ray and sat down on a large wooden
crate. "Please understand, Ray," he began slowly, not wanting to in any way
to hurt his friend. "I love you, and I won't deny that the thought of
sleeping with you, of making love to you is very appealing. I am not going
to lie and say that what we did in Victoria, what we did here, wasn't good,
because, man, it was better than good." As Ray sat beside him, The Phantom
stroked the boy's face gently. "Would you like it if you and I were
together and I turned around and slept with somebody else?" he asked
gently.

Ray thought a few moments, and then nodded slowly. "I understand, Phantom."
He turned and looked at the boy he wanted to love him. "Understanding
doesn't mean that I don't want it to happen, because I do." He sniffled and
ran his hand under his nose. "We better get started. Chef will be wondering
what became of us."

******

After their enforced exercises the Twins returned to the Gunroom, bickering
every inch of the way from the parade square to the barracks. Cory was
determined that this time Todd was not going to win the argument. They
showered, then returned to the Gunroom to clean into the rig of the
day. Naked as jays they stood side-by-side, looking daggers at each
other. Cory reached into his locker and with great ostentation pulled out a
clean pair of white boxers. He looked at Todd, sniffed disdainfully, and
slipped on the underpants.

Todd, seething, again searched the bottom of his locker.  He knew exactly
what he had packed for Victoria, and what he had left behind. Somewhere
along the line his last clean pair of shorts had gone missing. Seeing Cory
put on clean white boxers he realized that his earlier accusation was wrong
because the pair he was missing were light blue in colour. He groaned
inwardly. If he knew Cory at all his brother would never let him forget
making that accusation.

With all the exaggerated gesturing of The Sun King at his morning levee,
Cory pulled on clean socks and then slipped a clean and heavily starched
gunshirt over his torso. "Ah, Todd, there is nothing quite like the feel of
fresh, clean, clothing on your skin. You really should try it sometime," he
said brightly, enjoying his brother's discomfort. "Remember, Mummy always
says to wear clean undies because . . ."

"Give it a rest, you half-wit," snarled Todd. He grimaced and pulled the
boxers he had worn yesterday, and slept in, back on.

"Oh, so now I'm a half-wit as well as an undies thief!" exclaimed Cory.

"No, you're just a half-wit," returned Todd.

"Aha!"  Cory bowed to his brother. "So you admit that you were wrong."

"I admit nothing. What I do admit is that you are always taking my
underwear.  You wear your things once, and leave them all over the place,
and then you borrow mine."

Todd's sarcasm was not lost on Cory. "I most certainly do not, Todd!" He
stuck his nose in the air and sniffed ostentatiously. "I have more
self-respect than to wear your stained old rags."

"And just what in the fuck is that supposed to mean?" demanded Todd, his
choler rising.

Cory waved his hand airily. "Exactly what it means," he replied with great
hauteur.

Todd clenched his fists. "That did it, you small-balled, little-dicked, son
of a . . ."

"Small-balled? Little-dicked?" yelped Cory. "You are hardly one to talk!
Why even Two Strokes on a bad day can muster up more dick that you could
ever . . ."

They had not seen that Greg had returned from the showers, nor did they see
him, a towel wrapped firmly around his waist, staring at them, then
lowering his brows. Greg was in a foul mood. He had not slept well, and he
was still seething after his ill-fated meeting with Harry. He was not about
to put up with any of the Twins' nonsense. "Why don't you both just shut
the fuck up!" he bellowed.

Shocked at his outburst, the Twins stood slack-jawed and watched as Greg
walked to his locker, ripped off his towel and pulled a pair of clean
briefs out of his locker. "Every fucking morning it's the same thing!" Greg
threw the underpants at Todd, hitting him square in the face. "There, there
are some clean underpants. Wear them, smell them, or eat them for all I
care! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The Twins looked at each other and shook their heads. They both had a
fairly good idea of what was bugging Greg's ass. "Come on, Greg, I don't
need your briefs, honest." Todd liked Greg and did not want to start
anything with him.  "Yeah, he can have a pair of mine. It's no big deal,"
offered Cory.

"If it's not such a big deal then why are you fighting?" Greg angrily
pulled on some clean briefs and then his gunshirt. "I am sick to death of
you two, do you know that? Every day you fight and yell and try to beat the
piss out of each other and then you go off and fuck each other's brains
out!"

A deathly silence fell over the Gunroom. Two Strokes, Chris, Jon, Fred,
Thumper, Nicholas and Harry stopped what they were doing and turned to look
at Greg, who had unwittingly broken one of the cardinal unwritten rules of
the Gunroom. No matter how angry you became, no matter what the
provocation, you never, ever, for any reason, made reference to the Twins'
sexuality.

Todd turned red and for a moment Cory looked as if he was going to break
down in tears. Harry quickly lumbered forward and put himself between Greg
and the Twins. "Greg, it would be best if you just got dressed and left for
a while," he said quietly.

"Why?" demanded Greg hotly. "I live here, too, Chief!" He spat out Harry's
rank as he pulled on his bell-bottoms and savagely buckled his belt. He
bent down, pulled on his boots, straightened defiantly and glared at
Harry. "I live here too."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Yes, you do. I would like to see you continue
to live here with us." He was outwardly very calm, which was
deceptive. Both Cory and Todd saw that the veins in Harry's neck were
distended, a clear sign that he was very close to erupting.

Nicholas placed his hand on Greg's elbow. "I don't know what's biting your
ass, man, but knock it off. Go and cool off."

Greg shook himself free of Nicholas's restraining hand. "And why should I?"
he sneered. "If I was some skinny-assed scrawny git from Edmonton you
wouldn't . . ."

A low growl rose from Harry's throat and he took a step toward Greg.

"Oh, shit!" whispered Nicholas.

The Twins did not hesitate. They jumped on Harry and forced him back. "For
Christ's sake, get him out of here," ordered Todd as he struggled with
Harry.

Two Strokes and Thumper joined The Twins in trying to restrain the visibly
enraged Harry. All four boys managed with difficulty to push Harry back and
onto Todd's bunk.

"Will you get him out of here?" yelled Cory as Harry began using every
ounce of his great strength to force the other cadets away.

Chris and Jon joined the struggle while Fred grabbed Greg and spun him
around. "You fucking half-fucked fool!" snarled Fred. He snatched up Greg's
cap and slammed it on to the back of Greg's head. "Harry will kill you for
that!"

Nicholas and Fred began pushing Greg toward the door leading to the
barracks yard, roundly ignoring the shouting, protesting Greg. "Go, Greg,
just go somewhere, anywhere so long as it's away from here!" Nicholas
yelled at Greg.

Between them the cadets managed to keep Harry pinned down while Nicholas
and Fred pushed Greg out of the Gunroom. Harry struggled, realizing that he
was no match for four cadets, stopped his effort to get at Greg. "I'm all
right. You can let go of me, now," he told the Twins with deceptive
calmness.

"Only if you promise not to kill Greg," said Todd, breathing hard from the
exertion of trying to hold Harry down.

Harry nodded slowly, his face serene. "I give my word, I won't kill him."

"Or hurt him?" asked Cory. He had known Harry too long and while he would
willingly trust Harry with his life, he also knew that Harry could be a
sneaky bugger when he put his mind to it.

Harry gave the Twins a reluctant smile. "My word on it. I won't hurt him or
kill him."

"Let him up," directed Todd. He let go of Harry and flopped on Cory's
bunk. Harry had given his word. He would not harm Greg in any way.

Nicholas and Fred returned after hustling Greg out of the barracks. They
and the other cadets finished dressing and went off to breakfast, leaving
the Twins with Harry. Todd and Cory sat on Cory's bunk and watched as Harry
finished dressing. When he was done he gently touched Stefan's picture,
then turned to look at The Twins. "I wouldn't really have hurt him, you
know," he said softly.

"We know," replied Todd.

"He shouldn't have said what he said about you." Harry walked down the
Gunroom and sat on Todd's bunk. He reached out and placed his huge hands on
their knees. "I'm sorry."

The Twins shrugged in unison. "We've heard worse," sighed Cory. "He should
not have said what he said about Stefan."

