Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 10

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For the first week following Stefan's departure Harry, for all his protestations and assurances to The Gunner and his friends, was a man in agony. He could not sleep and he would not eat unless forced to. His sense of duty brought him to the parade square every morning for Divisions and every evening for Evening Quarters but he was only going through the motions and gone were the flourishes and easy grace that had been his trademark.

When Harry was not on duty, or could avoid it, he took to his bunk, curling into a protective ball and pulling the bedclothes over his head. He avoided the canteen and was never around when the teams were chosen for the baseball games that seemed to end the day. He refused to talk to his friends in the Gunroom.

None of the other boys could understand what was happening and none of them knew that Harry missed Stefan terribly, so much so that his body seemed empty, a useless husk, incapable of functioning, and wracked with guilt.

A tempest of conflicting emotions raged through Harry. He could not, as The Gunner had said he must, hold the memory of Stefan in his heart. Harry wanted the boy. He wanted to feel the warmth of him, to feel the softness of him, to smell Stefan, to hold him, to hear his soft voice. All this Harry wanted and all his desires drove him to weep bitter tears, wallowing in self-pity and self-recrimination. He had done something so terribly wrong that every fibre of his being howled in outrage. He not only had fallen in love with an adolescent boy, he had made love to him, had sex with him, had allowed himself to be touched in places, had touched and felt and worshiped in forbidden places.

Each memory of Stefan sent Harry further into the depths of depression. He could not understand how he had ever allowed himself to be seduced. He had never, until that morning on the jetty, been with another boy, had never done anything with another boy - except his brother Nicky, and then all they had ever done was beat each other off, a brother thing and of no consequence.

Harry had been in the Sea Cadets from the age of 12 and a half, had been in locker rooms and barracks surrounded by other boys and not once had he ever so much as felt the urge to touch one of them. He thought of himself as the average, normal male teenager, someone who played football, hunted, fished, and swam naked in the creeks and ponds that surrounded or were a part of his father's acreage. He was interested in girls, or so he thought, although he had not thus far been given an opportunity to be with a girl.

Everything about Harry, everything about his upbringing, told him that he should not love another male, no matter if he were Stefan, or Todd, or Cory. Emotionally Harry knew that he should never have allowed his relationship with Stefan to continue.

In a moment of complete frankness Harry understood that while Stefan had taken him by surprise that morning he should have stopped it cold. He had not. He had allowed the sadness, the emptiness he felt, to cloud his thinking. Harry had allowed his lust, his most basic instincts, to rule his brain. Then, to make matters worse, he had gone and fallen in love! He had given his love to a boy and had it returned ten-fold. Harry had discovered a part of himself that he had not known existed and in doing so had crossed a line that in his own mind condemned him to calumny and degradation.

******

Harry's emotional collapse caused confusion and sadness in the Gunroom. Cory and Todd, and Chris thought that they understood what Harry was feeling. Being gay all three boys had gone through the same feelings of self-loathing as they thought Harry was undergoing. It had taken them a very long time to accept themselves for themselves and they felt that Harry would, in time, come to understand and accept his feelings.

The three boys, however, did not know the depth of Harry's guilt because he never told them, refusing to respond to their questions, withdrawing further and further into his shell. All they could do was to be supportive, to love him in their own way, and to be there for him when he needed them.

The other boys, Thumper, Jon, Nicholas, Fred, even Two Strokes, felt Harry's pain as well. They did not understand why Harry was acting the way he was because they had no idea of the truth, and had never considered that Harry might be in love.

With each succeeding day a strange, new feeling came over the Gunroom. One of their own was hurting; one of their own needed them. They could not, for reasons none of them yet understood, turn their backs on Harry. Each night they would lie in their bunks listening, lying awake until they were certain that Harry was finally asleep. As often happened, when Harry awoke in the middle of the night, sobbing, Cory was the first to hear him. When this happened Cory would gently shake Todd awake and they would crawl into the sobbing boy's bunk and hold him, saying nothing, expressing with their silent embrace their love for Harry.

The Twins would hold Harry until his sobbing subsided, sometimes resting their heads on Harry's broad chest, sometimes feeling his strong arms enfold them. Not once did he, or they, respond to the strong feelings that had begun to course through them.

Unbeknownst to the boys a bond was being forged that would, before very long, bind them all together. The Twins could not, even had they wanted to, spend every night caring for Harry. They had to maintain the fiction that everything was normal, that Harry was merely ill. They had to ensure that the truth never left the Gunroom, that a conspiracy of silence against all outsiders was maintained.

The others seemed to instinctively know what was required of them. Harry was closer to them than their own brothers. Whatever it took to protect him from the outside world they would do. On the nights that the Twins were on duty Chris and Jon took their place in Harry's bunk. They would lie with Harry, their arms across his chest, holding him. During the day, when Harry would steal away from the parade square or the School of Wind and hide in the Gunroom, Fred or Thumper would follow him. If he allowed it, they would sit with him; if he did not they would sit on their bunks, watching, waiting for Harry to need them.

At night, after Lights Out, there was no worry that the Duty Chief might come by and find three cadets, wearing nothing but their underpants, in the same bed. Nicholas and Greg did rounds in the Gunroom and found plenty of work that needed to be performed by the Duty Watchmen, and far away from the Gunroom.

Two Strokes, who pretended indifference, also joined the conspiracy and only Cory knew that each night the tall, slim boy would slip quietly from his bunk and sit on the stoop, watching, ready to act in the event that the Duty Officer happened to wander by.

Others, while unsure of exactly what was happening in the Gunroom, did what they could. In the Petty Officers Mess, Mike and Phillip, called the Assistant, deflected all queries from Willy, Jack and Mal, glossing over Harry's absences and strange behaviour as best they could.

Little Big Man, as Sticks, knew that Harry was acting strangely. The Band Officer's tour of duty had ended and he had returned to CFB Esquimalt. Harry, pending the arrival of the new Band Officer, should have taken charge and supervised the rehearsals. Instead Sylvain, whom Little Big Man loathed with a passion, took over Harry's duties, which so pissed off Little Big Man that he sulked rudely for a week. Little Big Man also knew that as the Mess pariah he would be dead a long time before anyone told him the exact nature of Harry's "illness".

The conspiracy to protect Harry extended beyond the Gunroom and the Petty Officers Mess. Chef, who listened more often than the cadets thought, knew from what The Gunner had told him what was going on. He did not interfere, nor did he express an opinion one way or the other. He kept his silence and on the two occasions that the Twins had managed to get Harry into the Mess Hall stood over the morose boy to make sure that he ate, even if it was only a bowl of soup and bread roll.

