Date: Wed, 14 May 2003 04:51:50 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Phantom Of Aurora: Chapter 2

The Phantom pedaled his bike up the hill and into the driveway of the large
Victorian house that was home. He dismounted and wheeled the bike into the
old carriage house his family used as a garage and general storage
area. His mother's car was gone, as was his father's, which was not
surprising. His father was a cop with the Courtenay Police Department. This
week he was working the 4-to-12 shift. His mother worked in the Royal Bank
downtown but she would not be there now as the business day was long lover
over. She was probably off to a pool party or a barbecue somewhere in the
neighbourhood. Comox was a small and friendly town and on a warm, clear
summer night such as this one there would be a pool party or a barbecue
being held in most of the backyards in town.

He entered the house through the kitchen entrance. The kitchen was, as
usual, spotless, and there was a note from his mother on the table. She was
off to the Jensens, who lived on the other side of town. Mr. Jensen was
also a cop; only he worked for the town of Comox.

The Phantom read that he was also invited to the barbecue, smiling as he
read the note and thinking that the Jensens should not hold dinner waiting
for him to show up. He tried to avoid going to any of their little
parties. Harry Jenson was everybody's nightmare of a cop. He was large, had
a beer belly and never stopped being a cop. He was also an opinionated,
bigoted jerk. He dominated his family and Mrs. Jensen, a small, washed out
woman, never seemed to contradict her husband and always nodded her
agreement with anything and everything he said. He sometimes wondered how
two such people could ever have a son like their oldest boy, Jeff.

Jeff was magnificently handsome and had figured in many of The Phantom's
masturbation fantasies before he started visiting the cadets at AURORA. He
was 18 - a year older than The Phantom and had recently graduated high
school. He had won a football scholarship at the University of British
Columbia and would be heading off to Vancouver at the end of August. Jeff
had been a year ahead of him in school and for four years The Phantom had
secretly lusted after the handsome and popular quarterback.

Jeff was one of those boys whose every movement shouted his
masculinity. His smooth, crisply muscled body, his graceful movements, the
way he talked and walked, precluded any thought of anything other than
sheer, raw straightness. He was one of the most popular boys in school and
always had a girl after him, and he was always after all of the girls,
never settling with one girl, playing the field.

The Jensens' younger son, Robbie, was twelve-years-old and a smaller, more
refined version of his older brother, whom he obviously adored. Robbie aped
Jeff in everything, although he was still at the age when girls were little
more that obnoxious pests. There was something about the boy, however, that
The Phantom found disconcerting. There was slyness about Robbie and The
Phantom always felt uncomfortable whenever he was around him.

There was also Amy, the Jensen daughter. She was not bad looking, for a
girl, and had made it plain that she would not have minded seeing what The
Phantom had up the leg of his shorts. In fact, she knew he had something up
there. The last time he had gone over to one of the Jensen's barbecues Amy
had run her hand right up there, and felt his hardon. He counted himself
lucky that he had been wearing briefs at the time, so all she really felt
was a large bulge. She flattered herself by thinking that his hardon was in
her honour.

The Phantom snickered derisively at the memory. His hardon was in her
brother's honour. Jeff had been cavorting in the pool with his latest
lovely, some very revealing racing trunks and The Phantom had boned up the
minute he saw the young stud's tight basket.

Hungry, The Phantom helped himself to some cold chicken, and downed a glass
of milk. Since he worked from 11 in the morning until seven at night, he
never ate supper at home. He ate in the galley most days and his pay was
docked him $1.00 a day for meals, so he figured he might as well get value
for his money. Besides, Chef usually jazzed up whatever was on offer so he
did not feel hard done by.

When he was finished eating The Phantom washed his plate and glass and put
them in the dish rack. His mother would pitch a fit if he left a mess in
her clean kitchen. Then he climbed the stairs to his room. He stripped off
his clothing and threw them in the laundry hamper. His boxers, as he had
expected, were pretty stained up. Between the cadets at the swim parade and
The Gunner, The Phantom figured his dick had pumped out at least a gallon
of lubricant. It was a good job he did his own laundry. It saved
embarrassing questions from his mother. She was pretty cool about stains,
really. He had had his first real wet dream just days after his 13th
birthday, and creamed his pyjamas and the sheets stiff. His mother had
never said a word to him and The Phantom guessed she had more or less
expected it, having gone through the same thing with Brendan, his older
brother. He wished, however, that she had not told his father because then
he had been forced to go through THE TALK.

The Phantom did not know who was more embarrassed, he or his dad, who
sputtered and blushed his way through a very confusing chat about sex,
boys, girls, and the changes that were occurring in his young body. The
Phantom could have spared his father the embarrassment as he had learned
all about sex in school. He did not because at the time he was pissed off
at his father who had jokingly told Brendan, his jerky older brother and
The Phantom had to endure weeks of Brendan ribbing him about that damned
wet dream. Which was rude coming from a guy who beat his meat noisily every
night. Christ, the grunting and groaning was something to hear, and when he
blew his load . . . God help the neighbours on his wedding night! Brendan
was in Regina at the RCMP Training Barracks and his room, right next to The
Phantom's, was empty.

The Phantom glanced at the small clock that sat on the bed table. It was
getting late and he needed to shower, smelling, as he did, like food mixed
with sweat and the muskiness that came with almost constant arousal. He
walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and looked at his reflection in
the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. He smiled at his
reflection. He had seen enough guys naked to know that he had a good body;
slim, trim and with not too much hair, except around his dick. The
milky-white V-shaped patch of skin around his waist and groin still held
its tan, which he noticed was fading. He turned and looked at his butt in
the mirror and nodded firmly. His behind was firm and round, with only a
little hair dusting the cheeks near where they curved down to his legs,
which did have hair, from his ankles up to his ass. He turned and looked
straight into the mirror.

Reaching down The Phantom lifted his balls and dick. He really liked the
look of his tackle. The skin of his genitals was darker in colour than the
rest of his body, a dark tan colour. His low-hanging balls, large,
egg-shaped ovals, were contained in a smooth, hairless scrotum. Another
smile creased his handsome face. His balls were much bigger than
Brendan's. But then, Brendan had a real whopper of a cock. Five inches soft
and only Brendan knew how big it got when he popped a bone. The Phantom,
although he was an unwilling listener when Brendan jerked off, had never
seen Brendan with a bone. This was fine with The Phantom. Brendan might
have a nice-looking piece of meat, but he was still a jerk.

The Phantom considered his own hardening penis. He liked the look of the
4-inches of smooth muscle he held in his hand. His penis was circumcised,
not too thick, very sleek and smooth, unmarred by veins, and with a
pinkish-brown, smooth, crown of a helmet, which was perfectly aligned with
his shaft. The Phantom released himself and decided that he really liked
the way his dick looked.

He ran his fingers through his rough bush of pubic hair. The hairs were
long, very dark brown, and curly. His bush covered his lower body and
circled his parts to join the thinner hair on his groin and legs. He had a
treasure trail of sorts, but The Phantom had to admit it was pretty shabby
with just a few random hairs straggling upward from his bush to just below
his navel.

Standing back The Phantom turned left, then right, and nodded. Not a bad
piece of goods. He took another step back and shook his head, wondering
what kind of pervert he was, standing in front of a mirror telling himself
what a hunk he was! But then, what kind of a pervert went around wanking
guys in their sleep?

He turned on the shower and soaped himself, being careful not to give too
much attention to his middle parts. He had managed to build up a good case
of blue balls, what with the half-naked cadets parading by and by The
Gunner touching him. The Phantom planned to take care of business, but not
just yet, because part of the enjoyment of beating off was the foreplay he
engaged in. He liked to squeeze and roll his balls with one hand and fondle
his stiffy with the other. He liked to get a good buzz going in his dick
and balls before he shot his load.  Which led The Phantom to thinking about
his forays across the harbour. He supposed that there was some sort of
medical term for what he was doing and why he was doing it. He was not
overly concerned why he did it. He only knew that he liked doing it. He
loved the feel of a warm, soft dick in his hand, the feel as he stroked
soft flesh into silk covered, iron hard shaft; the feel as he rolled and
fondled smooth boy balls into tight wrinkled sacs of skin, loving the way
the cocks would grow longer, and thicken, and then spew forth rivers of hot
teenager cum. He marvelled at the way each boy climaxed, some massively,
splattering their ejaculate across their smooth, hairless chests while
others oozed thick cream over his hands, down the shaft and into their
patches of pubic hair. The Phantom also loved the sheer pleasure he gave
each boy he serviced, pleasure demonstrated by the way they writhed and
bucked, or humped his hand, and moaned and groaned deliriously when they
came.

The Phantom looked down and saw that his dick had stiffened to just over
six inches and had thickened perceptibly. He turned off the hot water and
gave himself a blast of icy cold water, which shocked his dick into
shrinking back to its normal size. He walked back into his bedroom,
rummaged in his underwear drawer and pulled out a pair of boxers, drew them
on and then sat on the edge of his bed. He found the pack of cigarettes he
kept in the bedside table, fumbled one out, lit it, and sat back against
the headboard, enjoying his smoke and the cool breeze flowing through the
open window. He could hear the distant sound of music, probably one of the
bands that played in the bars and restaurants that lined the harbour front.

The Phantom's thoughts returned to his nighttime expeditions. What really
confused him was that not one of the boys he visited had complained or,
when faced with the evidence that sometime during the night, for one reason
or another, they had blown a massive load, they dismissed it as a wet
dream, or a subconscious, self-administered hand job. They were, after all,
healthy teenagers in the full flush of puberty, when their dicks did
strange things, and beating off was a necessity.

Every morning while serving breakfast or bussing tables The Phantom heard
the cadets bragging about the size of their morning woodies, or
complimenting well-endowed shipmates on the size and girth of their
weapons. For the cadets it was almost a rite of passage to wake up with a
boner, and to have that boner admired, or jeered at, by the other
cadets. They were all alike, bragging about how hung they were when in fact
it had been his experience that three inches soft meant six inches
hard. About the only thing they did not do was brag about the pussy or
blowjob they had had the night before, which was what all the studs he went
to school with did. Of course, the local boys all had opportunity going for
them. There were a few girls in town that would fuck a snake if it could
wiggle its hips (he suspected that Amy was going to be right up there with
the best of them before very long).

The cadets were a different matter. Being good, moral, upstanding Canadian
boys, sex with another good, moral, upstanding Canadian boy, which was all
they were going to get on the long strip of land on which AURORA stood,
just never happened. Nobody bragged about jerking off. That did not
happen. AURORA cadets did not have sex.  Which was bullshit.

The Phantom knew that the Base Laundry Officer was complaining about
stained sheets. Thumper beat his meat at the drop of a hat. You did not
need to be a brain surgeon to know what the cadets were doing after the
lights went out. Twice now The Phantom had been forced to delay visiting a
particular barracks because one, sometimes more, of the cadets were happily
jerking off and as for sex between cadets that happened, too. One night
last year he had been sneaking past Boatswain's Stores, a long, low shed
down by the water and seen a light and had peeked in the window and seen
the Duty Quartermaster and the Roundsman lying on the floor, their white
briefs and bell-bottoms around their ankles, having a sixty-niner! He had
watched the two cadets sucking each other to beat the band and he had
gotten so excited that when they bucked and came their loads in each
other's mouth, he had cum in his briefs. Which had pissed him off. He liked
to work up to it by visiting a cadet or two first and had gone home with
his drawers sticky with warm cum, and wishing that he had been down on the
floor with the cadets, wondering how a cock tasted, wondering what it would
be like to suck a cock.

Thinking about it now The Phantom reasoned that he should not have been
surprised at the cadets doing each other. The cadets were young, they were
healthy, and they were all hornier than a two-peckered owl in the
moonlight. Getting your rocks off was getting your rocks off, which might
just explain why nobody said anything. Having sex with another guy was not
something you talked about. The more he thought about it, the more The
Phantom came to understand that no guy was about to admit that he was
having sex with another guy. A stiff prick might not have a conscience but
the guy attached to it had better have one. Sex with another guy carried no
bragging rights and God help you if anybody found out about it, which
explained why nothing was ever said. Not last year, when he began his
forays across the harbour, or this year, when he had returned. He had not
heard so much as a whisper about anything. No one had made an official
complaint about being molested in his bed. And no one would.

The Phantom chuckled cynically. Not only did they not talk about having
sex, they pretended that the act had never happened. He remembered that the
two cadets he had seen last year sucking each other in Boatswain Stores -
one of whom was back again as the Guard Petty Officer - had never so much
as whispered about what they had been doing. The Phantom had eavesdropped
as much as he dared as he was bussed their table but had heard
nothing. They talked about many thinks but not once did they talk about
their night in Boatswain Stores. So much for love.

He listened to the music for a little while and lit another cigarette,
remembering that first time. Remembering his first cadet.

******

The thing was, what a near run thing it had been. It had started with
Sam. They had been together, doing what they always did when they were
together. They had been in The Phantom's bedroom, their hands on each
other's dicks, stroking each other towards orgasm. As he always did, Sam
grunted his warning that he was about to squirt. Instead of releasing Sam,
The Phantom had continued to pump his friend's turgid organ. At first Sam
had allowed it, then, without warning, and just as his penis erupted, he
had angrily pushed The Phantom's hand away. The Phantom had broken the
rules and Sam was not having that. To compound his error The Phantom had
started to laugh at the sight of Sam angrily trying to control his jerking
fire hose of a dick, which was squirting huge jets of his semen halfway
across the room, and pull up his Jockeys and shorts which were gathered
around his ankles. The memory of Sam's misfortune brought a grin to The
Phantom's face. It had been funny. Unfortunately for their relationship Sam
had not thought it at all funny. Harsh words had been exchanged and, in the
heat of the argument, the word queer flashed.

The Phantom's face turned stony as he remembered Sam calling him a
queer. He remembered that he had hurriedly pulled up the track pants that
were gathered around his ankles, turned on his heels and gone
downstairs. Sam had hurried after him and tried to apologize. The Phantom
had been unforgiving. Sam had left the house, angry with The Phantom for
breaking the rules, and angry with himself for reacting the way he
had. Eventually they made up, but their relationship was never the
same. While they still masturbated each other, they did so
infrequently. Sam would come mooching around, looking embarrassed and horny
and they would go up to The Phantom's room. They would drop their shorts,
which was what they both wore most of the time, and start jerking each
other.

