Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 22

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It never ceased to amaze The Gunner that no matter how well-planned an evolution seemed to be, or how forewarned the participants happened to be, nobody was ever, in the entire history of the Navy, actually ready when they were supposed to be. He watched as heretofore calm, well-organized cadets went to panic stations over seemingly innocuous things.

Web belts, buckles and gaiters, which everyone was sure they had packed in their bags had, during the night, grown little feet and scampered from the rooms.

Briefs and boxers, pristine white only the night before, were now, inexplicably, blue, black, and in one case, fire engine red. Boots that were spit-shined unto the ninth generation were suddenly dull and pitted. Socks that had been perfectly mated only the day before were now alone. Uniforms that had left AURORA ironed and sparkling in their whiteness were wrinkled and spotted with stains of unknown origin.

To make matters worse the Sea Puppies and general Training Cadets billeted in the Barracks, who were supposed to be dropped off at the Parade Muster Point, were brought to the motel, adding to the general confusion and din with their constant chatter.

The Gunner, Andy, Kyle and Dave, assisted by the senior cadets, managed to bring a measure of order out of the chaos that reigned in the motel corridor. A boot polishing party was organized, extra underpants were borrowed, and the Twins, with Matt and Nicholas, set up an ironing station. The Twins had long ago learned to travel with an iron and an extra can or two of spray starch.

As 0900 approached the cadets finally managed to get themselves organized. Their uniforms were pressed and their boots were polished. When the last pair of trousers had been ironed to starched perfection the Twins left Nicholas and Matt and returned to their room where they waited patiently for Harry to finish showering. When Harry emerged they scurried into the bathroom to shave and have a quick shower.

After showering, Harry began dressing. He slipped on a pair of clean underpants, then his gunshirt, then his starched, white bell-bottoms. After buckling his belt he opened the closet door to use the full-length mirror that hung there. As he combed his hair he began a slow pivot, admiring his reflection. Greg, who was sitting on their bed, saw Harry and grinned. Cory, who for once had finished his ablutions before Todd, came into the room. He stood back, shaking his head, but frankly admiring Harry's uniformed body.

Harry could see both Cory and Greg admiring him. He continued his slow pivot and then stopped, his back to the mirror. He looked over his shoulder, frowned, and then swore quietly.

"What the matter, now?" asked Cory.

"My bells," replied Harry.

Cory motioned for Harry to turn around. "There's nothing wrong with them. They're pressed and quite frankly, Harry, you have a bum built for bell-bottoms." Cory chuckled and repeated the last phrase, emphasising his unintentional alliteration, "A bum built for bell-bottoms!"

Harry grinned, then frowned again. He was thinking of the day before the Church Parade last month, when an admiring Stefan had inspected him. Harry remembered Stefan's words. "You must always look your best, Harry," Stefan had said, "because you're leading the Band after all. Everybody will be looking at you, they always look at the Band first, you know . . ." Harry remembered the softness of Stefan's hand when the boy had smoothed down his jumper. Then he remembered something else Stefan had said. "You look very handsome, Harry. Harry, have you ever thought of switching to boxers? Not that briefs are not all right, I wear them myself, you know, but I can see your briefs line under your pants and it sort of detracts from the overall effect, if you know what I mean. You have a very nice bum. Not like me. I have a skinny bum. But you do have a very nice bum and it should look smooth." Harry scowled.

His scowl deepening, Harry began to unbuckle his belt. "You can see my briefs lines," he said with a slight frown, "and that won't do."

Greg groaned and rolled his eyes. "Who cares? So what if your so-called briefs lines are showing. Your jumper covers your ass and anyway, who would know?"

"I would know, and Stefan doesn't like me to show my ass off like that," replied Harry seriously.

"Harry, look around you! Stefan isn't here," returned Greg, exasperated at what he considered to be more of Harry's nonsense. "He's in Edmonton and couldn't possibly know if your 'briefs lines' are showing."

Harry carefully removed his bells and hung them on the back of a chair as he stared evenly at Greg. "Stefan is always with me, Greg, and you would do well to remember that." He turned abruptly and left the room.

Cory and Greg could hear Harry bellow for Tyler, demanding the loan of white underpants, boxers, not briefs. Greg smiled weakly at Cory and asked, "What did I say?"

Cory sighed. "Look, Greg, when it comes to Stefan, Harry is, well, Harry is totally in love with him."

"I know that!" snapped Greg. "What did I say that pissed him off?"

"Nothing," replied Cory. He reached into his kit bag and pulled out some clean boxers, sat on his bed and look evenly at Greg. "Harry was warning you," he said.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" demanded Greg. He stood up and began to pull on his trousers, glaring angrily at Cory. "Well?"

"What happened last night, was last night," answered Cory as he continued dressing, quite unperturbed by Greg's palpable anger. "There is only one boy in Harry's life, and that boy is Stefan. Harry will fool around with you, and be your fuck buddy, but he will never be in love with you. He wants you to under-stand that."

Greg sat down and pulled on his boots. He began to pull angrily at the laces. "I understand that, Cory. He doesn't have to warn me. I know I'm just his summer fuck buddy."

"As he is yours," replied Cory evenly. He put on his jumper and zipped it up. "You got him off, he got you off. He did not force you to do anything. You did not force him to do anything. He will let you beat him off or blow him, just as you will let him do the same things to you."

"And all it was, and will be, is sex!" Greg slapped a gaiter around his left leg. "No emotion, just sex. No feelings, no commitment!"

Cory looked at Greg, sadness in his eyes. "Yes, and that's all it will ever be, Greg. What Harry is telling you is that when it's over, it's over. When he boards the plane to go home you will be out of his life. A memory."

Greg pulled on his jumper and reached for his cap. "Which Stefan will never be!" he declared bitterly as he rose and left the room.

******

After showering The Phantom went into the bedroom and began dressing. Because Randy and Joey had returned with Ray, he had put his underwear on in the bathroom, his retreat did not unnoticed by Ray, who wondered if The Phantom's modesty was for his benefit or for that of the Makee-Learns.

The Phantom's sudden fit of modesty did not extend to The Makee-Learns, who happily stripped naked, not at all ashamed that their cocklets and ball sacs were on full view. What few inhibitions they might have brought from home (and growing up in rural Alberta they had few), they quickly lost in AURORA, where nudity, and semi-nudity, was part of communal living.

Much to The Phantom's surprise he felt uneasy at the sight of the two pre-pubescent boys walking about naked. God knew nudity had never bothered him before, and certainly not since the sailing trip. Still, he felt a vague uneasiness and told the two boys that it was time to get dressed and to hurry up and have a quick wash. Both boys quickly disappeared into the bathroom.