Harry looked sadly at his two friends. "Now I know the hurt you feel when
someone cracks off about your being gay. I guess I better to get used to
the cracks about me and Stefan." Todd moved and sat beside Harry, embracing
him, holding him close. Cory moved to the other side of Harry and repeated
the gesture. Harry accepted their gesture. "I'm okay, you know," he
murmured softly, his smile genuine.

"We know," said Cory. "We just want you to know that you are never
alone. We will always love you."

"We fell in love with you the first day, back in Kingston, remember?" Todd
kissed Harry's cheek.

"Yeah. We were so little." Harry gave Todd a squeeze. He chuckled
softly. "Two dick hairs among the three of us."

Cory giggled. "You had both of them."

"You counted them every night before Lights Out," said Todd. He rubbed
Harry's chest. "We used to wonder what it would be like to make the Pride
of the Fleet stand up and fire a volley."

Harry snickered. "Back then it would have been a dry fire exercise." He
paused, gave the Twins a dirty smile, and then continued. "Not that it
stopped me from beating off thinking of you guys." He coloured. "That's was
when I fell in love with you both." His blush deepened. "I still feel the
same way."

"We rather thought you felt that way about us," said Cory gently. "Then,
when you kissed us the morning of our Promotion Boards, we knew." He rubbed
his cheek against Harry's smooth, beardless cheek.

Todd's lips met Harry's and they kissed long and passionately. When Todd
withdrew, smiling, Cory's lips replaced his brother's.  As their kiss grew
deeper Harry's tongue found Cory's. He moaned softly, and then pulled
away. "We better stop because if we don't the Pride of the Fleet will put
to sea . . ." Each in turn, the Twins reached down and felt Harry's
crotch. "A" gun mount was manned and ready. Harry squirmed and pulled
back. "You guys make me feel things only Stefan could make me feel."

"Which Greg couldn't?" asked Todd slowly.

Harry nodded. "Which Greg could not!" He stood up, adjusted his hardon and
then bent over and quickly kissed Cory and Todd. "Greg can't understand
that it's only sex between him and me. With Stefan, and yes, with you, what
I feel is deeper. I love Stefan, and I want to be with him, always. I love
you two skates, but I know that you don't love me the way Stefan does. Not
that it's a bad thing, because it isn't."

Todd looked up at Harry. "If you felt that way about us, why didn't you say
something?"

Cory heartily agreed with his brother. "You would not have had any problems
in putting your parade boots under our bed! Hell, Harry, even though you do
toot your own horn all the time you have got to know that you are one hunk
of a guy!" He looked steadily at Harry. "You must know that the Pride could
have sailed into half the bunks in this camp and found a safe haven!"

Harry grinned. He had seen the appreciative looks and heard the soft sighs
that oft time marked his passing. Then he frowned. "Guys, I'm not
stupid. I've known for a long time the way I feel about some guys. At first
I tried to tell myself it was just a stage, you know, that I'd grow out of
it. That was stupid.  I never outgrew the way I felt. When I first started
fooling around with my brother I told myself it was just sex, you know,
what guys do together. It happens all the time, and no big deal. I liked
it, a lot, and I wanted to do more with him."

"But you didn't?" asked Todd.

"No. All we ever did was beat each other off. What we did was just two
brothers fooling around a bit. Before you ask, we didn't go any further,
and I don't think he would have, because we were afraid. What we were doing
was wrong. Everybody said so, the Church, our teachers, our parents, the
other guys we went to school with. Then you two came down the pike and I
got really confused."

"Us? What did we have to do with it?" Todd looked at Cory, who shrugged.

"You were queers," said Harry, embarrassed. He gave the Twins a sad
look. "That was how we all thought of you back then. I don't mean to be
insulting, but that's the way the guys talked back then, queers, faggots,
you know the drill." The Twins nodded knowingly. "But you didn't act like
queers! Everybody said that queers lisped, and acted more like girls than
guys, and didn't like sports. They couldn't fight, and if you turned your
back on them they'd grab you and try to make you be like them." Harry stood
up and began pacing. "I couldn't understand it. You guys were smart, good
looking and damn it, you acted straighter than I did. You swam; you played
soccer, and football. You didn't take shit from anyone. Everybody liked
you. And you never made a move on anybody."

"Harry, we might be gay but we are not sluts," remarked Cory, his tone
hard.

Harry stopped and quickly grasped Cory's hand. "I never meant to infer
. . ."

"I know," said Cory with a sigh. "It is just that one gets so tired of
. . ." He straightened perceptively. "Contrary to popular opinion, Harry,
we do not follow the old axiom that we've never met a dick we didn't like."
He hugged Todd. "I love Todd, and he loves me. We are brothers, we are
friends, and we are lovers. We are also two absolutely normal males. We
like the same things you do. We do the same things you do. The only
difference is that we have sex with each other, and sometimes, other
guys. We are not all that different from any other swinging dick on this
Spit."

Harry resumed his pacing, choosing his words carefully. "I know, Cory, I
know!" He chuckled quietly. "But understand please, that back then, when we
were all only what, thirteen? Back then, when you made friends with me, I
didn't know what to think. I wanted to be your friend, but . . ." He shook
his head. "Back then I was really afraid that the other guys would think
bad things about me because of my friendship with you."

"We are also used to that," said Todd quietly. "Guys we do not want to have
sex with, but want to be friends with, they shy away."

Cory shook his head and sighed. "At first it hurt.  It really hurt that
guys were afraid to be our friends because we were gay. I think what hurt
even more was that one day they were there, you know, with us, having fun
together, just being friends, and then someone would say something and the
next day, the same guys who were our friends only the day before, they
avoided us, they acted like we didn't exist anymore."

"That's when we decided to just say fuck them!" Todd grinned widely. "We
just said, if you don't like us, then that's fine. But if you don't like us
because we're gay, then fuck you! We have every right to be who we are, and
what we are.  We have every right to be Sea Cadets. The fact that we are
gay has no bearing on how we do our jobs, on how we act or anything."

"And you told the others that!" Harry stopped his pacing and sat on the
Gunroom table. "God, did I admire you for that.  I still do. You guys have
the courage to stand up and fight!  Last year, when Little Big Man started
his nonsense, you fought back. When Two Strokes started, you fought back!"
Harry buried his face in his hands. "I love you both. I wanted to be with
you both. But because I was afraid of what people would say, I couldn't do
anything about it. I told myself that I could be your friend. As much as I
wanted to, as much as I dreamed about it, I could not allow myself to
become your lover. I tried not to think about you two."

"But you were thinking about us," interjected Todd.

Harry stared at the Twins, and then rasped a deprecating, caustic
laugh. "Yes," he admitted. "I was thinking about you, and every year I
would go home and think and think about you!" He slid down to sit
dejectedly on the bench that flanked the mess table. "I knew what I was
thinking, what I was wanting, was forbidden. I could not allow myself to
think those things about you, because if I did that I would be admitting
that I was queer!"

"Now, Harry, really," began Cory. "Just because you had two isolated
affairs with other boys . . ."

Harry fixed Cory a steely glare. "Cory, do not make excuses for me, or for
what I did. I was a fool and I know it. I was a coward as well."

"Oh come off it," sniff Todd. "You? A coward?"

Harry nodded firmly. "Todd, I refused to believe the truth. I refused to
admit that I was gay. I was beating my brother off every day, feeling his
dick, feeling his balls! I was lusting after you and Cory, but I would not
admit what I was. I made up all sorts of excuses for what I was doing. It
was a guy thing, just things brothers did." His hands gripped the bench he
was sitting on. "I wouldn't let myself be gay.  I went out for the football
team.  I went hunting. I dated girls. I did everything that I could think
of not to be gay. Then every summer we'd be together, us three, and the old
feelings would come back. God, did I want to go to bed with you both! But I
could not let that happen. I hid the way I felt.  I became loud, brash,
all-male Harry!  Harry the man!"

"You were doing a damned good job of it," opined Cory. "At least until
Stefan came along."