There was never any foreplay of any kind, and their sessions lasted no
longer than it took to shoot their loads. They were just two guys beating
off, two guys helping each other out, a release of semen that meant
nothing. The closeness that had existed between them was gone. The warmth,
the feeling, was gone. Now it was all just sex, which The Phantom provided
because he did care for Sam. He also knew that for ten months of the year
Sam was the only game in town. As for the months of July and August, well,
just across the harbour was a place that provided The Phantom with as much
sex as he wanted, albeit one-sided. It was dangerous, it was risky, but at
the end of the day, it was glorious.

Hurt and angry at Sam, The Phantom had endured days of frustration from
watching the hard, slim bodies of the cadets as he served them their meals,
and the temptation to reach out and fondle those bodies as he watched them
march and drill, and on the parade square playing baseball or soccer, their
young, sweat streaked bodies glistening in the late afternoon sun, their
tight, firm behinds and baskets displayed with innocent
brazenness. Impulsively he had sneaked onto the Spit at 1:00 in the
morning. Getting onto the ship was easy. He knew the lay of the land and a
loud thunderstorm was raging. Getting into the barracks was even
easier. The doors were never locked.

Before entering the barracks he hesitated. A titanic bolt of lightning
flashed across the sky and a clap of thunder shook Heron Spit. The Phantom
did not believe in omens, but the thunderous explosion caused him to
pause. Once he entered the barracks, once he placed his hand on a sleeping
cadet's cock, once he played with that cock, he was taking the first step
on a dark and dangerous path. If he retreated, and returned home, no one
would be the wiser. If he entered the barracks there would be no turning
back. As his hand grasped the doorknob The Phantom took a deep breath. He
would either bring wonderful pleasure to some boy, or disaster upon himself
if he were caught. He noticed that his hand was shaking. He could feel a
tremor of excitement roll through his body. Unconsciously he reached down
and felt himself, feeling the hard, tight bulge in his jeans. He gave no
thought to what the consequences of his actions this night might be and
slowly pushed open the barracks door.

The cadets were housed in H-shaped barracks; each barracks was a mirror
image of the other. Down each side of the long room was a row of double
bunks, each set of double bunks separated by twin metal lockers where the
cadets kept their uniforms and civilian clothes. Down the middle of the
barracks was a long wooden table, scarred with use. Halfway down the
barracks was a large, open doorway, which lead to the heads and washplaces
- the toilets and showers - that the cadets shared with those in the
adjoining barracks. Ordinarily each barracks housed 40 cadets in two long
rows of single bunks. Last year the numbers had been small, with empty
bunks in every barracks but this year many of the courses had been
overbooked, which required "doubling up" the bunks. Every bunk in each of
the four huge, H-shaped barracks was occupied.

Thinking back The Phantom realized that he had all but invited disaster. On
entering the barracks he had not stopped to listen, to ensure that
everybody was asleep. All the hard learned lessons that Sam's father had
taught him had been forgotten. While The Phantom had remembered to sneak
and crawl as he made his way onto the Spit, he had simply walked into a
barracks full of sleeping cadets, depending on the thunderstorm that raged
outside to muffle the sounds of his movements. He had no idea who slept
soundly, who slept lightly. He was unaware that there was a Duty Roundsman
who constantly entered the barracks, patrolling for fire hazards and the
like. He did not know his prey because he had not bothered to learn its
habits. In time The Phantom would, but that first night all he was
interested in was what was between the legs of the boy cadets sleeping
soundly in their bunks. His lust was paramount and he had not given the
least thought to what might happen to if he were discovered committing what
was, in truth, a criminal act. He wanted to touch another boy, to feel him,
to hold his most precious possession. He wanted to give another boy the
pleasure that he was not allowed to give to Sam, and in the giving of that
pleasure give himself an even greater pleasure.

The Phantom did not remember which barracks he had entered. He assumed it
was Barracks 1, which housed the cooks. It was the first block he had come
to after leaving the beach. He did remember the first cadet. He remembered
everything about the boy.

The long barracks stretched before The Phantom, ill-lit and crowded with
double bunks that lined either side. Down the centre of the barracks
stretched long wooden tables flanked by bare wooden benches. He stood
quietly, listening, and watching. As he stood there The Phantom noticed a
smell, an aroma that intoxicated and excited him. The perfume was not as
harsh as the smells he associated with a locker room. There was a delicate
something to the harshness, a muskiness, a mélange of smells, soap,
starch, clean clothes, dirty clothes, ironed serge uniforms, boot polish
and the raw maleness of teenage boys, the combination causing his head to
spin with frightened anticipation. He stepped a few paces into the
barracks. He would do what he had come to do. He had no plan, no idea which
cadet he would touch, or what he would do.

Stopping at the first bunk in the row of bunks, The Phantom knelt down and
looked at the sleeping cadet. The cadet had been asleep in the bottom bunk
of the first set of bunks inside the doorway, lying on top of his
covers. The Phantom remembered the cadet's square, tight-jawed face, and
the clear, smooth skin of the handsome young man. The Phantom remembered
the cadet's body, long, lean, muscular, the tanned skin dusted with light,
blond hair, lighter than the wheat coloured hair on his head. The Phantom
remembered that the cadet had been wearing only the white Jockey briefs
that seemed to be a uniform requirement. Every cadet wore them.

The Phantom had reached out a tentative hand and stroked the small mound
that filled the soft cotton briefs, fondling the sleeping cadet, stroking
the boy's flaccid penis until it lengthened into a six-inch tube of hard
flesh stretching upward under the cloth of his underpants. The boy's
erection, held in check by the tight briefs, rose and fell, pulsing with
each breath the cadet took. The Phantom had pulled down the front of
cadet's Jockeys to reveal a smooth, circumcised shaft crowned by a dark
pink, helmet-shaped glans.

As the Phantom knelt, staring at the beautiful object before him, there was
a clap over thunder and a flash of sheet lightning, which illuminated the
mess decks and revealed small details, engraving them on The Phantom's
brain: the small drop of natural lubricant, precum, leaking from the pee
slit that marred the beauty of the cadet's mushroomed corona, the small,
thin line of dark blond pubic hair that completely encircled the base of
the cadet's erect penis, the shape and size of the cadet's testicles
contained in a low-hanging, smooth sac sprinkled with long, curling blond
hairs. The Phantom licked his lips and was about to reach out to touch this
work of art when the cadet's breathing rhythm changed sharply. He snorted
loudly and waved an arm in the air.

The Phantom had enough sense to drop and roll under the bunk opposite. He
lay there, not daring to breathe and watched as the cadet sat up, looked
around, and then looked down at the front of his tented briefs. He looked
around again and then pulled open the front of his Jockeys, regarding his
hardon. Then he released the waistband of his underpants and lay back down.

Desperate to avoid discovery, The Phantom lay under the bunk for what
seemed like hours until the cadet's breathing slowed and he fell back into
deep sleep. Breathing a small sigh of relief The Phantom was about to get
out of Dodge when the barracks door slammed open and a ray of harsh light
pierced the darkness.

The Duty Roundsman, his boots clumping heavily on the tiled deck, walked
slowly down the length of the barracks, his flashlight probing
occasionally, lighting his way to the far end of the mess deck.

The Phantom heard the door at the other end of the barracks slam closed and
heard the muttered grumbles as the other cadets returned to their disturbed
sleep. Finally, after the muttering had subsided, The Phantom made his
move. He hurried from the barracks, his heart pounding, waiting for a
shouted alert that there was an intruder. The shout never came and he
retraced his steps along the narrow beach, running and stumbling, retrieved
his bicycle from its hiding place and pedalled madly home. He had been
badly frightened by his experience and in the safety of his room he had
decided that he had made a very bad mistake and had been very lucky in not
being caught. He had been so frightened that he had decided that he would
never go prowling in the night.

******

The next morning The Phantom returned to work fully expecting to hear that
a cadet had been molested during the night and that an investigation had
been launched. He heard not a word. The cadet he had visited passed down
the serving line, joking and laughing with his fellow cadets. Later, as he
bussed the tables, clearing them and wiping up after the cadets, The
Phantom heard nothing that would indicate that anything out of the ordinary
had occurred during the night. Except for the thunderstorm it was as if
nothing had happened at all. The Phantom watched, and he listened. He saw
much, and heard many things, but not a word did he hear about someone
feeling up a cadet in his sleep.

The Phantom's personal crisis passed, as did the first summer. He
recognized that what he had done had been a foolish and dangerous thing. He
realized that the danger of what he wanted to do lay in not knowing the
habits of the cadets he wanted to visit. The Phantom was intelligent enough
to know that much of what he needed to know he could learn in the mess hall
just by listening to the constant chatter of the cadets as they ate. He had
much to learn about the habits of other boys, of Sea Cadets.

"And learn them I did," thought The Phantom as he snuffed out his
cigarette. He had listened, he had learned, and he had returned again and
again last summer to the barracks on Heron Spit. He lay back in his bed,
thinking of everything he had learned, thinking of how he listened and
learned! He learned to study the Duty Roster and Routine Orders, he learned
which cadets were heavy sleepers and difficult to wake up, and who slept
lightly and woke at the touch of a foreign hand on their bodies. He learned
which cadets could be counted on to spend most of their watch in the Guard
House, and not out patrolling the base. He learned which cadets were alert
and which cadets took their duties seriously. Every snippet of information
he stored in his capacious, retentive memory, analysed it, and used it in
his now almost nightly forays.

Thinking about the cadets he had visited, The Phantom pulled his semi-hard
penis through the slit of his boxers and as he idly stroked his penis he
tried to remember the bodies of the boys he had visited last summer. They
were, for the most part, all alike with slim, smooth, tanned bodies. Most
of them had been circumcised. The Phantom raised his head and examined his
own penis. It was, he thought, very good looking, very neat and smooth and
pink, with a classic helmet-shaped glans. He rubbed his finger against
tender knot of scar tissue under the curving mushroom of his penis, and
then slowly stroked downward, feeling the vein on the underside of his cock
filling with blood. With his other hand he reached into his underpants and
pulled out his testicles, feeling the heft of them, gently rolling and
caressing his smooth eggs. The Phantom's cock reacted to the stimulus of
his stroking hand, thickening and stretching into a rigid shaft of flesh,
dark tan below his circumcision ring, rosy pink above it.  Closing his
eyes, The Phantom fondled and stroked himself, rubbing his fingers along
the smooth cap, feeling the precum ooze from the slit of his penis. Using
his thumb he lubricated the reddening knob, marvelling at its smoothness as
his thumb glided over it. He moaned softly at the pleasure he felt.

As he played with himself The Phantom began to think about what he had done
to the cadets he visited. He had masturbated them all, bringing them to
varying degrees of intense eruption. He also began to think about the
bragging conversations of his peers in high school locker room
conversations that always involved their sexual antics and peccadilloes,
real or imagined, with the girls they dated or wanted to date. While
getting into a girl's pants was always the goal, for some reason many of
the boys talked about getting a blowjob, which seemed to be even more
desirable, and easier to get. The Phantom wondered what it would be like to
have someone suck his dick or, better yet, what it would be like to suck a
dick. What he found hilarious was that his schoolmates, and from his
eavesdropping, the senior cadets, all seemed to know everything there was
to know about the habits of queers, fags and assorted deviates while all
the while proclaiming their straightness and abhorrence at such practices.

What amused The Phantom even more was that by just listening to the
bragging he learned how a boy would like to be pleased. Intercourse with a
girl, always high on everyone's list, paled however to having one's dick
sucked. And not just sucked but sucked in a variety of ways - they differed
from boy to boy - so that the boy being sucked derived maximum pleasure
from the act. Some insisted that being "deep-throated", whatever that was,
and was the only way to go. Others preferred having just the heads of their
dick sucked, or just the top half, insisting that the rush of pleasure they
felt as they shot their immature loads was more intense that anything they
had ever managed by self-manipulation. Some needed their balls rubbed;
others declared that having their balls squeezed and their bags gently
pulled while their dicks were being sucked was the only way to go. All
avoided any hint of homosexuality in their talk. They might know what fags
did to and with each other but they all loudly averred that they had never,
and would never do anything with another guy. Which led The Phantom to
wonder about the strange looks that came over the faces of at least two of
his school chums whenever the "Sixty-Nine" position was mentioned.

The more he thought about sex with another boy the more The Phantom
wondered what it would be like to suck another boy's dick, which was
something he had never done. His only partner, Sam, would not allow
it. Sucking Sam's cock was queer, which Sam would never admit to being. The
Phantom knew the Indian boy well enough to never so much as suggest that
they suck each other off. Sam would have stormed and raged at such an
outrageous suggestion.

In retrospect The Phantom was not upset about Sam's refusal, not after
mentally comparing the cocks of the cadets he had manipulated with Sam's
organ. Sam might be one hell of a good looking guy with his pants on, tall
and strong, with a chiselled, firmly muscled chest, bronze-coloured skin,
black hair, brown eyes and sparkling teeth. But with his pants down all
bets were off. Compared to the smooth, hard, circumcised penises that The
Phantom had been servicing, Sam's dick was not all that handsome. Sam's
cock was thick, and four inches long when soft, which included a good inch
of long, wrinkled foreskin. When he got hard his dick naturally got bigger,
extending to almost eight inches from his body, but instead of sticking
straight out or up, it curved in the middle, the head pointing to the
right. The colouring changed, the rim of his barely retracted foreskin
turning an ugly red, tightly gripping the deep, plumb-purple head of his
cock.

Thinking, even briefly of Sam's turgid organ, caused The Phantom to shudder
and wrinkle his nose because thinking of it brought back the memory that
Sam, from time to time, was sadly lacking in personal hygiene, his dick
smelling of urine and an unpleasant something else which The Phantom
assumed came from the small deposits of a yellow, cheese-like substance
that formed under the rim of Sam's crisp helmet. Sucking such an offensive
object was no longer an inviting prospect.

The Phantom swore softly and pushed the image of Sam, and his cock, from
his mind and another vision began to form, a picture of one whose dick he
would gladly suck, one whom he would gladly pleasure, one who he wanted to
be pleasuring him.

