As night descended on Heron Spit, the cadets and officers who lived aboard settled into their Silent Hours routines. Harry, after showering, donned a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and then went off to visit his Sea Puppies, who were listlessly complaining and grumbling about the heat. Even with all the windows open their barracks was an oven.

Harry told his young charges to take their mattresses, pillows and counterpanes out to the harbour side of their barracks. Tonight they all would sleep outdoors. In the interest of modesty he also told the boys to put on their shorts. They all trooped outside and set up camp, the Sea Puppies chattering and giggling as they settled down for the night. Harry sat to one side, joking and laughing with the younger boys, watching and listening as in ones and twos the Puppies drifted off to sleep.

As the last of the cadets drifted off Harry sat for a while, enjoying the soft night, watching the harbour lights and listening to the faint sounds of laughter and music that drifted across the harbour from the town opposite. When the Duty Watch wandered by he walked with No “H” and Two Strokes down the row of sleeping boys, listening to their soft breathing, adjusting a counterpane here and there.

When No “H” and Two Strokes disappeared around the corner of the barracks Harry thought about holding a live fire exercise with the Pride. The memory of the dream he’d been having when Cory woke him up still lingered. He slipped his hand down the front of his shorts (he wasn’t wearing any underwear) and let his fingers toy with the warm, sculptured head of the Pride.

Harry was quite enjoying himself when one of the Puppies grunted and squirmed in his sleep. Harry quickly withdrew his hand deciding, reluctantly, and in the interest of decency, not to bother jerking off. There were 38 inquisitive cadets sleeping around him and it would be better not to chance it than to have one of them wake up while he was in mid-stroke. He sighed heavily, crossed his arms and laid his head back against the barracks wall. Harry loved his Puppies, but being a Sea Daddy was a pain in the ass at times.

In the Cooks’ barracks, Randy and Joey unpacked their clean laundry and carefully rolled and folded the gunshirts, underwear, T-shirts and socks to the regulation pattern before stowing everything away in their lockers. Since they were as ready as they ever would be for tomorrow’s inspection - their bell-bottoms and gunshirts ironed and hanging in readiness, their boots spit shined to a high gloss - they took out clean towels and briefs and sat impatiently on the steps of the barracks, waiting for Chef to leave the Mess Hall.

The boys watched and giggled at Kevin, who paced up and down in front of the Mess Hall, went into the Mess Hall, left the Mess Hall, paced nervously back and forth, then ran into the building through the main doors when Chef emerged from the side door.

Randy and Joey exchanged evil grins as they waited for what they thought was a decent interval, giving Kevin and Ray (who they knew had been with Chef) time to settle into whatever routine they were going to settle into.

While the two young cooks were waiting impatiently No “H” and Two Strokes, doing Rounds, came down the path. The boys quickly hid their towels and greeted the Officer of the Day and the Duty Chief. Two Strokes chided them for being out on such a hot night. Joey protested that the barracks were too hot to sleep in and please, Chiefie, they just wanted to catch a breath of air. No “H” told them not to stay up past Last Post and then he and Two Strokes walked off in the direction of the canteen. Randy and Joey waited a little while longer and then scurried over to the galley showers.

After a cooling, tepid shower they walked hand-in-hand, naked, into the lounge, and settled on one of the sofas. They necked and fondled each other for a bit, and at first they were quite content. In a very little while, however, they both began sweating profusely. The small lounge had become a hotbox and they had not dared to open the windows in the room for fear of attracting the attention of the patrolling Duty Watch and, as the temperature in the room rose higher, they both decided to hell with it. It was too hot to fuck or fight, so they took another shower, returned to their barracks, and went to bed.

Before he drifted off to sleep Randy whispered, wondering facetiously where Ray was. Joey giggled but said nothing. He had a very good idea exactly where Ray was, and whom he was with.

******

“ . . . So, what else did he say?” asked Kevin as he ran his fingers down Ray’s treasure trail. They were lying on the opened sofa bed in Chef’s office. Ray was lying spread-eagled with Kevin between his legs. Because the shades were drawn they had left the small desk lamp on, the dim light casting dark shadows toward the ceiling.

Ray groaned slightly as Kevin’s hand found his testicles and began kneading and rolling the firm ovals of delight. He glanced down and saw Kevin’s erection, hard, very pink, and pointing straight at him. Ray reached down and rubbed the head of his lover’s erection with his thumb, wiping away a minute drop of precum. Kevin retaliated by running his tongue along the underside of Ray’s erection. Ray squirmed and moaned softly, “God, that feels so good!”

Kevin giggled and licked the firm, pink, mushroom-shaped head of Ray’s penis. “So?”

Ray looked at Kevin through hooded eyes. “Are we fucking or talking?”

Kevin laughed and straddled Ray’s chest. “Both,” he replied. He bent down and kissed Ray’s nose. “You have a nice nose, Ray. And a nice dick.” He lowered his body slightly, stopping when he felt the heat of Ray’s penis touch his testicles. Panting, he began dragging his balls up and down the length of Ray’s increasingly hard cock.

Ray, who was enjoying what Kevin was doing to him, decided to get it over with. The sooner he shut Kevin up the sooner they could get down to some serious loving. “Well, if you must know,” he began, “after he told me how much he cared for me, and admitted that he loved me like a son, and told me that no matter what, he would always feel that way, he beat about the bush some.”

While Ray was talking Kevin continued to rub his balls up and down the length of Ray’s incredibly smooth, iron-hard cock. Ray began making strange faces and breathing heavily, a sure sign that he was about to erupt, so Kevin backed off and returned to his original position between his lover’s legs. “Go, on,” coached Kevin. “What else?”

Ray caught his breath and sailored on. “Like I said, he beat about the bush, then he finally said that it didn’t matter to him that I was gay.”

“Good of him to say so,” interrupted Kevin. He bent forward and seemed to be examining Ray’s erection.

“Do you want me to continue?” asked Ray impatiently.

“Sure.”

“Well shut up and listen.” Ray squirmed in delight as Kevin once again licked his penis. “Kevin, I can’t concentrate if you keep doing that.”

Kevin giggled and rolled to one side. He snuggled close to Ray and threw his arm across his chest. “Brief rest. I was getting too horny, anyway.”

Ray growled in frustration. “I really don’t see what Chef said to me has to do with you.”

“Come on, Ray, he’s not stupid. He had to know that we were in here last night.”

“He does,” confirmed Ray. “He told me that he understood that I would want to have sex with someone, and he was fine with that, so long as the guy treated me decently and that it was what I wanted to do.”

“A guy does have urges, Ray, especially at our age.” Kevin leaned over and kissed Ray’s nipples. “Did I ever tell you that you have the nicest tasting skin?”

“Keviiiin,” moaned Ray.

Kevin took the hint. “To be honest I’m surprised that he didn’t turn down the sheets and put a rose on the pillow.”

Ray sniffed. “Don’t tell me. Rogering on the Range again?”

“No, Chatelaine,” replied Kevin with a wide grin. “You should read some of the stuff they put in that magazine. It’s better than Penthouse.”

“And how would you know?” demanded Ray.

“My mother subscribes to Chatelaine and my brothers buy Penthouse,” replied Kevin. He snuggled closer to Ray and gently rubbed his nipples. “Then what did Chef say?”

Ray squirmed at Kevin’s warm touch. “Not much. He just said to make sure that the door was locked and the shades pulled down. Then he said he really didn’t care what I did so long as I didn’t do it in the middle of the parade square and frighten the Duty Watch and Kevin, just what the fuck are you doing to my dick?”

While Ray had been chattering away Kevin had moved his hand down Ray’s body until it rested on his warm genitals. Then, using his thumb and forefinger, Kevin had been busily feeling Ray’s penis. “Measuring your dick,” Kevin replied truthfully.