Ray, who felt no uneasiness at all, and in fact was quite used to seeing Randy and Joey naked, and had been since they reported aboard, held The Phantom's tunic for him. "Want to tell me what that was all about?" Ray asked as he smoothed the back of The Phantom's tunic.

The Phantom smiled crookedly. "Ray, I don't know. When I'm around guys my own age, it doesn't bother me."

Ray moved and stood in front of The Phantom and began doing up the buttons of the jacket. "But it does with Randy and Joey?" he asked, leaving the top button and the collar undone.

Nodding and smiling his thanks for Ray's help, The Phantom shrugged as he said, "It makes me, uneasy. I just don't feel comfortable around naked boys that age."

Ray pulled on his jumper and zipped it up. The Phantom handed him his black silk and he slipped it under the collar of his jumper. "I know this guy," said The Phantom as he tied Ray's silk with the tapes of his jumper. "He's 18, and he's fucking his brother."

At first Ray did not catch The Phantom's meaning. The thought of having sex with his younger brother Jeffrey appalled him. But then he did have an older brother, Tommy, who had a very nice set of parts and . . . "You're not fucking him, and if the brother is willing . . ." he said noncommittally.

"The brother is 12," explained The Phantom, "and I'm not all that sure that they're fucking. I do know that they're doing just about everything else."

Ray frowned. " Jesus!"

The Phantom nodded. "Yeah, Jesus. I guess I'm just a bit of a prude. I can go along with guys our age doing things together. We're old enough to know what we want to do."

"What makes you think this kid isn't. Or Randy or Joey for that matter?" asked Ray. He sat on the bed, bent over, and began to put on his gaiters. "Joey is old enough to know that he doesn't want his brother playing with his dick. Maybe your friend's brother is old enough to know that he likes what he's doing with his brother. Different strokes, Phantom."

Reluctantly, The Phantom had to agree. "Well, I guess I just don't get turned on by little boys. "

Ray flashed a huge grin. "You like 'em big, huh?"

The Phantom chuckled. "As if either one of us can talk," he said as he picked up his cap and left the bedroom.

******

The Gunner answered the light rap on the bedroom door, smiled at The Phantom and motioned for him to come in. As he passed the closed bathroom door The Phantom could hear the water pounding in the shower. Andy, wearing snow-white boxers and a T-shirt, was sitting on the edge of the bed he had shared with Kyle, fitting his epaulettes to a white officer's tunic that he had borrowed from Kyle. He grinned and waved at The Phantom, who grinned back.

"I see you're almost ready," said The Gunner as The Phantom stood in the middle of the room.

The Phantom nodded and pointed to his open collar. "Dress me, please," he asked, flashing a brilliant smile.

The Gunner's fingers shook slightly as he did up the top button of The Phantom's tunic and then fitted the hooks and eyes that closed the collar of the tunic. It was all he could do not to take the boy in his arms.

Andy watched as The Gunner gently passed his hand over The Phantom's firm chest, smoothing the fabric of his jacket, and wondered if he and Kyle would ever have what The Gunner and The Phantom had.

"There, Phantom," said The Gunner. "All tiddly." His eyes softened and his heart skipped a beat. God did Phantom look wonderful. The white uniform fit him perfectly and complemented his tanned skin and glorious, emerald eyes.

The Phantom smiled and put on his cap. "I suppose I'll have to salute somewhere along the line. How does this look?" He saluted and held it, waiting for The Gunner's appraisal.

"Not bad, Phantom," said The Gunner. He reached up and adjusted The Phantom's hand. "Just remember how I showed you. Keep your hand and wrist straight, in line with your forearm. And bend the hand forward so you don't show your palm."

"Because I might have tar on it and Queen Victoria would not approve," laughed The Phantom as he brought down his hand.

The Gunner brushed away an imaginary piece of lint from The Phantom's shoulder. "Yes." His lips formed a smile. You remembered."

"I remember a lot, Gunner." The Phantom reached up to touch The Gunner's face then, remembering that Andy was in the room, quickly brought his hand down. "So, what's next?" he asked.

The Gunner picked up his green uniform jacket and slipped it on. "First we go down below and meet your escort. I told you about him." The Phantom nodded and moved toward the door. The Gunner waved at Andy. "It's 0900, Andy. Are you and Kyle going to be ready soon?"

Andy shrugged. "I will be. Kyle is in the shower and then he has to dress."

"Well, goose him along, please. We need both of you to march with the cadets."

"Goose him and you pry him off the ceiling," quipped Andy. "He claims he's very sensitive in the nether regions."

The Gunner was about to answer, "You'd know!" but thought better of it. "As long as you're both outside by 0930. We have to be at Laurel Point Park no later than 1000. And we still have to unload the guns from the trucks."

"We'll be down, no danger," assured Andy. He stood up and laid the tunic on the bed.

"See you down below," replied The Gunner as he and The Phantom exited the room.

******

Andy rummaged in his suitcase and brought out a pair of white sports socks, the only type of white socks he owned, which he considered good enough to wear with his white tropical uniform. He had never expected to be wearing a Summer Dress, Long, White. As a USN Sea Cadet officer he was not paid, and had it not been for the small disability pension his wound entitled him to, he would have been on the streets. Basic uniforms were supplied to him, but high-collared white jackets were not issued. They had to be purchased by the officers at their own expense and that was an expense that Andy could not afford. Fuck, he thought, not only can I not afford a jacket, I can't even afford the fucking white dress socks I'm supposed to wear.

He returned to the bed, sat down and began to pull on his socks. His financial situation was parlous, to say the least. His Veterans Benefits would cover his university tuition, barely, which meant that everything else, little things like food and rent, books, and clothing, would have to be worked for. Which meant he would have to go back to a job he hated, waiting tables. What he would be paid as a member of the USMC Reserve, if he were accepted, would help, but as someone once said, you'll never get rich in the military.

The bathroom door opened and Kyle emerged, a towel loosely tied around his waist, vigorously drying his hair with another towel draped over his head. Andy sighed at the sight of the slim-waisted, darkly handsome young man he loved so desperately, still wet from his shower, his smooth body beaded with droplets of water, a small mound tenting the front of his towel. Andy felt the old familiar feeling and his dick jerked. Before Kyle could react Andy reached out and in one swift movement turned him around and pulled Kyle's towel away.

Kyle yelped as Andy's warm, moist mouth enveloped his flaccid penis. "Jesus, Andy, what the . . . ah, come on Andy, we have to . . ." Kyle writhed and stammered as his penis swelled and lengthened in Andy's mouth. As Andy cupped his low-hanging testicles Kyle moaned softly and gently pushed his hips forward. "Jesus . . . Andy . . ."