"Yeah, oh yeah," he moaned as the picture firmed and he released his
balls. He wiped his fingers across his oozing knob and then reached down
and plunged his hand into his boxers. He spread his legs, brought his knees
up and began to stroke and probe his anal opening. The feeling of his
finger against his sensitive opening sent a shock wave of delight coursing
through his body. He arched his back and increased the speed of his hand,
masturbating furiously as he tightened his hold on his raging hardon. He
felt his balls tightening and increased the speed of his jerking as he
quickened the pace of his rubbing against the warm, moist, sensitive tissue
of his anus. The warmth of pleasure seeped from his middle, spreading
throughout his body, engulfing his senses. He felt the flood tide of his
seed explode from his balls, race up his shaft, and explode from his gaping
pee slit. His body arched and pumped and a huge blob of cum flew upward and
landed on his chin. Wave after wave of excruciating, intense, indescribable
wonder washed over him. His face, a rictus of pain and pleasure contorted
as he called The Gunner's name. He begged and moaned loudly as his hand
pumped massive load after massive load of semen from his body, his
ejaculate landing hotly on his chest, on his navel, on his stomach just
above his dark brown pubes. He continued to jerk and spasm until his cock
began to soften and only a small, delicate drop oozed from his slit.

He fell back against the pillows, light headed and exhausted, sucking in
great drafts of air, gasping at the unbelievable, monumental, awe inspiring
pleasure that had overwhelmed every part of his body. He raised his hand
and felt the still warm pearl drop on his chin. He wiped his chin and
brought his finger to his lips, his tongue flicking out to draw his thick,
creamy fluid into his mouth. He rolled the dollop of his semen on his
tongue, savouring the delicious nectar.

Still in the breathtaking clutches of the afterglow of his orgasm The
Phantom raised his head and saw the small drops of ambrosia that spotted
his chest and formed a small pool in his navel. His fingers touched the
rich pool of cooling ejaculate, slowly cleaning the liquid treasure from
his body. He again brought his fingers to his lips and began to lick
gently, savouring the taste of his sperm. He recalled the taste of the
cadet's fluid that he had sampled only a week before, comparing that taste
with the taste of his own rich, thick cum. They were the same, only
different. The cadet's sperm-filled semen had tasted slightly salty while
his own had a special sweetness to it.

The Phantom lay back on his pillows and folded his arms behind his
head. His body was still warm and glowing and he was totally at peace with
himself. His eyelids grew heavy and as sleep took him he remembered the
name he had called out in his ecstasy. He whispered the name into the
darkness. If only it had been him he had visited. If only . . .

******

As day turned to dusk and the shadows lengthened in the small room, Joel
lay cuddled in his lover's arms, enjoying the blissful aftermath of
wonderful sex, his hand resting lightly on The Gunner's broad, chiselled
chest. He smiled a contented sigh. The Gunner was so unlike his many other
lovers, being an undemanding, considerate lover, who gave as much pleasure
as he received, always seeming to know by instinct just which part of
Joel's body to stimulate to bring him to the ultimate, final threshold of
ecstasy. And when they were done, both having experienced more joy that
either had ever imagined, The Gunner did not roll away. He would hold Joel
in his arms, stroking him, adoring him, thanking him for their act of love.

Joel raised himself on one elbow and regarded the man who had been, these
14-plus months past, his friend and lover. By no stretch of anyone's
imagination could The Gunner be described as a classic beauty. He was, in
many respects, a most ordinary looking man, with fine features, and a lean,
well-muscled body and lean, ruddy face of the kind that only sailors ever
seemed to have. Joel's eyes drifted lower. The Gunner would never be asked
to pose for one of the pseudo-art magazines glorifying the male nude. Nor
would he draw a second glance in the dimly lit corridors of the baths in
Vancouver's Gay Village, which unbeknownst to The Gunner Joel frequented on
an almost nightly basis. There the boys strutted naked, their smooth, young
bodies on show for all to see, their genitals unabashedly on show. The
Gunner's neatly circumcised penis and large, oval-shaped testicles would
evoke no moans of orgiastic desire from the size queens.

As he lay back and listened to The Gunner's soft breathing, Joel thought of
how he and The Gunner had met. It had been during Navy Week, the week
preceding Battle of Atlantic Sunday, last year. As always the Navy came
calling, sailing two or three ships across from Esquimalt and opening the
vessels to the general public for tours and day steams up and down the
Strait of Georgia. His employer, one William Gates, Jr., had instructed
Joel to entertain a small group of potential Canadian investors, one of
whom had been a Former Naval Person. Joel, never averse to studying the
terrain when it came to men in uniform, had taken the group down to the
docks where the three RCN vessels were moored. He had also arranged,
through a friend of a friend assigned to MARPAC Headquarters, for a special
tour and luncheon aboard the squadron flagship. The Gunner had been
assigned to be their tour guide. At the end of the tour, during lunch, and
much to his surprise, Joel found himself agreeing to meet with the young
Leading Gunner for drinks later in the evening. Joel had been very
surprised when he found himself in bed with the man.

Joel had always known that he was attracted to boys. His attraction was
confirmed and intensified when he began a torrid affair with his tall,
handsome, older cousin (by four months), Michael Chan, a serious,
passionate boy who adored Joel in every way possible. Michael, while he
cared deeply for his handsome cousin, knew that their love affair would
not, could not endure. He was the heir, the scion, the Anointed One who was
destined to be groomed to succeed his father, Joel's Uncle Henry Chan, the
Viceroy of Chinatown.  While Joel might refuse to believe that being gay in
a society that abhorred homosexuality was an impediment, Michael knew
better. If any word, any hint of their relationship became known they would
disappear forever, their disappearance facilitated by Uncle Henry's
"business associates" in Hong Kong, or Shanghai, or San Francisco. Michael
had brothers, as did Joel, and innumerable male cousins. The succession was
not in danger. Uncle Henry would make do with a lesser son and the family's
honour would remain unblemished if anything happened to Michael. Joel, as a
nephew, was a nonentity, and would not be missed in the family scheme of
things.  What further eroded Joel's relationship with Michael was Joel's
discovery that Michael was not the only boy who was attracted to him. In
high school - they both attended St. George's College, an exclusive WASP
school for boys favoured by British Columbia's aristocracy and made
possible by virtue of a large donation to the school's building fund and a
little arm twisting by Uncle Henry - Joel had many friends, all of whom
wanted his friendship for one reason. Joel, because he enjoyed the company
of his schoolmates, made them very happy.

Unlike his cousin, Michael Chan had very early learned that in all things
connected with his life discretion was paramount. He was the oldest son and
heir of the most powerful Chinese in Western Canada and would one day be
head of the family. Over and over it was stressed to Michael that he must
in all things conform not only to the mores, attitudes, customs and
traditions of the society in which he lived, but also to the same mores,
attitudes, customs and traditions of the society with which his family
dealt. Certain lapses of character could be overlooked - a too fond
communion with alcohol, an inability to remain faithful to one woman. Many
men drank to excess; far too many kept a mistress if they could afford
one. That many gambled excessively was ignored. There was not a Chinese man
born who did not love to gamble. All these could be, and were, overlooked
so long as they were done discretely and there was no loss of honour, of
"face". In Michael's world loss of face was devastating.

Michael knew without having to be told that he could never acknowledge in
any way, shape or form his preference for males. Homosexuality was as much
abhorred in the Eastern culture into which he had been born as it was in
the Western culture in which he lived. Discovery of his affair with Joel
would mean so devastating a loss of face that his family could never
recover.

Michael had been willing to risk everything and continue his relationship
with his beautiful young cousin, so long as the relationship was secret,
and so long as neither of them did anything that might bring unwanted
attention to themselves or their love affair. Michael was blissfully
unaware that Joel was spending a great deal of time in the Boys' Change
Room, or that he had sequestered a certain small room off the gymnasium
where he "tutored" some of the more mature students. Michael was brought
down to earth and into a world of shattering reality one cold, rainy
evening in the Juniors' Common Room, where he was nestled into a
wing-backed chair reading Chaucer.

The room was large, and with only a few lamps and the fire lit,
dark. Michael, valuing his privacy, had chosen a chair in the far corner of
the room. He was so totally engrossed in his reading that he did not hear
two of his schoolmates enter, and only half aware of what they were talking
about when he heard his cousin's name mentioned. He hunkered down as much
as he could in the chair, listening intently while Spencer Bowes, the
handsome Captain of the School XI, told Chris Owen, a skinny, short,
red-headed boy whose ears stuck out so much that he dared not go outside in
a high wind, all about the superior blowjob he had received after football
practice. "And I could have gotten into his ass if Bloggins hadn't come
into the fucking change room," Spencer concluded sorrowfully.

"Did he see anything?" asked Chris, a note of concern in his voice. "You're
already on probation, Spence, and all you need is for the Sports Master to
catch you with your dick in some Chink's mouth!"

Spence had laughed sexily. "It would have been worth it, Chris. Joel might
be a Chink but he can sure suck a mean dick." Michael did not see him
waggling his eyebrows lasciviously. "Next time, though, I am going to fuck
his ass."

"One of these days you are going to get caught, Spence," said Chris
quietly.  "The Head will toss you out on your ear if he finds out you are
screwing half the school."

"Hardly half," returned Spencer with a chuckle. "Just the ones I know love
to have my dick up their ass. Terry Cecil doesn't bother you anymore, does
he?"  At this Michael perked up his ears. The First Proctor, Terry Cecil,
was a bully and a notorious homophobe.

"No, he doesn't," confirmed Chris. "But you did not have to sleep with
him. I would have survived."

Spencer's mocking laughter filled the room. "I did not sleep with him. I
fucked him."

Chris made a disgusted sound. "Whatever! The point is that sooner or later
that dick of yours will get you into trouble. You are going to put the
moves on the wrong guy and . . ."

"I put the moves on no one," remonstrated Spencer. "They put the moves on
me! Can I help it if I'm sexy?"

"You're horny, is what you are," snapped Chris.

"And you are a eunuch," replied Spencer cruelly. "You could be getting your
rocks off regularly, if you would just loosen up and smell the cum!"

"Do you have to be so crude?"

"Yeah, I do," replied Spencer with a chuckle. "Say, where's your roommate?"

"He's doing a Latin tutorial," replied Chris. "What do you want him for?
Are you thinking to add Clement to your list of conquests?" he finished
with a sneer.

"I wouldn't mind," replied Spencer equably. "He's got a super body and a
brilliant cock." He sighed theatrically. "But, no. Clement is much too
straight. I thought that maybe you would be up for a threesome."

"A WHAT?"

"You, me, and the Chink. He was in the Library when I went past. I am sure
he would be more than happy to glom on to that cute little dick of yours."

There was a shocked gasp and the door slammed. Michael waited for five or
so minutes before uncoiling himself from his hiding place. He stared at the
empty room, his eyes blazing, his face suffused with anger. The bigotry and
racism expressed by the two boys did not anger him over much. He had long
known that no matter how long he, or his family lived in a white society,
no matter how much money they garnered, they would always be Chinks, little
yellow men, not quite up to a white man, don't ye know. That could be
countered with raw power, subtle persuasion, or money. What angered him
almost beyond comprehension was Joel's betrayal. With clenched fists he
stormed from the Common Room.

******

The memory of his encounter with Michael Chan so many years ago caused Joel
to shudder. Dear God, had Michael been angry. His rage had been expressed
in cutting, icy tones, his manner so cold and distant that Joel had
cringed. Michael had made his position clear. Joel was out of his life,
forever. What love he had ever felt for his cousin was gone, replaced by a
veiled disgust.

Over the years they saw each other rarely. Michael's anger and rejection of
him caused Joel to change his ways, at least until he finished high
school. He did not stop his philandering, for he had discovered that there
were boys who wanted what he had to offer, many boys. He discovered Wreck
Beach. He also discovered the bathhouses of what was fast becoming
Vancouver's "Gay Village."

Wreck Beach was a narrow strip of sand at the base of the cliffs on which
perched the buildings and campus of the University of British Columbia. In
Joel's youth the beach was Canada's only "clothing optional" beach,
attracting an eclectic and varied crowd of sun worshipers. There were
undergrads of both sexes from the University; naturalists (as nudists
preferred to be called) of all ages, sizes and sex; tourists who could not
pass up an opportunity to visit and gawk. And there were sailors! Young,
healthy SAILORS! Sailors from visiting warships; crewmen from the merchant
ships and cruise liners that filled Vancouver's wharves and piers; cadets
from the military college on leave; sailors from the naval base on
Vancouver Island. The beach was, for Joel, a smorgasbord of masculinity.

St. George's College was located directly opposite the university campus
and when classes were finished for the day Joel would stroll leisurely
through the college grounds, admiring the scenery. There were always
undergrads walking or lounging on the green lawns that separated the
university buildings, or tossing a football, or kicking a soccer ball
around. If the weather was warm and sunny, as it almost always was, the
college boys wore as little as possible.

After drooling his way through the university grounds Joel would descend
the steep, wooden steps that connected the campus to the beach below, strip
off, and settle down to admire the passing parade of nude bodies, enjoying
the sleek, lean, tanned muscular bodies so overtly displayed for all to
see. He rarely connected with any of the young men who presented themselves
for closer inspection. It was not that he would have refused their
companionship. The beach was awash with the clean-cut Canadian and American
boys he adored (and an occasional tasty English or European lad whose extra
bit of skin he was prepared to overlook). He even found the uncertainty and
air of danger in going off with a complete stranger erotic and sexually
stimulating. What prevented any sort of sexual conduct was the layout of
the beach and the vigilant Vancouver Police Department.

Wreck Beach was devoid of any kind of flora in which to have a private
assignation. Aside from the scraggly sea grass and the dense thicket of low
bushes at the base of the cliffs under which it lay, the beach was as naked
as the people who frequented it. The beach, because of its popularity and
the variety of people who went there, was well patrolled by the Vancouver
Police Department. Public nudity was accepted and so long as one obeyed the
unwritten rules: no sex, no booze, and no drugs the police constables more
or less left everybody alone. Overt sex of any kind, whether homosexual,
heterosexual, or variations in between, was not allowed and persons
engaging in it were subject to immediate arrest with all the attendant
consequences, not the least of which would be the publication of one's name
in the criminal court calendars which the city's two dailies published
without fail. Joel might risk going off with a young man who turned out to
be a homophobic mugger. He dared not risk doing anything that would reveal
his homosexuality to his family. Michael might know, the boys at school
might know, but his parents, and more importantly, his Uncle Harry, could
never find out what he did with other boys. He might risk a beating, a
savaging, even death, but he could not risk exposure to his family, he
could not risk the wrath of his father or Uncle Harry for that would bring
the Tsangs down on his head and he would rather die than be placed in their
hands.