“Measuring . . . Kevin, have you lost what little brains you had?” Ray struggled and rolled away from Kevin. “Why don’t you just take a picture?”

“Hey, I never thought of that!” Kevin raised himself on one elbow. “Isn’t there a Polaroid camera in the Ship’s Office? I could get it and take a picture . . .”

“Oh, no you will not!” Ray jumped off the sofa bed and cupped his rapidly deflating erection. “Under no circumstances am I going to let you take a picture of my dick!”

Kevin lay back and started laughing. Then he sat up and reached out his arms. “Come on back to bed, Ray. I promise, no pictures.” He sniggered softly. “But, fuck, it would sure give me something to look at when the wind is blowing across the lake, and it’s ball-shrivelling cold and the windows are rattling and I’m in bed and alone and . . .”

“Don’t tell me, Chatelaine again?”

“Nope,” replied Kevin shaking his head. “The pages of Women’s Magazine.”

“Jesus!” exploded Ray as he returned to the bed. He lay beside Kevin, but shook him off when he reached over to touch him. “You have gone nuts!”

“No,” sighed Kevin. “I’m just making sure that I never forget you.”

“And just what does measuring my dick, or taking a picture of it, have to do with ‘remembering’ me?”

Kevin began rubbing Ray’s belly, tracing slow, delicate circles around and around the soft skin. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said this morning. I accept that we’ll only be together for a week, so I want definitely to make the most of what time we have. I also want you to understand that I am not a fuck buddy. I love you, and I always will.”

Ray was not prepared to continue the argument from this morning. “Kevin, I told you the way I feel and . . .”

“And I’m telling you how I feel,” returned Kevin with some heat. “Look, Ray, I’ve known since I was ten that I liked guys. Until I met you I never did anything serious with another guy. Oh, I’ve fooled around some, with Adam, but all it ever was, was fooling around. He was just a guy to jerk off and to jerk me off.”

“Ten? And you and Adam, you never . . .”

“Nope, just played around and jerked each other off.” Kevin scooted closer and spooned himself against Ray. “Ray, I know that what we have is going to end. Until then, with or without your permission, Raymond James Cornwallis, I intend to enjoy every inch of you. I will lick you, suck you, and smell you. I will make love to you and, I hope, you will make love to me. I will feel you in me and me in you. Later, when I’ve saved enough money, I am going to take a trip up to Ottawa and you better not give me any bullshit excuses. I’ll get a room at the YMCA and we will spend every minute of my visit in there. I will go to every cadet regatta, every sail past, every event that comes up, just to be with you.”

“Kevin, I . . .”

“No, Ray! That’s the way it’s going to be!” Kevin’s firm jaw was tight. “Either that, or I get out of this bed, put on my pants and go back to the barracks!”

The look on Kevin’s face told Ray that he was deadly serious. Kevin was determined to be a lover, and not a fuck buddy, which in a way flattered Ray no end. Kevin was offering his total devotion, no questions asked.

“Kevin, I, um,” stammered Ray. “Kevin, you’re only 15, for cripes sake! You know that I don’t love you. How can you possibly think that a year from now that you’ll feel the way you feel now about me?”

Kevin pounded the pillow under his head in exasperation. He moved away from Ray and got off the bed. “Look, Ray, I may be only 15, but I know what I want,” he growled as he fumbled under the bed for his underwear. “When I was ten my Uncle Larry decided to get married.” He grinned ruefully, and continued on. “Actually, he knocked some girl up and had to get married. My father decided to throw him a stag at the house. They had some dirty movies.”

Kevin stepped into his briefs and pulled them over his soft penis and low-hanging testicles “My Dad and my brothers thought that I was asleep. I wasn’t. I snuck down the stairs and sat there, peeking through the banisters, watching the movie. While they were all hooting and hollering in the living room looking at twats and tits I was sitting on stairs with the front of my Fruits pooched out with the biggest hardon a guy that age could muster! I was looking at the cocks and balls and I looked and looked and knew that’s what I liked. I jerked myself off in my underwear, Ray, twice, and when one of the actors in the movie sucked the other actor’s cock, I came again. Okay, they were dry cums, but, Ray, I came!”

Kevin pulled on his T-shirt shirt and reached for his gym shorts. He glared at Ray. “I know what I want, Ray.” He jerked his shorts over his underwear and stood up. “I’m fuckin’ out of here.” He walked around the end of the bed and had just reached out to unlock the door when Ray rolled quickly out of the bed, stood up and whirled him around.

Kevin’s words had struck a chord deep within Ray, for he suddenly realized that Kevin really did love him and that he was not playing a game. Last night he had not told Kevin the truth, for while he had wanted sex, all that Kevin could give him, last night Ray now admitted to himself that he had wanted sex from The Phantom more, so in a way there really had been three people in the room. But not now!

Ray’s world had turned upside down. Kevin loved him. Kevin wanted him and would pursue him, no matter the cost. Kevin was offering him something The Phantom never could, or would, offer: deep, abiding, unconditional love.

While he realized that he loved The Phantom, Ray now knew he needed Kevin more. He didn’t understand why he felt this way, but he did understand that he could not refuse such a love. Kevin wanted them to walk together down the road that led to a bright, golden sun, and Ray knew that he wanted to be with Kevin when he reached the end of the road.

“You better mean what you said!” Ray growled as he roughly pushed down Kevin’s shorts and underpants. He began stroking and fondling Kevin’s testicles and penis with one hand while he pulled him closer.

Kevin tried to push Ray away. “I meant every fucking word, Ray. I know I’m not Phantom, and I know you’ll never love me the way you love him. But whatever it takes to make you happy, I’ll do.”

Ray grinned. “I know.” He pushed Kevin’s T-shirt up and over his head. “Now come back to bed, please.”

“I’m not your fuck buddy,” warned Kevin.

“And I’m not yours,” returned Ray as he pulled Kevin toward the bed. “We’re lovers, and now I’d like to make love to you.”

Kevin’s reply was muffled as Ray’s lips pressed against his. He couldn’t resist this slim, handsome boy. His arms encircled Ray’s naked body and they pressed close together.

******

In Barracks 2, where the Storekeepers and Signalmen slept, Rob lay disconsolately on his bunk, listening to Ryan’s muttering in his sleep. David lay in his rack, on the other side of Ryan, snoring loudly. Except for the sounds of sleep, the barracks was very quiet.

Rob tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He was hot and feeling more than a little guilty. After Secure Ryan had carefully locked Stores and, atop of pile of carefully placed blankets, they had fucked themselves into near exhaustion, their couplings lustful and robust.

Ryan, while he much preferred the passive position in their lovemaking, had readily agreed to Rob’s insistence that he experience every aspect of the joy of lovemaking. He had happily slipped between Rob’s raised legs and what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, a by-product of their manic thrusting had been the return of Ryan’s problem. Tonight, as they showered, Rob had seen Ryan wince when he retracted his foreskin to clean the glans of his penis.

Rob blamed himself. He knew about Ryan’s problem, and always took great care when manipulating Ryan’s penis, being careful not to pull too much on the delicate membrane covering the head of Ryan’s slim cock. Ryan had dismissed Rob’s genuine concern over the state of his dick and insisted that he was all right. He had taken one of Doc’s pills and gone to bed.

Rob was not so sure and he spent much of the night carefully watching his dark-haired lover for any signs of discomfort. He had almost convinced himself that he was worrying over nothing when he got out of bed and lifted the light counterpane covering Ryan’s slumbering form.

Ryan stirred slightly as the cover was lifted from his body. He crooked his leg and squirmed a little. He was feeling no pain, thanks to the pills Doc had issued him the first time he had reported his problem.

