Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 4

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The Gunner left the galley and walked towards the Drill Shed, where he had a small office. In his hand he gripped the slip of paper on which he had written The Phantom's measurements. Outwardly he was his usual calm self. Inwardly he was in turmoil. He was not as obtuse as Chef thought he was and he was fully aware that The Phantom had a huge crush on him, just as he was aware that The Phantom had gotten an erection when his inseam was being measured.

The how or the why of The Phantom's feelings for him were unimportant. What was important, at least as far as The Gunner was concerned, was that the boy's infatuation went no further than being a schoolboy crush, and therefore something never to be encouraged in any way and certainly never to be mentioned.

As he passed by the Engineering building The Gunner saw Ryan Ponthiere, the Engineering Storekeeper walk out of the building, heading for the Dockyard. Ryan was as laden down as a pack mule with rolls of what looked to be white towels. The Gunner stopped Ryan and asked what he was carrying. "Engineering wipes, Chief. For the YAG squadron," explained Ryan. "They go through a lot."

The Gunner nodded, remembering now. Engineering wipes were huge, 3-foot by 3-foot squares of cotton fibre and paper towelling used to wipe oils spills and clean the engine rooms of the YAGs. They were highly absorbent and almost indestructible. He had a sudden idea. "Can you spare a roll, please?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure, Chief," replied Ryan as he handed The Gunner a roll of towelling. "Got some heavy duty cleaning to do?"

"In a manner of speaking, boychick," replied The Gunner. He thanked Ryan and walked to his office where he made a telephone call to Esquimalt. He spoke with an old Petty Officer, a man who had been around for years and knew where all the bodies were buried.

The old Petty Officer owed The Gunner. Years ago, when The Gunner had been a young and not so naive Able Seaman, the Petty Officer had tried to put the moves on him in the Fleet Club. The Gunner had politely refused the man's overtures, accepted a drink by way of apology, and never mentioned the incident again. Not one, but two brand new, never-out-of-the- package steward's jackets, three pairs of Pusser serge trousers, and a pair of black oxfords would be included in the Saturday morning duty run from NADEN.

Next, The Gunner called Halifax and spoke to the Master Corporal who was Weapons Yeoman in the Dockyard. As they spoke the love the man still had for The Gunner came through loudly. He and The Gunner had enjoyed a brief fling back in the dawn of time when they were both on an advanced Gunnery Course in Halifax. The Weapons rating still called from time to time, usually to reminisce and to recall their days together. He was married, and had three sprogs, but he still called. They reminisced and by the time he hung up the telephone The Gunner was assured that two pairs of patent leather gaiters would be on the next White Knuckle flight from HMCS SHEERWATER to Comox.

His shopping done The Gunner again considered his position with The Phantom. He was a good kid, and not bad looking, but he was a kid and therefore, as far as The Gunner was concerned, untouchable.

The Gunner was fully aware of his attraction to young males. This attraction had drawn him to Joel when they had first met in Vancouver. That the attraction had grown into love was immaterial. Joel looked young, and acted young. He was also a civilian, which made him fair game. That The Phantom was also a civilian was of no consequence. The Phantom was part of the galley staff, was one of Chef's lambs, and he stood at the same level as the cadets. The Gunner considered that he was just as responsible for The Phantom as he was for the other boys and could not, would not, be touched in any way. The Gunner would not embarrass the boy in any way but he would, in every way, discourage The Phantom if matters threatened to get out of hand.

The Gunner worked for a while on his part in the upcoming ceremonies to celebrate the Commanding Officer's fifty years of service then, shortly before 1600, picked up the roll of engine room wipes and strolled over to the Gunroom, still not all that sure what he was going to say.

******

Naval protocol dictated that The Gunner knock, then wait and when the door to the Gunroom was opened, ask permission to enter. The Gunroom was the Senior Cadets' home and aside from the Officer of the Day, and then only when doing Rounds, no one not a member of the Gunroom, no matter what the rank or position, could enter without the consent of all those who lived there.

When he was admitted The Gunner saw that except for the Twins the Gunroom was packed with the senior ranking cadets. He removed his hat, thanked the Master-At-Arms (Tyler was de-facto president of the Gunroom Mess) for his consideration and asked the assembled cadets, who had braced to attention at his entry, to relax. "Please, guys, relax and sit down," he began. "I know you all have better things to do with your time but I have a bit of a job to do, so please bear with me."

The cadets sat on the wooden benches flanking the long mess table, or sprawled on the bunks.

"Guys, we have a bit of a problem," began The Gunner slowly. "To be honest, if it was up to me, I would not say anything, but . . ." He shrugged, as if to say, hey, shit rolls downhill and today I'm at the bottom of the hill. "Now, first of all, I am not pointing any fingers. Be sure of that. As I said, if it was up to me I'd say fuck it and forget it."

Some of the cadets snickered. They were well used to each other swearing like troopers but to hear an Instructor of The Gunner's stature doing it was something new. The Gunner never talked down to the troops. He preferred to use the KISS principle, and was not at all afraid to show them that he was just as human as they were and if it meant using his vast vocabulary of swear words, so be it.

Here goes nothing, The Gunner thought. He cleared his throat in embarrassment and began. "Guys, I have to talk to you as Senior Cadets and ask that you talk to the younger guys. Being a God-fearing, Christian gentleman, I hesitate to bring up such a distasteful subject." He deliberately grimaced to emphasize that he was here under duress. "However, needs must as needs do."

Tyler and Val squirmed uncomfortably. They knew what was going on and why The Gunner had come calling.

"Now, before I go on, I have some training aids," continued The Gunner. He opened the roll of cotton cloth/paper wipes and asked the Master-At-Arms to give one piece to each of the cadets. When they all had a piece The Gunner cleared his throat, looked embarrassed, and went on. "Guys, we have to do something about all the spunk that is being produced around here," he said bluntly.

Several jaws dropped and Thumper blushed beet red.

That's one way to get their attention, thought Tyler as he grinned sheepishly at Val, who rolled his eyes and stifled a giggle.

The Gunner tried to look stern and business like. "From all reports every swinging dick in the place is in overdrive which, in itself, is nothing bad." He saw that some of the boys had quizzical, puzzled looks on their faces. He sighed inwardly. This was going to be much more difficult than he had realized. He mentally cursed the Commanding Officer for putting him in such a position. He quickly decided to get on with it and damn the torpedoes!

"The Base Laundry Officer has been complaining about the state of the sheets we send over for laundering. It appears that he has worn out three rocks trying to get the stains out!"