The Gunner came by as often as his schedule permitted, usually after Secure, a time of day that seemed to bring out the worst of Harry's demons. This was the time that Harry would have spent with Stefan, laughing, playing ball or just hanging out together. The Gunner tried to make Harry believe that the hurt would go away, and tried to make him come to terms with himself. He understood Harry's pain and could only hope that Harry would gain the perspective he needed to truly understand what had happened to him.

******

Of the cadets in the Gunroom only Greg kept his distance. He did not know Harry all that well and he did not wish to impose. Greg also did not want to speculate on the true nature of Harry's relationship with Stefan, although he suspected that theirs had been much more than friendship. He told himself that such a thing could not happen to him, that he would never allow his emotions to rule his head.

Greg told himself that the dread he was feeling deep inside was from Stephen Tyler's impending departure, and not from the demons he fought nightly as he listened to Harry's sobbing. He also told himself that he would never allow those demons to consume him as they were consuming Harry, and that the demon that was Stephen Tyler Perkins would never consume him as Stefan had consumed Harry.

And what a demon Stephen Tyler was! When Greg had questioned him after the banyan the boy had readily admitted that he wanted to be with Greg. "Are you queer, or something?" Greg asked, astonished at the boy's frankness.

Stephen Tyler shrugged. "I've been with other boys, yes." They were sitting together in the empty barracks and he felt safe enough to slip his arm around Greg's thin waist. "I . . ."

"Don't say it!" exclaimed Greg. He quickly pushed Stephen Tyler's arm away. "Guys don't do guys and you don't know what you are talking about!"

Stephen Tyler regarded Greg through hooded eyes. "Don't I?" he asked. Then, without warning, he slid his hand between Greg's legs and felt his package. Greg stirred emotions in Stephen Tyler that he had never felt before and he intended to act on those emotions. "We're alone, PO Greg," he hinted broadly.

"No!" Greg stood up and rushed from the barracks, his face bright red with the shame he felt. His penis had hardened at the first touch of Stephen Tyler's hand.

As he hurried toward the Gunroom, Greg felt the anger growing in him, anger at himself for wanting to stay with Stephen Tyler, anger at the way he felt when Stephen Tyler held him close, anger at the way certain feelings rose in him whenever he was near Harry. He was not queer! He could not be queer. He was just horny and a quick stop in the heads would take care of that problem.

That night Greg had tossed and turned, the conflicting emotions robbing him of his sleep. In the morning he had been as Zombie-like as Harry. He had tried to avoid Stephen Tyler as much as possible and tried to ignore the look of hurt on the boy's face when they met at lunch, and again at supper. At the pickup soccer game after dinner, when Stephen Tyler deliberately weaseled his way onto the opposing team, Greg felt devastated.

After the game the boys dispersed, the Sea Puppies, under The Gunner's watchful eye in Harry's absence, repaired to the canteen where The Gunner's wallet was depleted.

The General Training Cadets, Stephen Tyler included, returned to their barracks where a marathon Monopoly tournament was in progress. Greg fussed and fidgeted around The Gunroom and generally made such a pest of himself that Cory, who normally would have forgiven anything short of murder when it came to Greg, snarled and told him to go and play outside. Greg had sulked on the barracks stoop for a while and then, despite his misgivings, went to Barracks 6 and asked Stephen Tyler to come out for a while. "I'm sorry," he muttered as they walked across the parade square.

"Doesn't matter," replied Stephen Tyler sullenly. "You don't like me so you don't have anything to be sorry for."

Greg gingerly reached out his hand and touched the boy's shoulder. "You're wrong. I do like you. I like you a lot."

"Then why did you push me away?" Stephen Tyler shrugged off Greg's hand. "Is it because I told you that I was gay?"

Greg's cheeks puffed out and he expelled a huge blast of air. "You being gay has nothing to do with the way I feel about you," he said presently.

They walked down onto the broad beach and Greg gestured for Stephen Tyler to sit. They stared out at the gunmetal grey waters that rushed past. "I pushed you away because I'm not gay," said Greg slowly. "Being with you is, well, a lot of fun. I like you, like I said." He turned and looked evenly at Stephen Tyler. "Liking you, though, does not mean that I want to have sex with you."

Stephen Tyler groaned and flopped back onto the sand. "Here it comes, the old 'boys don't have sex with boys' lecture! What's next, the sermon where I'm going to go to hell and burn in the fires forever?" He turned his head and looked up at Greg. "Spare me, PO Greg, I've heard 'em all."

Greg lay back and propped himself on his elbows. "All I was going to say was that you don't have to fuck a guy, or blow him, to show that you love him. Love doesn't have to be all sex, you know."

"PO Greg, I've been around long enough to know that love and sex are not the same thing. Sex I can get anytime I want. Hell, there are two guys in my barracks who just can't wait to try to get into my pants!"

"They know you're gay?" asked Greg, aghast.

Stephen Tyler shook his head. "One does, the other doesn't. The one who does know that I'm gay won't say anything because he happens to like what I might do to him." He snickered. "The other one suspects and has high hopes."

"Shit, man, for a young kid you sure seem to . . ."

"I'm not so young," returned Stephen Tyler. "I'm fifteen although people do think I'm younger." This was true. Stephen Tyler looked to be about twelve years old. His slim frame and short stature, combined with a thin, smooth face and innocent eyes, belied his true age. "It turns some guys off."

"Don't sound so disappointed," replied Greg. "At least people won't think you're gay. They'll think that you're too young."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Stephen Tyler stood up and gave Greg a disgusted look. "PO Greg, I am not in love with you, at least not yet. I do like you. I want to be with you but don't bust my balls over this. I'm gay, and I like guys. That's a given and if you can't handle that then I'll just go back to the barracks."
Greg struggled into a sitting position and ran his hands through his short-cropped hair. "Stay," he asked softly. When Stephen Tyler was sitting again he looked at the boy. "I wish I could do the things you want. I can't. I'm not gay and . . ."

"Fine." Stephen Tyler shrugged his shoulders. "We'll just sit here and watch the ships go by." He pointed to a cluster of lights on the southern horizon. "There's a cruise ship coming up the Strait. We can wave to the passengers as they go by," he finished sarcastically.

"Don't be an ass, Stephen Tyler," snapped Greg. "We can still be friends."

"No, we can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because . . ." Stephen Tyler suddenly leaned over and embraced Greg. He pressed his lips against Greg's and then drew away. "That is going to happen." He stared into Greg's wide eyes and when Greg did not release him he kissed him again. Stephen Tyler's tongue traced the outline of Greg's closed lips and then slowly forced an entry.

