Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 1

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The Phantom slowly opened the door and entered the barracks. He was dressed, from his soft-soled shoes to his ski-masked covered head and face, in black. Black leather gloves covered his hands. The Phantom took no chances. Even his briefs were black. Ranged before him were the tiers of double bunks that held the bodies of some of the boys he would visit tonight. He remained still, listening intently for a noise, a sound that was out of the ordinary. He heard nothing but the heavy, rhythmic breathing of 40 boy cadets deep in sleep.

After adjusting his slowly rising penis, which was thickening with anticipation, The Phantom removed his gloves, thrust them into the deep side pocket of his jeans and began to glide silently forward. The hunt had begun.

His keen eyesight, aided by the moonlight streaming through the open windows and the dim glow of the red emergency lights spaced down the sides of the barracks room, allowed The Phantom to navigate the length of the mess deck.

From time to time The Phantom used his hand torch, which was fitted with a red plastic lens, to probe the deep shadows cast over the occupants of the lower bunks. He forced himself to ignore the bodies lying in the upper bunks. While many of the sleeping forms were wonderful, glorious treasure to The Phantom, experience had shown him that one never knew how a boy would react as he was pleasured. Some lay there, breathing heavily, and barely moving. Others grunted, groaned or moaned, and thrust desperately as they were being masturbated, which caused the barely stable metal bunks to rattle and creak. The Phantom could not risk discovery and noise or disturbance of any description had to be avoided.

The Phantom had also learned from his experiences. It was much easier to drop and roll under a bunk from a kneeling or crouching position - as had happened - than it was standing beside a bunk. While many of the boys sleeping in the upper bunks were almost unbearably desirable, he left them alone, concentrating his efforts on the few fortunate cadets asleep in the lower bunks.

Previous visits last summer had also shown that many of the cadets slept on their sides or stomachs, which made tasting the delights hidden under the soft fabric of their underpants difficult. The ideal cadet to be visited would be lying deep in sleep, on his back, and wearing boxer underpants.

A quick pass of The Phantom's flashlight showed that tonight was no exception. Another pass and his face broke into a wide smile. He saw that three of the boys were sleeping on their backs, an ideal position for what he planned to do this night. He retraced his steps and knelt beside a bunk about halfway down the room. Listening closely, The Phantom waited patiently. There was no need to rush. He flashed his hand torch for a few brief seconds and saw all he needed to see.

The cadet was young, about 14 or so, if The Phantom was any judge. From mid-chest to toes the boy was covered with the blue and white checked counterpane that was issued to every cadet. The boy was slim, but with a well-developed body. His black, sleep-tousled hair hung in curling strands across his broad forehead. The boy's mouth was slightly ajar, his breathing slow and steady.

The Phantom fixed his gaze on the small bulge in the counterpane just a little more than halfway down the boy's body and slowly moved his hand, gently feeling the delight hidden under the two layers of cloth. He knew that the cadet would be wearing underpants for they were forbidden to sleep nude. The Phantom stared at the cadet's face, waiting for a reaction.

Nothing.

Very carefully and gently The Phantom massaged the boy's genitals. From the feel of them the boy's testicles were small, and tight against his crotch. The soft flesh of the cadet's penis lay directly over his testicles, pointing downward. As he massaged the soft flesh The Phantom felt the young penis begin to stiffen and a tent began to form in the counterpane, a small tent held in check by the fabric of the cadet's underpants. The boy's right leg stirred and trembled slightly as the pleasure building in his testicles traveled upward and penetrated his sleep-drugged brain.

The Phantom stared again at the boy's face, noticing a slight tightening of his lips. Beneath his hand The Phantom could feel the cadet's rock hard penis, perhaps four inches of steely boy flesh, throbbing.

The boy squirmed and moved his hand towards his crotch. Quickly withdrawing his hand, The Phantom watched with interest as the cadet massaged himself, and then moved his erection so that it was now pointing up his body. The cadet's face softened as he slowly pushed the counterpane covering his body down, revealing his white briefs. After a few strokes the boy's hand stopped, and then slid slowly down his thigh to his side. He sighed contentedly, and his breathing resumed the rhythm of sleep.

Flashing his light again, The Phantom saw that the young cadet's penis had shrunk somewhat so he reached over and resumed his ministrations to the boy's genitals. At The Phantom's touch the boy began to squirm, moving his legs slightly and a small, wet spot appeared just below the elastic band of his briefs. The cadet's breathing, slow and shallow in sleep, did not change.

Reaching up, The Phantom slowly pulled the boy's underpants down. Released from the restricting fabric of his Jockeys, the boy's penis sprang upward, bounced twice, and settled against his stomach. The Phantom anchored the briefs under the boy's hairless scrotum and ran his fingers along the cadet's warm penis, a thick, skin-covered shaft ending in a large, bulbous head that was, except for a small, reddened circle directly over the pee slit, not exposed. A thick bush of long, black, and barely curled pubic hair completely encircled the cadet's genitals.

Slowly, carefully, The Phantom pulled the boy's foreskin down, the loose skin moving freely to reveal a dark pink, almost purple, curving glans glistening with the thick fluid - precum - that oozed from the distended pee slit of the cadet's penis. With long perfected gentleness The Phantom ran his finger over the moist, warm glans of the boy's penis.

The cadet reacted to The Phantom's very gentle touch by arching his back and thrusting his hips upward, moaning softly and muttering unintelligibly as his body reacted to the stimulus of the stroking finger. With his free hand The Phantom reached over and began to stroke and fondle the cadet's tight, wrinkled scrotum while he slowly masturbated the boy. As his hand moved slowly and rhythmically upward the head of the cadet's penis was covered completely. Down again and the head was revealed.

The Phantom felt the boy's testicles contract until they almost disappeared into his body, the soft-skinned sack become a wrinkled bag. The cadet began to thrust his hips in time with The Phantom's stroking, fucking The Phantom's hand. The boy's breathing became harsher and faster as his orgasm approached and then, without warning his body stiffened and he thrust his hips violently upward, grunting loudly as a thick stream of semen exploded from the gaping slit of his penis and landed messily on his hairless chest. The boy thrust again and another, less powerful stream erupted from the gaping slit, splattering across his chest and stomach and dribbling down the back of the Phantom's hand. As the cadet's thrusting lessened, his discharge was reduced to a trickle.

Releasing the cadet's softening penis, The Phantom raised his hand to his lips. His tongue darted out and for the first time he tasted cum. The cadet's watery ejaculate did not taste all that bad, a little salty, but not all that bad. Smiling, The Phantom licked his hand clean, wiped it on the counterpane and then drew the blue-checked cloth over the cadet's flushed body. Then he moved on.

******

This was the Bugle Band barracks and The Phantom was forced to use his flashlight to navigate through the neat piles of boxed instruments and drums. He moved toward the end of the row of bunks and stopped. The boy in the bunk beside him had kicked his coverlet off and The Phantom could see that the cadet, unlike the first, was blond and, from the length of him, tall.