Harry grinned a sad grin and then a wistful look came over his face. "The
first time we were together was the morning after the party we
had. Remember? Little Big Man squealed to The Gunner?" The Twins nodded. "I
was down on the jetty when Stefan came along. I was angry, and sad that one
of us could do such a thing.  Squeal, I mean. Then Stefan came along and
he, well, he made love to me! Can you imagine? A thirteen-year-old kid came
on to me and made love to me! He wanted me! No one else, just me! At first,
I was scared and then, God, it just felt so wonderful, so right, and for a
week, Jesus, was I happy. He was in love with me, and I was in love with
him! I didn't care what people thought! I loved him. I still love him."

"We know. We were there, remember?" Todd placed a hand over Cory's. "We
know how you feel. I've been in love with Cory from, well, forever. He
makes me mad, so mad sometimes that I could kill him. He infuriates me at
times. Then he comes along and gives me a quick feel, or a kiss on the
cheek, and I can't stay mad at him. He feels the same way about me."

Cory nodded his agreement. "So you see, Harry, we know exactly how Stefan
feels about you and how you feel about him."

"You understand then, why I can't be what Greg wants me to be! I like him,
the sex is great, but I do not love him and I never will. He can't
understand the difference between my love for Stefan and my affection for
him. He wants more than I want to give. To be honest, guys, he wants me to
fuck him and I can't do that."

Cory looked incredulous. "For heaven's sake, why not? It's a perfectly
natural part of any gay boy's sex life. Hell, a straight guy thinks nothing
of getting laid by any girl who will lay him. Why should a gay boy feel any
different?"

"Cory's right, you know," said Todd. "In the straight world a guy is
expected to at least try to put the make on his girlfriend. If she comes
through, well, nobody thinks anything of it, really.  His friends are all
envious because he's gotten laid."

"The difference is that I don't want to fuck Greg. I know it's stupid, but
I just don't want him to be the first guy I fuck." He shrugged. "I suppose
in the back of my mind I'm telling myself that my first time should be with
Stefan but that isn't going to happen any time soon."

"Greg is willing to take his place," offered Cory with a snicker. He saw
Harry's irate look and hurried on. "No offence, Harry, but sooner or later
you are going to want to make love. If Greg is willing . . ."

Harry's look was glacial. "No. Greg is a hypocrite! We fooled around in
Victoria big time! He liked what we did together and he wants to do it
again. I don't!"  "But why?" asked Todd reasonably. "Greg is a nice
guy. Obviously you like him or you would not have slept with him!"

"Todd, Greg refuses to admit that he's as gay as I am. He likes the sex
part of our relationship. He likes sucking the Pride and me sucking him. He
likes everything we did but refuses to admit that he's gay. He's falling in
love with me but he still thinks that it's just experimenting, just a guy
thing. If I'm going to fuck him, or let him fuck me, I want a little more
than what he has to offer. He might want a summer fuck, I don't!"

"So then, you're not going to be fucking anybody any time soon?" asked Todd
doubtfully. Harry was a normal male with raging hormones and Todd seriously
doubted that Harry's resolve was as strong as he thought it was.

"Not Greg," insisted Harry firmly.

"Not Todd? Not me?" hinted Cory.

Todd elbowed his brother. "Don't pay him any mind, Harry. You're high on
his wish list."

"I'd be insulted if I wasn't," laughed Harry.  He left the bench and sat
between the seated Twins, spread his massive arms around and hugged
them. He deliberately did not answer Cory's question because he did not
know the answer. He wanted to experience every aspect of his sexuality and
he expected that one day he would have proper sex with another boy. He
might, in the right circumstances, be with either one, or both, of the
Twins. He would not, however, make his way to Greg's bed.  "I want Greg to
be my friend, somebody to fool around with when we feel like it, somebody
to be with when we feel like it. I like him. I like him a lot, bit I will
not fuck him and if he can't understand the way I feel, then I am truly
sorry."

The bugle sounded the call for breakfast and The Twins extricated
themselves from Harry's bear hug. "And what about us?" asked Todd as they
left the Gunroom and headed for the Mess Hall.

"Well, to be honest, I won't say no." Harry grinned and punched Cory
lightly on the shoulder. "There is one thing, though."

"No fucking?" asked Cory, his face hiding his disappointment and his
curiosity at Harry's refusal to commit himself.

Again Harry did not answer. He gave his friend a wave and a look of disgust
and then said with a leer, "Cory, the next time you want to have a live
fire exercise with the Pride can you at least let me take it out of my
pants?"

******

Sub-Lieutenant David Eddy mooched around the Wardroom, feeling sorry for
himself and remembering bitterly the suggestion Chef had made to him. Until
that ill-fated ride up from Victoria he had always considered himself to be
a competent and able young officer, popular with the hands and young enough
to enjoy the pranks and jokes that the cadets were always getting up
to. Chef's words had cut deep.

Dave had seen the near mutiny that had ensued when Nigel pushed Phantom
aside that day in the Mess Hall and he in no way considered himself to be
in a league with that particularly sorry example of an officer.  He was not
a martinet, and Dave had never abused a cadet in any way. He remembered his
days as a young Sea Cadet, remembered how he had been treated by sundry
officers and was determined to conduct himself properly at all times. He
enjoyed being with the other boys and, at times, he considered himself to
be more like the senior cadets than the older, more mature officers. That
having been said he also he felt that as an officer he was entitled to
respect.  He was expected to lead the cadets, and in return he was given
certain privileges and perks, which did not include having his clothes
ripped off and his privates fondled.

What particularly galled Dave was Chef's attitude, implying that it was his
own fault and that he should grin and forget it.  He did not consider that
he had an "attitude." Quite the contrary, he thought angrily. He had been a
cadet always, having joined the Navy League Cadets when he was only 8 years
old. He had progressed to the Sea Cadets at age 12, and gone right up
through the ranks. He'd been Chief of his Corps, and Camp Chief in Kingston
and later, Victoria. He'd been told that with his experience he was just
the right sort to be a Sea Cadet Officer. Dave had always prided himself on
his dedication to duty. Sure, he'd fooled around, like they all did. But he
had always respected his officers. He had always given them the respect
their rank called for and now that he was an officer he expected the same.

Still, Chef's words bothered Dave and nagging doubt ate at his very
soul. Had he done the right thing? More and more he was learning that
leadership was not something that could be learned in a school, or in
books. Oh, the theory of it could be taught, but so far it had been Dave's
experience that he could use all the theories he wanted, and sure as fate
something would happen to upset all the theories ever written. When the
shit hit the fan sometimes the theories worked. More often they didn't.

The Book said that as an officer he was to take charge and maintain good
order and discipline. The Book said that leadership was the ability to lead
a group of men in a direction they did not particularly wish to go, to
reach a common goal that they did not really want to reach.

Dave had heard Andy and Kyle earlier when they came in to have their
morning coffee. He had, unkindly, pointedly ignored them, too full of his
own musings to be bothered. He was vaguely aware that he had been in a
bloody mood after Chef had dropped him at the Wardroom door last night and
that he'd been downright snarly to his fellow officers. So now, in addition
to having Chef pissed off at him, he was no doubt in Andy and Kyle's bad
books.

He was beginning to think that he should have left everything well enough
alone, and was slowly realizing that he had not tried to lead at all. What
he had done was to throw his rank around. Which meant that the Master at
Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, boys he considered to be his
friends, boys he had been a cadet with, were probably pissed off at him as
well.

Dave decided, just as the bugle blew the call to breakfast, that there was
nothing for it but to go and see his Divisional Officer who was, in his
case, the Executive Officer. He would ask to speak to Number One directly
after they finished the morning Staff Meeting.

******

After breakfast The Gunner walked over to the Headquarters Building and
into the Ship's Office. He greeted Greg, receiving a sullen "Good morning"
for his trouble.

The Gunner ignored the Yeoman's sullenness. He would not let Greg's fit of
distemper spoil the day. He checked his mailbox, which was, as he expected,
chock-a-block, full of the usual directives and junk that any military
service produces ad nauseum. There was a letter from his uncle, who while
he was a nice man, was also a banker and forever complaining if he, The
Gunner, dared to touch his inheritance.