The Tsang clan were Uncle Henry Chiang's personal retainers, Chinese
peasants who still worshipped the gods and saw omens in everything, keeping
to the old ways and never really progressing much beyond the 16th
Century. They were Uncle Henry's enforcers, bodyguards and, if the
situation warranted it, his personal executioners. The whole clan lived in
a rundown, decrepit building in Chinatown, uncles, aunts, cousins,
relatives of every degree, fighting, yelling, and copulating with
abandon. Their compound was overrun with children, cats and dogs (which
appeared and disappeared with distressing regularity, replaced by even
mangier creatures), the occasional chicken and innumerable and
inconveniently placed shrines to the hundreds of gods and goddesses in the
Chinese pantheon. The Tsangs produced hulking males and demonstrably the
ugliest females ever conceived. They also gave Uncle Henry fealty and their
complete, unquestioning loyalty. Wherever Uncle Henry went there would be a
Tsang or three nearby. Michael, as Uncle Henry's heir, had been gifted with
a Tsang minder, in the person of Joey Tsang, a huge, beetle-browed young
man who followed the boy everywhere, ensuring with his hulking presence
that Michael would never be bothered by the school bullies or forced to
join the lunch hour line-ups in the school cafeteria. Michael hated him.

Joel recognized Joey for what he was: a spy, who would report back to Uncle
Henry every misdeed, every breach of manners, and every unexplained
absence. Michael accepted Joey Tsang as an unwelcome, but necessary,
presence. He might rail at Joey's existence and constant presence, but once
Uncle Henry had ruled, there was little Michael could do about it. Not so
Joel.

With his sex life in danger, Joel deliberately, and with practiced ease,
seduced Joey, a most unpleasant experience for the same aberrant gene that
gave Joey his height and bulk had given him the genitals of a schoolboy,
all flesh and little substance, made worse by Joey's complete lack of
personal hygiene. Years later Joel would shudder at memory of a naked Joey
Tsang, his deep purple glans peeking through the rubbery folds of his
foreskin as powerful globs of his thin semen squirted into the air, his
porcine squeals of pleasure sundering the quiet of the dingy storeroom off
the school gymnasium where Joel took his "dates".

Seducing Joey Tsang had been necessary to ensure his silence. To the
Tsangs, Uncle Henry and his family were Mandarins, demi-gods beyond
reproach, held in such awe that the elders of the clan kowtowed whenever
they entered Uncle Henry's presence. Joel deliberately used this knowledge,
and the ingrained horror that all traditional Chinese had of homosexuality,
to ensure that no hint of his activities with his school chums made its way
to his parents, or Uncle Henry, or Michael, who had made it plain that he
would not countenance such conduct. Joey Tsang kept silent for the same
reasons. Were he ever to reveal what he and Joel did together would have
one result and he had no desire to meet his ancestors with his testicles in
one hand and his penis in the other. Knowing what could happen to him did
not, however, stop Joey from seeking out Joel whenever Michael's back was
turned.

Joel had no worry that word of his conquests amongst his schoolmates would
get back to Michael for several reasons. The boys he serviced were
naturally very quiet about having sex with him, the more so because of
their ingrained prejudices. Getting your dick sucked, or fucking one of
your classmates carried no bragging rights in the locker room where being
branded a queer, or a faggot, was tantamount to a death sentence. In the
white world in which all of Joel and Michael's classmates lived, Chinese
were considered not quite human, pitiable examples of humanity who
worshipped strange idols, lived in filth, and ate strange, foul-smelling
foods. Decent people simply did not have sexual relations with Chinamen!
Then there was Joey, who seemed to be always lurking about and one look
from him caused even the loudest-mouthed of bullies to pale. Prejudice and
unspoken threat made certain that everybody kept his mouth firmly shut.

As he matured Joel realized that antagonizing his cousin was
unwise. Michael more and more was drawn into the web of power that
surrounded Uncle Henry and while he used that power sparingly Joel had no
doubt that if Michael ever found out that his orders had been disobeyed
. . .

Joel had no desire to end up in some dismal Tsang village in the wilds of
China, surrounded by ugly men and even uglier women, which was the least
that would happen to him. Accordingly, he was very careful which of his
schoolmates he would have sex with; choosing only those boys whose absolute
discretion could be relied upon. Selective, discrete sex worked for a
while. Unfortunately Joel discovered that he craved variety. He needed to
know what was hidden under the trim grey trousers the boys wore as part of
their school uniform. He needed to taste and feel not one boy, but many
boys and by his 17th birthday he knew without question that he could never
be content with just one partner. No matter how many of his schoolmates he
slept with, he still wanted more. Each boy had his own distinct taste and
scent, his own uniqueness, to the extent that Clement Keppel tasted
entirely different from Spencer Bowes, who was not as sweet as Chris Owen,
or as harsh as Terry Cecil, who tasted a hell of a lot better than Joey
Tsang. It was the essential difference of men that drove Joel first to
Wreck Beach, and later to more fertile hunting grounds in the bathhouses.

>From time to time the Vancouver Chamber of Commerce issued glowing press
releases to the effect that Canada's "Brightest and Best" were abandoning
the frigid, staid and restricting East for the warm, fun-loving, laid back
West, not-knowing, or if the Chamber did know, choosing to ignore, the very
real fact that many of the country's "Brightest and Best" were young, male,
and gay.

They came, at first a trickle, and then a veritable torrent, these young
men, anxious to live their lives as they wanted to live them, and not as
society, or the churches, or their families wanted them to live. A tide of
young men came to the Golden Coast, and stayed. They began to establish a
haven for themselves. From Burrard Street to Lost Lagoon, from Robson
Street to Bright's Bay and Sunset Beaches on False Creek, a small village
began to form, eleven or so square blocks where hotels, inns, bars and
clubs welcomed gay clientele with open arms. Gay businesses were opened,
gay apartment buildings upgraded and dotting the gay cantonment were
established the bath houses that seemed to be an essential part of gay
life. They ranged from the opulent to the ordinary, and catered only to
men.

Joel visited them all. That he was underage was no impediment. A complete
set of false identification, in an assumed name, helped him gain entrance
to these treasure houses. In the dimly lit corridors, steam rooms and
swimming pools of the bathhouses Joel found what he was looking for. Each
building was filled with smooth bodied, handsome, naked men, all wanting to
live life to the fullest, to taste, to savour, to enjoy, to live. And all
of them wanted what Joel wanted, wild, uninhibited, passionate, anonymous
sex. Inside the bathhouses no questions were asked, no names given. Any
baggage was left at the door. They were young, they were handsome, they
were desired, and life was to be lived to the fullest. Joel, a slim,
beautiful boy, was in his element. He had his pick of partners, all of them
like him, young, slim, and beautiful. His partners craved what he craved,
anonymous sex with no names asked or given, no commitments expected or
needed.

For Joel, life was wonderful. He had all the sex he wanted and, on his 18th
birthday, he came into his inheritance. Years before when the Chans took
over the family business and eased out the Chiangs, certain arrangements
were made to ensure that there would be no problems with later generations
of Chiangs. Each male "inherited" a sum of money large enough to keep them
quiescent and happy. Joel, who was aware of just what Uncle Henry did, and
Michael would do, had no desire to be a part of the family business and,
given his preferred life style, desired only to get as far away from the
restrictions imposed on him as he could. With part of the money he bought a
penthouse condominium overlooking English Bay. He continued, officially, to
live at home in the family compound with his parents, his brothers, sisters
and assorted hangers-on, playing the role of a dutiful Chinese
son. Unofficially he lived a secret, double life, free of Chiangs and
Chans, Tsangs and, after Michael had succeeded Uncle Henry, the
hard-bodied, hard-eyed young white men who supplanted the Neanderthal
Tsangs.

With no restrictions placed on him, and no one reporting his every move to
Michael Chan, Joel enjoyed the good life. He haunted Wreck Beach and
visited the baths every night after school (the boys of St. George's were
effectively off-limits so long as Michael attended the school). He had the
money to spend, a new car to drive, and never lacked for someone to share
the bed in his condominium. As an undergraduate studying at the University
of British Columbia he discovered that there were more than a few of his
fellow freshmen who enjoyed the view of a sunset over English Bay from a
penthouse window. He also discovered a new source of enjoyment.

Vancouver, with its laid back lifestyle, attracted more than just the
"Brightest and Best". The city also attracted gay teenaged boys who had
come out, or been discovered, by their parents and friends and as a
consequence were disowned and thrown out to fend for themselves. Many
immediately began to trek, by bus, by train, by foot, to Vancouver, the
Holy Grail. They gathered, disconsolate, broke, and dispirited, in Gastown,
a rundown, not yet gentrified part of the old city, gathering on street
corners and around the steam clock, easy prey for the predators who
swooped, vulture-like, down onto the old city square. Joel, while hardly a
predator, joined the hunt. He would find a boy, always no older than 17 or
18, not too abused, and take him to the condominium. The boy would be
bathed, fed, seduced and bedded and for the next three or four months he
would be dressed in the best clothes, gifted with expensive toys, and
treated as a young princeling until he became too demanding, onerous,
familiar, or Joel became bored with him. He would be given all the
jewellery and clothes he had been given during his stay, a wad of bank
notes and eased on his way. Within days there would be a new boy toy in
place.

After graduation Joel, as the result of a brief fling with one of his
professors, was introduced to the world of computers and something called
cyberspace. It was, for Joel, a fascinating, strange new world that had,
until now, been little known. He took to this new world with a
vengeance. Through a friend of a friend of the professor Joel secured an
introduction to an American, a visionary of sorts same William Gates,
Jr. Joel flew down to Seattle, listened, and joined the choir, committing
himself to making Bill Gates' vision a reality. It was the only commitment
he was prepared to make and made what he had to do later this evening the
hardest thing he would ever do in his life.

******

The Gunroom was a long, wide chamber in the Staff Barracks, a red brick
building that the Royal Navy had built as a Wardroom, housing junior
officers assigned to the Heron Spit Station. When the Station was
transferred to the Royal Canadian Navy the building had been stripped of
its Victorian woodwork and porches and internal partitions and designated
as housing for Chiefs and Petty Officers. Between the wars a wing was added
at either end of the building to contain the heads and washplaces. After
World War II, with the increase in Sea Cadet Training, the building was
divided into two parts, the western end housing senior Staff Cadets rated
Petty Officer 1st Class or above, the eastern half housing junior Staff
Cadets, Petty Officers 2nd Class and below. Two years ago, when it was
determined that the "Sea Cadet Training Establishment at Heron Spit" would
become the main training venue in Western Canada, a small cabin, named the
Chiefs Mess, was cobbled into one corner of the large main room. The cabin
accommodated the two Senior Rated Cadets, the Cadet Master at Arms and the
Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor.

In the days of sail, and later in the dreadnoughts and cruisers of the
Royal Navy, the most junior officers, Sub-Lieutenants and Midshipmen, were
housed in that part of the ship called the Gunroom and so it was that in
keeping with the traditions of the Navy the main room was called the
Gunroom. Here lived ten cadets. Down each side of the room were ranged five
bunks, separated by double metal lockers which were supposed to contain the
cadets personal effects and clothing, but never did, the overflow being
accommodated in large, black and white striped wooden sea chests placed at
the end of every bunk. Down the centre of the Gunroom, separating the line
of single bunks was a battered wooden mess table flanked at precise
intervals by low, wooden benches. This year the Gunroom was home to five
Regulating Petty Offices, the Yeoman of Signals, the Senior Seamanship
Instructor, the Drum Major, and the Twins.

At 2000, Paymaster Lieutenant Dickensen, the Officer of the Day,
accompanied by his acolytes unto the ninth generation in the persons of
Tyler, Val, Young Brown (Duty Bugler), Mal Wooten (Duty Petty Officer),
Anson Adean (Duty Quartermaster) and the ship's cat, had trundled through,
tracking dust across the freshly washed deck, much to the Twins'
annoyance. As part of their punishment for their latest High Crimes and
Misdemeanours they were on Defaulters and as such had the thankless task of
cleaning the Gunroom, the Chiefs Mess, and the adjacent heads and
washplaces.

When the Inspection Party disappeared through the door leading to the Petty
Officers Mess the Twins quickly stripped off the night clothing they were
required by regulations to wear until after Night Rounds were
completed. They stood naked for a moment and then both boys reached for a
pair of identical, red-striped boxer underpants.

Todd and Cory Leveson-Arundel were fraternal twins, sharing the same facial
features, sun-bleached blond hair, taut, trim bodies and clear, sparkling
blue eyes. Each spoke in the same low-pitched, tenor voice. They had the
same likes and dislikes (most of the time) and whenever possible preferred
to dress alike, although they had little choice in what they wore while
serving in HMCS AURORA, their mode of dress dictated by Dress Regulations
for Sea Cadets (Revised). Except for swimming, they wore a variation of
their uniform, more often than not blue or white bell-bottom trousers,
highly polished black boots and a stiffly starched gun shirt. After 1800,
if they stayed in their barracks, the cadets were required to exchange the
gunshirt for a white T-shirt piped with deep blue at the neck and sleeves.

At home they shared a room and when in it they preferred to be balls to the
breeze whenever possible. Here at AURORA such freedom was not permitted and
nudity, except in the showers, was forbidden by Queen's Regulations and
Orders (Cadets). At home they shared a double bed. Here in the Staff
Barracks they had to settle for adjoining bunks next to the bulkhead that
separated the Gunroom from the Chiefs Mess, which was, for them a major
inconvenience. They enjoyed an active sex life at home and sharing a
compartment with eight other boys precluded any activity.

Not that the Twins had been idle or were without resources. Last year, as
Gunnery III cadets in training, they had managed to wander a bit and had
found several secluded places that were deserted after the training day
ended, or so isolated that no one ever went there. One such place was the
Ropewalk. Another was a small clearing in the grove of trees that crowded
the southern end of the Spit. There were also several small beaches along
the southern and western shores of the Spit where they could be alone. This
summer they had returned to AURORA and rediscovered their private
places. Twice since arriving they had managed some private time
together. Unfortunately, this would not happen tonight, or for the next 13
nights. The Twins were Under Punishment; 14 Days Number 9, to be precise,
confined to Barracks. They were, in Naval parlance, Defaulters.

