Date: Mon, 4 Aug 2003 11:21:43 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 24

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). Please contact me at
paradegi@rogers.com


The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 24


For the first time in living memory, Chef was on parade. Not only was he on
parade, he was fully booted and spurred. His white, Number 11 uniform, was
so stiffly starched and crisply ironed that the Cookery Branch, which was
formed up behind him in a perfectly sized platoon, expected cracks to
appear in the startlingly white fabric every time Chef moved. On his head
Chef wore a brand new white cap fitted with an RN Chief's badge, which Chef
preferred over the RCN pattern badge because of the fineness of the
workmanship and the richness of the embroidered gold wire. On each sleeve
of his perfectly tailored uniform jacket three gold buttons flashed in the
morning sunlight. Above the buttons gleamed gold and enamelled crowns, the
small, enamelled jewels so expertly crafted that they flashed and sparkled
to rival real gemstones. At his side, hanging from his hidden sword belt
(which had been polished to such a gloss that it appeared to be patent
leather) was a Warrant Officer's dress sword of an antique pattern. The
brass hilt and fittings of the scabbard had, like the belt and slings, been
polished and resembled pure gold. One of Chef's lambs was being feted and
he would not let down the side.

Behind Chef, scrubbed, polished, freshly barbered and twice inspected, were
Randy, Joey, and the Litany of the Saints, with Ray to the front and Sandro
on the right flank. They were all on their best behaviour, wearing their
best uniforms. One of Chef's lambs was being honoured and the rest of the
flock would not let down the side.

That is not to say that they were not up to their usual deviltry. Side bets
were being whispered back and forth. The collar of Chef's uniform jacket
was so tight that it seemed to be cutting a groove in his neck and his
lambs were waiting patiently to see if his head fell off before, during, or
after the parade.

Chef had been determined that the Cookery Branch would, as he put it,
shine! To that end he had, at 0715, all but physically ejected the last
cadet eating breakfast, predictably Little Big Man, and locked the doors of
the Mess Hall. He had then armed himself with a large wooden spoon and
mustered the hands. As the galley staff stood to attention he had slowly
marched up the front of them, then down the back of them, clucking and
muttering.

His inspection finished, Chef fixed a jaundiced eye on his galley lambs and
announced ponderously that one of their own was Inspecting Officer this
morning and that they, grubby little urchins that they were, would scrub
themselves to gleaming, pink perfection and then don their cleanest,
SHARPEST, WHITE UNIFORMS, the better to hide their scrawny carcasses. Then,
his wooden spoon at the ready, Chef had muttered the age-old word so
beloved by Chiefs and Drill Sergeants: "Haircuts!"

The looks on the boys' faces led Chef to hastily assure them that he was
well versed in the art of gentlemen's hairdressing, a trade he had learned
while confined, as a mere lad, in HMS GANGES. Just what Chef had been
doing, as a mere lad or otherwise, in the Royal Navy School for Boy Seamen,
nobody dared ask. Seven heads swivelled and looked at Ray. He paled and sat
in the chair indicated by Chef and offered a quiet prayer under his
breath. Chef darted into his office and returned with a proper pair of
barber's clippers. Ray heard the droning buzz of the clippers and closed
his eyes.

Chef worked quickly, efficiently and expertly. When he was finished he
tapped Ray's shoulder, signalling that he was finished, and held up a
mirror. Surprise registered on every face. Chef was exactly what he claimed
to be. Ray had a perfect "high and wide" haircut, with just enough left on
the top to make a part to the left. Satisfied that they were not going to
end up looking like the Last of the Mohicans, each boy sat in the chair in
turn and had his hair cut.

Once all the boys had been barbered Chef sent them off to retrieve their
uniforms and a change of underclothes. They would, he ordained, shower and
change in the galley facilities. On their return Ray and Sandro, under
threat of a good paddling, were detailed to supervise. Randy pointed out
that he had been washing himself without supervision since he was six, and
could even go to the toilet by himself, thank you very much. He further
opined that he did not need instructions on how to clean his pecker. This
last remark earned Randy a sharp rap on his behind with Chef's wooden spoon
and a roared, unveiled threat of a good spanking if Randy did not behave.

While the boys were off collecting their uniforms Chef inspected The
Phantom who, under his critical eye, was pronounced adequate. In reality
the old fool thought that the boy looked positively regal. Chef was not,
however, about to give him a second "Bravo Zulu" just yet. Phantom would
only get a swelled head and that would never do.

When the other boys returned and began showering, Chef inspected their
uniforms, which they had hung in their lockers. He ignored Joey and Randy,
who were eyeing him warily, and clucked and muttered and fussed, with much
clicking of his tongue and shaking of his head, poking and lifting the
starched white uniforms which were, although he was not about to say it,
perfect in every respect.

When the cooks were finished showering they slipped into their clean
underpants and formed up in a line in the hallway outside the galley locker
room where Chef took one look at Luke's underpants and promptly pitched a
fit of monumental, volcanic proportions.

