Date: Fri, 27 Jun 2003 08:51:03 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 5

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 my home
e-mail address: paradegi@rogers.com

My thanks, as always, to my editor, Peter, who continues to do a sterling
job in keeping me on the straight and narrow.


The Boys of AURORA - chapter 5


The Phantom awoke first. The reason that he awoke was that his tail end was
covered in goose bumps. He was spooned against The Gunner, with his morning
woody nestled neatly in the crack of The Gunner's warm behind. The front
half of The Phantom's body was warm and very comfortable. His back half was
cold! Grumbling quietly The Phantom opened his eyes and looked at The
Gunner, who was sleeping soundly, snoring softly. He had hogged all the
covers and as the night had grown cool The Phantom shivered
slightly. Rolling away from his sleeping lover The Phantom lay with his
hands under his head, a smile of deep satisfaction creasing his smooth
face. A happy sigh escaped his lips as he glanced down at his flush, still
rosy body.

Last night, this morning really, had been wonderful. The Phantom reached
down and fingered his iron hard penis, feeling the crusted remnant of their
love, gently rubbing his still sensitive mushroom-shaped head, shivering
with delight, and moaning quietly with pleasure. A small drop of precum
oozed from the slit of his perfectly proportioned glans and The Phantom
slowly massaged the natural lubricant into the soft skin of his shaft.

As he fondled himself The Phantom delighted in the newfound pleasures that
he had learned would titillate and excite him. He had known that certain
areas of a boy's body were so sensitive and sensuous that stimulating them
would send one soaring into orbits so high that it seemed that one would
never descend. His midnight visits had proven that these senses were not
unique and that while some areas were erogenous on some boys, they were not
necessarily so on other boys. His experience with the Twins had taken him
to heretofore unexplored heights of passion, just as that same experience
had allowed him to visit like pleasures on the Twins. He now knew that
fondling and rolling his testicles while at the same time rubbing his
nipples drove him to bucking and setting his penis to throbbing. Gently
rubbing the underside of his glans while tweaking his nipples was heavenly.

Totally lost in his own lust and desires The Phantom pleasured himself, his
head back, his mouth gasping, his senses transporting him into the nether
regions of ecstasy. All too soon he felt a great dome of pleasure building
deep within his crotch, then exploding as jet after jet of his ejaculate
arced from his throbbing penis to splatter against his chin, his chest, and
stomach.

Groaning, The Phantom gasped for breath as his body slowly returned to
earth. "God, I'm such a pig," he thought as he massaged his still warm cum
into his chest. "But a very happy pig!"

Feeling slightly foolish, though very satisfied, The Phantom crawled out of
bed and shuffled into the kitchen where he glanced at the clock over the
stove and saw the time: 0430. Wondering just what in the hell he was doing
up at such an ungodly hour The Phantom decided to make the morning coffee,
which turned out to be a bad idea. The sound of the water flowing into the
coffeepot set him to squirming and wriggling in discomfort, in dire need of
a wicked piss. He hurried into the bathroom and emptied his bladder,
revelling in the feeling of relief.  He then showered and while he knew
that he should brush his teeth, he lacked a toothbrush so he made do with
the washcloth, scrubbing as much of the night crud from his mouth and teeth
as he could.

Wrapping a towel around his waist The Phantom returned to the kitchen
where, in comfort now, he finished preparing the coffee. He followed the
directions on the can and then, remembering that The Gunner liked his
coffee strong, he added three extra scoops.

The Phantom briefly debated starting breakfast, and then decided to wait
until his lover woke up. While he waited for the coffee The Phantom decided
to step outside and savour the early morning. The small garden was all but
hidden in the early morning mist shrouding the trees and shrubs. The
shadowy outlines of the bushes and the crisp morning air set him to
thinking. In the bedroom, sound asleep, was a man he loved, a man whose
very existence was threatened by that blond-headed little butt-fucker,
Little Big Man. The Phantom's eyes narrowed. He did not feel anger toward
the boy, just cold, calculated contempt.

The Phantom smiled thinly at the thought of calling Little Big Man a
butt-fucker. That Little Big Man was a rat, a squealer, and a traitor was
all demonstrably clear. What was just as demonstrably not clear was the
little prick's preference when it came to sex. So far as anybody knew,
except for his boasting last year, Little Big Man had never expressed a
preference. He had never joined in the homoerotic bantering and horseplay
that all the cadets engaged in. According to his brother Matt, Little Big
Man was the complete heterosexual male, who had never, under any
circumstances, evinced an interest in males. A frown creased The Phantom's
face. By calling Paul a butt-fucker he was prejudging him and making an
unfair comment based on no evidence. That Paul was adept in calling
everyone else such names, with as little grounds, was not important. What
was important was that by calling Little Big Man names he lowered himself
to the level of Paul Greene, and that The Phantom found distasteful and
demeaning. Name-calling was the last resort of little boys and petty
men. The Phantom was neither.

>From the kitchen he could hear the coffee maker chuckling away while it
brewed the coffee, the odour drifting slowly through the open door. Drawn
by the enticing odour of the fresh-brewed coffee The Phantom returned to
the kitchen, poured a cup and sat at the dining room table. He tried to
keep his emotions and fears in check and to approach the problem of Little
Big Man as dispassionately and logically as possible. Little Big Man was a
threat. A very real threat. He could, and would, with cold indifference,
stab his best friend in the back if it suited his purpose. He had already
tried to condemn the Twins to a life of ignominy and shame, just as he was
now trying to visit the same fate on Harry, Greg, and The Gunner, on any of
the cadets he suspected of being homosexual, including his brother!

What The Phantom was trying to understand was what drove Little Big Man to
do the things he did. Had he been so indoctrinated by the hatred and
bigotry of his father that nothing could be done to him that would make him
back off? Was he, as Cory insisted, so consumed with self-loathing at the
knowledge of his own homosexuality that his words and actions were in
reality directed at himself? Was Little Big Man so afraid of what he really
was that he would pay any price to protect that secret self?

The Phantom broke off his musings as he heard the soft shuffle of bare feet
across the wooden floor. He looked up and saw The Gunner, half asleep,
yawning and scratching, as he made his way toward the bathroom. He paused
and kissed the top of The Phantom's head. "You're up early," The Gunner
murmured. "Couldn't you sleep?"

The Phantom smiled and rested his head against The Gunner's bare
stomach. "A certain Leading Gunnery Rate hogged all the covers. So I got
up."

"Sorry. It's been a long time since I slept with anybody."

"I didn't mind," returned The Phantom with a smile. "Now go and take your
shower.  I'll start breakfast."

