Date: Wed, 2 Aug 2006 09:49:57 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Chapter 5

"A Sailor's Tale" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living
or dead is coincidental.

This is a work of erotic fiction, and contains scenes that may be offensive
to some. If so, please move on. I must also advise that works of this
nature are "illegal" to possess, download or read in some legal
jurisdictions for anyone who has not reached legal age (18, 19 or 21 years,
take your pick). If this is the case in your hometown, please find a less
illegal site. Of course you can always do it, but say you didn't!

Mu thanks as always to my readers whose comments and critiques make what I
do all the more worthwhile. Any comments should be directed to my e-mail
site: paradegi@rogers.com



A Sailor's Tale

Chapter 5


	Life continued on its normal, lazy path. Nothing much happened in
my little town. The cottagers came and went, there were boat cruises on the
lake, a canal was built to link the lake with the Trent system, more
tourists came in the summer and Mr. ffynch-Douglas dropped dead in the
middle of the town square one blood-hot summer day. The ensuing, necessary
funeral, brought out the black suits and dresses, James returned, and
departed almost immediately after the will was read. As I said, nothing
much at all happened.
	The years leading up to my joining the navy were my "dark times". I
knew that I was gay and I was determined to do everything I could to
deflect any hint of my gayness. Living, as I did, in a small town, I knew
exactly what would happen to me if my desires became known. Small town
values in many ways aped big city values, only worse.
	It is difficult for anyone who has not lived during the dark days
of oppression to understand what life as a gay man meant. There were no
support groups, no gay villages, just constant hatred and bigotry, and
hatred. In the days before the Stonewall Riots, before gay liberation
movements took hold, before Woodstock, and Haight-Ashbury, the hatred
directed toward gays could not be understood now. The only way I can ask
anyone to comprehend this hatred is to say that there is a web site, run by
an insane defrocked-Baptist minister that exemplifies the hatred, only
ten-fold. This is the same cretin whose family protests at military
funerals - and no one has the wit, the enterprise, or the balls to stop
them, fearing the ACLU and prosecution for violating the First Amendment.
	Many young gays would leave their small towns or farms, and flock
to the cities, Toronto, or Montreal, in the hopes that their lifestyle
would be, if not accepted, at least tolerated. Not so.
	Gays were an abomination, and not deserving of anything approaching
civil liberty. If a gay man found a job, he could be fired from it without
notice for being gay. If they managed to find a place to live - and many
landlords would not rent to "queers" - they could be evicted, their
personal effects thrown into the streets without notice if they were
discovered to be gay. Restaurants could and did refuse service to gays;
clerks in the shops and department stores could and did refuse service to
gays. Every aspect of gay life was subject to excoriation, of danger and,
in not so extreme circumstances, death. In the large cities, where there
was so much as a hint of a gay population, the police turned a blind eye to
the atrocities perpetrated on gay men.
	As an example, in Toronto there was a bar, called the
St. Charles. It was housed in an old fire hall that boasted a tall, square
clock tower. The tower is still there, but not the bar. It became too much
for the owners to keep open. Because it was a "known gathering place for
perverts and deviants" the bar was constantly raided by the police, or
visited by the LCBO inspectors to ensure that the liquor laws were not
being violated. These laws included one that forbade anyone who was sitting
at the bar from turning around to hold a conversation with those sitting at
the tables. Hands had to be kept on the table or bar, in plain site, at all
times. Dancing, touching of any kind, was not permitted.
	On Halloween the bar held a dance, which brought out the bigots and
rednecks that lined Yonge Street spewing their hatred at the costumed
guests. There was a police presence but that meant nothing. If a brick, or
a rock, or a two by four was thrown the policemen all seemed to be
blind. It seems that it was perfectly acceptable for gays to "get what they
deserved".
	An openly gay man was effectively barred from the professions, if
he could find a college or university to learn a profession. A gay man
could be and often was refused entry into any "reputable" university for
moral turpitude. If he managed to get in he could be summarily dismissed,
again on moral grounds, and good luck getting a transcript of grades when
that happened - somehow he never attended the university at all!
	Gays could not join the military - being gay they were subject to
security considerations in that they could be blackmailed! They were also,
in the words of the American Psychiatric Association, suffering from mental
disease, and therefore "not advantageously employable". In retrospect I
suppose a diseased nutter would not be considered "advantageously
employable".
	Sex between males was illegal. At the same time, to demonstrate the
hypocrisy of the Canadian Criminal Code, gay males could not engage in sex
of any kind until they reached 21 years of age!
	To sum it all up, gays were denied the most basic of civil rights.
	This was a life I desperately wanted to avoid. I knew that if my
secret was ever revealed my father would have shown me the door and I would
be told that I was no longer his son. He would not have under "his" roof
someone who, as he could not produce children, would spent his waking hours
trying to "recruit" innocent young boys into his nefarious lifestyle, that
is when he was not molesting little children!
	My mother, sadly, would not have been far behind. She never came
out and said anything, being a lady, but she was a product of the age, and
her look, and the darkness that filled her eyes, told me that she agreed
with everything the Catholic Church taught her about gays.

******

	Determined to avoid what I thought to be the most horrible fate
that could befall me, I did everything I could think of to "prove" that I
was a normal boy. High school sports helped. I never excelled, although I
could have done better, and would never be first draft anything. I did not
want to draw attention to myself. I played baseball well. I swam well. I
held my own in soccer and made every meet in cross-country.
	In the locker rooms I tried to shower first, and as quickly as I
could, and kept my eyes closed, the better to resist my very real
temptations to look and slobber over the naked bodies of my team mates. I
avoided as much as possible any situation where I would be tempted and
purposely avoided joining the local Boy Scout troop. I attended Church
every Sunday and holy day. I even dated, although I always asked a girl
known for her imagined purity and determination not to give "it" up.
	In a way all my actions helped me to develop the alternate persona
that I needed to hide behind. I never joined in the homoerotic banter in
the change rooms, and never joined in the bragging and boasting most of the
boys did when it came to their dicks and balls. I presented the front of a
deeply religious boy who would look away when a naked team mate parade
around the locker room. I would look shocked if any of the other boys
engaged in what I would later call "chucking shit", accusing his pals of
wanting his dick, or worse. I was a right little prig. At the same time,
while I might look disapproving, I would never comment, one way or
another. Eventually I was put down as a self-righteous, very religious,
properly raised young gentleman. Mothers all over town held me up as an
example of what their sons should be. They could never know that every
night, in bed, I lusted after their not so proper sons.
	I was miserable, and while my parents noticed my constant mood
changes, they put it all down to teenage angst, a part of growing into
manhood, and understood. I did not. But in January 1962 my cozy world
crashed around me and I took the first steps towards what was to ultimately
lead me to self-recognition as a gay man.

******

	Life in any small town revolves around certain community events,
and certain community institutions. Foremost is the local Royal Canadian
Legion. As the Legion's primary source of income is the bar revenues almost
every legion loses no opportunity to celebrate significant dates in the
military calendar: Trafalgar Day, the Battle of the Atlantic, D-Day and so
on. As many of the members had their roots in the British Isles, most
legions also manage a dinner and dance on "national days", days particular
to each of the three groups that make up the British Isles. There is Saint
George's Day for the English, St. David's Day for the Welsh and, for the
Scots, Robbie Burns Day.
	Every legion of any pretence to fellowship and camaraderie holds,
on the 25th of January, or as near to it as possible, a dinner, usually
featuring roast beef and always featuring haggis, a concoction made of the
stomach entrails of a sheep, oatmeal and spices. Actually it's quite good,
if awful sounding.
	On the appointed day everybody attending the dinner dresses to the
nines, the ladies in long formal gowns, a tartan sash, and a
cairngorm. Gentlemen entitled to it wear a kilt. Others wear evening
clothes.
	Saturday, the 21st of January 1962, was an ordinary day in my
life. Nothing of note happened that I remember, except that my father
closed the drugstore early. It was Robbie Burns Night and my parents were
off to the Legion. My father, looking magnificent in his kilt and his
father's sporran, came down the stairs first. My mother appeared soon
after, dressed in a light, champagne gown and wearing her family heirlooms,
a set of emerald jewellery, very old, and usually kept in a safe deposit
box at the bank. After bidding them goodnight I glanced out of the window
and saw that a hard snow was falling. This was nothing unusual. We lived in
what was called the "snow belt" and it always snowed hard.
	I watched the hockey game on TV, more out of habit than anything
else, and besides, it gave me something to talk about with the guys after
church the next morning. After the game I went upstairs, to bed and slept
soundly until 3:32 in the morning (I looked at my bedside clock). Wondering
what all the noise was about I stumbled downstairs in my underwear,
something that would have shocked my mother. I was still half asleep and
didn't really hear the howling of the wind outside the house. Snarling, I
threw open the door to find the Town Constable standing on the
porch. Behind him a blizzard raged, the blowing snow completely obscuring
the roadway in front of the house. The Constable, who was a kindly old man,
asked if he could come in. Out of habit, I took him into the front parlour
and here he told me the worst news any teenage boy could ever hear: my
parents were dead, killed in an automobile accident.
	I later learned that my father, with my mother in the car beside
him, and both of them stuffed with haggis and awash in single malt whiskey,
had driven away from the Legion, taking the new road that had been cut to
join Reid Street with the canal that joined the lake to the Trent
System. Somehow my father lost control, and the car fell into the empty
lift lock at the end of Legion Street. The car plummeted straight down onto
the concrete bottom of the lock. They died instantly and I was an orphan. I
was 17 years and 2 months old.

******

	In any small town a death, especially the death of a prominent
citizen, is a very big event and guaranteed to set the neighbours into
action. The Town Constable had called his wife, a matronly woman, who came
bustling into the house, filled with sympathy and carrying a large
container of food. Next to appear was the parish priest, who told me to
have courage and asked if I would join him in prayer. I had barely sunk to
my knees when the president of the Legion appeared. He at least had the
common sense to point out that I was only wearing my tighty-whitey
underpants and a T-shirt.
	Dazed, and in shock, I hadn't noticed what I was wearing, or not
wearing, and really didn't care. My whole world had come crashing down and
I did not want to be alone. I was trying to be "manly", and not cry, but
with the own Constable's wife blubbering in one corner, and Mrs. Willis,
blubbering in another, it was difficult. How Mrs. Willis knew of the
accident I don't know, just as I don't know how the other neighbours who
slogged through the snow came to know of the accident. I was grateful,
however, that Mrs. Willis had brought along her son, Terry, the tall,
handsome redhead I'd been lusting over for four years. He led me upstairs
to my bedroom. Here I lost it totally, crying wildly while he held me and
patted my back sympathetically.
	Eventually I calmed down and Terry helped me dress in a dark suit,
white shirt, and tie. Death, it appears, always demands formality. Terry
was very kind to me, and I will always remember him being with me, never
leaving my side. He was a true friend and I never betrayed that friendship,
	When I returned downstairs the house was filled with people. The
ladies from the Sodality had shown up and were saying the Rosary in the
front parlour. The kitchen was filled with food of every description, and a
few of the heartier Legion members, who had found my father's supply of
beer. Mrs. Willis was fluttering about, greeting people and keeping the
more demonstrative mourners away from me. Sometime during those terrible
hours the parish priest called my uncle in Toronto. He was my father's only
brother and I hated him.