The cadet's golden blond hair, although cut short on the sides and back, was slightly longer on top, and loosely curled. He had a wide, firm-jawed, square face, with slim lips, which were tightly closed.

The boy was wearing pinstriped boxers, which made for easy access to the treasure hidden under the soft cotton cloth. The cadet was also lying on his back, with his legs slightly spread.

For several minutes The Phantom stood motionless, listening to the boy's soft breathing, watching his smooth, handsome face for any change of expression. When he was satisfied that the cadet was deep in sleep, The Phantom sat half on the edge of the bunk. He looked carefully at the sleeping cadet and saw that his genitals lay to the right, nestling against his right leg.

With careful, deliberate slowness The Phantom pushed his hand under the leg of the cadet's boxer shorts and ran his hand upward, feeling the coarse hairs that lined the boy's groin. When his fingertips touched the end of what was obviously the cadet's penis, he stopped, feeling the warmth of the boy's leg, listening for any change in his breathing.

The Phantom had long since learned that exploring the genitals of a sleeping boy took care and patience. He pushed his hand slowly upward and felt a smooth, tapering penis resting over heavy, hair-covered testicles.

As The Phantom felt gently, the cadet muttered something unintelligible and squirmed, opening his legs just a touch wider. A smiled creased The Phantom's face. He had seen this reaction many times. The boys he visited might be asleep, but somehow they knew that their most private possession was being fondled, and either closed their legs and rolled away - which rarely happened - or spread their legs wider, inviting attention.

Reaching under the cadet's penis, The Phantom felt his respectably sized testicles and then, slowly, pushed the boy's penis upward until the tip and perhaps an inch of it appeared through the slit in the blond's underpants. The Phantom knew without looking that the cadet had not been circumcised. His fingers had touched the wrinkled tube that marked the end of the cadet's penis.

This small bit of flesh told The Phantom that the cadet was either from Quebec, or the Eastern Provinces, where the procedure was not what amounted to a rite of passage for a newborn baby boy, as it was here in British Columbia, the other three western provinces, and Ontario.

As the cadet's penis thickened under his hand The Phantom dismissed all thoughts of foreskins. He really didn't care - so long as the boy was clean.

Squeezing gently, The Phantom felt the cadet's penis harden into a seven inch, surprisingly thick, shaft, all of it now jutting out of the boy's boxers. The foreskin had pulled back to reveal a perfect, deep purple glans that was warm and sticky to the touch.

As The Phantom continued to gently squeeze the cadet's penis the blond boy stiffened and drew in a short, sharp breath and, when The Phantom began to masturbate him, the cadet groaned softly as his hands clutched the coverlet.

While he slowly masturbated the boy with his right hand, The Phantom use his left to gently explore the cadet's flushed body. His fingertips circled the boy's nipples, traced the outline of his navel, and followed the immature treasure trail leading under the waistband of his boxers. He inserted his hand into the slit of the cadet's underpants, running his fingers around his all but retracted testicles.

Emboldened, The Phantom gently felt the cleft between the cadet's legs, his fingers exploring the hair-carpeted path that led to the boy's small, puckered entry.

A soft gasp escaped the cadet's lips as The Phantom's fingers circled his hair-rimmed rosebud. He surprised The Phantom by spreading his legs wider and raising his hips slightly, giving The Phantom more room to continue.

A look of great surprise crossed The Phantom's face. He had never before touched an anus, not even his own. In all the visits he had made to the Spit he had never been so daring. His surprise was genuine as it was obvious that this small, smoothly puckered opening was another pleasure zone, so much so that as his finger rimmed and circled it, the hole became slightly distended, as if in invitation, and the cadet's breathing became heavier.

As The Phantom continued his ministrations to the cadet's penis and rosebud, the boy's breathing became ragged. His balls tightened even more than they had and he began to moan and gasp, gulping great drafts of air.

Using his thumb The Phantom stroked the head of the boy's penis, lubricating it with the clear, sticky fluid that gushed and flowed from the slit of the cadet's penis. As he did so the cadet hip's moved to match the movement of The Phantom's hand. The boy was close, very close and as The Phantom drew the cadet's foreskin up to barely cover the glans of his penis the boy made a yipping noise, and thrust his hips sharply upward.

A fountain of thick semen blasted upward from the engorged glans of the cadet's penis. The first wad hit The Phantom in the face, sticking to his black ski mask. The Phantom quickly pointed the spewing dick down and eruption after eruption flew forward and onto the moaning cadet's hairless chest. The boy's penis spasmed twice more and the volcanic eruption of semen subsided until only a few thick drops oozed out. Releasing the softening organ, The Phantom stood up and quickly left the barracks. It was time to go.

******

As his dark form melted into the shadows The Phantom reached up and wiped the blob of semen from his mask with his finger. Lifting his finger to his lips, The Phantom tasted . . . the taste of a man. Sweet, he thought as he ran his tongue around his finger, devouring every drop of the cadet's thick juice. As he skirted the end of the Buglers Barracks The Phantom made a mental note to bring along a handkerchief or piece of cloth the next time he visited the Spit. There was no need to have that sweet juice splatter all over the donor. No need at all.

It was the early morning hours of Monday, the 5th of July 1976. Summer training had only started. By the time it ended in mid-August, 800 to 1,000 cadets would have passed through HMCS Aurora. The Phantom shuddered in anticipation.

******

A week had gone by. The training program was well established and the cadets had settled into their daily routines. The Phantom was sitting on the loading dock leading to the Mess Hall galley, smoking a forbidden cigarette and waiting for the afternoon Swimming Parade to start. He glanced at his watch. 1610. Afternoon classes were over, the First Dog Watchmen had been fed, and The Phantom's time was his own until 1700, when most of the cadet population ate.

The Phantom, who had been working here since he was 14, knew with relative surety exactly what was happening at any given moment of the day. A cadet's workday started at 0600 and only ended at 2000. So intense was their training that no leave was allowed, except for supervised day trips on Saturdays. To get off Heron Spit, where HMCS Aurora was located was, except for a medical emergency, almost impossible if you were a cadet.

The Phantom, however, was not a cadet. He was a civilian employee, working in the galley. Two years ago, in 1974, he had worked with the contractors who had built the barracks and refurbished the few buildings still standing when the Heron Spit Ranges had been converted for use by the Sea Cadets. His work had taken him from causeway that connected the Spit to the mainland, to the cluster of buildings in the middle of the Spit, to the wide, barren, sea washed end. The Phantom knew every inch of Heron Spit.

For two years The Phantom and his brother Brendan, who was now in Regina learning how to be a Queen's Cowboy, together with Sam and George, two full-blooded Homalco Indians, had found summer employment when the Esquimalt Sea Cadet Camp was closed and HMCS Aurora transformed into the main Sea Cadet Training Establishment for the Pacific region.

