Phantom of Aurora by John Ellison
Chapter 7

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As the strident bugle sounded "Reveille" Dylan awoke and blinked the sleep from his eyes. His morning woody, held flush against his stomach by his tighty-whiteys, pulsed rhythmically. His bladder was full and he needed to take a leak.

He sat up and did what he did almost every morning, lifting the thin coverlet and checking the front of his Jockey shorts. Except for a small wet spot just at the top of his morning bulge, they were clean. No shot stains. He could not remember dreaming anything erotic and he knew that he had not humped his mattress.

With a satisfied shrug Dylan reached into his briefs and gave his woody a squeeze. He hadn't soiled his drawers so they would be good for another day. He hated doing laundry and didn't really feel like doing a dhobey anyway, even though most of his personal gear was piled at the bottom of his locker, mouldering away. Besides, with the machines in almost constant use since the new uniforms had been issued, he'd be there for hours and a guy had better things to do with his time than stand around watching his laundry!

Throwing aside the blue-checked coverlet Dylan pushed his legs over the side of the bed, sat up, stretched, and groaned as he ran his hand over his damp, clammy chest. British Columbia might be beautiful but in a heat wave, Jesus, was it hot. He was covered in sweat. There was no breeze this morning and the barracks was like an oven.

All around him the Mess began to stir as the other cadets crawled out of their fartsacks, mumbling and grumbling, scratching their balls, fingering their morning woodies, the usual morning routine.

Dylan stood up and went to the heads where he had a wonderful piss. As he pulled up the front of his briefs he looked around and saw that about half of the other cadets were wearing boxers, which were, according to Brian, the latest "in" thing with guys, and debated buying some the next time he was in town. Brian, who was his best friend, had switched over and according to Brian he no longer had to worry about sweating his bag off and chaffing the shit out of his groin. Personally Dylan liked the compact feelings of comfort and security his briefs gave him.

He returned to his bunk space and ransacked his locker for a clean pair of socks, trying to ignore the untidy pile of dirty socks, briefs and work gear. He really had to do a dhobey soon, noting that he was down to his last pair of clean socks, and only one pair of clean underpants.

Closing his locker, Dylan looked over and saw Brian getting out of bed, his smile freezing when he realized that Brian was naked, his soft, three-inch penis glowing with the curving head of his dick, a deeper pink than his shaft, hanging lazily over his loose, smooth-skinned balls.

Dylan and Brian had been best friends forever. They went to the same schools, played on the same hockey and baseball teams, had joined the Cadets together and had few, if any, secrets. He had seen Brian naked many times. And he had seen Brian's dick soft, as it was now, hard and raging, as it usually was every morning and once, two years before, he had seen it retreating from orgasm, when they had talked themselves into a mutual jack-off session. Dylan knew the signs, just as he knew that Brian enjoyed a little one-on-one with a guy, if the right guy offered. Dylan shuddered at that thought. He had never done anything with his friend, and had no intention of doing anything with Brian.

The thought of sucking another guy's dick repulsed Dylan, although it never bothered Brian in the least. Last year Brian had taken up with Ben Hoskens, a beefy Newfoundlander with a dick that was all wrinkled and covered with skin. This year, or so Brian had whispered, somebody had given him the best blowjob of his life. Brian had been hazy on the details but Dylan got the message.

Dylan watched as Brian reached into his locker and pulled out a clean pair of boxers, pulled them on and then lay down on his bunk again, reaching under the band of his shorts and fingering himself. A huge grin began to crease Brian's ruddy face.

Scowling, Dylan walked slowly to Brian's bunk and stood beside it, looking down at his obviously satisfied friend. "It happened," he accused. "Again!"

Brian closed his eyes, wiggled his nose, and nodded slowly, his grin growing bigger. "Twice," he breathed. "The second time better than the first." He sighed at the happy memory.

Dylan sat down on Brian's bunk, his briefs-covered bum brushing against Brian's hairy leg. "Twice?" he whispered in disbelief. "You let some guy beat you off twice?"

Brian shook his head. He opened his eyes and stared directly into Dylan's pale blue eyes. "He blew me. Twice," Brian giggled, whispering, "he blew me like I have never been blown before." Brian closed his eyes and sighed again. "It was good," he said simply. "He said he would take me across the river and fucking hell, Dylan, he did!"

Dylan looked quickly around the mess. None of the other cadets were paying any attention to them. "You let some guy . . . blow . . . you?" he sputtered. "Jesus, Brian, how could you?"

"Because I wanted to, Dylan," replied Brian truthfully. "Because I liked the way it felt. Satisfied?"

"It's wrong," Dylan blurted out. "It's wrong and it's a sin and . . ."

Brian sat up abruptly and his hand gripped Dylan's arm. "Stay away from it, Dylan," he warned, his voice hard. "You had your chance and you said no. I had the chance and I took it." He released Dylan and glared at him. "Don't ever tell me what to do. And don't preach that bullshit to me.

"Remember, you're the one who told me that old Father Graball spent most of his time trying to get his hand up your soutane! Don't come all holy on me." Brian lay back and started feeling his warm helmet again. "Come on, Dylan," he began, rubbing his calf against Dylan's bum.

Dylan stood up quickly, suddenly aware that he had felt something when Brian's leg touched him, something he did not want to feel. "Don't do that! I don't like it!" he snapped. Then he looked and saw where Brian's hand was. "You're disgusting, you know that?" he snarled, curling his upper lip.

Brian never took his hand from his boxers. With his free hand he pointed his forefinger at Dylan. "If I'm so disgusting why do you hang around with me?" he asked, a hint of danger in his voice.

Dylan backed off. Brian had a reputation as a street fighter and Dylan knew that all his years of friendship would not save his ass if Brian got mad enough.

"If it bothers you so much, why don't you just fuck off somewhere?" Brian demanded. He rolled out of bed and began to dress for PT. His boxers were tented, but he could have cared less. He glared at his friend. "Go away, Dylan. Just fuck off!" he snarled.

Pulling on his T-shirt and with his shoes in his hand, Brian stormed from the barracks brushing past a tall, slim, quite handsome cadet with sun-bleached hair and clear, sparkling blue eyes, who had been standing near the open window.

As Brian stormed off the cadet smiled and started walking toward the Staff Barracks.

******

Cory strolled casually into the Gunroom and sat on Todd's bed. Todd was awake but since he had a Guard and Steerage he had decided to stay in bed and luxuriate in the rare treat. "You're up early," he said to Cory. "I would have thought that after last night you . . ." He raised his head and waggled his eyebrows as he jerked his head rapidly in the general direction of Chris's empty bunk. " . . . that you would still be still sawing logs." He slid his hand up the leg of his brother's gym shorts. "So?"