Their kissing was slow, deep and passionate. Greg told himself that he was horny and wanted to get his nut off. If kissing Stephen Tyler was the price he had to pay . . . He felt the boy's thin hand slip under the waistband of his gym shorts and grasp his throbbing erection.

Greg pulled Stephen Tyler downward until they were lying front to front on the sandy beach, their erections pulsing under their clothes. Greg could feel the large, thin erection in Stephen Tyler's shorts rubbing against his leg, could hear the boy's harsh breathing as his hips began to pump in sync with his hand as he masturbated the teenager.

"Does it feel good?" came Stephen Tyler's whispered question between kisses.

"Yes, dammit," gasped Greg as his testicles shrivelled into a tight knot between his legs. "Don't stop! Please, don't stop!"

Stephen Tyler felt Greg's penis jerk and then a thick stream of semen burst out of the classic slit on the curving mushroomed-shaped head of Greg's penis. As he felt Greg's body jerking against his Stephen Tyler could hold back no longer. He grunted loudly as his body stiffened and he felt his penis give a huge, overwhelming throb.

They lay together, each boy emptying himself of his hot, thick juices, twitching and moaning until finally Stephen Tyler rolled away. He was gasping for air but managed to blurt out, "Jesus, PO Greg, that felt good." He snickered loudly. "I haven't had a dry rub like that since Boy Scout camp!"

******

In the ensuing days Greg maintained the fiction that he was only doing what countless other boys had done before him. He and Stephen Tyler met nightly for a massive make out session, usually on the beach, sometimes in Greg's office after the officers and civilian staff had gone home. It was private and the door could be locked. They would neck and kiss, deep, passionate, open-mouthed, tongue-duelling kisses. Stephen Tyler would slip his hand down the front of Greg's shorts, or bell-bottoms, or whatever he happened to be wearing, and masturbate him. He would hump his own impressive erection through his shorts against Greg's leg. When they were finished they would kiss and cuddle and then go on their way.

If Stephen Tyler met one of the two other cadets he first spoke of Greg never knew, because he did not ask and Stephen Tyler never said, one way or the other, what he did, or whom he was with after he left Greg.

Greg tried to convince himself that his relationship with Stephen Tyler was based solely on sex. He needed to get off; Stephen Tyler wanted to help him get off. He rationalized that he was only doing what Harry freely admitted to doing with his brother and that did not make either of them queer. What he could not convince himself of was that like it or not, he was falling in love.

As much as he argued with himself, trying to deny his feelings, Greg knew that he was falling in love. He had to be because when he was not with Stephen Tyler he felt, well, lonely. He even missed the boy's constant chatter, for Stephen Tyler was, if such a thing were possible, as mad a chattering Munchkin as Stefan. Greg missed feeling the warmth of the boy's body against his and he missed feeling the warmth of Stephen Tyler's skin against his whenever they played soccer, or swam. He missed just having Stephen Tyler around.

When Stephen Tyler had gone off for his four days in the wilderness for the orienteering part of his training Greg had moped and been out of sorts for every day that Stephen Tyler was away, so much so that he had, on Stephen Tyler's return, made sure that the boy would have ample free time by juggling the Duty Rosters.

Whenever he had a free hour or so Stephen Tyler always made a beeline to wherever Greg was. He accepted that Greg was not about to allow himself to fall in love. That he was falling in love with Greg was not a question. His only regret was that Greg would only allow so much, and refused profanely to go beyond a certain point, and during the course of their relationship not once did Greg touch Stephen Tyler, other than through his shorts. In point of fact not once did Greg even reach down and rub Stephen Tyler's erection. Stephen Tyler sensed that his lover was going through a traumatic time. He wanted to be loved, he wanted to be made love to, but Greg's iron-like discipline would not allow him to make love back, to return the love that Stephen Tyler gave him. Stephen Tyler wanted desperately to feel Greg's long, slim cock in his body.

This was not about to happen and Stephen Tyler, fearing that Greg would reject him outright if he made such a suggestion, did not, just as he did not raise their relationship to a higher level. He would have loved to taste, just once, Greg's wonderful, pink, throbbing penis, to smell, just once, the musk and scent that he knew lay under the thin layer of cotton that covered Greg's privates. Sucking and fucking were not allowed, period. Boys who did that were queer. Greg was not a queer. Jerking each other off was just two guys helping each other out. Giving yourself a dry rub against another guy's leg - without any actual skin touching skin - was also in the same category, and permissible. Kissing was permissible only because it was a prelude to getting off; a part of what Greg called "messing around".

Stephen Tyler decided that Greg was a very confused, angry and frustrated young man who would never change and he told himself that he was content with what he and Greg did. He loved Greg, but Greg did not love him, so he allowed the coarse fumbling. He also found what he needed elsewhere. He had not lied when he told Greg that two of his messmates knew about him, and wanted to play. He played with both of them, knowing that all they were interested in was sex. But then, that was all he wanted from them.

In the end Stephen Tyler was happy to see his course come to an end. If Greg did not want him for who he was, for what he was, then fine. There were plenty of fish in the sea, each one of them easier than hell to catch.

******

Greg's confusion was heightened on the one occasion that he had helped out with Harry. The Twins had been on Duty. Chris and Jon had been detailed off somewhere, Thumper and Two Strokes had been seconded to help the Bugle Band learn a new marching routine and Val, Tyler and Nicholas had been summoned to the Head Shed for a meeting about the upcoming parade in Victoria. That left Greg to stay with Harry.

Greg had, as the other boys had done, lain down beside Harry and held him. Harry had reached down and taken Greg's hand in his and a lighting bolt of something Greg could not describe had ripped through his body. His mind reeled and he felt an almost irresistible urge to reach down and slip his hand into Harry's underpants, to feel the thick, soft piece of flesh that he knew was there.

As the surge of warmth coursed through Greg he suddenly wanted to be with Harry, to hold him, to make love to him. He felt his penis stiffen and pulse, and suddenly he needed Harry's warmth, he needed Harry's love. But Greg could not, would not, allow his feelings to overpower him and had pulled away.

That night Greg had rolled from the bed, frightened beyond belief at what he felt. He thanked God that Harry had fallen asleep and had never felt him pushing his erection against his thigh. Greg had hurried in the showers and turned the cold water on full blast. Greg was determined that from now on, no matter what the others said he would not comfort Harry, he would not sleep in the same bed with Harry. Harry could be his friend. He would never allow Harry to become his lover.

******

When Stephen Tyler's time in Aurora came to an end his leave taking of Greg was calm and emotionless. They had spent some time together the evening before and that was enough.