"It's not as if it's not my money," thought The Gunner. He ripped open the
envelope and read the formal, stilted phrases of complaint. His uncle was
taking him to task for withdrawing $5,000.00 from his account and investing
the money in what his uncle called a wild and harebrained scheme of
Joel's. Computers, his uncle advised most seriously, were never going to
fly. They were huge, ungainly, and only the government could afford
them. Who was this Gates chap? What exactly did this fly-by-night Microsoft
Company hope to achieve?

The Gunner flipped to the last page and read his uncle's closing remarks. "
. . . In short, Stephen, I strongly advise you that such a venture as
Mr. Gates', and by definition, your friend, propose, is doomed to
failure. As your friend and financial advisor I must urge you to contact
Mr. Lee and attempt to recoup your money.

"On a personal note, dear nephew, I must tell you that your Aunt Joan is
not well, and is, in fact, suffering a terminal illness. As she has always
been fond of you she asks that you return home for a short visit."

The Gunner sighed heavily. His aunt, a perfect foil for her pedantic and
boring husband, had been very kind to him over the years. He would have to
make a flying visit to Toronto very soon, probably in September, before the
first of the Reserves began their winter training schedule.

The Gunner was about to leave the Ship's Office when Greg, who had been
sorting through more mail and for some reason muttering and grumbling to
himself held out a large, cream coloured envelope. "Another one, Gunner."
Greg pointed to the small, discreet, and finely engraved ducal crest in the
upper left corner of the envelope. "Do you know the Pope?"

The Gunner's gaze took in the regal crest and the flowing, copperplate
writing on the front of the envelope. He smiled thinly. "In some ways,
someone much more important, Greg." He hurried to his office and opened the
envelope. After quickly scanning the piece of paper the envelope had
contained he sat down in his chair. For the better part of five minutes The
Gunner stared into space, stunned, a little frightened, in awe at what he
had read.

He slowly reread the letter, taking in the conjoined crests of the Order
and the Grand Master, the heavy, engraved Gothic lettering of the Latin
script filling one side of the page and the equally rich Palace script on
the other.

The news the letter contained was important. The Grand Master of the Order,
an old-fashioned, never rock the boat, maintain the status-quo, type of
man, had died and a Conclave to elect a new Grand Master had been called.

The death of the Grand Master was not unexpected. He had been, after all,
90 and in his dotage. What was totally unexpected, so far as The Gunner was
concerned, was the second piece of information that the letter contained.

With shaking hand he placed the letter on his desk, barely able to absorb
the message the letter contained, awed that he, a man of little wealth and
low station should be offered, could be even considered for, such an
honour. He had only just been confirmed as a Professed Knight of Honour,
which meant, as the letter advised, he was now a Candidate for higher
office, specifically, Chancellor of the Order, the man responsible for
accepting or denying any and all applications for membership in the Order.

He allowed his mind to wander, imagining the power and authority he would
have if he were elected. He smiled broadly. Phantom! Phantom could join. He
could propose and accept The Phantom as a Page of Honour of Profess and a
Candidate Knight. The Twins, Harry, perhaps Val and Tyler.  God, imagine
the good they could do. Then The Gunner frowned.

Pages of Honour of Profess were sacrosanct. They could not be approached in
any way. Sex between a Page and a Knight was forbidden (even if the page
were a "Professed" gay male). The Gunner chuckled, imagining Phantom's
reaction if he were told that they could not have sex for the next three
and a half years. Or the Twins!  Lord, would the no sex rule get them
going! Still, it was all pie in the sky if he came out of the Conclave as
he had entered it. Better to adopt a very discreet wait and see attitude.

He picked up the telephone and dialled an outside number. On the second
ring his call was answered. "Acceptasne nominationem, frater?" asked a
voice. The question was spoken, as it always was, in perfect Latin, and had
a wealth of meaning.

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine that come before you,
boys and men, you alone will choose will bring honour and credit to the
Order?

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine you alone will be
responsible for the actions of those boys and men?

Accept? Do you accept that of the ninety and nine only those chosen by you
will one day lead the Order down the long and dangerous road called the
Future?

Accept?

The Gunner did not hesitate to answer the question. "Accepto, frater," he
replied quietly.

"Pax tecum."

The line went dead and The Gunner slowly replaced the handset. He had heard
that voice, the voice of the Camarlengo, before, and not that long ago.

The Gunner knew that secrecy was always paramount with the Order. Yet never
in his wildest dreams would he have pictured Michael Chan as Camarlengo and
Chancellor of the Ancient and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of
Acre in North America.

******

Lieutenant-Commander Charles Oliver Hazleton, Executive Officer of HMCS
AURORA sat in his wood-panelled office enjoying the morning. Thus far the
day had unfolded, as it should. The sun had risen, a glorious ball of fire,
over the Rockies and the Strait of Georgia. The Commanding Officer had
confirmed that the Flag Officer, Reserves and Cadets had approved his
appointment as CO for next year, the Staff Meeting had been brief and the
cadets were all going about their business in a calm and efficient
manner. "Life," he thought, "is good."

Which meant he should immediately reach for his tin hat because something
was going to happen. It always did.

He had joined the Royal Navy at the age of 17, as a Cadet at Britannia
Royal Naval College. He had joined with the firm intention of making the
Navy a career and, as he grew older, the firm intention of making his
career as pleasant and uneventful as possible and had chosen his field of
endeavour with much care. He would join the Pay Branch. Nothing ever
happened in the Pay Branch.

Charles Hazelton's career had been unspectacular.  He had not won the
telescope in Britannia, nor had he aspired to the Captain's Sword in his
training ship. He had risen at respectably decent interval in rank, and
lived what he considered was the life of a gentleman. He had managed, by
attending the right courses and befriending the right people, to avoid
anything as strenuous as sea duty.  All things being equal he could look
forward to ending his career as a Captain (P), living in a large,
well-built (and, more importantly, rent-free) house courtesy of the RN,
signing papers in the morning and golfing in the afternoon, dining with the
Captain's Secretary once a month and lunching with the Admiral's Staff
Captain once a fortnight. He had married at a late age, as was expected of
him, and looked forward to years of contentment. Unfortunately, two things
marred his horizons.

The first was the Korean War, every minute of which he served in the most
ill-fated, ill-found, top heavy, cantankerous light cruiser to ever slide
down the ways of John Brown's Shipyards. He had joined her at Invergordon,
and from Invergordon to Portsmouth she had rolled. From Portsmouth to the
Bay of Biscay she had yawed. During gunnery exercises in the Bay when they
had fired a broadside to port she had rolled so far to starboard that the
stewards, when she finally recovered what was for her a small measure of
stability, took to wearing their life jackets and the Bootnecks set up camp
in and around "Y" turret (which they manned during Action Stations). In
very short order the Quarterdeck looked like a Bedouin encampment, minus
the sheep, which, knowing the Royals, surprised everybody.

>From the Bay of Biscay to Cape Town the cruiser not only rolled and yawed,
she had pitched. From Cape Town to Hong Kong she rolled, pitched, yawed,
and for good measure decided to corkscrew in any kind of a sea. He had been
seasick and no amount of Dramamine could cure him.

For two years and a bit he had pigged it on the Korean Coast, dodging Red
Chinese shells, North Korean bullets and once, American rockets when the
ship had been mistakenly identified as the flagship of the North Korean
navy. Fortunately no one had been killed, although the Admiral's cabin was
never the same, even after repairs.

In 1964 Number One was enjoying a leisurely existence on the South Coast of
England, as a Paymaster Lieutenant Commander when he ran afoul of the
"Geddes Axe". Misnamed for a long dead First Lord of the Admiralty, the
Geddes Axe was a generic term used when the inevitable "personnel
restructuring" happens after any war, or when the government needed the
money to waste on social welfare schemes, Members of Parliament
boondoggles, and aid to uncaring and ungrateful Third World nations. Ships
were sent off to the breakers' yards and sailors pensioned off. No matter
what it was called it was the sack all the same. He'd been declared
redundant, surplus to requirements, given a whacking great buyout, a
minuscule pension, kissed on both cheeks, patted on his thin behind,
thanked for his past Service to the Crown and sent on his way.