"Let us just say that Chris was very, um, exuberant." Cory grinned wickedly and slipped his hand under the coverlet of Todd's bed and found his brother's morning chummy. "So exuberant that we did it twice!"

Todd chuckled and rubbed the diamond drop of precum that had oozed from Cory's warm, spongy glans. "You're happy, then?"

Cory nodded. "For a virgin Chris knew where to find all the right buttons." He giggled and squeezed Todd's erection. "Of course, he had instructions from the master!"

At that moment Chris, naked and fresh from his shower, drifted by and smiled at the Twins. Cory noticed that he didn't have his usual morning woody. He also noticed that Chris's penis seemed to be awfully red.

As Chris walked by Todd's bunk he blushed and Todd pulled the cover over his head. Cory began snickering. "You little devil you," he giggled. "You didn't!"
Todd peeked out from under the covers. "What can I say? Just thinking about you and Chris together made my dick all tingly and my balls were hanging down to my knees. You went to bed as soon as we got off Watch." He smiled the wicked smile that Cory had come to know - and love - so well. "While I was in the shower Chris came in and, well . . ." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Cory shook his head and tried to look disgusted.

Todd grinned and then, as he always did when faced with a subject that could have explosive ramifications so far as his brother was concerned, abruptly changed the subject. He stretched deliberately and then gave his brother a puzzled look. "I didn't hear you going to the showers this morning. Really, Cory you should have."

"Ah, but I did," replied Cory equably, suspicious that Todd was deliberately changing the subject. For once Cory was on to his brother. "There are perfectly adequate facilities in the galley heads." He gave Todd's testicles a squeeze. "Now, about you and Chris?"

Todd looked over at Chris, who was putting on his gym gear, darting glances at Cory and, no doubt, wondering what they were whispering about. Discretion being the better part of valour, Todd confessed all. He snickered. "I went into the showers, thinking that I would take matters in hand, so to speak." Cory groaned at the pun. Todd ignored him and carried on, "Then Chris came in. One thing led to another and well, we helped each other out."

"As if either of you needed it," returned Cory with a self-righteous sniff. "So, did you?"

Todd shook his head. "We just sixty-nined." He leaned forward. "Chris is getting awfully good at it. He has the gift."

Cory nodded. "Don't I know it! He will make some man very happy!"

Before Todd could reply Chris came over and sat on Cory's bed. He looked quite pleased with himself and had the silliest grin on his face that the Twins had ever seen. They pulled their hands from each other's crotches and Cory was about to tease the pair of them when Val walked into the Gunroom.

Val was bright eyed, shaved, and his hair was combed. He was wearing dark blue gym shorts and a white tee with the red and gold ship's crest over the left breast. He smiled at the trio of boys. "Morning, boychicks," he said happily. "Time to play silly buggers."

The Twins looked at each other and at Chris. Boychicks? Play silly buggers? Jesus, Val was positively bubbly!

"Uh we have a Guard and Steerage, Guns," said Todd hesitatingly. Val had never been a morning person and this sudden sea change in him was very puzzling.

Val thought a moment. "Oh, yeah, you two had the Mids." He glanced at Chris, who for some reason was blushing. Waving a "come on" motion Val gestured for Chris to get his act in gear.

Chris stood up and looked at the Twins. They shrugged and gave him a small wave. "See you guys later," Chris said, giving Val a dubious look. He was just as puzzled as the Twins but wasn't going to pursue it.

As Chris moved past him Val reached out and smacked Chris on the fanny. "Let's go, me son. Time's awastin'," he announced jovially.

Val followed Chris from the barracks, leaving in his wake two totally confused Twins. Val was a nice guy, most of the time, but he wasn't given to early morning badinage. Shit, he wasn't given to banter at any time.

"Did I hear what I think I heard?" asked Todd.

"Boychick? Me son?" repeated Cory.

"Jesus, he sounds like The Gunner. Maybe Operation Warm Fuzzy has affected him," said Todd. "He sure is acting funny. He wasn't drinking last night, was he?"

Cory recalled the conversation he had just overheard outside The Gunners Barracks. He turned his head to conceal his knowing smile. It would seem that Brian was not the only one who had been taken across the river last night.

******

The Phantom lay in his bed enjoying the slight ocean breeze that blew across his naked body. He was idly toying with his soft penis, fingering his sculptured helmet, lazily coating it with the small dollops of sticky precum that oozed slowly from his slit. He had read somewhere that a boy was at his sexual peak at 17. He forgot who had written the story but he totally agreed with whoever had been the author. He had jerked off in the shack after leaving Aurora. Actually he had rubbed his hard cock against the rough wool of the old blanket covering the bed, which had caused an orgasm so wonderfully intense that he had almost lost consciousness.

When he got home he had jerked off again in the shower, with the vision of Cory and Chris playing out in his mind and the smell and taste of Val fresh in his mouth.

This morning, less than an hour ago, he had awoken with an erection and jerked off for the fourth time.

Each time he ejaculated it seemed more powerful and pleasurable than the last. His last load, a small one, which he thought was not surprising, since he figured he pumped out a gallon of spunk all told, he shot into the boxers he had worn the night before. He had lain in bed, dipping his finger into his own ejaculate, tasting the small dollops, wanting to make them last as long as possible. He mentally compared the taste of his ejaculate with the taste of the three boys he had sucked a few short hours before.

Just as each cadet had smelled different, but the same, their penises had tasted different, but the same. The taste of their semen, had been different; sweet, yet a touch salty, creamy, with some indefinable flavour that made each unique. Val's cum was exquisite, thick, creamy, hinting at the boy he was and the man he would soon become. Brian's semen was not as thick, nor as sweet as Val's. It had a roughness to it that would forever be Brian. Ray's semen - dear, sweet, shy Ray - was like him. Of the three, The Phantom thought that Ray's was the sweetest, full of the boy he was, thick milk not yet become cream.

As for his own sperm-filled juice, it too was different. To The Phantom's taste his own cum seemed to taste of woods and forests, hinting of the ocean, still maturing, transiting that period from boy to man and he reasoned that the older a boy became, and the closer he approached the threshold of manhood, the better his semen became, thick, a sweet nectar promising the ambrosia of a man.