Greg had come by the barracks to help Stephen Tyler pack, but everything was ready. They walked together to the bus. There was no hugging, no kissing, and no tears. Stephen Tyler shook Greg's hand and thanked him for being so considerate to him. Not many guys were, if the truth were told. And while he knew Greg had used him, as the others used him, Stephen Tyler was not one to hold a grudge or indulge in recriminations. Greg was the way he was so there was no point in trying to change him. Stephen Tyler had his life to get on with and if Greg could not, or would not, be a part of his life, then that was Greg's problem.

When Greg asked him what he planned on doing when he got home Stephen Tyler smiled coyly. "I'm going fishing," he replied and boarded the bus.

Greg watched the bus trundle across the causeway and make the turn onto Comox Road. He did not understand Stephen Tyler's cryptic remark nor did he understand why he felt so alone, or why he felt a void forming deep within him.

******

The Phantom knew what was going on with Harry. He could not help but know. The Gunroom cadets talked of nothing else. The Gunner huddled with Chef constantly in the galley, all conversation ceasing whenever The Phantom, or Ray, or Sandro happened to pass their table.

There were other signs as well. When Harry appeared on the parade square he was listless and obviously not interested in what he was doing. He had stopped participating in the games, and avoided the swimming beach. Dark circles had appeared under the Twins' eyes, obviously from lack of sleep.

Nicholas fretted and was short with his signalmen. Chris, the kindest of creatures, was snappy with his students. Jon, a quiet, almost fey boy, suddenly developed an inexplicable interest in Queen's Regulations and Orders (Cadets) and became as big a jerk as Two Strokes, who took to wandering about with a notebook in his hand, kicking ass and taking names.

Even Thumper, sweet, innocent, inoffensive Thumper was off his feed.

Greg alone seemed unaffected by what was happening with Harry, which The Phantom thought had more to do with Stephen Tyler Perkins than with anything else, and while The Phantom did not feel comfortable with their relationship, he had a feeling that it would not end as emotionally as Harry's had with Stefan.

The Phantom watched, listened, and for four days mulled over what he had heard and seen. Harry's collapse had affected every one, even The Gunner, who seemed during their noon hour lessons to be distracted and not quite up to par, and when he let slip that Harry was ill, to the point that it might become necessary to send him home, The Phantom decided to act.

He waited until the dinner hour on Friday, when all the cadets gathered to pick at their food and stare morosely at one another. Harry was nowhere to be seen and what snippets of conversation The Phantom could hear led him to believe that the hulking teenager was alone in the Gunroom. He quickly spoke to Chef, begging a few minutes off.

When The Phantom told Chef pointedly that he was going to see Harry, Chef nodded. "Be gentle, lad, and kind. Try to understand that at a time like this a man, well, sometimes he can't cope," was his parting advice.

The Phantom found Harry sitting on his unmade bunk staring off into space. He was wringing his hands and his shoulders were slumped. Harry barely noticed The Phantom when he sat down beside him. When he did he regarded the boy with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "Go away, Phantom," Harry said with a low groan. "Just go away."

"No." The Phantom shook his head and stared at Harry angrily. "It's time you smartened up." He waved at Harry's body. "Look at you. You're a mess. You'd didn't shave this morning. Your underpants are dingy! You're dingy!"

A look of pure hatred crossed Harry's face. "I'm warning you," he snarled in a low voice. "Leave me alone! You can't know how I feel, what I feel. Go away, fuck off, or I swear I'll do something I . . ."

The Phantom stood up quickly and faced Harry. "What? You'll hit me?" He stared Harry down. "Go ahead. Hit me! Beat the shit out of me. Do whatever it takes but get the fuck up and straighten up!"

Harry raised his fists, and then lowered them. "Phantom, please, you don't understand. Nobody understands!"

The Phantom knelt before Harry and took his hands in his. Harry could never know that The Phantom did understand. Unlike Harry, who had had his love returned, he had not. The Phantom had declared his love for The Gunner, he had kissed The Gunner, and been rejected. Harry had known love, and lost it. The Phantom had declared his love, and had it rejected. He knew exactly how Harry felt.

"Harry, listen to me, please," began The Phantom, his voice soft. "Stefan is gone from your life, now. But Harry, he loves you, and he will always love you. This time was not the right time, but Harry, you have the rest of your life, Stefan has the rest of his life, to be with you. Do you really think that Stefan would ever leave you forever?"

"But I want him now! I need him now!" moaned Harry as he looked pleadingly at The Phantom. "I can't have him, Phantom. How do you know that he won't find someone else? How do you know?"

"I don't know that, Harry, and neither do you!" The Phantom resumed his seat beside Harry and put his arm around the boy's quaking shoulders. "Harry, I saw the way Stefan looked at you. I heard the way he spoke to you. It was not the words; it was the tone, the softness, and the love in his voice that I heard. He loves you with all his heart and you're betraying that love right now!"

"I am not!" Harry flared. "How can you say that?"

"I can say it because you've thrown away everything that Stefan fell in love with! Stefan fell in love with a loud, brash, crude, rude man. He fell in love with a guy who had flashing eyes and a wonderful smile. Stefan fell in love with a man, Harry, a man! He fell in love with you, Harry, not some whining, little boy, some whimpering bag of wind who breaks down, abandons everything he is, abandons his friends, throws away the love they have for him, because he can't have what he wants."

The Phantom's green eyes hardened and he stared coldly at Harry. "Not too long ago I said that I would sail with you," he said, his tone warm. "I would sail with the Harry I knew, I would be at your side even if we stormed the fucking gates of Hell!" He snorted, his sound full of disgust and his tone changed to one of icy disdain. "But this Harry? Never!"

Harry's unshaven jaw dropped. No one, not Cory or Todd, not Tyler, not Val, none of his friends, had spoken to him the way this civilian had! He began stammering angrily, his pain, and his hurt, forgotten by the insult. "How dare . . . who the hell do you think you are?" Harry demanded loudly.

"Your friend," replied The Phantom calmly. "Someone who cares about you, who loves you, and who, like all of your other friends, cannot stand idly by and watch you destroy yourself! You've laid a guilt trip on yourself Harry, a guilt trip that Stefan doesn't feel, that nobody else but you feels!"

Harry's face reddened. "I did things I shouldn't have done! I let Stefan . . . we fell in love! It shouldn't have happened!"

"Unfortunately, it did," returned The Phantom coldly. "You slept with a thirteen year old boy! That was wrong but I am not judging you for doing it. I can understand how it happened, just as I can understand why it happened." He paused and shook his head. "I also understand why you are beating yourself to death because of it, but damn it, Harry, it happened and nothing can change it!" The Phantom's green eyes blazed with an angry fire and his voice was cold and harsh as he told Harry, "Frankly, I think you're a fool."