Except for Luke, all the cadets were wearing more-or-less generic, standard
issue, run-of-the-mill almost identical, white, cotton briefs. Luke,
however, whether by accident, or perhaps design, had pulled on what the
Canteen Manager insisted were the latest in fashionable male under
garments: bikini briefs. He had laid in a large stock of these garments
(together with an equally large supply of personal hygiene supplies) in the
hope of cashing in on the water crisis. With the Cadets Laundry back in
business the bottom had fallen out of the underwear market and he was now
offering the underpants at fire sale prices.  The Canteen Mangler had
forgotten that the most conservative creature on earth was the
sailor. Father took one look at the huge cardboard mounted photo
advertisement of a muscular young model showing his all and shook his head,
huge clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe, a sure sign that he WAS NOT
PLEASED! Harry had been, if anything, even more reactionary after seeing
Evan wearing a pair of the offending garments. Evan was directed to either
stow the underpants or burn them, preferably the latter, and the Sea
Puppies were forbidden to even think about buying a pair. The underpants
were so offensive to Harry's sense of the proprieties that he announced
that the only way he would ever wear such abbreviated underpants would be
if he were dead, and the undertaker put them on him.

Chef, in all his years in the Andrew, had never seen anyone, man, boy, or
the ship's cat, in as skimpy a pair of drawers as Luke had put on. Not only
were they barely worthy of the name of underpants, they were not white!
They were a light grey with ribbed, pale blue stripes. To make matters
worse they were cut so low in the front that they barely covered Luke's
bits and pieces and exposed a goodly portion of his thick, black, and very
curly pubic forest. And if the front portion of Luke's knickers was bad,
the back was worse. The briefs were cut so high on his leg, and so little
material was used, that his buttocks, as round and as pink as a pair of
Easter hams, were fully on view.

For the first time in his life Chef had been speechless. His mouth moved,
but nothing came out. Fortunately for Luke's safety while Chef was busily
hyperventilating Ray had the presence of mind to hustle the boy out of the
change room and into the outer darkness, where he was to remain until he
could find something decent to wear. That he had nothing on other than the
offending briefs was of no consequence. Out Luke went.

After a medicinal brandy Chef went off to shower and change and the cadets
began dressing, waiting for Luke to hurry up and get his sorry ass back to
the Mess Hall so they could get the next part of the evolution over
with. When they were finally ready they all trooped into the dining hall to
be inspected yet again by Chef, who was waiting impatiently for them. What
they saw caused them to stop and stare for a full minute of stunned
silence. Before them stood Chef, resplendent in his faultlessly tailored
Number Elevens, medals up and sword at his side.

Ray's eyes all but bugged out of his head. Chef looked . . . magnificent!
Gone was the slightly puffy Pillsbury Doughboy dressed in rumpled,
food-stained cook's whites, replaced by a smooth shaven, slightly corpulent
man in a dazzling, hand-tailored uniform, the snowy whiteness broken by the
brightly coloured medal ribbons of the Long Service and Good Conduct Medal,
the UN Korean War Medal, the Coronation Medal, and, taking pride of place,
the deep blue enamelled cross of the Order of Military Merit.

Sandro's jaw dropped. "Fuck your mother," he muttered in Russian. "He looks
like the Grand Duke Valentin Petrovich!" This was, perhaps, as backhanded a
compliment ever given to Chef. The Grand Duke, while a tall, handsome,
broad figured man, had also been the poster boy for Tsarist corruption, and
much referred to by the Bolsheviki when they needed someone to hold up as
an icon of all that was wrong with the Romanovs. With typical Russian
pragmatism Sandro considered the vilification of the Grand Duke, who in
1916 had been the owner of a munitions factory that supplied artillery
shells filled with sawdust to the Imperial Army, as hypocritical coming
from the likes of Ulyanov and Djugashvili. In the event, Sandro thought
that Chef looked positively royal, and said so.

"He smells like a funeral parlour," snarled Luke, referring to Chef's
distinctively flowery after-shave. Luke was still smarting from the
bollocking he'd been given and was in no mood for forgiveness.

Ray, Sandro, Joey and Randy gave Luke a collective, unforgiving murderous
glare. How dare he speak such treason against their Chef!

Chef, who had overheard Luke, held up his hand. "Now, lads, there will be
no bickering this day. Last night you did one another proud, so today all
is forgiven."

The look that Ray, Sandro, Joey and Randy gave Luke said otherwise. Nothing
was forgiven!

>From outside came the sounds of many boots marching rhythmically and
muffled commands. The parade was being formed and it was time for the cooks
to put in an appearance. Chef nodded toward the door. "Right then,
boys. Off we go." Before the boys could charge outside Chef held up his
hand. "This is Phantom's day, lads. Make him proud of you!"

******

Led by Chef, the Cookery Branch took its place in the parade, which had
been formed up in strict order of precedence, in two Divisions (a third
division, the Field Gun Battery would be added after the Inspection and the
parade formed for the March Past) - AURORA Division would lead, with the
YAG Division following. Leading AURORA Division would be the Boatswains
Platoon (all the gunners being employed elsewhere), followed by the
Signalmen; next came the Crushers, who preceded the Engineers. Following
the Engineers were the Cooks and Supply types with, last but not least, the
Sea Puppies.

The Colour Party would, as always, lead the parade. No "H", as OIC Colour
Party, stood fidgeting with his sword and trying to hold onto the pole
carrying the Canadian Flag. To his left Evan held grimly onto the Sea Cadet
flag while to the right of No "H" Matt stood stock still, looking as
pleased as punch, having been given the honour of carrying the White
Ensign. Behind them three booted and spurred cadets, their chromed bayonets
gleaming in the early morning sun, provided the Escort to the Colours. The
Colour Party stood to one side, waiting impatiently to be marched on.