Andy withdrew his mouth and slowly ran his tongue along the underside of Kyle's rapidly hardening erection, savouring the sweetness of it and the man smell that Kyle exuded, even fresh from the shower. Almost reverently Andy began kissing Kyle's secret spot, the small knot of flesh just under the classically curving mushroom head of his dick where it joined his smooth shaft.

As his lips passed over the spongy-hard helmet Andy's tongue flashed and the small drop of precum that had oozed from Kyle's reddened dick slit disappeared.

With soft, light touches of moistness Andy's lips moved slowly up and down Kyle's rigid, blood-heated organ, his tongue crossing and re-crossing the sex-darkened helmet, licking away the colourless precum that flowed freely from Kyle's excited organ. With one hand Andy fisted the thickened base of Kyle's iron hardon and with the other gripped his own pulsing erection, which stuck straight up through the slit in his boxers. He pumped slowly, synchronizing his hand movement with Kyle's short, sharp, hip thrusts.

Kyle responded to the exquisite feelings coursing through his body, a low growl rising in the back of his throat. As Andy lip sucked his secret spot he could feel his testicles contract and his penis spasm. As the first harbinger of his overpowering orgasm dribbled from his hard mushroom, Kyle thrust his head back and pushed his hips upwards, filling Andy's mouth with his sweet cream.

Andy sucked and licked Kyle's spewing dick, his tongue scourging Kyle's secret spot, his mouth sucking, swallowing hungrily, not wanting to lose a single precious drop of his lover's wonderful nectar. Within seconds of Kyle's volcanic eruption Andy's dick jerked and a huge jet of his semen blasted upward, spattering against his T-shirt. His dick pulsed and jet after jet flew upward, hitting his chin. His dick seemed to pump an unending stream of semen that dribbled and snaked down his shaft and over his rapidly pumping hand. Andy continued to pump and suck until both of them were dry.

Kyle, the exquisitely sensitive head of his penis afire with delight as Andy's tongue passed over it, yelped and pulled away abruptly, unable to tolerate the incredible pleasure that electrified his still hard organ. He collapsed onto the other bed, breathing harshly, flushed with the afterglow of a fucking superior blow job.

Andy lay back on their bed, propping himself on his elbows. His soft dick, slick with his juice, his helmet glowing, hung passively from the slit of his boxers.

"Holy fuck, Andy!" moaned Kyle. He squirmed as the ecstasy flowed slowly from his body.

Andy chuckled. "Spontaneous sex is the best sex."

Kyle groaned and pulled himself erect. "Jesus, Andy, that was good."

Andy beamed. "I bet you say that to all the Marines."

Kyle swallowed heavily. "Only one." He stood up, his legs quivering. "I don't think I can walk," he grumbled.

"You don't have to walk, just march," laughed Andy.

Kyle lay down on the bed beside Andy. Their lips brushed. "Of all the Marines, in all the bedrooms, in all the world, why did I have to fall in love with you?"

"I turn you on? My dick is a thing of beauty? I can suck you dry? All of the above?"
Kyle glared at Andy. "I'm serious, Andy. I'm in love with you."

"I know that," replied Andy quietly. "And I'm in love with you." He pushed Kyle away. "Come on, hotshot, we have to get moving. I'm covered in cum, and your dick needs washing. Also, duty calls." He climbed out of bed and began stripping off his soiled underwear.

Kyle rolled off the bed and took Andy in his arms. "Andy, we have to talk. About us."

Andy hugged Kyle and kissed him. "I know. Let's just get today over and done with and tonight, together, we'll decide what to do."

"Tonight, then."

******

Lieutenant (Navy) David Clayton was 24 years old. He stood just short of six feet tall, and had a stocky build. His hair was what was described as dirty blonde. He had a ready smile and an easygoing disposition. He had known The Gunner for just over three years and he was the only man that The Gunner trusted implicitly.

As The Gunner had told The Phantom, his relationship with the young Lieutenant was one of trust and friendship, nothing more and nothing less, a relationship born on the "playing fields of STADACONA", nurtured in the adversity of a Naval Cadet Training Frigate, and fired in the crucible of mindless hatred and bigotry.

In April of 1973 David Clayton was a 19-year-old junior at Dalhousie University. He was also a Naval Cadet under the UNTD Programme and just beginning his second, or Sea Phase, of his training, which was misleading in that the first four weeks of his training were spent in the Fleet School, Halifax, where his theoretical skills in Navigation, Gunnery and Engineering were honed in the trade shops and Boat Shed of the Dockyard.

Every morning and evening David and 73 other Naval Cadets formed the UNTD Training Division on the parade square and it was here he first noticed a tall, slim young man who was a member of the Parade Staff - a new promoted Leading Gunner and that most dreaded of creatures, a Parade GI. The same young man, who was not all that much older than David was, also taught Gunnery and Parade Training, which the other instructors thought made this years draft of UNTD Cadets very special in that the young GI had just returned from England where he had completed the Higher Gunnery Course at Whale Island (the Holy of Holies so far as Gunners were concerned) and had been a member of the elite King's Company, as evidenced by the sterling double gunner's chain and whistle (embossed with the Queen's Cipher) he wore.

Being young the GI was not hidebound and was, much to the Naval Cadets' surprise, and excellent instructor. He was knowledgeable, intelligent, and very funny, always cracking a joke. He was also a holy terror when one of the Untidies screwed up.

David thought himself a keen judge of character. His instincts told him that the Leading Gunner was a man of probity, and honesty, and for some reason that David could not understand he felt an attraction to the young gunner, an attraction that was not sexual, for David was a committed heterosexual, but an attraction nevertheless, as if two likes were calling to likes, with an underlying, indefinable need to bond.

While David did not understand the attraction, he did understand that neither he nor the Leading Gunner could form an attachment or a friendship because Naval custom, tradition and rank conspired against any relationship between them.

As an Officer Cadet there was little chance of forming any relationship with someone from the Lower Deck. The ratings lived in a different world, with different values. As an Officer Cadet, David could have slept in his own cabin in the Wardroom Officers Mess, as two of his mates from Dalhousie, Hal Simmonds and Marty Vandeman did. As a native Haligonian David was billeted ashore, which meant that he could go home at nights and on the weekends.

The Leading Seaman shared a room with three other sailors in Atlantic (or "A") Block. He could have been born across the street in the North End Tavern, but each night he was expected to sleep in the bed assigned to him on the third deck. He ate in a separate Mess, without table linen or stewards to pass the salt. He drank in the Junior Rates Mess or the Wet Canteen in the Dockyard, where beer flowed freely and cocktails were considered effete and just a little queer.

Officers and ratings. They lived in different worlds; each with its own set of rules and each with a large "No Entry" sign posted on the gates. For four weeks the only contact David had with the Leading Seaman was in class or on the parade square. At 1600 they went their separate ways. There were no debriefing sessions after class in the Wet Canteen or the Wardroom Lounge, no friendly games of basketball in the gym or swim tournaments in the pool, or sailing on Bedford Basin. Naval Cadet David Clayton was Wardroom and Leading Gunner Stephen Winslow was Lower Deck. There was no bridge between the two.