"What?"

"Is Stefan acting this way? Has he withdrawn from the world because he can't be with you? Is he sitting at home, ignoring his friends, ignoring his job, his duty, refusing to believe that you are never coming back into his life?"

"How the hell would I know?" growled Harry. "He's in Edmonton!"

"And if he knew what you've done to yourself he'd stay there!" growled The Phantom back. "What would he think if he saw you now? In this state?"

"You're a bastard, you know that?"

"And you're . . . What I see is not the Harry I knew!" continued The Phantom relentlessly. His face hardened. "What I see is not the Harry I want to sail with. What I see is not the Harry Stefan fell in love with!"

"Bastard!"

"Perhaps. But a bastard who faces his troubles, who goes on and does what is expected of him, who would never allow himself to be reduced to such a state that he's within an ace of being sent home!"

Harry stared disbelievingly at The Phantom. "That's not true! It can't be true! The Gunner would never allow it!"

A mirthless chuckle arose from The Phantom's throat. "Harry, The Gunner can, and will, do it! Tomorrow there is a fresh crop of Sea Puppies rolling in. You're their Sea Daddy. They expect to see their Sea Daddy when they get here." He waved his hand toward the outside. "Out there is a Band, the best damned band in the bloody Sea Cadets! You're their Drum Major, their leader. There isn't going to be a Band Officer out for another two weeks. Who but you is going to lead them? Sylvain? Or maybe Little Big Man? He's Sticks, isn't he? He's supposed to take over from you if you can't do the job, isn't he?"

The Phantom then reached out his hand and gently stroked Harry's rough, unshaven cheek. His tone softened. "Harry, you made a mistake." He saw the look on Harry's face and held up his hand. "Not the mistake of falling in love. That was not what I meant."

"I made the mistake of showing that love. I molested a boy!" wailed Harry disconsolately.

"No!" The Phantom shook his head emphatically. "Nobody molested anybody! You let your emotions get the better of you and you acted on them. That was the mistake. No matter how much in love you were and are, sleeping with Stefan was wrong." He sighed heavily. "I consider myself your friend, Harry, and as a friend I didn't tell you before what I thought and felt. I made a mistake as well, you see. I should have told you what I thought. I didn't, and I'm sorry."

"I didn't . . . we didn't," blubbered Harry. "I don't want you to think that I did . . . we never did that! Never! I would never hurt him."

The Phantom knew what Harry was trying to say. "Harry, maybe by not going all the way with Stefan you showed how much you really love him. You held back, and I suspect he held back. When the time is right, when you are both sure, then perhaps you will make true love to him."

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes. "You're a good friend, Phantom. I didn't mean it when I called you a bastard, and I would never hit you." He looked sideways at The Phantom. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. It was my mistake, my doing, and I have to live with it. I probably wouldn't have listened to you, anyway."

"Probably not," conceded The Phantom. "But, still, I should have said something. We all should have said something. Our mistake in not doing so compounded your mistake."

Harry groaned. "What a wuss I am! All I've been thinking about is me! I didn't think about you or the other guys. I let them down. I let The Gunner down, I let you down."

"Harry, knock it off," said The Phantom sharply. "You start thinking that way and we'll be right back to where we started from! It's over. It's time you realized that your friends need you, and you need them! It's also time that you got back to business." He stood up and opened Harry's locker. He pulled out a pair of clean underpants and Harry's towel and shaving gear. "It's time, Harry. What do you say?"

"The other guys?" Harry looked pleadingly at The Phantom.

"Have been with you, have held you, and will go on doing it. Remember what they did for you in the days ahead. They'll stand by you. And so will I."

Harry's face brightened. Then it hardened. "I stink!"

"Harry, not again!"

Harry laughed softly. "No, I really do stink. I smell like a cesspool!"

The Phantom joined in Harry's laughter. "Well, maybe like somebody who hasn't showered in three days. Hardly a cesspool. Here, go shower, shave, and come eat your lunch." He handed the clean underpants and shaving gear to Harry who quickly stripped off his soiled briefs, giving The Phantom a clear view of his outstanding upper deck fittings. "Whew," The Phantom exclaimed, his voice full of admiration, "no wonder Stefan fell in love with you!"

Harry looked down at his genitals. "Now Phantom, don't get any ideas! I might have the finest parts you'll ever see, but I'm spoken for!"

"Yes, Harry, you are," replied The Phantom. "And one day I hope that everything you want will be yours." He gestured impatiently. "Now hurry up! There's things to be done, and if I don't get my ass back to the galley Chef will be wanting my balls for bookends!"

Harry laughed and threw his arm around The Phantom's shoulder. "Walk me to the showers," he asked loudly as he pulled The Phantom along.

"Harry, I am not going in there with you!"

"I didn't ask you to," returned Harry. He pointedly looked back at The Phantom's behind. "You know, you have a nice ass. It's too bad you've never been a cadet. Man, you could fill out a set of bell-bottoms with that ass! Every girl in miles would be wantin' to strip 'em off you!"

"And if they knew what you had hidden in your bell-bottoms they would trample me to get to you!" retorted The Phantom. "Now, let me go."

Harry released The Phantom and as he straightened his clothing The Phantom smiled weakly. "We are all capable of making mistakes, Harry. I think one of my biggest ones was when I didn't join up when I had the chance."

"You had a chance to join?"

The Phantom nodded. "The Corps here in Comox is always holding open house, always looking for recruits. I was too busy doing other things, and, well, my dad is ex-Airborne and I thought that I'd got enough military at home." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's all water under the bridge. It's too late now." He pushed open the door leading to the barracks yard. "Now, shower, change into the rig of the day and get over to the Mess Hall. I'll save you a piece of chocolate cake." With a grin he was gone.

Harry stared for a long time at the door then nodded slowly. Sometimes, he thought as he went into the washplace, sometimes it's never too late. Then he added, or as an old chef might say, be careful what you wish for because you just might get it!

******

The arrival of five new officers was not at all surprising. Sea Cadet officers came and went with a regularity that astounded and dismayed The Gunner, although he could understand it. While hardly a dying breed, Sea Cadet officers had a tendency to be few and far between, especially in the summer training months. With rare exceptions all the camps where training was conducted were staffed by officers drawn from the Sea Cadet Corps across the country, officers who were civilians first and Sea Cadet officers second, men, and a few women now, who were juggling business careers, family duties, and Sea Cadet demands.

Compounding the problem was the relative lack of officers. Being a Sea Cadet officer required a special devotion and dedication that few possessed. A typical cadet officer was paid for 20 days training per year, and no more. It did no good to point out that most Corps paraded the cadets once a week, with an added "Admin Night" thrown in, plus parades (always on a Saturday or a Sunday) so that an officer might actually work upwards of 40 days a year.

