The Phantom awoke first. The reason that he awoke was that his tail end was covered in goose bumps. He was spooned against The Gunner, with his morning woody nestled neatly in the valley of The Gunner’s warm behind. The front half of The Phantom’s body was warm and very comfortable. The back half was cold!

Grumbling quietly The Phantom opened his eyes and looked at The Gunner, who was sleeping soundly, snoring softly. He had hogged all the covers and as the night had grown cool The Phantom shivered slightly. Rolling away from his sleeping lover The Phantom lay with his hands under his head, a smile of deep satisfaction creasing his smooth face. A happy sigh escaped his lips as he glanced down at his flush, still rosy body.

Last night, this morning really, had been wonderful. The Phantom reached down and fingered his soft, warm penis, feeling the still sensitive arrowhead-shaped glans, shivering with delight as memory returned and a shiver of pleasure rippled through his body.

As he fondled himself, The Phantom delighted in the newfound pleasures that he had learned would titillate and excite him. He had known that certain areas of a boy’s body were sensitive to that stimulation. These areas were different with each boy, but be they nipples, toes, earlobes, or perineum, a soft lick, a light touch, would send one soaring into orbits so high that it seemed that one would never descend.

The Phantom’s midnight visits to the boys who slept in the barracks of Aurora had given him some insight into these special, secret spots on boys. He had learned that the little patches and bits of flesh were seldom the same and varied from boy to boy. Some boys reacted to having their testicles fondled, or their nipples gently rubbed; where some areas proved erogenous on some boys, it was not necessarily so for others.

His experience with the Twins had taken The Phantom to heretofore unexplored heights of passion, just as other experiences had allowed him to visit like pleasures on the Twins. He now knew that fondling and rolling his testicles while at the same time rubbing his nipples drove him to bucking and groaning and causing his penis to tremble and throb. Gently rubbing the underside of his glans while tweaking his nipples was heavenly.

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

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

Feeling very foolish, although very satisfied, The Phantom crawled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen where he glanced at the clock over the stove and saw the time: 0430. Wondering just what in the hell he was doing up at such an ungodly hour The Phantom decided to make the morning coffee, which turned out to be a bad idea.

The sound of the water flowing into the coffeepot set him to squirming and wriggling in discomfort, in dire need of a wicked piss. He hurried into the bathroom and emptied his bladder, revelling in the feeling of relief. He then showered and while he knew that he should brush his teeth, he lacked a toothbrush so he made do with the washcloth, scrubbing as much of the night crud from his mouth and teeth as he could.

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

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

The Phantom smiled thinly at the thought of calling Little Big Man a butt-fucker. That Little Big Man was a rat, a squealer, and a traitor, was all demonstrably clear. What was just as demonstrably not clear was the little prick’s preference when it came to sex. So far as anybody knew, except for his boasting last year, Little Big Man had never expressed a preference. He had never joined in the homoerotic bantering and horseplay that all the cadets engaged in. According to his brother Matt, Little Big Man was the complete heterosexual male, who had never, under any circumstances, evinced an interest in males.

A frown creased The Phantom’s face. By calling Paul a butt-fucker he was prejudging the short, scrawny drummer, and making an unfair comment based on no evidence. That Paul was adept in calling everyone else such names, with as little grounds, was not important. What was important was that by calling Little Big Man names he lowered himself to the level of Paul Greene, and that The Phantom found distasteful and demeaning. Name-calling was the last resort of little boys and petty men. The Phantom was neither.

From the kitchen The Phantom heard the coffee maker chuckling away while it brewed the coffee, the odour drifting slowly through the open door. Drawn by the enticing odour of the fresh-brewed coffee The Phantom returned to the kitchen, poured a cup and sat at the dining room table, trying to keep his emotions and fears in check and to approach the problem of Little Big Man as dispassionately and logically as possible.

Little Big Man was a threat. A very real threat. Paul Greene could, and would, with cold indifference, stab his best friend in the back if it suited his purpose. Paul had already tried to condemn the Twins to a life of ignominy and shame, just as he was now trying to visit the same fate on Harry, Greg, and The Gunner, on any of the cadets he suspected of being homosexual, including his brother!

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

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

Smiling, The Phantom rested his head against The Gunner’s bare stomach. “A certain Leading Gunnery Rate hogged all the covers. So I got up.”

“Sorry. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anybody.”

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

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

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

******

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

After breakfast they had driven from The Gunner’s apartment to The Phantom’s house so that the younger man could change and put on fresh underwear. The Gunner had offered the loan of some of his boxers and T-shirts. The Phantom had politely declined, knowing that at least one war had been started over “borrowed” boxers.

Even though the hour was early - just gone 0530 - The Gunner thought it best if he waited in the driveway while The Phantom changed, explaining that if any inquisitive neighbour happened to look out their windows they would see him, in the driveway, waiting impatiently for The Phantom, being a teenager and a boy, everybody assumed was always late, to put in an appearance and be driven to work.