Without even trying The Phantom had talked himself into yet another erection. His fingers traced a long, slow pattern up his swollen shaft, caressing his tender spot where the shaft joined his smooth, round, tapering glans. He began fisting his boner, approaching orgasm, peaking as he fantasized about how wonderful The Gunner must taste. As his dick pulsed and pumped yet another stream into the boxers he groaned, his fantasy filling his mouth with a flavour he could only create in his imagination.

When he was finished The Phantom showered, taking great care not to touch his still firm, and very sensitive, penis. As his mother was at work and his father was snoring away in the master bedroom, The Phantom wandered around the house in his underwear.

He prepared his breakfast and as he was eating he heard the distinctive clank of the of the morning's post being dropped into the metal mailbox affixed to the wall beside the front door. He went out to the wide front porch, took the mail from the box and, sitting on the top step, leafed through the envelopes. The usual bills, and what looked like another whining letter from Brendan.

It was a beautiful morning, very bright, with not a cloud in the sky. There was a slight, cooling breeze coming from the harbour. It was very quiet, which was to be expected. Most of the people who lived in the neighbourhood were either retired or worked during the day. A gaggle of boys riding bicycles screamed past, laughing and shouting. As the herd rounded the corner of the street one of the boys turned and rode back towards the house. He stopped and dropped his bike against the curb with a crash, then ran up the walk. It was Robbie Jensen.

"Gotta pee, Phantom," Robbie panted. "Can I use the pisser?"

Without waiting for an answer he rushed into the house. Five minutes later he was back, charging from the house, letting the screen door slam. He clumped down the steps and sat down, propping his elbows on the step above where he was sitting.

Robbie was a typical prepubescent 12-year-old boy, smooth bodied, not quite formed, lanky and more than a little gawky. His hair was plastered to his head in disarray, and his white T-shirt was sweat stained. He was totally without courtesy or grace, sprawling on the bottom step, with his legs spread, idly adjusting his cocklet hidden under his thin running shorts. He was a smooth, soft, beautiful boy who would, in the fullness of time, mature into a stunningly handsome man.

Deep within him The Phantom felt a stirring. Part of him wanted to take the boy in his arms and cuddle and fondle him. Another part told him that this was not possible.

Robbie did not help matters. Without shame he was fondling himself into an erection, his shorts tenting as his cocklet swelled and lengthened. He blatantly reached inside the shorts and adjusted his thin boner so that it lay straight up, pointing towards his navel. He then turned, looked at The Phantom, and grinned. "Nice dick, Phantom," he giggled. "And your balls ain't bad, either."

The Phantom looked down and realized that he had been sitting with his legs apart. His boxers had ridden up and while basically covered, his genitals were on full view to anyone who looked up his shorts. He quickly closed his legs. "Nice boys don't go around looking up the legs of another boy's shorts," The Phantom huffed.

Robbie yawned and stretched. "Never said I was a nice boy. Can I suck it?"

"Robbie!" The Phantom sat open mouthed with shock.

"Well, can I? And close your mouth. It's fly season," Robbie finished helpfully.

The Phantom's mouth snapped shut with a loud click. "No you may not," he said tightly.

"Too bad," replied Robbie with a shrug. "I give a good blow job." He stood up and adjusted his hardon. "Anyway, Jeff's dick is bigger. Balls too!" He stuck out his tongue and mounted his bike. "Don't look so shocked, Phantom. Nothin' sweeter than a nice piece of teenage dick in the morning." He grinned evilly. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you."

As he peddled away Robbie yelled over his shoulder, "Maybe next time, tight ass!"

******

The Phantom did not know if he should laugh or throw something at the little bastard. He shook his head as Robbie disappeared around the corner.

Robbie was a kid, good looking, and he smelled very nice. But if Robbie was looking for sex from him, The Phantom knew he simply could not let it happen. Robbie was a little boy! In a few years, when Robbie got older, maybe, but now, no way!

Abruptly, The Phantom dismissed such thoughts from his mind. As he climbed the stairs to his room he realized that while Robbie was much more blatant about it, he was only feeling what he, The Phantom, was feeling about The Gunner and that just as Robbie had stirred mixed emotions in him, and had made him feel things that he should not feel, he was doing the same thing to The Gunner.

I guess now I know now how he feels, The Phantom thought. He sighed sadly. And I don't like it at all.

******

Ray awoke at the light touch of a hand on his bare foot, which was sticking out from the end of the coverlet. He raised his head and saw David, the Duty Hand grinning goofily. "Time to get up, Ray," whispered David.

Ray grumbled and snorted, clearing the night's detritus from his throat. "I'm up," he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his hand across his chest. "Thanks."

David nodded and went down the barracks where he shook Sandro, taking care not touch him below the waist or above the knees. Sandro jerked and swung his arm. David, who had been this way before, ducked and pulled Sandro's foot. Sandro muttered something in Russian. David doubted it was a compliment and left the barracks.

Ray lay quietly and watched as Sandro crawled out of his top bunk, then stumbled in a half daze towards the showers. He couldn't help but notice that Sandro's briefs were bulging out in front. He chuckled and reached down under the coverlet to feel his naked crotch. His sleeping penis was still tender from all the attention it had received only hours ago. He hefted his oval testicles and squeezed gently. They still ached a little. Whoever the guy is, he thought, he sure knows how to make me feel good.

As he smiled at the memory of the warm lips on his, Ray could hear the water pounding in the showers. He pulled himself out of his bunk and, draping his towel around his shoulders, went into the showers.

Sandro was standing under the pulsing torrent of hot water busily scrubbing his smooth and all but hairless body. It was very apparent that he held more than a bar of soap in his hand. He had pulled back the foreskin on his long, thick, semi-hard penis, and was lovingly passing the washcloth over the huge, flat, barely defined purplish-brown knob.

Ray crept up behind Sandro and murmured in his ear, "If the Rabbi sees you doing that you'll be excommunicated." Then he grabbed both of Sandro's butt cheeks.

Sandro yelped and began cursing in Russian. In moments of stress he always reverted to his mother tongue.

"English, you Russian git!" demanded Ray, laughing like a loon.

"Fuck your mother!" snarled Sandro. Then he called Ray a very dirty name, in Russian. He threw his washcloth at Ray. "You give me heart attached!"

Ray threw the washcloth back, hitting Sandro square in the face. "Heart attack, you Russian peasant." He looked down at Sandro's soft organ.

Sandro saw the look and reached down. He waggled his dick at Ray. "Have good look. Next month, he looks better."