In addition to the pressures and strains of trying to deal with cadets (fractious creatures at the best of times), family, trying to serve two masters (since Unification cadet officers were commissioned by DND, a fact to which the Navy League of Canada never quite reconciled itself), Navy League Branch Presidents (many of them more Navy than Lord Louis Bloody Mountbatten) and a civilian career and it was no wonder that Sea Cadet officers tended to be very young (and thus too inexperienced to know what they had gotten themselves into) or middle-aged (and with the hide of a rhinoceros).

As a member of the Permanent Force The Gunner had seen the barely veiled contempt that many Permanent Force members visited on Sea Cadet officers, a "Not quite one of us" mindset that permeated almost every level of the Navy. He considered himself to be a fair man who was never judgmental or prejudiced against a man simply because of the cap badge he wore, and judged a man by his character and conduct.

As The Gunner often expressed to his cadets, Eliot's eye had adorned the sleeve of more than one fool so why should the Sea Cadets be any different?

As he surveyed the new officers The Gunner thought that just the right mix had been achieved, the young and inexperienced balancing the older, more mature officers.

What he did not know was that events would conspire against him, that there was another kind of officer, the self-seeking, venal officer who had his own personal agenda and who would cause The Gunner to abandon the iron discipline that he had held in check for so many years, and allow the emotions that he could not allow himself to feel, emotions so long repressed that when they burst forth caused him not only to lose his temper, which was unprofessional and unforgivable, but would bring him as close as damn it to being formally charged with Striking An Officer, Insubordination and Conduct Prejudicial To Good Order and Discipline.

******

Of the new officers four stood out. The first was Ensign Andy Berg, USNSCC who replaced Paymaster-Lieutenant Dickensen, RCNR as Supply Officer.

For all his youth and nonchalance Andy was a natural when it came to handling people. He seemed to know instinctively when, and how, to stroke Chef. He treated all the cadets with a natural courtesy, from Tyler, the Master-At-Arms and ranking cadet, to Joey Pelham and Randy Lowndes, the galley Makee-Learns and the most junior cadets.

Andy was the complete scrounger and wheeler dealer, who could take a couple of bottles of issue rum in the morning and return in the afternoon with sails, cordage, and six portable barbecues made out of halves of 45-gallon drums. He also enjoyed being with the cadets and every afternoon would help organize some sporting event, participate, and always ended up just as dirty and grimy as the cadets were. The cadets loved him and thought that he was a bigger kid than they were.

The second promising young man was Sub-Lieutenant Dave Eddy, RCSCC, who though young, was eager to learn and, more importantly, listened, not only to what the more experienced instructors had to say, but also to the cadets. He was one of those rare creatures: somebody who had come up through the system as it had been designed to work.

Dave Eddy had joined the Navy League Cadets at the age of nine years. When he was twelve and a half he joined the Sea Cadets, and when he turned 18, he had applied for his commission as a Sea Cadet Officer. His appointment as Gunnery Officer was a godsend. As an ex-Sea Cadet Gunner he had risen from Ordinary Cadet to Cadet Chief Gunner and he was well versed in the drill and training. He was close enough in age to the senior cadets to understand them, and, having been there and done that, could sympathize with them.

Dave and The Gunner got along famously for Dave was as much a traditionalist as The Gunner and sat in on The Phantom's training sessions. Dave, like Andy, enjoyed sports, with baseball and soccer being his favourites.

Balancing Andy's relative inexperience (so far as the Canadian Sea Cadets Corps was concerned) and Dave's definite inexperience as an officer were the three other officers, all of whom had been around for much more than a Dog Watch.

Sub-Lieutenant Antony ("No 'h', thanks very much") Armstrong was an irrepressible Newfoundlander who had grown up in one of the out ports, spending most of his life on a fishing boat. The North Atlantic was in his blood and what he didn't know about blocks, tackles, and the handling of small boats hadn't been written.

As he was Deck Officer, Stuart and Steve reported directly to "No 'H'", as the cadets called him as soon as they heard of his caveat (which Chef, who had it from The Gunner, let it slip to Ray, who just had to tell the Twins, who wasted no time in informing the Gunroom).

No "H" was a dedicated cadet officer. Like Dave Eddy he had been raised in the Navy League Cadet/Sea Cadet tradition, and like Andy Berg was a ball of fire when it came to cadet training. No "H" also had an easygoing manner and, being a Newfoundlander, possessed the "down home" friendliness that all Newfoundlanders had. He had a habit of appending every statement he made to the cadets with "boy", which he pronounced, as any good Newfoundlander would, as "bye".

His infectious enthusiasm, and his easy manner, made No "H" a very popular officer. He also had the gift of the gab or, as Chef put it, No "H" had kissed the Blarney Stone and could talk a Leprechaun out of his gold, so he could, to the extent that he conned Cory into teaching a fancy rope work class. He cajoled his Boatswains into cleaning out, finally, Boatswain Stores, and set the example by working harder than any of them.

No "H" and Fred were soul mates. Both hated sports and never actively participated except as referees or timekeepers (when No "H", who was partial to a Pimm's Cup of an evening, would bring along an extra or two for Fred, who knew of such things, having been raised "Over 'Ome").

When The Gunner, who always liked to see young officers of promise get their dues suggested that No "H" sit his Lieutenant's Examination, No "H" fixed him a baleful looked and announced that he had "No time for such nonsense, bye", and scurried off to chivvy the Sea Puppies into completing their ropework assignments.

The fourth officer was Wally Higman, the Engineering Officer. He was older, married and projected an air of languid complacency, which hid well the fact that he was mechanical genius, fully versed in engines large and small. He spent much of his time, an overweight, pear-shaped man, dressed in a loose fitting, white boiler suit and a battered cap, coaxing dying pieces of machinery back to life. Ryan, no slouch himself when it came to things engineering, stood in awe of Wally.

The only disappointment was the fifth officer. Nigel Farnsworth was a short, compact, sandy haired, thin-faced young man who, in the opinion of many of the cadets, and more importantly, The Gunner, was the worst possible example of an officer.

Nigel had become a Sea Cadet officer not out of duty or a sense of patriotism or community spirit, but for the social cachet attached to the Queen's Commission. In his home unit he had early on learned that the real power lay not with the Commanding Officer of his Sea Cadet Corps, but with the President of the Navy League Branch that sponsored the Corps. Nigel did everything he could to keep that gentleman happy, so much so that he had been promoted to Lieutenant in an amazingly short time.