Also waiting to be marched on were the Guard, led by Kyle and Brian, both
of whom scurried to and fro down the three ranks, checking equipment and
muttering maledictions. Looking bored, Young Brown, the bugler, stood at
the rear left flank of the Guard, behind Chad. To the rear right flank was
Mal, looking like a thundercloud. All in all, he'd rather be diving. To the
right of the Guard was the Band, shuffling and scratching.

In front of the Band, Harry stood grasping his mace and muttering under his
breath. He had long recovered from Andre's revelation, and was now mentally
dithering about how in the hell was going to manage to pay his
fine. Lashing out big bucks for a stupid mistake, such as dropping his
Mace, would just about break him. He cursed inwardly whoever it was who had
started the tradition that if the Drum Major for any reason dropped his
Mace, he was liable to buy a round for the Band. Harry wished it were only
a round. Booze was ten cents a double shot in the Comox Junior Rates
Mess. Buying Cokes, and hamburgers for the 35 musicians would cost him,
even at Canteen prices. His eyes slid across the field to where Todd was
standing, tending his guns, and Harry wondered if his lover had a few extra
bucks squirreled away in his underwear.

******

After placing The Phantom in the tender care of the Commanding Officer, The
Gunner joined Doc for a stroll along the assembled parade. Unlike The
Gunner, Doc was resplendent in dress whites, a sword at his side, and
scarlet cloth separating the gleaming gold braid on his shoulder boards.

"Will you look at Chef," muttered The Gunner as they walked past the Cooks
Platoon. Chef, as puffed up as a pouter pigeon, stood foursquare in front
of his lambs.

"I see him," replied Doc out of the corner of his mouth. "He looks thinner,
but very . . . Navy!" He looked quickly at the sword Chef carried in his
left hand. "Now, where in the hell did he get that sword? I haven't seen
that pattern since old Admiral Mainguy's funeral!"

"Perhaps he nicked it off the old boy's box?" offered The Gunner with a
grin.

"I wouldn't put it past the old fool," replied Doc with a snort. He turned
and smiled slyly. "Why don't you go over there and ask him where he got his
sword?"

The Gunner gave Doc a look of pretended terror. "Not me! No way!" he
whined. "I learned a long time ago never to ask Chef silly questions when
he has a bloody great knife in his hand!"

******

Number One stood on the steps of the Mess Hall and glanced at his
watch. Before him stretched the parade, which had been sized, dressed and
turned inboard. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, grasped his sword
and marched smartly in front of Andy, who was acting as Deputy Parade
Commander. After receiving Andy's report on the number of officers and
cadets on parade, Number One told the American to take post, and waited
until Andy had marched to the rear of the Sea Puppies' platoon.

It was very quiet, with scarcely a breeze to ruffle the blue and white
striped collars of the cadets. Number One looked left, looked right, and
then began. "PARADE . . . PARADE," he roared, "STAND AT . . . EASE!"

263 cadets smartly executed the movement.

"PARADE . . . HO!" bellowed Number One, using the ancient and traditional
order for bringing the Ship's Company to attention. "PARADE, MOVE TO THE
RIGHT IN COLUMNS OF DIVISIONS . . . RIGHT . . . TURN!"

As one entity the Parade turned to the right, pointing south toward the
parade square, and the Reviewing Stand.

Number One marched to the front of Tyler. Behind Tyler, Dave Eddy, the
Boatswain Divisional Officer, braced slightly. Number One had the eye of an
eagle when it came to mistakes in dress or deportment and Dave was taking
no chances.

"MARCH ON THE GUARD AND BAND!"

To a single drum beat the Guard and Band took up their positions at the
head of the parade. When these two units were in place Number One glanced
at the Colour Party, which was standing, waiting, perhaps twenty yards
away. "PARADE . . . TO YOUR COLOURS SALUTE!"

At this order Kyle and The Colour Party began their march. The Band struck
up The Maple Leaf Forever and played until the Colour Party was in its
place of honour directly to the front of the Band.

Once again all was silence. Number One took in a deep breath and was about
to give the order to march off when his eye caught the movement of a flag
being raised up the flagpole. He grinned and stifled a laugh. Nicholas had
Eight Up, Flag Number 8, the Signalmen's way of cocking a snook at the
brass hats. He chuckled. "Enemy In Sight, indeed!"

Number One heard movement to his right as the car that would carry the
Inspecting Phantom and the Commanding Officer drove up. He
straightened. "PARADE WILL MARCH OFF, COLOUR PARTY LEADING . . . BY THE
RIGHT . . . QUICK . . . MARCH!"

With three drum rolls as an intro the Band struck up the rollicking tune
Under the White Ensign. Phantom's Parade had begun.

******

Todd stood stiffly at attention in the exact middle of the wide "V" formed
by the saluting gun caissons, limbers and their attendants. To his right,
Number One gun crew was under Nick's able command. To Todd's left, Anson
had command of Number Two Gun. In the point of the "V" the two guns, their
barrels pointed toward the Strait of Georgia, had been checked and checked
again. Flanking the guns loaders, layers and firing numbers waited, lined
up in their proper positions and kneeling down on their left knee, their
hands primly folded atop their right knees. Behind, and to the right of the
guns were the Gun Captains, Cory on Number One, Dylan on Number Two.