******

	My Uncle Edward was a banker, one of those people in the banking
profession who never gave a loan except to people who didn't need it. He
was quite the rising star in the bank he worked for and believed in "taking
charge". I should be grateful to him because he relieved me of the burdens
associated with death, but I wasn't. He was obnoxious, annoying and was
forever telling me that he was only doing what he felt best for me.
	In time I came to appreciate what he did for me. There are certain
rituals and functions associated with death, all of them necessary, and he
did them and to his credit he never reminded me of what he had had to do.
	After driving through one of the worst blizzards of the season he
accompanied the Constable to the hospital where my parents lay, identified
their bodies, and collected their personal effects. Then he went to the
funeral parlour to make the necessary "arrangements", choosing matching
coffins, rosewood, with just enough carving and satin to show the
neighbours that they were not cheap.
	My uncle's return to the house after his visit with the undertaker
brought on our first argument. While I was grateful for his help, I would
not agree to have my parents buried from the funeral parlour, as he
wanted. I did not care that the parlour offered the finest appointments
this side of Toronto, or that there was plenty of room for
parking. Funerals were conducted from home, and that was all there was to
it! In light of what was to come I suppose I should have listened to
him. But I was 17, and I was grieving, and determined to do the right
thing, at least as I saw it.
	My father was a very well known and well-respected man, not only in
our little town but also in the surrounding area. His death was truly
mourned. He was also a great "joiner" and before I knew it the house was
filled with floral tributes from the Legion, from the Knights of Columbus,
and so on. Almost every neighbour sent a wreath or an arrangement. My
uncle, who knew how to conduct a good funeral, had also notified the
Regiment in Toronto. As a member of Regiment's Old Comrades Associate, and
a Veteran, my father was entitled to a military funeral. Bearers, and a
bugler, would be provided for the service.
	On the Monday after the accident my parents were brought home. The
front parlour was opened, and the sliding doors between it and the dining
room opened. The dining room was cleared of furniture and filled with
wooden folding chairs and flower arrangements banked around the front
windows and in the corridor. I waited in the hall while the undertaker and
his assistant made the final preparations. Before each open coffin was
placed a prayer bench. Rose coloured bulbs had replaced the plain white
ones in the tall standards that flanked both coffins. The Red Duster draped
my father's coffin, a floral blanket my mother's.
	When everything was ready I was led into the room. Terry
accompanied me. This was my personal time with my parents. I admit that I
wept bitterly, with Terry holding me tightly. I could hardly bear to look
down at the painted faces of my mother and father. Terry tried to tell me
that they looked wonderful. I pretended to agree with him. They didn't look
all that bad, but they were dead. I there and then decided that an open
coffin was a horrible custom and that when my time came I would go out with
the lid firmly closed.
	When I was finished with my private mourning, the doors to the
parlour were opened and the rest of the mourners entered. My Aunt Margaret
had arrived, finally, and she took charge of me. She was a wonderful, kind
woman, and I loved her dearly. She held me, and comforted me, and somehow
made the obsequies much easier to handle. And there were a lot of
obsequies.
	For two nights and two days I was forced to endure the insincere
platitudes and sympathy expressed at every funeral. The whole town seemed
to show up to pay their respects so there was a constant flow of people,
each of whom had to be greeted, offered a drink or something to eat, and
the opportunity to tell me what a wonderful man my father was, what a
wonderful woman my mother was.
	Then there were the "services". As my father had been a member of
the Legion, he was given a "Legion Service", conducted by the Legion
Chaplain, actually the vicar from the local Anglican Church. It was very
moving and at the end of the service, as was the tradition, the Legion
members pinned red poppies to the satin lining of my parents' coffins. That
was on the first night that my parents were home. The second night was
reserved for the Knights of Columbus, who showed up in tuxedos, plumed
hats, black capes and swords. Each man also carried a rosary and the
evening was spent in saying prayers. The nuns from the convent showed up
for the Rosary, and announced that they would keep the Vigil, ensuring that
my parents would not spend their last night on earth alone. It was
tradition, and my mother and father had been true Children of the Church.
	I appreciated the consideration shown to me. I did not want to be
alone, and I did not want to spend my nights in a house where my parents
lay dead in the front parlour. All of my school friends called, and along
with Terry Willis, kept close to me. I had always dreamed of waking up with
one of them in my bed, but not under the circumstances I found myself
in. Nothing happened, but just having one of them close was enough. Again,
I shall always remember their kindness and consideration.
	The funeral itself was conducted according to the Latin Rite of the
Roman Catholic Church, with accompanying incense, chanting and solemn
music. The Bearer Party sent by the Regiment carried the coffins containing
my mother and father shoulder high from the church with military precision
and solemnity. The cortege from the church to the cemetery stretched for
miles. It was all very impressive.
	As was expected, a reception was laid on back at the house. There
was a mountain of food, coffee, tea, and enough booze and beer to float a
battleship. As the Chief Mourner I was the centre of unwanted attention and
spent three hours greeting guests and listening to the neighbours telling
me what wonderful people my parents had been, or telling me that they had
gone to a better place. I could have disputed this last. To me dead was
dead and that was all there was to it. Fortunately I was still in a daze
and most of the comments went over my head, or simply did not register,
although I do remember coming close to a first class breakdown when several
of the mourners remarked on how wonderful a job the undertaker had done,
leaving my parents "wonderfully preserved" and "looking like they were only
sleeping."
	Once the funeral reception was over and the last mourner had gone,
my uncle sat down to discuss my future. As I was not of legal age, I was
now his ward, as appointed by my father in his will. I could live with
that. I really didn't have a choice. My uncle also informed me that when
all was said and done I would be a moderately well off young man. My father
and mother both had insurance, which paid out double indemnity in the event
of an accident. My father's business could be leased out, or sold. As I had
no intention of becoming a pharmacist, or even staying any longer that I
had to in the town, I agreed to sell the business, and the house. The
furniture would be stored.
	After complimenting me on my sagacity my uncle then went into my
education. I would graduate high school in June. I could stay with him and
my aunt in Toronto if I wanted to take a "gap" year before entering
university. He assumed that I had already made plans, and expressed the
hope that I would attend U of T. It was prestigious, and I more than had
the credits needed. Money for my tuition and living expenses was
available. I had the impression that he had everything planned for me. As
he blathered on about paying me an allowance, of investing my inheritance
in good, solid, blue chips, my gorge rose. What he didn't know was that I
had already decided what I was going to do. When I told him, he liked to
pitch a duck stomping fit.
	To this day I do not know why I blurted out that no matter what he
thought, I was going to join the navy. I had been thinking about the
military, but not in a serious way. What influenced me? I don't
know. Perhaps it was the afternoons spent in the Legion with my father,
drinking Coke and listening to the old Veterans spin their dips,
reminiscing, remembering those who had not come home, laughing at their
private jokes and seeing the love and camaraderie in their faces. Perhaps
too it was the oft-repeated assertion that the Army, or the Navy or the Air
Force had made a man of the speaker. I remember the phrase: "It made a man
of me" and that was the one thing I wanted so desperately to be, a man!
	Perhaps also it was my uncle's arrogant assumption that I was going
to follow the path that he laid out for me. Perhaps it was all the
repressed fear and anger at what I was, at my parents' death, at my hidden
life and desperate need to be accepted for who I was, not what I was. In
the end it didn't matter because the more my uncle argued against it the
more determined to join up I became. Deep down I felt that it was something
I had to do and I had convinced myself that if anything would rid me of my
demons, and make a true man of me, it would one of the branches of Her
Majesty's Armed Services.  The Army did not appeal to me.  The Air Force
was too effete for my taste.  This left the Navy and into the Navy I would
go.
	The battle raged for over an hour or more. My uncle at first
refused to even consider my decision. I was underage and would need his
approval. I dismissed his approval and threatened to run away and hide
until I turned 18. I had no money - my uncle controlled the chequebook. I
countered that there were ways for young boys to make money in a big
city. At first Uncle Edward did not understand what I meant, but when what
I threatened finally sank in he almost had a stroke! He calmed down a bit
and told me that he only had my best interests at heart, that he was only
trying to do what was best for me, what my father would have wanted for
me. I retorted that my father was dead and only I knew what was best for
me.
	My aunt, who could not help but overhear the shouting, finally came
into the room and mediated. She calmed my uncle, and spoke gently to me,
asking if I truly knew what I wanted. I told her that I did and she decided
that perhaps it would be best for me to, as she put it, "get it our of my
system". As the initial enlistment in the Navy was only for three years I
could try it. If I liked it, I could decide then if I wanted to make the
Navy a career. If I did not, then I could return to school. Her soft reason
touched me and I agreed. My uncle, who was still reeling from my threat to
ply the world's second oldest profession in the cesspool of Toronto's
downtown, reluctantly agreed.
	Calmer, we all discussed what would happen next. Since I was only
four months away from graduating high school, neither my aunt nor my uncle
saw any point in moving me to Toronto. My life was here, my school was
here, and my friends were here. My aunt thought that for the foreseeable
future I would need some continuity in my life, and need my friends around
me. It was agreed that I would stay in the house I had been born in. My
uncle would arrange for groceries to be delivered, and the bills paid. I
also agreed to study hard, and behave myself. To make sure that I did I was
placed under the watchful eye of the local Anglican Vicar and his wife (my
uncle had converted and did not trust anything connected with the Catholic
church), both of whom visited daily. So long as I kept my end of the
agreement there would be no objections to my taking the Queen's Shilling.

******

	I kept my word. I studied hard, did not party, and in fact became
somewhat of a recluse. I did not deliberately avoid my friends, but neither
did I go out of my way to be with them. In May I declined to attend the
Senior Prom, using the excuse that I was still mourning my parents. The
night of the prom Terry came by, as did Pauly Tralla, both dressed in
rented tuxes, to say that they would miss my company. I doubted it, and
kidded with them about their dates, and watched them leave, two magnificent
young men off to meet their girls. As the door closed I turned and went
into the parlour where I wept in self-pity, and anger, and jealousy.
	On the 6th of June, a Wednesday, and coincidently the anniversary
of D-Day, I walked across the stage of the high school auditorium wearing a
silk gown and mortarboard and received my diploma. I was not the
valedictorian, but I had managed to make the Honour Role.
	The next morning I took the bus to Toronto.

******

	My uncle met me at the Bay Street bus terminal and drove me to the
Navy Recruiting Office, then located in the Naval Reserve Barracks located
not far from the CNE grounds. There, along with four other boys, I listened
to a short lecture on life in the Navy, wrote an aptitude test, passed it,
and then saw the Recruiting Officer, who warned me that I would never get
rich, as the pay at time was a paltry $112.00 a month. I was also informed
that discipline was rigidly enforced, and that while the life could be
good, it could also be very bad for those who thought they could beat the
system. "Queen's Hard Bargains", as the Recruiting Officer called the
malcontents, almost always ended up in the "glasshouse", his term for the
Navy Detention Barracks.
	After a short break, where I was expected to pee and consider that
what I was doing was actually what I wanted to do, I returned to the
recruiting office and affirmed my desire to join up. While my application
was being typed I was sent to Sick Bay, located next door to the Recruiting
Office, where I was poked, prodded, made to cough, asked to pee in a cup
(somewhat difficult since I had already peed, but I did manage to squeeze
out a few drops) and ultimately pronounced fit for service by the medical
officer. I returned to the Recruiting Office and as I was four months shy
of my 18th birthday my uncle had to sign my enlistment papers. I then
signed, and, together with the other three boys, raised my hand and swore
to bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, her heirs and
successors. In less than five hours I was in. But not quite. The paperwork
would have to be processed, and I would be assigned a recruiting
billet. This usually took anywhere from two weeks to two months. As I did
not live in Toronto I was given a chit authorizing me to return home. When
my number came up I would be informed when to report to Union Station,
there to take the first step in my journey to manhood: the train to HMCS
Cornwallis, since 1951 the Navy's Recruit Training Base where I would spend
15 weeks learning the rudiments of being a sailor.