Impressed as he was by the young Leading Seaman, David never imagined that they could ever be friends, or even acquaintances. They spoke only in class or, rarely, after class, when David had a question, which was answered firmly, very politely, and with no hint of familiarity. Theirs was a strictly Instructor/Student relationship, so much so that at the end of his four weeks in Fleet School all David knew was the Leading Seaman's name, Stephen Winslow, that he was graduate of Whale Island, and that he was one hell of an instructor, even if he did scare the shit out of the Untidies every morning at Divisions when, the steel heels on his glossy parade boots sparking against the asphalt of the parade square, he began his Walk of Doom, slowly walking up and down the ranks, checking uniforms, haircuts and the shine of their shoes.

What neither of them knew was that the odyssey of their friendship would begin at the gangway of the Cadet Training Frigate and lead to a rain-slicked cemetery in the North End of Halifax, where David learned that bitter tears could not restore a friendship betrayed.

******

HMCS PARKDALE was a converted Prestonian Class Frigate of 2300 tons burthen, armed with one 4-inch gun mounted forward, one 40mm twin AA gun mounted aft and four 40mm Bofors single mounts mounted port and starboard. On the quarterdeck were mounted two Squid ASW mortars.

PARKDALE had begun her service life in 1943 as a River Class Frigate, serving honourably during the last days of the Battle of the Atlantic, firing her lone gun at the Nazi sea defences on the beaches and cliffs of Normandy, and patrolling the Korean Coast from December of 1951 until June of 1953. In 1957 she was refitted and modified, designated a Prestonian class frigate, and seconded to the Reserve Training Fleet, sailing the Great Lakes each summer, crewed by Naval Reservists.

In 1969 HMCS PARKDALE underwent yet another refit and was designated a Cadet Training Ship, where the young men who would one day command Canada's Navy would gain practical, hands-on experience.

Originally designed to house 140 officers and ratings in minimal comfort, PARKDALE had been refitted to house 40 Permanent Force officers and ratings, and 100 cadets, in minimal comfort. The officers were housed aft, their cabins grouped around the Wardroom. Ratings and Cadets were housed in four messes, on two decks, the Mess housing the Permanent Force ratings separate from the three Messes housing the Cadets.

On the 7th of June 1973, newly designated Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton, burdened with a kit bag, two suitcases, and a garment bag, struggled up the gangway of HMCS PARKDALE, about to embark on what was the final phase of his training, three months of intensive training at sea, culminating, he hoped, in a coveted document: his Watchkeeping Certificate.

David was looking forward to the cruise, although he did not care over much for his new rank. He much preferred the former Naval rank of Midshipman, which the Naval Cadets were gazetted after their first year of training. Unification, only two years old, had finally trickled down to the UNTDs and while they still wore the old pattern fore-and-aft rig, complete with white turnback and button on the collars of their blue uniforms, Ottawa had decreed that they be referred to as Acting Sub-Lieutenants.

Ahead, and behind David, another 82 freshly minted Acting Subbies, jockeyed for space and elbowroom as they joined the ship. Lining the rails the Permanent Force crew viewed the new arrivals with cynical and jaundiced eyes.

There was the usual confusion of joining ship. The trainees were directed forward and down a steep ladder to a large compartment. Bare tables and benches were placed in rows on either side of the compartment. Pipes, cables and trunkings hid the deckhead, all painted grey and the deck was covered with tiles of a sickly green colour. There was a small serving hatch through which two stewards peered morosely at the trainees. This compartment, totally utilitarian, was the Cadet Mess Deck, where they would eat. It was as cheerful as a workhouse.

The trainees were met by the Cadet Training Officer, a large, sad-faced Paymaster Commander, who was not at all pleased in his new appointment, having happily spent the past five years in HMCS ONTARIO where, as Wardroom Secretary, he had managed to acquire enough to buy a small bed and breakfast in the Annapolis Valley. Since the trainees were only allowed two beers a day, and there were only six officers in the Wardroom, his vision of adding a small, but very elegant, dining room, to the B & B was fading rapidly.

With the Cadet Training Officer was the Master-At-Arms, stick thin and as bald as billiard ball. Like all Masters-At-Arms he was a humourless, no nonsense, by the Book, everything in its place, type of man. Under his direction the problem of accommodating the Trainees was solved by strictly allocating each body its own special niche in the ship.

Each trainee was given a Station Book, which listed his mess, his sleeping billet in one of the three messes (all forward, where they would feel the pitch of the ship more), the number of the mess table where he would eat his meals, and the heads and washplace where he would empty his bowels and bladder and wash his body, and the gunroom where any needed classroom instruction would take place. The Master-At-Arms sternly impressed on all the trainees that they were not, repeat not, to stow their books or instruments, eat their meals, keep their clothes or wash themselves in any other space than that allotted to them. Everything had a number. The Station Book, which they were to keep on their persons at all times, was to help them all remember their numbers. Finally, just to be on the safe side, each trainee was given a name tally to remember who he was.

When eventually David found himself in his Mess, he was shocked to find that the refit had not extended to sleeping accommodations for Officer Trainees. The Forward Lower Mess was a long compartment that extended to either side of the ship. There were no bunks. Overhead, fitted to the deckhead, were neatly and precisely aligned, hammock bars, spaced so that, when all the hammocks were slung, each trainee had the eighteen inches of air space allowed by Regulations.

Along the port and starboard sides of the Mess were ranged grey, wooden lockers, the only storage space available to them for their kit and which doubled as seats for the three Formica-topped tables evenly spaced down each side of the mess. Just forward of the Mess was a small compartment containing another Mess. This space housed the four Seaman Instructors detailed (kicking and screaming) to be "Snotties Nurses", one Leading Seaman each from the Gunnery, Seamanship, Engineering, and Communications branches.

The Gunnery Instructor was Leading Seaman Winslow and, as was the custom, the trainees were instructed to call him "Guns." The Seamanship Instructor was "Buffer", the Engineering Instructor "Stokes", and the Communications Instructor "Bunts". Unlike the trainees' space the Instructors' Mess contained bunks, metal lockers, and a comfortable sitting area.

The first day aboard PARKDALE was spent in ship familiarization, stowing kit, and learning how to sling their 'micks. They also learned their Special Sea Duty stations, and were given a large diary in which they were to record their daily routine, items of interest, and so on. The Executive Officer would inspect this diary daily and woe betide the trainee whose diary was boring or lacking in details.