Rather than sit in some dingy, cold cottage in the South of England, Devon
or perhaps Cornwall, raising chilblains and Pomeranians, Number One had
decamped to the New World where he settled in Comox, was offered a
Commission as a Sea Cadet Officer, which he quickly accepted, and now,
having risen in rank, this time through diligence and hard work, his
future, at least for the next three years, was assured. He would be
Commanding Officer of HMCS AURORA and then it would be time to move aside
and let the younger bloods take over. One of whom he expected to toddle
over any time to either complain about his treatment at the hands of the
cadets or to put in his papers.

Number One was not a stupid man. He admitted to laziness, but stupidity,
never. He had spent much of his life helping his superiors to manage
men. He had seen good officers, and he had seen bad officers. The young man
who would soon visit him had the potential to be a very good officer
indeed.

On his desk was Dave Eddy's personnel file. All the right signs were
there. Dave was destined, if he did not give up his commission as far too
many Sea Cadet offices did, to be a star. He was young, intelligent, and
got on well with his superiors and his cadets. He had been nurtured from a
very young age in the Navy League crèche, and matured in the Sea Cadets.

If anything, Dave Eddy lacked training and depended far too much on his
past knowledge and experience as a cadet. His experience as an officer,
however, was limited and in many ways he had forgotten that he was no
longer a cadet, all the while continuing to think and act like a
cadet. Dave was an officer who must, through careful training and guidance,
be made to think and act, as an officer should.

******

Shortly before Stand Easy Dave Eddy knocked on the Executive Officer's door
and was granted entry. He was offered a cup of tea and a cigarette. The
first he accepted, the second he declined.

Number One had learned through experience that young officers tended to
reticence and embarrassment whenever they felt the need to consult higher
authority. They were usually so inexperienced and so afraid of making even
the smallest mistake that they made tended to go off on a tangent of
self-doubt and recrimination. Dave was no exception. Number One listened
patiently and quietly as Dave, in fits and starts, and between sips of tea,
related his tale of woe. That Number One knew all about it having, as was
his habit, discussed the whole weekend with The Gunner and Chef after the
Staff meeting, was beside the point. The point was to listen to a troubled
young officer.

As Dave talked Number One nodded sympathetically from time to time. When
Dave finished Number One filled his pipe, tamped down the tobacco, spent
enough time lighting the weed, and then puffed contentedly. "Tell me, young
Dave," he asked presently, "at the end of the day, what happened?"

Dave thought a moment. "The Gunner came out, blew his whistle, and the
cadets got out of the pool."

"Properly dressed?"

Dave hesitated, and then answered quietly. "Except for Harry and Greg. They
were only wearing towels. The rest all had their suits on."

"But the two boys were covered?"

"Yes, you really couldn't see anything."

"So modesty was preserved and morals protected?"

"Yes."

"And you do not understand why they paid attention to The Gunner and not to
you?"

"Yes.  That and them, um, feeling me up in the pool."

Number One blew a great cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and then
regarded his visitor. "Dave, let me begin by saying first off that I am not
of the 'respect the rank, respect the man' school of leadership. I have
known officers of the most exalted rank whom the lads would not follow to
the loo, let alone into battle. I have also known officers of somewhat
lowly rank and status whom the men would follow to the very gates of
Hell. To paraphrase an old saying, some men are born leaders, some men
attain leadership, and others have it thrust upon them." Number One leaned
forward across his desk and pointed the stem of his pipe at Dave. "You
cannot demand respect. You must earn it!  The boys will respect your rank,
that goes without saying, and they will obey you, albeit grudgingly.  They
will not respect you until you give them damn good and sufficient reasons
to respect you."

Dave squirmed uneasily. "Sir, I only gave them an order!"

"Why? Were they fornicating in the pool?" Dave shook his head; no. "Was
there improper conduct of any kind that would lead you to give that order?"

"Well, they were taking each other's swimming suits off!"

"Of course they were! A battle tactic! Take down a man, or a boy's,
trousers, and for that one vital moment the antagonist has the advantage. I
should be very upset if all the boys had stripped off, but they did not. Of
the what, 50-odd boys who were in the pool perhaps ten, perhaps five, lost
their suits?" Dave very reluctantly nodded his agreement. "The boys were
engaged in a battle. Very enthusiastically engaged from all reports. Like
all boys each team wanted to win. We see it every day, on the parade
square, when they are playing baseball, or soccer. Hell, we train them to
win, to never give up!"

Dave began to feel like a very small schoolboy. He recalled the afternoon
when Nicholas had pulled down Cory's shorts as he rounded third base,
heading for home, and the winning run in the baseball game. He had done
nothing then, and remembering that he had done nothing, hoped the Executive
Officer would not bring that up.

"Dave, my dear, dear boy! You are nineteen years old and for some reason
you've decided to forget what life was like when you were a mere cadet."
Number One tapped the smouldering remains of his pipe into the crystal
ashtray on his desk. "You forgot what it was like to have fun."

"Sir?"

"Our whole purpose is to continue the Navy League's programme. We enrol
young boys into the Navy League Cadets with a view of them enrolling in the
Sea Cadets. We enrol boys into the Sea Cadets with a view to them joining
either the Permanent Force or the Reserves. The whole idea is a natural
progression to an end: maintain the Fleet."

"I know that, sir," replied Dave slowly. "That's how I started."

Number One nodded. "In a way you are the Poster Boy for the
programme. You've done exactly what was hoped for. Having done it, I want
to ask you this question: in your journey to AURORA, did you have fun?"

"Well, yes. If I hadn't enjoyed it and had fun, I don't think I would be
here."

"Well done, Dave!"  Number One clapped his hands. "You've got it in one!
You've learned a lot, and while you were learning, you had fun!"

"But . . ."

Number One waved Dave's "but" aside. "We work hard, we play hard. Last
weekend we bussed the entire Ship's Company 150 miles to Victoria. We had
them marching on a hot parade square most of one afternoon. We had them
march in a long parade through the streets of Victoria, with drums beating
and flags flying. We gave them a few hours off, to have fun, and then we
had them performing a very complicated evolution for the peasants! We, in
short, worked their little behinds off!"

"It was a long weekend," conceded Dave.

"Yes, it was. The point, however, is that while we worked them hard we gave
them time to have some fun. Time, I might add, that the Commanding Officer
authorized."

Dave's shoulders sagged. "Then I came along and blew it."

Number One nodded his agreement. "Yes, in a way you did. I, however, prefer
to think of it as a learning experience for you. The first lesson to be
learned is that young men, and to a certain extent, older men, have very
different ideas of what fun is. Your idea of fun is obviously diametrically
opposed to the lads' idea of fun. To their way of thinking they were doing
nothing wrong, then along came you riding your moral high horse." Shaking
his head Number One grinned slightly. "Obviously you have never had to deal
with Royal Marines. Their idea of fun is going ashore on a run wearing
fancy dress."

"Fancy dress?"

"Costumes on this side of the Atlantic," explained the Executive
Officer. "For some reason it is almost traditional that the Royal Marines
wear fancy dress when they go ashore to get drunk. You have not lived until
you've seen a Bootie in a lace-trimmed corset, fish net stockings and a
garter belt." Dave shuddered. Number One chuckled. "You also forgot that
the moment you took your Commission you crossed a bridge. You became "them"
as opposed to "us". As an officer you are the perceived enemy whose whole
purpose in life is to make their lives as miserable as possible."

"Which I confirmed by trying to interfere," admitted Dave, more to himself
than to Number One.

"Yes. To the minds of those cadets all they were doing was enjoying
themselves, in their free time. Then you, the officer came along, on your
high horse, full of moral indignation, piss and vinegar, waving your
stripe-and-a-half at them, and for no good reason that they could see,
attempting to deny them their right to enjoy themselves. You paid the
price.  As I once did."

"You did?"