******

	HMCS Cornwallis had been commissioned as one of the numberless
establishments set up to meet the demands of World War II. Trained men were
required in ever increasing numbers to meet the demands of manning the
ships of the burgeoning Royal Canadian Navy. It was commissioned in May of
1942 as a sub-command of HMC Dockyard, located in HMCS Stadacona, as the
primary training base for new sailors. The original establishment consisted
of numerous schools, offices and quarters scattered where and when space
could be found. As the war progressed and the Battle of the Atlantic raged
it became clear that the crowded base and city of Halifax simply would not
do. It was decided to relocate Cornwallis and in June of 1942 the Navy
purchased a 615-acre site on the eastern shore of Annapolis Basin. The site
was chosen for its convenience to the transportation arteries, which fed
men and materiel into the war effort.
	Located in the Annapolis Valley, the site was rich in history and
had originally been a land grant to a Loyalist from New York. In the late
1800's it passed to a Colonel Hallett Ray, whose home was to become the
Commander's House. Colonel Ray eventually sold the estate to a
Mr. E.P. Morse, a retired American, who also built a house, which became
the Cornwallis Wardroom. Mr. Morse died before he could move into his new
house and eventually the estate was purchased by DND as the new home of the
Navy's principal training base. In April of 1943, after a crash
construction program, the first buildings were ready and the schools and
personnel were transferred from Halifax.
	The base continued to grow and eventually sprawled across
Provincial Highway 1, more barracks being added, more marriage quarters
being built until the wartime base boasted a complement of 11,000 officers,
men and WRCNS.
	Because it was never conceived as a permanent base - after all the
war would end eventually - Cornwallis, to me, always had an impermanent
air. The buildings were all built of wood and looked exactly the same,
square, sturdy, and painted white. In addition to the usual barracks, there
were machine shops, stores buildings, buildings housing the Communication
Division, the Seamanship Division, a Gun Shed, office blocks, a hospital,
two chapels, an elementary school and a high school, houses for married
staff, a Wardroom, a Wet Canteen, a Dry Canteen, a shopping precinct, a
sports complex, boat sheds and, dominating the football field called the
Parade Square, a huge Drill Shed, which ran the length of the square, on
which mere sailors were forbidden to set foot except at Divisions and
evening Quarters. To get to the main gate, or the admin buildings, which
flanked the huge structure, you trudged around the sides of the square,
past the bleachers built on the west side of the square. It was quite a
hike and colder than buggery in the winter when the wind blew frigid from
the Bay of Fundy.
	As she had originally been established as "Wartime Only", the base
was paid off by the Navy in February of 1946, and declared surplus. World
events however changed everything. The Cold War had begun and the Navy
suddenly found itself faced with threats of force by the Soviet Bloc and
quickly put a stop order on the sale of the base. After reclaiming the
base, and renovating the buildings, the ship was recommissioned on the
first of May 1949. From that day until its final closure in 1993,
Cornwallis was the training cradle for thousands of sailors, officer cadets
and Wrens. Much of the base is gone now, most of the old buildings replaced
by modern glass and brick horrors housing something called "The Pearson
Peacekeeping Centre". The Pearson Peacekeeping Centre's mission is to
support and enhance the Canadian contribution to international peace,
security, and stability. The Centre is an independent organization
established by the Government of Canada in 1994, and is a division of the
Canadian Institute of Strategic Studies and funded, in part, by Foreign
Affairs and International Trade Canada and the Department of National
Defence. It is an education, training and research facility with a mandate
to be a knowledge base and educational facility for trainers and other
educators (their words not mine). It is actually a United Nations
boondoggle where one learns, I suppose, how to stand idly by while 7,000
Muslim men and boys are hauled off into the Bosnian hills and massacred, or
how to drive stoically by while a dozen Belgian peacekeepers are hacked to
death by African tribesmen.
	A few of the old barracks blocks remain, housing the Sea Cadet
establishment, HMCS Scotian, and two of the blocks, one of them "The
Wrenery", the barracks where the Wrens were housed, have been refitted to
accommodate guests during the annual Cornwallis reunions.

******

	Back home I waited anxiously for the letter containing what was
called my "Draft Chit", the official notification of where and when I was
to report to begin the next stage of my budding naval career. I spent much
of my time clearing the house, which had been sold. The new owners wanted
to turn the huge old wreck into a lakeside inn and were eager to start
renovations. My aunt came up from Toronto to help. She realized that
clearing the house would have a traumatic effect and helped, in her quiet,
calm way, to ease the burdens. She made many of the decisions as to what
was to be given to charity, and what was to be stored away. Shortly after
her arrival she sent me into town to meet with my father's lawyer and sign
the papers of sale. While I was gone she cleared the house of my father's
suits and such, and my mother's frocks, hats, and white gloves. I was
thankful she did this, as I don't think I could have maintained my
composure as my parents' personal things were carted off to the local
thrift shop and the Sally Anne in Peterborough.
	My mother's silver, crystal, china and assorted figurines, were
packed away and sent off to storage, as was much of the furniture, period
pieces that had come down through her family, and several family portraits.
	For two weeks or so we sorted through boxes of photo albums,
bric-a-brac, and for the most part I managed to keep myself together. What
did me in were the photo albums, black and white snapshots the chronicled
the history of my family. In one album I found my father's "official"
portrait, looking proud in his uniform, and taken before he shipped out to
England, and later North Africa and Italy. There were photos of my parents'
wedding day, my father wearing a pinched, wartime suit, my mother wearing
her mother's wedding gown (silk and satin were rationed and she could not
have her own made). There were photos of me as a boy, the usual family
snaps that to an outsider meant nothing, but to me meant the world. I wept
and wept and then, when we opened the last album I turned as red as the
proverbial beet. The album contained my baby pictures and all I will say is
why parents will take snaps of their innocent baby sons in the bath is
unconscionable! It might seem "cute" at the time but it is downright
embarrassing when the subject is 17 and a bit!
	The last act of closure was a small garden party and reception for
my mother's friends. My mother had been a great traditionalist and in her
will she had left small mementoes to her lady friends, bits of china, small
pieces of jewellery, a lace scarf, and so on, nothing all that valuable
except for a special wealth reserved for friends. The night before the
party my aunt and I sat up wrapping and labelling these bequests. When we
were done I handed my mother's jewel box to my aunt and asked her to take
the rings and broaches, necklaces and earrings that my mother had prized so
much. I had no use for them, and I did not see the point in sending them
off to the bank for safe keeping with my father's small collection of cuff
links and watches. My aunt tried to refuse but I insisted and in the end
she took the jewels.
	The party, which was held on the lawns outside the house, was the
last act in my tragic play. The neighbours came, I was once again patted
and commiserated, the small bequests were distributed, the parish priest
was prevailed upon to make a small speech and say a small prayer for the
repose of the souls of my mother and father (it should have been a large
prayer, considering the bequest my parents had given the church) and when
all was said and done I went upstairs to my empty room and picked up the
small bag containing the clothing I would need for the trip to Cornwallis.
	It was late in the evening and I walked out of the house and into
the car that had been hired to take my aunt and me to Toronto. I never
looked back, and I never returned to the little town where I had been born.

******

	Two weeks and three days after I had left the recruiting office the
postman delivered a large, manila envelope. In it was my Draft Chit, which
told me that I had been loaded on the Recruit Training Course, and a sheaf
of papers entitled "Joining Instructions". I was told where and when to
report (Union Station in Toronto, where I would board the train for
Montreal), and whom to report to (someone called the "Escorting Chief Petty
Officer"). I was warned not to bring large sums of cash. As a recruit
trainee I would be kept much too busy to spend money. I was told to bring
the absolute minimum of clothing and personal effects. The Navy would
supply me with everything I might need and storage space for personal kit
was limited in Cornwallis. Basically, aside from a change of shirt and
underpants, and shaving gear, I really did not need to bring anything at
all but of course I packed a bag with enough clothing to last me a year! I
did take note that as sports were a large part of the Navy's training
program, particularly swimming, I was encouraged to bring my swimming suit,
as this article was not part of our kit issue. I brought three.
	The night before I was scheduled to leave I spent at my uncle's
house in Toronto. It was pleasant, and while my uncle and I continued to
regard each other warily, we kept the peace and nothing untoward
happened. The next morning, a Saturday, he and my aunt drove me down to
Union Station.
	In the cavernous main hall of the station I reported to the
Escorting Petty Officer, a personage hard to miss, as he was dressed in
full uniform, including gaiters. On his chest were campaign ribbons from
both the war and Korea, which meant that he'd been around the Horn once or
twice.  He was a short, taciturn, craggy man with a face that would
frighten children and spoke volumes about his drinking habit. He gave me a
pitying look, checked my Draft Chit against a list he had on a clipboard,
checked my name off the list and told me what platform to go to.
	The train, a long line of coaches and sleepers, and a diner,
already had steam up when I arrived on the platform - the train was
actually pulled by two diesels but what the hell, "steam up," sounds
better. There was the usual gaggle of railwaymen, conductors and so on, and
here and there little groups of people saying goodbye to the soon to be
travellers.
	One of the groups surrounded one of the young men I had joined up
with. He was a tall, muscular, quite handsome young Italian male, with
dark, curly hair, and flashing white teeth. His name was Alfredo Spadafore
and he had been born and raised in Toronto's Little Italy, a real Grace and
College boy. Two older people, dressed in black, which I later learned were
Alfredo's parents, were carrying on as if their son was being hauled off to
slavery. Surrounding Alfredo were two smaller versions of himself
(brothers), three plainly dressed young girls, quite good looking (sisters)
and four smashing girls dressed in colourful summer frocks and obviously,
from the way they carried on, girlfriends. They rubbed Alfredo, they patted
Alfredo, and generally made it clear to anyone who cared to watch that
their lives would never be the same again. Later, in Cornwallis, I saw all
of Alfredo, and I couldn't blame the girls at all . . . Mama Mia was he
hung!
	I also noticed a man standing alone, off to one side. He was
dressed in a lightweight summer suit, shined brogans, and carried a small
suitcase. He seemed to be laughing silently and smugly at Alfredo's family,
or perhaps it was the way Alfredo was dressed: blue jeans, a skin-tight
white T-shirt, and battered work boots. I supposed I passed muster dressed
as I was, in dress slacks, a sports coat, and a white shirt and tie (my
aunt believed that a gentleman always travelled properly dressed).
	This man was "Don". He'd been studying at U of T but too many late
nights and too much communion with funny cigarettes and kegs of beer had
caught up with him and the university proctors had suggested strongly that
he withdraw gracefully. Much later I would learn that Don, who was actually
not a bad guy, had been taking pre-med courses, and majoring in basic male
anatomy.
	Before very long the conductor began calling, "All Aboard". My aunt
cried a little and kissed me on the cheek. She told me that she was proud
of what I was doing, that I should behave myself, and slipped me a
twenty. My uncle, all bluff and hearty, shook my hand, slapped my shoulder,
expressed the hope that I knew what I was doing and that I wouldn't make a
fool of myself, and slipped me a twenty. The Escorting Petty Officer came
down the platform and shooed his charges (all three of us) onto the train
and then, to accompanying bell ringing from the engine, and weeping and
wailing from Alfredo's family and girlfriends, the train pulled slowly from
the station. We were off on the first in a series uncomfortable stages on
our journey to Naval glory!