On the morning of the 8th of June, 1973, HMCS PARKDALE let go all lines and proceeded down harbour via the Eastern Passage, the first day of a three months' cruise. Clayton, Simmonds and Vandeman were Special Sea Sailors, part of the Cable Party, their duty station the foc'sle, where they kept watch over the ship's anchor, which had been cleared away, ready to be let go in an emergency. There was really not all that much to do so the three young men watched the scenery as the frigate transited the passage. Presently a long, low, well-appointed building came into view. Ranged around it were a series of smaller, more compact buildings. All were set in peaceful, verdant, tree spotted lawns and as the ship drew abreast of the complex, which was in reality the Nova Scotia Hospital for the Insane, Vandeman turned to the Foc'sle Petty Officer, a tall, cadaverous, morose man of middle years who was quietly puffing on his pipe. "Say, PO, what's that place?" he asked.

The Petty Officer stared a moment at the buildings, looked at the trainees, tamped his pipe and looked back at the buildings. "Officers' Finishing School," he rumbled, succinctly summing up his opinion of officers in general and officer trainees in particular.

******

In later years, when he was in a particularly nostalgic mood, David Clayton would slowly leaf through the pages of his diary for that period in his life and wonder how they had survived the trip. They had barely cleared the buoy marking the entrance to Halifax Harbour when the alarm bells sounded: Man Overboard, Starboard Side To, and the first of a seemingly never-ending series of drills, evolutions, and exercises began.

Man Overboard was followed by a Fire Exercise, which was followed by Action Stations. Bugles sounded constantly, Bosun Pipes trilled and shrilled hour after hour. From Halifax to Liverpool, Nova Scotia, there was drill after drill, interspersed with Blind Pilotage exercises, Blind Anchorages, Replenishment at Sea exercises and raising and lowering the sea boats. At 1600 they secured and set the Sea Watches, steaming south toward Cape Sable.

The trainees had just sat down to supper when the alarm bells sounded a Fire Drill. The mythical fire extinguished, they had just settled down to finish their now cold supper when a Man Overboard drill was called.

By 2300 the trainees were so exhausted that they could barely sling their 'micks, most of which were ineptly secured. Had it not been for The Gunner inspecting each 'mick, half of the Mess would have ended up on the iron deck. Finally, everybody not on watch was comfortably ensconced in their 'micks, lulled by the swaying motion as the ship rolled in the gentle swells.

At 0230 the fire bells sounded and total confusion presaged total disaster. As the bells clanged and the overhead tannoy demanded the presence of the crew to Emergency Stations, the trainees rolled out of their 'micks and stumbled through the darkness. Nobody remembered where they had dropped their clothes and nobody could remember where he had stowed his life jacket. When the shouting and tumult subsided Clayton found himself on the quarterdeck dressed only in his white boxer shorts and one sock (he had lost the other one somewhere between the Mess and the quarterdeck). Simmonds was naked except for a life jacket he had stumbled over. Vandeman was nattily dressed in striped pyjamas and his peak cap. Not one of the Officer Cadets was properly dressed for an emergency. It was not, as the Captain later opined, the Snotties' finest hour.

Sometime during the morning watch they were finally secured and the trainees straggled back to their 'micks. It was then that David Clayton first began his lifelong friendship with The Gunner, who was waiting at the bottom of the Mess ladder. The trainees expected a rocket. They got a measure of understanding and a ladle of compassion.

David and Simmonds were shivering uncontrollably. The North Atlantic at night is cold in any season. The Gunner draped blankets over their shoulders and told all 23 trainees to find a cup. He and Bunts brought out the rum and each trainee was given a tot, 2 1/2 ounces of good, dark, Navy rum, which took the cold out of their bones. Then they were told to go to bed.

******

And so it began, the long, slow process of two men of divergent backgrounds and, as the time and the place would have it, from different classes bonding, the two becoming, in a way, one. Neither quite understood how it happened, or why it happened. They knew only that they were experiencing something that came to other men perhaps once in a lifetime, an experience that came only to men.

******

From Cape Sable they steamed west, then slowly began the long, arcing curve into The Bay of Fundy. More drills, more blind anchorages, more and more training as they steamed across the Bay and anchored off Grand Manan Island where they traded bottles of rum for scallops and lobsters. The sea boats were lowered and rowed to a quiet, deserted beach where, with steaks from the ship's cold stores, everyone enjoyed a leisurely Surf'n Turf dinner.

For Leading Seaman Winslow and Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton it was nights of standing sea watches, anchor watches, and talking. They found that they liked one another. The Gunner found that he could care for another man without having any sexual feelings for him. Acting Sub-Lieutenant Clayton found that not all Naval knowledge was to be found in books, and that he could love another man without having any sexual feelings for him.

They transited the length of the Bay of Fundy, most nights anchored in some small, coastal bay, where they learned that life at sea, while lonely, had its compensations. David and Steve Winslow grew to know one another, they learned of each other's fears and hopes. Only one secret remained between them.

They spent the first weekend in Saint John, New Brunswick, home to the highest tides in the world and, as luck would have it, David and The Gunner were duty, and spent the weekend solving the problems of the Navy.

Leaving Saint John PARKDALE steamed across to Digby, where the trainees were bused to HMCS CORNWALLIS, the Naval Recruit Training School. Here they sat the first of six written examinations, the first hurdle on the road to their commissioning. The Gunner stayed aboard, not willing to revisit his old school. There were too many sad memories, one too painful to be remembered, too full of hurt and hatred to be forgotten.

From Digby they sailed south to Yarmouth where they tied up alongside the Government Jetty. Huge, white canvas awnings were spread over the foc'sle and the quarterdeck, and fairy lights rigged. For three days they learned the ins and outs of Naval protocol and how to avoid the pitfalls of interaction with civilians.

The ship was open to visitors during the day and those trainees not on Watch acted as tour guides. Midshipman Clayton (which The Gunner called him during their private moments together) was a natural at welcoming the hordes of civilians that swarmed over the ship, very much at ease with strangers, and capable of making the kind of small talk that said nothing. Thanks to the gentle prodding and intelligent insight of his mentor, he was able to give a quite good tour of the vessel.

That first evening there was a reception on the quarterdeck for the town's dignitaries. The stewards and cooks, who had been this way before, put on a presentable spread of food. The Chief Steward mixed up three different punches, each just a touch more potent than the other. Hal Simmonds, a quiet, dark-haired, stocky boy, discovered that there were amateur musicians among the stokers and, cornet in hand, cajoled three of them into forming a Brass Quartet, so there was music, which pleased the Captain, who liked a touch of class at his receptions.