The Executive Officer nodded and laughed quietly. "It may be hard to
believe, but I too was once a young and inexperienced officer. Like you I
was full of moral indignation, piss and vinegar. I too ignored the fair
warnings from more seasoned, more experienced men. Number One scratched his
nose and thought a moment. "Looking back, I rather think that I felt
insulted that a Lower Decker would have the temerity to offer me, an
officer, advice on how to handle a drunken sailor. I was an Officer!  I had
been trained, I thought, on how to deal with the lads. Little did I know!
All you lost were your trousers. I got a right good thump in the head!"

"Dear Lord!" exclaimed Dave. Striking a superior, particularly if he were
an officer, was almost a flogging offence in the Navy.

"Indeed. It was entirely my own fault, of course. I went into town one
Saturday afternoon to shop and came upon the Shore Patrol - a Petty Officer
and two ratings. They were attempting to deal with a very drunken matelot
who had, for reasons best known to himself, taken it into his mind to climb
upon the town's War Memorial."

"The War Memorial?"

Number One nodded sagely. "In itself an act of sacrilege, at least to my
young and patriotic mind. The rating had decided that the statue on the
Memorial bore a striking resemblance to his brother! Nonsense, of course,
but then, the lad was very drunk." He sighed heavily and continued. "My
first fundamental mistake was ignoring the Petty Officer's advice. I do not
know why it is but whenever an officer is told by a ranking NCO not to do
something, or when the NCO says, 'I wouldn't do that if I were you, sir' we
just must go off and do it! It was a mistake because I was doing something
I was not trained to do, specifically, getting a drunk down from a
monument, and, more importantly, it was not my job in the first place. I
was interfering, you see."

"As I was?" asked Dave, hoping against hope that the Executive Officer
would not agree with him.

"As you were," agreed Number One dryly. "You were basically told by two
very senior Ratings and one fellow officer to mind your own business. Both
The Gunner and Chef, contrary to what you thought, knew exactly what was
going on, knew exactly what to do if the situation gave promise of getting
out of hand, and how to put a stop to it if and when the time came!" Number
One grinned. "First lesson learned: always listen to your NCOs. They
usually know what they're about!" He leaned back in his chair and continued
his lecture. "Back to my drunken matelot. He refused to listen to me, of
course, and continued holding an animated conversation with that bloody
statue. So what did I do? I waved my rather pitiful one stripe at him and
ordered him to descend on pain of arrest! Second lesson learned?" He
shrugged. "Never issue an order to a drunk, and never issue an order you
should know full well will either not be obeyed, or will be obeyed so
grudgingly that the lads will never willingly listen to you again. They
will obey you, but only because your rank says they must. They won't thank
you because they think you are wrong in issuing such an order, and they
will not trust you again."

"Sir, I thought I was doing the right thing," interrupted Dave.

"Of course you did or you would not have done it in the first place. But
think on my lad, think on. What real harm was being done? They were
wrestling and having a hell of a good time. They were doing no harm
whatsoever. To their minds your order was an unfair order, with no room for
argument so far as they were concerned."

Dave considered the Executive Officer's remarks carefully. He ran over in
his mind the events of the day, and a picture began to form. The cadets had
not been doing anything but having a hell of a good time. The more he
thought about the scenario the more he realized that while yes, bathing
suits had been removed, they had also very quickly been put back on. He
thought about how embarrassed he had been when his shorts and T-shirt had
been stripped off of him and realized that no self-respecting male would
ever flash his parts at members of the audience, no matter what the
sex. Harry and Greg had taken the trouble to find something to cover
themselves with. They had not emerged from the pool unclothed. None of the
boys had. Those who had been stripped had very quickly retrieved their
swimsuits. He sighed heavily and looked searchingly at the Executive
Officer. "I over-reacted, didn't I?"

Number One nodded. "You did. You misread a situation, you did not listen to
the advice given you by more experienced people and in the end, sadly, you
ended up embarrassing yourself."

"I didn't think things through," muttered Dave.

"Precisely!" Number One pointed the stem of his pipe at the young
officer. "Our boys let you off easy. They happen to like you, as an
individual, and in time you will laugh at what a silly ass you made of
yourself!" He smiled. "As an officer the worst fate to befall you is to
lose your credibility with the hands. While it is quite human to over react
to a situation you must take great care when you assess a situation. If you
overreact or if you, out of sheer bloody-mindedness issue an order the
hands know is wrong, and if you ignore the warnings given you, then you
have no one to blame but yourself. If you find yourself in the casualty
ward, you have no one to blame but yourself." A slight frown broke Number
One's features. "We will consider the matter closed and give thanks that
there will be no further repercussions."

"Sir?" asked Dave. The Executive Officer's sudden change of mood was
disturbing.  "Dave, as an officer you must understand that any order you
give could have further consequences, consequences that you did not
anticipate and that you, at the end of the day, heartily wish had never
happened."

"Your matelot?"

"My inebriated matelot," corrected Number One with a small sigh. "Looking
back, and realizing now what happened, I regret what I did because in
retrospect he was really not doing anything harmful. He was having a rather
pleasant conversation with a statue. It never occurred to him that he might
fall and do himself an injury. It never occurred to him that he looked
ridiculous. He was minding his own business and felt, rightfully so, that I
should be minding mine."

"But sir, he was drunk!"

"Of course he was. Do you think he would have climbed up fifteen feet to
talk to a bronze statue if he were sober?" ask Number One sharply. Then he
chuckled and cocked his head, softening the moment.

Dave chuckled. "No, I guess not."

Number One nodded rubbed his chin reflectively. "The lad would, of course,
in the fullness of time, have climbed back down to terra firma, been
charged by the appropriate authority, and paid the penalty. He was quite
happy where he was, and the Shore Patrol knew it. They were prepared to out
wait him." He stood up and walked around his desk and sat on the edge of
it. "Dave, You do understand that what we both did was an error in
judgement?"  Dave nodded his understanding.

"We should not have done what we did, not you in Victoria, nor I Pompey. In
both our cases there were perfectly capable ratings about to look after
things. In my case the Petty Officer knew what should be done, as did the
Shore Patrol ratings. I suspect that the drunken tar on the Monument knew
as well." He pointed at Dave. "In your case our lads knew that you were
technically in the right, but for the wrong reasons. There were senior NCOs
and another officer telling you the right way to handle the situation and
you ignored them. For your unwarranted and unwanted interference you were
thrown into the pool and had your clothing removed. I on the other hand got
a right good thumping!"

"He hit you?  That's a chargeable offence."

Number One nodded ruefully. "Don't I know it!  Not that I charged him
because it was my own damned fault that he hit me. Unlike you, when the lad
came down from his perch I did not beat a hasty and somewhat undignified
retreat. Oh no! I had to not only wave my one stripe at him, I waved my
Commissioning Scroll and both volumes of Kings Regulations! I added insult
to injury by telling him that he was a disgrace to the uniform. I then
proceeded to tell him that he was on a charge, several charges,
actually. Conduct prejudicial and all that, public drunkenness, insulting
an officer, offering insult to an officer, and a few others I really can't
remember. I was a Tartar!" He smiled and shook his head. "I insulted a man
who had just gone through a war. He had a DSM and the Military Medal. Plus
two Mentions in Dispatches. By telling him he was a disgrace I offered a
far greater insult to him than he had to me, which, in reality, he had not
done! He only told me to sod off and let him alone. He then quite rightly
punched me in the eye. He got 14 days Confined To Cells, I got a rollicking
from my Divisional Officer and a very stern lecture from the Commanding
Officer on how not to antagonize Jolly Jack when he's ashore." He gave Dave
a knowing look. "You understand, young Dave, the point that I am trying to
make?"

"I think so, yes. You didn't stop to think what would happen when you
interfered. The matelot was a war hero and because you stuck your oar in,
didn't think of the consequences he had a black mark against him. Which
could have been avoided had you walked away and let the ratings take care
of business."

"By not thinking I caused a good man irreparable harm. He lost time and
part of his pension because of it. You were lucky. My matelot will never
forgive me. Your matelots have probably forgotten all about the incident."

"Chef thinks I should turn in my papers," said Dave quietly.

"Whatever for? The matter is closed. You've been counselled and you now
understand the error of your ways." He gave Dave a searching look, "There
is one other thing, however.