While The Gunner showered The Phantom began cooking their breakfast, all
the while continuing to mull over the conflicting opinions and theories
about Little Big Man. If Cory was correct, Little Big Man was gay. If The
Gunner were right, Little Big Man, being gay, and paranoid about being gay,
would pay whatever it took to protect his secret. The problem was how to
bell this particular cat, and how to bell him in such a way that not only
would he not expose any of the cadets, or The Gunner, but also ensure his
continued silence.

The Phantom plated the bacon and eggs that he had cooked and popped the
bread into the toaster. "Little Big Man must be stopped," he thought. "But
who will stop him, and at what price?"

******

"So, what you are saying is that I drag everything to my house, then drag
everything back?" asked The Phantom as they pulled out of the driveway of
his house.

After breakfast they had driven from The Gunner's apartment to The
Phantom's house so that he could change and put on fresh underwear. The
Gunner had offered the loan of some of his boxers and tees. The Phantom had
politely declined, knowing that at least one war had been started over
"borrowed" boxers. Even though the hour was early - just gone 0530 - The
Gunner thought it best if he waited in the driveway while The Phantom
changed, explaining that if any inquisitive neighbour happened to look out
their windows they would see him, in the driveway, waiting impatiently for
The Phantom, being a teenager and a boy, everybody assumed was always late,
to put in an appearance and be driven to work.

The Phantom had protested that all the houses on the street were as dark
and still as tombs and, except for old Mrs. Reilly, who was an insomniac,
so far as he knew no one ever dragged themselves out of their beds much
before 0700 on a weekday. The Gunner had then explained that it was the
Mrs. Reillys of the world that one had to look out for. People had a
tendency to pick up on small, seemingly inconsequential details. They also,
being people, had a tendency to see a totally innocent situation and assume
either the best, or the worst, and if one used one's brain one usually
managed to make people think the best.

The whole idea, The Gunner had said, was to keep two steps ahead of the
other guy. People were more than willing to accept and assume, seeing an
idling car parked in the driveway of a house at such an ungodly hour, that
The Phantom's ride to work was waiting for him. It helped that this had
happened before.

To lend credence to the subterfuge The Gunner had tapped the car horn
twice. At the first sound of the car horn a light had appeared in one of
the houses across the street. The Gunner had seen it and gotten out of his
car, lit a cigarette, made a show of looking at his watch and then reaching
into his car to tap the horn again, for all intents and purposes an
impatient driver waiting for a tardy boy.

When The Phantom appeared, spitting tacks at all the noise he was making,
The Gunner had calmly commenced his lecture on how best to fool one's
neighbours and, if necessary, one's friends by simply telling part of the
truth and letting the other fellow fill in the blanks.

The Phantom digested Gunner's words and nodded slowly. "In other words, act
normally and don't say anything." He snickered as he got into the Land
Rover. "Unless asked, of course, and then only tell a half-truth!"

"Yes, that is exactly what you should do," The Gunner replied. As the drove
slowly down the street The Gunner continued. "People will see you bringing
all this china and all sorts from ashore. If anyone asks where it came from
- which I doubt they will do - but if they do you can truthfully say from
home." He grinned at The Phantom. "They will look at the china plates, and
the silver, and the crystal and think what a good little steward you are,
bringing all the Lascelles family treasures from home to pretty up the
table."

"But it's not the 'Lascelles family treasures'," insisted The
Phantom. "It's the Admiral's Dining Room!"

"Of course it is," agreed The Gunner pleasantly. "But nobody knows that. By
bringing the china from home, and given that its a very formal pattern,
people will assume its a family treasure, probably your mother's best china
because everybody's mother has her set of "best" china. I know my mother
did. It was my Grandmother's wedding china, Edwardian, I think, very
beautiful and God help me if I went near it!"

The Phantom laughed. "I know that feeling. Nobody, I mean nobody goes near
the china cabinet. When Brendan was 4, no 5, my Dad decided that he was
going to be a football player so he got one of those little footballs, you
know . . ." He held his hands about six inches apart " . . . And was
playing around in the living room, just tossing it to Brendan. It was
Christmas so the table was set with the good china. The story is that Dad
tossed the ball to Brendan, and Brendan, being himself and as thick as a
brick, missed the toss . . ."

"Come on, Phantom, if he was only five . . ."

The Phantom pointedly ignored The Gunner's interruption. "ANYWAY, Brendan
missed and the ball bounced against the edge of the dining table and hit
the gravy boat, which fell on the floor and shattered all to rat shit!"

"That must have gone over well. If your mother is as protective of her
china as mine was she must have been some hostile."

"Oh, she was. Dad says she was pissin' cinders for a month until he managed
to get a replacement for the damn thing." The Phantom grinned
broadly. "Still, something good came of it."

"Really, and what would that be?"

"Me!"

"Must have been one hell of a making-up session if you were the result!"

******

The Gunner drew up alongside the Mess Hall and stepped out of his car and
into what appeared to be the opening barrage of World War III. Chef, in a
full-blown rage, was venting his spleen at a poor, helpless representative
of the CF Supply Branch, while at the same time giving a new meaning to the
term "spectator sport."

Gathered on the loading dock were Ray, Sandro, the Makee Learns and four
cadets who just happened to come into the Mess Hall to cadge an early
breakfast before callisthenics. Hanging from the windows of Barracks One
were the off-duty Supply types (including Ryan and Rob), the Signalmen, and
one Bandsman (Andre, having stood the Middle Watch, had decided to spend
his Guard and Steerage with Nicholas, and with luck, work up a sweat of a
different kind). Gathered at the corner of the barracks were several
gunnery types who had been attracted by the yelling. The shouting and
catcalls of this Peanut Gallery added to the din created by Chef.

At issue were chickens.

Every Thursday Chef took inventory and, based on the consumption of food,
would requisition new rations. Every Thursday he would, without fail,
specify "Fresh Rations." The following Wednesday, without fail, the Base
Food Services truck would appear and deliver the rations requisitioned. The
arrival of the delivery truck more often than not was the cause of a
monumental eruption of rage and frustration on the part of Chef for without
fail, except for the vegetables needed for the salads, everything not
canned or bottled was frozen.

Ordinarily Chef accepted the situation. He had been in the Andrew long
enough to know that you ate what you got, when you got it, and if it didn't
give you food poisoning, or the galloping trots, you were ahead of the
game. But not today. Tomorrow, Thursday, was Range Day. The entire
complement would decamp to the dusty ranges of CFB Comox and spend the day
firing .303's at targets. The cadets would be gone the entire day, and
since they were not on the CFB Comox Supply Officer's slop chit, he was not
required to feed them lunch. This meal, in the form of box lunches, was
therefore supplied from AURORA's allotment of food.