A titter of laughter rippled through the Gunroom as the image of the BLO, an overweight, short little man beating the linen against a rock came to several minds.

The Gunner looked around the room. His face sobered. "Gentlemen, the little man from Base has written to Father, complaining that the cadets of Aurora have been applying starch of a different nature to the sheets, as opposed to the starch you use on your gunshirts! In short, my young friends, I am talking about the nocturnal manipulation of your penises, properly known as masturbating, resulting in a massive spraying of the bed linen and, due to the excessive distribution of protein, unsightly stains!"

Thumper turned a deeper red as several heads turned and looked at him. A nervous, embarrassed chuckling accompanied the looks. Every boy in the room knew what masturbating was and starching the sheets had long been a euphemism for jerking off.

The Gunner smiled a knowing smile and said, "Guys, beating your meat is nothing new. It is a normal biological function, nothing more, nothing less and every man and boy ever born does it or did it." He nodded forcefully. "We all have done it. Hell, when I was your age . . ." He smiled, letting the cadets fill in the blanks as to just what he did when he'd been their age.

There was stunned silence. A god did not admit to normal biological functions.
The Gunner was fully aware that almost every boy in the room looked up to him. Hell, they even copied his haircut, for Christ's sake! Admitting that he actually beat off when he was younger might bring a few of the more starry-eyed back down to earth.

Recovering from his embarrassment, The Gunner decided to lighten the mood. "Technique," he intoned, "is not a subject under discussion. Nobody cares if you use your right hand, your left hand, both hands, or no hands!"

Two Strokes and Jon glanced at Harry and giggled. Harry's face reddened, but he did not dare verbalize the threatening retort that formed in his mind.

The Gunner saw the looks and snickered. "Come to think of it, if you need two hands you might need a double issue of these things, maybe even a triple." He grinned broadly and waited for the laughter to subside. Then he spoke seriously. "Look, guys, what it boils down to is this: at the moment of truth there is what is politely called an emission." He paused. "Where I come from it's called cumming like a racehorse." He shrugged and joined in the laughter, then turned to the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor. "During a jackstay transfer what is put on the deck in the dump zone to protect it from heavy loads?"

Val thought a moment. "Why, a shot mat, Gunner."

The Gunner beamed. "Got it in one, so he did." He held up a piece of wipe. He did not have to say anything.

The cadets looked at The Gunner, then at the wipes they were all holding, then at The Gunner again. When they realized what The Gunner was getting at, they grinned and shook their heads. Even Little Big Man, who professed never to do such a thing, understood. The dump zone was their bed; the shot mat where the transferred pallets and bags were "dumped" on, well, it was the shot mat. They all got the message.

******

After his lecture in the Gunroom The Gunner returned to his office, closed up shop for the weekend and then drove over to the Mess Hall where he picked up Sandro, who needed his weekly ride into Courtenay. As a practicing, if not yet quite legal, Jew, Sandro attended two hours of religious training each Friday evening, then attended services in the small synagogue in Courtenay. After services he would be picked up by the Commanding Officer and would spend the Sabbath with Father and his wife, a matronly woman who spoiled Sandro outrageously.

Sandro's only complaint was that Mrs. Commanding Officer had held a long consultation with the rabbi and only cooked kosher, which Sandro for the most part did not mind. What he did mind, however, was not being able to have bacon with his eggs for breakfast. As for the Commanding Officer, he was secretly delighted that after six daughters he could finally come home to find a raised toilet seat in the bathroom!

On Saturday Sandro would again attend shul. Mrs. Commanding Officer would be waiting for him when the service ended and they would drive off to visit the shops. The shopping done they would return home, pick up Father, and then go off for a slap-up lunch, usually in the Officers' Mess at CFB COMOX where, so long as he observed the dietary laws, Sandro was allowed to stuff himself at the buffet. After lunch, it was back to Aurora.

After ensuring that Sandro had packed everything he needed for his overnighter - once he had forgotten clean underwear, which caused a minor crisis - they drove into Comox. While The Gunner changed into civvies Sandro had a Coke, and then they went on to Courtenay.

******

The Phantom watched them drive off. As silly as it was he felt envious of Sandro, who would be spending at least an hour alone with The Gunner. He sighed heavily, adjusted his hardon, and tried to concentrate on his work.

He remained in the thrall of The Gunner's touch on his scrotum, even if it had been through two layers of cloth. The Phantom had tried to keep his mind off of the light, accidental touch, and not to think about it. Yet he was still in as bit of a daze as Ray, and desperately wanted to beat off, or at least pour cold water on it but Chef, who was pissed off at having not one, but two assistants mooning around the galley, grumbled and complained so much that The Phantom dared not leave. Dinnertime helped, as did the cleanup afterwards, although The Phantom was so engrossed in his euphoria that he forgot to check out the cadets.

Quitting time finally released The Phantom. He changed quickly, mounted his bike, and pedaled off, heading for the shack. He couldn't wait to get home. His excitement was threatening to overwhelm him, and his testicles ached. To make matters worse every time his legs pedaled the fabric of his boxer underpants rubbed along the length of his rampant organ. At the same time his shorts rode up, and his flaming mushroom peeked out, which was, in a way, a blessing. Had the fabric been rubbing that part of him he would have exploded from the stimulation.

Braking to a stop in front of the shack, The Phantom threw the bike on the ground, slammed into the decrepit building, and pushed down his shorts and boxers. He threw himself on the mouldy bed and immediately began masturbating, his touch sending shock waves through his body.

With one hand he lubricated his flaming corona with the precum that was pouring from his slit and with the other hand The Phantom pumped furiously, holding his erection so that it was pointing straight up. He was so totally absorbed in his frantic masturbation that he only dimly realized that he was moaning and groaning as his hips bucked upward.

The Phantom's hand became a blur and suddenly the magnificent sensation filled his body as a pulse of glory surged through him. He thrust his hips violently upward as a lava jet of semen screamed through his cock and erupted, a thick stream geysering upward, arcing, and spattering across the blanket. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled back in his head and he screamed loudly as another, then another load blew forth. He pulled his pulsing dick closer to his body and small gobbets of his juice spewed out, landing on his stomach and clotting his curly pubes.

Finally, unable to stand the all-encompassing pleasure, The Phantom's hand motion slowed, and he slid his semen soaked hand over and around his screaming dickhead, drawing every drop of his seed out of his body. The Phantom let his hand slip from his engorged organ. He lay there, exhausted, panting, his body rimed with sweat, his shrinking penis rising and falling as he breathed.