Ray could not help himself. He reached out and gave Sandro a bear hug. Sandro squealed and wriggled out of Ray's grasp. Their soft dicks and warm balls had rubbed together and Ray felt a spark flash through the head of his penis.

Sandro obviously had not. "You crazy man!" he grumbled, trying hard to sound angry. Ray was his friend and he did not want his friend to know that sometimes he felt . . . "You crazy!" he repeated.

Ray put his hands on Sandro's broad shoulders and grinned. "Sandro, dear, Sandro. God is in his heaven. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. Today is my birthday and I feel great." He leaned forward and tried to kiss Sandro's cheek.

"No kissing, crazy fool," howled Sandro, pushing Ray away. But he was laughing.

Ray stood under the showerhead and let the hot water wash over him. Sandro stood beside him and they soaped up. "Is it really your birthday, Ray?" he asked over the roar of the water.

Ray grinned and nodded. "God's truth. Today. I am 17 today! I can go home and tell the Sea Cadets to kiss my Royal Canadian ass and join the Navy."

"The Navy?" Sandro grimaced. "Now I know for sure that you are crazy!"

They turned off the water and began towelling themselves dry. "Well, the Reserves, at first," explained Ray. "Then the Permanent Force when I graduate high school."

"This is what you want to do?" asked Sandro, surprised, for Ray had never before indicated any interest in the Regular Navy.

"This is what I want to do," replied Ray with a happy smile.

As they left the showers Sandro put his arm around Ray's shoulder and squeezed. "I tell Chef today is your birthday. We have little party, maybe a big cake." Then he wagged his finger at Ray. "But no kissing."

******

When they arrived in the galley Ray and Sandro found Chef busily mixing up the pancake batter. Pancakes were always on the menu, as was oatmeal. In deference to Sandro's religious scruples he was assigned to mixing the oatmeal while Ray loaded 50-pound boxes of bacon into trays and put them in the oven.

At 0630 the first of the cadets strolled in looking for breakfast. Most of the food was self-serve, except for the eggs, which were cooked to order. Ray and Sandro were experts at preparing eggs.

Chef preferred the pancake griddle. He was a great believer in the theory that you could judge how a day would go by the mood the troops were in at breakfast. He knew that his galley staff was happy. Ray was merrily humming "Wavy Navy" as he dished up the fresh-cooked eggs. Sandro had picked up on the tune and the pair of them were harmonizing the music. Chef hadn't heard the tune in years, not since they had retired the King's Colour and laid it up in The Cathedral Church of All Saints in Halifax. Despite himself Chef hummed along as well.

The Cadet Chief Gunner shepherded the New Entry cadets through. Not only was he not his usual dour self, he was smiling and laughing with the young cadets, being almost paternal. The Master-At-Arms, who was shaking his head, trailed Val.

"What bit him?" asked Chef after Val and the Sea Puppies passed down the line.

"I wish I knew," replied Tyler, helping himself to a double portion of pancakes. "I just hope it's catching. We could use some good moods around here." He smiled thinly and moved on.

The Twins, along with Harry, entered. Harry was grumpy, and chucking shit at the Twins, who were their usual happy selves. They greeted Chef with smiles and moved on to get some eggs. When Sandro told them that it was Ray's birthday they sedately and formally shook his hand and wished him a very happy birthday, though the moment was somewhat ruined by Cory who just had to rub his forefinger along Ray's palm as they shook hands.

Ray blushed, knowing exactly what the gesture meant. He also knew that he would have loved to return it.

The palm rubbing was not lost on Todd. As they moved down the food line and away from Ray he smacked his brother's hard ass. "Don't you think of anything else?"

"No," answered Cory truthfully.

"You are supposed to be straight, remember?"

"Only from dawn 'til dusk." grinned Cory. He reached back and copped a feel.

"Corree," wailed Todd.

Ray chuckled at the Twins' antics and served the next cadet in line, the Guard Petty Officer. Brian grinned broadly and wished Ray a happy birthday. There was a rough edged quality about Brian that Ray found intriguing. He slipped an extra egg on Brian's plate. As Brian filled a bowl with red lead and bacon Ray noticed that his sidekick, Dylan, was nowhere in sight. Trouble in paradise? Ray wondered privately.

As more and more cadets came in for breakfast Ray and Sandro hustled and served portion after portion of eggs. Eventually the line of cadets diminished and there were long gaps as the stragglers wandered in.

The three new gunners came in as a group. One, a tall, slim cadet with a handsome, square-jawed face smiled at Ray as he thanked the young cook for his eggs. Ray almost dropped his spatula into the pan of scrambled eggs.

One of the last cadets to enter was Dylan, who helped himself to some toast and milk. As Ray watched he walked to the table where Brian was sitting and sat down. Almost immediately Brian stood up, put his dirty dishes in the tray by the dishwasher and left the Mess Hall. Definitely trouble in paradise, Ray told himself.

At 0745 the bugle called the cadets to Divisions. Ray and Sandro took a short break and then started loading the dishwasher. Through the open doors they could hear the Band crashing and banging away. When Divisions were over two fresh-faced young cadets reported for duty. Chef put them to work rinsing the dirty breakfast dishes while Ray and Sandro began the prep for lunch. Chef busied himself by mixing up a cake batter. He had asked Ray what his favourite cake was and so Ray would have a chocolate birthday cake.

Shortly before ten The Phantom appeared and was set to work mixing bowls of different coloured icings. Under Chef's direction he stirred and mixed the coloured icings to the stiffness that Chef wanted.

The icing made, The Phantom went and helped Ray prepare the soup that would be served at lunch. As they mixed the ingredients The Phantom wished Ray a happy birthday. "Chef is making you a cake. Chocolate. I got to prep the icing."

"Count yourself lucky," said Ray. "I had to listen to his story about how when he was just a lad, an apprentice cook, he helped bake one of the cakes for the Queen's wedding."

"Hell and sheeit, how old is he? That was years ago!" exclaimed The Phantom, busily stirring the soup mixture.

Ray shrugged. "If you listen to his stories you'd think he's older than God. Phantom, go get the macaroni."

As The Phantom walked towards the storeroom Ray looked at him thoughtfully. A small, niggling, indefinable, something had been gnawing at him. Every time Phantom came near him it was if a little bell had gone off in his brain. Now he realized what it was. It was The Phantom's aroma, his sweet, vaguely familiar, boy/man scent. Ray's eyes widened in surprise . . . Phantom's . . . scent!