The battery waited patiently while the parade marched down, a single,
unified body, every arm swinging in unison, not a foot out of step. With
measured tread the cadets marched on. A Life On the Ocean Wave replaced
Under The White Ensign as the Band passed the Headquarters Building. On
they marched, wheeling smartly onto the parade square, marching and
wheeling into line and down the dusty square toward the Flag Staff. Just
when it seemed that Number One would crash into the wooden dais he slid
into "Mark Time" and three seconds later the bass drum thumped the parade
to a halt. It was time for Colours.

Nicholas, flanked by two Signalmen holding the already bent on flags,
saluted smartly. "Colours, Sir!" he roared. At the same time Young Brown
lifted his bugle to his lips and the Band Officer raised his arm.

"Very good! Make it so!" replied Number One.

Young Brown bugled the Still and the Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur's arm came
down. The Band, with attendant drum rolls, began playing God Save The Queen
as the colours rose slowly up the Flag Mast. When the Royal Anthem was
finished the Band drum-rolled into O, Canada.

When the last note of the anthem finished Dirty Dave the Deacon, wearing a
new cassock and surplice, his stole draped around his neck, stepped
forward. It was time, as laid down in QR&Os (Cadets), for prayers.

Todd paid little attention to the tableau being played out on the parade
square.  His whole focus was on the front door of the Mess Hall. Presently
The Phantom, accompanied by the Commanding Officer, exited the Mess
Hall. "Stand By The Guns!" Todd bellowed.

The gunners leaped to attention and then into action. Layers quickly
elevated their pieces; loaders rammed blank rounds into the breechblocks;
firing Numbers slammed home the breech blocks and grasped their lanyards
and the Gun Captains raised their arms.

Watching carefully, Todd waited with professional patience. His gunner's
eye had never failed him and when The Phantom was just settling onto the
back seat of the car Todd began the age-old ritual used by gunners from
time immemorial to begin a proper gun salute. "If I wasn't a gunner, I
wouldn't be here! Shoot!"

Cory brought his arm down sharply. "SHOOT!" he bellowed and Number One gun
thundered.

The door to the car had barely shut with a soft thunk when Number One
gunned roared. The Phantom started and looked at the Commanding Officer,
who was comfortably settled beside him in the back seat. Father reached
over and patted The Phantom's knee. "Not to worry, laddie. They are firing
a salute in your honour, not shooting at you." He chuckled at the memory of
the Twins alleged attempt to assassinate Little Big Man. "Drive slowly,
now, Steven," he said as an aside to Steve. "It won't do to get ahead of
the guns."

Steve glowered and looked into the rear view mirror, giving Father a dirty
look. If he was told one more time to drive slowly he would park this
fucking boat and they could all walk! Father ignored Steve's glowering.

Another gun roared and Father smiled confidently. "Right on the mark. Young
Todd is a cracker jack of a gunner! If I had had him in the old WHISHART
we'd have shortened the war by six months, and no danger!"

The Phantom, who had no doubt that Todd was the complete gunner, nodded his
agreement. He then began to fuss and fidget. Father gave his knee another
reassuring pat. "Not to worry, Phantom. Number One will be with you every
inch of the way," he said paternally. "All you have to do is to look
important and smile every now and then. I have the utmost confidence in
you."

The Phantom smiled weakly. "I'll pee myself," he muttered.

"Well do try to miss my shoes, dear boy," responded Father. "I just bought
them, you know."

As the car approached the Reviewing Stand, The Phantom spotted the Side
Party, two lines of capless boys, three Americans to one side, three
Canadians to the other, that lined the short walkway leading to the dais, a
brass railed, wooden platform decorated with braided and knotted
ropework. He also saw Bobby Baugnier and Simon Keppel standing importantly
on either side of the roadway.

"What are they doing there?" asked The Phantom.

"You're being given the Royal Treatment, me dear," Father replied
easily. "A seven gun salute, fit for an Admiral at least. The last round
will be fired immediately young Simon opens the door on your side. The
moment your foot hits the ground Stuart will sound the Still on his call
and the three Boatswains of the Side Party will pipe the side. The other
three, the American lads, are just for show."

The Phantom groaned. "A gun salute; a Piping Party; side boys and car boys!
What else should I expect?"

"Those rat bags gave you no hint as to what to expect?" asked Father,
concerned.

"Not a word," confirmed The Phantom with a low moan. "I just know that I'm
going to screw up!"

"Nonsense! If you think that way you will screw up, as you put it," said
Father soothingly. He gave The Phantom a kind look and smiled. "Look at it
this way, me boy. You are the Inspecting Officer. You can do no wrong." He
looked ahead through the windscreen of the car. "We're almost there, so
listen to me. Once you leave the car I shall be your escort to the
dais. All you have to do is walk through the Side Party and step on the
dais. Easy-peasy, as they say."

The Phantom gave Father a sour look but said nothing.

"Once you step on the dais you stand to attention. Number One will give the
order for a General Salute. Remember your timing." He began to
demonstrate. "The Guard will have their rifles at the shoulder. Once the
order to present arms is given they bring their right hands over and slap
the shoulder piece. That's one. Three seconds later they raise their rifles
from their shoulders and turn it outboard. That's two. Three seconds after
that they bring their rifles down and that's when you snap off a Pusser
salute." He looked at The Phantom, a slight look of doubt on his face. "You
do know how to salute?" he asked.