Looking at his sleeping lover Rob saw that the front of Ryan’s briefs were stained, a dime-sized spot of crimson spoiling the pristine whiteness of the cloth. Rob cursed silently and gently pulled the counterpane over Ryan. He returned to his bed vowing that tomorrow, before Divisions, Ryan was going to see Doc and if Doc wanted to do the operation then and there, he, Rob would hold the little French fuck down!

******

Barracks 8 was quiet. Almost all of the gunners had decamped to the outdoors, spreading their blankets and pillows on the soft grass between their Barracks and the drill shed. Brian lay on his bunk, staring into the gloom, reconciling himself to Dylan’s decision. Phantom had been right. What was done was done. It was time to move on.

******

In the Wardroom Andy lay awake in his own bed. For a long time he had lain there, hoping that Kyle would roll over and invite him to share his bed. It hadn’t happened and he could hear Kyle’s slow, rhythmic breathing. With sleep refusing to come, Andy finally got out of bed and padded into the Wardroom lounge. He left the lights off and sat in total darkness, staring into the black nothingness. He desperately wanted Kyle to come into the room, smile his silly-ass smile, and tell him to come to bed. But that was not going to happen. Not now.

Andy moved sluggishly, too depressed and oppressed by the heat. It was nights like this when he remembered Marty, when he remembered the nights when they’d been on night exercise in the woods around Parris Island, huddled together, scared shitless, jumping at every move and whisper of wind, almost too scared to move for fear that the Gunnery Sergeant would find them and discover what they’d been doing.

God did he miss Marty. Andy missed the big farm boy dogging his every footstep; he missed the infectious grin, and the quiet, unassuming way Marty had of bringing him down to earth from one of his flights of martial fancy. Dear, sweet, Marty; friend, buddy, lover, dead now since January of ’69, and buried in a wind swept cemetery somewhere in Montana.

While he had accepted that Marty was dead, Andy had never truly gotten over it. They had shared too many love-filled nights before Marty shipped out to Vietnam, shared too many bliss-filled hours in fleabag hotels and tumbledown motels, in North Charleston, in nameless little hamlets up and down the Carolina coast, in hostelries where no questions were ever asked and two men together raised no eyebrows.

From that first day, at Parris Island, they had been friends. At the end of their Boot Training, they had been lovers and for thirty glorious days they had Leave. They had lain together, loved together, and learned together. Marty would have understood about the money.

Andy snorted. Money! A lousy 25 bucks! Canadian bucks at that! For want of a nail a kingdom had been lost. For his refusal of a loan a lover had been lost, because Kyle simply refused to understand about the money, nor could he understand that Andy, as a former Marine and an Officer in the USN Sea Cadets, he could not, and would not, borrow money under any circumstances, and certainly not for something so frivolous as a Mess Dinner.

Andy had tried and tried again to explain that his sole income was the pay he received from the US Navy League. As an O1 (Ensign) he received $466.20 per month, with no incentives and no allowance for quarters, which was a bitch since he had to pay $50.00 lounge and scrounge to the Canadian Sea Cadets for feeding and housing him. He had also tried to tell Kyle that he would not see his pay until he returned to Seattle and the paperwork was pushed through. His disability pension was banked for his future education. At the thought of his so-called pension Andy sniffed in disdain. His pension was based on his USMC rank in 1969: E5, buck Sergeant, $211.50 per month. No allowances, no lounge, no scrounge.

Andy was, in short, all but broke. Almost every penny he had coming in was allocated to house him or feed him, or clothe him. There was no room in his budget for Mess Dinners and as his personal honour would not allow him to borrow the money from Kyle, he had refused Kyle’s well-meant gesture of a loan. Kyle, accustomed to the casual, freewheeling world of the Sea Cadet Officer, had called Andy stiff-necked and bull headed. In turn Andy had told Kyle that he was a spoiled rich kid who didn’t know the meaning of deprivation.

Harsher words had passed between them and finally, angry beyond endurance that their relationship was ending for such a trivial reason, Andy had stomped away, leaving an open-mouthed Kyle staring after him. Since then not a word had passed between them and when it had come time for bed Kyle had ostentatiously left his underwear on and crawled between the sheets of his bed and turned his back to Andy.

With a heavy heart and filled with loneliness, Andy had retired to the Wardroom where he sat listening to the faint night sounds and the faintly ringing bell of the marker buoy at the entrance to the Comox channel.

******

In the Chiefs Mess Val slept soundly, unaware that his cabin mate was consumed with doubt, tossing and turning, barely understanding the feelings that more and more filled his mind with longings that always, always, returned to Val.

Tyler had exchanged his briefs for a pair of wide-legged shorts and he lay atop his bunk, his hand massaging his raging hardon, his mind whirling with thoughts of Val, hoping that just once more the night visitor would slowly open the mess door and kneel beside the bunk . . . just once more.

His hand began to move faster and faster . . .

******

In the Gunroom the Twins slept soundly, oblivious to the grunts and groans coming from the other side of the bulkhead. Thumper, his masturbatory rites observed, snuggled under his checked coverlet, his hand thrust down the front of his underwear, protecting his most prized possessions. Beside him Fred snored away quietly, twitching occasionally, sleeping fitfully, his body bathed in sweat.

Jon and Chris’s bunks were empty. They were in the Ropewalk ignoring the heat, loving one another. Harry and Nicholas’s bunks were also empty. Harry was bunked down with his Sea Puppies and Nicholas was with André.

Greg awoke slowly, then noiselessly left his bunk. Taking great care not to wake either of the Twins (they were notoriously light sleepers), he felt around the bottom of his sea chest and found what he knew was there. As quiet as a wraith he left the Gunroom and sat on the stoop so recently vacated by the Twins. He opened the bottle and raised it to his lips, feeling the roughness of the vodka as it burned its way down his throat.

******

Nicholas and André walked the length of Aurora and set up their camp on the shore of the channel leading into Comox harbour. They took great care to ensure that their makeshift pallets were just below the small rise that marked the tree line and well above the high tide mark. The sky overhead was clear and very black, the moon having not yet risen, and an ebony carpet for the millions of stars that glittered like diamonds above the Spit. There was no breeze to speak of and the waters of the channel were flat calm.

The boys stripped down to their briefs and lay on their improvised beds, staring at the million points of light overhead, from time to time reaching over to gently caress each other’s body.

“It is so beautiful here, Nicholas,” sighed André contentedly. He squirmed slightly and moved his body as close as he could to his lover’s, feeling the warm flesh as their hips and thighs touched. He laid his head on Nicholas’s firm, chiselled chest and rested his hand on Nicholas’s flat stomach. André was very happy.

Nicholas buried his nose in André’s hair and then kissed the top of his head. “It’s beautiful because I’m with you, petit,” he murmured softly. He slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of André’s underpants, the tips of his fingers just touching the thin pubic bush hidden by the boy’s white briefs.

Ever since the fateful bus ride back from Victoria they had been fervent, if intermittent lovers. They had not yet fully consummated their union, first because there was really no place they could, and second, and more importantly, they had an unspoken agreement to allow their relationship to take a slow and natural pace.

André gave Nicholas’s left nipple a small lick. “This is better than the Flag Locker, Nicholas.”

Nicholas chuckled in agreement. As Yeoman of Signals he had access to the Flag Locker, a small, almost square compartment lined with shelving and so full of bunting, flags, poles and assorted signalling paraphernalia that there was barely room to move, let alone make love. André, while he was “Sticks” or Lead Drummer in the Band, had no access to the School of Wind outside of Duty Hours. After 1600 the school was usually locked up tight and only Harry had keys to the place.

Mostly they met in the Flag Locker, sitting on one of the only two pieces of furniture small enough to fit into the cramped compartment: a student’s desk, behind which was a wooden chair. When he needed to use the desk Nicholas had to climb over it to reach the chair. They would hold each other, feel each other, and explore each other, delighting in the sensuous and exotic feelings they discovered. Unspoken was the realization that to make their union complete they would, eventually, do it.