"And here comes the other shoe dropping," thought Dave, cringing
slightly. He knew that he had gotten off much too lightly.

"What you have got to learn, laddie, is that as an officer you cannot be
all hail fellow well met one minute and Captain Bloody Bligh the next. You
have got to learn than you must be fair, firm and friendly. You have got to
think about what reaction your orders will cause, and before you issue an
order you have got to be damned sure that it is the right order." Number
One stood up and motioned for Dave to follow him.  As they left the office
he turned and grinned widely. "We'll go over to the galley and have a cup
of Chef's coffee. If we speak to him nicely perhaps he'll sweeten it from
that bottle of good Navy rum he keeps in his desk."

As they passed the parade square they saw the cadets marching and
counter-marching, practising their Passing Out Parade. "You know, when I
was their age I always thought that the best part of a Passing Out Parade
was the prize giving.  We never do that, and I think we should."

Dave nodded his agreement. "The senior cadets would like that. Usually all
they ever take away from one of these places are their memories."

"I shall talk to Father about it. Ah, here we are." They mounted the galley
steps and entered the building. Number One looked directly at Dave and said
coolly, "You should know, Dave, that I would not have accepted your
resignation."

"No?"

"Getting thrown in a pool and having your privates fondled is no excuse to
resign. What the lads did to you comes, I think, under the heading of
'testing the officer'. They do it constantly, you know. When an officer is
being bloody-minded, as you were, the troops will not rest until in some
small way they get back their own. So, they push the envelope by putting
you in a position which, under the guise of a joke, they test you, to see
how you react." He chuckled. "They are looking to see just exactly what you
would do after they've had their fun with you. What they did to you was
harmless and not at all vicious. They were testing you, and now they are
waiting to see how far you will carry it."

"It's over," replied Dave firmly. "I was a fool, I know it, sir."

"Good. I say that because you have learned a lesson. Let the knowledge of
that lesson lighten your burden and let it ease your pain." He laughed
quietly. "Console yourself also with the fact that all they did was to
debag you. Me, I almost lost me manhood!

Dave gave the Executive Officer a strange look. "Sir?"

"The beggars talked me into being the test weight for a jackstay
transfer. It was the middle of November and I foolishly agreed to do
exactly what they wanted me to do. There I was, happy as a clam, being
pulled back and forth, thirty feet or so above the very cold surface of the
River Dart.

"I remember thinking that it was not all that bad when the damned Marine
Bugler sounded Stand Easy. I looked around and there I was, hanging over
the exact middle of the river. I looked about and on one shore stood the
sending party, on the other the receiving party, all grinning at me. I was
foolish enough to think that the Load Master would give the order to heave
in on the in-haul."

"He didn't?"

"Did he like hell! He shouted out 'Check away on the jackstay, check away
on the in-haul' and down I went, waist deep in the coldest water in the
South of England. Dear God, I could feel my quite unused knackers
shrivelling down to the size of a currant and . . ."

******

Greg's outburst aside, The Twins had had a very busy, but pleasant
morning. Half the gun crews were off in classes and the remaining cadets
were older and seasoned hands who needed very little supervision. After a
dry run of their part in the Ceremony of the Flags the Twins set their
cadets to cleaning and polishing the long-barrelled guns and went to sit in
the shadows of the Headquarters Building.

One of the things they liked about spending much of their day on the parade
square was that it was the perfect place to watch their world go by. They
had seen The Phantom and Ray go into the Stores Building and, later, had
seen Rob and Ryan rush out of the Stores Building. Todd snickered at the
sight of the two Storekeepers hurrying toward their barracks. "Methinks two
young cadets of our acquaintance were doing more than counting the sheets."

Cory giggled but made no comment.

A round of yelling drew their attention to the centre of the square where
Sylvain was castigating and berating Andre in a stream of French
invective. Andre had a goofy grin on his face and was blushing
furiously. He had made a mistake in his timing - which he rarely did, and
Sylvain was making him pay for it.

"And to think I used to like Sylvain," said Todd coldly.

Cory looked over and watched as Sylvain, his tirade over, returned to his
position in front of the Bugle Band. Cory grunted noncommittally. While
Sylvain was very good looking, and had a great body, he did nothing for
Cory, and Cory said as much to Todd.

"You just don't like him because he's not a clean-cut all-Canadian boy. If
he was you'd be on him like ugly on an ape!" retorted Todd.

"No, not him. He's too moody. One minute he's all happy and horny, the next
he's all pouty and horny. He doesn't give me a tingle in my little dick."

Todd grinned. "I'm sorry about that. It's not so little."

Cory returned the grin. "We have anything important on this afternoon?"

"No, why?"

"Well, I was thinking. What say we skive off and go for a swim?"

Todd cocked his head and waggled his eyebrows at his brother. "And?"  "I
thought we'd do a recce of the woods on the other side of the
roadway. Maybe take a look and see if that old shack is still there." Cory
grinned lasciviously. "One of the advantages of having a small dick is that
the more you exercise it the bigger it gets."

"Sounds like a proposition, sailor," replied Todd.

"It is."

Todd chuckled and nodded toward the Band, which was just tuning up for
their run through. They noticed that Little Big Man was back on the right
flank of the Drum Line. Little Big Man might be a proven prick, but he was
also an excellent drummer. Harry, as Chief Drum Major, could, and did,
forgive many sins when it came to his Drum Line.

The Twins watched as Harry put the Band through its paces. The musicians
and drummers were really very good and Harry was, as usual, perfect. As
they watched Harry Todd's mouth formed a sly smile. "Did you know that
Harry felt the way he did about us?"

Cory shook his head. "Nope. Now I wish I had. He was always so fucking
macho all the time."

Todd nodded his agreement. "I think we'll wait for him to make the first
move."

"You think?" Cory had his doubts but was prepared to defer to his brother.

"When he's ready, when the time is right, he'll let us know."

"Okay."

They watched as Dave Eddy and the Executive Officer walked over to the
galley. Number One was waving his arms and making pulling motions. Both
officers were laughing and it was obvious that Number One was spinning a
dip.

"Dave's not a bad guy, now that he's an officer," offered Todd.

"Still has a small package."

Todd leaned forward and whispered in Cory's ear, "Always remember, good
things come in small packages. "

Cory snorted and gave his brother the elbow.

The Phantom and Ray, each boy burdened with bundles and boxes, left Stores
and hurried by, all agog about something. The Phantom paused briefly and
asked Cory how many of his gunners were lunching with him.

"Oh, shit!" Cory slapped his forehead. "I bloody well forgot." He quickly
counted the line of gunners sunning themselves and watching the Band. "I
count 24, plus Todd and me. The rest have classes all day so I guess I'll
have to invite them tomorrow. Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem. I just have to set up a separate table."

"Come on, Phantom," interjected Ray. "We have to talk to Chef."

"Okay, keep your pants on." The Phantom smiled and nodded to Cory. "We may
have a little surprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"Yeah. All I'm going to say is that you will be pleased."

The Twins saw The Gunner walking toward them. He stopped and asked if he
could borrow some of their gunners. "I need some help unloading my car,"
The Gunner explained. "After lunch I'll issue you clowns your new
uniforms."

The Twins readily agreed to help The Gunner. Gesturing to the gunners they
all trooped over to where The Gunner had parked his car and in short order
the new white uniforms were locked away in The Gunner's office.

As Stand Easy approached The Twins returned to their viewing place.

Brian, together with Kyle, had the Guard out, practising with the
Band. They were actually pretty good, and Kyle had finally gotten his act
together, choreographing his movements, and the Guard's, to the second with
the Band's music. Shortly after the bugle sounded Stand Easy they saw Greg
leave the Ship's Office and head off in the direction of the Gunroom.

"In a way I feel sorry for him," said Todd as they watched Greg disappear
into the Gunroom.

Cory agreed. "It's too bad he confused lust with love. Things might have
been better for both him and Harry if he knew the difference."

Todd's face brightened. "Everybody's at Stand Easy. What say we go teach a
certain Administrative Writer an object lesson?"