A great crash broke Ray's train of thought. One of the kitchen hands had dropped a huge tray of clean dishes. As he hurried away to help clean up Ray could still smell that wonderful scent, and thought that Phantom smelled a lot like the glorious scent of . . . But that was impossible! Phantom wasn't a cadet, and left the ship every night at 2000 or thereabouts. Besides, all guys smelled alike, didn't they?

******

At 1545, after the First Dog Watchmen had been fed, Chef presented Ray with his richly ornamented birthday cake. The Twins, Sandro, The Phantom and the two new kitchen Makee-Learns, Terry, a husky, brown haired boy, and Stefan, a short, bespectacled, serious young man, all clapped politely. They did not sing the birthday song. Ray, supported by Chef, considered it childish and not the Cadet thing to do. There were no presents as, until this morning, no one had known that it was Ray's birthday. There was also no kissing. They chatted and played silly buggers, telling sick or very lame jokes, giggling and having a very good time. They were all disappointed when 1630 rolled around and everybody had to go back to work.

The Twins went to the Gunroom where they stripped, showered, and cleaned into shorts and T-shirts. They would have liked to fool around in the showers but their messmates were cluttering up the place, so they lolled on their bunks, studying the terrain.

Harry and Two Strokes strolled around without a stitch on, arguing about the upcoming Parade. Harry was unembarrassed. Being naked around the other cadets was second nature to him. Two Strokes, totally engrossed in his argument, had forgotten he was naked. His quite handsome fittings bounced as he walked. They were a trifle on the small side, but well made. His slender penis was smooth, without blemish, ending in a crisp, pink, satiny-looking gently curving glans. Although small, his testicles were perfectly oval, and dusted with fine black hair.

Jon, his smooth, tight basket contained in clean, white briefs, was lying on his bunk, skimming through a skin book, scratching himself through his briefs. Fred was sitting on his bunk with his back against the bulkhead and his knees up, legs spread, reading a paperback western, not aware that the neatly proportioned helmet that crowned his slender, circumcised five-inch penis was fully exposed.

Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals, a smooth, slightly muscled, stunningly handsome boy, with black, neatly combed hair and soft brown eyes set in a firm, chiselled face, strolled into the mess, deliciously damp from his shower. Except for a white "V" covering his waist and groin, he was marvellously tanned.

Hanging from Nicholas' slight mound covered by his thick, brown, curly pubic bush was Nicholas' pride and joy, which bounced lightly against his tightly hanging, moderately sized testicles. His penis, except for a narrow circle of light pink flesh directly under his well-shaped helmet, was a light brown, and completely smooth and flawless, four inches of thick perfection.

Cory sighed softly as Nicholas walked by, sorry now that he had not given the Yeoman a quick feel when they had been rolling around in the dust after the infamous ball game. Todd gave Cory a look that said do not even think about it. Cory smiled wickedly. There would be ample opportunity to drool over Nicholas in the weeks yet to come.

The bugle sounded, "Hands to Dinner". Todd stood up and asked Cory what was on the menu. "Something called Chicken Oriental," replied Cory.

Todd grimaced. "You go ahead. I'm not all that hungry."

"Why not? You like Chinese food."

"Normally, yes. But I haven't seen the ship's cat lately. I'm not taking any chances."

Cory laughed and pulled Todd to his feet. "There are other things on the menu. You have to eat. You have to keep up your strength." He snickered an evil little laugh. As they left the mess Todd told Cory that he had an evil mind.

As they passed the Headquarters Building the buses from Highland High School pulled up and began discharging the cadets who attended classes there. One of the last off the bus was Chris. "Jesus, you look frazzled," exclaimed Todd.

Chris was dishevelled and decidedly out of sorts. "You'd be too, if you went through the day I've just had." He moaned. "Some jerk decided to set off the fire alarms. Do you know how many fucking fire trucks Comox has?"

The Twins admitted that they did not.

"Too fucking many," snarled Chris. "They all showed up acting like it was the Great Chicago Fire. When they finally left all the troops took a stupid pill. Jesus, what a day!"

"Go and have a nice, hot shower. Change into something loose and casual. Then come and have supper with us," soothed Todd.

"What's for supper?"

"Chicken" replied Cory flatly.

Chris grinned lasciviously. "Now how did the cooks know I feel like chicken tonight?"

The Twins grinned back. "Come to think of it, a little chicken would be nice," said Cory with a giggle. "Let's talk about it over supper."

******

Chris went off to shower and change while the Twins went to the Mess Hall. They greeted The Phantom who warned them that the chicken was not all that great. The Twins settled for the second entrée, spaghetti, and a large salad.

"He has turned into a nice guy," said Todd as they sat down, referring to The Phantom. "I'm going ask him to help me with the T-shirts."

Cory glanced over at The Phantom, who saw the glance and grinned. "You know, I think he's a ripe specimen," ventured Cory. "He's not that bad looking and he's got a nice basket. What do you think?"

Todd shook his head. "As much as I like the idea, I don't think so." Seeing the quizzical look on Cory's face he continued. "He's too straight. He's never said or done anything that make's me think he's interested."

Cory was forced to agree with Todd's assessment of The Phantom's sexuality. "He's has got to know that we are as bent as a dog's hind leg." He looked thoughtful a moment. "Still, he wants to be our friend despite everything." Cory shrugged his disappointment "Oh, well, it was just a thought."

Todd nibbled at a piece of lettuce. "Well, Chris is interested. You heard him, he feels like chicken tonight."

"So do I. But where? The first aid team is in Boatswains Stores. The jocks will be all over the Drill Shed and the Gunroom is out. We're running out of places."

Todd thought a moment. Then he brightened. "I know where. How about the Ropewalk? Nobody ever goes in there after Secure."

The Ropewalk, a long, rough-stone, slate-roofed building was the oldest structure on the spit and had been built in 1878 by the Royal Navy, as a place to repair and make halyards, lines and hawsers for the ships that called frequently for repairs or refit. These natural fibre ropes had long since been replaced by machine-woven, man-made fibre ropes and the building was now used to store the masts, sails, and assorted paraphernalia needed to sail the dinghies and whalers clustered down in the Boat Yard. In typical Navy fashion the name was kept, though the function had changed. It was directly next door to the Drill Shed and could not be seen from the Dockyard.

Cory smiled, ducked his head, and then looked at Todd. "So, we gonna have some chicken tonight?"

Todd grinned. "You are. I'm not, mores the pity"

"What?" Cory was very surprised. Todd had never been one to pass up an opportunity to have sex with a hot boy.