Nicholas was not at all sure that he was ready to make love to André, nor was he all that sure he was ready to have André make love to him, assuming that André even wanted to. He did love André, and he wanted their first time to be right, to be something they both felt was right, and to do it when they both knew that it was time.

André frankly adored the tall, slim young man whose arms held him so lovingly. When they were together it felt so wonderful, so natural that he wondered why he had ever bothered to listen to his two brothers, the priests; frustrated, wizened prudes that they were. He wanted Nicholas in every way possible.

“Nicholas?”

“Yes, petit?”

“When we go back to Montreal, will we be together?”

“André, je t’aime. Je vous adore tout mon coeur et toute mon ame. Je toujours volonte,” replied Nicholas. He pulled André close to him and kissed him deeply. “I mean it, André. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

“It will be difficult, to be together always,” warned André sadly.

Nicholas lay back and sighed. “I know. Damn, André, I wish there was some place we could just go and be ourselves, just be together.”

André nodded his agreement. He reached into Nicholas’s briefs and cupped his soft, warm genitals. “I do not think I will like it if we can only see each other at Cadets. We cannot even see each other after school.”

“We will see each other, André. We just won’t be able to sin.” Nicholas laughed and tickled André.

André screamed and wiggled, and called Nicholas a very dirty name. He rolled away and then rolled back, panting, giggling when Nicholas’s hand squeezed his penis through his underwear. “You must be careful, Nicholas, or André le Petit will become André le Grand!” he said through his giggles.

Nicholas responded by slowly moving his hand between André’s legs and kneading his testicles. He gave André a quick peck on the lips. “When we get back to Montreal we still have two weeks left before school starts, right?”

André nodded and moaned softly. Mon Dieu, Nicholas had a delicate touch.

“My folks have a summer cottage up near Mont Tremblant,” Nicholas said. “Would your folks let you come and stay with me, just for a few days?”

“Maybe,” replied André with a slight moan as Nicholas’ finger slowly traced the outline of his souris through the cotton of his undies. “Or perhaps your Mamman will let you visit me at my uncle’s farm? It is in the Gaspé and very isolated. I would like you to come, Nicholas.”

“Will we be together? Will we be able to sin?” asked Nicholas. He continued to caress and massage André’s penis and testicles. “I know we will at my place. You can share my room.” He bent down and licked André’s belly. He loved the taste of this boy. His skin was so soft and warm. “God, André!” he moaned deeply.

André responded by raising his hips, thrusting into Nicholas’s squeezing hand. He could feel the front of his briefs dampening as the precum oozed steadily from his erect penis. He reached down and pulled Nicholas’s hand away.

“What? Why did you . . .” asked Nicholas, confused.

André smiled and began pushing down his underpants. “Please, Nicholas?”

Nicholas knew what André wanted. He nodded and lowered his head, kissing the skin-covered crown of André’s thin penis. He slowly pulled André’s foreskin down, revealing the wet, purple glans, which gleamed and shone in the starlight. Nicholas took André into his mouth, sucking softly. With his free hand he cupped André’s balls, not at all surprised to find them tight. They had not had sex for two days and they both needed release badly. André whimpered and shivered as Nicholas’s tongue bathed his unsheathed shaft, crying softly as the ultra-sensitive head of his mouse began pulsing.

Moving his head up and down in slow, deliberate spiralling motions, Nicholas brought André to the brink of glory. Muttering and groaning André began to thrust deliberately, desperate to empty his balls into the warm, wet, sensuous mouth that enveloped him. He felt the wonderful feeling building in his groin and began breathing heavily. Tabernac, Taber . . . NAC! “Nichol . . .” moaned André loudly. Then his body began to jerk and his hardon began spasming and Nicholas tasted the thick, sweet, juice that filled his mouth.

André arched his body and his eyes rolled back in his head. He thrust upward, his exposed cock head pulsing as it released more and more of his incredibly glorious nectar into Nicholas’s mouth. Nicholas continued to suck until André, his helmet screaming with sensual overload, yipped and yelped, then pulled away. He collapsed, breathing so heavily that he could not speak.

Grinning madly Nicholas quickly pushed down his briefs, kicked them aside and flung himself onto André’s body, kissing him open-mouthed, sharing with him the last vestiges of his shattering orgasm. André wrapped his arms and legs around Nicholas, who began to hump and rub his stone-hard cock against the side of André’s still hard erection.

Nicholas could feel the sensitive underside of his penis being savaged as he thrust through the thin bush of wiry black pubic hair that circled André’s cock and balls. He could feel his orgasm building. He felt his balls filling and his dick, that wonderful, marvellously circumcised dick, being ravaged as he thrust faster and faster, his heated rod made hotter by the intensity of the heat generated by the equally thrusting boy beneath him. “Oh my God, petit, Oh, God, petit!”

Groaning, Nicholas flung his head back and his face contorted as his balls all but exploded. “PETIT!” shouted Nicholas as his penis throbbed and a huge gout of his semen squirted forcefully across André’s sweat-slicked belly. André thrust upward again, feeling the hot, sticky fluids spurt in a seemingly never-ending stream from Nicholas’s swelled and turgid organ. As his dick jerked Nicholas growled and moaned. “Ah FUCK! PETIT!” and as his cock ejected the last of his seed Nicholas arched his back so hard that André had trouble holding on to him.

Finally, it was over. Breathing harshly Nicholas fell forward and buried his face in André’s shoulders; his hips jerking slowly until, like André, his dickhead began screaming. He pulled away and rolled to the side, then reach out and pulled André to him. “Dear, sweet, God, André, that felt good.” His hips jerked back quickly as André tried to finger his cock head. “Please, petit, no.”

André giggled and kissed Nicholas, a small, gentle peck on his lips. “Le petit Nicholas, he liked that, oui?”

Nicholas stuck out his tongue and grinned. He had never pretended to greatness, as so many other boys did. He knew that he had a good, solid six inches, which had André beat by an inch. “Le Grand Nicholas didn’t like it. He loved it!”

They lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the thrall of their lovemaking as it began to slowly ebb from their flushed bodies. André loved just holding Nicholas. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along his lover’s tanned, soft skinned body. “You are very beautiful Nicholas,” he said with a contented sigh.

“So are you.” Nicholas kissed André deeply. When their lips parted he smiled and ran his fingers through the boy’s hair. “I love you, André.”

“I know. I know because I also love you, my beautiful maudit Anglais,” whispered André.

“Pas autant que je t’aime vous, mon ange merveilleux, adorable Français-Canadien!”

André snickered and reached down, running his forefinger across Nicholas’s slick, soft helmet. Nicholas winced slightly but said nothing so André continued to rub softly. “I cannot be an adorable angel, Nicholas,” he sighed theatrically. “I too much enjoy sinning!”

“Well then, you can be my little French-Canadian devil!” Nicholas said with a grin. He kissed the tip of André’s nose and then pulled away, signalling the end of their lovemaking.

André nodded, understanding. The head of Nicholas’ penis was very tender - it always was after the tall Yeoman had squirted - just as the tête of André’s petit souris screamed if touched after he’d squirted. He laid his head on Nicholas’s chest. He could hear the soft beating of Nicholas’s heart, and his eyes closed. He was contented, happy, and very much in love.

******

Vancouver Airport was as quiet as any airport ever got. As The Gunner walked down the long concourse from his plane he observed the usual denizens who seemed always to inhabit airports: students with knapsacks and bedrolls camped beside the airline counters, waiting on stand-by for a cheap seat to become available; bedraggled tourists, always with at least two screaming children, waiting impatiently for the redeye to anywhere to board; a clutch of nuns (Why were there always nuns in airports?) sat in a row on one of the uncomfortable benches that were standard fittings for airports, quietly chatting or saying their beads.