The Phantom gave Father a withering look. "Of course! It's the first thing
The Gunner taught me!"

"No need to get huffy, old son. One was only asking," replied Father
without rancour. He realized that the boy was terribly nervous and must be
forgiven any testiness. "Now, if all goes well, the second the rifles drop
the Band will play a salute. You hold your salute until Number One orders
everybody to 'Shoulder Arms'."

"But I wait until the Guard's rifles are back on their shoulders, the last
movement!" announced the Phantom, a note of triumph in his voice. "I
remember that!"

"Well done, Phantom!" Father chuckled and once again gave The Phantom's
knee another pat. "Now, then, once the salute is done with, Number One will
walk up and greet you. He will tell you how many hands are on parade, the
usual bumf, and then ask if you wish to inspect."

"He's fucked if I say no!" The Phantom turned at least three shade of red
when he realized what he had just said. "Sorry, sir, it just popped out!"

Father laughed heartily. "The perverse imp in me makes me wonder what
Number One would do if you did say that!" He regained control. "However,
it's never happened." He continued on. "After Number One asks you to
inspect you say, 'Yes, please', and carry on. You first inspect the
Guard. There will be no music. Number One will be with you. He's an old
hand at this sort of thing so you should have no worries."

The car was just drawing abreast of the Reviewing Stand when The Phantom
blurted out again, "I'm going to do something stupid! I know it!"

"No, you are not," ordered Father sternly. "And if you do, make certain
that you do not pee yourself! It causes yellow stains, you know. Very bad
on a white uniform!"

Steve braked the car so smoothly that for a moment neither The Phantom nor
Father realized that the behemoth had stopped. "Well, we're off," said
Father. "You wait until I get 'round to your side of the car," he ordered
as Bobby opened the door for him.

As instructed The Phantom waited while the Commanding officer left the car
and walked around the back of it, then came to attention in front of Simon
Keppel, who had been detailed off to be Starboard Car Boy. Father nodded
and Simon opened then car door, then saluted smartly.

As The Phantom swung his legs and made to exit the car a long, shrill note,
blown of a Boatswains Call, the Still, rent the still, quiet air. Out of
the car The Phantom instinctively acknowledged Simon's salute, smiling at
the stern-faced boy. "Thank you, Simon," he said. Simon beamed and all but
wiggled with pleasure. He thought that The Phantom didn't even know his
name!

As The Commanding Officer fell in behind The Phantom and walked down the
short aisle of cadets, the American Cadets warbled The Side on their
calls. As The Phantom's foot touched the dais Stuart blew the Carry On and
Father flashed a look at Number One and nodded. The Phantom, by thanking
Simon, had demonstrated that he had the touch and would do well.

When The Phantom, now the Inspecting Officer, was settled on the dais,
Number One shouted the order, "PARADE, GENERAL SALUTE . . . PRESENT
. . . ARMS!" and began the intricacies of a sword salute, raising his sword
until the hilt was just in front of his nose then, as the Guard performed
the third and final movement of the Present Arms, bringing his sword
sharply down and back, resting the hilt against his right buttock.

To the rear of the Guard Harry, at the order "Parade", raised his Mace on
high. When the Guard brought their .303's down and out in the Present, he
released his grip, allowing the Mace to slip quickly through his fingers,
tightening his grip just as the head touched his gloved fist.

>From the sidelines The Gunner watched amazed. In front on him, ranged rank
on rank, was the parade. At Number One's order swords flashed in the early
morning sunlight, every hand moving as one - even Chef. Beside him Doc
muttered, "Holy Shit!"

As the Guard snapped to Present Arms, The Phantom brought his right hand up
smartly, saluting the Parade. At the same moment Fozzy, bass drummer
extraordinaire, thumped out the drum intro and then the Band crashed into
Garb of Old Gaul, the light, rollicking music filling the parade
square. When the last, spirited note of the Salute ended abruptly Number
One gave the order to "Shoulder Arms". Once again swords flashed in the
air. He marched to within three paces of the dais, repeated his sword
salute and, stony faced, reported the Parade ready for inspection, and
asked The Phantom if he would inspect. As stricken look came over the boy's
face. "Ah, . . . Yes . . . Please. And what do I do now?"

Number One stifled his smile. "Just come down off the dais and walk toward
the Guard. I'll be to your right and one step behind."

The Phantom left the dais and, as directed walked toward the Guard. Number
One whispered as they walked, "Sub-Lieutenant St. Vincent will ask you to
inspect. All the Divisional officers will ask you the same thing. Just say,
'Yes, please', and carry on. They will basically lead you down the ranks."

"Do I say anything other than 'Yes, Please'?" asked The Phantom.

"Of course. You might want to speak to one or two cadets in each
Division. You can remain silent, or chatter away like a magpie," replied
Number One as they came near Kyle, who was fidgeting and trying not to
remember that he had to pee. "You are the Inspecting Officer, after all
. . ."

"And can do no wrong!" finished The Phantom sourly.