Ordinarily, unless they were required to teach a class, or had been
detailed off as Duty in the Dog Watches, the Twins would secure at 1600,
enjoy a leisurely swim, eat dinner and enjoy the amenities available to Sea
Cadets in the canteen. They could play darts (the board and darts donated
by the Comox Sports Emporium), play the battered old upright piano donated
by the Comox Legion, argue their way through a game of pool with Harry on
the table donated by the Courtenay Legion Auxiliary, or cheat their way
through a game of table tennis (table, paddles and balls courtesy of the
Knights of Columbus, Father Joseph Milligan Council) with the Buffer,
Stuart MacDuff and his friend and constant companion, Steve Lee, the Baby
Buffer. On Saturday evenings there was a movie in the Drill Shed, always
something enlightening and "safe" for viewing by Sea Cadets.

As Staff Cadets the Twins enjoyed great latitude in their free time
activities and had discovered that so long as they conducted those
activities within the rules, nobody bothered them. If they slipped away for
a few quiet hours they knew that no one would question them if they were
back in the Gunroom, ready for bed check at 2230, when the Duty Hand would
report "All Present and Correct" to the Duty Petty Officer of the Day. They
could then, if they felt like it, sit on the barracks stoop for a while, or
slip away to one of their private spots, for there was an unwritten
agreement in place: The Duty Chief, or Petty Officer of the Day left the
Senior Hands strictly alone after Lights Out at 2300. That way when there
was a late night bull session, or Harry decided that a few medicinal snorts
of something stronger than Coke were in order, nobody was the wiser.

Such activities were now put on hold for the same Naval Discipline Act that
confined the Twins to barracks required that the Duty Petty Officer, at
least once during his watch, "Log" all Defaulters. He was required to enter
the barracks and ensure that each Defaulter was indeed in his bunk, and
make note of it in the Night Rounds Book. Tonight Two Strokes was Duty
Petty Officer of the First Watch. He was a stickler for discipline, a Book
Man, who would carry out his duties to the letter. That he was also
homophobic, and disapproved of the Twins, did not help at all. To make
matters worse, Two Strokes would be followed by the Twins' nemesis and
archenemy, Band Petty Officer Paul Greene. Little Big Man, if they knew him
at all, would make a beeline for the Gunroom every hour.

Resigned to their fate the Twins decided to make the most of their
incarceration. They were sitting at the mess table enjoying the peace and
quiet. They were - a rare event - alone. Todd was intently designing the
logo that would adorn the Gunnery Branch T-shirt. Each course had a shirt
made up as a souvenir of their time at AURORA. Cory, equally intent, and
with the care and deftness of a surgeon, was carefully using a pair of
tweezers to weave what looked like a mare's nest of multi-coloured gun line
into rosettes that would adorn the parachute cord covering the bottom half
of the telescope he was decorating. On the table in front of him was a
large, open book illustrating different types of decorative knots.

Cory had a flair for this type of decorative ropework and many of the older
RCN hands, who had learned the art as Boy Seamen, considered him a
virtuoso. Decorative ropework was yet another skill cast aside by
Unification. Now only Sea Cadets were taught how to weave pieces of Costain
Gun Line, parachute cord, and hemp into small masterpieces adorning
telescopes, oars, sweeps and stanchions.

Todd looked up from his drawing and saw his brother's intense,
concentrating face. He loved the way the tip of Cory's tongue poked out of
the corner of his mouth when he was really into what he was doing, from
trying to make sense out of advanced calculus to tying miniature
knots. "New book?" he asked.

Cory nodded. "The Gunner gave it to me when he heard that Number One had
asked me to decorate his lookstick." He nodded toward the book. "It's
Ashley's Book of Knots," he explained. "It's the only book I've seen that
tells how to weave a rose." He put aside the tweezers, stretched, rubbed
the back of his aching neck and then reached over and slipped his hand into
the fly of Todd's boxers. He rolled and squeezed his brother's
satin-skinned, low hanging scrotum, and ran his thumb along his smooth,
soft penis.

Todd reciprocated. Cory's testicles were identical in shape to his, and
were contained in an equally smooth, satin sac devoid of hair. Cory's penis
was exactly the same as Todd's in length, colouring and positioning of his
slight circumcision scar. His testicles, however, were slightly smaller
than his brother's. Todd explained the difference in size to his being
older - by seven minutes and some seconds - than his twin. Cory pretended
to believe him.

They continued their fondling for several minutes and then Todd reluctantly
pulled his hands from his brother's underpants. "We better not," he said
glancing at the clock over the door leading to the Petty Officer's Mess. He
leaned over and kissed Cory's well-formed, sweet lips. "No sense in
tempting fate."

Cory groaned heavily. "I suppose its hand wipes in the dark for us for the
next 14 days!" He grimaced and slowly pulled his hand from Todd's boxers.

Todd nodded his agreement. "We will not be able to go down to the
place. Not tonight, anyway."

"I know. Little Big Man will be in here just looking for a chance to catch
us. He would dearly love to log us as absent." Cory untangled himself from
the bench that he had been sitting on and began to clear away his
handiwork."

"As I said, it's better not to tempt fate, especially when it's panting at
the door," replied Todd. He held up the drawing that he had been working
on. "So, what do you think?"

Cory looked at the drawing and regarded the artwork. He raised his eyebrows
at his brother's artistic license, for Todd had drawn, in neat and
meticulous detail, a Model 1904 Ordnance Quick Firing 13pdr Field Gun,
complete with limber. It was a handsome piece of artillery and still in use
by the Royal Navy and the Royal Artillery for ceremonial purposes,
including funerals. The Sea Cadets did not use such a weapon. They used the
sturdy, 12-pound Mountain Gun, a plain, substantial gun that could be
broken down into six mule-loads. Not that the Sea Cadets had mules. They
broke down the gun when performing the Naval Gun Run. Cory was about to
point this simple fact out to his brother when he saw the words, written in
neat manuscript, encircling the gun. His eyebrows rose higher as he read
the words. "Last Course With Balls." He regarded the drawing and shook his
head.

Both boys were not impressed that the Sea Cadets had gone co-ed. The Twins,
being confirmed gays, had little interest in girls in general, and female
Sea Cadets in particular. Unlike the politicians and the feminists they,
even at their young age, understood the unique bonding that occurs between
males in the close environment of a military unit. Females did not
understand this bonding and being females they could never achieve it. The
Twins' opinion was shared by most, if not all, of their comrades.

The melding of the all-female Wrenette Corps with the all-male Sea Cadet
Corps had been planned for this year and in some dim office there was a
site plan of HMCS AURORA blocking out a barracks area for
females. Fortunately labour difficulties in the early spring of the year
had delayed construction of a barracks for female cadets until the next
training cycle in 1977. The Twins, who would attain 18 years of age in
April of 1977, would not be returning to AURORA and would be spared any
female nonsense.

"You will never get away with it," said Cory slowly as he turned and began
to store the telescope, book, and line in his sea chest. He slammed the lid
closed and sat on the chest. "You will never get the Executive Officer to
approve that shirt. He might not like having girl Sea Cadets but he has to
live with them. They will be all over this place come next year and there
is nothing he can do about it." He shook his head firmly. "Number One will
never approve of that drawing," he finished.

"Which is why I do not intend on asking for his approval," replied Todd
airily as he rolled the drawing into a tight cylinder. "What he does not
know will not hurt him." He grinned and waved the rolled drawing at his
brother. "The guys will love it!"

Cory stood up and moved to his bunk. "That is as may be," he said as he sat
on his bunk, his back against the outside bulkhead. He made himself
comfortable, bringing his legs up so that his parts hung low and
luscious. "You still have to have the shirts printed up," he pointed out.

"Oh, I will think of something," replied Todd nonchalantly. "I always do."
He stored the drawing in his locker and sat on his bed, unconsciously
assuming the same position as that of his brother.

Cory groaned and said, "That is what worries me!" He hugged himself and
turned a sad face toward his brother. "Jesus, Todd, aren't we in enough
trouble as it is?"

Once again Todd emulated his brother. He hugged his knees and
grinned. "Cory, we are always in trouble. Our middle name is trouble. So
then, what difference will it make?"

Cory considered this for a moment. "Well," he drawled slowly, "I suppose if
you have the things made up, and then waited until we were just getting
onto the buses to go home before you handed the shirts out, it might work."
He gave Todd a stern look. "You still have to have the logo printed on the
shirts," he repeated stubbornly.

Before Todd could tell Cory exactly what he had planned the bugle call,
First Post, blared from the overhead speaker. "Fuck! There goes peace and
quiet," he grumbled obscenely.

The Twins braced themselves for the jeers and sarcasm they knew would
accompany the return of their messmates. Any minute now the door leading
from the barracks yard would slam open and the first of their mates to
return would start. Neither of the Twins was looking forward to what was
hardly a unique experience. Their messmates never let an opportunity to
hoot and holler at their latest escapade and punishment go by. Their
so-called friends would have a field day after what happened this morning.

It was not that the Twins were not expecting the comments. Chucking shit,
as it was called, was a part of mess life and anyone being in the rattle
knew without having to be told that a shit locker full of abuse would
descend on the cadet unlucky enough to be found wanting. The Twins could
hardly complain for they had been, as the saying went, on the other side of
the table and chucked shit with the best of them. They would have preferred
that whatever their messmates were going to say had been said earlier but
there simply had been no opportunity.

The Twins had returned from Defaulters just before the bugle called the
cadets to Muster for Evening Classes. All the senior cadets were teaching a
class, or on duty. The day was scheduled so that there was little, if any,
time between events for a cadet to loiter. From 1600 until 1800, when
evening classes began and the Second Dog Watch mustered, the denizens of
the Gunroom had to eat, change into the uniform of the day if they were not
already wearing it, grab what materials they needed to instruct their
class, quickly tidy their allotted space - the Twins, as Defaulters, would
scrub the deck, heads and washplace - and hurry off. The other boys had
barely enough time to acknowledge the presence of the Twins before they
reported for duty. The Twins could only await their fate.

As the last of the bugle notes died away Cory turned to his brother and
smiled weakly. "It could be worse, I suppose," he said, knowing exactly
what Todd was thinking.

"How could it be worse?" muttered Todd.

"At least we do not have to put up with Little Big Man," replied Cory
consolingly. He laughed bitterly. "What fun he would have!"

"There is that, I suppose," agreed Todd. He gave the bulkhead that
separated the Gunroom from the Petty Officers Mess a dirty look. Behind the
bulkhead Little Big Man lived. Wisely, he never entered the Gunroom except
when on duty.

The Twins had little time to dwell on what Little Big Man might, or might
not, have said. The door from the barracks yard slammed open and Harry
entered. Alfie, the handsome, black Regulating Petty Officer, followed
him. Behind Alfie came Thumper and Two Strokes. All four immediately began
stripping off their uniforms, preparing for their evening showers. All four
lost no time in heaping derision on the golden haired Twins.

"You fucked up, big time!" crowed Two Strokes as he stepped out of his
starched, white bell-bottoms. "Too bad The Gunner stood up for you!"

"Too bad?" asked Thumper dropping his trousers to the deck. He gave the
Twins a disgusted look and pushed down his tight, white briefs, not caring
if the Twins ogled his handsome set of parts. "Without him those two clowns
would have been sent down. Those idiots could have killed Matron!"

"Not to mention fucking up Dirty Dave the Deacon's sex life," opined
Alfie. He stepped out of the huge boxers he claimed he needed to wear to
contain what he considered to be his huge endowment. "And for not pranging
Little Big Man when you had the chance, you deserve what you got!" He
sniffed derisively, a true Crusher. "Fourteen Days stoppage of leave and
confined to barracks!"

Harry, a towel draped around his slim, classic waist, shook his fist at the
Twins. "If there is ever a war I hope you two are on the other side!"

The Twins were hardly in a position to respond. They had fucked up, and no
danger.

The door opened again and the rest of their messmates entered. Nicholas
Rodney, the Yeoman of Signals and Jon Jackson, another Crusher, stripped
down and added their opinions and comments. Only two of the cadets, Fred
Fisher, a tall, thin, dark blond Regulating Petty Officer, and Chris Hood,
the Senior Seamanship Instructor, said nothing. Fred was naturally quiet,
and never said anything to anybody. Chris worshiped the Twins and would
have walked on white-hot coals before saying anything against them.

When it became obvious that the Twins were not going to rise to the bait
and respond to their insults, the cadets went to shower. As Harry pointed
out, there was plenty of time left for some serious shit chucking.

When the last of their messmates disappeared down the short corridor that
led to the washplace Cory moved down the bed and propped himself on one
elbow. He looked at Todd. "Perhaps if we ignore them, they will go away."

"Fat chance of that," responded Todd. "Those bastards are enjoying
themselves!"  Harry was the first to return from showering. He went to his
bunk, which was in the starboard corner of the Gunroom, and put on a pair
of tight, white briefs. He then slipped what looked like a folded piece of
a white T-shirt down the front of his underpants. As a finale he adjusted
his penis until it was pointing up toward his navel. He saw the Twins
looking at him and growled. "You two skates keep the noise down tonight!"
he ordered. "You caused enough trouble today and I need my beauty sleep. I
do not want to listen to you jokers yapping half the night!" He got into
bed, pulled the covers over his head and turned his back to the room.

Todd gave Cory a questioning look. Cory snickered. They were both familiar
with the habits of their messmates. Todd thought that Harry was up to
something, probably involving beating off. Cory knew that Harry was up to
something, and it did involve beating off.

The cadets returned from showering and began pulling on the boxers and
briefs that they slept in, pointedly ignoring the Twins who, being put out
by their treatment at the hands of the messmates, pointedly ignored
them. The Twins were so put out that they deliberately refused to
participate in their usual nightly ritual, normally a pleasant, if
predictable end to the day for them.