Except for the bar - overpriced and packed - the other shops and booths lining the concourse were dark.

As he approached the Passenger Pickup area The Gunner noticed a dark haired young man coming toward him. The young man was not tall, but he was slim, his well-cut black suit accentuating his firm, muscled body. He had a square jaw and his close cut, curly black hair and mirror-shined shoes bespoke a military past. When he was within a few feet of The Gunner the young man stopped. “Sir Stephen Winslow?” he asked, without a trace of obsequiousness. His well-modulated, accented voice immediately identified him as British.

The Gunner coloured slightly, embarrassed that his purely honourary title was being used. “Yes.”

The young man smiled and reached out for The Gunner’s suit bag and suitcase. “My name is Laurence Howard, Sir Stephen. Mr. Michael asked that I meet you.”

“That was kind of him,” replied The Gunner as he handed over his luggage. The look on Laurence’s face told him that he clearly expected more bags. “That’s all there is, Laurence.”

Laurence nodded discreetly. “If you will come this way Sir Steven, the car is outside.”

The Gunner followed Laurence to the loading platform where he found waiting for him the most magnificent motorcar he had ever seen, a long, black, 1962 Rolls Royce Phantom V. His eyes widened at the luxury and unparalleled elegance the car represented. The excellence of the coachwork was enhanced by a sterling mascot on the bonnet: a silver Crusader Knight rising out of a walled city, holding a cross.

“Wow,” whispered The Gunner, knowing that his reaction to this magnificence was exposing his plebeian origins.

Stone-faced, Laurence opened the door to the limousine, revealing the Spanish leather and carved walnut interior. He was not at all surprised at The Gunner’s awe. Laurence’s origins were just a plebeian as The Gunner’s, having been born in RN Ratings Housing in Gosport. “It is a bit much,” murmured Laurence as he settled himself in the back seat beside The Gunner. He leaned forward and spoke softly to the young man seated behind the right-hand wheel. “Home, please, Noel.”

As the motorcar slowly pulled away The Gunner noticed what seemed to be a small battle raging further down the platform. Beside a lime green, four-door, well weathered Ford sedan stood two elderly white-haired men, one of whom was gesticulating wildly at a small, Chinese man who was shrugging and shaking his head. Behind the elderly gentlemen was a small pile of matched luggage. Beside the luggage stood two black suited, thin, pale, fey young men. The Gunner did not recognize the two younger men. He did know the two older gentlemen: Willoughby and Hunter, respectively Receiver of the Common Treasure and Hospitaller for the Order.

The Gunner cast Laurence a sideways glance. He recognised the deft hand of Michael Chan. A message had been sent. And received, if the glares directed at the Rolls as it rolled by the Ford were any indication.

“Why am I getting the impression that me riding in this car is less for my benefit and more for that of two certain gentlemen?” asked The Gunner quietly. He could feel two pairs of hostile eyes boring into his neck as the car left the loading area.

Laurence cocked an eyebrow and smiled knowingly. Obviously this young man deserved every bit of esteem Mister Michael expressed for him. He opened the side panel beside him and brought out a red, gold-tooled portfolio. Then he pressed a small ivory button on the control panel built into the armrest of the seat. The back of the car was immediately filled with a soft glow of light. “Mister Michael feels that the right gesture at the right time speaks volumes.” He opened the portfolio and handed a paper to The Gunner. “Your schedule, sir.”

The Gunner took the paper and read it. In addition to two full days of meetings and ceremonies, he noticed that each day he would start out from the house in British Properties. He pointed to the first item of business. “Another gesture?”

Laurence glanced at the paper and smiled. “Mr. Michael asks that you spend your time in the city at his home. He asked me to assure you that the accommodations will be much better than the Best Western.” Then he grinned, widely, showing perfect white teeth.

The Gunner laughed uproariously. He liked this young man. “Michael’s ‘gestures’ are as subtle as a whack between the eyes with a two-by-four.”

Laurence joined in the laughter. “The amount of subtlety depends on the stubbornness of the mule!” he returned with dry humour.

The Gunner thought of a certain jug-eared green-eyed mule and their recent conversation in Comox. Then his smile turned into a slight frown.

Laurence saw the frown. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked.

The Gunner shrugged slightly. “I had hoped for an hour or two of free time. Still, no matter.” He smiled thinly. “Anything else in that Pandora’s box?”

Laurence gave The Gunner a sheaf of papers. “Mister Michael’s thoughts on certain issues, Sir Stephen. He asks that you read these papers and comment later on.”

The Gunner cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. A quick read through the papers told him that Michael was planning major changes. In some respects he was about to stage a palace coup. “Have you read these?” he asked, indicating the papers.

“Absent a Page, Mister Michael has asked me to be your Secretary. I am to assist you in every way possible. In order to assist you, yes, I am privy to the contents of those documents.”

The Gunner considered Laurence for a few moments. “We will, I take it, be working closely together?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me a little about yourself.” The Gunner shifted slightly in his seat. Laurence seemed a nice young man, and obviously he enjoyed Michael’s trust. Still, he did not know anything about his new ‘Secretary’. “You might begin with telling me which Service you were a member of.”

Laurence straightened his back. “Royal Marines, Small Boat Service. I had seven years with them. I am still a member of the Royal Marines Reserve.” He nodded toward the driver. “As is Noel. We are not yet members of the Order. We have been in Mister Michael’s service for two years. I am 26-years old.”

“Are you my minder or my advisor?”

Laurence gave The Gunner a long, steady gaze. “With respect, while there are some who need ‘minding’, you are not one of them. Mister Michael speaks highly of you. Major Meinertzhagen shares Mister Michael’s opinion. If they did not you would not be riding in this motor car and I would be back at the house polishing the silver!”

Suitably, if subtly, chastised, The Gunner returned the papers to Laurence. “Did they tell you that I am opinionated, stubborn, and brute ugly when I want to be?”

Laurence nodded and smiled slightly. “They did. They also told me that you insist on perfection, that you do not suffer fools gladly, and that you insist on absolute honesty. They consider your personal integrity to be above reproach, that you have never, and will never, abuse, or use your authority or power to further your own ends.”

“I have a terrible temper.”

“I am aware of that.”

“I can’t abide a liar or dishonesty of any sort.”

“I assure that I am not a liar and I am still a Royal Marine.”

The Gunner thought of Andy. It could have been him sitting in the car instead of Laurence. “I speak my mind, and I can be very blunt,” The Gunner continued with stern honesty. “I give honest opinions and I expect the same in return. If I ask your opinion I expect an honest answer, no matter how unpleasant the answer might be.”

“Understood,” replied Laurence calmly.

“If you fuck up, you fuck up once,” The Gunner warned bluntly. “If I fuck up, or am about to fuck up, I’ll expect you to whack me in the balls if you have to.”

Laurence grinned. He was very pleased indeed at The Gunner’s bluntness and plain speaking. “Then it is a very good thing indeed that the Major showed me where he keeps the two-by-fours.”

******

Michael Chan was waiting at the bottom of the double steps leading up to his house. When The Gunner got out of the limousine he advanced a few steps and held out his hand. “Stephen, how very good to see you again.” He shook The Gunner’s hand and turned to indicate the Major, who was standing a few paces away. “You know Major Meinertzhagen?”

“Only by reputation,” replied The Gunner honestly. He shook the Major’s hand. Major Meinertzhagen smiled warmly. “As I know yours,” he said, then added, “And I suspect that both our reputations have grown with the telling.”

Both Michael and The Gunner laughed. Michael stretched out his arm, indicating the house. “Shall we go in?” Inside the house Michael led The Gunner and the Major into his office. He went immediately to the drinks cart. “I trust you had a pleasant flight. Scotch?”