When his senses returned The Phantom finger-cleaned the sticky effluent from his body, sucking and licking his seed. He sat up and the bedsprings groaned and creaked in protest. Jesus, he thought, remembering his cum cries, I must have made one hell of a racket.

He lay back down and toyed with his now low-hanging testicles. I bet I scared away every critter in miles. He lay quietly listening to the silence that surrounded him.

In the distance The Phantom thought he heard the sound of thunder. Or, he thought pragmatically, it's my stomach rumbling. He had forgotten to eat, being too busy daydreaming, first about Ray then, after being measured for his jacket and trousers, about The Gunner.

With great reluctance The Phantom got off the bed and searched for his underpants and shorts. As he had expected his USMC boxers were soaked with the residue of his sexual arousal, so much so that The Phantom did not put them on. He slipped on his shorts and left the shack.

After stuffing the soiled boxers in the saddlebag of his bike The Phantom mounted and rode off, heading for home, noticing that the wind had freshened, and felt warm against his face.

******

The Twins reported to the Regulating Office at 1730, fully expecting that whatever extra duty they were assigned would be onerous and dirty and they had changed into work gear, long sleeved denim shirts and jeans.

After being given the once over by Two Strokes, who was the Duty Regulator, they signed the Defaulters Book and were handed over to the Cadet Chief Boatswains Mate, Chief Petty Officer Stuart MacDuff, called The Buffer.

The Buffer was a tall, thin cadet who was unique in that he was the only cadet wearing a moustache, which grew in a thick, dark blond bush over his upper lip. Stuart was the perennial happy young man, who saw humour in almost every situation. He grinned at the Twins and motioned for them to follow him, leading them to Boatswain Stores. "Here you go, boys." he gestured broadly. "It's all yours."

Todd and Cory groaned in unison. The place looked like Attila and his Huns had been bivouacked in it. There was dust and dirt everywhere, with piles of tangled ropes, blocks and tackles scattered all over the cramped compartment. Unidentified bits and pieces of what looked like junk littered every corner.

"Ah, come on, Stuart," moaned Todd, "you can't be serious."

"I ain't," replied the Buffer, "but Number One is." He picked up a coil of rope and tossed at Todd. "Look, don't bust your ass. This place has been a pigpen since 1945. It's going to be a pigpen in 2045. Just make a dent in it and keep everybody happy."

After showing them where to dump the gash, Stuart left the Twins to their own devices and went off to the canteen.

The Twins were not lazy. They began working diligently and before very long they had at least the blocks squared away. They were covered in dust and grime and Cory observed that it was a good thing this place was a pigpen because not only were they sweating like pigs they were beginning to smell like ones. Before Todd could reply the door opened and Chris entered.

Chris was shorter than the Twins, and not as muscular. Where they were blond and fair, he had dark brown, almost black hair, which like the Twins he kept closely cut. He had a ruddy, healthy complexion, which thanks to his time in the sun, was tanning nicely. Chris was a thoroughly pleasant young man who also happened to be hopelessly infatuated with the Twins. "Hi, guys." he said shyly. "Need some help?"

Cory and Todd were a little surprised. Usually defaulters were left strictly alone, lest what they had done was contagious. "We're okay, Chris," said Todd. "Thanks anyway."

Chris shrugged and began to clear away a pile of gear from the worktable. He stared around the room. "Looks to me like you could use some help. You're never going to get this place clean."

"Probably not," agreed Cory. "But we're the ones under punishment, not you. Besides, you aren't dressed for this kind of work." He pointed at Chris's white bells and gunshirt.

Chris waved away Cory's objection. "I have to do a dhobi tonight anyway and since I have nothing to do until after Evening Quarters, I thought I would give you guys a hand."
As Chris would not take no for an answer, the Twins gave up and allowed him to help. The young boatswain worked diligently, helping to lift bales of rope, hanging hooks on the bulkhead, and generally making himself as useful to his young blond gods as he could.

Before very long Chris was just as dirty and sweaty as Todd and Cory. After an hour or so of hard work they took a short break, sitting on the grass outside the building, their backs against the warm wood. Chris leaned forward and pulled off his gunshirt, revealing the waistband and a small, damp strip of his briefs above his bell-bottoms. He turned his gunshirt inside out and wiped the sweat and grime from his face. "Jeez," he asked with a grimace, "is it me, or is it hotter somehow."

"We did work up a sweat," Cory replied as he took the gunshirt from Chris and began to wipe Chris's back. "Jesus, Chris, you sure sweat up a storm."

Chris's body shivered at Cory's touch and he felt a slight tremor as his penis hardened slightly. All he had wanted to do was to help his friends. Cory's touching him was almost too much for him. When Cory was finished wiping Chris's back he draped the damp gunshirt over his shoulder. Chris turned and smiled his thanks.

They sat quietly for a bit, then Chris stood up and drew on his gunshirt. "I'm as dry as a popcorn fart," he declared. "I'll buy the Cokes." Todd offered to pay but Chris refused. "Hey, money I got. There's not much to spend it on around this dump." With that he was off, heading for breezeway flats and the Coke machine.

Cory watched as Chris disappeared around the corner of the Headquarters Building. "He's in love with us, you know," he said quietly.

Todd nodded, but said nothing, concentrating his gaze on a clutch of seagulls chattering away over a piece of particularly enticing flotsam.
"Are we going to do anything about it?" asked Cory, surprised at his brother's seeming indifference. It was most unlike Todd not to notice when another boy expressed more than a passing interest in them.

Todd had noticed, and he knew how Chris felt about them. He had a very good idea what Chris was about, but felt, however, that it was best not to rush such things. Chris had to be very sure of what he wanted, and Todd was prepared to wait until the young seaman had made up his mind. He cast a glance at his brother from the corner of his eyes. "We've never fooled around on course before," he pointed out.

"What has that got to do with the price of beans in cans?" asked Cory, making an impatient face. He liked Chris, Chris obviously liked both of them, and Cory saw nothing wrong in a bit of summer romance and if Todd wasn't up for a bit of rumpy-pumpy, Cory was.

Todd's eyes twinkled. He had his answer and so he grinned and gave Cory's arm a squeeze. "We have to take things slowly, Cory. Chris is a virgin, I think."

Cory shrugged. "But a most willing virgin, I think." He looked directly at his brother. "So then, we are going to do something with Chris?"

Todd nodded again. "Yes, but only when the time is right."

"Which will be?" Cory slipped his hand in Todd's.

"It will be when the time is right. For him, and for us." Todd returned Cory's squeeze and asked, "Do you remember the first time we really made love? Not the first time we fooled around, but the first time we actually made love?"

Cory thought a moment. "Yes, I remember. It was wonderful."