Box lunches were the bane of every service cook. Not only were they
prepared the day before they were to be eaten, thus ensuring that the bread
used in the sandwiches would be stale, the sandwich ingredients were
universally loathed. Each lunch had to contain two sandwiches, one usually
of "ham" made from the meat of no known breed of swine, the other of what
was called by anyone who had ever eaten it, "mystery meat", a pressed and
moulded meat product of dubious origin. The sandwiches, together with a
piece of fruit, a piece of pie or cake, a carton of milk and a small can of
fruit juice, were lunch.

The fruit juice had, until the year before, been apple juice, now replaced
by cans of orange juice, thanks to the enterprise of two unidentified cadet
gunners who had discovered that if you left cans of apple juice in the sun
long enough a chemical process occurred which resulted in a very acceptable
- and potent - cider.

The two cadets (rumoured to be twin brothers, but that was never proved)
had cornered the market on canned apple juice. The product of their
enterprise was sold for $1.00 the can at the End of Year Cadet Barbecue,
which resulted in two fist-fights, a wet willy contest (a wet T-shirt
contest having been sneeringly rejected by the "serving wenches" from
Highland High School, who had been invited to the barbecue), the unveiling
of what would later be known as "The Pride of The Fleet", and one premature
ejaculation (which caused much merriment when it became known). The end
result was that apple juice was banned (as were wet willy contests, much to
the disappointment of the serving wenches).

Chef had tired of the constant carping and complaining about the box
lunches. The cadets complained about the quality of the lunches and gashed
most of it. Base Maintenance personnel complained at the gash buckets over
flowing with half-eaten sandwiches. His own galley staff complained at all
the extra work. Hoping to forestall the complaints about the quality of the
food Chef had decided to make chicken sandwiches, and requisitioned
accordingly. He had ordered fresh, boneless, skinless, chicken breasts and
thighs. What had arrived, in quantity, were stewing hens. Very old stewing
hens, if the freezer burns on the poor birds' breasts were any indication.

Chef was having none of it. He wanted fresh chickens, and fresh chickens he
would have. He was not going to let Base Supply get one over on him, for he
knew full well that someone was playing the old shell game of palming off
old, outdated, or unwanted supplies on satellite units.

The Supply Sergeant demurred. Chickens, he opined, were chickens. He
insisted that only the month before the frozen chickens had been alive and
well, scratching about in the manner of all chickens.

"Balls!" roared Chef in reply. "God is younger than those fucking
chickens!" This comment elicited a ragged cheer from the Peanut
Gallery. Not one of Chef's best, but good.

Once again the Supply Sergeant demurred. Why those chickens were fresh
young pullets. Only a month ago they'd been living a free-range existence.

"And where were they free ranging?" demanded Chef, his colour
rising. "Dachau?"  The allusion to the pasty-skinned, rime encrusted
chickens and a NAZI concentration camp was lost on the Supply Sergeant (and
most of the cadets), who, in the event, was tired of arguing with
Chef. "Look, Chief, you ordered chickens. Here are your fucking chickens."
He waved at the boxes of food. "You can keep 'em or gash 'em, your
choice. You can hang 'em around your neck or eat 'em . . ." He looked
around and waved his arm at the assemblage "Not that you or those whelps
look as if you've missed a meal lately."

Chef, who had tipped the scales at his last medical at 230 pounds 11
ounces, had long been accustomed to jokes and jibes about his weight. For a
long while he had believed the fantasy that he came from a "big-boned"
family (a fantasy perpetuated by his mother, a large proportioned woman
with a gargantuan appetite). His choice of trades had left him open to the
usual insults every large-bodied cook endured, which he ignored, being a
well-upholstered man. Until today.

Chef was quite prepared to accept whatever disparaging remarks were
directed at him personally - he was quite accustomed to them. He was not,
however, about to let one of Hellyer's Heroes denigrate his lambs. "What
did you call my cadets?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet.

Ray, Sandro, and the Makee Learns took a short step back. Chef's neck (what
he had of one) had disappeared into his collarbones. The boys had seen this
before. They could almost see the thunderheads gathering, and hear the
Jovian bolts striking the earth. "Oh my Jesus," whispered The
Phantom. "That fucker's dead!"

The Gunner nodded but before he could step forward to intervene Chef lunged
at the Supply Sergeant, bellowing so loudly that two cadets jumped and
banged their heads against the sills of the windows they were hanging out
of and one, who was hanging far out of the window, started and slipped
outward. Cursing and snarling words that would have brought a blush to the
cheeks of a Montreal longshoreman, he ended up in a heap on the ground.

The Sergeant, no fool, sidestepped Chef's lunge and wheeled. He took off
running, whipping around the truck and into the loading area with Chef,
howling threats and threatening dismemberment, lumbering in hot
pursuit. The Sergeant crossed the loading dock and, with no way out, jumped
back down. He raced down the length of his truck, clambered into the cab,
locked the doors and rolled up the windows.

The Peanut Gallery clapped and whistled, cheering Chef on and loudly
hurling insults at the hapless Supply Sergeant, whose apparent cowardice
was roundly disdained.

Chef was so enraged that he forgot that there were no steps at the far end
of the loading dock. He barged forward in pursuit and fell four feet,
landing on the small patch of grass that separated the building from the
concrete loading area with a dull thud and, so at least half a dozen cadets
swore, with such force that the Mess Hall shook. The Gunner and The Phantom
rushed forward, The Gunner to send the Sergeant packing, The Phantom to
help Ray and the others tend to Chef. At the Gunner's direction the
Sergeant started the truck, put it in gear, and took off at a rate of
knots, barely missing Dirty Dave the Deacon who had been in the Guard House
and heard the row.

When the dust had settled and the noise abated, it was established that
that Chef had hurt nothing but his dignity. Shaking his head and doing his
damnedest not to laugh, The Gunner helped Chef into the galley. "Well, it
look's like it's mystery meat for lunch tomorrow," said The Gunner as he
poured Chef a restorative brandy.

"Like hell it does!" bellowed Chef. "There's still local purchase. And what
in hell are all these brats doing in here?"

The Gunner looked around and saw that quite a crowd had gathered, most of
them more interested in the Belgian waffles that were featured on the
breakfast menu than they were in Chef's fractured dignity. "Oh, they're
worried that you might have hurt yourself," he lied glibly.

Chef fixed a gimlet eye on his friend and snorted. "Well, let 'em worry in
the dining hall. And send one of them for Andy."

"Andy? What do you want him for?"

Chef tossed back the small brandy that The Gunner had poured for him, then
poured another, larger, drink. "Andy is the Supply Officer. I need food, so
we're going shopping in town. He has to sign the Local Purchase Warrants."