******

At the edge of the parade square The Gunner and Doc promenaded. They had no
duties to perform and so they promenaded, watching closely as the parade
routine unfolded, The Gunner nervously rubbing and rubbing his palms
against the legs of his trousers. Doc, whose eyes were as sharp as his
tongue, watched as The Phantom smartly returned Kyle's salute and then
walked over to inspect the Guard. Doc was from the Old Navy, and could spot
a mistake at 100 yards. He watched in silence as The Phantom, with Kyle at
his side and Number One trailing once pace behind, walked slowly down the
front of the Guard, stopping at every fourth or fifth guardsman to chat and
smile. "Either you've been coaching that kid or he's a natural," growled
Doc.

"He is good," beamed The Gunner as he watched The Phantom finish his
inspection of the Guard and move on to the Boatswains Division.

"Good? Look at him!" Doc grinned. "That little bugger is having the time of
his life out there. You'd think that he'd been born to the purple!" He
glanced down at the ring that The Gunner was nervously twirling round and
round his finger. "Pax Vobiscum, frater," he said quietly.

Almost automatically The Gunner replied, "Et cum spiritu tuo, frater." Then
he started and stared, first at Doc, then at the ring on Doc's finger,
which was almost identical to the one he was wearing, the only difference
being that Doc's arms reflected his medical background. The Gunner did a
double take. "You?"

Doc smiled broadly. "Not professed, and do not get your hopes up,
Stephen. Mrs. Reynolds has first bid on my tired old bones."

"Well, I will be damned and go to hell!" The Gunner regarded Doc with
newfound respect. He had not known that Doc was a member of the Order,
professed or otherwise. He had known about Chef - who had been his sponsor
- but not about Doc.

"According to the tenets of the established churches there is every
possibility that you will go to hell, and burn in the hell fires of
abomination," replied Doc smoothly. "I, on the other hand, being a moral,
upright, Christian gentleman, shall see the Glory of God!"

When The Gunner stopped laughing he said, "You are a sly old goat. I never
knew that you were a member of the Order!"

Doc shrugged. "You would have found out, eventually, Chancellor." He rubbed
the side of his nose and gave The Gunner a conspiratorial smile. "Michael
Chan has a long reach."

"You never wear the ring," replied The Gunner.

"Oh, I do, just not often," said Doc. "The thing does play hell with latex
gloves and when I have to give a rectal examination . . ." he finished with
a straight face.

The Gunner almost choked trying to stop laughing. When he regained his
composure he looked at Doc and asked, "You are Surgeon-In-Ordinary to the
Order, I take it?"

"For ten years past," replied Doc, nodding his affirmation. His eyes
shifted to the assembled cadets. "How many, do you think?"

"Candidates?" The Gunner thought a moment. "I have a list. Perhaps a dozen
out of twenty or so possibilities."

Doc nodded toward The Phantom, who was walking down the rear rank of the
Boatswains Platoon. "Including your young man?" he asked. He looked evenly
at The Gunner. "You are, after all . . . close."

The Gunner coloured slightly. "Yes," he admitted slowly. "We are
. . . close."

Doc made no comment at The Gunner's admission. He'd been around the Horn a
time or six and had learned that relationships happened when they
happened. "You are considering him, I trust?" he asked presently.

"I've spoken with him," replied The Gunner with a short nod of his
head. "As has the Proctor." He saw Doc's eyebrow rise up. "He was here, the
Proctor, and spoke with the boy."

"And?"

"This morning Phantom asked me to take him under my protection."

Doc nodded sagely. "The first step. When do you plan to hold the ceremony?"

"Friday, I think. I'll have to have the Ritual sent out from Vancouver. I
was going to ask Chef to be a cosponsor, but now, with you available, I
think . . ."

"Of course, of course," interrupted Doc. "I'll be happy to do it." He gave
The Gunner a strange look, then grinned. "You don't know, do you?"

"What don't I know?"

Doc chuckled and shook his head. "What a sly, secretive old fox he is!" he
said, almost to himself.

"Who?"

"Chef. He's the Proctor!" announced Doc.

"He's the what?" The Gunner, who had known Chef for years and years, could
hardly believe what he was hearing. "Chef? Our Chef?"

"Of course, our Chef, you ninny," returned Doc, a disgusted look on his
face. "He's the only one we have!"

"But . . . Chef . . . the Proctor?"

"And why not?" asked Doc. "He's a very intelligent, compassionate man under
all that blubber. He's doing an excellent job and don't you gate off and
tell him that I told you." He waved his hand toward the Parade. "Now then,
Stephen, look at young Lord Louis out there." He nodded his head
firmly. "Born to the purple, I say. Born to the purple!"

******

While he had not, as Doc put it, been born to the purple, The Phantom had
taken to heart The Gunner's dictum that bullshit will baffle brains any day
of the week. Not that he needed to bullshit his way through the
Inspection. The Phantom found, after inspecting the Guard, that it was
really a simple procedure with the added bonus, as he later told The
Gunner, of being able to legally look at a cadet's bum without the danger
of being accused of being a pervert.

The Phantom also found, as his initial nervousness dissipated, and as he
began to inspect the Boatswain Platoon, that little snippets of information
that he had overheard, and stored in his retentive memory, little bits and
pieces of tittle-tattle, of home towns, brothers, sisters, families, names
and nicknames, came tumbling out of whatever storage bin his brain had
stuck them in.