All the trainees, properly scrubbed and dressed, attended the reception, acting as hosts and greeting their guests. They made sure that each new arrival was greeted with a smile and a drink. David thought the whole thing a waste of time and money until The Gunner told him that it had been his experience that most young ladies loved a man in a Naval uniform, especially if he had a drink in his hand.
All in all it was a very good evening and David discovered that a White Lady (Cointreau, gin, ice, lemon and cherries, stirred well), properly presented to a young lady, could lead to a pleasant walk along the beach. He also learned that sand in one's Jockeys could be damned uncomfortable.

From Yarmouth the training frigate sailed west, the trainees exercising all the way to Portland, Maine where they put in for the night. The ship was met by the local US Navy representatives, who told the trainees which bars to stay away from (thereby ensuring a boost in the sale of liquor and beer in the establishments as visiting Canadian officer cadets satisfied their curiosity) and invited them to a party.

During the transit to Portland, The Gunner, much to his surprise, learned that ship handling came naturally to him. In Portland, Acting Sub-Lieutenant Marty Vandeman learned that when a lady of the lesbian persuasion said no, she meant no. The scars were healing nicely by the time they returned to Halifax.

Portland a happy memory, they sailed south by east, heading for Baltimore, day steaming for the most part, anchoring in a friendly bay or quiet harbour for the night, past Gloucester and Boston, to Provincetown on Cape Cod, where they rendezvoused with HMCS PRESERVER, to take on fuel, dry stores, mail and movies. As the ships sailed alongside the Buffer fired the Costain Gun Line, which would carry the light jackstay lines from the frigate to the supply ship. Just as he fired the PARKDALE heeled and the projectile went over the supply ship and became entangled in the radar antenna mounted on the foremast. As was routine, rather than wait for the deck crew on the frigate to rig a new line, the Buffer on the supply ship ordered his projectile rifle fired.

The weighted plastic projectile was well aimed and arced toward the frigate. Unfortunately, the rating firing the gun had not allowed for windage and instead of falling across the midships section the projectile flew through the open bridge windows, almost taking off the noses of The Gunner and David Clayton, who were manning the engine room telegraphs and monitoring the distance line between the two ships. David considered it a very educational experience in that he learned a shit locker full of new swear words. The Gunner did not take kindly to being shot at.

Once the replenishment exercise was completed the ships steamed together until Nantucket was abeam on the starboard side. The PRESERVER continued on, steaming south, heading for Bermuda, while the PARKDALE turned west.

A mile south of the island, between Smooth-Hummocks and Cisco, the ASW types dry fired the Squids, and then let the Trainees have a go, who promptly forgot that it was all just an exercise and two depth charges went flying, scaring the bejezus out of a fisherman who was trawling less than a mile away, and ruining the fishing for a week.

From Nantucket the frigate sailed west, over to Narragansett Bay, past Newport, sailing around Prudence Island, blind pilotage every inch of the way.

With Prudence Island safely behind them they anchored off Newport where the honey barge came alongside so that the ship's bilge and sewage holding tanks could be pumped out, a boring evolution until the hose, through which the combined liquid waste of 140 crewmen was being pumped, ruptured, inundating the Chief Engineer and six trainees with a noxious wave of effluent. After being hosed down they were sent to the Sick Bay were they were fed massive doses of tetracycline and gamma globulin.

Once the mess on the deck had been hosed away the ship exited the bay, past Block Island, steaming east toward Nantucket Island where there was ample sea room. When they were well clear of Block Island The Gunner showed the trainees how to make radar deflectors using aluminium foil, a wire coat hanger and a broomstick. As they sailed around the island the trainees all had a turn at the old antiquated SPQ-2 radar set, tracking the motor cutter and the Captain's gig, which had the same radar echo as the hundreds of low-hulled fishing boats that infested Nantucket waters.

With Nantucket receding aft, PARKDALE began a leisurely passage southward. The Captain, given the proximity of the Nantucket Measured Mile, decided to hold engineering drills. He called for "Full Steam Ahead" and everything proceeded downhill. David Clayton received a rocket for not requesting a repetition of the order (as demanded by QR&Os). The Chief Engineer tied down the safety valves and the starboard generator blew up. The lights went out and the steering engine packed it in.

PARKDALE wallowed in a following sea for six hours before everything was put to rights. The Gunner exercised the trainees in the art of firing a proper gun salute, which experience they put to good use when they made the turn into Chesapeake Bay and saluted Fortress Monroe, the occasion somewhat marred when Marty Vandeman lost count and The Gunner breathed fire on him.

They continued south by west, past Montauk Point, passing close inshore down the coast of Long Island, and past New York, in transit for Baltimore, exercising during the day and anchoring for the night in some placid bay or tiny harbour, where they swam or fished or listened to the pickup band as it tooted away on the quarterdeck. After sunset there were movies in the Cadets Mess Deck.

Baltimore was a bust. The trainees sat the first of their Watchkeeping Exams and by the time they were all finished writing it was time to clean into their glad rags and act as hosts for the Captain's Reception. Nobody went ashore. The next day there was an open house, with another reception in the evening. In the morning of the third day they left Baltimore, sailing close inshore and practising Action Stations and Repel Boarders Drill all the way to Norfolk, where the trainees fired a raggedy salute as they passed the Naval Base there. The Gunner was not amused.

From Norfolk the training ship steamed northward and on the 30th of June entered Boston Harbor. They tied up at the USS CONSTITUTION Jetty in the Charlestown Naval Yard, an evolution that caused no end of apprehension on the part of the more seasoned hands in that the Commanding Officer gloried in the nickname "Crash" (one collision at sea, two groundings, and a large dent along the starboard side thanks to an ill-fated attempt to come alongside the ammunition jetty in Bedford Basin). In the event, the venerable "Old Ironsides", moored permanently in the Navy Yard, was not added to the Captain's list of unfortunate misadventures.

As the next day was the 1st of July, Canada's National Day, up went the awnings and lights, and the ship was dressed overall. There was a welcoming dinner for the Dockyard Commander and his officers in the Wardroom, and a reception on the quarterdeck. The next morning The Gunner supervised the firing of a 21-gun salute, the pickup band played O Canada (slightly off key) and the ship was open to visitors and those trainees not on Watch were invited to Building 5, which housed the Officers Mess, where there was another reception.

The Marines from the US Marine Barracks challenged the crew to a game of baseball on the wide lawns outside of the multi-storied, ancient barracks, complete with hot dogs, hamburgers, and beer. The Canadians lost, and invited everybody back to the ship for some BEER!

That night there were fireworks, a formal dinner in the Wardroom, and a monster reception on the quarterdeck, after which The Gunner was given a personal tour of the Marine Barracks (occupied continuously from 1810) by a slim, pug-nosed Marine Lance Corporal named Eric, with a crooked grin and a blond brush cut, who proved to The Gunner's satisfaction that US Marine Lance Corporals look just as good out of their dress uniforms as in them.