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

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

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

When The Phantom appeared, spitting tacks at all the noise The Gunner was making, he was pointedly ignored and as they drove down the quiet street The Gunner had calmly recommenced his lecture on how best to fool one’s neighbours and, if necessary, one’s friends by simply telling part of the truth and letting the other fellow fill in the blanks.

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

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

“But it’s not the ‘Lascelles family treasures’,” insisted The Phantom. “It’s the Admiral’s Dining Room!”

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

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

“Come on, Phantom, if he was only five . . .”

The Phantom looked down his nose at The Gunner, ignoring The Gunner’s interruption. “ANYWAY,” he growled sharply, “Brendan missed the toss and the ball bounced against the edge of the dining table and hit the gravy boat, which fell on the floor and shattered all to rat shit!”

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

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

“Really, and what would that be?”

“Me!”

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

******

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

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

At issue were chickens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chef fixed a gimlet eye on his friend and snorted. “Well, let ’em worry in the dining room. And send one of them for Andy.”

“Andy? What do you want him for?”

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

******

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

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

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

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

Kevin, for all his 15 years and imagined sophistication (he was from Hamilton, after all, the Steel Capital of Canada) had never in his life seen a full-grown male naked, let alone a full-grown naked male with a bone on! Well, he had, but watching porno movies didn’t count, did it? Seeing a guy’s boned up dick on a makeshift movie screen, and seeing one in real life was different, wasn’t it?

Not that it mattered. Kevin stammered, he sputtered, managed to blurt out the message he had been sent to deliver, then, much to his embarrassment, and Andy’s, he committed an unpardonable sin: he stared directly at Andy’s rapidly deflating tumescence, and giggled.

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

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

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

Kevin smiled weakly. He had not told Adam what he had seen in the Wardroom and he had no intention of telling Adam what he had seen in the Wardroom, or the effect seeing Andy naked had had on Little Kevin! Kevin just blushed a little deeper red.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he saw my woody!” snarled Andy emphatically.

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

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

******

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

“What’s so funny?” asked Ray presently.

The Phantom looked up and grinned. “Tiny!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s okay,” replied Kevin. “I don’t mind hard work.”

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

Kevin shook his head. “They’re not.”

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

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

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

Kevin squirmed a bit. “It’s just that, well, its a little embarrassing.”

Ray snickered, louder this time, and whispered, “Seeing ‘Tiny’ will do that to a guy!”

Kevin looked as if he’d been pole-axed. Shit, did everybody know what he’d seen? And where did “Tiny” come from?

Resisting the urge to thump Ray on the head, The Phantom held up his hand. “Look, Kevin, Ensign Berg is an officer and a gentleman, even if he is a Yank. He does not ordinarily go around flashing his . . .um . . .his . . . well, flashing.”

Kevin blushed an even deeper shade of red. Ray giggled a tad too loudly.

The Phantom coughed loudly and looked at Kevin. “Ensign Berg is just as embarrassed as you are. I’m sure that he’s just as anxious as you are to forget that the whole thing happened.” He stared coldly at Ray, who grinned back. “Andy hasn’t got anything you haven’t seen before. In fact, if its any consolation he looks exactly like a certain Chief Cook I could name. Only bigger.” The Phantom paused, then added, “A lot bigger!”

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

“Truth is truth,” replied The Phantom calmly.

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you guys do?” asked Ray.

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

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

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

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

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

“You expecting guests?”

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

“Fuck you, Orsini,” snarled Tyler.

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

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

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

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

“If you can’t do it, I’ll understand. After all, it is short notice . . .”

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

“And who’s going to cook it?” put in Ray. “Unless you’d like to order in pizza?”

“Have it catered,” advised Joey.

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

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

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

“What did he say?” asked Ray.

“Something about Tyler’s daddy’s credit card,” translated Joey.

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

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

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

The Phantom resisted the urge to blurt out his immediate thoughts: Ah, Tyler, now why would I want to bust such a beautiful pair of balls as yours, after what I have done to them?

Stifling a sigh of remembrance of Tyler’s beautiful fittings, The Phantom temporized. “Look, let me see, okay?” he said, thinking quickly. Pissing off the Master-At-Arms was never a wise move. “How about we wait and see how many stewards we can muster? You get to work on Chef. How about tomorrow night? We can meet and see what’s what.”

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

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

When Stand Easy ended everybody went off to his duties. The Phantom went in to finish setting the dining room tables for lunch. Matt was nowhere to be seen, which was not surprising. He had probably returned to the Drill Shed to continue on with his regular duties as Weapons Yeoman. With The Gunner in what had proven to be an interminable meeting, Matt and Brian were slogging through the weapons roster, making sure that everything would be ready for the Range Shoot tomorrow.