Every Sunday Nigel paraded to church in uniform and, being a young Liberal, cultivated the local MP. His Military ID card gave him free access to the local Reserve wardroom, and to the Officers' Messes of the two militia units the town supported. He "represented" the Sea Cadets at every function he could logically attend and garnered the ensuing publicity. He had an amazingly high regard for his position as an officer and the perks that went with it. Within hours of his arrival the cadets took the measure of Nigel Farnsworth, pronouncing him a dickhead, first class.

Nigel further compounded his reputation as an asshole in every statement he made, in every order he gave. He was condescending to the cadets, and overbearing with his fellow officers, so much so that he had alienated them all within three days of his arrival. He blotted his copybook with Doc by complaining that the Wardroom was not properly run, in that there were no dining facilities and no wine list.

Doc, irascible at the best of times, threatened to perform a haemorrhoidectomy without benefit of anaesthesia and told him to fuck off and buy his own plonk, which Nigel thought insulting. He never, he sniffed disdainfully, drank domestic wines.

He pissed off Kyle with his personal habits. Nigel might look like the poster boy Naval Officer when he left the Wardroom but the shambles he left behind in the washplace, which he never cleaned after using, were unbelievable. He also insisted on walking naked from his cabin, which he refused to share, to the showers, where, naked, he shaved, clipped his toenails and trimmed his nose hair, leaving behind ample evidence of his activities.

Nigel infuriated Andy Berg by demanding a steward to make his bed and clean his cabin. When Andy pointed out that there were no stewards in the Sea Cadets, Nigel pooh-poohed him and told him that he was a Lieutenant and to make it so. Andy replied that he was an American and for Nigel to go and fuck himself.

On the third day Nigel punched his ticket with Chef by complaining that not only was the table set aside for the officers without proper linen and silver, the food was inedible, and not fit to serve to pigs. It took the combined efforts of The Phantom, Ray, Andy and the two galley Makee-Learns to hold Chef back while Sandro hid the cleavers. Thereafter Nigel found it wise to lunch in town and dine in the Officers Mess at CFB Comox, which pissed off the Base Transportation Officer who had to supply a car and driver to take him back and forth.

Greg hated him. Nigel, as Administration Officer, was supposed to help with the paperwork, without which no military organization could operate. Instead he caused the whole system to bog down.

Nigel would wander into the Ship's Office, sign whatever papers Greg put in front of him, and disappear. If Greg saw Nigel before the office closed at 1600 he counted himself lucky, as Nigel seemed to delight in blaming Greg for any error and twice caused important reports to be late in submission by finding an error in typing and making Greg do the whole thing over again.

By the fourth day of Nigel's tenure Greg had given up, and forged Nigel's signature on all but the least important documents. Greg also forged Nigel's signature to a glowing recommendation giving himself the Order of Military Merit, which was to cause no end of grief six months later when it reached the Honours and Awards Committee in Ottawa.

Cadets, so far as Nigel was concerned, were necessary evils.

They were, after all, why he held the Queen's Commission, which did not, however, mean that they had any standing in his career plan. He considered the cadets to be products of the slums, lower class rabble, to be used as stepping-stones to higher rank. He treated them all with thinly veiled contempt, never, or so it seemed, addressing them by their ranks, never remembered a name, and was given to snapping his fingers at them and calling one and all "boy", which infuriated Tyler and Val and all of the senior cadets, who felt they deserved better.

Matters were not improved when some of the more daring cadets retaliated and took to snapping their fingers and shouting "boy" at each other, always making sure that Nigel's back was turned. The Senior Cadets were coldly correct whenever they had to deal with him, their coldness implying just what they thought of Lieutenant Farnsworth.

Nigel, after a run-in with the Twins - they were so sickening sweet, yessir, and of course, siring, all over the place, while at the same time their tone and eyes conveyed the impression that true aristocrats never insulted anyone unintentionally - complained to Number One.

Number One listened to Nigel, decided to privately send the Twins a Bravo Zulu and then, managing to restrain his thinly veiled contempt, coolly suggested that Nigel take the matter up with The Gunner who, as Chief Gunnery Instructor was ultimately responsible for discipline. Nigel took one look at The Gunner's stony face and storm-threatening eyes, and let the matter drop.

The Commanding Officer and Number One were fully aware of Nigel's antics. They were also fully aware that his personnel file in Headquarters was, thanks to his friendship with his local and very powerful Member of Parliament, stamped with the large red letters "PI". Political Influence. They were stuck with him, and both he and they knew it.

At first The Gunner welcomed all the new officers. It meant far less work for him, and he could concentrate on more important things, like training. He tried to treat Nigel as he treated the other officers, with respect and dignity. When Nigel figuratively turned his back, The Gunner shrugged. Nigel was just another Wardroom Wally, a commissioned idiot, to be ignored, which The Gunner did, avoiding Nigel as much as possible and entering the Ship's Office only when he had to.

Nigel was smart enough to know that he had gained the enmity of a very powerful rating and managed to be away whenever The Gunner came calling.

That did not mean that Nigel's opinion of the "Lower Deck" was in any way changed. Like cadets, Navy ratings were necessary evils, to be endured, and be put in their place when the opportunity presented itself.

******

On Friday morning, after Captain's Rounds, The Gunner, Kyle, Andy Berg, Tyler and Val were in the Mess Hall enjoying a quiet cup of coffee. The Phantom was puttering about as always, thinking about his coming foray in the night. With the Venture cadets back, the training trip over and Harry no longer blubbering and cluttering up the Gunroom, all his favourites were going to be in their bunks at night. It had been a long week, and he had only managed to come onto the Spit three times, when he visited Ray and Rob.

The Phantom was arranging the salt and peppershakers for the lunch crowd, listening to the light-hearted banter of the officers and The Gunner when Nigel, in a foul mood because his morning's ride to CFB Comox for his breakfast had not shown up, entered. Nigel sat down at a table in the corner, sneered, and snapped his fingers. "Boy!" he shouted, "This table is filthy!"

"Sir?" replied The Phantom.

"Are you deaf?" shouted Nigel. "This table is filthy. Clean it!"

"But I just cleaned it, sir." replied The Phantom. "Honest." He walked to the table, figuring it was better to just clean the fucking table all over again and humour the prick.

Hearing Nigel at his rude best, The Gunner could feel the anger rising. Nobody, no matter what the rank, had the right to talk to Phantom, or for that matter, any cadet or anyone, that way. His personal feeling for The Phantom aside, there was such as thing as courtesy. He was about to rise when Kyle put his hand on his thigh. "Careful, Gunner, the guy's a prick. Let me handle it," Kyle murmured.