******

Andy arrived in a foul mood. He had been lying in bed, his arms around
Kyle, half-awake with his morning woody throbbing deliciously as he slowly
rubbed it against Kyle's equally hard erection. Kyle had been sound asleep,
but not so asleep that his body did not respond to the stimulation of
Andy's penis. His hands had moved down to cup Andy's ass, delightfully
smooth despite the jagged scar that marred the surface of Andy's right butt
cheek, a scar that Kyle thought intriguing and tantalizing and made his
Marine lover all the more masculine. With each thrust of Andy's hardon
across his sensitive helmet Kyle instinctively thrust upward, shuddering in
delight.

Breathing heavily, they were both approaching nirvana when there came such
a pounding on their cabin door that the picture of Nelson dying that hung
on the bulkhead beside the door fell to the deck with a crash.

Not for nothing had Andy been a Marine. He rolled out of bed with such
speed that his erection bounced rapidly up and down, and in two short steps
was pulling the door open, fearful that the place was on fire, quite
forgetting that he was naked. He also forgot that his one-eyed mini-monster
was standing stiff and proud.

It was a toss up who was more startled, Andy or Kevin (who had been sent by
The Gunner to tell Ensign Berg to get his ass out of his fart sack and over
to the galley).

Kevin, for all his 15 years and imagined sophistication (he was from
Hamilton, after all, the Steel Capital of Canada), had never in his life
seen a full-grown male naked, let alone a full-grown naked male with a bone
on! Kevin stammered, he sputtered, managed to blurt out the message he had
been sent to deliver, then, much to his embarrassment, and Andy's, he
committed an unpardonable sin: he stared directly at Andy's rapidly
deflating tumescence, and giggled.

Andy had very quickly moved behind the door, hiding himself from the
wide-eyed cadet, listened to the message and then slammed the door shut. It
did not improve his mood at all when Kyle laughed at him and then opined
that it was all right as everybody knew good things came in small
packages. After pelting Kyle with the pillows from his bed Andy pulled on
his sports gear and hurried to the galley where, as he passed through the
dining hall, he did not notice Kevin, who was still blushing and recalling
the sight of an officer naked!

Kevin was sitting with Adam, his best friend and winger, a tall, lanky boy
with a slight overbite. They had known each other since kindergarten and
Adam had never seen his friend acting so weirdly. He noticed that Kevin's
eyes followed Andy as he passed through the dining hall and into the
galley. There was a strange look on Kevin's face.

"Are you all right?" asked Adam. "You look like you have a pickle stuck up
your ass."

Kevin smiled weakly. He had not told Adam what he had seen in the
Wardroom. He did not intend on telling Adam what he had seen in the
Wardroom. He just blushed a little deeper red.

In the galley Andy demanded to know what was going on. When he was informed
that he had to go into town he let loose with a string of curses. Not only
had he been forced out his nice warm bed, he now had to go and get Greg,
who had the keys to the Ship's Office, in which sat the Ship's strongbox,
which held the extra cash and the Local Purchase Warrants. Greg was already
in a pout about something, and Andy knew that having to open the office a
good two hours ahead of time was guaranteed to put the Writer in an even
bigger pout, if such a thing was possible.

"And another thing, Gunner," Andy raged, "if it's not too much to ask could
you please tell those damn cadets that banging on my door at zero six
double bubble is not the way to worm their insidious little bodies into my
good books. That bloody Berkeley almost gave me heart failure." Being an
American he pronounced Kevin's last name as "Burk-Lee".

The Gunner, being Canadian could not resist pulling Andy's
pisser. "Actually it's pronounced Bark-Lee", he said ponderously.

"Whatever," snapped Andy. "And on top of his pounding on my door at an
ungodly hour I was starkers and you know . . ." He slapped his head in
astonishment, finally realizing what Kevin had seen. "Jesus, I was naked
and he saw . . ."

"Andy Junior standing straight and tall?" asked Chef, who began
laughing. The Gunner and the cadets who were within earshot very quickly
joined him. This did not sit well with Andy, who sputtered and turned red.

"Well, Andy, I'm sure seeing your morning woody is not something he hasn't
seen before," offered The Gunner. "Or at least twenty more like it. He does
sleep in a barracks, you know."

"But he saw MY woody!" snarled Andy emphatically.

Chef looked Andy up and down. The Supply Officer was dressed in silk
running shorts and a tee. It was obvious that not only was he not wearing
any underpants, he was also not wearing a jock. "A sight that no doubt
brought a blush to his boyish cheeks." Chef grinned widely, enjoying Andy's
embarrassment.

The Gunner could not help himself. He snickered, "You don't have anything
to be ashamed of, do you . . ." he hesitated just a fraction of a second,
". . .Tiny?"

******

With breakfast finally over The Phantom had an opportunity to sit down and
plan his day. Chef had gone off with Andy to terrorize the local chandlers
and suppliers of meats and foodstuffs so The Phantom shared Chef's desk
with Ray and while Ray busied himself with the Duty Rosters The Phantom was
chuckling to himself, trying to figure out how many stewards he would need.

"What's so funny?" asked Ray presently.

The Phantom looked up and grinned. "Tiny!"

Ray giggled and pointed to the papers in front of his friend. "So, how many
stewards do you think you'll need?"

The Phantom sighed and shook his head. "Nine, I think. Three to a
service. Ten or eleven would be better. So far all I have is Matt."

Ray thought a moment. "Well, bribery is best. What if you feed them
whatever is on special for the lunch or dinner, and let them eat in here
with us?"

"Say, that's a good idea," replied The Phantom nodding. "Chef always does
up something special for us." He frowned slightly. "Still, Chef might not
go along with it."

Ray grinned and pointed to his chest. "You leave it to me. He'll roar and
bellow a bit but I think I can talk him around."

Before The Phantom could reply the door leading to the dining room opened
and Kevin entered. He hesitated for a moment, and then asked about becoming
a steward.

"Well, Kevin, it's only for a week, and it's bound to be hard work," said
The Phantom. Out of the corner of his eye The Phantom could see Ray giving
Kevin the once over. He did not blame Ray in the least. With his chiselled,
square jaw, dark blonde hair, and the smooth, well-formed body of a Calvin
Klein model, Kevin was a damned fine specimen of a young man. The Phantom
flashed Ray a dirty look that said "Down!"

"That's okay," replied Kevin. "I don't mind hard work."

"You'll definitely have to work the Captain's Garden Party next week. If
your folks are coming for the graduation I wouldn't want you to have to
work."

Kevin shook his head. "They're not."

"Then I see no reason why you can't be a steward. It's not all that hard
and so long as you don't spill anything on anybody, sure, you can be a
steward."

Kevin nodded. "Um, Chief Lascelles . . ." he began, blushing. "Will I, um,
will I have to serve the officers?"