******

	Once upon a time, the Cunard Line had an advertising campaign that
declared that, "Getting There is Half the Fun". It was obvious that the
copywriter never had to travel by train from Ontario to Nova Scotia. The
trip was not fun, uncomfortable, and a first class pain in the ass,
literally. The Navy paid for coach only.
	The first leg of the train journey carried us from Toronto to
Montreal, with an intermediate stop in Trenton and Ottawa. As we pulled out
of Union Station I remarked that there didn't seem to be too many of
us. The PO, who could actually put two or more words together, told me to
wait. More were coming, and in Trenton and Ottawa were joined by more
recruits, all bound for Cornwallis.
	In Trenton six young men, two of whom, the Hanson brothers, were
ex-Air Cadets and military brats who knew the system, joined us. The Hanson
brothers, Ted and Andrew (always called "Drew") were twenty and nineteen
respectively. They did everything together and were as close as brothers
could be. They were also the sons of an Airdale major, and told me that
each New Entry Division consisted of about 65 young men from across Canada,
except for the French Canadian boys, most of whom didn't speak a word of
English, and had their own Division at Cornwallis. The small group of us in
the Toronto to Montreal carriage were just the tip of the iceberg.
	In Ottawa we were joined by more recruits, one of whom I will call
"Winger" would have a devastating, horrifying impact on my life and
attitude.
	When I first saw him, Winger did not make too much of an
impact. Slightly taller than I was, he was very slim, with a light olive
complexion, and almond-shaped eyes. He had a feral look about him but there
was something about him that intrigued me. He took the seat beside and our
friendship began.
	The part of the trip from Toronto to Montreal began the bonding
process that the Navy hoped would happen. We were all of an age, except for
Don, who was an ancient 23, with similar interests. We all spoke English as
our first language, and most of us were of British extraction, except for
Alfredo, who had been dubbed "Fettuccini Alfredo" (in sounded better than
"Spaghetti Alfredo"), and Winger, who was actually third or fourth
generation German Canadian. Fettuccini's stock went up when he opened a
huge straw picnic basket that his mother had put in the train with him. She
obviously assumed the CP rail could not feed a growing Italian boy properly
and had loaded the basket with home-made cheeses, bread, sausages and four
bottles of Dago Red, deadly to non-Italians and under age boys. The PO, who
had spent much of the trip up to then snoozing in a corner seat, promptly
confiscated the wine. We were, he announced "UA", and therefore could not
drink alcohol. This prompted a mutiny. The PO was right, and legally we
were too young to drink. However, since wine was a part of Fettuccini's
culture, and Don asked if the Chief (an unwarranted promotion in my
opinion) was going to deny the young Italian a part of his heritage? This
hardly seemed to Don's thinking to be "the Navy Way". Ted Hanson announced
that he'd been drinking beer with his old man every day after evening
chores were done since he 12, and a little wine wouldn't hurt. I opened my
big mouth and stated that since there were only a dozen of us, including
the "Chief", we were hardly going to make a Bacchanalian riot on four
bottles of plonk. Winger stuck his oar in by saying that as we were the
only ones in the car, who was to know, and besides, the PO didn't want to
throw the bottles off the back of the train, did he?
	Faced with the very real prospect of not having a drink (which he
desperately needed) until the bar in the first class car opened, the PO
relented. We could share two bottles. Grumbling, we agreed.
	Fettuccini opened the bottles of wine and we had a very pleasant
time, eating his food and drinking what little of the wine we were
given. During the course of our impromptu meal we were also treated to a
small discourse on the "Etiquette of the Tot". This was given by one of the
boys who had boarded the train in Ottawa, Harry Oppenheim, a recently
"retired" (at 19), Sea Cadet. Harry was tall, stocky, and handsome in the
dark, Mediterranean Sephardic tradition. He was also, as I later saw (in
the showers, again), deliciously Jewish.
	Harry was a fount of knowledge to us ignorant landlubbers. He told
us that when we eventually arrived in Cornwallis, which at the rate the
train was travelling through the Eastern Ontario countryside seemed
problematical and in the distant future, we would begin was called an "In
Routine". There would be more papers to sign and we would be given what
Harry called a "Station Card", on which would be stamped a large red "G",
"T" or "UA". The letters would indicate our eligibility, or not, to receive
a "tot".
	A tot, Harry explained, was a daily issue of Navy rum, usually at
1100, when the pipe "Up Spirits" would be made. "G" meant we could draw a
tot of rum a day, "T", for Temperance or "U/A", underage age, and not legal
to drink.  Since we were all of an age - I think the average was 19, except
for Don - which at the time meant that one had not reached the ripe old age
of 21, the age of majority, and in certain cases, consent.
	The Rum Bosun, as the Regulating PO in charge of issuing the rum
was called, would prepare the issue in a large "rum barrel", actually a
wooden barrel shaped like a small tun, to a traditional recipe: two parts
water to one part Navy, or "Pusser's" rum, dark as night, over proof, and
with the kick of a mule in heat. The lads would line up, their status
authenticated, and then they would be issued a tot: two Imperial ounces.
	Once the total was in hand, so to speak, "Rum Etiquette" came into
effect. A tot could be used to repay a debt, or ask a favour. "Sippers",
for minor or personal debts, repaid debts and small favours, was just that
- one, and never more than three, short sip. Three sips equalled a "gulp",
one big swallow, and reserved for major infractions, debts and "my ass is
grass if you don't help me" favours.
	Harry also told us that if we were lucky at one point or another in
our new careers the pipe would be "Splice the Main Brace". This was
reserved for very special occasions, the birth of a Royal Child, or a Royal
Wedding, a job well done, and so on. Splicing the Main Brace meant that we
would be issued a double tot, neat. This double tot, however, had to be
mixed with water, immediately, except for Petty Officers First Class and
Chiefs, who drew their tots neat. Some drank it at once, others took it
away to their mess, to save for whatever reason they had.
	At this point the PO, fortified with two bottles of Fettuccini's
wine, spoke up. He was, as we learned, quite a character, and had been in
the Navy since forever. He had joined the Navy during the Great War, and
his official number was, I believe, 72, which matched his age in my
childish eyes. The PO advised that while he would not be with us during our
time in Cornwallis, he felt the need to begin our education now.
	As the train rocked and rolled gently toward Montreal the PO began
our first lessons in learning a new language: Navy. We learned, amongst
other things, that only civilians sailed "on" a ship. Matelots sailed "in"
a navy ship. He cleared up some misconceptions, most of them caused by
watching too many John Wayne movies. For instance, a door was a door, a
ladder was a ladder and a hatch, which was a covering over a hole in deck,
was a hatch. There were very few "rooms" in a ship. There was the engine
room, and the radio room (although this was usually referred to as a
shack). Rooms were by and large "cabins". The Commanding Officer had a day
cabin, and a sea cabin. Officers slept in cabins. There was a Wardroom,
which was derived from the old RN "Wardrobe Room" where the officers stored
their trunk, and was really the dining room and bar for the
officers. Sub-Lieutenants and Midshipmen ate and drank in the "Gunroom", a
separate compartment - meaning a large space. Lower deckers, which we were
for the foreseeable future, lived in messes, as did the Chiefs and Petty
Officers. These spaces were sometimes called "berthing compartments" but
the PO told us this was really an American navy term, all of which should
be avoided and used at risk of loss of limbs and various body parts if said
in the presence of the more traditional RCN type.
	As we had run out of wine, and the bar opened, the PO took us all
to the first class section and stood us to a beer, although we had to make
an all but blood oath never to tell. I think we all realized that this was
the PO's way of introducing us to what was known as being a part of what
Nelson called the "Band of Brothers". We were bonding, and that is exactly
what we were supposed to do.
	Over our one beer, the PO went on. Floors were decks, ceilings,
deck heads. Windows were windows, but on board ship portholes were
scuttles, and covered by a round metal circle called a "dead light." This
was not to be confused with "Dead Lights", which was a name given to
signalmen who missed an important signal. There were many more definitions,
of course, too many to remember, but we were all given a firm grounding in
our new language.
	We arrived in Montreal and detrained, claimed our small bags and
valises, and were led off to another platform, where we were told to stay
put, not wander off, and wait. We had a four-hour wait before we could
board the "Atlantic Limited", the train that would carry us to
Cornwallis. During this wait we were joined by six more recruits, Montreal
boys, all English. As we got to know each other the PO wandered off to the
taproom of the nearby Windsor Hotel. Don also wondered off, heading to the
public lavatories at the far end of the platform. Although we didn't know
it at the time, Don had an itch to scratch.
	About ten minutes before the train was due to leave, Don returned,
looking flushed but with a very satisfied look on his handsome face. Five
minutes before the train was due to leave, the Escorting PO came onto the
platform, listing lightly, and shooed us on board the "Atlantic Limited".
	The "Atlantic Limited" was a prestige train, much favoured by
tourists. It travelled, after crossing the St. Lawrence, through some of
the most spectacularly beautiful country in Canada, up the Eastern Shore of
Quebec and, after turning south and east at Riviere de Loup, the even more
spectacular countryside of New Brunswick. It was the Dominion Atlantic
Railway's train deluxe and consisted of a long string of sleeping cars,
deluxe sleepers, a parlour car, a dining car and, at the end, an
observation car, called the "Drumhead". All the cars were modern, stainless
steel carriages that glimmered and shone silver in the sunlight. It offered
premium service, not that I had much of it, except in the dining car, and I
did not see anything of the countryside, as it was an overnight service to
St. John, New Brunswick. Once again we were in coach, a most uncomfortable
place to be if the trip were long. I did manage to sleep, but not much, and
I admit that the strangeness of it all kept me awake much of the trip.
	The train arrived in St. John at 0930 the following morning, and we
all detrained and boarded the ferry that would carry us across the Bay of
Fundy, the "Princess Helene". The cars of the train were shunted on board
the ferry and we sailed for the short trip across the Bay of Fundy at
1030. Once again we were in "Coach" so to speak, although most of my
travelling companions spent the crossing on the upper deck, enjoying the
sunshine and, for most them, myself included, their first "sea voyage". The
PO, who had sipped his way from Montreal to Riviere de Loup, through
Edmundston down through Fredericton, spent his time in the lounge, and
sipped his way across the Bay of Fundy.
	We arrived in Digby, Nova Scotia, which is located across Annapolis
Basin from Cornwallis, around 1:00 o'clock. There was another wait while
the train was reassembled and then we were off on the final leg of our
journey, a forty-five minute journey that covered the 30 miles or so to
Cornwallis, stopping briefly at Smith's Cove, Bear River and Deep Brook,
before pulling into Cornwallis station, a long, open platform fronting a
white-painted station, which to me, with its two-storey addition, always
looked more like a caboose than a station.
	On the platform were what looked like, at the time, a hundred
evil-faced demons, all got up in gaiters and looking fierce. Some of them
were Gunnery Instructors, into whose care we would be given, our teachers,
and hopefully, our mentors. Others were members of the Regulating Branch,
"Crushers" as they were called, Naval policemen detailed to ensure that no
unauthorized personnel left the train. Cornwallis was a military