Casual nudity was a way of life in any mess deck or barracks, so much so
that no one, after the initial shock, gave it much thought, cheerfully
stripping off and parading about, the size, shape and colour of their
genitals being subjects of admiration or derision from their fellows. Being
teenage boys they had long since lost whatever inhibitions they might have
- even Two Strokes, who was a blue-nosed Calvinist from Redneck Country -
and being vain, they enjoyed being admired for the aesthetic, masculine
beauty they all knew they possessed. The Twins, the acknowledged experts on
the subject, did not disappoint and every evening cast admiring glances at
the swinging dicks paraded for their approval and pleasure, from Alfie's
short, thick penis with its huge, blue/black mushroom to Fred's long, thin,
delicately circumcised member. Harry, as always led the pack, deeming it
his due, seeing as he had the biggest, and best, penis of the lot, as he
told his messmates constantly.

This evening, however, the Twins refused to participate. As the cadets
paraded past they turned their heads away. They even ignored Chris, a slim,
short and very good looking boy from Kingston, Ontario, who was half in
love with them and walked past their bunks, twice. After his second pass a
look of disappointment crossed his face. He pulled on his underpants and
crawled under the covers.

Once the other cadets were settled in their beds Todd gestured toward the
door. Cory nodded and the Twins picked up their pillows and left the
Gunroom. Once outside they placed the pillows on the concrete slab that
formed a small stoop and sat down, squirming until they were comfortable
and ensured that no part of their scantily clad behinds touched the hard
surface of the stoop. Their grandmother had insisted that sitting on cold
concrete was a sure way to develop haemorrhoids and, while they only
half-believed the old wives' tale, after the day they had had they were not
taking any chances.

The night was cool and not at all unpleasant. They enjoyed the feel of the
light breeze that blew across the Spit, caressing their near-naked bodies,
the quiet broken only by the soft shuffle and skittering as the night
creatures went about their business.

The Twins always tried to end their day in this manner. They enjoyed
sitting outside in the evening, discussing the day's events, just enjoying
being with each other. The other cadets seemed to recognize that the Twins
needed this time together and never interrupted them. The Twins,
appreciating the courtesy, never did anything untoward, and always made
sure to stay outside a good ten minutes after Lights Out had been
sounded. They knew that Thumper, immediately the lights were darkened,
would hurry into the heads and pound his pud, which was his nightly
ritual. The Twins considered that they were young gentlemen and thought it
bad form to interrupt a messmate at such an intimate and private moment.

Once they were comfortably settled Cory moved close to Todd, and laid his
head on his brother's shoulder. He loved the way Todd smelled at the end of
the day, after his evening shower, his scent evoking a feeling of warmth
and love.

Todd rubbed his cheek against Cory's soft hair. "Are you going to tell me
what Harry is up to?" he asked as he put his arm around Cory's shoulder.

Cory giggled and slipped his arm around his brother's slim waist. "He's
going to try a Thumper Special," he replied.

"A what?"

"Thumper told Harry that if he puts a piece of an old T-shirt, a really
soft one, down the front of his Jockeys and just rubs the head of his dick
on it, you know, a dry hump."

Todd pulled away and gave Cory a doubtful look. "The head?"

"The underside of the tip, you know the spot just where the shaft joins the
head?"

Todd knew exactly what spot Cory was talking about. "It is awfully
sensitive there," he agreed.

"According to Thumper if you rub that spot slow and easy you end up with a
mind-blowing orgasm and cum like a racehorse!"

"If anybody would know about things like that it would be Thumper," sniffed
Todd acidly. "And how do you know?" he finished suspiciously.

"I was in the heads, sitting on the throne when Thumper told Harry,"
replied Cory coolly, not at all impressed with his brother's suspicious
nature.  "Nobody looks to see if the cans are empty, so I hear a lot of
things."

"Such as?" asked Todd, still suspicious as to how Cory happened to know
about Thumper and his so-called Special.

"Such as I happened to be over at the School of Wind when I overheard
Sylvain and Andre talking," replied Cory.

Sylvain de Beauharnais was Drum Major of the Bugle Band. Andre de Noailles
was "Sticks", or Lead Drummer. They were French-Canadians and while Todd
had a yen for Sylvain, he did not particularly care for Andre. Cory, on the
other hand, lusted after Andre and only tolerated Sylvain. They were both
handsome young men but Todd knew that neither would ever grace Cory's bed
once he found out what they had hidden under their Fruit of the Looms,
which secrets Todd did know, having participated in the QUEST Programme
with both musicians in April. He decided now was not the time to enlighten
his brother, or tell him how he came to acquire the knowledge, particularly
in Sylvain's case. "You just happened to be in the School of Wind and
decided to take a dump?" he asked, not entirely convinced that Cory's
motives were innocent.

"Nature called," returned Cory with a shrug. "Can I help it if they decided
to visit the heads at the same time?"

"I supposed not," conceded Todd grudgingly, although he did wonder what in
the hell Cory was doing in the School of Music in the first place!

"Anyway," said Cory with heavy emphasis, "I was in the heads and they came
in, nattering in that horrible patois they will speak and I had a hard time
trying to figure out what they were on about"

"You managed, I take it," said Todd dryly. Both he and Cory had been
schooled in classic, Parisian French. Sylvain and Andre spoke Jouel, a
corrupted version of the French language.

"I got the gist of it," said Cory. "Sylvain was bragging about a wet dream
he had last week and he was telling Andre how his shorts were stiff with
crusted spunk. Andre said that was nothing as he had a wet dream the same
night and he was covered in his spooge. He also said that the dream was
wonderful, so good that he had pushed the front of his undies down and when
he woke up there he was, balls up and his dick still hard, spunky as hell!"

That either of the French boys would have a wet dream was hardly surprising
to Todd. With the possible exception of the New Entry Cadets, called Sea
Puppies, every cadet aboard was well into puberty and except for their own
hands had no way to vent their frustrations. Having a wet dream was a
perfectly natural occurrence.

The Twins had no worry about wet dreams, or the resultant mess on the
sheets or in their underpants. They had been sexually active with each
other almost from the moment they discovered the pleasure they derived from
manipulating their penises. Todd said as much to Cory who said with a quiet
sigh, "I wish we could go over to the place."

Todd rubbed his cheek against Cory's head, feeling the bristles of his
brother's high and tight haircut scratch his smooth skin. "So do I," he
said softly. "But we can't."

Cory held back a sob. "I'm sorry, Todd. I should have checked that damned
gun!"

"I was Acting Battery Commander. It was my responsibility so that makes me
just as guilty." Todd shrugged expressively. "It really doesn't matter,
though. Maybe it's as The Gunner said, shit happens and we all make
mistakes."

Cory raised his head and looked at his brother. "Do you really think that
he shelled the Dartmouth Ferry?" he asked.

******

The day that had ended so disastrously for the Twins had begun pleasantly
enough. For once everybody in the Gunroom had set to with a will at
Cleaning Stations and the place was immaculate for Rounds. The Executive
Officer had complimented the cadets and told them that they were fine
examples of what Sea Cadets could, and should be, and no one was given a
shitty chitty.

After Rounds the Twins repaired to the parade square where, under the
direction of the Guard Officer, they began the intricate evolutions of
drill and music that made up the Ceremony of the Flags. This ceremony the
cadets would perform on the lawn of the Legislature in Victoria, on the
first Monday in August, which was British Columbia Day, in the morning. In
the evening, as the sun sank into the western Pacific the cadets were to
perform the Sunset Ceremony, which would also be practised today.

The ceremonies, the music of which was accompanied by gun salutes, had once
been a staple of the Royal Canadian Navy. There was nothing quite so
stirring as 100-odd sailors, dressed in crisp, starched, proper white
uniforms, marching and counter-marching with a precision and grace that
only sailors seemed to possess as the guns fired in perfect synchronization
with the music. The ceremonies raised the profile of the Navy to great
heights and were guaranteed showstoppers whenever they were
performed. Naturally, with the unification of the Armed Services the
ceremonies, together with any and all of the old customs and traditions
that might draw attention to the old days, the old ways, the ceremonies
were discontinued, performed only by Sea Cadets.

The Lieutenant Governor of British Columbia, who in addition to being the
Queen's Representative, was a Honourary Captain in the RCN. He was a
decorated veteran of the War and Korea, and he was not a supporter of
Unification, to the extent that he refused a Naval Guard for his
investiture. He was Old Navy, Blue Navy and he would not have a bunch of
non-descript whatevers dressed in green suits cluttering up his lawn.

While he was nominally a pillar of the Liberal Party (he had to be in order
to get his present job) there were certain aspects of the Prime Minister's
reign that His Excellency (as he was called) did not approve of, one of
which was Unification. As a politician he was compelled to follow the party
line, no matter how much it galled him. As Lieutenant Governor he was
supposed to be "above politics", constitutionally required to follow the
advice of the Premier of British Columbia and the Prime Minister of Canada,
and was not supposed to express an opinion on any subject, no matter how
trivial. There were, however, subtle ways for an old sailor to make
everybody know exactly where he stood on certain subjects. To express his
disdain for Unification and, coincidently his dislike for the Commander,
Maritime Pacific (MARPAC), he requested that a Guard of Honour, composed of
100 Sea Cadets, with Band, all of them dressed in proper, old pattern
sailor uniforms (a pattern which he himself had worn back in the dark days
of 1939), be present for his Inspection at his Investiture and whenever he
opened Parliament. He was also politician enough to note that there was not
much reaction when the so-called Regulars, dressed in green and looking
like a troop of itinerant bus drivers, marched in a parade. He did notice
that when the Sea Cadets marched by with drums beating and flags flying,
dressed in starched white uniforms and deep blue collars, wearing their
distinctive round caps, the crowds clapped and shouted. MARPAC did not like
it, and tended to sulk when it happened, but there was not much he could do
about it. The Great Canadian Public outranked him, as did the Lieutenant
Governor, who invited the Sea Cadets to come down to Victoria and help that
most British of Canadian cities celebrate British Columbia Day, by marching
in the parade and performing on the grounds of the Legislature.

Thus it was that the Twins, with two 12-pound field guns, complete with
limbers and 32-cadet crews for each gun, a 50 man Guard, two Bands (one
Brass/Reed, the other Bugle), flag bearers, signalmen, and the Ship's cat,
were in position on the parade square where, under the direction of the
Guard Officer, they were smartly executing the manoeuvres required to
perform the Ceremony of the Flags.  The Guard Officer was a handsome, dark
haired young man of 19 years, a product of the Kingston Sea Cadet Corps,
RCSCC SAINT LAWRENCE. He had come up through the ranks, joining the Corps
as an Ordinary Cadet at the age of 12 and progressing through the ranks,
retiring as Chief of the Corps, when he was appointed a Midshipman. In
April of 1976 he had received his commission as a Sub-Lieutenant, RCNR, and
was justifiably proud of his accomplishments and his appointment to command
the Guard. His appointment confirmed his decision not to participate in the
Fort Henry Guard, a crack drill unit made up of students attending Queen's
University in Kingston. As an undergraduate, and a former Sea Cadet, the
Guard Officer would have been a natural for this Guard. He had chosen to
stay with his first love and applied for a commission with the Sea
Cadets. He could not believe his luck when his application for Gunnery
Officer of HMCS AURORA for the 1976 Training Year had been approved. In a
few short weeks he would be front and centre at the most important ceremony
of the cadet training year, leading a group of superbly trained cadets,
every one of them just as proud as he was. His only disappointment was that
his parents had not been able to arrange their summer holiday to coincide
with his moments of glory.

Because he was young, and inexperienced, the Guard Officer forgot that he
was only a small part of a very large production, and that Murphy's Law was
always in effect. Quite innocently the Twins became Murphy's Law
personified.

The Twins had four years of intense training under their belts. They had
fired the guns for the Ceremony of the Flags so many times that they were
complacently certain that they could do it in their sleep. They had
unknowingly cultivated a "been there, done that" attitude and this morning
they had spent most of their time checking out the Guard Officer. They had
both known him back when, having attended the National Sea Cadet Camp in
Esquimalt with him. Cory opined that the Guard Officer had somehow gotten
handsomer. He certainly looked dashing in his brass-buttoned uniform and
his tan set of his black hair and complimented his bright, brown eyes a
treat. He wondered if Sub Lieutenant Kyle St. Vincent, for that was the
Guard Officer's name, would be interested in some extracurricular
activities, say during the Middle Watch in the Ropewalk?

Todd, who had been lounging against a gun limber when Cory made his
suggestion, scratched his head and made a face. He liked Kyle. He had seen
all of Kyle when they were Petty Officers in RCSCC ONTARIO, Kingston Sea
Cadet camp. He cast an appraising gaze over the young Guard Officer. "I
admit that he is cute," he said slowly. "I also admit that he has got a
very nice package under those trousers he is wearing. However . . ." He
held up his hand before Cory could comment. "He has hair on his feet, for
Christ's sake." Then he looked his brother squarely in the eye. "He is also
an officer."

Somewhat crushed, Cory nodded his agreement. Other Rates did not fraternize
with officers, period. He turned to giving Dylan Brereton, the No. 2 Gun
Captain, the once over. Dylan was short, slim, had blond hair and dazzling
blue eyes, and just the thing to look at while lazing away a morning while
waiting for the Guard to get its shit together. Cory sighed happily.

The first practice had gone well enough. The Gunner, who was nominally in
charge of the guns, and the gunners, and who would normally be present, was
busy elsewhere. Before the cadets had assembled he had called the Twins
aside and told them that he trusted their judgement and level of
training. He saw no reason to baby sit them and told them that so long as
they remembered their training and listened to the Gunnery Officer, they
should have no problems. The Twins had passed this message on to the other
gunners who knew that if they fucked up word would get back to The Gunner
with the speed of light. They were all determined not to let The Gunner
down. They marched and wheeled with precision and gusto. What errors they
committed were few, minor, and quickly put to rights. The second run
through was even better than the first, so much so that Kyle decided to
have the guns fire during the playing of the Sunset Hymn. He needed to
practice his timing. As Guard Officer it was his job to have the Guard
present arms at the exact moment the guns fired to begin the final part of
the Sunset Ceremony. Done properly it was all very stirring.

Kyle told Brian Venables, the Guard Petty Officer, to tell Todd, the Acting
Battery Commander, to load the guns with blank rounds. The order was a
surprise to the Twins, first because there was no officer present to
supervise the loading and firing of the guns, and secondly because they had
never before been allowed to actually fire the guns during a practice
run. They had always relied on the Drum Line to simulate the sounds of the
guns firing.