Todd smiled. "That's the way it should be for Chris. Wonderful."

"How will we know? How will he know?"

"He'll know when it's time. We'll know when it's time." Todd shrugged. "It will just be the right time."

Cory remained silent. He understood his brother's feelings, and was content to let their relationship with Chris take its course.

They watched as Chris turned the corner of the Headquarters Building, Cokes in hand, and headed towards them. Reluctantly Todd withdrew his hand. "We better cool it, Cory. If anyone sees us we'll be for it. And considering the mood Number One was in he'd have us duck walked all the way to Comox, with the Band in front playing the 'Rogue's March' and Little Big Man in the rear poking us in the ass with a bayonet."

"The little cocksucker would enjoy that," growled Cory.

******

The boys worked until 2000 when Two Strokes, who was just coming off Watch, wandered by and told them that they could knock off for the day. Followed by Chris, the Twins returned to the Regulating Office and logged out. As they crossed the parade square they could hear thunder in the distance.

The wind picked up, blowing and gusting, sending broken twigs, leaves, and bits of dropped paper skittering across the dusty parade square and setting the close-hauled flags flying from the Mast to snapping and cracking.

As they neared the Staff Barracks, Stuart and Fred rushed up. "There's a big storm coming," said Stuart, a worried look on his face. "We have go tie up the YAGs. I need you, Chris" He looked at the Twins. "You two as well, if you could."

"Is it that bad?" asked Chris.

Fred nodded rapidly. "Gale force winds, or so the Executive Officer said."
Todd and Cory immediately agreed to help and they all hurried down to the Dockyard where they joined the officers and crews of the YAGs in securing the boats so that they could ride out the gale with a minimum of damage. The single lines that held each wooden-hulled boat to the jetty had to be doubled up, and storm hawsers rigged.

It was hard, dangerous work. The wind was coming from the west, which set the usually calm waters of the harbour to roiling, the waves rising to five or more feet, which set the boats to pitching and yawing.

While the cadets worked the lines and checked the scuttles, the five officers worked to fit the storm shutters to the bridge windows of each boat. They had hardly started when the storm hit with a vengeance and successive line squalls rolled across Heron Spit. Thunder crashed overhead and lightning flashed constantly.

Above the storm they could hear the surf crashing against the long wooden jetty to which the YAGs were moored. As the surge inverted the thermal patterns in the harbour, which only minutes before had been delightful for swimming, the water became a frigid enemy. Each wave slammed against the pilings with such force that the sturdy wooden structure shook. Walls of water roared down and across the jetty, soaking everyone with bone-numbing, cold saltwater and by the time the Squadron Commander secured them everybody in the work party was soaked to the skin and suffering hypothermia.

Once secured, the officers sprinted for the Wardroom, Stuart and Fred loped off to the Boatswains barracks, and the Twins and Chris headed for the Gunroom.

They passed Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, two disgruntled Signalmen, and a very put out Young Brown, the Bugler, all of them inadequately covered by rubber ponchos. Standing beside the Mast, barely seen in the now driving rain, the Officer of the Day waited for them. Official Sunset was fast approaching and even though a gale was raging the flags had to come down on time. Chris and the Twins hurried to the Gunroom. They had no desire to come to a screeching halt when the bugler sounded the "Still" and stand at attention in the pouring rain while the flags came down.

Thoroughly soaked in their dash through the driving rain the three boys hurried into the Gunroom. Their uniforms were soaked through and plastered to their skin, so much so that Chris's white bell-bottoms were almost transparent, his white briefs clearly outlined, the patch of dark pubic hair above his smallish dick clearly visible. His gunshirt was so sodden that his light brown nipples and pale pink aureoles showed clearly. All three boys were shivering from their drenching, their teeth chattering. Harry took one look at them and went into action.

Protesting mildly, The Twins and Chris were stripped by Harry, Thumper, Two Strokes and Jon. They were pushed under hot showers, then draped in thick sea blankets, which Alfie had dug out their storage place, and put to bed, with strict orders from Harry to stay there. Alfie flashed up the duty kettle and when the water had boiled, made three huge cups of strong tea. Thumper rummaged in his kit bag and pulled out a forbidden jug of dark rum. He poured a long shot in each mug.

"Drink this," ordered Harry. "It will get the cold out and help with your shrinkage problem."

Chris lifted his blanket, as did both of the Twins. In place of his normal three inches all Chris saw was his helmet, purple and wrinkled, poking out from his thatch of abundant pubic hair. The Twins found that they had suffered the same fate.

"Jesus," exclaimed Chris, "it's gone!"

Harry laughed uproariously. "Don't worry, it will be back to normal by the morning."

"But I might need it tonight!" squalled Cory.

"No you won't!" ordered Todd.

"You leave your tally whacker alone," admonished Harry with a leer as he wagged his finger at Cory.

Cory was about to comment on certain people and the Thumper Special when the door crashed open and Fred clumped in. He slammed the door shut and stood dripping water all over the clean deck. He was wearing a poncho but was just as soaked as the other three had been. He was about to say something when he sneezed, a huge, ball-rattling blast. He was immediately set upon, stripped naked, shoved into a shower, the water so hot he was afraid of being parboiled, shoved into his bed and given a medicinal mug of tea and rum.

Tyler and Val followed Fred into the Gunroom and while they weren't treated as roughly as the Twins, Chris and Fred had been, they took the hint and showered. Draped in thick blankets they sat with the other cadets at the mess table. Harry poured the last of the rum for them. Thumper sighed, took the empty bottle, and stuffed it at the bottom of his kit bag. He would dispose of the dead soldier in the morning.

Harry boiled another kettle of water and made more tea. He sat down beside Tyler and looked around expectantly. Two Strokes rolled off his bunk and rummaged in his kit bag. He pulled out a bottle of brandy and placed it in front of Harry, who opened it, and poured a round for everybody.

"My brother thinks he's all ready for a party tomorrow night," said Two Strokes as he handed the bottle to Tyler. "Looks like he thought wrong!" He grinned and held out his cup.

"What have you guys got in here, a fucking liquor store?" asked Val. He tasted his tea, smiled, and took a healthy slug.

"As if you don't have a bottle of your Pop's homemade grappa hidden under your clean undies in your locker," replied Harry with a knowing smirk.

A blast of wind shook the barracks, setting the closed windows to rattling.

"It's a pisser out there," said Tyler, his hands around the hot, aromatic mug.

"No Rounds tonight. Number One says everybody is to stay inside."