The Gunner nodded. “Rather boring, actually.” Which was true. The plane had been empty except for the flight crew. The only other passenger booked, the Army Warrant Officer who had been snoring on the bench in the Departures Lounge, had actually been passed out and missed the flight. Since White Knuckle Airlines was not known for the quality of the amenities it offered its passengers there had been no in-flight anything.

Michael smiled knowingly. “We shall have to do better than that.” He passed out the drinks - no ice, The Gunner noted - and sat on the tapestry sofa flanking the fireplace. “So, Stephen, what do you think of Laurence?”

Michael took a small sip of his drink, his poker face giving no indication why he had asked the question.

“He seems, at first glance, a very competent and personable young man. I rather like him,” replied The Gunner. You are up to something, he thought.

Michael looked at the Major and nodded. The Major reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to Michael who barely looked at it. “And at second glance?”

“I gave him a rough time coming here. He didn’t back down.” The Gunner sipped his drink, thinking, you are definitely up to something.

“Once a Bootneck, always a Bootneck,” sniped the Major.

“The motorcar and Laurence were pleasant surprises.” The Gunner chuckled and looked at Michael. “Another gesture?” he asked. And so is the Major.

Michael shook his head. “Not at all. The reception committee and the car were, I admit, somewhat less than subtle gestures. Laurence was not, and is not, a gesture. He is, if you will, a test.”

“A test?” The Gunner looked into his glass of scotch. And here it comes.

“Stephen, as Chancellor you will be asked to approve future members of our Order.” Michael stood up and replenished the drinks. “On your word, based on your intuition and your judgement of character, rests the future of our Order. Some would call it a terrible responsibility.”

Once again The Gunner noticed Major Meinertzhagen staring intently at him, and realized that this conversation was some sort of a final examination. “I take it Laurence is a candidate?” asked The Gunner carefully, not taking his eyes from the Major.

Michael nodded and said, simply, “Yes, a candidate.”

And one whom they want badly, thought The Gunner. Well, my lads, I might be cheap, but I am not easy. He looked levelly first at Michael, then at the Major. “Any decision I might make will be made without fear or favour, and not subject to outside influences. It will be based on his qualifications and my impression of him. And I might say no.”

Major Meinertzhagen shot Michael a look. Few men had ever told Michael ‘no’, and fewer still had been given the opportunity to regret saying it. Michael’s face was expressionless. Michael ignored the Major’s look and said, without a trace of anger, “That goes without saying.”

The Gunner was not afraid to make a judgement call. “Then yes, I would accept Laurence as a candidate.”

“Without asking if he was a member of the Brotherhood?” asked Major Meinertzhagen, rising from his seat.

“Does it matter? A candidate’s sexuality has never been an impediment. It matters only that his candidacy will eventually lead to the betterment of the Order.”

“You approve of him, then?” asked Michael pointedly.

“Enough to sponsor him?” put in the Major.

The Gunner replied without hesitation. “Yes. So long as he has two other sponsors and either has been, or is willing to be, circumcised.” The Gunner reached out for the piece of paper that The Major had handed Michael. “I’ll sign Laurence’s petition now.”

******

When the Major left the room Michael waited until the door closed before he looked at The Gunner. “Would you have said no? Would you have said no, knowing that Laurence enjoys the Major’s patronage?” He paused for effect. “And mine?”

The Gunner looked levelly at Michael. “If, on balance, I felt that rejecting Laurence was better for the Order than accepting him, I would have said no.”

“Why did you say yes?”

The Gunner thought a moment. “Michael, there are far too many in the Order who are satisfied with the status quo, or with feathering their nests. Or advancing their special ‘pets’.”

“And Laurence will not?” Michael smiled inwardly. He had not misjudged this man.

“No. Laurence strikes me as a strong, steady, level-headed young man.” He shrugged and smiled. “Also, I cheated. I knew who the high and mighty personages supporting him were.”

Rising, The Gunner walked to the drinks table where he poured another drink, then raised the decanter at Michael, who shook his head, declining another drink. “I won’t lie to you, Michael,” continued The Gunner as he resumed his seat. “I know of your reputation. I’ve heard the rumours and I saw the look Meinertzhagen gave you when I told you I might have said no. I also know that the good Major is, shall we say, a man who believes in direct and final action.”

Michael nodded. “Go on.”

“Michael, if you wanted a ‘yes man’ you would not have asked me to be your Chancellor. You are the type of man who leaves little, if anything to chance. You have what you euphemistically call friends all over the place. They have no doubt told you that I am not a pushover, that I will not compromise my principles and I will not, under any circumstances yield to pressure simply to please you.”

Michael smiled slowly. “Perhaps my powers are greatly exaggerated.”

The Gunner took a small drink from his glass. “With the greatest respect, Michael, bullshit!”

Michael laughed softly and shook his head. “Stephen, you will make a wonderful Chancellor!” He stood up and walked to where The Gunner was standing. “Soon, very soon, Stephen, we will talk about my plans. Tomorrow, you will be elected Chancellor. I will have only one request for you.”

“Which is?”

“Find me one thousand Laurences!”

******

As dawn approached, a warm wind began blowing across the Spit, and the denizens of the various nomad encampments began waking. Harry, feeling gritty, sweaty, and out of sorts, woke his Sea Puppies and sent them into their barracks to wash.

In the Ropewalk Chris and Jon, sated from too much sex and tired from lack of sleep, kissed each other awake, dressed and went outside where they sat and watched the sun rise.

In the Wardroom Andy uncoiled himself from the chair he’d spent the night sleeping in and groaned loudly. His back and neck were killing him. He shuffled from the lounge and into his cabin. The dim light from the hall illuminated the foot of Kyle’s bed. Andy stood there, looking at the sleeping form. As he watched, Kyle stirred and rolled over, turning his back to his former - as Andy felt - lover. Andy sighed, went to his locker, pulled out his dhobey gear and left the cabin.

In the Chiefs’ Mess, Tyler woke with a start. He sat up and looked around. Val had hardly moved during the night. He was lying flat on the top of his bunk, naked, his legs slightly spread, his morning woody standing tall. Tyler stared at Val for a long time before getting out of bed. He quickly stripped off his shorts, freeing his own morning erection. His mind was reeling with mixed feelings of desire and revulsion. He told himself that he should not be looking at Val, that he should not be thinking what he was thinking.

Tyler rummaged in his locker, trying not to make too much noise and wake his sleeping roommate. He found his shaving gear and a dingy towel and then turned around to stand beside Val’s bunk. He gazed at Val’s sleeping body and stared at Val’s morning woody, the deep pink head glistening damply in the dim, morning light.

Moaning softly, Tyler reached out his hand and his fingers barely crossed the curving head of Val’s penis, feeling the heat of Val’s erection. Val’s penis twitched and a small drop of clear liquid squeezed from his slit. Tyler, as if touched by liquid fire, quickly snatched his hand away then hurried from the room. As he turned the corner into the corridor leading to the heads he raised his hand to his lips, tasting the warm, slick effluent that barely coated his fingertips, tasting a little bit of Val.

In the Gunroom, the Twins slept on, while Thumper, who had heard Tyler leave his Mess, burrowed under his thin coverlet. He slipped his hand under the elastic waistband of his briefs and slowly stroked the firm flesh rising from his groin. He closed his eyes and slowly pumped his morning hardon, shrugging that he had to change his undies anyway.

Greg stirred restlessly, oblivious to everything around him, dreaming bad dreams, his alcohol-fogged brain deadening the pain the dreams brought him.

At the end of the spit, André woke slowly, blinking away the sleep. He moved his head slightly and nuzzled Nicholas’s pubic bush. André loved the smells of this handsome English boy and he breathed deeply. Then he moved again and his lips found the round, firm, and lovely pink head of Nicholas’s soft penis. André sucked slowly and Nicholas stirred.