Ray snickered and pretended to pay attention to his paperwork. The Phantom
glared at him. "Kevin, if you don't feel comfortable with serving the
officers I suppose you can stay on the Chiefs and Petty Officers
table. Mind you, if Tyler has a special lunch or a dinner, like he's
planning, you might have to serve an officer or two."

Kevin squirmed a bit. "It's just that, well, its a little embarrassing
. . ."

Ray snickered, louder this time, and whispered "Tiny."

Kevin looked as if he'd been pole-axed. Shit, did everybody know?

Resisting the urge to thump Ray on the head, The Phantom held up his
hand. "Look, Kevin, Ensign Berg is an officer and a gentleman, even if his
is a Yank. He does not ordinarily go around flashing his . . .um . . .his
. . . well, flashing." Kevin blushed an even deeper shade of red. Ray
giggled a tad too loudly. The Phantom coughed loudly and looked at
Kevin. "Ensign Berg is just as embarrassed as you are. I'm sure that he's
just as anxious as you are to forget that the whole thing happened." He
stared coldly at Ray, who grinned back. "Andy hasn't got anything you
haven't seen before. In fact, if its any consolation he looks exactly like
a certain Chief Cook I could name. Only bigger." The Phantom paused, then
added, "A lot bigger!"

It was Kevin's turn to giggle. Ray's jaw dropped and he coloured. "You take
that back, Phantom!" he demanded.

"Truth is truth," replied The Phantom calmly.

Ray had to admit that The Phantom was right. Andy was bigger than he
was. "Well, not by much," he admitted with a grin.

******

As the morning wore on the galley staff went about their normal
routines. Outside on the parade square and in the Captain's cabin
everything was focused on the coming Passing Out Parade.

In the Captain's cabin Father, Number One, The Gunner, Tyler and Val
bickered amiably over the number of awards that would be given to deserving
cadets. Father complained mildly at the lack of sticky buns with his
morning coffee.

On the parade square the Bands, the Guard, and the Gun Crews went through
their routines. The day would start with Ceremonial Divisions, followed by
the Prize Giving in the morning. In the afternoon would be the Captain's
Garden Party, a ball game, Ceremonial Evening Quarters, a monster barbecue
for all hands after the guests had left.

In the classrooms the Sea Puppies and General Training cadets were being
prepped for their coming examinations. In the Drill Shed, Mike and The
Assistant signed off the last of the Course Training booklets, and then
decided, after making sure that the door was locked, to christen the air
mattress that Mike had gotten from Rob.

In the galley, with Chef away in town with Andy, Ray took charge and in his
own quiet way soon had the luncheon entrees cooking (lasagne, pork chops
and salmon steaks). Rather than wait for Chef he had decided that supper
would be roast beef, spaghetti (using the leftover lasagne sauce) and
haddock. He rummaged through Chef's recipe books and set Sandro to making
sauces for the fish and the Makee Learns to rolling pie dough.

The Phantom, after taking his hand written notes to the Ship's Office and
begging Greg's assistance in preparing his lesson handouts, peeled
potatoes, washed vegetables and generally made himself useful.

Randy and Joey, much to Sandro's surprise, were models of
efficiency. Sandro, ever the cynic however, muttered as he watched them
preparing the pies for baking that if he was getting his end wet as often
as they were he'd be happy, too. Matt, in his self-appointed role as
Assistant Chief Steward came over and began setting the tables for lunch.

By the time Stand Easy was sounded the galley was redolent with conflicting
odours of meats cooking, pies baking and two soups (made with prepared
mixes, vegetable and green pea) bubbling away. The salad bar was almost
ready and the tables set for lunch, so Ray told everybody to take a more
than welcome break. Harry lumbered in with two Bandsmen in
tow. "Volunteers!" he grumbled and then left.

"What did you guys do?" asked Ray.

"Boots not polished," muttered Martin, the shorter of the two, a thin,
brown-haired drummer.

"Missed the first bar of Nancy Lee," said the other, Clifford, an equally
thin, black-haired Asian boy who played trumpet.

Ray took pity on them and told them to have some milk and cake before they
started folding the boxes for the box lunches.

"Well, at least he didn't smack them," grinned The Phantom, knowing that
there was a right way of doing things, a wrong way of doing things, and
Harry's way of doing things.

Tyler and Val came in looking for something substantial to help them make
it through to lunch. They had been politely asked to leave the staff
meeting as the recipients for the awards were going to be discussed. Tyler
was a little put out (and would remain so until the following week when
much to his surprise he would be awarded the Captain's Sword. Val would be
equally surprised when he received the Commander's Telescope). "Say,
Phantom," began Tyler as he helped himself to a huge piece of chocolate
cake, "we're running low on supplies. Any chance of you doing a
replenishment at sea?"

"You expecting guests?"

"Nah, he's just a lush," volunteered Val as he sat down and attacked an
even bigger piece of cake. "You wouldn't know it but he drinks like a
fish."

"Fuck you, Orsini," snarled Tyler.

"Only if you kiss me first, Benbow," replied Val sweetly.

Randy and Joey giggled and The Phantom gave the two Chiefs a nasty look.

"You'll wait a long time for that!" returned Tyler. He looked at The
Phantom. "Just a couple of jugs, if you could. Harry drank up all the
brandy, and I ain't too fond of grappa." Val snorted in derision, but said
nothing. "Actually, Phantom, I've been thinking," began Tyler seriously. He
threw Val a "Shut the fuck up!" look and continued. "I'd really like to
have a Chiefs and Petty Officers' Mess Dinner."

The Phantom thought a moment. "I don't know, Tyler. Right now there's just
Matt and me. Kevin wants to help, but, well, I was sort of hoping you'd
just want a lunch."

"If you can't do it, I'll understand. After all, it is short notice . . ."

"I didn't say I couldn't do it," said The Phantom evenly. For some reason
he felt slighted, that Tyler was doubting his abilities. "If you want it
done right, I'll try. Just you please understand that I just can't slap
together a Mess Dinner."

"And who's going to cook it?" put in Ray. "Unless you'd like to order in
pizza?"

"Have it catered," advised Joey.

"Pizza sounds better," said Sandro sitting down at the desk. "Can you get
them to deliver kosher?"

"What's kosher?" asked Randy. He lived in an area of Canada where the
Jewish population was exactly nil and, if the local minister of the
Universal Pentecostal Church of The Risen Christ had anything to say about
it, the population would not be increasing any time soon.

Val, whose mouth was full of cake, mumbled something, which nobody
understood.

"What did he say?" asked Ray.

"Something about Tyler's daddy's credit card," translated Joey.