The storm worsened and since the barracks was unheated, every cadet was soon draped in a warm woollen blanket, talking quietly, passing the bottle until it was empty. Tyler went into the Chief's Mess and returned with a bottle of rye.

Liquor was officially banned in Aurora. Except for the Wardroom the ship was supposed to be as dry as toast. That almost every senior cadet had a hidden bottle was a well-known secret. The liquor tended to be sippin' licker and Tyler, Val, and Harry, who was the Senior Cadet in the Gunroom, saw no harm in their peers having a drink so long as no one got drunk. It was, after all, a part of their rite of passage to manhood.

The boys talked quietly, swinging the lamp, enjoying the unique bonding and camaraderie that only happens in an all male, military environment, generating the warmth of friendship that no outsider can ever penetrate. It was an experience that, with the possible exception of Tyler, the cadets knew would never happen to them again in their lives.

Perhaps half of the cadets in the Gunroom were 18, or close to it, and in the Sea Cadet scheme of things their careers were coming to an end. Both Val and Tyler had long since announced their intentions to leave the Cadets when the training year was over. Tyler had been accepted as a Permanent Force Naval Cadet and was going directly to Royal Roads Military College from Aurora. Val, when he returned home, would turn in his kit and start university. The others, including the Twins and Harry, would be allowed to finish out their Corps' training cycle and would "retire" in May or June of next year.

Some would return while others would not. What none of them knew was that what they had here, now, in this long, cold, narrow chamber, would never again be repeated.

******

The talk, as it almost always did, turned to sex. As it turned out, except for Two Strokes, they were all virgins. Harry argued that a dry hump while dancing close with a girl, should count. The others disagreed; a dry hump was a dry hump and didn't count, even if you did cream your shorts.

"Fuck me!" growled Harry as he shook his head. "And they were a pair of brand new silk boxers, too."

As the only man of experience available, Two Strokes was questioned closely about his one and only time. He took a sip of his brother's brandy, and thought a moment. He liked being one of the boys. He liked the feeling of warmth he had, warmth that did not come from the liquor. "It was all right, I guess," he said presently.

A chorus of "You guess?" assailed him.

"Well, yes. I do guess it was all right," returned Two Strokes firmly. "I mean . . ." He struggled. "I mean, I put it in, and that was nice, but I have to be honest, my hand would have felt better. Then she grabbed my ass and pushed me further in and well I pumped a couple of times, and I came."

"That's it?" asked Alfie incredulously.

"That's it," confirmed Two Strokes. "I wasn't at all sure I'd cum until I saw my knob all covered in spunk. Actually, I've had better dumps."

Tyler, who had been in the process of having a drink, choked and was pummelled on the back by Val, who was shaking with laughter. The other cadets roared and pounded the table. Two Strokes beamed. He was now officially one of them, a messmate, a brother of the sea.

Cory got up, his blanket around him like an itinerant Sioux brave, and wandered off to the heads. When he returned to the Gunroom he sat down beside Harry, who asked him if everything was all right. "No," replied Cory glumly. "I could hardly find it."

"Don't worry, the little feller will be all better in the morning." Harry laughed uproariously.

"You should talk," sniffed Cory. "Can I have another drop?" he asked as he held out his cup.

Val poured the last of the rye in Cory's cup and Tyler topped it up with tea.

"That's the last of it. And the last for tonight," said Tyler. "It's getting close to lights out anyway." The other cadets nodded. The unwritten rule was you could get a buzz on, but nothing more.

The Twins and Chris shrugged their indifference at Tyler closing the bar. They did not need the booze and were quite content to just sit, chat and enjoy one another's company. They were so comfortable that they hardly realized they were naked under their blankets and that every time they moved a part of them was exposed.

"You, know, Roger, you really should have had her give you a blow job," said Jon suddenly.

Todd hid his head under his blanket. The last thing he needed was a discussion of blowjobs. Cory, just as anxious to avoid any reference to blowjobs, or what he and Todd did together, spoke up. "Well, I've never had one," he lied blatantly, "but I hear it's pretty good if it's done right."

Several eyebrows were raised, but nothing was said. If Cory wanted to preserve an illusion of straightness, so be it. Besides, for all they knew Cory had never had a blowjob. Under the blankets Todd's jaw dropped. Jesus, Cory, he thought, they're cadets, not morons!

Todd need not have worried. Every cadet in the room, at one time or another had had thoughts and feelings for other boys. None of them had acted on those feelings to any great extent. Some of them had fooled around. All of them still played grab ass and, just as now, thought nothing of walking around nude, not too mention parading their morning woodies. Acting and talking gay was something they all did without thinking. None of them would have admitted what they felt, or that they had beat off with another guy.

The cadets knew instinctively that such things were never to be spoken of and never to be admitted. As for the Twins, they fucked around and made suggestive noises, playing the gay game they all played - even Two Strokes, the Gunroom's resident bigot. What mattered, however, was that the Twins were messmates and members of Nelson's Band of Brothers. That they might be gay - which none of the cadets knew for sure - was not considered. The Twins were friends and brothers and that was all that mattered.

Two Strokes scratched his head, then his balls. "You know, she was so busy trying to get my pants down, and I was so busy trying to get my pants down, I never even thought of that," he said. "I figured, hey, I'm gonna get laid. That's all I was thinking about." He sighed heavily.

"Well, maybe the next time." consoled Alfie.

"Not with that cow!" exclaimed Two Strokes. "Not if she sucks like she fucks! Hell, I all but had to tie a 2x4 to my ass just to keep from falling in."

The cadets were laughing so hard at Two Strokes' latest sally that they hardly heard the bugler sound "Last Post". Tyler and Val stood up and, after bidding everyone good night, went into their quarters. Reluctantly, the other cadets followed suit.

Cory walked to the switches and turned out the lights, then went to his bed. Before getting into his bunk he leaned down and kissed Todd good night.

******

In the Petty Officers Mess, Little Big Man lay on his bunk, which butted against the bulkhead separating the two berthing areas, listening to the sounds of laughter that filtered through the paper-thin wall from the Gunroom. He heard Harry's bellowed laughter and the voices of the senior cadets, and grimaced. It sounded as if they were having a party in there. His head jerked up when he heard one of the Twins, Cory he thought, howling about something.

His face became suffused with anger and the embers of hatred flared. Little Big Man hated the Twins. He hated the vile creatures that were abominations in the sight of God and man, loathsome things that lay with men and did obscene things to each other and to the other cadets.

Little Big Man hated the Twins because God, his father, and his minister, told him that he must hate them. That they returned his hatred ten-fold he did not doubt. He had felt their wrath, and suffered for his beliefs, for his righteousness. He had fought the good fight and lost against the vile sons of Satan. He was not surprised that he had lost for the power ranged against him was strong.