"I promised Harry to help him out with the New Entries," explained Todd with a sigh of regret for opening his big mouth. "Some of them are still a little rocky."

"So I get Chris all to myself?"

"Sure, why not? I did this morning." Todd smiled.

"But I was with him during the Mids."

"Cory, it doesn't matter who was with Chris last. He's experienced boy love in every aspect. If he wants to make love, then you're the one to do it." He grimaced and shrugged. "You know I much prefer to be on top." Todd saw the pained look on his brother's face. "I'm not a bottom man," he finished weakly.

"Don't I know it!"
"Thank you, Cory. You make me feel so wanted," returned Todd.

Cory paled. "Shit, Toddy, you know what I mean. I didn't mean . . ."
Todd held up his hand. "Cory, truth is truth. I love doing it with you, when I'm the one making love. You enjoy it. I enjoy it. Unfortunately, I don't enjoy the over way around. Some guys do, some guys don't. I don't."

They left it there. As Todd had said, he simply did not enjoy being fucked as much as Cory did.

Chris came in to the Mess Hall, filled a plate with food, and sat down. Todd told him what was on offer for the evening. "Jeez, Todd, I thought that we could be together tonight." Chris grinned widely. "All three of us."

Todd shook his head. "As much as I like the idea, I made a promise to Harry. You and Cory spend some time together. I get to go and check out the New Entries."

Cory gasped. "Todd!"

"What's the matter? I can look, can't I?"

"Just don't touch." said Chris grinning.

******

After eating the boys went their separate ways. Todd returned to the Gunroom to change. Since they had no intention of being around for Rounds, Cory and Chris elected to stay in sports gear. They headed for the canteen where they played a few game of darts, killing time until 2000, when they walked toward the Ropewalk.

The building was, as they expected, dark. Evening sailing classes were over and the cadets were busy changing for Rounds or gathering in the canteen. Cory pushed the door open and fumbled for the light switch.

Before he could turn on the lights Chris stopped him. "We don't need lights, do we?" he asked, turning the tumbler in the lock.

******

The night drew to a close. Todd, with Harry, chivvied and kidded the New Entries, went to the canteen to play a game or three of darts, and then returned to the Gunroom.

Across the harbour The Gunner marked his papers and went over the plans for the Commanding Officer's Parade. He tried to telephone Vancouver but, as had happened the night before, there was no answer.

The lights of Aurora winked out one by one as the cadets went to bed and the Duty Watch gathered in the guardhouse. The Phantom, secure in his hideaway, watched the lights blink out and waited until it was time for him to steal away into the darkness.

******

The Phantom sat quietly, his back against the Cooks Barracks wall, slowly fisting his softening penis. He had just blown a massive load into the white boxers he had stolen from beside Brian's bed. He lifted the shorts to his nose and breathed deeply, the odour of his semen mingling with the aroma of the boy whose body the white cotton boxers had so recently covered. He was very happy and satisfied.

Ray had responded eagerly, happily moaning with each stream of sperm that his balls pumped into The Phantom's eager mouth, filling it with his rich, creamy, juice, finally rising and collapsing across The Phantom's back, nuzzling and suckling the soft wool of his sweater as his hips twitched spasmodically, straining to empty the deep pools of cum that had filled his balls.

Brian, as they kissed good-bye, had reached over and felt the large bulge filling The Phantom's tight jeans, rubbing and stroking the turgid flesh hidden by the denim cloth. It had taken all of The Phantom's willpower not to let Brian pull down the zipper of his denim jeans. He had wanted the boy badly, but had remained realistic. Time was far too short.

The Phantom debated returning to the Staff Barracks. He glanced at his watch and realized that he had spent far too much time with Ray and Brian. As much as he wanted to visit Val, and taste again the wonderfully satisfying nectar the teenager produced, he decided to be satisfied with what lay closer to hand.

He re-entered The Gunners Barracks and glided silently down the length of the building, the red beam of his flashlight revealing the sleeping cadets, who were making the usual night time noises, snuffling and grunting as they slept. He passed Brian and saw that he was now sleeping blissfully, his mouth forming a small smile. Dylan slept on his side, one arm flung out, the other bent, his hand covering his genitals protectively. The Phantom sniffed in derision and moved quietly to the far end, and knelt beside a bunk.

The cadet lying in the bunk had an oval face and slightly parted lips revealing a small gap in his otherwise perfect, white teeth. His blond hair was cut "high and tight", the fashion of the month it seemed for all the gunners. Above the thin coverlet the cadet's broad shoulders and washboard stomach glistened with a slight sheen of sweat. It was Anson, and The Phantom drew down the coverlet to reveal as much of his wonderfully muscled body as he could. Mounding Anson's white cotton briefs was a well-formed set of maleness.

The Phantom reached out and his finger traced the outline of four inches of thick, smooth boy penis, so cleanly circumcised that the outline of the crisp contours of the glans were clearly defined. Anson's testicles, two large, perfect ovals mounded the soft cotton of his underpants, balancing delightfully the thickness of his beautiful penis. Contrasting the hair on his head Anson had dark, almost black pubic hair that curled from under the tight leg bands of his briefs.

The Phantom gently pulled down the front of Anson's briefs to reveal a thick, perfectly formed, circumcised four-inch penis that culminated in a deliciously delicate, crisply defined, pale pink helmet, rising from a thick, black, forest of pubic hair that stretched neatly across his lower abdomen, his large, oval testicles were encased in a hairless scrotum, so thin as to be translucent. His balls moved gently up and down as he breathed.

Anson's almost flawless penis had a light brown circumcision ring, and along the top stretched a thick, bifurcated vein that disappeared under his ring, reappeared, and disappeared again under the gently curving rim of his helmet.

The Phantom ran his finger under the smooth scrotum, feeling the tiny veins pulsing with the blood that warmed the perfect balls the sac enclosed. His finger searched under the sac and felt Anson's very hairy love trail.

Anson stirred and moaned as The Phantom's finger caressed him. His penis slowly thickened and rose, seven inches of hard flesh jutting straight out of his body, the skin darkening below his circumcision ring, glowing red above it, the vein thick, swollen with blood. As The Phantom caressed and stroked the soft, smooth underside Anson's cock jerked and began oozing a small fountain of precum. He lowered Anson's briefs, the smooth, white cotton once again hiding the boy's rock hard penis with only the throbbing helmet showing above the thin elastic waistband. He cupped Anson's balls through the cotton fabric, feeling them tighten as he massaged them gently.