David Clayton was taken on a tour of Boston Common by a young lady who professed to be a student at Vassar, and learned that the gift that keeps on giving can be cured by the administration of a Pecker Checker's Cocktail (a combination of powerful antibiotics) delivered in the fleshiest part of his posterior by a cackling Sick Bay Tiffy with a blunt hypodermic needle. He also learned that such a gift was also accompanied by a "No Sex for 90 Days" Order and a stern lecture from the Chaplain (P).

******

Boston was the last port of call for the training cruise. Exiting the harbour the Coxswain turned the ship's wheel and HMCS PARKDALE dug her nose into the slight swells. They were headed north, heading for home.

As expected, the passage north was one long series of exercises and drills. The ship paused, briefly, at Louisbourg, but the trainees saw little of the his-toric, recreated fortress, for thick fog blanketed the whole area. The place might have been interesting on a warm, sunny day. In the fog and damp of Cape Breton it took on a special bleakness.

From Louisbourg it was a few hours steam to St. John's, Newfoundland, Newfyjohn to the sailors on the old North Atlantic Station.

PARKDALE transited the Narrows, past The Battery and Glenridge Crescent, the trainees marvelling at the high rocky cliffs that surrounded the town and harbour, with the Cabot Tower high above on Signal Hill, looming over city below.

Under the watchful eyes of the Training staff the trainees conned the ship and much to everyone's surprise they managed to reach their jetty at the end of Harbour Drive without hitting anything. Once the frigate was secured alongside the gangway was rigged and leave piped.

Being almost Commissioned Officers, those trainees not required for duty (which was everybody except David Clayton), cleaned into proper going ashore rig - suits or blazers and grey flannels, white shirts, ties, and a hat. David, as Officer of the Day, watched them leave the jetty, hurrying up the sloping street for the fleshpots of Water Street.

It was almost obligatory that the trainees visit The Crow's Nest (officially, The Newfoundland Officers' Club) which had begun life as the Seagoing Officers' Club in 1942, as Wardroom for ships stationed in Newfyjohn on the North Atlantic Convoy run, a safe haven for the officers of the corvettes and destroyers that husbanded the convoys of fat merchant ships across the North Atlantic. Now a private club, The Crows Nest was housed on the top floor of an old warehouse and was reached by a steep, rickety flight of 59 wooden steps.

The windows of the clubroom overlooked the harbour and the room itself was a shrine to those who had risked their lives to keep the escorts afloat and the sea-lanes between North America and the Old Country open.

The place was a room full of memories. On the walls of the dingy room were ships' crests, photographs, drawings, cartoons and mementoes of the ships and men who had sailed forth from Newfyjohn to fight the Battle of the Atlantic. Pride of place was given to a portrait of Admiral Mainguy, a short, dynamic man whose uniform never seemed to fit him, who by force of character and hard work kept the convoy escorts supplied and manned. He was also the officer who, as Captain (D), had allocated 4-square feet of wall space for each ship to display its artefacts.

In that corner Harry DeWolfe entertained his officers before taking command of HMCS HAIDA. Over there the officers of HMCS SPIKENARD held a farewell party before sailing out with convoy SC.67, steaming east to meet her fate off of Iceland. Memories of good men lost flooded the place.

Someone suggested a pub crawl and the lads were glad to exchange the club's smoky rooms (where women were only allowed on Tuesday nights, and then on the condition that they did not clutter up the bar) for Water Street's blaze of lights, the sounds of laughter and loud music that poured from almost every other doorway. They were young, they were sailors on shore leave, and they would live forever. Later no one could remember the number or names of the pubs they visited and no one could remember when Hal Simmonds left them.

For The Gunner and David Clayton the night was long and full of exuberant, friendly drunks. There was no trouble and so long as those returning aboard could navigate the quarterdeck without incident, and find their way down below, they were not logged as returning aboard intoxicated. One of the last to return had been Hal, slightly dishevelled, but relatively sober, and smiling a secret smile.

The ship remained moored alongside for two days and for two days The Gunner noticed that every time Hal walked past a group of his peers there were muffled sniggers and knowing looks. When he asked David what was going on the boy stammered, blushed, and then told him.

A man had picked up Hal Simmonds, drunk, in one of the bars. They had driven to Signal Hill and there, on the grassy, windswept slope, Hal had been the recipient of his first blowjob. Sadly, Hal made two mistakes. His first mistake had been leaving the bar with the stranger. His second mistake had been telling Marty Vandeman all about it.

The colour had drained from The Gunner's face when he heard the news. Hal's peers might think the whole episode a cause of mirth. The Commanding Officer would not. Hal's peers, being liberated, freethinking young men, might think that a blow job was a blow job, and who cared how one came by one. The Commanding Officer would not. He had two phobias, a pathological hatred of all things Oriental, and an even greater hatred of deviant homosexuals.

No one ever knew which little bird flew swiftly up to the bridge and whispered in the ear of the Commanding Officer. All anyone knew was that Hal was piped to the Old Man's cabin and shortly thereafter confined to the Sick Bay, relieved of all duties pending the ship's arrival in Halifax.

When they tied up alongside Jetty 3 in the Halifax Dockyard there were two civilians waiting - SIU had been informed. Hal was ignominiously hustled off the ship and into a waiting car. The last that all but two of his shipmates ever saw of him was the back of his head through the rear window of the car that would take him into the Dockyard.

From the moment Hal left the ship his fellow trainees distanced themselves from him. The word was out that Hal was queer, and nobody wanted to be tarred with that brush. No one would willingly admit that they had associated with a queer. For two days SIU investigators questioned each trainee closely. No classes were held and no Boards sat. Two of the young men flatly refused to speak to the investigators and were promptly "separated". David took the coward's way out and told the investigators that while he did go to Dalhousie with Hal, he barely knew him, really, and no, he had never had any reason to think that Hal was queer, which was not surprising. They weren't all that close, you know.

The Gunner, saddened at David's actions, kept his own counsel and said nothing. As a mere "Rating" he was not considered knowledgeable enough about the doings of offices and, as he had been Duty the night Hal had made his fateful trip to Signal Hill, ad not been required to make a statement. He avoided the Trainees as much as possible. He was saddened, but not surprised. He had seen it all before. No one in the Navy would ever admit that they knew a queer, or knew that one of their fellows was queer.

Four days after Hal Simmonds left the ship the Chaplain (P) called the Midshipmen together. They met in the Cadets Mess Deck and there they learned that Hal Simmonds was dead.

******

August 6th, 1973, Halifax, Nova Scotia, and a fierce, cold, rain lashed the city. A lone figure, bareheaded, shoulders hunched, plodded slowly down Windsor Street. The figure stopped before the large house numbered 217 and looked up at the wide, carved wooden doors. On either side of the doors a small, discreet, bronze plaque bore the name: Playfair & Hulse, Funeral Directors. Acting Sub-Lieutenant David Clayton mounted the three low steps leading to the doors and halted. He squared his shoulders and steeled himself. Then he pushed open the doors and entered.