reservation and only military personnel and dependants were allowed to
leave the train.
	Directly across the railroad tracks was an access road, and across
the road was a long, white painted building. This was the Joining Block, a
barracks reserved for New Entries.
	After a maximum of shouting, growling, grumbling and name-calling
the GI's formed the gaggle of recruits into the semblance of a formation
and we were marched, again with shouting, growling and grumbling, the short
distance from the station to the block. An added incentive was
name-calling, not swearing, but name calling, and in the space of five
minutes we were deemed "Sausages", "Horrible Little Men", "Barracks
Stanchions" and "Canada's Last Hope".
	Once inside the block, which was just a long bare room - sorry,
compartment - with bunks down both sides we were told to stow our gear in a
neat pile, and not to nest. We would only be here for 14 days. After
dropping our bags, boxes and suitcases in an untidy heap, we were herded
outside again and loaded on three buses, some of which already had
passengers. These were the boys from "Down East", Haligonians and Newfs for
the most part.
	We were driven through the base to a large reception hall where we
were given a box lunch: one chopped egg sandwich, a carton of not quite
fresh milk, and a lonely looking apple. This was to sustain us until
supper.
	While I ate, I looked around the room and saw that there only about
forty of us. I later learned that while the Navy tried constantly to load
65 bodies a week, recruiting levels were such that we were lucky to have
the numbers we did. Military service, never popular at the best of times,
and the low pay offered, were hardly inducements.
	After we ate a short, slim, quite young lieutenant entered. He
introduced himself as Lieutenant Martel, and told us that he was the
"Gatineau" Divisional Officer. He explained that each New Entry class was
named for a Canadian Destroyer, that he would be responsible for us, and
that we were embarking upon an exciting and stimulating adventure. He told
us that here in a short time we would participate in a program designed to
teach us teamwork, esprit de corps, all of which would help us to become
what Nelson called "A Band of Brothers" - that phrase again. Over the
course of 15 weeks we would foster the ideals through PT, Drill, classroom
instruction and sports. He then added that when we received our white caps
we would be proud to be Canadian Sailors! I heard Harry Oppenheim mutter
something about "the biggest load of crap" he'd ever heard, but I dismissed
his words. I was young and I was going to be made into a man. I should have
listened to Harry.
	From the reception hall we were marched to the Administration
Building where we began our In Routine. Here we were given a sheaf of
papers and a Station Card, which wasn't a card at all, but a small booklet
with a hard, black cover. In it was listed my vital statistics, my rate
(Ordinary Seaman - Unqualified), the mess I would live in, the number of
the bunk I would sleep in, and the number of the locker I would keep my kit
in. As I expected, the Station Card was stamped with a big, red "UA", which
really did not mean all that much. Recruits did not receive a tot.
	From the Admin building we were herded to "Slops", or Clothing
Stores, where we were issued our kit. And dear God there was a lot of
it. First there was our "Basic Issue", items for which replacement was
provided in the Kit Upkeep Allowance, a whole $7.00 a month. This issue
consisted of what seemed to be a hundred different bits and pieces of
clothing and what not, and included a soap bag, two pairs of boots, a
housewife containing needles, different coloured thread and a thimble,
which would come in very handy, gym shoes, which we called "Pusser
Gummers", black and white high tops that I always felt made us look like
adolescents when we were wearing them.  We were issued gym shorts, socks,
gym shirts, which were white T-shirts piped at the neck and sleeves with
deep blue cloth, a pair of dress shoes, six handkerchiefs, four pairs of
cotton boxer undershorts, overshoes, a wonderful warm greatcoat with a
collar so deep that when it was worn up covered the neck up to the rim of
our blue hats. We were also issued two pairs of pyjamas, which none of us
wore, except for Don, and only for the first night, when he was ribbed so
mercilessly about putting on airs that he folded the things away and slept
in his issued underpants thereafter.
	Once everything on the Basic Issue List had been signed for,
checked and packed in a duffle bag - also issued, came the next step, Class
II Issue Kit, the real stuff, the stuff that we all thought made us look
like sailors. First came clothing, two seaman's caps, blue, which we
learned to call our "Kick Me Caps", as they immediately identified anyone
wearing them as low-life New Entries, three worsted serge jumpers, three
pairs of uniform bell-bottom trousers, four gunshirts, two large pieces of
black silk which would have to be sewn and ironed into what was officially
called a uniform scarf but everyone called a silk, three collars, dark blue
denim jackets and trousers, a Seaman's pocket knife, and two lanyards. What
we did not know at the time was that every piece of kit had to be marked,
stamped or embroidered with our first initial, family name, and official
number. I could only echo Harry's muted "Oy vey" as we staggered, laden
with two kit bags and wearing our great coats on a sweltering summer day,
back onto the bus.
	We returned to the Joining Block where our instructors waited. We
were told to dump everything on our bunks. It was then that I noticed that
painted in black on the white bulkhead above each bunk was a number. After
I consulted my Station Card I dumped everything on Bunk 19. Winger was in
20, and Harry had 18. On the unmade bunk was more gear that I was
responsible for: two sheets, a pillow case, a blue checked coverlet, a
warm-looking white wool blanket and a small pile of cloth, blue and white
patches.
	The Chief Instructor for "Gatineau" Division was Chief Petty
Officer Moorhouse, a roly-poly, pink-cheeked man with a Yorkshire accent
that you could cut with a knife. The Block Petty Officer, PO Edgar, was a
thin as the Chief was pudgy. They were both no-nonsense, very experienced
NCOs and their mien gave notice that not only had they seen it all, they
had done it all, and we were warned not to try to put anything past
them. After telling us that it was their job to teach us everything we
needed to know, the Chief told us to "Clean Into Sports Gear". Seeing the
dumb looks on our faces, the Chief explained that sailors never changed
clothing. They "cleaned" into whatever number uniform was required. He then
explained that a certain combination of kit represented a certain number of
uniform. Number 1 was our best uniform, with gold badges and medals. Since
we had neither, we would have to wait to wear it, but it would all become
clear soon enough.
	We began to undress and when we were all down to our underpants, PO
Edgar coughed and ordered us to strip. It took us several minutes to
understand the implication of what the PO had said. He saw the uncertainty
on our faces and explained that the Navy had seen fit to outfit us from the
skin out, and as what we were wearing - tighty-whiteys for the most part -
were not on our scale of issue, therefore we would wear the underpants the
Navy had issued to us.
	There was more hesitation. After all, it's one thing to strip naked
in front of guys you've known all your life. We'd all done it in gym class,
or a swim class. It was quite another thing to reveal your shortcomings to
guys you've known for barely 48 hours, and two strangers you'd just
met. However, we'd taken the Queen's Shilling, so . . .
	I had nothing much to offer, I admit, but what I had was mine, and
if it wouldn't set a size-queen's heart to fluttering, I reasoned that the
guys would see it sooner or later. I glanced at Winger, who seemed to be
having the same thoughts. It was then that we bonded. Almost as one entity
we stripped off our T-shirts, pushed down our tightys, stepped out of them,
gave the PO a "there you go" gesture and naked, rummaged through our pile
of kit for the boxer shorts and gym T-shirt and blue gym shorts.
	We set the trend. Off came Jockeys, white, cotton, or FTL briefs,
cotton, coloured (one daring individual - Don if the truth were told - had
on silk paisley boxers).  On went our brand new, Pusser boxer underpants,
dark blue shorts, a white cotton tee with blue banding around the arms and
neck, white socks, and black high topped gummers.  Now properly dressed, it
was back on the bus, this time to the Base Barber Shop where three barbers,
appropriately named after the hair cuts they gave, "Attila the Hun", I, II
and III, where we were shorn like innocent lambs, "high and tight" on the
sides and back, with just enough hair on top to form a top.
	From the barbershop we were taken to the Mess Hall for supper. The
food was, while not what Mother would cook, plentiful, filling and
surprisingly good. While I was eating I heard a new word to add to my
lexicon of Navy: duff. This was desert, and the supply was more than
generous. I also overheard two of the diners complaining that the duff was
not up to the usual standards. It transpired that the pastry chef, while
young and given to fits of rage, usually directed at Supply Officers, was
off to Ste Hyacinthe, where the School of Cookery was located, on a
course. This did not stop the two ratings from filling their plates with
pie, although one thought aloud that with the cook away on course the
Paybob didn't have to worry about being chased around the Parade Square
with a cleaver!
	After supper we returned to the Joining Block. Here PO Edgar set
down to business. He explained that we would only be here for 14 days, a
period of "settling in", a time to learn the ropes, learn our way about the
sprawling base (we wouldn't see buses again unless we were taken off base),
of learning to live with others. We would also increase our vocabulary of
Navy, and he would try to teach us some of the pitfalls of being what he
called "Bare-assed OD's" - us, and patiently explained that we were rated
as "Ordinary Seamen (Untrained), a rate we would hold until we had received
all of our trades training, which could take up to two years! On the bright
side our pay would then rise to $119.00 a month!  PO Edgar actually managed
to make us feel impressed at the news and, thinking back, he turned out to
be a great guy and was the best teacher I ever had.
	The first order of business was how to make our bunks. PO Edgar
opined that since our mothers did not live with us, and he did, he was not
about to make our beds or tuck us in. To his credit, at the end of the
course, after he had found out that I was an orphan and that my mother had
just recently passed on, he apologized for his clanger. He was truly sorry
if he had caused any offence. That was the type of Petty Officer he was.
	At the time, however, I was too engrossed in trying to make
hospital corners in a sheet that insisted on forming bunny ears, or a rat's
nest. PO Edgar was patience itself as he watched, and instructed, over and
over until we got our bunks made up, the sheets and coverlet so tightly
drawn that he could (and did) bounce a quarter off them.
	Once our bunks were taken care of we then settled in to marking
every piece of kit we owned. To help us there were several sets of brass
stencil letters, which could be fitted together. There was also a punch
set, containing the alphabet and numbers 0 to nine. The PO showed us where
everything had to be marked. He warned us that this was important as every
piece could and would be inspected at any time, more often than not at Kit
Muster, which was usually held once a month, but if the DO (Divisional
Officer) were in a bad mood, every Friday. Some officers had a tendency to
take inspection of kit to extremes. The First Lieutenant (traditionally the
Senior Ranking Lieutenant on Board, and usually responsible for the
cleanliness of the ship) never failed to lift up the collars of our
uniforms at Divisions, to ensure that our name and number had been properly
stencilled on the back. The Lieutenant-at-Arms, the senior Regulating
Officer, and in charge of the Crushers, was infamous for making the Leave
men drop their bell bottoms to make sure that they were wearing clean,
regulation underpants. PO Edgar warned that failure to properly mark a
piece of kit could result in stoppage of leave, always prefaced by a
snarling, "Gimme your card!" This meant surrender of one's Station Card to
whatever authority demanded it, and without your card you could not go
ashore. I filed this information away and made it a point never to come
into contact with either of the two gentlemen if I could help it.