The four boys had helped build the four H-shaped barracks blocks that housed the bulk of the cadet population, and had painted the Staff Cadet Quarters located at the other end of the base, across from the Headquarters Building and the parade square. Last summer all four boys had worked in the Ship's galley.

In their free time the boys, like all 15 and 16-year-old boys, had explored the barren sand dunes and the thick forest that covered the lower portion of the Spit, looking for relics of the days when the Royal Naval had used the old Dockyard, and souvenirs from the days when the Royal Canadian Navy had a presence here. The boys had found little other than a few spent shell casings, leftovers from the days when HMCS Aurora had been a gunnery range.

The blast of a ship's horn jolted The Phantom from his reverie. A YAG, as the small, wooden tenders assigned to the base were called, was pulling alongside the long wooden jetty that thrust into Comox Harbour.

The jetty, together with the Boat Shed and two small outbuildings at the end of the long pier, were known as the Dockyard. The high jetty, together with the smaller finger piers, was located at the midpoint of the Spit. The Dockyard was home to five YAGs, small wooden training vessels that spent much of the time at sea in the Strait of Georgia, miscellaneous workboats, whalers and small sailboats.

A second blast from the YAG's horn reminded The Phantom that his friend Sam was away at sea, working on his father's deep-sea trawler. The Phantom did not miss his brother, nor did he particularly miss George, who had found work as a counsellor in one of the summer camps that dotted the island. As for Sam, well, he was missed, if only for the things they did together, after school, in The Phantom's bedroom.

******

The Phantom and Sam had been best friends from the day they had first met in grade school. They had done the usual little boy things, playing baseball together, sleeping over at each other's house, arguing and fighting, as boys will. Together they had explored their world. Together they had roamed the length of the Comox Valley. Sam had taught The Phantom everything his father had taught him about the forests. Thanks to Sam, The Phantom could navigate his way through the dense forests to the north and west of Comox, and live off the land.

They had also, as sometimes happened discovered each other. For want of a better term they had become fuck buddies, not that they had ever fucked, for Sam would never have allowed that to happen.

His relationship with the young aboriginal boy had caused The Phantom much anger, anguish and frustration. From the age of eight years or so The Phantom had known that if his father were looking for grandchildren from him the old man would wait a long time. The Phantom liked boys in general, and Sam in particular.

Admitting his sexuality, accepting his sexuality, and acting on his sexual desires were different things, however. The Phantom had spent enough time on the playing fields, around the swimming pools and ball fields of Comox to know what the other boys, his schoolmates and friends, would do to him if they even suspected that he lusted after their smooth, hairless bodies. He never acted on his secret desires and never breathed a word to anyone of his true self, keeping his secret from everyone, including his best friend, Sam.

Playing, as he would later come to call it, the Game, The Phantom made it a point to never put himself in a position where he would be tempted to any degree. During his frequent sleepovers with Sam the boys slept in separate beds and while they giggled and chattered the night away, they never broached the subject of sex, except in the broadest terms, and they never touched each other.

All that had changed the first night they had been allowed to go camping alone.
They had set up their tent on the beach of a small lake in the foothills of Mount Washington. They had skinny dipped, but that was nothing new. The boys had seen each other naked many times and swum together naked in the school pool, where bathing suits were not allowed. After their swim they had dressed in shorts and T-shirts, built a small fire and eaten. Soon it was time for bed. They had spread out their sleeping bags beside each other and, as the night was hot, they stripped down to their white briefs, lying on top of the bags.

They talked quietly about their day, about how much fun they had had and about how much fun they would have tomorrow. Sam wanted to go around to the other side of the lake where there was a summer camp for girls, the innocent remark leading to a serious discussion about girls, about which girl they wanted to kiss, about which girl had begun to look decent now that she had started to grow tits, and what exactly they were supposed to do if they found a girl willing to do IT.

The more they talked the larger became the bulges in their briefs and as they talked The Phantom saw that Sam was rubbing his boner. Without thinking of the consequences The Phantom had reached over and felt the firm, warm flesh hidden under Sam's underpants. Sam had not protested and he had let The Phantom stroke him. Then, much to The Phantom's surprise, Sam had reached over and felt his boner. Before very long their briefs were down around their knees.

The Phantom sighed at the memory of their first jerk-off session. The next morning Sam had been distant, and did not want to talk about what they had done. As the day progressed he became more animated, and more communicative, but still he said nothing about what they had done. That night The Phantom had gone to his sleeping bag thinking that his friendship with Sam was over. Then Sam had reached out and gently squeezed The Phantom's dick.

From that night they masturbated each other as often as they could and while their sessions together were frequent, they were conducted according to Sam's rules. He came from a very traditional people and being gay was a horrible sin, cause for instant banishment from the Tribal Lands, banishment that was complete, total, and forever.

Accordingly, they played according to Sam's rules, which said that what they were doing did not mean that they were doing anything gay. What they were doing was just fooling around, just two friends helping each other out. It was not a gay thing. It was a guy thing, and therefore not gay.

They would jerk each other's cocks, but never to the point of ejaculation. When he approached his climax Sam would push The Phantom's hand away and finish himself to climax. The Phantom had to warn Sam when his own climax was near. Sam would pull away and The Phantom would bring himself off. Sam's intransigence and refusal to do anything else always left The Phantom frustrated and angry, so much so that last summer he had begun his nightly visits to the Spit.

Another blast of the YAG's horn caused The Phantom to shade his eyes and watch as the small boat was smartly brought alongside. As he watched two small figures, cadets detailed as jetty jumpers, nimbly jumped from the small wooden boat to the jetty and threw the mooring lines over the iron bollards that lined the jetty.

The Phantom had given much thought to visiting the cadets who lived on board the YAGS. In the end he had decided that it was much too dangerous. While each of the five small yard craft held some very tempting specimens, they maintained a full Harbour Watch when alongside: a Duty Officer, a Duty Petty Officer, and a Duty Quartermaster. The Dockyard was also too well lit. There were no shadows, and too much open space. The Phantom shrugged. There were plenty of other cadets closer at hand.

The memory of last night and the cadets he had serviced caused The Phantom's penis to stiffen. He reached down and fingered the large bulge in his white cook's trousers, moaning softly as a thrill of excruciating desire passed through him. Hell and sheeit, was he horny!

Usually, when he became this excited, The Phantom would disappear into the Canteen Stores (after making sure that the Canteen damager was elsewhere) and furiously pump his six inches of hot, thick flesh to a massive explosion, cumming quickly and so hard his balls ached. Not now though. Ten minutes ago Young Brown, the Duty Bugler, had sounded "Secure". The cadets would be free for the next hour or so and the Canteen was open. There would be no sneaking into Canteen Stores today, not with a herd of nosy cadets wandering about. The Phantom also had plans for the evening.