The Twins and Dylan held a short conference. Neither Todd nor Cory was
worried about the drill. They were both Gunners First Class, Quarter Rates,
and had been laying, loading and firing the ancient field pieces for four
years. The Gun Crews were all as well trained and qualified. Dylan, while
relatively junior, was only an examination away from his Quarter Rate. He
was almost as sharp as the Twins.

Cory, enthusiastically supported by Dylan, pointed out that there was no
reason that he could think of for them not to carry out Kyle's order. They
had practice fired the guns on at least a hundred occasions, had they not?
They had participated in more actual firings than they could remember, had
they not? They knew the orders; they knew the drill backwards and forward,
inside and out, did they not? Everybody had been expertly trained by The
Gunner (here he waved his arm at the Gun Crews for effect), had they not?
Every man jack in both Gun Crews had been hand picked by The Gunner, had
they not? The same Gunner who had told them that he trusted their judgement
and training, had he not? Cory could not see a problem at all.

Dylan agreed with Cory, as did the other cadets who were drawn into the
conversation, and they all nodded their complete agreement when Dylan
opined that all of the gunners had more time in than the Ship's cat, that
all of them had been in longer than a Dog Watch and none of them needed
some poxy officer to stand around with his thumb up his bum until it was
time to yell "Shoot", which he usually fucked up anyway! He also pointed
out that the Guard Officer had issued an order. He had ordered them to load
and fire the guns. Personally he could not see that they had much choice.

Todd was naturally cautious by nature and he admitted to be a tad
worried. Queen's Regulations specifically stated that cadets, no matter how
well trained or what their rates, had to be supervised by an officer. Every
evolution, with the possible exception of going to the heads (and sometimes
not even then) had to be supervised by an officer!

Leading Gunner Anson Adean, who was No. 1 Loader on Cory's gun, and whose
brother was also at AURORA as Assistant Physical Training Instructor,
pointed out that there was an officer on parade, even if he was a Subbie.

Todd, who actually liked Kyle, even if he did have hairy insteps, and knew
him to be a sharp young officer, doubted that he could be in two places at
once. He could not supervise the Battery and play with the Guard at the
same time. Cory agreed, up to a point. Regulations did stipulate an officer
be present to supervise. Kyle was out there on the parade square, as big as
life, supervising. Dylan, who was eager to prove that he was just as good
as either Todd or Cory, bobbed his head in agreement.

Todd, with a chorus of "Yeahs", "Cory is right", and "We're gunners, not
little kids, and we can do it!" assaulting his ears, allowed himself to be
talked into it. He, along with the other cadets, was a well-trained, very
experienced gunner. Not only that, but he and the Gun Crews had been
trained by The Gunner, who had learned his trade at Whale Island, and you
could not get any better than that! The same Gunner had only this morning
told them that he had the greatest faith and trust in them. Todd was also
tired of being treated as if he was a little boy. He did not need some
officer looking over his shoulder when he went for a pee, and he sure as
hell did not need an officer to tell him how to load and fire a gun! He was
the Acting Battery Commander and by Heaven he would command!

Todd ordered the Gun Crews to stand to their guns. Cory and Dylan, as Gun
Captains, took up their positions behind the guns and ordered their crews
to draw blank rounds from the ready-use lockers of the limbers. There was
no need for them to warn their crews to look sharp and step lively. With a
precision that surprised even themselves the loaders smartly slammed home
the blank shells. The layers just as smartly elevated the gun barrels. The
firing numbers grasp the lanyards and dropped to their knees with a
sharpness that would have shamed a Royal Horse Artilleryman. The Acting
Battery Commander, and the Gun Captains of Number 1 and Number 2 Field Guns
snapped to attention, their right arms raised. They were ready! The
adrenaline was flowing! They were gunners trained by the best damned gunner
in Canada. They were sharp and they were good! The Gunner knew it! They
knew it and in a few minutes the world of AURORA would know it!

Unfortunately so great was the collective excitement that the Gun Captains
forgot to remove the tompions - tapered felt and metal stoppers that
protected the guns' rifling from the elements - from the barrels.

At first the world unfolded, as it should have. The parade formed up and
then, as the Band played The Middie, marched onto the parade square,
marching and counter-marching into their positions in the middle of the
huge, dusty square. The enthusiasm of the Gun Crews seemed to have
travelled to the Guard and Band; their drill was sharper, crisper, and
cleaner, better than ever before. Starboard, and aft of the Band, was
Cory's gun and crew. Port, and aft of the Band was Dylan's gunners. As
always happened when the Guard and Band were out and about, the spectacle
drew a motley collection of onlookers. The Phantom, who on his way to work,
stopped to watch, as did Dirty Dave the Deacon and Matron, who were
courting and taking a pre-luncheon stroll along the far edge of the parade
square.

Once in position the Guard began their drill, unfixing bayonets to Kyle's
shouted command and firing a Feu de Joie. The sound of the rifles firing in
sequence attracted even more spectators. Chef and the two cooks, Ray and
Sandro, stood outside the Mess Hall. Number One left his desk and stood in
the Breezeway Flats, by the canteen. A gaggle of Sea Puppies, released from
class early by Little Big Man so that they could watch the drill, gathered
on the side of the parade square.

Their part of the Ceremony finished for the moment; the Guard fixed
bayonets, shouldered their arms, and stood at attention while the Band
began their part. The drummers beat out a Drummers' Salute. After a
three-beat pause Harry raised his Mace and with a flourish the Band stepped
off, thumping out On The Quarterdeck. The drummers and musicians marched
ten paces forward and then, at Harry's signal, performed a rosebud
counter-march. Another counter-march and the Band halted, the drummers
continuing with drums crashing. The drummers counter-marched through the
Band and then back again, halting in front of the musicians. A short pause
and Greensleeves' slow, haunting melody sounded as the Band slow-marched
until they were ten paces behind the Guard. The Band halted and the
Director of Music, a short, bespectacled Lieutenant, marched from beside
the Band to the front of it, raised his arm and then slowly lowered
it. Without fanfare the Band began to play the traditional hymn, The Day
Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Over.

As the hymn's slow, mournful notes were played and the end approached, Kyle
tensed and began counting. Todd, Cory and Dylan tensed, watching Kyle, and
counting. The buglers in the Bugle Band, at a signal from their Drum Major,
Sylvain, raised their brass and silver bugles to their lips, and counted.

The final bars and actions of the Sunset Ceremony were designed to impress,
awe, and stun the onlookers. It was a magnificent spectacle when done
properly. The Guard would execute the Present Arms, the Sunset Gun would
fire, and the bugles would sound the first notes of the Last Post while the
Band played the Sunset Hymn, composed as part of the Jubilee Celebrations
for King George V in 1935 by the Royal Marines in Gibraltar. As the Band
played the guns would fire in counter point to the music. Done properly the
ceremony was guaranteed to cause even the most hardened Gunnery Chief to
cream his Dr. Denton's.

Up to this point everything happened as planned. The Guard presented arms;
the Guard Officer's sword came up in salute, then down, in perfect
synchronization with the Guard's last movement and the last note of the
hymn. The buglers wet their lips, prepared to blow the bugle call, and
Todd, as Acting Battery Commander bellowed, "Shoot!" Cory's armed dropped
and the firing number of his gun jerked the lanyard. No. 1 Gun
roared. Dylan, either not understanding, or forgetting that only one gun
was supposed to fire, dropped his arm and the firing number of No. 2 Gun
jerked his lanyard. No. 2 gun roared.

The Phantom, who had been watching the spectacle with interest, jumped at
the report of the guns, then watched slack-jawed as two projectiles, three
pounds of tightly packed felt and brass tompions, arced high in the air,
crossed over the heads of the Bandsmen, and landed at opposite sides of the
parade square, the first landing not a foot from Little Big Man who, much
to the undisguised glee of the Sea Puppies, squealed in fright and jumped a
good three feet back. The second projectile whizzed past the noses of Dirty
Dave The Deacon and Matron and buried itself in the soft earth not ten feet
from them.  All hell promptly broke loose.

******

Little Big Man, convinced that the Twins had deliberately fired at him,
charged full bore towards the gun crews, howling curses. Matron, a large,
formidable woman who had survived the fall of Hong Kong, and not about to
put up with any cadet nonsense, charged full bore down the parade square
towards the Guard Officer who was, so far as she was concerned, the man in
charge and therefore responsible for the unwarranted assault on her
person. She threatened to give all concerned a Bombay Cocktail, a noxious
brew and her sovereign remedy for constipation, guaranteed to clean out a
Sea Cadet or a sea elephant, which were in her loudly voiced opinion were
equally loathsome creatures!

Kyle, not knowing what had happened, was totally at sea. He could not
understand why he was being roundly chewed out by the normally well-spoken
and quiet nurse, or why Little Big Man was in the middle of the parade
square, arms and legs flailing while Harry and Sylvain, who had witnessed
his charge and tackled him, held him down.

By the time the Executive Officer arrived the parade square was in
tumult. Dirty Dave the Deacon, who was given to fluttering in times of
crises, was fluttering; Matron was yelling at Kyle; Little Big Man, firmly
in the grip of the two Drum Majors, was shouting maledictions at the Twins
and all their antecedents and progeny; the Buglers and musicians were
beyond relief from laughing and the Sea Puppies had scattered at a rate of
knots. The Twins, for the first time in their young lives, were scared
rigid.

Number One told everybody to shut up! The two Bands, the Guard, the two Gun
Crews, were dismissed. Matron was figuratively soothed and stroked, told
that it had all been an unfortunate accident and assured that justice would
be done. Little Big Man was picked up, dusted off, figuratively kissed on
both cheeks and patted on his bum, firmly told that no one was deliberately
trying to kill him, and assured that justice would be done. Sub-Lieutenant
St. Vincent was sent to the Commanding Officer's cabin, there to await that
august personage's pleasure. The spectators were sent packing. When the
parade square was cleared Number One went stomping off to the Wardroom for
a stiff scotch, damning an unkind fate that had gifted him with the Twins!

At 1600 the Twins repentant and feeling very sorry for themselves, appeared
at Executive Officer's defaulters. Tyler, the Cadet Master at Arms, his
natural liking for the Twins overcome by his sense of duty, coldly read out
the charges and specifications, the Twins being charged with Discharging a
Weapon Without Exercising Due Care and Caution, Dereliction of Duty in that
they Discharged a Weapon Without Exercising Due Care and Caution and, for
good measure and just to make sure that they could not weasel out of
anything, the Admiral's Cloak: Conduct Prejudicial To Good Order And
Discipline, which covered just about everything that the Master at Arms
could think of.

Number One had the Twins cold, and knew it. The Twins knew that Number One
had them cold. They had considered pleading not guilty but after talking it
over they decided, what the fuck. They would plead guilty to all charges
and specifications and, accompanied by much whining and snivelling, beg the
mercy of the court, of which there was precious little.

The Executive Officer was in no mood to grant mercy. His own ass had been
royally chewed by the Commanding Officer, an ex-Gunnery type himself, for
standing by and allowing an inexperienced young officer to order rifles and
cannons to be fired all over the place! He had then been required to
humiliate himself by offering the most obsequious of apologies to Matron,
whom he did not particularly care for. Then he had to listen to Dirty Dave
the Deacon going on and on about boys being boys, creatures that must be
watched at all times lest they do themselves, or innocent bystanders, an
injury. On top of everything else Number One had been required to
discipline the Guard Officer who, besides being a young man of great
potential, was his own particular pet. Kyle much chastened and with his ass
feeling as if it had been chewed to hamburger, was ordered to stand Watch
On Watch, four hours on, four hours off, for the next two days. He was also
ordered to apologise, in writing, to Matron and the Chaplain (P) for the
incident. Having been hard on the Guard Officer, Number One could hardly do
less to the Twins.

The Gunner, as senior Gunnery type, and de-facto Gunnery Divisional
Officer, was required to stand up for the Twins and defend their
actions. He was well aware of what had happened for he had been told, first
by Chef who was laughing fit to kill as he related his eyewitness account,
by The Phantom (his story suitably embellished), Surgeon Lieutenant
Commander Reynolds (who had been forced to listen to Matron's ranting for
two hours and ten minutes - he timed her), six gunners, two Sea Puppies,
and the ship's cat. The Twins were neck deep in shit and from the way
Number One carried on, sinking fast. The fact that the Twins were guilty as
hell was immaterial. They were part of the Gunnery Division and it was The
Gunner's duty to do everything he could think of to save their scrawny
necks. He gave no indication of what we was going to say or do when he saw
the Twins before they were all marched onto the Quarterdeck. "Plead guilty,
keep your yaps shut and let me do all the talking," was all he told the
boys.

Tyler read out the charges and specifications. Alfie, with great solemnity
duly recorded the Twins' guilty plea. The Executive Officer told The Gunner
to get on with it. He did not know the man all that well. What he did know
was that The Gunner was "Pusser", a stickler for discipline and proper
conduct. Number One expected The Gunner to spout the usual drivel about how
the Twins were good sailors, normally excellent gunners, and that what had
happened had been an unfortunate lapse of judgement, and beg the mercy of
the court.

The Gunner more or less performed as the Number One expected. He was well
aware that the Executive Officer was Kyle St. Vincent's rabbi and would not
take kindly to anything too outrageous being said against his
protégé. What neither the Executive Officer, nor the Twins, knew was
that the two boys had a rabbi, who would do everything he could to help
them.

The Gunner considered his options. Insanity was a possible defence but he
rejected that ploy, primarily because he feared that Number One would agree
to it. His main concern was getting the Twins' asses out of the slings they
had very capably put said asses in. He had, in any case, a plan.

The Gunner calmly admitted that while yes, the Twins (formally known as The
Accused) were guilty because they had indeed neglected to remove the
tompions from the barrels of the guns. All guilt was admitted, with the
understanding that there had been mitigating circumstances.

Number One, who now expected "An Order is an Order" defence with most of
the responsibility - and guilt - heaped on Kyle's head, glared at The
Gunner. "They loaded the bloody guns, then they fired the bloody guns," he
snapped impatiently. "I fail to see any mitigating anything about it!"