******

	Our first night in Cornwallis passed quickly enough as we used the
supplies provided to mark our kit. As mentioned, each had to bear my
initial, my last name, and my Official Number, which was H64675. What
significance the number had I have no idea. Before the war, and before the
RCNVR became the RCNR, the Navy used the prefix "X", which was a change
from the older system where everybody had a sequential number, as they
still do in RMC, where your number tells you that you were the "x" number
cadet to be enrolled. After the war, the system of introducing the letters
with an "H" letter prefix told anyone interested that you were engaged in a
recruiting centre east of Fort William. Anyone engaged west of Fort William
had the prefix letter "E". I think they were for Halifax, the main east
coast base, and Esquimalt, the main west coast base, although there was no
guarantee that someone with an "H" prefix would ever serve in Esquimalt
(and thus be labelled a "Sandy Bottom Sailor") or and "E" prefixed sailor
in Slackers, as Halifax was called. It also told anyone interested that I
was a Permanent Force, or Regular Force sailor, as opposed to a member of
the Reserve, who had an "R" prefix letter. Officers, of course, had a
different system and all had the prefix letter "O".
	As we worked at our marking, the PO told us that we did not do
laundry. We did a "dhobey". Like so many of our sayings, this was from the
Royal Navy, which was the cradle of the RCN. We never went to the
toilet. We went to heads, which was where sailors went in the old days of
sail and the lavatories, actually open holes in the deck, sometimes with a
handrail, where they went when nature called. We showered and shaved in a
washplace, which was where the showers and sinks were located.
	When I went to bed that night my mind was awash with new terms, new
names, new routines. I slept soundly and did not hear Don spanking the
monkey (as he did every night, without fail). Nobody wore the pyjamas we'd
been issued and to the best of my knowledge they all mouldered away at the
bottom of our lockers, only seeing the light of day at kit muster.
	The next morning I was almost blown from my bunk when the overhead
speakers blared the raucous notes of "Wakey Wakey", the Navy's answer to
"Reveille". I, along with everyone else, staggered into the heads and
washplace for what was delicately called "our morning ablutions". It was
0600, and there was a full day ahead. Just to make sure that we were awake,
and to get the blood to singing, we were off on a morning run, PO Edgar
leading, and much too cheerful than he had a right to be. After our run we
had breakfast, again plentiful and very good and then we began a new round
of visits. The first was to the base hospital where we were once again
medically examined, presumably to assure the powers that be that we hadn't
been damaged in transit.  The Navy would have no truck with damaged
goods. Once assured that we were indeed healthy, and free of the more
common diseases, we went to see the dentist, who checked our teeth. From
the hospital we ran in ragged formation back to Slops where we were issued
the Bible of the Navy: BRCN 67, The Manual of Seamanship, Volumes I and
II. These books were to be our guide and our bane for the next fourteen
weeks.
	We returned to the Joining Block, dumped our books, and had our
first drill period. It stunned some people, particularly Fettuccini
Alfredo, that we actually had a left foot, and a right foot. The drill
period did not go well as across the road and railroad tracks there was a
Greek Chorus of ratings waiting for the down train from Halifax. PO Edgar
told us not to worry, we'd do all right . . . eventually.
	Our days were filled with necessary things to do. Eventually all of
our kit was suitably marked, and we were allowed to wear Number 5's, or
work dress uniforms, but only after we had squeezed, pounded and generally
abused the flat, round, blue caps we had been issued into something that
looked more like a sailor's hat, and less like a Greek Bishop's. We also
had to learn how to tie a proper bow in our cap tallies, which took some
time, but in the end we passed muster and were allowed out in public.
	Of course the blue caps, which together with the coloured patches
sewn on the right sleeve of our jumpers, jackets, gunshirts and work dress
shirts, immediately identified us as recruits, little worms that drew
instant attention from our "trained" betters. Every move we made was
subject to criticism and, in some cases, invective, particularly from the
Parade Staff if we dared to go anywhere near Sacred Ground - the parade
square.
	At the end of our 14-day settling in period, we moved to a new
barracks block, and were officially designated "Gatineau Division". It was
not much of a change, as every block was basically the same as every other
block. During those 14 days I added some new phrases to my increasing
"salty" lexicon, including, amongst others, calling an empty tin container
a "fanny". Calling a tin a fanny derived from an unfortunate incident in
England in 1867 when a young girl, Miss Fanny (or Frances) Adams was
brutally murdered by one Frederick Baker who, when he was finished doing
whatever nefarious things he did to her, dismembered her body and it was
alleged that some of her body parts had turned up in Deptford Victualling
Yard. As the Royal Navy had chosen the same time to begin issuing tinned
mutton, the matelots, being suspicious of anything new, promptly dubbed the
mutton "Fanny Adams". As time passed the "Adams" was dropped, as was the
reference to mutton, and an empty tin container became a "fanny".
	I also learned that I would eventually "swallow the anchor", that
is retire, if I didn't "cross the bar", die, first. I also added a new
lexicon, nicknames. The Navy sailor seems to delight in nicknames. Some
were time honoured traditional nicknames, some of which made sense, and all
of which depended on one's last name. Millers, for instance, were
"Dusty". So were boys named "Rhodes". Redheads were invariably called
"Ginger" (as were boys named Casey), a boy name Lane became "Shady Lane". A
boy named "Brodie" almost always was called "Steve" instead of his real
Christian name, after the only man reputed to have jumped off of the
Brooklyn Bridge and lived. Martins were named "Pincher", reputedly after a
former Impressement Officer who "pinched" unsuspecting sailors and
civilians and "pressed" them into the Royal Navy. The list went on and
on. I, with a last name that had little connection with anything, was not
gifted with a nickname until much later, when I was in Gunnery School.
	From the third week on we were fully integrated into the New Entry
Training scheme, our days filled with classroom instruction interlaced with
parade training, PT and sports. We were taken to the base pool, housed in a
huge galleried structure, with a high diving board, and were taught how to
right an upturned life raft, and abandon ship by jumping from the diving
board. My foresight in bringing more than one bathing suit paid off. The
Hanson brothers had not brought anything, and I gave them my extras. Harry
Oppenheim likewise was forced to "borrow" a swimsuit, from Winger, and
while the suit was a size too small I must admit that Harry filled it well.
	It was during this time in the latter part of the training period
that Winger and I became close. We did everything together, from helping
each other embroider, yes, embroider, our blankets with our names and
numbers, to spending our free time in the Dry Canteen (so called because no
beer was served, just tea, coffee, sodas, or special treats from the in
house soda fountain and ice cream bar).
	I knew that I was falling in love with him. I tried desperately not
to, but failed miserably. If he had been one of the Hanson brothers, or
Fettuccini Alfredo, or Harry Oppenheim, I could have understood it. I did
not and I tried desperately not to give him any indication of the way I
felt. I also learned never to express my true feelings to him or anyone, to
keep my own counsel, and to pretend to be something I was not.  It was in
Cornwallis that I began to develop and nurture my alternate persona.
Stevie Straight-Arrow, the Navy's answer to Captain Canada was born in
Cornwallis.  He almost died there.