There was a drummer who had caught his eye and he also wanted to visit the Cooks Mess. Two of the young trainee cooks looked very interesting. He would force himself to wait until tonight.

Sighing his disappointment, The Phantom concentrated on his duties. At 1700 the bugle would sound "Hands to Dinner" and he, together with the other cooks and whatever cadets had been seconded as galley staff, would stand behind the long line of steam tables and dish out the main meal of the day to over two hundred ravenous boy cadets. The Phantom did not mind standing on the steam line, but he preferred bussing the tables. He heard a lot of gossip and cadet talk. Sometimes he got really lucky and bussed the Chiefs table. The Chiefs knew all the dirt, much of it trivial, some of it very interesting.

Listening to the Chiefs would be a welcome change from listening to the cadets moan and drip about the meals served to them. The Phantom, who actually thought the food served to be quite good, also thought in retrospect that the cadets did have cause for complaint. He, like all the cadets did not have to consult the menu chart posted by the main door leading to the dining hall for the thing never varied, and seldom changed. There was a standard menu served at every CF base from Newfyjohn to Squibbly, to all points north and south. Good, substantial food, but boring as hell. The only thing that was different was the quality. If the Chief Cook was good, so was the food. If he was bad, everyone ate at McDonald's or the local equivalent.

The Chief Cook this year was good, and he made up for the blandness of the meals by the quality and quantity of the desserts. The Chief Cook, whom everyone called Chef, was a huge man of well over 200 pounds, despite that fact that The Phantom had never seen him eat anything substantial. He was grumpy, cantankerous, argumentative and as crazy as a coot. He was also a damned good cook, and had taken a shine to The Phantom, trying to interest the young man in the art of cookery.

Chef, while a brilliant, if peripatetic cook, was also a stickler for absolute perfection. There were no corners cut in his galley, with no grated carrots added to the spaghetti sauce as "filler". Everything had to be copper-bottomed, even the Chinese Wedding Cake they had made for duff. The dessert had to be absolutely perfect, even though it was rice pudding with raisins and currents. Second best would not do at all and even a hint of a lessening of standards would bring a temper tantrum of biblical proportions, always accompanied by the waving of a huge wooden spoon, and threats of certain damage to cadet bottoms if things did not improve. Why only this morning Chef had been roused to indignation and told The Phantom that . . .

The Phantom was jerked from his culinary musings when he heard his name being called. He looked up to see Cory and Todd Arundel, two golden-skinned, blond gods, collectively known as the Twins, passing by. He glanced at his watch. 1620 and the Swim Parade had begun.

During the week the cadets had free time from 1600 until the 1700, when they were piped to dinner. If the day were hot, as today had been, they would all troop down to the small bay at the northern end of the Spit, and go swimming.

The Swim Parade was a constant source of delight and frustration for The Phantom. Almost every afternoon a steady stream of young, virile cadets would saunter past. His delight was that many of the older cadets were handsome and muscular, and bloody good to look at. His frustration was that they all seemed to prefer wearing baggy swimming shorts, which showed nothing.

The exceptions to the rule were the Twins. Each afternoon they seemed to delight in wearing the skimpiest, thinnest bathing suits that they could find. This afternoon, as usual, they were dressed more for shock than swimming. The Twins were wearing identical cherry red Speedos, which left absolutely nothing to The Phantom's imagination. Their parts were clearly, and graphically, outlined under the thin fabric of their trunks.

The Twins were not identical, but resembled each other and it was clear that they were brothers. They were both slim and trim, the scanty Speedos, showing off their bronzed swimmers' bodies to perfection. Their sun-bleached golden hair was cut "high and wide" with just enough on the top to permit a part on the left. The Phantom had first encountered them last year when they were doing their Gunnery IIIs course. This year they were Gunnery Staff and lived in the Gunroom, a small cabin in the Staff Barracks.

The Staff Barracks, a small, brick, former officers barracks, was one of a cluster of older buildings located in what was called the Lower Camp, across the parade square. Here also were located the barracks housing the Ship's carpenters, who were known as Chippy Chaps, and the Engineering cadets, called Stokers. Further south, and the last building at that end of the Spit, was the School of Music, always called the School of Wind by the cadets.

The Phantom had never visited the Staff Barracks, which housed the Senior Staff Cadets (for the most part Gunnery and Regulating Staff), the two ranking cadets in the Chiefs Mess, the senior Chiefs and Petty Officers in the Gunroom, and the junior Petty Officers in the adjoining Petty Officers Mess. The Staff Barracks were located at the far end of the ship and while he had no doubt he could navigate his way to the block, it was far easier to confine his nocturnal visits to the four barracks blocks close at hand.

As they passed by the Twins gave The Phantom a wave and smiled broadly. The Phantom returned their wave and smile, thinking that God they were beautiful!

The Phantom sighed in frustration. The Twins had haunted his dreams ever since he had met them last summer. They had filled his night time fantasies, and he had beat off to their images, groaning his desire to feel their slim, hard bodies, wanting to take their perfect cocks in his mouth, imagining long, warm showers with them during the Middle Watch.

What was even more frustrating was the knowledge that the Twins were gay. They did not broadcast their sexual orientation. Neither did they deny it.

Everybody knew that the Twins were gay, yet nobody talked about it. Well, nobody except Paul Greene, the Senior Drummer in the Aurora Band, who was a jerk and a racist, and Roger Home, who was a Regulating Petty Officer, and almost as big a peckerwood as Paul Greene. Both cadets never let an opportunity slip by to slag off the Twins.

The Phantom could have understood the prejudice voiced by Greene and Home if the Twins had been flagrant about their homosexuality. The opposite was true. They might be as gay as ducks, but they never showed it, and they never tried to put the moves on anybody. They never acted gay, whatever acting gay meant. Their swimming suits aside, the most outrageous thing about them was that they never wore underwear if they could help it or, if they did wear underwear their briefs were hardly ever the ubiquitous white, almost always being the most violent of reds and greens, yellows and purples.

Which meant nothing. Mal Wooten, a skinny Petty Officer Boatswain, was just as outrageous in his choice of underpants, at least according to Willy Carlyle and Jack Spencer, who had the misfortune to live in the same Mess as Mal. The Phantom had eavesdropped at lunch and had overheard Willy and Jack railing at Mal about his choice of underwear. They also complained hotly about some sort of ritual that Mal insisted on performing on awakening, something called "Airing the Monster", which sounded interesting. Unfortunately Chef had called him away before Willy and Jack got into the details.

The point, though, was that the Twins did not deserve the name-calling, or the slagging because at the end of the day and in reality the worst that could be said about the Twins was that they were not above copping a quick feel if the opportunity presented itself. The cadets knew that the Twins did it, and either took pains to avoid placing their genitals in harm's way, or accepted the feel for what it was, a quick feel, harmless in itself and meaning nothing, childish pranks confined to their friends and messmates. The Twins never did anything to the younger cadets.

