After leaving Aurora, The Phantom drove directly home where he stripped, had a shower, and then went out to the pool where he swam lap after lap, stopping only when it began to rain. Not bothering to dress, The Phantom went into the living room and sat in the overstuffed chair his father always called his chair, and thought about what he planned on doing and about what Ray had told him.

Ray’s words had both pleased and disturbed The Phantom. He had no doubt that Ray, when and if he found out what would be done tomorrow night, would stand by and support him in every way.

Chef had spoken of walking darker paths. The Phantom was about to place his foot on the darkest path of all and he was prepared, and determined, to continue down the path, just as he was also prepared to face whatever obstacles barred the path. He needed no reminder from the Twins to realize that sneaking into the Petty Officers Mess, and seducing Little Big Man, was entering difficult and dangerous territory. The Phantom was fully persuaded that it was the only way to force Paul Greene into an inexorable position that would ensure his silence. The Phantom’s only fear was that if his plan failed how the boys would react. Ray loved him, as did Joey and Randy. But for all their love, would the boys who had been with him on the sailing trip, the boys he worked with, the boys who had befriended him, understand why he had to seduce Little Big Man?

Would they really understand?

******

Harry lay smiling contentedly on the floor of the Unwinding Room, the worn blue carpet cushioning his butt, his head resting against one of the cushions that had been, somehow, knocked from the settee above. Beside him lay the Twins, Cory cradled on his right, Todd on his left. As Cory caressed Harry’s right nipple, Todd caressed Harry’s left. Their heads rested on Harry’s broad shoulders. Cory’s right leg, crooked, rested atop Harry’s right leg; Todd’s left leg, crooked, rested atop Harry’s left leg. Their penises, warm and soft, were draped casually across his thighs. Harry’s broad right hand cupped Cory’s firm, melon-shaped butt while his left hand stroked Todd’s firm and comely bum cheek. All three boys exuded a roseate aura as they basked in the afterglow of what had been a night that dreams were made of. Tonight had been the culmination of their desires. Harry, for the first time, now knew the joy of sex with boys his own age.

For the Twins, their whispered confidences of curiosity about Harry had been proven true. He was indeed a gentle, considerate, wonderful, giant of a lover.

There was a low rumble of thunder in the distance and a flash of lightning briefly lit the room. “I wonder what time it is,” murmured Harry.

“Who cares?” returned Cory. His hand drifted downward and enveloped Harry’s soft penis. At almost the same time Todd’s hand moved and encompassed Harry’s large, oval testicles.

Harry whimpered and squirmed as Cory’s finger found his ultra-sensitive, crisply curving glans of his now quiet penis. “Oh, Jesus, no!” groaned Harry loudly as the jolt of exquisite electricity coursed through him. His penis jerked and his testicles twitched in response to Cory’s touch. Reluctantly Harry left each Twin’s butt cheek and pushed himself forward. Cory and Todd protested at Harry’s dislodging them. Harry very quickly shut them up by kissing each in turn; warm, deep kisses. “As much as I hate to break up the party, we really have to go,” he said as he left Todd’s still-willing lips.

The Twins responded by pulling him back and hugging him as tightly as possible. “It was a hell of a party,” giggled Cory. “I don’t think I can walk.”

Todd glared at his brother, and then kissed Harry’s cheek. “It was wonderful, Harry. Thank you.”

Harry smiled and shook his head. “No, it’s me that should be doing the thanking.” He gave the Twins a hug. “I never knew until tonight how wonderful making love to another guy, and him making love to me, could be.”

“No regrets?” asked Cory.

“No regrets,” confirmed Harry. “Before, when I was with Stefan, we just did little boy stuff. When I was with Greg, it was still little boy stuff.”

“And now?” asked Todd as he pulled away from Harry.

Harry grinned. “Now, well, let’s just say that I have never been happier. Now I know what it’s like to be really loved and to love. I now know how to express my love physically.”