"Will you guys shut up!" snapped Tyler, exasperated. "This is between
Phantom and me." He turned to The Phantom. "So?  Will you do it?"

The Phantom was tempted. A Mess Dinner was a challenge, and he loved
challenges. "I don't know, Tyler," he drawled. "It's a lot of work. You
need stewards, and a cook, and you also need a place to hold the
dinner. Then there's the protocol."

"Phantom, if you can't do it, just say so. There's no need to bust my
balls." Tyler was harsher than he meant to be. He wasn't at all angry at
Phantom. He just wished that just once he could have an intelligent
conversation without fifteen people butting in.

The Phantom almost lost it. "Ah, Tyler," he thought, "Now why would I want
to bust such a beautiful pair of balls like yours? Not after what I've done
to them." He recovered, however. "Look, let me see, okay? How about we wait
and see how many stewards we can muster? You get to work on Chef. How about
tomorrow night? We can meet and see what's what."

Tyler agreed quickly. He felt terrible at being needlessly rude to Phantom
and had allowed his desire to do something for his Chiefs and Petty
Officers had caused him to forget courtesy. "I apologize, Phantom. I know
that you will do it, if you can."

As he waved away Tyler's apology The Phantom wondered if he hadn't been a
little too rash in promising himself never to visit the barracks and boys
again.

When Stand Easy ended everybody went off to his duties. The Phantom went in
to finish setting the dining room tables for lunch. Matt was nowhere to be
seen, which was not surprising. He had probably returned to the Drill Shed
to continue on with his regular duties as Weapons Yeoman. With The Gunner
in what had proven to be an interminable meeting, Matt and Brian were
slogging through the weapons roster, making sure that everything would be
ready for the Range Shoot tomorrow.  With the tables set The Phantom
returned to the galley, appropriated Chef's desk, and began to take
notes. He began by making a listing of what he would need for the Chiefs
Dinner, if it ever came off. He wrote two more lessons and marked some of
the photos in his "How To" book. These he hoped Greg would be able to
photocopy. He walked into the dining hall and saw Ray putting the finishing
letters onto the Menu Board, which listed the choices for lunch and
dinner. He had a sudden thought and returned to the galley where he
sketched out a meal chit, his idea being that if a chit listing each entree
was set on or beside each plate the diner could then just check off what he
wanted, thus saving time and effort on the part of the stewards.

They had barely cleared the tables after the Afternoon Watchmen had
finished when Chef roared in, trailed by a white-faced and shaken
Andy. Waving away the questions of Ray and The Phantom, Andy went
immediately to Chef's desk where he poured himself three fingers of dark
rum and downed it in one gulp.

While Chef rampaged up and down the food lines, checking the place out and
making sure that nothing had been destroyed during his absence, Andy looked
at him and shook his head. "Well, what happened?" asked Ray.

Andy shuddered and began his tale of Chef amongst the heathens.

******

As Andy told it, he and Chef had left AURORA with Chef grumbling about the
iniquities inflicted upon him by Supply Officers, whom he cursed unto the
ninth generation. By the time they reached the town of Comox his grumbling
had escalated into a full-blown tirade that only subsided as they passed
Joe Beef's Tavern, a waterfront dive of the first order. Ray, not
unexpectedly, had never heard of the place. The Phantom knew its reputation
as a low establishment that had been a thorn in the side of the Comox
police for years.

Andy continued on, explaining that the tavern was open to the fishermen who
came in at all hours with their catches. It was a smoky, loud, odourous den
of thieves, redolent with the smells of the sea, fish, generations of
spilled beer, overcooked beef, and a malfunctioning privy. It was,
according to Andy, Chef's spiritual home, and he had insisted on going in
and having breakfast, which they had both missed thanks to the war of the
chickens.

In the course of his career as a Marine Andy admitted to have frequented
some of the lowest buckets of blood in Creation, most of them on the
waterfronts of Viet Nam. Later, after two fists fights, a catfight (which
Chef observed proved that harlotry was not yet dead), and a spirited
argument over the inadequacies of the corned beef and cabbage Chef had
insisted they order for breakfast, Andy revised his opinion downward.

Awash in draft beer and replete with corned beef and cabbage (which would
appear on the cadet menu all too soon, Andy feared), they had gone to the
Comox Market, a long, low, open-aired shed lined with the shops and stalls
of the market gardeners, fishmongers, butchers, bakers and candlestick
makers that gave the place a colourful and continental air.

With chickens firmly on his mind Chef had led Andy to the establishment of
Mr. Fujimoto, purveyor of chickens, turkeys and assorted fowl, where, Andy
swore, Chef had sniffed, poked, prodded, fondled, and molested every
fucking chicken on offer and then pronounced them not worth the $0.29 per
pound demanded.

Mr. Fujimoto, whose forebears had helped establish many of the small towns
that dotted this side of the island, had been raised on a chicken farm and
knew that his chickens were prime goods. He slowly shook his head at Chef's
offer of $0.20 cents a pound. "Twenny-nine cents," he insisted, affecting
the air and fractured English of a poor, downtrodden Oriental shopkeeper,
which he wasn't. He had been born in Comox and spoke not a word of
Japanese. Sadly far too many whites associated being Asian with being
semiliterate and only being able to speak Pidgin English. To make matters
worse, it was almost automatically assumed that all Asians were Chinese!
Chef was no exception.

Chef affected a hurt air. There was not, he opined, a chicken hatched worth
$0.29 a pound. He offered twenty-five cents.

"No good, no good," exploded Mr. Fujimoto. "Have large family to
support. Take Twenny-eight." Mr. Fujimoto did have a large family, none of
whom he still supported, his oldest boy being a lawyer in Vancouver and his
youngest just graduated summa cum laude from medical school.

Chef had clutched his chest. Did Mr. Fujimoto want to talk about large
families? Why Chef knew all about it. He had, after all, 200 hungry boys to
feed, poor boys dependent on the largesse of the Crown. He upped his price:
"Twenty-six cents."

This surprised both Andy and Mr. Fujimoto. The cadets could hardly be
classed as "poor" and they had to be fed in any case, not to mention that
in the long run the cadets were already dependent on the Crown, which would
be paying for the bloody birds sooner or later!

Mr. Fujimoto, who hadn't been in a haggling match for years, was enjoying
the exchange and commiserated in his best broken-English. "Too bad, many
boys, eat muchee. You pay twenny-seven cent."

Chef rocked back and forth, bewailing his fate and Mr. Fujimoto's
intransigence, proclaiming loudly for all to hear that babes would lie
starving in the gutter if he had to pay such a price.

Mr. Fujimoto snorted. "The only babes you know are in Playboy magazine!" he
retorted, in perfect, accentless English.  Chef stared open-mouthed,
stunned for a moment, and then started laughing. He had met his match and
knew it.