Thinking about the antics of the Twins, The Phantom presumed that he was now a friend, or at the least someone the Twins wanted for a friend, for they had renewed acquaintances, in a manner of speaking.

The first time had been in the Mess Hall, while he was bussing the tables. The Phantom had bent over to pick up a dropped fork when a hand darted between his legs and groped him. Not hard, but it had startled him, to the extent that he had had jerked forward and ended up sliding nose first along the polished tile floor, much to the amusement of the cadets seated at the surrounding tables.

The second time had been when he was standing on line in the Canteen. One Twin, Cory, the one with the softer features, was behind him. The Phantom should have expected something. He had not and was more than a little surprised when he felt a hand on his right butt cheek, kneading and fondling his tight orb. When he turned around, Cory was gone, replaced by Todd, the other Twin, with his arms crossed and looking as innocent as all get out.

The Phantom, instead of being angry, had felt flattered. If the Twins were interested enough to give him a quick feel, he would certainly make no objection, just as he would make no objection if the Twins came on to him. He certainly hoped they would. They were sexy and horny. He was horny and, so far as he was concerned, sexy.

This morning, after showering, The Phantom had looked at himself in the mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door. The reflection he saw was of a young man with a firm, muscular, well-tanned body. The young man had light brown hair and emerald green eyes. Turning slightly, The Phantom had examined his back, bum, and legs. He liked what he saw, a young man with toned muscles, neatly developed from tramping the Forbidden Plateau with Sam. His chest was coming along nicely, he thought.

Looking down, The Phantom saw a neatly circumcised, smooth penis hanging over a silky skinned sack. His testicles were not large, nor were they were too small. They were . . . just right. His pubic bush was also neat and trim, although he never touched it, it just seemed to . . . low around the base of his penis to taper gently away down the inside of his legs.

The Phantom had stepped back from the mirror nodding his approval. A nice, neat, set of goods . . . A frown had curled his brow. His ears! They were slightly jugged. A flaw in the perfection of his manhood!

The Phantom's frown changed to a smile, however, when he considered that the Twins would hardly be interested in his ears. No, they would, he hoped, be interested in the total Phantom and as he turned on the water for his shower The Phantom thought of the Twins, and long, warm, intoxicating showers during the Middle Watch when the Twins, the glorious, beautiful Twins would reach out and . . .

******

The Twins disappeared up the beach, their place on the pathway taken by the Cadet Master-At-Arms, Chief Petty Officer Tyler Benbow, and the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor, Chief Petty Officer Val Orsini. They were two of the oldest cadets. They were also the Senior Ranking Cadets and unlike the Twins these two cadets were conservatively dressed in multicoloured swimming shorts. Each had a towel draped around his neck and shoulders.

Tyler, the Master-At-Arms, called The Jaunty by the cadets, was a shade over six feet tall, with a fine, deeply muscled body, and a firm, square face. Like the Twins his copper coloured hair was cut high and wide, although the hair on the top of his head was longer, and very curly. The Phantom noticed that The Master-At-Arms had a delicious treasure trail of coarse, bright red hair that trailed down his firm stomach and disappeared into the fabric of his blue, red and gold swimming shorts. His fair skin was tanning nicely. This would be his last year as a Sea Cadet. In September he would be entering Royal Roads as a Naval Cadet.

Val, the Cadet Chief Gunner was shorter, with deep olive skin and fine, Mediterranean features. He had a smooth, well set-up body, a handsome oval face, and dark brown, smouldering eyes. Like the Jaunty, Val's dark brown hair was cut high and wide, short on top and neatly parted on the left.

Unlike the Master-At-Arms, Val had a V-shaped patch of soft black hair on his chest. His legs were lightly dusted with equally black fur, but he had no treasure trail to speak of. Val did have a cute button of a navel, which The Phantom found intriguing. He wondered what it tasted like.

As the Senior Cadets, the Master-At-Arms and the Cadet Chief Gunner enjoyed great prestige and power. The Master-At-Arms had been handpicked by the Commanding Officer. The Chief Gunner, like all of the Gunnery Instructors and Parade GI's, including the Twins, had been handpicked by the Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade and Training), a Whale Island trained, Permanent Force, Leading Gunner.

Tyler, together with the Cadet Regulating Petty Officers, as Master-At-Arms was responsible for maintaining good order and discipline. He was 18-years-old, well trained in his job, and was respected by everybody and very rarely used his considerable powers. As the saying went, Tyler wore his rank well. The junior cadets liked Tyler and were for the most part - except for the Twins, who always seemed to be in the rattle - very well behaved.

While they had prestige and power, the only privilege the Jaunty and the Cadet Chief Gunner enjoyed was the small cabin they shared next to the Gunroom. As the two senior cadets passed on toward the beach The Phantom thought that he definitely should reconsider visiting the Staff Barracks.

The parade of swimmers continued. Some boatswains, who were tasty looking, but a little skinny, ambled past. Then came a stern faced, intense, bespectacled Hospital Attendant, followed by two of the Regulating Petty Officers, always referred to (behind their backs) as Crushers. Of the all the Crushers, the two walking down the path were the least respected. One was actively disliked, the other tolerated. They could protest all they liked that they were only doing their jobs. The problem was that they knew their jobs too well, and had read Queen's Regulations and Instructions for Sea Cadets once too often.

As the Ship's policemen the two cadets were very aware of the power their rank and appointment gave them. They both tended to bluster and make it quite clear that they had the authority to make life very miserable for anyone who came to their attention.
Their attitude was not helped by their nicknames, which everybody knew, or that everybody also knew exactly why Regulating Petty Officer Roger Home was called Two Strokes, and why Regulating Petty Officer Tom Vernon was called Thumper.

Two Strokes, like Thumper, was wearing tight, khaki, US Navy issue swim shorts, the fruits of intense trading and negotiations with US Sea Cadets on an exchange visit. Two Strokes was tall and slim with short, regulation cut, dark brown hair. He had a thin, vulpine face, and he bore a remarkable resemblance to the actor who played Mr. Spock, the Vulcan of the TV series Star Trek.

Two Strokes had earned his nickname as a direct result of his first, and so far as anyone knew, only, sexual encounter, which had happened last summer. As there was a shortage of classrooms in the ship, Highland Secondary School was leased and most of the classroom instruction was held there. The cadets would eat lunch in the school cafeteria and one of the girls who worked on the serving line had fallen well and truly in lust with the cadet who would become known as Two Strokes.

Roger had, at first, resisted the girl's come-ons. He was flattered of course, but saw little chance of a meeting. Except for being bused to and from the ship to the school, he never got off the Spit. As luck would have it, fate intervened in the form of a goodbye banyan on the last night of training. All the civilians, including the staff from the school, were invited. Boy and girl met, boy and girl found a private place. Nature took what turned out to be its disastrous course.