From the beginning, as soon as he was capable of understanding, Little Big Man's father had told him that there would be many battles before the righteous, right-thinking white men triumphed against the forces of evil ranged against them. Some battles they would win, many others they would lose. They would suffer horrible losses but in the end they would triumph. Little Big Man had no doubt that he, a right-thinking, upright, Christian, white man, would triumph.

Little Big Man heard another burst of laughter from the other side of the bulkhead and almost spat his contempt for the Twins and their friends.

"Fucking fags," he muttered angrily. Harry, Val, Tyler, the whole lot of them, every cadet who lived in the Gunroom, they were all fags, influenced by the Twins, serviced by the Twins and he hated them almost as much as he hated the Twins.

He rolled on his side and unconsciously slipped his hand down the front of his tighty-whiteys. The Twins, the fiendish, sneaky Twins had suborned the senior cadets and used their influence against him. As he idly fondled himself, Little Big Man ground his teeth with impotent rage. Last summer, not only had the Twins engineered his demotion from Lead Drummer of the Band, thus eliminating any chances he had to become Drum Major of the Bugle Band, they had humiliated him, made him a laughing stock and had almost cost him the friendship of Rob, David and Ryan. He had spent half the summer crashing cymbals and avoiding the other cadets who gloried in mocking him, making a fool of him!

Little Big Man had been spared further humiliation when he returned home thanks to the silence of his friends and his father's position as Deputy Sea Cadet Chairman of the Navy League Branch, a position that had also brought the cadet back to Aurora, rehabilitated and promoted to Petty Officer.

A snarl curled Little Big Man's lips. That was one victory for right-thinking white men. And there will be more victories to come, he thought as he unconsciously ran the palm of his hand across the sloping head of his erect penis and shivered with delight.

He moaned softly and then a fleeting look of fright crossed his face. He pulled his hand from his underpants and sat up abruptly. All he needed was his messmates catching him playing with himself.

Little Big Man looked around the dimly lit Mess and then lay back down, smiling. The other cadets he shared the barracks with were off playing sailor, helping to secure the buildings and the YAGs. The dumb fucks! He had managed to be one step ahead of Tyler and Val and while the others, Mal, Jack, Willy and the two Physical Training Instructors, Mike Sunderland and Phillip Adean, were off getting blown half way to Hell and drenched in the teeming rain, he was warm and comfortable in his own bed.

Sure that he would not be disturbed, Little Big Man returned his hand to his undies and settled back, returning to thinking hateful thoughts about the Twins and their friends. He kept a mental list of the cadets who went out of their way to support the Twins. They would all pay when the day came. God, would they pay. The Twins might have their ways, but so did he and after the events of yesterday he would do anything he could to have his revenge, to see the Twins, and their newest friend, who was not even a cadet but a civilian, brought down.

Little Big Man's face darkened with anger and renewed humiliation. He had had a run-in last year with The Phantom, a knock down, drag out fight. But last year the Twins had not been involved and nothing more had happened. This year was different for a blind man could see that it was obvious that the Twins had gotten to the guy.

The Twins had gotten to a lot of guys! It was as plain as the nose on his face that the Twins were conspiring to destroy him, to ruin his career. Little Big Man could stand the humiliation; he could stand the Twins trying to deliberately kill him - he was convinced that they had aimed and fired the cannons at him with malice aforethought! What Little Big Man could not stand was that they conspired to take away his career!

With a snort of anger Little Big Man sat up and pounded his mattress. They had done it to him again, taking an entirely innocent remark directed at them and using their evil influence had persuaded their friends to have him suspended as Lead Drummer of the Band and seconded to the Training Division to train the Sea Puppies, who loathed him as much as he loathed them, the little bastards!

Swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk, Little Big Man stood up, stripped off his briefs and grabbed a towel. He needed to calm down because he needed to think about how he could retaliate against his enemies.

He walked into the washplace cursing his fate and as he stepped under the showerhead he was full of righteous indignation, convinced in his own mind that he was the injured party, the victim of a conspiracy, never conceding that it had been his own tongue that had caused him to suffer Harry's wrath.

Two days before, at Thursday lunch, Little Big Man had been in the line-up, waiting for his food. He was, as he almost always was, with Rob, Ryan and David, his friends and, he hoped, soul mates. Ahead of him in the line were the Twins who were laughing at something or other with the civilian kid who worked the galley, the same kid he had fought last summer. So, he thought to himself, the fags are working on another convert. Well, they would not have far to go because everybody knew that the kid they called The Phantom was halfway to being queer anyway.

Little Big Man turned to his coterie and muttered that fags of a feather flocked together. He said it just loud enough for the Twins to overhear and followed up his words with an evil cackle.

The Twins, who had heard worse, ignored the little prick. They had no desire to start a riot in the middle of lunch; no point would be served and nothing would be gained. Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist and a homophobe. He would never change so they absorbed his barbs and went to find a table.

The Phantom, however, had heard Little Big Man's remark and unlike the Twins, he was not prepared to ignore the biting words. He was not a cadet, and had little standing, but he was not about to allow Little Big Man to insult innocent people whenever he felt like it. He wanted to lash out at the skinny little git but he was a civilian and he was intelligent enough to know that a mere civilian interfering in a cadet matter would not go over well.

Then he saw who was standing behind Little Big Man. The Phantom gave Little Big Man a withering look and then gave Harry a searing look, a look that demanded to know what, if anything, Harry was going to do about Little Big Man.

Harry hoped to live to be a ripe old age, but only if he was never again the recipient of that green-eyed, fiery glare that would remind him to his dying day that a junior cadet did not make disparaging, disrespectful remarks about senior cadets, especially in the hearing of a civilian and a senior Chief.

Harry felt The Phantom's green eyes boring into his very soul and squared his shoulders. He promptly boxed Little Big Man's ears, turfed him from the Band for a week, and assigned him to teaching the Sea Puppies, none of whom could play so much as a kazoo, Band Drill.

******

As the storm raged unabated the cadets battened down everything that could be battened and then hurried to their barracks for a hot shower and dry clothes. Little Big Man was towelling himself dry when the door leading from the outside banged open and Mike and Phillip, shivering and covered in goose bumps, hurried into the showers. They ignored Little Big Man, as they always did, and quickly turned on the water. Steam began to fill the small room when Mal, Willy and Jack, equally chilled, came in.