Andy, who had been born and raised in Brooklyn, was horrified. Back home
you went to the local supermarket, you looked at the price tag and, if you
had the money, you paid it. If you didn't, you went to the cut-rate joint
down the block. Haggling over chickens was simply beyond him. What he did
not know was that Chef had just begun.

>From the poulterers they rolled on to the greengrocers where, after
exchanging mutual insults with the stall keepers regarding ancestry,
possible progeny, general upbringing and total lack of manners, Chef
purchased the vegetables he would need for the next day's meals, including,
ominously, cabbages.

Next it was the turn of the cheese merchants, then the bakers where Chef
sampled the donuts, croissants and assorted pastries each of the three
merchants offered. Eventually, after effectively eating the day's profits
for each bakery, Chef arranged for the daily delivery of breakfast pastries
for the balance of the month, thus putting paid to the Commanding Officer's
carping.

Andy, hoping that Chef had finally run out of steam, followed him to the
aisle lined with freshly harvested fruit: colourful mounds of apples,
grapes, plums, pears and other fruit, the cornucopia of fruit from the
valleys of British Columbia. Chef puttered about, testing the wares of each
merchant, finally stopping at a stall manned by a tall, pasty-faced pimply
youth who seemed to be more interested in the magazine he was reading than
selling fruit. Chef waited impatiently to be served, and was roundly
ignored. He coughed delicately, to no avail. He coughed louder, which
brought a languid, disinterested movement on the part of the youth.

"Yeah?" asked the youth in a put-off tone of voice.

"My condolences on your loss," purred Chef.

Andy and the youth stared at him, puzzled looks on their faces. "What
loss?" asked the youth, mystified. "I ain't lost nuthin'."

"Forgive me, dear boy, a poor choice of words. I meant to ask you if it was
dead." Chef smiled dangerously.

The young man was even more confused by this statement. "What's dead?" he
asked the youth.

"The dog."

"Dog? What dog?"

"THE DOG YOU WERE FUCKING WHILE I WAS WAITING TO BE SERVED!" roared Chef,
his voice echoing and causing heads to turn.

Andy took another drink of rum and shuddered at the memory of Chef's
booming voice.

"Well, at least it's over," consoled The Phantom.

"No, it isn't," groaned Andy. He shakily poured another drink. "Tomorrow we
go and meet the fishing boats when they come in!"

******

While he served the lunches The Phantom kept an eye on his newest
protégé. Kevin, dressed in a clean gunshirt and blue bell-bottoms,
had started out with some hesitation, serving as drinks steward, keeping
the water glasses filled and serving out the coffee and tea each diner
requested. As the meal progressed, Kevin gained in confidence and while
still somewhat nervous, managed to keep his equilibrium, though every time
he went near the officers' table, where Andy sat with No "H", Wally, Dave
and Dirty Dave the Deacon, he blushed furiously.

"What's Kevin's problem?" asked Matt during a break in the serving. He
stood beside The Phantom, his arms behind his back, waiting to serve the
duff.

"Kevin won't go near the officers unless he has to and he blushes every
time Andy looks at him." The Phantom shook his head and continued on. "The
Gunner sent him to get Andy out of his pit this morning and when Andy
opened the door to his cabin he was naked. Kevin saw his morning woody," he
explained.

"So? If I had a buck for every morning woody that I've seen I'd have a nice
bundle in the bank," responded Matt, not at all impressed.  "If you've seen
one, you've seen them all."

"I don't think it would be so big a deal if Andy wasn't an officer,"
replied The Phantom with a giggle.

Matt smirked. "Since when is an officer's dick any different from a
cadet's?" He grinned and asked, " Has Andy got something we don't know
about?"

The Phantom chuckled softly. "Andy's got nothing special, believe me. He
looks exactly like I do, the Twins, and most of the other guys here. The
only difference is that some are bigger, some are smaller."

They watched as Kevin passed the officers' table. He stiffened slightly and
blushed.

"There he goes again," sniped Matt.  "If he keeps doing that he's going to
drop something or worse.  He's too tense and that blushing . . ."

The Phantom agreed. "We need him, Matt.  So far he's the only one to
volunteer. We have to think of a way to get him to loosen up. The whole
idea is to have a little fun and enjoy what we're doing."

Matt snorted and shook his head. "I once saw a guy who was looser than
Kevin is right now. Only problem was he was lying in a rosewood box
surrounded by flowers."

The Phantom had to go into the galley to recover. When he returned Kevin
was standing beside Matt, looking stern.  The Phantom walked over and took
up a position beside Kevin. Matt was on Kevin's other side. The Phantom
stood, rocking back and forth on his heels, humming tunelessly, for all
intents and purposes surveying the diners, waiting patiently. He yawned,
and then leaned back and examined Kevin's well packed behind. Then he
leaned forward and looked pointedly at Kevin's crotch.

Kevin had seen The Phantom's movements out of the corner of his eye, but
said nothing. Chiefs were strange creatures and given to even stranger
actions.

"Boxers or briefs?" asked The Phantom, looking directly at Matt.

Matt took the hint and repeated The Phantom's movements. Kevin blushed a
deeper red and reached down to protectively cover his genitals. "Nice round
butt, compact basket. Briefs," said Matt when he finished his examination.

Ray, who had been pretending to be fussing over the salad bar, had
overheard the exchange between The Phantom and Matt. He glanced quickly
over to where the boys were talking, his eyes giving Kevin the
once-over. He groaned quietly. God was Kevin something!

All morning Ray had been feeling sensations and feelings he had never felt
before, not even when he'd been with Phantom. He could not quite understand
what was happening. All he knew was that his thoughts were filled more and
more with visions of Kevin, and less and less of Phantom. It wasn't that he
was falling in love with Kevin, for his feelings were not that deep. He was
very confused. He desperately wanted to sleep with Phantom, but at the same
time he would not mind at all if Kevin parked his boots under his bunk for
an hour or three, and God, he did have a beautiful, round butt.

"Tighty whiteys?" Ray heard The Phantom asking as he sidled over to where
the three boys were standing, hoping that Kevin would take his hands away
from his crotch so he could have a closer look at his tight bulge.

Kevin threw Matt a dirty look and opened his mouth to speak, then changed
his mind. He closed his mouth and set his firm jaw firmer. Acting Petty
Officers were obviously as nuts as Chiefs.

"Hey, guys," Ray interrupted with a smile. "What's this about tighty
whiteys?"  Kevin cringed slightly. "Shit," he thought. "Another fucking
country heard from!"