It was unfortunate that the young cadet had been found wanting. It was equally unfortunate that the young lady chose to regale her female cronies with the outcome of her exploit, describing in graphic detail exactly what had happened. She had not been pleased or satisfied and had ended her tirade cruelly, announcing loudly, "He was finished in two strokes! And my little brother is bigger than he is!"

That the girl chose to vent her spleen in the local teen hangout was, for Roger Home, catastrophic. At another booth two cadets from RCSCC PORT AUGUSTA, the Comox unit, listened intently. They had crossed swords with the young Crusher, and they were not about to let something as juicy as this go past. From the moment they left the restaurant Two Strokes was well and truly named.

******

Thumper, on the other hand, had earned his nickname in a much more prosaic manner.

Tom Vernon had arrived for the 1975 Summer Training Course a more or less normal cadet, a short, well set up, dark blond, and handsome young man. He was intelligent, eager to learn, and well liked by his peers and the instructors. For five weeks Tom was at the top of his form, and destined, or so it was considered by many, destined for a sterling career in Sea Cadets. Tom had given every indication that he was the ideal cadet.

Until it happened.

Tom Vernon, as the fifth week of his course came to an end, entered full-blown, hardons-at-the-drop-of-a-hat, puberty! He had been thirteen years and seven months old.

The six or seven pubic hairs Tom had arrived with had suddenly become a miniature forest! His dick took to doing strange things. The thing seemed to have a mind of its own, hardening at the most inopportune times, in the classroom, on the parade square, in the showers. It was downright embarrassing!

Tom, at first, resisted temptation. While he was no stranger to beating off, doing it in a barracks surrounded by 40 other boys was not something he felt comfortable doing. A guy never knew who might be listening!

As much as he could, Tom resisted temptation, not touching himself until one fateful night when he awoke with what could only be described as a raging hardon. Tom needed relief badly so he reached down and began stroking. Much to his surprise his orgasm was so intense that he almost fainted. He also ejaculated for the first time, covering his stomach and chest with a huge eruption of semen. He had lain in his bunk, not believing what had happened to him, fingering his iron hard penis, which refused to go down.

As he played with himself, Tom felt the wonderful feelings begin to return. His natural caution forgotten, he moaned loudly as he approached another orgasm, which caused him to abruptly stop his pumping. He knew the ridicule he would endure if the other guys caught him jerking off in bed. Rather than risk discovery he scurried from his bunk and into the heads where he locked himself in one of the cubicles and beat himself into a second mind numbing orgasm.

From that moment on Tom could not help himself. He did not care if the guys laughed at him. He did not care if the guys knew what he was doing. All he cared about were the glorious feelings that soared through his young body.

At every opportunity Tom would disappear into the heads and beat off. He was doing it five and six or more times a day. His dick would rise up proud. His cum would roil and boil in his balls. He had to do it. Every time he blew his load was better than the last. He beat off so much that his dick was raw. The Principal Medical Officer threatened to make him wear woollen mittens. The Chaplain (P), a kindly young priest whom the cadets affectionately called Dirty Dave the Deacon, lectured him on the sins of masturbation.

Tom did not care. Fuck the sins of masturbation. He was revelling in the joys of masturbation. It felt sooo good when he did it. He choked his chicken in his bunk after Lights Out. He spanked the monkey in the showers in the middle of the night. He squeezed the snake at every opportunity.

It took all of two days before the other cadets noticed and Harry, never one to let an opportunity slip by, loudly proclaimed that he was sick sore and tired of listening to Thumper beating the midnight drum and frightening the Sea Puppies and assorted critters, including himself!

Tom, now Thumper, ignored Harry and took to disappearing into the heads immediately the lights were turned out. At Stand Easy, while the other cadets made a beeline for the Canteen and the Coke machine, Thumper scampered into the heather, into the Ropewalk, Boatswain Stores or his favourite cubicle in the heads.

In the end, Thumper's reputation as a serious masturbator got so bad that that some of the younger cadets would not open a locker door for fear that Thumper would be in there mangling the midget. All the cadets adamantly refused to shake his hand.

Thumper had returned to Aurora and while rumour had it that he only played the skin flute once or twice a day, the Master-At-Arms would not let him stand the Middle and Morning Watches alone. The Phantom, aware of Thumper's activities, wondered sometimes what his reaction would be to another hand doing the work for him.

After giving Thumper's retreating ass an approving appraisal The Phantom stood up, crushed his cigarette under his toe of his boot, nodded, and decided that yes, a visit to the Staff Barracks was definitely to be considered.

******

The Phantom entered the galley and walked to one of the two long, stainless steel serving tables that bisected the galley, and began to cut tomatoes, preparing them for the salad bar. He did this deliberately. He wanted to avoid Chef, who was in a mood.

Chef, the Chief Cook, was a huge, teddy bear of a man, with a loud, profane voice and sad, knowing eyes. He was a man of firm convictions and not a few prejudices.

A hard working, hard driving man, Chef hated idleness in all its forms and he believed that an idle cook was an idle slacker of a man, or, in this galley, boy cadet. Chef liked to see his slaves busy.

The Phantom glanced around and saw Ray Cornwallis, the Cook Petty Officer, a short, dark haired, pleasant natured 16-year-old, and Alexandr Signaransky, whom everyone called Sandro, a tall, stocky, curly-haired young man who claimed to be the only full-blooded Russian Jew in the RCSCC Cookery Branch, which at first confused The Phantom. So far as he knew all Jewish boys were circumcised. Sandro had not been circumcised. The Phantom had seen Sandro in the heads. He had a long, thick dick, with a large knob at the end of his shaft, the curving head half-covered with thick skin.

Sandro, who had noticed the curious looks, not only from The Phantom but also from Ray, had explained that in Russia, where he had been born, all religions except for the Russian Orthodox Church were forbidden. Jews were not permitted to practice one of the main tenets of their faith, which was why he still possessed his foreskin. He then informed the two curious boys that he was studying his religion (he attended synagogue every Friday evening) and that in September he was having his bris, which he assured the grimacing boys, was purely symbolic, as he would be circumcised in hospital.

Sandro took his religion very seriously and was looking forward to the day when he became a true son of the House of Abraham. The Phantom and Ray, who had both been circumcised as babies, wondered what the fuss was all about.

Behind him The Phantom could hear Chef muttering and grumbling as he shuffled his way through a pile of papers. Chef was trying to balance his budget and getting nowhere fast, which would bring another run-in with the Supply Officer. Chef and Paymaster-Lieutenant Dickensen, the ship's bean counter, had already had one flaming row; with another in the offing if Chef's figures did not balance.

The Phantom returned to his tomatoes. He was slicing away when he became aware of the distinctive click, click, click of half-metal heels crossing the tiled floor of the Mess Hall. The door opened and the Chief Gunnery Instructor entered the galley.