After giving the shrunken parts of his messmates a disparaging glance, Little Big Man returned to the Mess. He put on clean underwear and then felt under the pile of dirty laundry that lined the bottom of his locker and pulled out an imitation leather, zippered notecase.

He sat at the mess table and opened the notecase. On top of the small tablet of lined paper was a small brochure, ill-printed in heavy black ink. Little Big Man lifted the booklet carefully, treating the slim volume as if it was holy script.

The small booklet, a short history of the youth wing of the Liebstandarte, had been his inspiration and hope. The Leader had promised that on Der Tag, on the day that the Jewish Conspiracy was finally defeated he, Paul Greene, would once again raise the Standard. He would wear the black and silver uniform, he would have the runic SS symbol tattooed under his left arm, he would assume his rightful place in the Legion. He would be an offizier, a leader, a man of respect and importance. It had been promised to him.

Little Big Man carefully put aside the booklet and his dream of imagined glory, and took up his pencil. He began to write a letter to his father, the ill spelt, tightly scrawled words filling the pages. As he wrote he smiled spitefully. The Twins had their ways, and so did he.

******

The storm raged for the better part of the night. Toward dawn it slackened and settled into a steady drizzle. The cadets awoke to a cold, damp barracks. None of them wanted to leave their warm beds, and they sure as hell didn't feel like getting up and performing pushups in the rain. Saturday, until 1200, was just another working day, and they were all expected on the parade square for P & RT at 0610. A mutiny was avoided when the Roundsman stuck his head in the door and announced that PT, and Divisions, were cancelled.

The cadets lazed in bed, delaying until the last possible moment getting up. They eventually all crawled out, had their morning dumps and piss, and pulled on whatever rig they needed for the day. Most of the cadets donned work dress. The Crushers and Chris put on blue bell-bottomed trousers and gunshirts. Two Strokes and Thumper had the Morning Watch. Chris was teaching a class. The Twins would be busy in the Drill Shed, putting the Sea Puppies through their paces, teaching them Queen Anne's Drill. Wearing a variety of ponchos, slickers, yellow rain gear and Burberrys, they all went to breakfast, where they heard the latest on the damage caused by the storm.

One of the YAGs had been damaged. The storm had torn loose the engine room hatch and flooded the space. The boat would have to be towed down to Esquimalt for repairs. Ashore, a tree branch had smashed through one of the tall windows of the Mess Hall but, all in all, there had been only minor damage to the other buildings, a leaking roof here, a broken window there.

The parade square and the grounds were littered with broken tree branches, uprooted flowers, and several dead seagulls, the usual aftermath of a storm.

After breakfast everybody went about his business. At 1115 the Afternoon Watchmen secured and went off for their lunch. At 1145, the YAGs sailed under the command of the Executive Officer, who had to go to Esquimalt anyway. The Twins watched them go and then went to lunch.

After lunch they went to the Regulating Office, signed the log, and then went back to Boatswains Stores. Not very long after they started cleaning Chris, changed into work dress, came in, and began to help them. They worked until 1500, bending, stooping, carrying, reaching, sweeping, and by the time they left all three were sweat stained and covered with what seemed to be the dust of ages. They returned to an eerily quiet Gunroom.

Saturday afternoon was a half-holiday. Those who needed to gathered in the Cadet Laundry, bags of dirty clothing in hand, waiting their turn at the machines. Others, under the supervision of the Vicar, had gone into town to shop. The jocks gathered in the Drill Shed to play a pickup game of basketball. The canteen was open and others gathered there to play shuffleboard and drink Cokes.

As they stripped off Chris complained that he had aches in muscles he never knew he had. "And look at me," he said indicating his body. "I look like the rag picker's child."

"So do we," replied Todd, grinning as he regarded his be-grimed co-workers.

All three boys were covered in sweat-streaked dust. Chris's white briefs were soiled with sweat stained dirt and grime. He pulled his underpants down, grimaced, and rubbed his chafed groin. "Jesus, I have got to get some boxers," he moaned. "Look at that," he said indicating the red skin between his legs, which had been rubbed raw by the elastic leg bands of his briefs.

Todd clucked sympathetically. "That's why we don't wear briefs very often. But don't worry, a little talcum powder will take care of that."

"You can borrow a couple of pairs of my boxers," offered Cory. Then he added hastily, "They're clean, honest. I didn't cum in them or anything like that."

"Jesus, Cory!" exploded Todd. "The things you say."

Chris giggled and nodded. "Thanks, Cory, I appreciate it. I promise not to cum in them or anything like that." He picked up his towel and headed for the showers.

Cory flipped Todd the bird, stuck out his tongue and followed Chris into the showers. They turned the water on full blast, each boy standing under a separate showerhead, slowly washing the dirt from their bodies, and massaging the pain from their aching muscles.

From time to time Chris made sideways glances at the Twins, Todd on his right, Cory on his left. He saw that, as Harry had promised, their dicks had returned to normal. They were all the same, circumcised, about three inches long, smooth, with no veins marring the sleek, pinkish brown shafts and with neatly defined helmets, although the Twins' penises were just slightly lighter in colour than Chris's, who noticed that both Cory and Todd had beautifully formed, low hanging balls, although Cory's were slightly smaller than Todd's.

As he watched the Twins showering, Chris could feel his testicles tightening and his penis hardening. As much as he wanted to be with the Twins, he didn't want them to think he was some sort of a weirdo who got a hardon in the showers. He turned his back to the Twins and began scrubbing vigorously, trying to take his mind off being naked in the same room with his idols. He reached around and tried to scrub his back, not quite making it.

Both Cory and Todd had seen the glances, and could see Chris's slowly rising penis. Cory looked at Todd, who nodded. Cory moved behind Chris, and Todd moved closer to his side.

"Here, let me do that," murmured Cory softly. He began to slowly massage Chris's back.

Todd placed one hand at the base of Chris's spine, just above the curve of his butt, and began moving his soapy washcloth across Chris's stomach, carefully avoiding Chris's rampant boner, six firm inches jutting upward at an angle from his body.

Chris responded to their massaging fingers, a low moan escaping his lips. He closed his eyes and laid his head on Todd's chest; feeling for the first time the firm, warm flesh of one of the two boys he loved. His heart was pounding. He turned his head and tenderly kissed Todd's chest. He never wanted to leave Todd's strong, muscular arms, never wanted not to feel Cory's warm fingers caressing him.

"Chris, is this something you want to do?" asked Todd quietly. "We can stop it now. It's no big deal."

The Twins, whenever they were with another boy, made a point of offering to stop before things got too out of hand. They felt no guilt about what they were doing. They wanted to be damn sure that the other boy was just as eager as they were.