David had seen the funeral notice in the Halifax Herald, so small that he had almost missed it. The obituary had listed the name, date of death, and date and place of the funeral, with no loving relatives listed, and no mention that the deceased had been in the Navy.

The entry hall was empty. Above a small table was a black and white notice board. On it was listed one name, the date of the funeral, and the room where Mr. Harold Simmonds was resting: Room 6, on the 2nd floor. David climbed the wide stairs leading to the second floor and followed a long hallway that led toward the rear of the funeral parlour. At the end of the hallway was a glass door. Beside it was another black and white sign bearing the name of the person resting within.

As he neared the door David could hear a loud voice raised in anger. A voice he recognized.

"I don't give a fuck, damn it!" The Gunner shouted. "I want to know what the hell is going on here."

David heard the low, soothing murmur of another voice. As he pushed open the door there was another explosion of anger.

"Don't give me that crap! He was a sailor, damn you, and I want to know just what the fuck you think you're doing."

The room David had entered was small, and windowless. Against the far wall, bare, and in need of paint, a grey, cloth-covered coffin sat on a low dais. In either corner of the room was an armchair and table with a lamp on it. In the middle of the room stood a short, plump, formally attired man, and a visibly angry Leading Seaman, who was wearing his old square rig. Their argument was so intense that both men barely noticed David as he entered the room and sat in one of the armchairs.

"I am only doing what I was told to do," said the undertaker patiently. He began to wring his hands. "I did the best I could under the circumstances."

The Gunner snorted. He angrily pushed the undertaker aside and strode to the coffin. "The best you could? Is dressing him in half a suit the best you could do?" He flung open the top of the box and peered in. "I thought so!" He slammed the lower lid of the coffin shut. "That boy is naked from the waist down. Does doing your best not include putting a pair of pants on him?"

David, white-faced, stood up and walked to the coffin. He looked down at the painted and powdered face of the boy he had denied only days before. He looked up and saw that the recessed overhead lights were pink, another subterfuge to fool a grieving family or friend. He turned and glared at the undertaker. "Why isn't he wearing his uniform?" he demanded loudly. "And where is his flag?"

The undertaker groaned and turned to this new antagonist. "As I have tried to explain to the Leading Seaman, the Benevolent Fund only allows so much and . . ."

"What fund? What the fuck are you talking about?" David took a step forward, his fists balled.

The Gunner stopped him. "The RCN Benevolent Fund is paying the bills." He did not seem at all surprised to see David in this dingy parlour of death.

"But, I don't understand. Hal was in the Navy. He was never released. The Navy . . ."

"Does not bury queers!" finished The Gunner cruelly. He took David by the elbow and led him toward the door, stopping to turn and glare at the undertaker. "Close the coffin, and wait in your office." He turned to David. "You come with me."

The Gunner led David down to the main floor lounge, a finely appointed room filled with comfortable chairs and sofas. He motioned for David to sit and took out a packet of cigarettes, extracted one, lit it and inhaled deeply. Then he looked at David. "As far as the Navy is concerned Hal never existed. They bear no responsibility for him. As far as the Navy is concerned its responsibility ended the day he was declared a queer."

"Don't call him that!" snapped David. "He wasn't a queer."

"How would you know?" asked The Gunner harshly. "You barely knew him, remember?"
"That's not fair, damn you, Guns!" flared David.

"Yes, it is," returned The Gunner. "He was your friend and you turned your back on him. Just like all the others, just like his family."

"His family? I don't understand."

"Our gallant Captain made it his business to tell Hal's family exactly why he was being released from the Navy. Do you want to know what they said? What they did?"

David cringed, taken aback at the depth of The Gunner's anger. He was so shocked that it was several seconds before he could regain his composure. "What . . . I saw the obituary. There was no mention of his people at all," he said, shaking his head, his voice a whisper.

"There was no mention because his family disowned him. Hal's father came to STADACONA and told him that no matter what happened he deserved what he got and that he wasn't welcome at home anymore. He didn't want any queers in his house! When the MP's called and told him that Hal was dead do you want to know what he told them? Do you?" David shook his head. The tone of anger in The Gunner's voice changed to one of utter disgust. "Hal's father, his fucking father, said that he had no son named Harold. He also said that so far as he was concerned all queers should be dead."

David buried his face in his hands. "Enough! Stop it!"

"No!" The Gunner shook David. "He was your friend until you found out that he was gay. You went to school with him. You slept in the same Mess with him, ate at the same table with him. You knew him, David. And you turned your back on him."

"You son of a bitch!" David, choking with rage, leaped from his seat and swung wildly, almost connecting with The Gunner's chin. He raised his fist again. "You cocksucking son of bitch!"

The Gunner grabbed him and held his arms. "Think about what you did to that poor boy before you call me names. Think about him sitting, alone in a bare room with just a bed to sit on, afraid, abandoned by his friends and denied by his family. Think about what must have been going through his mind. Think about his fear and his despair. Think about how utterly disgusting we, and that includes me, made him feel about himself. Think about what was going through his mind when he smashed the glass he used to drink from, and what he was thinking about when he picked up a shard and placed it against his wrist."

The Gunner angrily pushed David away. "Think about him lying in that room upstairs, half dressed, destined to lie in some Potter's Field in a grave with eight other people," he snarled venomously. His voice rose. "Think about what cowards we were. Think about it, sir, and then call me names."

The Gunner dropped his glowing cigarette and ground it into the fake Axminster carpet. He turned on his heels and was almost at the door when David stopped him. "What are you going to do?"

The Gunner looked at him. "I'm going to see that he's treated in death with something that was denied to him in life. I'm going to see that he's buried with respect and dignity." He strode from the lounge and went to the undertaker's office. He threw open the door and stood in front of the startled mortician's desk. "How much?" The Gunner asked tightly.

The undertaker sat back in his chair. "Please, I don't want any trouble."

"Answer my question. You're a businessman. How much?" The Gunner barely saw David quietly enter the room.

"It depends on what you want," replied the undertaker. He was indeed a businessman.

"I want Hal out of that orange crate you have him in. I want that muck cleaned off his face and a proper job done. I want you to call Rathbone's on Barrington Street and have them send over a proper Midshipman's uniform - none of this green shit! I want him dressed properly. I want them to send over underwear, socks and shoes and I want you to dress him properly. I want you to have them send over an officer's hat and a sword. And make sure there's a sword knot on it."

The Gunner reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and began to throw money on the desk. "I want a priest." He paused, for he did not know which religion, if a