Once the tables were set The Phantom returned to the galley, appropriated Chef’s desk, and began to take notes. He began by making a listing of what he would need for the Chiefs Dinner, if it ever came off. He wrote two more lessons and marked some of the photos in his “How To” book. These he hoped Greg would be able to photocopy. He walked into the dining hall and saw Ray putting the finishing letters onto the Menu Board, which listed the choices for lunch and dinner. He had a sudden thought and returned to the galley where he sketched out a meal chit, his idea being that if a chit listing each entree was set on or beside each plate the diner could then just check off what he wanted, thus saving time and effort on the part of the stewards.

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Fujimoto, whose forebears had helped establish many of the small towns that dotted this side of the island, had been raised on a chicken farm and knew that his chickens were prime goods. Mr. Fujimoto slowly shook his head at Chef’s offer of $0.20 cents a pound. “Twenny-nine cents,” he insisted, affecting the air and fractured English of a poor, downtrodden Oriental shopkeeper, which he wasn’t.

Born and raised in Comox, Mr. Fujimoto spoke not a word of Japanese. He was considered, in the business community, to be a man of erudition and intelligence. Unfortunately far too many whites associated being Asian with being semiliterate and only being able to speak Pidgin English. To make matters worse, it was almost automatically assumed that all Asians were Chinese, and fresh off the boat from Shanghai, or a denizen of alien “Chinatown!”

Mr. Fujimoto took no umbrage with the ignorance of his customers. In fact, he rather enjoyed playing the role of Charlie Chan, and then seeing the looks of embarrassment faces when he would deliver the coup de grace and speak with the diction and air of an Oxford don. The fat man before him was no exception to the general rule and Mr. Fujimoto smiled inwardly as he repeated, “Twenny-nine cents.”

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

“No good, no good,” exploded Mr. Fujimoto. “Have rarge famiree to support. Take Twenny-eight.” Mr. Fujimoto, who was deliberately pandering to Chef’s misguided ideas of how Japanese spoke English (with a little help from the John Wayne movies where he won the war in the Pacific, almost single-handedly), did have a large family, none of whom he still supported, his oldest boy being a lawyer in Vancouver and his youngest just graduated summa cum laude from medical school.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My condolences on your loss,” purred Chef.

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

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

The young man was even more confused by this statement. “What’s dead?” he asked the youth.

“The dog.”

“Dog? What dog?”

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

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

“Well, at least it’s over,” consoled The Phantom.

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

******

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

“What’s Kevin’s problem?” asked Matt during a break in the serving. He stood beside The Phantom, his hands clasped behind his back, waiting to serve the duff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There he goes again,” sniped Matt. “If he keeps doing that he’s going to drop something or worse. He’s too tense and that blushing is getting to be a right pain in the ass! It’s cute, but enough is enough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All morning Ray had been feeling sensations and feelings he had never felt before, not even when he’d been with Phantom. He could not quite understand what was happening. All he knew was that his thoughts were filled more and more with visions of Kevin, and less and less of Phantom. It wasn’t that he was falling in love with Kevin, for his feelings were not that deep.

Ray was very confused. He desperately wanted to sleep with Phantom, but at the same time he would not mind at all if Kevin parked his boots under his bunk for an hour or three, and God, Kevin did have a beautiful, round butt.

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

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

“Hey, guys,” Ray interrupted with a smile. “What’s this about tighty whiteys?”

Kevin cringed slightly. Shit, he thought. Another fucking country heard from!

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

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

Kevin blushed beet red and was about to tell Matt to mind his own business when Ray spoke up kindly. “Well, I’ve done that,” he declared. “Only I dyed everything green! That’s the sort of thing that can happen to anybody.” He gave Kevin’s shoulder a gentle pat. “Look at it this way, Kevin, I’m all set for St. Patrick’s Day and you’re all ready for Valentine’s Day!” He grinned widely. “And hey, if we do a dhobi together we’ll be all set for Christmas!”

Kevin’s opinion of Chiefs went up a notch. He smiled his thanks. At least somebody had some sympathy. “It’s pretty embarrassing,” he muttered. “Green isn’t so bad, but everything I own is not just red - it’s gawdawful pink!”

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

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

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

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

Kevin gasped and stared at The Phantom. “You’ve seen it? You’ve seen Mr. Berg’s woody?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish you guys would make up your mind,” said Kevin with a shake of his head. “Is it pudding, is it duff, or is it dessert?”

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

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

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

“Roll up your tongue and close your mouth, Ray. You’re drooling.”

It was Ray’s turn to blush. “It shows, huh?”

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

******

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

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

The third cadet was Chad, a stocky, well-muscled young man with a winning smile and a happy-go-lucky disposition. He was considered the most “mature” of the younger cadets in that at barely 17 his chest, groin and legs were covered with a light dusting of dark, silky hair. He was a great friend of another cadet, Nick, who was in many ways Chad’s opposite, being taller, thinner, and except for his pubic bush had no body hair at all. The two cadets were wingers and The Phantom figured that sooner or later Nick would be putting in an appearance.

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

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

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

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

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

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