Cory grinned widely. "You know, dear brother of mine, you have a perfectly
evil mind."

Todd stood up and rubbed the dust from the back of his well-filled
bell-bottoms. "I wonder if Greg remembers the morning he called you
'Tiger'."

******

The Gunroom was eerily quiet as the Twins entered. Todd carefully locked
the door and followed Cory into the Mess.

They found Greg sitting on his bunk, his back against the bulkhead, with
his knees drawn up. Greg heard their light footsteps and paled as he saw
Todd and Cory enter. He moved quickly into a sitting position and buried
his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he moaned as the Twins positioned
themselves, one on either side of him. Greg began rocking slowly, mumbling
his apologies.

Todd slowly took Greg's hands away from his face and looked into his
eyes. Greg did not seem to notice that Cory had slipped his arm around his
waist. Greg continued to moan and groan, repeating over and over again how
sorry he was. Todd shook him gently. "Greg, stop it! We know you didn't
mean what you said."

"I didn't, honest. It's just that, ah shit!" He shook his head and pounded
his leg with his fist. "I don't know what the fuck I am, or what I want."

Todd put his arm around Greg's shoulder and with his hand began to gently
rub the back of Greg's neck. "You're a perfectly normal 17-year-old guy
who's had his first taste of guy sex. You liked it and that frightens you."

"I'm not queer, Todd. I can't be queer!" insisted Greg emphatically. "I
like girls! I want to get married and have kids, damn it!"

"Greg, experimenting with Harry does not necessarily make you queer." Todd
in fact did think Greg was gay, but too repressed and far too fearful of
contravening the social conventions to admit it. "Guys have been doing that
since they discovered their dicks! No one thinks any less of you, you
know."

"Todd, I sucked Harry's dick!" whispered Greg.

"And he sucked yours," replied Cory. His right arm was firmly around Greg's
waist. His left hand rested on Greg's firm thigh. "You're even." He began
to slowly rub the warm flesh of Greg's inner thigh.

"I couldn't understand why I felt the way I did," continued Greg. "I'd see
him every morning, naked, and almost always with a bone on and I'd think
fuck, what a god! I told myself over and over again that I couldn't be
feeling things like that. I used to get a bone just thinking about him."

"Harry's a stud, that's for sure," agreed Todd. His left hand drifted
around and began to rub Greg's firm stomach. He wondered if Greg realized
that he was being expertly and deliberately seduced.

Greg did not seem to hear Todd's voice or feel the hands expertly
manipulating his body. "Then, when we went to that party at Sandro's place,
and I started drinking that fucking vodka, the more I looked at Harry, the
more I wanted to, you know, do things with him. Fuck man, I couldn't help
myself. We got into bed and I could feel him against me and, God, did I
want to hold him and taste him."

Greg was only vaguely aware of Todd's hand as it slowly unclipped his belt
and pushed down his zipper. He felt very warm and pleasant feelings as
Todd's hand went under his gunshirt and slowly made it's way up to his
nipples. Shuddering as two fingers rubbed and gently pinched his nipples
into hard, sensitive nubs, Greg moaned softly, trembling as another hand
slowly felt his rising penis through the thin fabric of his
underpants. Greg was trying to talk while panting heavily, trying to ignore
the most wonderful feelings that seemed to be spreading outward from his
balls. "I told myself the next morning, ah, Jesus, please, don't do that,"
he moaned. "It's wrong . . ."

The Twins ignored Greg's half-hearted protests and continued their
seduction. Greg, breathing heavily, began to thrust his hips, moaning and
mewing softly, giving himself over to the pleasures that flashed like
jagged bolts of lightning through his body.

Todd nuzzled Greg's neck, his warm breath intoxicating. "What did you tell
yourself?" he whispered. "Did you tell yourself that you were drunk and it
was the booze that made you do what you've been wanting to do ever since
you moved in here?" Todd's lips were very close to Greg's right ear.  He
moved closer and gently kissed Greg's curving earlobe.

Greg felt the sensuous warmth of Todd's wet tongue and shivered. He could
feel a warm wetness spreading across the front of his briefs, aware now of
the smooth hand that was massaging his hard, curving erection and he began
groaning louder as the front of his briefs were pushed down, exposing his
thickened organ.  Greg could feel the head of his dick being rubbed softly
and he pushed his hips slowly upward.

While Todd continued to rub and fondle Greg's chest and nipples Cory began
to slowly masturbate the heavily breathing teen. Greg growled and moaned
with each slow upward and downward motion of Cory's hand. Greg closed his
eyes and gave himself over to the feelings raging through him. He barely
heard a voice - he did not know which Twin was speaking - asking him if he
wanted to stop.

Overwhelmed with pleasure and lust, all pretence and protests forgotten,
Greg shook his head no. He wanted this to happen. Greg could feel his
oozing precum being gently wiped from his weeping helmet, could feel his
balls contracting, knowing that he was peaking. He could not stop the
delicious sensations that crashed against him. "Oh, God," he breathed
slowly, feeling the most wonderful feeling a boy could ever feel flowing
upward from his now swollen balls. "Ah, SHIT!" he yelped as his dick
lengthened and thickened. He was almost . . . NO FUCK . . .HE WAS GOING TO
. . . Greg's hips thrust harshly as he fucked Cory's tightly enveloping
hand.  His cock spasmed and jerked and a thick stream of his juice flew
from his gaping piss slip and splattered along the curve of his chin. He
thrust again, and another stream flew out and landed on his
gunshirt-covered chest. He yelped loudly with each thrust of his hips as
his dick orgasmed and his balls emptied. All too soon he was spent and he
pulled quickly away from the hand that had brought him upward to
indescribable pleasure and down to glorious ecstasy. Greg opened his eyes
and, breathing heavily, looked at each Twin in turn. "Dear, God, that was
so fucking good." His face was flushed a deep red, and his body tingled in
the thrall of the afterglow of sex.

When he had calmed down a bit Todd kissed Greg warmly and, while Cory
slipped quietly away to go and wash his hands, Todd pulled Greg close to
him. "Did you like it, Greg?" asked Todd softly.

Greg nodded and rubbed his hair against Todd's cheek.

"Did it feel wrong doing it?" Todd's voice was silken soft.

"No, it was wonderful," replied Greg, shaking his head.

"Are you sorry it happened?" Again, Greg shook his head no. "It was just
sex, wasn't it?"

"Yes, just sex." Greg pulled away from Todd and straightened his body. He
looked at Todd and smiled thinly. "I wish it . . ."

"Don't," murmured Todd as he placed two fingers against Greg's lips. "It
was just sex and neither you, nor me, nor Cory want it to be anything
else."

Greg smiled wanly. "No, it will never be anything else."

"Now you understand how Harry feels."

Greg closed his eyes, and then opened them. "Yeah, I guess I do." He stood
up and pulled off his soiled gunshirt. "I was such a jerk!"

"I know. Now you're not. Now you understand what Harry needs, what Harry
wants. He needs you to be his friend. He wants you to be his friend.  He
needs you to make him feel as good as he makes you feel. He wants you to
feel as good as you make him feel."

Greg crumpled his gunshirt into a loose ball and threw it on the bed.  "I
want him to be my friend.  I also want him to make me feel good again."

"No strings? No attachments? On his terms?"

"Yeah.  I understand now.  At least I think I do. He doesn't want to spend
his life with me, and I sure don't want to spend my life with him." He sat
down on the bed abruptly. "Fuck, Todd, after what I said to him, Harry will
never speak to me again."

Todd stood up and moved past Greg. "Harry is not a man to bear a grudge. If
you really meant what you said, talk to him. You might be surprised at what
he tells you."

******

Todd joined Cory who was waiting for him in the lobby outside of the Chiefs
Mess. As they walked back toward the parade square Cory sighed
explosively. "What's the matter now?" demanded Todd.

"You do realize that by popping Greg's puppy, and making him understand
what his relationship with Harry really is, that we've blown any chance of
ever getting Harry's boots under our bed!" complained Cory.

Todd sniggered and leaned close to Cory's ear. "You can always dream,
Tiger."