******

	I consider myself privileged that while I was in Cornwallis I
observed the coming together of men. This coming together is a slow
process, involving camaraderie, shared joys and sorrows, a bonding process
that occurs only in the military, a shared trust and dependency on each
other to be sure, but a bonding that once it is formed never breaks.
	I would watch, while I exercised my newfound ability to spit shine
the most desperate looking pair of boots, my messmates. I saw them grow
from young boys, frightened, boys, insecure boys, into men, a disparate,
flawed group perhaps, but a true Band of Brothers.
	I also saw their attitudes change. One of the first things to go
were their inhibitions. Every group of men is different, yet the same. We
all started out as normal, run of the mill anal-retentive boys. Life on a
mess deck is open, brutal, and horribly truthful. There is no place for
shyness and before very long nobody seemed to notice the morning woodies
that poked out of our boxers, or that Don thought nothing of parading into
and out of the washplace as naked as a newborn babe. Nobody took umbrage at
the homoerotic badinage that soon developed, well, no one except Winger who
was a prude. We came to recognize that we all had our little quirks of
character, which in the beginning were annoying, but something we
eventually came to accept as just Drew being Drew when he dropped something
- he was a klutz, and no danger - or that Harry Oppenheim, a sweet boy, but
more of a sports nut than a scholar, constantly needed help with his
lessons. He was Harry, and that was it. We thought nothing of Don being
able to embroider, a very necessary skill. We were required to embroider
our names on the thick, wool blankets, and I mean embroidered. Since none
of us new the sharp end from the blunt end of a needle, Don took us in
hand, so to speak, and taught some simple cross-stitching. He could also do
needlepoint, but that was skill we did not need to acquire.
	While we had no true "characters" in our Division, at least not
yet, there were plenty to go around outside the block. There was "Earl, the
Pearl", a short, scrawny, Chief Petty Officer. He did not smoke, drink, or
swear, his most gruesome epithet being, "You sausage!" which came out as
"Thauthage", as he had lisp. Earl was the Base Disbursement Clerk. He had a
small office, and a very large safe, stuffed with money, and he was the
bane and despair of the Master-at-Arms because Earl tended to forget to
close and lock the safe when he went home at night. As rumour had it, the
Master-at-Arms had begged, pleaded, threatened and then, one Friday
morning, acted.
	Friday mornings meant Ceremonial Divisions, with a Guard, the Band,
and everybody who could walk on parade. As we were forbidden to set foot on
the parade square until the bugler sounded "Markers", everybody milled
around the edges, waiting. One Friday morning in the tenth week of our
course someone noticed a large cardboard box set dead centre of the
square. There was some confusion as to what it was doing there, and what it
contained. Nobody thought it might be an infernal device - nobody was angry
with anyone that we knew of and none of the Divisional Officers had
received death threats of late. The Lieutenant-at-Arms, an officious prick,
was more or less forced to go out and examine the strange box. He seemed to
sniff it before tapping the box lightly with his finger. When nothing
happened he poked it with the tip of his sword - in those days all officers
wore swords on parade. When the box did not blow up he squatted down and
carefully opened the top of the box, which wasn't sealed and fell back on
his butt, much to the general merriment of the assembled ship's company. It
turned out that the box contained the contents of Earl's safe, thousands of
dollars, every penny of which Earl was responsible for.
	Poor Earl had a nervous breakdown, or close to it. He didn't know
how the money had got from his safe to the parade square. He swore up hill
and down dale that he had locked the safe, at least he thought he had. He
was hauled before the Commanding Officer, cautioned, fined $50.00 and sent
away to sin no more. He was also detailed a Yeoman whose sole job was to
make sure that the safe was locked every night.
	For weeks Earl mooched around, waiting for someone to come and try
to rob him again. He accused, amongst others, the Lieutenant-at-Arms, the
Executive Officer, and the Master-at-Arms who was, as it turned out, the
culprit. He had been called out of his bed by the Shore Patrol, who had, in
the course of their normal duties, checked the offices in the Admin
Building. The Master-at-Arms, finally at the end of his tether, had scooped
the cash, found a box, and Earl the Pearl and the Lost Treasure of
Cornwallis became legend.
	Lieutenant Martel, our Divisional Officer, was also a character. He
was one of those men who knew how to inspire, knew when to crack the whip
and when to back off. He had a wicked sense of humour, and did not suffer
fools gladly. High on the list of Lieutenant Martel's List of Fools was the
Lieutenant-at-Arms, Lieutenant Unwin, a slim, short, Bandy rooster of a man
who strutted about in patent gaiters and found fault with anything and
everything he set eyes on. He was, as the saying went, all "Gate and
Gaiters", mouth and obsession with his twin Bibles, Queen's Regulations and
Orders, and Base Standing Orders, which he would quote, chapter and verse,
at the drop of a hat. He also had a special venomous hate of for New
Entries. Nothing they did pleased him and he seemed go out of his way to
find fault with them.
	Naturally obnoxious, Lieutenant Unwin's mood was not improved when
he celebrated the Feast of the Passed Over, for the second time, in
June. The writing was on the wall, and he knew it and the knowledge that
his commission in Cornwallis would be his last became a festering sore.
	Lieutenant Martel, for the most part an easygoing man, did his best
to deflect Unwin's bile, and for the most part, succeeded. He and the
Lieutenant-at-Arms had a knock down, drag out fight one morning after Unwin
complained that our rhythmic stamping as we ran our morning run was out of
sync! Lieutenant Martel told Unwin to shove his telescope, which he always
carried clutched in the pit of his left arm, where the sun don't
shine. Relations took a definite downhill turn after that.
	Things were relatively quiet, though, until the end of our 12th
week of training. Two things happened. First we were issued more kit:
summer white drill uniforms. We were also detailed off, with St. Laurent
Division to form the Guard at our Passing Out Parade, our graduation
parade, when Vice-Admiral H.S. Rayner, Chief of the Naval Staff, would
inspect us.
	How Gatineau Division had been selected I have no idea. We weren't
the sharpest, I admit, but we didn't look too sloppy on parade. Much of our
drill had been foot drill, and our knowledge of Drill with Arms was
minimal. I suspect that the names of all the New Entry Divisions were
thrown into a hat and the two that came out were the losers. Or the Gunnery
Officer consulted the entrails of a chicken. Not that it mattered, we were
the Guard, and our training schedule was changed accordingly.
	Each morning, after Divisions, under the gimlet and not too gentle
eyes of four of the most intolerant Gunnery Instructors God has ever given
breath to, we drew .303's and scabbarded bayonets from the Armoury,
adjusted our webbing, and presented arms, sloped arms, fixed bayonets,
unfixed bayonets and so on for the next two hours. It was gruelling, but we
were assured that we had been chosen because we were the best, which
surprised most of us as that particular title was usually given to the
platoons of officer cadets, who also trained in Cornwallis.
	Being in the Guard not only meant extra drill, but extra work. We
set aside one set of our blue uniforms as our No. 1's. The jumper, silk,
gunshirt, and bell-bottoms had to be immaculate, and free of Irish
Pennants. PO Edgar inspected them almost daily. One of our two pairs of
boots was designated our "Parade Boots". They were sent off to the cobbler
and half-moon cleats and toe cleats put on the heels and soles. These had
to be spit shined and carefully stored in our lockers, like sacred relics,
until the day! The scabbards of the bayonets we'd been issued also had to
be spit shined, a labour intensive effort as it seemed to take forever to
put a base coat on the metal scabbards. As we wore them at every practice
the polish rubbed off and we had to polish them all over again when
practice was over. Our gaiters and belts had to be blancoed a spotless
white, and we still had to keep up our classroom work. It was all very
trying.
	Being the Guard might have been an honour, but it was, at first, to
us, a pain in the ass. However, as the days drew nearer and nearer to the
Passing Out Parade a new feeling began to come over us. We were the Guard,
we were trained, and suddenly our movements became sharper, our uniforms
without reproach. We became The Guard. It was all very inspiring, and we
were spurred on by the venomous comments of the Lieutenant-at-Arms, who
always manage to find an excuse to stroll by while we were at drill. After
his run in with Lieutenant Martel, Lieutenant Unwin did not verbalize his
disapproval, but his dark looks, and shaking his head told us what he was
thinking. In a way, it spurred us to even greater efforts. We became
determined to show the little dickhead just what we could do.
	As always happened, the day before the Passing Out Parade was
"dress rehearsal" day. In the morning we were marched over to Slops where
the balance of our kit was issued to us, more gunshirts, gold wire "Canada"
badges, and two white caps, the sign that we were now "trained" and ready
to go out to the Fleet! It didn't matter that we could not wear the caps
until the actual parade, or that they had to be pummelled and beaten into
proper shape. We were sailors at last!
	After Stand Easy we formed up on the parade square and Lieutenant
Martel put us through a set of preliminary drills. We were not surprised to
see Lieutenant Unwin, and the Master-at-Arms stroll by, the one to confirm
his opinion that we were the dregs of Creation, the other to make sure that
we were Ship Shape and Bristol Fashion and wouldn't make fools of
ourselves. Unwin could not say too much, at least out loud, but he didn't
disappoint us. The Master-at-Arms looked pained, and was obviously
uncomfortable but he couldn't say a word to his superior officer. Unwin
walked along, and then, just as he passed the rear file of the Guard he
turned and in a voice loud enough for us to hear, told the Master-at-Arms
that, "A pack of dogs can be trained to do a better job than that scruffy
lot!"
	Lieutenant Martel, his anger rising, glared after the departing
Lieutenant Unwin and then did something that surprised us all. He shook his
head, smiled, and said, "Right, lads, let's have a beer." Seeing the looks
on our faces - as New Entries we were not allowed to drink - he assured us
that he meant every word. He led us, all 76 of us, behind the Wardroom,
spoke to the Chief Steward, and before we knew it we were all sitting
around sipping a cold Ohland's. As we sipped we watched as a smile began
spreading across Lieutenant's Martel's face. He looked at us and opined
that it was unfortunate that the Lieutenant-at-Arms thought that a pack of
dogs could do better. He also wondered idly if the good Lieutenant Unwin
had ever seen a pack of dogs that had been taught Drill With Arms. Shaking
his head he wondered aloud what would happen if a well-trained pack of dogs
actually did turn up on parade. We weren't stupid, and we very quickly
understood what Lieutenant Martel was getting at. We put our heads together
and before very long the Chief Steward poked his head out of the back door
of the Wardroom, wondering what all the barking was about.
	After lunch we cleaned into our uniforms, took up our rifles,
formed up and marched briskly from our barracks to the parade square.
	Navy parades always follow the same pattern. After the parade is
formed, the parade commander turns the parade over to the Commander - the
Executive officer - who in turn hands it into the care of the Commanding
Officer, who then gives the whole thing into the care of the Inspecting
officer. Officers wear their swords and those who have them sling their
gongs. The band plays appropriate salutes and insipid inspection
music. It's all very formal, but very inspiring.
	As this was only a dress rehearsal, the Commanding Officer and
Executive Officer stood to one side of the half-moon-shaped inspecting
dais, the better to observe. Their places were taken by the Principal
Medical Officer, the PMO, a four-ringer, and the Supply Officer, both of
whom seemed to have nothing better to do that afternoon. The First
Lieutenant would play the role of the Inspecting Officer.
	The practice started out as normal. The parade was mustered,
markers called, the GI's patrolled the sides and back, snapping and
snarling like mastiffs at any imagined movement, the Guard and the Band
marched on. Everybody performed their role and then the Inspecting Officer
came onto the dais. At this point there was to be a General Salute. The
Band Master raised his baton, the trumpeters drained their spit valves, and
the snare drummers brought their sticks up parallel to their noses. This
was the moment when the Guard Officer, Lietuenant Martel, was supposed to
order: "Guard, General Salute, Present - Arms!"
	Only he didn't.
	What came out was what sounded like a dachshund on heat: "Aroof -
Ruff Ruff Ruff, Aroof - WOOF!"
	We all knew, of course, what Lieutenant Martel meant and we
presented arms with a precision that would have made the heart of an old
Whale Island Chief skip a beat. The Band Master dropped his baton, the lead
snare drummer dropped a stick, which landed on the head of his drum with a
hellacious bang, the Commanding Officer looked around to see if perhaps one
of the mutts that infested the Marriage patch had managed to cross Highway
One without being turned into road kill (a regular occurrence) and our
Division Chief, who was standing on the sidelines, clutched his chest with
a look on his face that was either a harbinger of a coronary infarction, or
an attack of wind.
	Training prevailed, however, and the band, true "artistes" all,
crashed out the "General Salute". The First Lieutenant saluted smartly,
smiling, for he was in on the game. The Commander, his fingers quivering,
clutched the pommel of his sword so tightly that I am sure he left a
permanent impression of his fingerprints in the ivory. He could do nothing
to stop what was happening. He was a spectator, and all he could to was to
"spectate", although nobody doubted that he would wreak vengeance after the
parade.
	When the last note of the "General Salute" sailed westward over
Annapolis Basin, Lieutenant Martel marched forward, saluted and reported
the Guard ready for inspection. He growled a reasonable impression of one
of my neighbour's poodle chasing a critter, which translated, roughly, into
"Guard Ready For Inspection, Lieutenant Martel reporting. Will you inspect,
sir?"
	The First Lieutenant, almost busting a gut trying not to laugh, his
eyes sparkling with glee, returned, "Woof Woof", which we all took to mean,
"Yes, please!"
	As the First Lieutenant navigated his way through the small throng
of spectators that lined the dais behind him. Lieutenant Unwin, who had
been growling and rumbling like an altered bulldog, completely ignored the
restraining hand of the Master-at-Arms and stepped out, confronting the
First Lieutenant. The First Lieutenant could hardly slap down the
Lieutenant-at-Arms in front of the assembled ship's company. They were
fellow officers, after all, and slapping downs were always done in
private. What Unwin said to the First Lieutenant we in the Guard couldn't
hear, but what happened next came across loud and clear: The First
Lieutenant, leaning slightly forward, let loose with a barrage of snarls,
growls, an occasional woof, and at the end, a loud snap! We all gleefully
translated this to mean, "Fuck Off, Fool!"
	To much tittering and restrained laughter from the peanut gallery,
the First Lieutenant inspected the Guard, and while he didn't say a word,
his face told it all: we'd done good!
	When the parade finally ended we fully expected a rocket from
someone in authority. This didn't happen and we were encouraged, as we
marched off and passed platoon after platoon, we heard muted comments, such
as "Good on ya", "Right on, mates", and one "Well done the Sprogs!" Those
comments alone made what we had done all the more worthwhile, and being
called children didn't bother us at all.
	After we returned our rifles we returned to our block, fully
expecting the wrath to descend. It didn't. Lieutenant Martel came back with
us and studiously ignored the washtub that had mysteriously appeared during
our absence and was placed in the middle of the mess deck, filled with ice
and bottles of beer, and surrounded by stacked plastic beer glasses!
	We cleaned into our sports gear and began the process of preparing
our uniforms for the parade next morning, scrubbing, ironing and bashing
our new white caps into shape. The old Division Chief, looking as merry as
an elf, came in and began to make the rounds, ostensibly checking to make
sure that we would look our prettiest the next day. He never said a word
about what happened on the parade square and denied all knowledge of a
large jug that had suddenly appeared beside the washtub of beer. He
pretended to sniff the contents of the jug, tipped it up and sipped the
contents of the jug, and smiled.
	Coughing, and pretending to be all Gate and Gaiters, the Chief
observed that alcohol on the mess deck was strictly forbidden, but then
again, he didn't see the point in gashing good Pusser rum! He hefted the
jug and opined that there might, just might, be a tot in it for
everybody. Not enough "To off whatever's in a mug when offered by a friend
Bob's-a-Dying", which we took to mean a real down home piss-up, but enough
to wet our whistles and get a glow on. We later learned that the beer had
come from the Gunnery Division and the rum from the Chiefs Mess. Adequate
supplies had also been delivered to St. Laurent Block. It was very clear
that Lieutenant Unwin was not the most popular man aboard.
	The results of our "Dawg Day Afternoon" were really
low-key. Nothing happened to us sprogs, but Lieutenant Martel did receive a
rocket, a little one, from the Commander. As for Lieutenant Unwin, he was
so shaken by what had happened, and humiliated beyond belief, he never
appeared the next morning. He had spent the afternoon after the practice,
in the Wardroom drinking "Gin and It," gin with a splash of Angostura
bitters until he fell of his bar stool and had to be helped home to his
long suffering wife, who put him to bed and decamped for her mother's.