******

Complaining loudly, 200 boys began their morning routines. There was no water for showers. There was barely enough water for the older boys to shave and wash pits, groins and the thin film of dried perspiration and windblown sand that seem to cover them all. After washing, the cadets began dressing. Their first problem was what to wear under their sports gear. Unlike Harry, who never wore a jock if he could help it, the rest of the cadets obeyed regulations, putting on their supporters over their underwear.

Which was fine except nobody had any underwear and nobody wanted to wear crusty jocks. As Killian put it, he only had one set of upper deck fittings and while, he admitted, his fittings hadn’t gotten much wear and tear thus far, he wasn’t taking any chances. He would go negative jock and let the Chief PTI say what he liked.

The second problem was the uniform of the day. Each cadet had two uniforms, Number One Blues, and Number 11 Whites, white drill bells and jumper. Each uniform was worn with a heavily starched and ironed gunshirt. Both uniforms, while sharp looking and, to the cadets’ teenaged minds, designed by God to show off their bodies and drive the opposite sex into paroxysms of sexual desire, the blue serge cloth and white drill had a tendency to roughness. Killian’s tackle was once again held up as an example.

The Sea Puppies, who weren’t all that hot to trot about bouncing around the parade square at the crack of dawn, went in search of their Sea Daddy and whined to Harry, who was in mid-tirade at Thumper for beating off in bed. His mood was not improved when Thumper pointed out that Harry was known, on occasion, to do exactly the same thing, only louder.

The Twins, convulsed with laughter, hid under their coverlets. Two Strokes, who had a Guard and Steerage, pretended to be asleep, praying that Harry would not notice that he was naked under the covers and that his own 4-inch mount was at Action Stations.

Harry, who was just as eager to avoid morning exercises as the next cadet, listened and heeded the plaints of his Puppies. He marched into the Petty Officers Mess and woke Mike who, while normally the most placid of individuals, was not at all amused by Harry pulling on his big toe and demanding that he “WAKE UP!” Mike was hot, he was sweaty, and he was hornier than a two-peckered owl in the moonlight. Phillip, called the Assistant, had had the Morning Watch and they had not had a chance to be together last night.

“You have a problem!” announced Harry loudly. There was a muttered growl and a curse from behind him. He turned and saw Little Big Man staring at him. Harry gave him a withering look. Little Big Man wisely decamped to the heads to wash up.

“What problem, and please, Harry, don’t yell.” said Mike as he crawled out of his fart sack. Much to Harry’s surprise Mike was as naked as the day that he’d been born.

“My Sea Puppies have pointed out that you insist on them wearing jocks!” growled Harry indignantly.

“Me?” Mike’s eyes widened. “I didn’t write the fucking regulation. Go and complain to the guy who did.”

“He’s not here, you are,” returned Harry. “Most of the boys don’t have anything to wear under their shorts. Do you want to be responsible for 38 sets of tackle being rubbed raw while you make their owners jump up and down?”

The thought of 38 Sea Puppies whining was not a pleasant prospect. Mike tried to temporize. “Well, Harry, I really don’t know what I can . . .”

“You can ease back on the exercises is what you can do!” snarled Harry in reply.

Mike thought a moment, idly wiping away the rivulet of sweat coursing down his bare chest. “How about if we cancel this morning’s exercises?” he asked with a grin. “It’s better than having you bitch at me after 38 kids have bitched at you.”

Harry was shocked. He could scarcely believe that Mike Sunderland would utter such heresy. He cocked his head, waiting for the sound of the Veil in the Temple of Jockdom being rent asunder to roll through the Mess. “Cancel? Just forget the whole thing?” asked Harry warily.

“Sure,” confirmed Mike. He turned, rummaged in his locker and pulled out a pair of shorts. “See these? They’re all I have left. I’m in the same boat as everybody else. I’ve been too busy to do a laundry so I’m down to these.” This was the truth. Mike had been busy, only he was not about to tell Harry that he’d been busy making out with Phillip, called the Assistant, every chance they got.

“We’ll have to run it by Tyler . . .” said Harry sceptically.

Mike shrugged and pulled on his clean shorts. “So we’ll run it by Tyler.”

As they walked down the length of barracks Harry put one arm around Mike’s shoulders. “You know, Mike, I couldn’t help but notice, but, well, your dick has gotten bigger.”

Mike stopped dead in his tracks. “Harry, you’re nuts. And what are you doing looking at my dick?”

“Well, you will wave it in the breeze for anyone to look at, Mike,” replied Harry blandly. “Now, come on, how’d you do it? Exercise, a special diet?”

“Harry . . .”

Harry began easing Mike toward the door leading to the Gunroom. “I’m not asking for me, you understand. The Pride is as perfect as it can be and you can’t improve on perfection.”

“Harry . . .”

“It’s for Two Strokes, you see. He’s not a bad guy, even if he can be a prick sometimes.”

Mike pushed open the door to the Gunroom and entered. Harry had not released his hold on him. Mike was not sure what Harry was up to. He was also not sure what Harry was going on about. He hadn’t noticed any sudden growth spurt down there.

“Come on, Mike, you can tell me,” continued Harry. “You know what it’s like to go through life with a small dick. Two Strokes is in the same boat. He’s a little feller, you know, and if we can help him I think we should help him.”

Mike looked up and saw Two Strokes, who had been in the washplace having a stoker’s scrub, strolling down the Gunroom. Mike also couldn’t help but notice that Two Strokes was a little feller. He also did not dare tell Harry that any growth he might have had - and which certainly could not have helped Two Strokes - was due to Phillip, and what they’d been doing together. After all, that which is used develops, or so the saying went.

Two Strokes, oblivious to the discussion concerning his most private and prized possession, greeted the two teens. “Hey guys, how they hanging’?” He could not understand when Mike suddenly broke into uncontrollable laughter.

******

The Phantom awoke at 0400 feeling exactly like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. He had not slept well, tossing and turning most of the night, fretting and stewing away the hours, berating himself for what he had said to The Gunner. He left his room and went into the bathroom where he shaved, poked and pulled at the incipient bags under his eyes, growled at his reflection, showered, dressed, and then drove to work.

After greeting Chef, Ray, Sandro and the Brats, The Phantom puttered around, waiting for the early morning diners to show up, not saying all that much. Chef, on the other hand, was in a wonderful mood. He’d had a solid eight hours sleep, Ray and Kevin had not left too much evidence behind in his office, Randy and Joey were working like little beavers, Sandro was actually smiling, and nobody had burned, dropped or ruined anything. His infectious good humour left The Phantom unmoved, which meant that something was wrong. He was normally an open, gregarious young man and walking around with a face on him like a smacked arse was not normal for him.

Chef watched and listened, and learned nothing beyond the fact that The Phantom had driven The Gunner to the airport last night. Ray was as much in the dark as he was.

As breakfast progressed word filtered through that not only was morning callisthenics cancelled but that the dress for Ceremonial Divisions would be sports gear. Word also came down that laundry would be collected at 1000 and taken to Base.

Chef, worried, watched as The Phantom listlessly went about his duties. Finally, using the table linens stored in the Wardroom Store as an excuse, he called The Phantom into his Office. “So, Phantom, do you want to talk about it?” he asked after The Phantom had settled on the sofa.

The Phantom remembered Brian telling him that sometimes it just helps to talk about things. He looked at Chef, his face crestfallen. “The Gunner and me, we sort of had a fight,” he admitted with a sad look on his face.

Chef raised an eyebrow. “Sort of?”

“Well, I said some things about, um, certain things, and I really hurt his feelings.”

“May I ask what the argument was about?”

The Phantom squirmed a bit in his seat. “Well, it really wasn’t an argument, Chef. It was just, well, he was talking about this Order or whatever, and he started to tell me about these Knights and how they found a piece of the True Cross and . . .”

The Phantom’s sceptical tone caused Chef to raise one eyebrow. He said nothing, however. During his years as Proctor to the Order he had heard that same tone many times. The Phantom would require a careful and delicate touch and . . .