Anson's' boner was bigger than any The Phantom had seen before, even bigger than Val's, and much thicker. His tongue savoured the flavour of Anson's heated mushroom, cleaning it of the clear precum. He lowered his head and began licking the crotch of Anson's briefs, relishing the aroma of musk and oil blended with the distinctive smell of fresh washed cotton. He licked and sucked Anson's balls through the thin fabric, filling his nostrils with the unique odour of Anson's thighs and sweat.

His mouth open, The Phantom tongued and licked his way over the throbbing erection straining to break free from the restraining briefs. He flicked his tongue over the tender spot directly under Anson's helmet, feeling the hot flesh ripple and twitch.

With each stroke of The Phantom's tongue Anson raised his hips and thrust upward. His balls had retracted so far into his body that only two small ovals mounded his briefs on either side of his raging cock, his ball sac, now barely perceptible by the feel of its wrinkled flesh between his legs. His dick began to throb wildly, pushing the tight fabric away from his hard belly.

The Phantom placed his mouth over the top two inches of Anson's beautiful, pulsing erection and with his free hand he stroked the spit soaked cloth, gently rubbing the spasming dick, causing Anson's slit to gape widely and the first jet of sweet nectar filled The Phantom's mouth. He swallowed as stream after stream spurted down his throat, his taste buds exploding and the liquid ambrosia passed over them.

Anson whimpered and bucked as his dick pumped his balls empty. The Phantom continued to suck as Anson's sated penis began to shrink, withdrawing to the safety of his cotton briefs. The feelings of pleasure assaulting his dickhead were too much and Anson drew up his knees, covering his sex-heated crotch. The Phantom left the sleeping boy, his tongue cleansing his mouth of the last drops of Anson's liquid heaven.

******
The next morning the cadets lined up for PT. Harry was decently clad in the large gym shorts the Twins had given him. The Twins were on their best behaviour, and Chris was smiling happily. Brian smiled contentedly, half listening as Anson babbled on about the erotic dream he had had last night, a dream so intense that his briefs had been crusted and damp with precum. What Anson did not know was that Brian had heard every whimper and moan and knew full well what had caused Anson's dream.

Brian pointedly ignored Dylan, who was glowering angrily in the second rank.
Mike, the Chief PTI was in a wonderful mood and ignored the silliness that usually substituted for morning callisthenics. For the first time in months he had nudged and prodded his miniature penis into four inches of hardness and finger stroked himself into a very satisfying orgasm, producing a thin stream of milky white fluid.

When PT mercifully ended, Tyler announced that classes were suspended and that the cadets would spend the day cleaning ship. With visitors and guests arriving, particularly the Americans later in the day, the Commanding Officer wanted everything shipshape and Bristol fashion.

After breakfast the Band set up their chairs and music stands in the middle of the parade square and began playing their show tunes and marches. The cadets set to with a will, washing and polishing anything that didn't move.

Shortly before lunch the American cadets arrived, their long, low, grey cutter gliding effortlessly into the bay then, leaving a curving wake, slowing and pulling alongside the jetty.

The Commanding Officer, Tyler and Val met the American cadets and after the usual pleasantries Father took the officers off to the Wardroom for a drink and a bite to eat. Tyler took the two senior American petty officers to the Chiefs Mess, and Val took the rest off to Barracks 5 where they were to be quartered, and saw them settled in.

After lunch the Americans were taken on a tour of the ship, then bused into town for some shopping. They returned shortly before 1600 and many of them then joined the Canadians in swimming. The Twins read the schedule and saw that except for a movie, a John Wayne oater to be shown in the Drill Shed, nothing out of the ordinary was planned to entertain the American cadets. They decided that something a little more exciting was in order. The officers were having a meet and greet in the Wardroom and the Twins thought that the cadets should as well.

They bearded Tyler, who agreed, and then talked with Kyle, who as Duty Officer, and in the absence of both the Commanding Officer and the Executive Officer, had to approve anything the cadets had in mind. Kyle thought their idea a good one and sent them away happy, regretting that he could no longer be a part of their mess life.

The Twins had decided to throw a pizza and pop party. They spoke with the Canteen Damager who agreed to order in the pizza from town, and gave them a good price on the cases of pop they would need. They cruised by the Gunroom and changed into their swim gear, dug out their hidden stash of cash, returned to the canteen where they paid for the victuals and pop, and then headed for the beach where they met Mark van Beck, the Senior American Cadet and announced, somewhat grandly, that, in the spirit of international camaraderie and the brotherhood of the sea, a party was on offer, all Americans invited, and to come alongside after Rounds, please.

Mark was even less enthusiastic than the Twins about the movie on offer and immediately agreed to attend the party. This was his first trip outside of the United States and his first contact ever with Canadians, whom he found amusing and slightly crazy. From the stories he had heard from other US Sea Cadets who had visited, a guy never knew what they hell they would do next. He agreed to come alongside and double up. He told the Twins to expect about 10 guys. He did not tell them that he was also going to bring along a bottle of bourbon, which he had lifted from his father's drinks cabinet, and which he had stowed at the bottom of his sea bag.

After dinner the Twins went to the canteen to pick of the cases of pop. Here they met Brian who was, for some reason, skylarking and smiling. They also met Dylan, who was wan and seemed distracted about something, so the Twins invited both boys to join the party. Brian and Dylan helped to carry the cases of pop and they were chattering away when they came abreast of the Headquarters Building. Here Todd left his brother and the two gunners, entered the Head Shed and issued an invitation to Greg, the newly arrived Ship's Writer.

Greg accepted with enthusiasm, not knowing that the invitation had actually come from Tyler, who wanted to see Greg's reaction and conduct as he interacted with the other cadets. If Greg passed muster he would be invited to join the Gunroom Mess, replacing Alfie. As Tyler had pointed out to Todd when he first mentioned Greg's coming to live in the Gunroom, it was either the Writer or Little Big Man, whom nobody wanted in the first place.

Between dinner and Rounds the Twins scrounged some gash buckets and ice, then cleaned into night clothing. Chris, Fred and Harry, who declared that he was bored and had seen the movie six times, joined them. Thumper and Two Strokes declined the invitation, as they were on Duty, as did Jon, who was popcorn Boatswain at the movie.

Tyler and Val, resplendent in their new straight-legged white trousers and white open neck, short sleeve shirts, borrowed from The Gunner, had been commanded to attend the reception in the Wardroom, and also could not attend. Nicholas, in his capacity as Chief Yeoman of Signals was also attending the reception, and complained loudly. "Tough, RHIP," returned Tyler.