Chris cupped Todd's testicles and stroked his semi-hard penis. As Todd's penis stiffened in his hand Chris raised his head and kissed him, a kiss of love and tenderness. He gazed into Todd's azure, gold lashed eyes. "I have wanted this since I first saw you and Cory. I wanted this last summer. I wanted this last winter. I want it now. I love you both," he moaned, breathing heavily, overcome with the moment.

Todd did not reply. As the water washed away the soapy residue of their shower he returned Chris's kiss and dropped the washcloth. He began to stroke Chris, and fondle his now tightened balls.

Cory moved to the other side of Chris and began to lick and nip his nipples to erection, massaging his waist, then his firm, hair-dusted ass cheeks.

A whirlwind of emotion roared through Chris as the Twins positioned themselves side by side in front of him, their bodies as close to his as they could manage, trapping his pulsing cock between their hips. Chris could feel the heat of their hardons against his skin. As they continued to stroke and fondle him, Chris felt his dick convulse and his body began to tremble as the river of pleasure spread across the flood plain of his soul. His penis jerked and a massive jet of semen flew from the sex-flushed glans and splattered across the tiled deck. His balls pulsed and another, then another string of his seed arced from his engorged helmet.

Chris bit his lip to stifle the wail of indescribable ecstasy that threatened to overwhelm. He had peaked, his body was drained, and his knees buckled.

The Twins helped Chris to the bench against the wall of the showers, and sat on either side of him. He slumped, his face in his hands, totally overcome. When he lifted his head the Twins saw that Chris was crying. They drew away, not quite afraid, but worried that perhaps they had picked the wrong time, the wrong boy.

Chris, seeing their look, put his arms around their shoulders and pulled them close. Breathing deeply, his head back, tears flowing, he reassured them. "All my life," he sobbed, "ever since I was little, they told me - my father, my brothers, everybody - that it was bad, it was dirty." He nuzzled Todd's neck, then Cory's. "But it isn't! It's wonderful and natural." He closed his eyes as the Twins embraced him. "It's wonderful," he whispered.

******

The Phantom awoke that morning out of sorts and with a headache. He had come home the night before thoroughly exhausted and soaked to the bone from the rain that had started just as he reached the turnoff to his street.

At his mother's orders The Phantom had taken a long, hot bath and while he soaked his father had come into the bathroom and given him a tall hot whiskey and water. The Phantom had been so intrigued at his first real drink that he forgot to be embarrassed. He had crawled into bed naked, pulled the warm covers over his head and was deep in sleep before his head hit the pillow.

Lying back, The Phantom listened to the rain that continued to teem down. He reached down and fingered the head of his flaccid penis, which brought a grimace to his face. Hell and sheeit! Had he ever thumped himself raw yesterday!

Leaving his bed The Phantom padded down the corridor and went into the bathroom where he rummaged in the medicine cabinet for something to put on his dick. Finding nothing there he went into Brendan's room. In the bed table he found a small, half-used tube of Vaseline. He gently smeared his penis with the lubricant, idly wondering what Brendan was doing with a tube of Vaseline in his drawer.

The Phantom returned to his room and sat on the bed, staring idly at the rain-slicked street below. He hoped it would clear up before too long. Not only did he have to go to work, he also desperately wanted to go back to Aurora tonight. The cadets were allowed to stay up until midnight and, if he knew anything about cadets, they would sleep like the dead, nothing short of an earthquake awakening them.

Tonight would be perfect, if it stopped raining. He heard his father calling him. Changed into an old pair of sweats, The Phantom went downstairs where, as he ate his breakfast, he listened to his father as he detailed all the work that had to be done. The pool was full of storm debris and a branch of the tree out back, which had snapped off, had to be chopped up. They would use it after it had dried in the fireplace during the cooler winter months.

After working for the better part of the morning, The Phantom showered, changed, and begged a ride from his father, who also agreed to pick him up after work.

Chef greeted The Phantom with exaggerated moans, groans and plaints, bemoaning the ingratitude of life and the viciousness of officers, Mother Nature and refractory cadets. They were, he bellowed, snowed under with work, what with having to clean up the mountain of debris and rubble the storm had reduced the Mess Hall to, and now the YAGs were off to safer waters, and needed to be stored! And all without so much as an extra finger to help him and his overworked and downtrodden lambs!

"It's all hands to the pumps!" Chef bellowed at the galley staff, none of who felt that they were being overworked at all. Deafened by the foghorn noises only Chef was capable of producing perhaps, but not overworked. It was, as Ray was quick to point out in a giggling whisper, a normal day.

Chef immediately put The Phantom to work checking out a pile of fresh food and canned goods, rations for the boats' crews that were to be loaded on the two YAGs that were going down to Esquimalt as soon as the sea state abated. That done he helped load the rations on the truck sent from the Dock Yard.

The rain continued to pour down, depressing everybody. The cadets straggled in for lunch, most of them dressed in jeans and sweaters. Everybody was damp and cold and The Phantom kept busy filling the soup containers and brewing up a huge batch of kye.

The Gunner came into the galley just after lunch, carrying a huge bundle, which he dropped on Chef's desk, then gestured for The Phantom to come alongside. "Here you go, Phantom." The Gunner indicated the package. "As ordered, a new steward's rig and I hope they fit."

"Go and put them on," ordered Chef. He cast The Gunner an approving glance, saw The Gunner's glowering look, and smiled weakly. "I'm sure they'll be fine."

The Phantom went and changed, then stood as The Gunner and Chef walked a circle around him, nodding and stroking their chins.

When Chef stepped back his face beamed with pleasure. "Ah, faith and he's the Knight of Derrylarnga so he is," he declaimed ponderously. "A knight in all his majesty and nobility! As fine a figure of a lad I've not seen since . . ."

The Gunner harrumphed loudly. He was in no mood to listen to one of Chef's fantasies. Give the old fool the chance and next there would be Leprechauns dancing about the dining hall!

Chef saw the Gunner's black look and smiled broadly, completely unfazed by a man who had not an ounce of the romance in his soul. "Ah, but the lad does look a treat, now then. Admit, Stevie darlin', the lad looks a treat!"

Ray, Sandro, and the other cooks wandered over and had a look. They all nodded approvingly. The white steward's jacket, which had a high, black collar, wide black cuffs, and black buttons embossed with a small anchor, fit The Phantom perfectly, almost as if it had been made for him alone. The smooth serge trousers, while a trifle wrinkled, set off his hard young body and accentuated his tight, melon-like behind.

"Jeez, Phantom." said Ray, "you look like a million bucks."