The Phantom saw the look on Chef’s face. No, it couldn’t be. Chef wasn’t . . .

Chef stood up and extended his hand. “Pax Vobiscum, Phantom.”

******

“Come on, hurry up,” said Rob impatiently. He turned and motioned at the small, thin figure that shuffled some five paces behind him. Ryan mumbled something about some people not having to worry about their danglies as he kicked at the gravel of the path. Rob scowled and waited until Ryan caught up to him. “Look, all Doc is going to do is look at you.”

“And then start hacking away at my dick!” retorted Ryan.

“He didn’t last time,” replied Rob with an impatient gesture. “And he’s not going to hack away at it!”

“You don’t have to worry, it’s not your dick!”

“Ryan, even if he does have to circumcise you, it’s for your own good! You know that!”

“Major Phelps says it will mutilate me.”

“It’s not Major Phelps’s dick that dripping!”

“It will hurt.”

“What do you think anaesthetic is for? And pain killers”

They stopped outside of the canteen and sat on one of the benches in breezeway flats. Ryan ostentatiously sniffed his armpits. “I stink. I need a shower. You always shower before you see the doctor.”

“They have a shower in Sick Bay. I’m sure if you ask, Matron will let you use it.”

Ryan shuddered at the thought of having to confront Matron. “I don’t have any underwear on. I can’t let Matron see me without any underwear on.”

“It’s not Matron who’s going to see you,” replied Rob calmly. “And unless you pull down your shorts how is she going to know?”

Realizing that he was getting nowhere, Ryan tried another tack. “Major Phelps says that if I get my foreskin cut off I won’t be sensitive down there anymore. You know, when I have sex, it won’t feel . . .”

Rob growled. “Ryan, do you remember what happens to me when I blow my load?”

Ryan giggled at the thought. Rob bucked, rolled, moaned, groaned and all but howled at the moon when he ejaculated, which did not say much for the loss of sensitivity argument. “Major Phelps says I’ll get trauma.”

“You’ll get what?”

“I’ll get trauma. I’ll have nightmares forever about my foreskin.”

“I have nightmares about your fucking foreskin!” Rob was losing his temper. It was obvious that this Major Phelps critter had brainwashed Ryan with everything negative he could think of. “I was circumcised when I was three days old. I do not remember it, I have never thought about it, and I sure as fuck never had nightmares about it!”

Rob’s patience had worn thin and his sleepless night had diminished his tolerance for Ryan’s continued, whining reluctance. He stood up and began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” demanded Ryan.

“Back to the barracks. I have to pack my laundry for the pick-up after Divisions.”

“But you said you’d stay with me!”

Rob rounded on Ryan. “Look, Ryan, your dick’s a mess, you know it, I know it! Either you take care of it, or you don’t. It’s your dick. Just do something, for Christ’s sake.”

Ryan reached out and pulled Rob’s arm. “Rob, I’m scared,” he said softly.

“I know, Ryan, I know,” replied Rob. Taking a deep breath he sat down again and put his arm around Ryan. “Ryan, I only want what’s best for you. All I’m saying is go and see Doc. He might not even think you have to be clipped. He fixed you up the last time.”

Ryan sighed heavily. “The last time he put some stuff on it to stop the bleeding. It hurt a little.” He looked at Rob and snickered. “But not as bad as the time I used the styptic pencil.”

His eyes wide with shock, Rob gasped, “You used a styptic pencil on your dick?” He reached out and rubbed Ryan’s bare arm. “Fuck me, Ryan, that shit burns!”

“Tell me about it. I sure danced around after I did it.”

“Now who would ever tell you to do something as stupid as that? That stuff is for when you cut yourself shaving! You use it on your face, not your dick!”

“Well, I was bleeding and my Dad . . .”

“God damn it to hell!” Rob exploded. The very thought of poor Ryan putting styptic on his dick was appalling. That his father had suggested it was too much. Then he remembered that Ryan’s father hadn’t drawn a sober breath in years, and wouldn’t know a foreskin from the foc’sle at the best of times. “Ryan, I am not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. I am telling you never to use that styptic stuff again.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” He stood up and gestured for Rob to follow. “Come with me to Sick Bay, please?”

******

As Rob and Ryan slowly made their way to Sick Bay the other cadets hurried past. 0800 was fast approaching and Ceremonial Divisions were imminent. Everybody wanted to get Divisions over and done with because they also had Captain’s Rounds to look forward to.

The cadets formed in their Divisions under the direction of the Chiefs and Petty Officers. The Guard, with Kyle in front, waited on one side of the parade square. On the other side of the square The Band, Harry to the fore, waited impatiently. The sun, while still low down the horizon, was very hot. There was a slight breeze blowing from the shore, but it was warm and did nothing to cool down overheated bodies.

Harry fidgeted and squirmed as the sweat coursed wetly down his sides from his armpits, and down the inside of his legs from his crotch. Like all of the other cadets he was dressed in sports gear and his T-shirt was soaked. His shorts, under which was nothing but Harry, clung wetly to his ass and crotch. He glanced irritably at his watch, which he had forgotten to remove - this was, after all, Ceremonial Divisions. He glared as Nicholas raised the Prep flag up the mast. Harry grimaced, groaned, squirmed and wiggled as a small, annoying rivulet of perspiration began coursing its way down his penis.

“Harry, please, you make want to pee,” whined André.

“Are we ever going to get this show on the road?” asked the Bass Drummer. His name was Lucius but everybody called him Fozzy, as he bore a striking resemblance to the bear of Muppet fame.

Harry consulted his watch again. He looked over toward the Headquarters Building. There was still no sign of the officers. “Right,” he growled. He turned and fixed his eye on the musicians. “Number Seventy-Two, fortissimo!”

******

In the Executive Officer’s cabin the officers had gathered for morning coffee and to discuss the day’s coming events. The Commanding Officer had joined them and was explaining his reasoning for not doing an inspection when there came such a blast of music - the brass section of the Band, fortissimo - that Dave Eddy jumped in his seat and spilled coffee all over his last set of tropical white trousers. Fortunately the coffee was lukewarm.

“What in the hell is that!” yelped Andy as the music continued to soar.

Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur, newly commissioned and seconded from HMCS Naden as Band Officer, smiled thinly. “‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’, by Richard Strauss,” he said with a throaty chuckle. “More familiarly known as the ‘Fanfare and Overture to 2001:A Space Odyssey’.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” snarled Dave as he tried to wipe away the coffee stain with a paper napkin. “HAL will be proud of the little darlings!”

Number One stifled his laughter by pretending to cough. Father decided that his pipe needed filling urgently. Andy, ever the helpful Marine, offered Dave his napkin. Wally and No “H” decided that a raid on the pastry supply was in order.

“Now, David, do calm down,” soothed Father. “We are overlong and it bodes hot this day. So hot I think we’ll dispense with Ceremonial Divisions.” He looked at Number One. “I think we’ll just do a quick look at them and then do a run through of the Ceremony of the Flags.” Number One nodded his agreement. “The laundry situation is solved?” asked Father.

“The truck will be here at 0930. They can do their smalls in town at the Laundromat. Base has laid on some buses.”

The Commanding Officer frowned. “I wish we could tell them that the water situation had improved.” Father studied his pipe. “A most uncomfortable situation, really. I know. When I was in Hermione, on the old China Station one of the condensers went out and we had no water . . .”

Number One harrumphed loudly. Lately Father had developed a tendency toward reminiscing at the drop of a hat. Once he got started it was difficult to shut him up. “The Met boys tell me that there’s a front moving up from the south. We should get some rain by tomorrow night. Cool things down a bit,” he said quickly, hoping that Father would take the hint.

Father glared balefully at the Executive Officer. “But not enough to rais