The Phantom gave Ray a quick, inquisitive glance. He saw the look on Ray's
face as he struggled not to make his ogling of Kevin so obvious. A small,
secret smile curled the edges of The Phantom's lips. "Why, Ray," he
thought, can it be . . .?"

Matt, who had not seen the look on Ray's face, sighed loudly and shook his
head. "Tighty pinkies. Somebody forgot to separate his coloureds from his
whites. Very sad."

Kevin blushed beet red and was about to tell Matt to mind his own business
when Ray spoke up kindly. "Well, I've done that," he declared. "Only I dyed
everything green! That's the sort of thing that can happen to anybody." He
gave Kevin's shoulder a gentle pat. "Look at it this way, Kevin, I'm all
set for St. Patrick's Day and you're all ready for Valentine's Day!"

Kevin's opinion of Chiefs went up a notch. He smiled his thanks. At least
somebody had some sympathy. "It's pretty embarrassing," he muttered. "Green
isn't so bad, but everything I own is pink!"

The Phantom's green eyes sparkled with silent laughter. "Why, Ray, you
dog!" he thought wickedly, "You are putting the moves on Kevin!"

"Pink, huh? Well, it's better than paisley. Andy has this pair of paisley
briefs. They are some ugly," replied Ray, laughing quietly. Jeez, Kevin has
a nice smile.

For some reason Kevin found the thought of anybody, including an officer
owning, and wearing, paisley briefs, hilarious. He snickered, and then
recovered.

The Phantom glanced at Matt who smiled back. Kevin was losing his shyness,
and The Phantom wondered just how much Ray had to do with it. "Yeah, I've
seen them, offered The Phantom. "Pretty washed out, though." He winked at
Matt and nodded his head at Kevin, who was trying hard not to laugh out
loud.  "The red parts, they're so washed out they almost exactly match the
colour of Andy's morning woody."

Kevin gasped and stared at The Phantom. "You've seen it? You've seen
Mr. Berg's woody?"

"Sure, and Kyle's!" The Phantom grinned a conspirator's grin. He lowered
his voice, as if imparting a state secret. "Andy and Kyle, they're no big
deal. Now, if you want to see a real smashing, first rate woody, if you get
the chance, look at Harry's. We don't call it the Pride of the Fleet for
nothing, you know."

"Is it as big as they say it is?" put in Matt. "I hear it's an
eight-incher, and real thick, and when he's on heat it's as red as a fresh
tomato!"

Kevin interrupted Matt's whimsical musings about the Pride of the Fleet. He
started to laugh, making so much noise that half the diners turned to look
at him. "You guys are nuts!" he managed to gasp out.

"Of course we are," agreed The Phantom. "You have to be, around here."

Kevin ducked his head. "Phantom, I'm sorry about the way I've been
acting. Its just that I'm not used to seeing an officer naked." He grinned
widely. "Not that I'd want to see most of them naked."

Ray shuddered. "Can you imagine Dirty Dave without his laundry?"

All four boys grimaced. Seeing Dirty Dave with his clothes on was bad
enough. The Phantom had been keeping an eye on things and noticed that Andy
was just finishing his salmon. "Andy is just about finished. Kevin, why
don't you go over and clear his plate while Matt takes him his pudding."

"I wish you guys would make up your mind," said Kevin with a shake of his
head.

"Is it pudding, is it duff, or is it dessert?"

"Pudding in the wardroom, duff for the rest of us," explained The Phantom.

"And dessert when your mother throws some canned peaches at you," finished
Matt.  Kevin detected a hint of bitterness in Matt's voice. He too had seen
the half-healed bruises on Matt's back and buttocks. He said nothing as he
moved off to clear the dishes.

Matt, pleased that Kevin was now one of them, moved off to get Andy's
pudding.  Ray was so engrossed in watching Kevin as he bent over to remove
Andy's plate that he barely heard The Phantom's whispering voice. "What?"
he asked, rudely brought out of his reverie by The Phantom's harsh whisper.

"Roll up your tongue and close your mouth, Ray. You're drooling."

It was Ray's turn to blush. "It shows, huh?"

"Does it ever," replied The Phantom with a laugh.  "Does it ever!"

******

As Matt and Kevin cleared the tables and Ray went off to check on things in
the galley, three cadets approached The Phantom. One was David, who, since
the break-up of his coterie, was feeling left out, what with Little Big Man
in Coventry and Rob and Ryan spending almost every waking hour together
(not to mention more than a few sleeping hours).

The second was Billy, a tall, thin, dark-haired boy, all sharp angles and
teeth, with the skinniest butt this side of Two Strokes. He was, at 6'2",
the tallest of all the cadets, and hated to be called Billy. The other
cadets, being perverse creatures, called him nothing else.

The third cadet was Chad, a stocky, well-muscled young man with a winning
smile and a happy-go-lucky disposition. He was considered the most "mature"
of the younger cadets in that at barely 17 his chest, groin and legs were
covered with a light dusting of dark, silky hair. He was a great friend of
another cadet, Nick, who was in many ways Chad's opposite, being taller,
thinner, and except for his pubic bush quite hairless. They were wingers
and The Phantom figured that sooner or later Nick would be putting in an
appearance.

Each cadet expressed an interest in becoming, at least on a temporary
basis, stewards. The Phantom explained that any stewarding they might do
would be over and above their regular duties and training. He also
explained that he could offer very little in the way of compensation. They
would, he hoped, get to wear steward jackets, and they would, he hoped, eat
their meals with the galley staff, which intrigued them for they knew that
the cooks and Makee-Learns ate very well indeed.

"Tonight, after dinner, I'll have my lesson plans ready. If you guys are
still interested be here at 1830.  In the mean time watch what Matt and
Kevin do.  It's not as hard as it looks, really," said The Phantom,
gesturing toward the two stewards-in-training.  "Bottom line is all I can
promise you is a lot of hard work for minimal reward."

The three cadets agreed to think about what they were volunteering for and
it was agreed that they would return at 1830 with their decision.

Shortly after 1300 The Gunner and Number One came into the Mess Hall,
looking for lunch. This set Matt to grumble under his breath to Kevin (just
a bit too loudly as Number One heard every word) that at this rate they
might just as well have two sittings, what with people wandering in at all
hours. Number One, being a gentleman, ignored the criticism and
apologized. The Gunner gave Matt a playful swat on his behind, called him
"Boychick," and promised never to be late again.

Matt, mollified and pleased by The Gunner's pat on his behind, went off to
get the lunches, not knowing that as he walked across the mess hall that
his brother sat silently in the far corner, glowering at what he had just
witnessed.

Little Big Man watched the laughing camaraderie between Matt, Number One
and The Gunner, drumming his fingers on the table, his brows lowered in
disgust. Presently he stood up and left the building. It was time to write
another letter home.