The Gunner begged the court's indulgence. He pointed out, with the greatest
respect that while yes, the Twins had loaded the guns with blank rounds,
and fired the rounds, they had been ordered to do so by the Gunnery
Officer. This had been a most unexpected and, in light of past training
exercised, a most unorthodox order and they were understandably unprepared
for it. The Gunner further pointed out that the unexpected order had been
delivered at the last minute, and through a junior cadet. In their haste to
obey the order the Twins had overlooked removing the tompions from the
barrels of the field guns. Such an error in judgement was a mistake easily
made, and made more often than anyone would admit. Here The Gunner ducked
his head and tried to look sheepish. He had, he reluctantly admitted, been
guilty of making just such an error when he was only a lad, barely a year
older than the Twins now were, and shelled the Dartmouth ferry.

"Shelled the what?" asked the amazed and incredulous Executive Officer. He
imagined that he could hear the veil in the temple at Whale Island being
rent asunder.

"The Dartmouth ferry. The whole battery," replied The Gunner
cryptically. "All six guns, I'm afraid."

Number One rolled his eyes, said a private prayer to God - whose Existence
he was beginning to doubt - and nodded as his shoulders sagged. "Go on,
tell me," he growled. "I know that I am going to regret it, but go ahead."

Well, explained The Gunner, as a lowly Ordinary Gunner he had been part of
the battery of six field guns detailed by the Chief Gunnery Instructor to
fire the Minute Guns during the Remembrance Day Services in Halifax. The
guns had been set up in Point Pleasant Park, it was November and as was
expected it had been a bitterly cold morning, made harsher by a biting wind
blowing in from the Atlantic. The young gunners - there was not one of them
older than 19 - had never actually fired the guns. They had practiced, of
course, and knew the drill. At that particular moment, however, they were
more concerned about not freezing to death than they were about the details
of the drill. Matters had not been improved when the Battery Chief, a
kindly old soak, had passed around a bottle of a little something to keep
the cold out of their bones.

Upon arrival at the Point where the Cross of Remembrance stood, the crews
had unlimbered the guns, elevated the barrels and then, as ordered by the
Battery Chief, shoved a blank round up the spout. By pre-loading the guns
they could keep the pace and not have to worry overmuch about
misfires. Everybody then stood around, stamping their feet, hugging
themselves, sipping from the Chief's little bottle, waiting for
1100. Everybody quite forgot the tompions.

Shortly before 1100 the Gun Crews formed up, prepared to fire the first
Minute Gun. At 1100 a bugler sounded Last Post, the church bells of the old
city began to toll, and the guns began to fire.

"And shelled the Dartmouth ferry?" interjected Number One.

"Yes, sir," replied The Gunner with a nod. "The first tompion went across
her bows. The second bounced off her funnel. Three, four and five passed
over her and landed in the harbour."

"Straddled her," muttered Number One with a note of admiration in his
voice. "Damn good shootin'. Even if it was by accident!"

The Gunner ignored the interruption and continued on. "The sixth tompion
went right through the after wheelhouse. Fortunately it was empty. The
thing went in one side and out the other. It was a very sad affair." He
finished with what Number One suspected was a false air of repentance.

Number One gave The Gunner a fixed glared. "And now, one assumes, you will
tell one what punishment you received?" he asked.

"The Chief was dipped to Petty Officer. The ratings, myself included, were
given fourteen days stoppage of leave, and extra drill during the Dogs, 2
hours a day for 5 days. Our pay was stopped $1.25 a month to reimburse the
Navy for the cost of replacing the windows in the ferry's wheelhouse."

Number One was nonplussed. He could not very well doubt The Gunner's
story. Being a Sandy Bottom Sailor, the furthest east Number One had been
was to Grouse Mountain. He had not heard of any scandals concerning the
Gunnery Branch, which did not surprise him. Scandals of any kind were
hushed up very quickly in the Navy and the bloody gunners would have had to
sink the bloody ferry before anybody heard about it. He pretended to study
the Charge Sheet, weighing his options.

The Gunner had been quite right in saying that there were mitigating
circumstances that had to be considered before sentence could be passed,
none of which had much at all to do with the Twins. It was obvious to
Number One that The Gunner had, for reasons best known to himself, decided
to take the Twins under his wing and become their rabbi. At first glance
this was of little consequence in the normal scheme of things. At second
glance, however there was the whisper he had heard when last in Esquimalt,
a whisper to the effect that he was being gifted with a very special
Leading Gunner. Not only was the man well regarded by his peers and a
superb instructor he enjoyed, or so rumour had it, the patronage of the
Fleet Chief Gunnery Instructor, an august personage of such prestige,
respect and power that he did not sit at the left hand of God. The Fleet
Chief Gunnery Instructor sat on God's shoulder and whispered in His ear!
Number One, deep in thought, tapped the top of his table idly. If he threw
the book at the Twins, and came down hard, he risked pissing off their
rabbi who, while a honourable man, was their rabbi, and dedicated to them
and to their careers. If he pissed off The Gunner he would, by association,
piss off his rabbi. And that he could not do. A collision at sea might ruin
his whole day. Pissing off the senior Non Commissioned Rating in the Navy
might ruin his whole career! His fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the scarred
wooden podium. The Commanding Officer was retiring at the end of the
training year. Number One's name was on a piece of paper which was no doubt
at the moment sitting in the Chief of the Defence Staff's in-basket, a
piece of paper that confirmed the present Executive Officer of AURORA's
appointment as Commanding Officer when Father hauled down his flag.

Lieutenant Commander Charles Oliver Hazelton, MC, CD, RCNR was not a stupid
man. He was well aware that within the Navy there were cliques and
coteries, friends of friends, and that power emanated from the most
unexpected places. It was expected that a man of power and respect would
help his friends from time to time, as any gentleman would. A soft voice
might turneth away wrath but a whisper from the Fleet Chief Gunnery
Instructor in the right ear could do wonders for one's career.

A tight, evil smile played at the corner of Number One's lips as he quickly
decided what he would do and imagined the punishments he should be able to
hand out. He envisioned the Twins, stripped to their underpants, being
Flogged 'Round The Fleet, sadly outlawed for a hundred and more
years. Another picture formed: Royal Marines, in red coats and top hats,
bayonets fixed to their Brown Bess muskets, lining the waist and looking
down at the Ship's Company formed up in the well of the ship as the Chief
Boatswains Mate roundly flogged two tow-headed miscreants bound to a
grate. Ah, for the days of sail and wooden ships!

Number One held back a disappointed sigh. His powers of punishment were
limited to the recommendations contained in Queen's Regulations. While he
could order the Twins returned to their home unit, the Commanding Officer
had made it quite clear that such a thing was not about to happen. The
Twins were to be given a just punishment, one that would impress upon them
the severity of their actions. Number One was to be firm, but fair. He
looked at The Gunner and knew what he would do. What had been sauce for the
gander would be sauce for the goslings!

"The accused are found guilty of all charges and specifications," Number
One intoned. He wrote a quick note on the Charge Sheet. "Seven days
confined to barracks, followed by seven days stoppage of leave. Ten hours
extra drill and training."

Before anyone could comment or react Tyler stood to attention and shouted,
"Accused found guilty of all charges and specifications. Seven days
confined to barracks, seven days stoppage of leave, ten hours extra drill
and training! Defaulters, HO! Defaulters, On Caps! About turn! Quick
March!"

Outside the Headquarters Building, The Gunner did not as they expected give
the Twins a rocket. "Let this be a lessoned learned, boychicks. Bullshit
baffles brains any day of the week," was all he said. Then he winked,
slapped them on their fannies and told them to get back to their barracks.

******

Cory sighed at the memory of the day, hugged his brother and reached into
his boxers, gently cupping Todd's parts. Cory felt comforted by their
weight and heft. "What pisses me off, really," he said presently, "is that
we hurt The Gunner. He trusted us not to fuck up and we just went ahead and
fucked up! You saw the look he gave us when he saw us standing on the
Quarterdeck. We really disappointed him!"

Todd nodded and held Cory in a full embrace. He was not surprised that Cory
had put his hand down his shorts. Most of the time Cory had balls of brass
and nothing fazed him. Yet there were times, always when he was under great
stress, when he needed to feel Todd in his hand. There was nothing sexual
about it. Todd never got hard when they comforted each another in this way.

"He stood up for us, though, all the same," reminded Todd quietly. "That
means something. He doesn't hate us, and he did slap our fannies and called
us boychicks."

Cory smiled wanly. "Yes, he did, and I admit that it felt great when he did
it, and I know that when The Gunner calls a cadet "boychick" . . ." He
heaved a gentle sob. "But damn it, Todd, we let him down! He trusted us!"

Todd nodded but said nothing. He had not seen Cory so upset since the day
that pervert in Stanley Park had tried . . . He quickly put the memory of
it from his mind. He slipped his hand down the front of Cory's shorts and
ran his forefinger over the smooth, warm, mushroom shaped tip of his
brother's soft penis. Then he leaned over and kissed Cory on the
cheek. Cory reached up and traced his finger along Todd's chin.

They sat together quietly, holding each other close, saying nothing. >From
somewhere down the gravel path that led to the main cluster of buildings an
orchestra of crickets began tuning up. "The Gunner does care for us, Cory,"
murmured Todd presently.

"That is what makes it worse!" Cory raised his head and looked into his
brother's face. "Toddy?"

Todd started. Cory was much more upset that he realized. He rarely called
him by his childhood name. "Yes, Cory?"

"Can I tell you something? Will you promise not to laugh at me if I tell
you something?"

"You are my only brother," replied Todd. He pulled Cory close. "You can
tell me anything."

"Toddy, I think that I am falling in love with him."  Todd realized that
Cory was crying. He tried wiping his brother's tears away.

"It's all right, Cory. I understand."

"You do?" asked Cory as he wiped his eyes with his hand. "He's been so kind
to us, and treated us so well. He understands about us. I was half in love
with him before Tyler yelled, 'March the guilty bastards in!' and now
. . ." He quickly kissed Todd on the lips. "I don't mean that I love him
the way I love you. I could never love anyone the way I love you," he said
quickly. "But, after what he did for us I think I am falling in love with
The Gunner!"

Todd laughed and kissed Cory's nose. "You goof! You just want to get into
his pants!" he gave Cory's penis a gentle squeeze. "Besides, you are not
the only one who feels that way."

"What?" Cory pulled away. "You mean . . .you . . .?"

Todd nodded. "No, you idiot, Cardinal Spellman! He adores The Gunner!" He
laughed and said, "Of course me!" His voice took on an almost dreamy
quality. "I've felt that way from almost the first day. I really did not
want to say anything to you about how I felt." He gave Cory a stern
look. "You know how you get when I like someone and you do not."

"Balls!" returned Cory with a grin. "You're as bad as I am. Look how pouty
you got when I told you that I really did not care for Sylvain."

"Hah!" retorted Todd. "Not half as pouty as you got when I told you that I
did not particularly care about Andre." His face sobered and he slipped his
arm around Cory's waist. "It doesn't matter, anyway. You would not go with
either of them."

"Why?" asked Cory as his hand returned to Todd's boxers.

"You know," was all Todd said.

When Cory realized what Todd meant he hugged his brother as hard as he
could. "You're sure?" he asked softly.

"I am afraid so." Todd gave Cory a return hug. "They were both with me on
QUEST. I shared a tent with them when we were on our orienteering
phase. Remember, you were supposed to go with me but you broke your arm
instead."

"I did not do it intentionally," Cory flared. The he settled down. "It
would have been nice if Andre was. He is cute and he has a neat little
butt!"

Todd thought it best that there be no more mention of QUEST, or Andre, or
Sylvain, particularly Sylvain. "You would not want him," he said flatly.

"They are not . . .?" he left the rest of the question unasked.

"They are not," confirmed Todd.

Cory buried his head in Todd's shoulder. "I could never . . ." he began
with a shudder.

"Hush, now," soothed Todd. "Stanley Park was a long time ago."

"I remember," said Cory with a sob. "I remember it all." He seemed close to
tears again.

Todd stroked the back of Cory's head. "It's over, Cory. No one will ever
hurt you again. I am here with you. I will always be here with you."

Through the open windows of the Gunroom they could hear the bugle sounding
Last Post. As the last note was sounded the lights in the barracks were
turned off and the stoop and the barracks yard were plunged into
darkness. "We can go in soon," said Todd. Thumper should be in the heads by
now." He disentangled himself, yawned, and stretched. "With any kind of
luck he will be hornier than usual and will not take too long. It has been
a long day and frankly, dear brother, I am tired."

Cory giggled at the mention of Thumper, and of what he was doing in the
heads. Then he had a thought. "Toddy?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think that The Gunner is . . . you know?"

"It would be nice if he is," replied Todd. "Not that we will ever find
out. I do not think that he rides the same bus as we do."

Cory snuggled closer. "He's straight, you mean."

"As an arrow," returned Todd. He kissed the top of Cory's head. "We had
better get on in. The Gunroom will be the first place Little Big Man hits
when he does Rounds. Thumper should be finished by now."

Cory nodded his reluctant agreement. They stood up, went inside and crawled
into their bunks, which were close enough so that they could hold hands in
the dark.

As they lay there listening to the night sounds, both boys became aware of
a series of long, slow moans coming from the end of their row of
bunks. Todd raised himself up and looked in the direction the moans were
coming from. There was enough moonlight coming through the windows - which
were not curtained - to allow him to see Harry raise his round, firm
behind, lower it and then push slowly forward, groaning loudly as he did
so.

Todd gave Cory's hand a firm squeeze. Cory sat up and watched Harry. A huge
grin broke his face. Harry was very definitely giving his mattress a slow,
methodical hump. Todd returned Cory's squeeze and leaned over. "It appears
that Harry is trying a Thumper Special!" he whispered in Cory's ear.

Cory snickered softly, nodded firmly and lay back on his bed. Todd followed
his brother's example, thinking that it was bad enough with Thumper beating
off morning, noon and night! Now they had Harry doing it!

The Twins listened as Harry's low moans became came a series of explosive
grunts. Suddenly Harry let out a terrific groan and then began panting
heavily. Thumper had been right!

"Well done, Harry," said Todd just loud enough to be heard. He rolled onto
to his left side, stuck his hand down the front of his underpants, and
closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

"Well done, indeed," echoed Cory, just loud enough to be heard. He rolled
onto his right side, stuck his hand down the front of his underpants, and
closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.