Feeling his penis stirring, The Phantom reached for an apron and put in on. It would help to hide his erection, a reaction he'd been having since June, when he had suddenly fallen desperately, deeply, inexplicably in love with the Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade and Training) of HMCS Aurora.

******

Back in June The Phantom had been sitting outside the Mess Hall peeling potatoes when a battered, navy blue Range Rover drew up alongside the building. Out of it had stepped the Leading Gunnery Rate seconded from CFB Esquimalt as Chief Gunnery Instructor (Parade & Training).

The Phantom had been so taken at the sight of the man that he had upset the fanny of freshly peeled potatoes. The Leading Gunner had helped him clean up the mess, and then disappeared into the building, The Phantom's eyes devouring the firm-bodied Leading Seaman.

The Phantom did not know it, but he had been struck by the thunderbolt. For the first time in his young life he was in love. His mind was in turmoil, unable to understand the feelings that engulfed him whenever he even looked at The Gunner. He could not understand why he was so attracted to the man. He had always been attracted to boys, boys his own age, and until now he had never been interested in older men. None of his teachers in high school, and there were several prime specimens, had affected him the way the Chief Gunnery Instructor had.

The Phantom had always been attracted to teenage boys, good-looking boys who caused a definite tingle in his nether regions, boys who were known as studs. His school was full of such boys. The Cadet Master-At-Arms was a stud. The Twins were studs. The Chief GI was definitely not a stud. He was not bad looking, but hell and sheeit, he was kind of old. At least ten, maybe 12 years older than The Phantom was! The Phantom could not understand how he could be attracted to a guy at least 27 or 28 years old! Still, The Gunner was attractive and there was something about him that The Phantom found intriguing and appealing.

Leading Seaman Winslow, for that was his name though everybody called him The Gunner, stood just short of six feet tall, with a full, strong face, and a fine aristocratic, straight nose. His jade-green eyes sparkled with life and vitality. His uniform trousers clearly outlined his flawless, melon-like butt, which sensuously curved to form long, muscled, well-proportioned legs. His light brown hair was cut high and wide, with just enough on the top to permit a part on the left.

The Phantom had seen The Gunner in his swimming gear, a pair of overlarge army shorts, when he helped the General Training Cadets learn how to swim. His chest was broad, neatly muscled and formed, with small, perfectly round, pinkish-brown nipples. His stomach was flat with a small navel receding into the muscular flesh. His arms, although not overly muscular, were well formed and hard, and covered, like his legs, with a light dusting of sun-bleached hair. Except for his eyelashes, which were long, dark, and thick, there was nothing boyish or feminine about Leading Gunner's Rate Steve Winslow.

At first The Phantom had hoped that Leading Gunner Winslow might be interested in boys. He watched, he listened, and in the end came to the sad conclusion that The Gunner was as straight as an arrow, which made him somehow even more intriguing and desirable, so desirable that the man replaced the Twins in The Phantom's bedtime fantasies.

To make matters worse The Gunner was always kind to him. He always spoke and kidded and joked with him, unlike the rest of the instructors and cadets. There was a definite them and us attitude among the cadets and the rest of the world.

The officers stuck together like shit to a blanket. The cadets all stuck together in their own little cliques and factions. The gunners slept in the same Mess and they all ate together. The musicians, boatswains, the General Training Cadets, the New Entries, all slept, ate, and played together, inhabiting their own small worlds that refused entry to anyone who was not one of them.

The cadets might tolerate an outsider. They rarely accepted one. The cadets were us. The Phantom, a civilian, and not a cadet, was therefore one of them. Except for Chef, who seemed genuinely fond of him, and the cadet cooks, with whom he worked every day, the only staff or Cadet Instructor who treated The Phantom decently was The Gunner, who at least acknowledged him, talked to him and did not look at him like he was part of the fixtures and fittings.

The Gunner walked over to where The Phantom was working, stopped, and mussed the boy's hair. "How's it hanging, Phantom?" he asked pleasantly.

"Hangin' OK, Gunner," The Phantom lied, hoping to God that The Gunner would not see that he was wearing wood.

"Good for you," replied The Gunner. He cocked his head and then nodded toward Chef, who was sitting at the battered, old, wooden table he used as a desk, scowling at a pile of papers. "Is he in a mood, then?" he asked.

The Phantom nodded. "The Supply Officer was in earlier. Chef has been like a bear with a sore pecker ever since."

"My, such language, boychick!" The Gunner shook his head in mock horror and then grinned widely. "Chef will be washing your mouth out with soap if you don't look out."

"He wouldn't, would he?" asked The Phantom apprehensively and darting a fearful glance in Chef's direction.

"No, I wouldn't let him," replied The Gunner as he helped himself to a slice of tomato. "Keep your pecker up, kiddo." He downed the slice of tomato, and then winked at The Phantom. "Gotta go smooth the waters."

The Gunner walked over to the large fridge, opened it, and peered inside. Although it was against regulations to drink alcohol when the cadets were around Chef, abetted by The Gunner, kept a small supply of beer in the fridge for medicinal purposes. "I hope my property is still intact, Chef," The Gunner said as he ostentatiously counted the bottles of beer. "Or did you drink it all?"

Chef and The Gunner were wingers from way back. They had completed two commissions together, and were great friends. "It's right where you left it," rumbled Chef. "Behind the canned cow. And yes I will, thank you." He pushed the pile of papers aside.

The Gunner pulled out two bottles of beer, uncapped them and sat down at the table. He placed one bottle in front of Chef. "I hear the Tizzy Snatcher came to call." He took a long swallow of beer. "Have you been fiddling the books again?"

"I have not!" growled Chef, affecting an offended air. "The wee man, the little bas . . ." Chef caught himself in time. He really should watch his language in front of the cadets, them being such impressionable lads. He cleared his throat loudly, glared at the cadets because he could, and returned to his tale of woe. "The wee man was all over me about Father's anniversary bun fight." He took a large swallow of beer, smacked his lips, and gave The Gunner a dark look. "That bloody useless commissioned idiot hasn't been in a Dog Watch and he's telling me how to make sticky buns and sangies. The man couldn't organize a two-man rush on a ten-man shitter, so he could couldn't! Why the fu . . . little cock . . ."

The Gunner tried not to choke on his inner laughter. Poor Chef, he was trying so hard, and had even managed to string together three sentences without swearing once, and then gone and shot himself in the foot!

Chef squirmed in embarrassment. "Well and you know what I mean!"

"I do," returned The Gunner blandly. Then he leaned forward and whispered seriously. "Mind, you shouldn't call him the name that cannot be spoken loudly amongst cadets."

"And what word might that be?" asked Chef, wondering if Stevie was making the mock of him.

The Gunner mouthed the word, "Cocksucker". Then he glanced quickly at the cadets, who weren't paying attention anyway, and grinned. "I hear he is trying to quit!" Then he raised his bottle in a toast and grinned.