Kyle was about to rise when he heard Nigel's sneering reply to The Phantom. "Don't lie to me, you unspeakable guttersnipe!" Nigel snarled viciously. "Clean this table and bring me a cup of coffee." He swung his arm, catching The Phantom across the chest and flinging him backwards.

The Phantom, caught off guard, fell to the deck, cracking his head loudly against a chair seat. He lay on the deck, moaning softly.

"That fucking did it," growled The Gunner. He stood up and pushed back his chair with such force that it crashed into the chairs behind, knocking three of them over.

Kyle, his eyes wide with shock, gasped, "Jesus, he's killed the kid!" Then he turned to Val. "Get Doc, quick, and the XO."

In four quick steps The Gunner walked to where Nigel was sitting, staring white faced at the moaning Phantom. He reached down, grabbed the front of Nigel's shirt and pushed him up, pinning him against the bulkhead.

"Put me down at once, you piece of lower deck trash," ordered a thoroughly frightened Nigel. "Put me down!"

The Gunner drew back his arm, his heavy hand formed into a fist. Kyle, Andy and Tyler leaped on The Gunner, pulling him off of Nigel, who crashed to the deck.

Chef came running from the galley, a huge cleaver in his hand, followed by Ray and Sandro and the two galley Makee-Learns, Joey and Randy. Ray and Sandro rushed over to where The Phantom lay. "Jesus, Jesus, Phantom," croaked Chef. He dropped his cleaver and cradled the boy in his arms.

"I'll have you on charges, you insubordinate cretin! Striking an officer! Insubordination!" Nigel shrieked, struggling to his feet.

From somewhere deep inside him The Gunner tapped a well of hidden strength. With one great heave he flung off the officers and cadet holding him back. His left hand flashed out, grabbing a fistful of very expensive, tailored shirt. His right hand drew back. "Make it two charges of striking an officer, you son of a bitch," he growled.

"Stop!" came a booming voice. "Leading Seaman Winslow, put that man down! Now!"

His fist at the ready, The Gunner turned his head and saw Number One, trailed by Doc and Val, hurrying into the dining hall. The officers had fortuitously been on their way to the Mess Hall for their morning coffee when Val had burst from the building and literally crashed into them.

Number One grabbed The Gunner's fist. "Put him down, please, Stephen," said Number One calmly. "Put him down!"

The Gunner nodded and released Nigel, who once again fell to the deck in a heap. Stepping back, The Gunner turned quickly and in two quick strides was at Chef's side.

The Phantom lay cradled in Chef's arms. Doc was kneeling beside him, waving a small vial of ammonia under his nostrils. The Gunner knelt down, clearly worried. "Is he okay? Will he be all right?"

The Phantom snorted, recoiled, and coughed. "Fuck, that shit stinks." He opened his eyes and smiled at The Gunner. "Hi, Gunner. Hi, Chef. What are you doing out here?" he asked.

He looked at the circle of faces surrounding him, Ray near to tears, Sandro muttering in Russian and glaring angrily, Tyler and Val white-faced, Joey, holding Randy's hand for moral support, and muttering a Hail Mary. Randy, a hard shell Baptist, was whispering a plea to God to save his friend. "Hey!" The Phantom exclaimed, "I remember now, Nigel hit me."

"He'll never hit you again," snapped The Gunner, fire in his eyes. No one paid attention as Number One hustled a protesting Nigel out the side door of the Mess Hall.

"Did you deck the prick? Where is he?" The Phantom tried looking around, and then winced. "Jeez, my head hurts." As The Phantom tried to struggle to his feet Doc pushed him back down.

"Hush now, boyo," Doc ordered in his best bedside manner. He felt the back of The Phantom's head, then stood up. "Well, you've had a nasty crack on the head, my boy. You'll have a nice, big bump, and no danger. I don't think you're too damaged. Still, we'll take you along to the surgery and check you out."

"I'm fine, honest," argued The Phantom.

"Shut up," replied The Gunner firmly. "Here, I'll take him." He knelt down and scooped The Phantom in his arms. "You're going to Sick Bay and I'm making sure you get there."

Chef yelled after him. "You take care of that boy, you hear." He looked frantically around for his cleaver, which Sandro had hurriedly stuffed down the back of his trousers. "You go with them, Sandro," Chef ordered. "You Makee-Learns get back to work . . . oh fuck!" Nobody was listening. They were following The Gunner out of the Mess Hall. Chef had no option but to trail behind.

The Gunner, with The Phantom cradled in his arms and trailed by Doc, Chef, Ray, Sandro, Kyle, Andy, Val, Tyler and the two Makee-learns, hurried toward Sick Bay.

The Phantom wrapped his arms around The Gunner's neck and rested his head on The Gunner's shoulders. "Did you deck the prick, Gunner, did you?" he asked excitedly.

"Hush, Phantom, hush. I'll tell you all about it later."

"I can walk, you know," he whispered, hoping that The Gunner was still mad enough to insist he couldn't.

"I'll be the judge of that," replied The Gunner, unaware that he was doing exactly what The Phantom wanted him to do.

The Phantom smiled and sighed contentedly, thinking his head did hurt, and it was a long walk to Sick Bay.

The parade ran right into the Twins and their gun crews, and Brian and the Guard, who were on their way to practice for the Ceremony of the Flags. In the middle of the parade square, where the Bands were formed up for the practice, Harry saw the commotion and rushed over. "What happened?" he asked the Twins.

Cory shrugged. "Don't know, but Phantom's hurt bad," Harry turned to Val. "What happened?"

Val stopped long enough to mutter, "That bastard Farnsworth hit Phantom."

"Cocksucker!" exploded Todd. "Where is he? I'll fucking kill him."

"No you won't because I will!" Harry raised his Mace, his face contorted with anger.

The other cadets growled, echoing Harry's sentiment. Val and Tyler, arms waving, tried to calm them. Suddenly, the Voice of Doom shouted. "Cadets, Ho!" They all turned. The Gunner had stopped and turned. "Don't make a bad thing worse. Go about your business," he ordered. "Tyler, Val, Harry, take charge. Ray, Sandro, Joey, Randy, back to the galley. Chef, take them back."

The cadets roundly ignored The Gunner. He hurried towards the Sick Bay, with half the Ship's Company trailing him.

******

In Sick Bay, after The Gunner had laid The Phantom on the examining table, Matron and Doc had tried to shoo him into the office and out of the surgery. The Phantom stopped them. "Let him stay, please, Matron. Please, Doc."

Doc nodded his reluctant agreement, and began examining the back of The Phantom's head. Matron stuck a thermometer in his mouth. "I don't have to take anything off,