This was proven to The Phantom when he walked past the second Boatswain in
the first rank of the platoon. The boy was wearing the Cadet Medal of
Excellence, one of the few gongs a cadet could aspire to, apart from life
saving medals. The medal was awarded by the Royal Canadian Legion and The
Phantom also remembered that the cadet's name was Clarke, that he was from
Coquitlam, had been to AURORA the year before, and suffered from a slight
stutter. Clarke had not been one of the boys The Phantom had visited, this
year or last. He stopped in front of Clarke and gestured at the
blue-yellow-blue ribbon and silver circle hanging from the cadet's left
chest. "May I compliment you on your award, Leading Cadet?" he said with a
smile.

Leading Cadet Clarke, who was accustomed to vacant-eyed, silent Inspecting
Officers barely going through the motions, passing him by without so much
as a glance, could barely stutter a reply. "Uh . . . Th . . . Th
. . . thanks, Phantom," he managed.

"I'm sure that you deserved it, Knobby," replied The Phantom, calling the
boy by the traditional nickname all Clarkes were gifted with the minute
they took the Queen's shilling. The Phantom pretended not to hear Fred
hissing at Clarke that he was not supposed to call the Inspecting Officer
by his first name.

After exchanging a grin with Dave Eddy, the Deck Officer, The Phantom
stopped again, this time in front of a slim, dark haired, sloe-eyed cadet
named Patterson. The Phantom remembered that Patterson had been to AURORA
last year, as a New Entry. He also remembered that it had been Patterson's
first time away from home and he had been so homesick that he had, for the
better part of his course, cried himself to sleep in Harry's arms. "I hope
that you're enjoying yourself here, Able Cadet Patterson," said The
Phantom. "Mind, it will soon be all over and you'll be on your way home."

Patterson, who had heard Fred's hissing, was properly respectful when he
replied. "I'd rather stay here, Chief."

"Oh, really? Why?" The Phantom's face showed his surprise.

"My mother had a baby," said Patterson. He made a horrible face. "A
girl. The thing is always squallin' or poopin'!"

The Phantom was quick off the mark. "Sounds like some of the cadets I
know!"

Patterson grinned. "Yes, Chief, but all of the guys can wipe themselves
after they poop!"

Laughing, The Phantom walked away, listening as the Band, which had been
playing The Middy, segued into Gilbert and Sullivan's Buttercup. He
inspected the Bunting Tossers and then went on toward the Cooks
Platoon. The Phantom groaned and looked around. "I suppose I shall have to
look each one of them over?"

"Unto the ninth generation and all of the YAGs," intoned Number One. He
smiled. "And the ship's cat, if it's on parade."

The Phantom grinned mischievously. "I don't see the cat. I guess that we'll
just have to settle for Chef."

The Inspection Party approached the Cooks Division and Ray, Sandro, Joey,
Randy and The Litany (including Luke), broke into wide grins. Chef, as
behoved a Crown Chief, remained impassive. As they neared Chef, Number One,
in a mischievous mood, leaned over and whispered, "Chef looks suspiciously
thinner than normal. A fiver says that he's wearing a corset!"

The Phantom was so shocked at the very idea of Chef cramming his pudgy body
into a corset that he had to stop and pretended to be looking back until he
could regain his composure. He managed not to break into giggles but his
green eyes were bright with hidden laughter. He could not, of course,
ignore Chef who was, after all, his friend and mentor. "Good morning,
Chef," he said carefully, the vision of Chef in a corset swimming through
his brain.

Chef, who had no idea what was going through The Phantom's mind, saw the
stricken look on the boy's face. "Phantom, dear boy, are you all right?" he
asked, concerned. "The collar of your jacket, it's not too tight, is it?"

Behind him The Phantom could hear Number One choking back his laughter and
almost strangling himself in the process.

"No . . . no . . . Not at all Chef." He waved his hand slightly. "You look
. . . wonderful, Chef!"

"As I should, my lamb, as I should."

"An example to us all," put in Number One, eyeing Chef carefully for
evidence of whalebone and canvas.

"Nothing to it, sir," replied Chef. "All it takes is clean living, a
balanced diet, and a good tailor to give a chap a sense of well-being and
fitness. Mind, I do feel . . ." he forced a cough, " . . . A bit
constricted in the chest . . ."

This time it was The Phantom's turn to almost strangle trying to choke back
his laughter.

******

As he continued on with the Inspection, The Phantom experienced a sense of
déjà vu. He remembered many of the cadets from last year - boys from
the Western provinces seemed to train mainly in Western venues - and he saw
that three boys whom he had visited during the warm summer nights last
year, had returned: Glenn Beuscher, who was a giggler and had gained
weight; Phillip Thornton who had been a smashing looking boy last year and
who was still stunning to look at, despite his black, horn rimmed
spectacles; and Cameron Millard, now an Acting Sub-Lieutenant and serving
in 319 YAG. Cameron was tall and thin, with wheat-blond hair that was
thinning rapidly. He had a baby-face, a button nose and a freshness about
him that he would never lose. The Phantom remembered him well. Cameron's
penis was as long and as thin as the rest of his body, and topped with the
longest foreskin The Phantom had ever seen. Said foreskin was Cameron's
pride, joy, and perennial plaything, and he had, before he'd been
lobotomized and become an officer, delighted the cadets of Kingston by his
frequent demonstrations of masturbating by only manipulating his excess
skin.