Chef choked and trembled with laughter. "Ah, you wee bugger! Always taking the mock of a poor old sailor!" He winked and said, "You always get me, so you do." His face tightened. "But seriously, Stevie, the man is driving me mad!"

"The Supply Officer is not the only one," replied The Gunner, an exasperated look on his face. "All you have to do is cook and make sure the food is ready. I have to get the troops drilled up. Damn it, Chef, I've had the Executive Officer beating a path to my door, the Old Man calls every hour and now Dirty Dave the Deacon has put in his oar."

"What?" Chef sat up and scowled at The Gunner. "He had better not be looking at my boys for any of his flummery! They have enough to do, so they have." He stood up and waved a hammy fist in the general direction of the cadets and The Phantom. "You, the whole of you, spalpeens that you are, will be on duty for Father's party. You too, Phantom."

The three boys, accustomed to Chef's bellowing and blustering, shouted "Yes, Chef!" in acknowledgment, and carried on with their work.

"Aren't you being a little hard on them, Chef?" questioned The Gunner.

"It keeps the little darlin's in line, does it not?" returned Chef with a grin. "And look who is talking. The man without a heart and the eyes of an eagle."
"A vulture, actually," replied The Gunner, returning Chef's grin. "I also have eyes in the back of my head. At least according to Little Big Man."

Chef shuddered at the mention of Little Big Man. He polished off his beer and went to the fridge and brought out two more bottles. "That little fucker . . ." There, let Stevie make the most of that! When it came to Little Big Man, all bets were off. "Sure and one day that little spalpeen is gonna call Phantom a fag once too often. Then I'll do to Band Petty Officer Greene what the Rabbi is going to do to Sandro next month. Only I'll use a cleaver," he said sitting down. He made a sweeping, cutting motion. The he cracked his beer and took a swig.

"Pardon?"

Chef indicated Sandro. "Sandro must be clipped. Sure and he cannot be a proper Jewish boy unless he is. 'Tis the Law and there are no exceptions."

The Gunner winced. "Sounds painful."

Chef waved his hand in dismissal. "Not at all, Stevie darlin', not at all. The lad just goes into the hospital and the quack does the dirty on him. The Rabbi says some prayers and Sandro is legal." He took another swig of his beer. "I am in the Minyan," he finished with pride.

"The Minyan? You? What Minyan?"

"Sandro asked me to be a part of the Minyan," replied Chef with exaggerated patience. "He tells me that after he's healed he has to take a special bath in the Synagogue. Afterward there are prayers. To say prayers there has to be 10 men present, a Minyan." He folded his arms across his expansive chest and beamed with pride. "He did not ask some officer. He did not ask you. He asked me!"

The Gunner had known Chef for years and knew that Chef had had a rough time of it early on in his career, including a failed marriage that had hurt him deeply. He had never remarried and had always avoided getting too close to his young charges. Sandro had for some reason touched a chord deep within Chef's soul and his asking Chef to share in one of the most momentous occasions in his life pleased the old fellow tremendously.

Still, The Gunner could not resist poking Chef with a stick. "Chef, you are not Jewish," he said with a shake of his head. "Half the time you're not even Christian!"

Chef began sputtering angrily. "And bugger you with me wooden spoon!" he snapped. "I don't have to be Jewish. All I have to be is male and own a Jewish party hat. And I have got one, thank you." He glared at The Gunner. "Do you remember Rosen's wedding? Well, I kept the hat."

The Gunner shuddered. He remembered the wedding, as did the Night Manager of the Lord Nelson Hotel and the Halifax Police Department. They never should have had those horse races in the hall. He shook his head at the memory of it. "What a night!"

Chef grinned, remembering the aftermath of Max Rosen's wedding. "Sure and by all the saints it was quite the party!"

"Sure and by all the saints, it was!" replied The Gunner with a huge grin. "And it's called a yarmulke, Chef."

Chef grinned back. "A hat by any other name is still a hat," he insisted stubbornly.

The Gunner gave up. Sometimes he ate the bear. Sometimes the bear ate him.

"Now then, what's this about the Vicar?" asked Chef, the wedding and the yarmulke forgotten.

The Gunner made a face. "Dirty Dave is organizing a Church Parade. He's convinced Jimmy the One that 50 years in the Andrew rates more than Midshipmen's nuts and cold coffee in the Drill Shed."

"The Old Man's been in 50 years?" asked Chef, surprised that anyone could put up with the Navy for that many years.

The Gunner nodded his confirmation. "If you had read his biography, as I did," he said archly, "you would know that the Old Man joined the Andrew in September of 1926 as a Cadet at Osborne Royal Navy College. On the 3rd of September he'll have been in 50 years."

"However did he manage it?" Chef shook his head in wonder. NOBODY lasted fifty years in the Navy.

"Rum, bum and baccy?" offered The Gunner.

Chef thought a moment. "Sure then I'm in for the long haul, so I am! I have the rum, and no danger. I have the baccy." He grinned lasciviously at The Gunner. "And would you be having any spare bum that you aren't using?" he asked, laughing.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, you fat gut robber."

"I am not fat," replied Chef indignantly. "I am well upholstered." Before The Gunner could reply the overhead speaker grumbled to life. The bugled notes of "Hands to Dinner" filled the galley.

Chef glared at the speaker and stood up. "Time to go to work." He looked around the galley and then let out a roar. "Phantom, those tomatoes will do no good sitting on that table. There are hungry lads to feed so stir your stumps. Ray, Sandro, get cracking." He looked at The Gunner. "Will you be eating, Stevie darlin'? I can make you something special."

"I can't," replied The Gunner with a shake of his head. "Joel is coming in today. I also have Defaulters." He rolled his eyes expressively. "The Twins."

At the mention of the Twins, and Defaulters, Chef snickered. He had been a witness to the Twins' cause of grief, and in truth thought the matter quite funny.

Chef also knew who Joel was, and he knew exactly what Joel's relationship was with his friend. He sobered and stared directly at The Gunner. "Be careful, Stevie," he warned quietly. "There are some that would not understand about you and Joel. Especially the cadets."

"The cadets are hardly interested in my personal life, Chef!" returned The Gunner with some heat. "To them I am just another nuisance sent to plague their young lives. Besides, come the end of August I'm out of here, back to the Fleet. By Labour Day they'll have forgotten all about me."

Chef was about to reply that he had two pigs out back all gassed up and ready to fly, then thought better of it. Stevie never believed the influence he had on the young cadets, or that they would remember him for years to come. "You keep scarin' the bejayzus out of the lads with those damn clickers on your boots and they will remember you," he replied.

"Those clickers save me a lot of trouble," replied The Gunner. "The boys hear me coming and settle down right quick." He stood up and finished his beer in one gulp. "Before very long I will just be a bad memory to all of them." He gave Chef a half-salute and left the galley.