******

	I spent the last night of my time in Cornwallis watching and
thinking, polishing my boots and sipping my tot. I listened to my mates as
they exchanged cracks and insults, and for the first time I realized that
what we had was over, the friendship would remain, but the closeness that
had been mine for 15 weeks was about to end. I also realized that I would
miss them, and that while we would meet again, we would never again all be
together. I could feel Winger's bare arm brush mine as he sat beside me
making slow, concentric circles on the toe of his parade boots, polishing
and polishing, bringing them to diamond-like brilliance.
	I was in a quandary, for I knew how I felt about Winger, and I
didn't know what to do. I wanted him, I thought I needed him, and I didn't
know how to tell him. Fear of his reaction kept me silent for 15
weeks. Fear that he might hate me when I told him how I felt, kept my true
feelings locked inside me.
	Winger was my mate, my best friend, and I worried and worried. We
had done nothing wrong, never even played grab ass with each other. Sex had
never been a part of our friendship, no matter how much I might have wanted
it to be. Of course sex, no matter what the form, was the one thing that
supposedly never happened in Recruit School.
	I looked up and saw PO Edgar, helping Harry put the finishing
touches on a new silk they'd just sewn and wondered if the PO knew what
happened when he left us at night.
	We were all healthy young men, with a normal young man's
appetite. That appetite had to find release in some way and I came to
realize that the PO, if not QR&O's, understood. If you put a group of young
men into virtual isolation, deny them the normal outlets of female
companionship, inevitably they would end up seeking solace from each other,
or in masturbation, which is what happened.
	The Military to this day steadfastly refuses to believe that a 17-
or 18-year-old male has certain itches that need to be scratched, sometimes
not often, sometimes as often as time and privacy allowed. Beating off was
as natural as breathing, and everybody did it. One of the first things we
all learned was how to master the art of the silent jerk off. Everybody
went to bed with a "shot mat," an old T-shirt, a towel, or a hanky. We all
knew that masturbating was a chargeable offence, the evidence of it being
cum stains on our sheets, which we changed once a week, and which were
rightly assumed were examined carefully by the PO Storekeeper for
suspicious stains. Still we did it.
	At first everybody, from Winger on down to Dusty Miller, the
youngest member of the Division, tried to beat off as quietly as
possible. It was embarrassing, after all, to be caught choking your
chicken, but it was either spank the monkey or blow up!
	At first we all pretended nothing of the sort went on once the
lights went out. Later, when we had come to know each other, hearing
someone doing the dirty became the butt of jokes and ribbing. Knowing that
Winger was happily taking care of business in the next bunk never bothered
me, just as hearing Fettuccini Alfredo huffing and puffing away became a
normal, expected part of mess life. Eventually nobody said anything,
although an occasional "Thank God, he's done!" would float through the
darkened block.
	That is not to say that there was no sex going on, something that
always bothered me because in a way the acts betrayed the trust placed in
us by PO Edgar. He was always there for us, always ran interference when he
felt it necessary, and was gentle with his few expressions of
disapproval. He trusted, when he left at the end of the day, "went ashore"
as he put it, that we would behave properly. Many years later he told me
that he'd known what was going on, that it always happened and short of
tying our hands to the bed frame, what was he supposed to do? I confess
with no little shame that I never told him about the Hanson brothers, or
Don.
	The PO spent long hours with us every day, never going ashore most
nights until "Last Post" had been sounded. He lived ashore with his family
in the marriage patch across Highway 1 and I know he devoted far more time
to us than he did to his wife and three sons. I met them one Sunday morning
after church, and I must say that I agreed with him when he said that his
sons favoured his wife, a pretty little thing. His sons were tall and
blond, with proper Navy haircuts. The two older boys wore long trousered
suits, starched white shirts and ties. The youngest, Aaron, was dressed the
way a proper young boy of the time was supposed to dress for church: short
trousers, white ankle socks, a matching jacket, a white shirt and dark bow
tie, and spit-shined oxfords. PO Edgar had a handsome clan, and we never
truly appreciated the personal sacrifices he made for us. Had I had a
better understanding I might have told him what really went on.
	The Hanson brothers were, and I suppose still are, fine, handsome
men, blond, perhaps too good looking for their own good, and boys any
mother would be proud to call her own. Of course, mother might not approve
of what they did as soon as the block door slammed shut behind PO Edgar.
	While the rest of us would clear up what we were doing, and settle
into bed, Ted and Drew would wait until the lights went out and then sneak
out the back fire door. They had found a bolthole and there they proceeded
to do what they had been doing every night since they reached puberty: they
gave each other needed relief. Most nights, or so I later came to
understand from their snickering, they would just jerk each other off. Some
nights, however, after a particularly stressful day, Drew would lower his
head and take his brother into his mouth. Ted would, when he was finished,
reciprocate. They never did anything with anybody else, and they went to
great pains to never let us know what they were doing, or where they were
doing it. As I say, it was something they had done for years, and saw no
reason to stop now. It was a brother thing, and that was all there was to
it.
	What they were doing was also dangerous. The Crushers patrolled the
barracks blocks constantly, and there were the Night Roundsmen, who checked
every block to make sure that we were in bed and that there was nothing
amiss. Still, Ted and Drew did it, and never gave it another thought.
	Don also felt the need to take the night air. He always waited
until the Hanson brothers returned and then he was gone, to return in the
morning hours to settle in his bunk with what I thought was a satisfied,
happy little sigh.
	We all suspected that Don was as queer as a duck. He acted a little
odd, true, but he never made a move on any of us. He participated in the
usual mess deck nonsense, and while his eyes did sparkle brightly whenever
he saw Fettuccini walking about with a bone on, he never reached out to
touch. As far as Don was concerned we, his messmates, were off limits,
period. For our part, while we might wonder where Don went at night, we
never asked. He was one of us, a mate, and you never, ever, squealed on a
mate. Winger, who might grumble and mutter his dark suspicion that Don had
found another "playmate" of like persuasion - which as it turned out, he
had, a sick Bay Tiffy with the keys to the hospital linen stores - kept his
mouth shut, especially after being confronted by Harry Oppenheim, who dared
Winger to say what everybody thought and report Don to the Chief, or PO
Edgar. So far as Harry was concerned if Don was getting his rocks off with
a like-minded matelot, who cared? He wasn't swinging from Winger's dick,
was he? What Don did was his business, and none of ours.
	Winger, much to his distress, had to admit to the logic of Harry's
tirade. He never squealed on Don, and he never squealed on me.

******

	During that last night, as I watched and listened to my messmates,
I had a niggling feeling that something was not quite right. At first I
could not put my finger on it, and then I realized that we were all more or
less cut from the same cloth - we were all white. We were supposed to be a
cross-section of Canada, but we were not. There were boys in my Division
from Ontario, from Manitoba, from Newfoundland and from Nova Scotia, from
New Brunswick and Cape Breton Island, and we were all white. It was a sad
commentary of the times that there were very few people of colour in the
Navy then, no blacks, no Orientals, no Aboriginals and in fact, a mere ten
years earlier there had been none at all in the Navy. Until 1952 Naval
recruits had to certify that they were of "pure European descent", which
was interpreted as whites only, no Jews or Coloured need apply.  Racism and
prejudice was not confined to small town Ontario.
	I also had a lesson in the demographics of the times. Back home I
had often peeked to see what my mates looked like. Aside from Piers
Gaveston, and his dick of death, everybody looked the same, and up to a
point, everybody in my division looked more or less the same as I did. What
I did discover, though, was that there were subtle differences. What I saw
was that nearly every boy born west of Quebec had undergone a refit. There
were exceptions, however, to this rule of thumb. Fettuccini Alfredo,
although born in Toronto, had original fittings. I recalled the Mennonite
boys back home and put this down to Fettuccini's coming from an ethnic
background and religion that did not conform to the prevailing
mores. Fettuccini boasted a long, veined tube of flesh that he was
inordinately proud of, and when it became angry stood up to I swear nine
plus inches of thickness, the foreskin drawn back to reveal a huge
plum-like head. I could well understand after seeing him in all his glory
why he left four girls wailing on the platform back in Toronto. The only
one who came close to Fettuccini was Harry Oppenheim, who had a beauty,
sleeping or aroused.
	My conclusion was further buttressed by the one Newfoundlander in
the barracks, and two of the four Haligonians. All of them had original
fittings.
	At first it was very difficult to sit back and try not to look. Of
course at first we all did, checked each other out, and commented, for or
against, until eventually it became just part of living with a bunch of
guys. While I might have had the shape and size of every dick in the mess
etched in my brain, still I looked, never commented, and never touched. I
did, sometimes, fantasize about the other guys, but as the weeks passed I
found myself more and more being attracted to Winger. He was no looker, and
certainly would never win a blue ribbon for what he had between his legs
but . . . he was handsome in my eyes and his image filled my thoughts
nightly.

******

	Graduation Day finally arrived. Once the parade was over we would
scatter, some to Halifax, some to Esquimalt, wherever our trades training
took us. Throughout out our training, aside from the usual marching,
drilling, sports, PT and classroom work, we were subjected to a barrage of
aptitude tests. These were supposed to give the Navy an idea where we would
best fit in the great scheme of things. We had been asked, at the beginning
of our course, what trade we would like to follow, with two alternates. I
chose gunnery, for no particular reason, followed by Boatswain, and the
Regulating Branch. Again, I had no real intention to follow the latter two
courses, but we had to put something down. Don, with two years of pre-Med
under his belt, opted for Sick Bay Attendant. Harry had put down Gunnery as
his first choice, as had the Hanson brothers. Winger had opted to become a
Naval Communicator.
	The parade went off without a hitch, with no one making a fool of
himself, and no barking. The Admiral was gracious, and complimented the New
Entries, now Ordinary Seaman as signified by our brand new Pusser white
caps, on our drill and general turnout. We left the parade square feeling
rather proud of ourselves and none of us wanted to think about what was to
come next.
	After stowing our rifles and returning our webbing, we went off to
begin our Out Routines. The first office we went to would determine our
fate. This was the Admin Office and here we received our Draft Chits. I was
pleasantly surprised to learn that I had got my wish - I was drafted to the
School of Gunnery in HMCS Stadacona. Winger was staying in Cornwallis,
drafted to the Communications School. Just about everybody had got what
they asked for, except for Don. He'd been drafted to the Gunnery school, as
had the Hansons, and Harry. Don grumbled and mumbled and then went off,
vowing to remuster at the earliest opportunity. The rest of us finished our
Out Routine and finished packing.
	The Passing Out Parade was timed so that those of us with a draft
could catch the train leaving for Halifax at 1209. There was no time for
lunch and just enough time to pack and walk to the station. Winger insisted
on accompanying me.
	Part of me wanted him to walk me to the station. Another part did
not. I was leaving him, which I did not want to do, and had the niggling
feeling that I would never see him again. Still, he insisted. We said
goodbye to the Chief and PO Edgar, and began the slow walk to the
station. The Hanson boys, and Harry and Don, had hurried ahead and Winger
and I had an opportunity to say our own goodbyes. He had hoisted my kit bag
on his shoulder and I couldn't see his face as I told him how much he'd
meant to me, how much I would miss him. We walked along, not pausing to
glance at the small flotilla of boats that coasted along the calm waters of
Annapolis Basin, as I tried to express in convoluted words how I felt. As
we walked along the roadway that paralleled the railway tracks I asked him
if we could keep in touch.  He replied that he hoped we would. We were
wingers, and he liked me a lot.
	I should not have done it, but I did. I could not simply leave and
say nothing. I had been raised to never lie, never obfuscate, and never
quibble. Tell the truth and you never had to keep track of the lies.
	I asked Winger to stop, and blurted out my true feelings for him.
I told him that I loved him, and that I wanted to be with him always.
Winger stared at me and I realized that I had made one very big mistake. I
should have listened to his snide cracks about Don being queer, and what
faggots the Hansons were. I should have kept my big mouth shut but again, I
could not leave without making some expression of how I felt. What I did
not realize was that by telling him I loved him I had, unknowingly, but in
his eyes, assaulted his morals and insulted his manhood.  I should have
expected his reaction.  Had I been older, or wiser, I would have.
	Winger dropped my kit bag and glared at me, hate quickly filling
his eyes. He sputtered a bit, then reach out and put his hands around my
neck. I grabbed his wrists, but he was very strong, and I could not pull
him away.  As he squeezed the breath from me he called me every filthy,
venom-soaked name he could think of.  I was called a cocksucker, a bone
eater, gearbox, butt fucker, you name it, and he called me it.
	I didn't flinch, and I didn't beg him not to hurt me or to forgive
me. I knew instinctively that I had crossed a line that I should not have
crossed. I had tried to bring my world into his; a world where people like
me did not exist, ever.
	My silence, I think, confused him.  A queer did not act this way. A
queer moaned and cried, and begged not to be hurt. A queer was a coward.
He dropped his hands from my throat and raised his fist.
	"You disgust me!" he spat, and punched me square in the balls. As I
lay writhing on the ground and vomiting my lunch, he gave me a kick in the
ribs, and spat on me.  He kicked me again. "Fucking fag!" he ejaculated.
"Fucking, fucking, fag!"  As Winger hurried away I picked myself up, wiped
the blood from my face, and slowly walked to the station. I lied and told
the others that I'd tripped and fallen against the rail lines. Don was all
mother hennish, and helped me clean up. By the time the train arrived I was
presentable enough to pass the scrutiny of the Crushers who were always on
the platform when a train arrived.
	I spent the entire trip to Halifax, hunched in my seat, not eating,
not sleeping, refusing even the comfort the others offered me. I had no
idea what I was going to do, what was going to happen to me. My physical
injuries were minor; my emotional injuries were not. I hurt deep inside. I
had loved Winger, he'd been my first love, and his rejection hurt beyond
description.
	As the train rattled northward through the Annapolis Valley I tried
to understand why Winger had reacted so harshly. I was much too young and
inexperienced to understand that his motives might have been inspired by
fear that his attraction to me had grown into something he could not
understand or handle, or by a very real ingrained loathing of queers. I had
seen the hatred back home, read it in the newspapers, and heard it in
church. Not that it mattered. Winger was lost to me and while I mourned the
loss, I also determined never to put myself in that position again, and my
closet became deeper and darker.

******

	For a long time after I left Cornwallis I worried that Winger might
report me to the Master-at-Arms. He didn't. He was one of my term mates,
and a term mate, a messmate, never squealed on a brother. I never saw him
again. I did hear that he'd completed his signals course and been drafted
to Esquimalt where he served one hitch and took an easy out.
	As the train rolled toward Halifax I realized that I could never
again express my true feelings to any man. I would not become emotionally
evolved if I could avoid it.
	I try to tell myself that I got over Winger, but in truth I never
did. So much so that even now, forty years later, I keep his picture close
to me.