"RHIP?"

"Yeah, rank has its pitfalls. Going to a boring reception is one of them."

Shortly after 1830 the shrill sound of the "Still" being made with a Boatswains Call heralded the arrival of Kyle, the Duty Officer and his acolytes, Thumper, the Duty Petty Officer, and Anson, who was Duty Boatswains Mate. He was a blond haired, blue-eyed boy with a tightly muscled chest and washboard stomach. He sometimes worked out with Gerbil Dick, but was not as obsessive. He was, in fact, The Assistant's younger brother and had obviously gotten all the good looks in the family.

Kyle did a quick walk through. The Gunroom was clean, the beds made properly, and all the cadets were properly dressed in blue bell-bottoms and white, blue-piped T-shirts. Each cadet stood at the end of his bunk as Kyle checked them over then, satisfied that everything was as it should be, passed on to the Petty Officers Mess, where he immediately started yelling at Little Big Man who, from the noise Kyle was making, had apparently fallen asleep on his bunk wearing nothing but his underpants. As soon as the noise in the Petty Officers Mess abated the boys relaxed.

They lounged about and waited for their guests, who weren't long in arriving. Since the night was still warm and it was a party, all the American cadets were casually dressed in shorts and loose T-shirts. They all wore sandals or low cut boat shoes without socks and they were all suntanned, with fine smooth legs, and ready smiles.

As was to be expected after the initial introductions, the cadets sized each other up, the Americans loose and informal, the Canadians somewhat standoffish, and a trifle stiff and formal in their night clothing.

The Gunroom cadets and their guests began chatting and laughing, cans of coke were popped, and very quickly everybody began to relax. The monster pizzas were delivered and, despite the fact that they had all eaten huge portions of food in the Mess Hall at dinner, were quickly devoured. Two of the Americans asked if it was all right to smoke. Harry, who enjoyed an after dinner fag as well as the next man, quickly pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit up. The smokers followed suit, and they puffed happily away.

Mark judged the time was right and produced the bottle of bourbon, placed it on the table and invited everybody to have a snort on him. Glasses and mugs were quickly produced and the cadets helped themselves, some taking a good shot, others a mere dollop. They all filled their glasses to the brim with Coke. It did not take long before the cadets were the best of friends.

The second round of drinks emptied the bottle. Harry, at Todd's urging, rummaged in his sea chest and produced his bottle of gin, for which he received a huge cheer. Their inhibitions loosened by alcohol the twenty boys sat laughing and joking, chattering on, swinging the lamp, telling each other outrageous lies and sea stories.

Brian noticed that one of the Americans sported a magnificent tattoo of an eagle on his bicep. He showed off his own tattooed arm and everyone admired his Libra zodiac sign. Dylan, who was feeling relaxed for the first time in days, was persuaded to show his Superman tattoo. He undid his belt buckle, unsnapped his pants and pushed them and his white Jockeys down around his knees. The Americans whistled and clapped, agreeing that he had a great tattoo and, placed where it was, an icebreaker if ever there was one.

Harry, who didn't have a tattoo, but not to be outdone, exercised his scatological mind and recited a stream of dirty limericks. Chris and Fred, who likewise had no tattoos, did know some neat songs. They stood up and sang "Swing Low Sweet Chariot", complete with hand movements, which reduced the Americans, who had never heard the song, or seen such an act as Chris and Fred put on, to hysterics. The applause was such that the two Canadian cadets performed an encore and sang "The Sexual Life of a Camel".

This brought down the house and everybody agreed that another round was called for. Cory, always ready to help out, brought out his bottle of vodka.

Greg, smiling happily, began to sing "The North Atlantic Squadron" and the others joined in enthusiastically. Each cadet seemed to know a different verse, each verse dirtier than the other. In the end it was agreed that the Canadians knew more, and dirtier verses.

When their combined repertoire was exhausted the cadets sat back, laughing. No one was drunk, though most of them were a little tipsy. Their conversations waxed and waned, and while everybody was having a good time it was evident that the party was about to descend into boredom. Tony Valpone, a short, slim, darkly handsome, black haired American cadet, suggested a game of poker. Since no one had any money, this met with less than an enthusiastic response. "Well, fuck, we can always play strip poker," proclaimed Tony, more or less in jest.

Mark, six feet of tanned, firmly chiselled prime American stud, with a mass of curly, sun bleached, blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, perfect teeth and a marvellously rounded butt (which Cory told Todd should have "Surfer Dude" tattooed on it), spoke up, observing that while they were all guys and strip poker could be fun and funny, he wasn't about to drop his laundry for some poker game.
Tony, who had had one over the mark, called him a chicken.

Todd immediately picked up on this. "Well, we could always do a Zulu Warrior," he offered cautiously.

A Zulu Warrior was not for the faint of heart, or the inhibited. Neither Todd nor Cory had planned on doing anything too outrageous but what the hell, the Americans suggested it first.

"How's that?" asked Mark.

"What the hell is 'Zulu Warrior'?" demanded Tony.

"Well, it's a song . . ." began Todd.

"And a game . . ." continued Cory.

"But then again . . ." said Todd.

"If you get so uptight about a game of strip poker . . ." Cory went on.

"Perhaps it's just as well we don't play it," finished Todd.

"Yeah," piped in Greg. "It's a bit rough, but it can be as funny as hell." Unlike the Americans he knew what a Zulu Warrior was.

The Americans regarded the Canadians with suspicion. They were not all that sure what the crazy Canadians were up to but . . . "It's a game?" asked Mark.

"Oh, yes. Just a game, and a contest," replied Todd.

"To get the most Zulu Chiefs," offered Cory.

"Zulu Chiefs?"

"Yes. But you might no, never mind. It was just an idea," replied Todd.

"Hold on just a minute," Tony said firmly. "First you tell us, then you say never mind. It doesn't involve anything funny, does it?" he finished darkly.

"Oh, no. Not at all," Harry said quickly, putting in his oar. He also knew what a Zulu Warrior was. He flashed Cory a wicked grin. "All you have to do is take off a piece of clothing. Of course you don't have to go all the way. But then, if you don't, you can't be a Zulu Chief."

"Assuming I would want to become a Zulu Chief, how do we go about it?" asked Mark.

"Why don't we just show you," said Todd. "You can always stop if it gets too much for you."

Under Todd's direction the mess table was pushed aside and the boys arranged themselves in a loose circle, alternating nationalities, Canadian beside American. They sat on the deck, some with their legs spread, others stretched