>From the YAG crews The Phantom marched on to inspect the gun crews. Todd
was as puffed up as Chef. His crews had performed exactly the way he had
trained them and exactly the way that he wanted them to perform. After
thanking Todd for the gun salute The Phantom walked over to where Cory was
standing at attention. Cory was as sunny as the day, his early morning
confrontation with his brother forgotten. He was genuinely happy to see The
Phantom and grinned widely.

"Good shooting, Chief," said The Phantom as he made a small wave toward the
gun and its crew.

"Thanks, Phan . . . I mean, Chief." Cory, as did all gunners and most boys,
liked to have his efforts complimented, even if the compliment came from
Phantom. "The boys did a good job."

Number One turned and smiled at Todd who, as Battery Commander, accompanied
the Inspection Party. "The best trained crew I've seen in years, Chief
Arundel. I'm sure that Father will be pleased."

"Oh, he is," said The Phantom. "He told me that if he'd had Todd . . ." He
paused a moment, and then continued on. " . . . And the gunners . . ." He
waved his hand toward the assembled Gun Crews. " . . . in his old destroyer
the war would have been over six months earlier." A little lie but, The
Phantom decided, the looks on the faces of the boys in the guns crews made
the lie a truth, and worthwhile.

The last unit on Parade to be inspected was the Band. Harry, who was as
proud as a peacock, for the Band had surpassed even his high standards,
grinned like a baboon when The Phantom thanked him for all his hard work,
and couldn't think of a thing to say, which was a first. The Phantom walked
along the ranks, stopping here and there to speak to one of the
musicians. He deliberately stopped and thanked Fozzy for the smashing intro
he had played on his bass drum for the salute.

Fozzy, who until now thought that no one, The Phantom included, knew that
he existed, or how important the bass drum is to any band, blushed and
shuffled his feet. The Phantom, who had heard Harry's oft-stated assertion
that Fozzy was queer for drums, and creamed himself at every performance,
hurriedly thanked the boy again and walked on, hoping that Fozzy did not
talk himself into a little "accident". Fortunately for The Phantom's peace
of mind he would never find out that Fozzy never went on parade without an
extra thick wad of bum wipe crammed down the front of his Jockeys and that
the bass drummer had already had his little "accident", exactly as Harry
had predicted, indicated by a particularly forceful thump on the last beat
of the introduction to Garb of Old Gaul.

When the Band was inspected Number One escorted The Phantom back to the
Reviewing Stand. The third and final part of the inspection would now take
place. After asking The Phantom's permission to Carry On, Number One
returned to his place in front of the parade. At his shouted orders the
parade turned right. The drums began crashing and like a well-oiled, finely
tuned machine the parade marched off, the stirring notes of Heart of Oak
sending chills up and down every spine and making The Phantom wonder if The
Gunner's 'spirits' included a few old musicians.

"Remember, Phantom, to look 'em in the eye," muttered Father as the Colour
Party neared the dais. The Phantom nodded imperceptibly that he understood
what he was about.

As the Band continued to thump out Heart of Oak, each division in turn
passed the Reviewing Stand, wheeled left, marched up the parade square and
wheeled right, marching purposefully across the width of the broad
field. To the right and behind the dais stood The Gunner, his heart filled
with pride and memories. He watched with increasing awe and surprise as the
cadets executed, in turn by Divisions, a flawless Right Turn Into Line,
even Wally Higman, who lumbered and had two left feet. In one straight line
the parade marched toward the dais.

Directly behind the Drum Line, pounding madly on his bass drum, Fozzy
approached Nirvana. The wet bathroom tissue in his shorts no longer
bothered him. His mind was whirling with the feelings of delight that
swirled upward from his nether regions. He had weathered the drum intro to
the Salute and now he, and he alone, would halt the parade with his drum.

Standing as he was on the dais The Phantom towered a foot or so above the
cadets on parade and had a very good view of their faces. Todd and Cory,
each standing in front of their now limbered-up gun crews, were
impassive. Chef's face was flushed and Randy and Joey were grinning like
loons. As he watched the parade approaching The Phantom's gaze fell on
Fozzy. His face was scrunched up and he seemed to be breathing heavily,
which did not surprise The Phantom in that the bass drum, in addition to
being bulky, was damned heavy.

When the parade was about halfway down the parade square the cadets began
marking time. They would continue to do so until Fozzy beat them to a
halt. Panting, the sweat rivering down his face, Fozzy, lost in a world he
only found when beating his drum, raised his lambskin mallets and pounded
his drum, two beats, followed by two quick beats, and the final, piece de
resistance beat. On the final, thunderous beat, Fozzy shivered and squirmed
and a look of bliss came over his ruddy face. In front of the Band, Harry
raised his eyes to heaven. He knew what had happened on the last beat of
the drum. Fucking Fozzy! Jesus, talk about a hair trigger.

There followed another flurry of drumbeats and the parade Advanced In
Review Order, the Band blaring out Nancy Lee, the traditional RCN tune used
when the parade Advanced In Review Order. The parade marched seventeen
paces and halted automatically. Number One bellowed and The Phantom was
saluted for the final time.

In front of the Band, Harry shook his head slowly as he held his salute,
the last beat of the drum intro to Garb of Old Gaul still echoing in his
ears. Jesus, Fozzy, three times in one parade!