“You’re very good, Harry, the best I’ve ever been with,” said Cory as he extricated himself from Harry’s arms. He smiled at his brother and Todd heard the unspoken words: except Todd.

“You shouldn’t lie, Cory,” returned Harry gently. “You feel the same way about Todd as I feel about Stefan. You might fight like furies but no one will ever be able to replace Todd in your life.”

Cory could feel himself blushing while Todd was equally embarrassed and squirmed slightly. “Aw, Harry,” muttered Cory.

“Don’t argue, ’cause it’s true, you lucky dog!” replied Harry firmly. “Now where are my shorts?” He sat on the settee and reached out his arms. The Twins responded, stood, and waited as he kissed each boy’s smooth, golden stomach in turn, then nibbled gently at the warm, pink heads of their penises. “Thank you for showing me how to love, and for making love to me.” He looked up and gazed into their eyes. “Thank you for making love to me, and thank you for not having just sex with me.”

The Twins pulled away and sorted out the clothing that littered the deck. “It was always going to be more than just sex, Harry,” replied Todd as he pulled on his shorts. “We never lied to you. We always wanted to be with you and we always wanted to make love to you.”

Harry chuckled as the fabric of his briefs crossed his still sensitive glans. “You love me enough to do it again?” he asked as he slipped into his shorts.

“Dear God, we’ve created a sex fiend!” Cory laughed as he pulled on his shorts and searched for his T-shirt. “We’ll never get rid of him now!”

“Aw, come on, you know what I mean,” protested Harry. “I have never felt this way about anybody before.”

Todd looked thoughtful. “And Stefan?” he asked quietly.

Harry returned Todd’s thoughtful look. “I still love him. I always will. But there is not going to be anything between him and me for at least five years.”

“Five years? He’ll be, what, eighteen then?” asked Cory.

Harry nodded. “We talked, like I told you we did. We agreed that when he’s eighteen, I’d go wherever he is. If he still feels the same way about me, we’ll make love.”

“And in the mean time?” asked Cory. He deliberately did not ask Harry what would happen if Stefan did not feel the same way as he did now.

“In the mean time I’ll wait.” Harry began moving toward the door. “I’m not going looking for guys to sleep with.”

“There will be temptations, Harry,” offered Todd. “There will be guys who will want to put the moves on you.”

Harry shrugged and switched off the lamp. “For the next five years The Pride puts to sea only for people I care about. I care about you and Cory,” he said firmly. “As for the others, well, the Pride will be in dry dock.”

******

“I admire your determination, Harry, but let’s be reasonable about this. You are one hell of a good looking guy,” said Cory as they stood in the lobby and peered into the rain swept darkness. He coughed delicately. “There is also Greg.”

Harry stared straight ahead. “Greg is no longer a consideration.”

The Twins recognized the icy tone that brooked no reply. Greg’s total collapse had hurt Harry and so far as he was concerned Greg was no longer worth his effort.

They stood, watching the rain, until finally Harry sighed heavily. “We better get going. I have no idea what time it is and all we need is for the Band to show up and find us.”

“The Band? What band?” Todd asked.

“The assembled drum beaters, horn blowers, cymbal bangers and flute tooters collectively known as the Band,” replied Harry impatiently. “We have a practice this morning, and tomorrow morning, and every fucking morning!”

“Oh, we didn’t know that,” said Todd. “We better hit the road then.”

“We’ll get wet! It’s pouring out there!” whined Cory.

“So? You ain’t sugar, you won’t melt,” replied Todd, his voice totally lacking in sympathy.

“We’ll have to walk,” continued Cory. “It’s not like we can call a cab!”

“Walking will do us good,” returned Harry, a smile turning the corner of his lips. “We can all shower at the same time because, guys, we all stink and, to be honest, you two give new meaning to the phrase ‘fill ’er up!’.”

Todd pulled open the door and stepped into the rain. “Jesus, Harry, that was crude.”

Harry laughed. “That’s me, crude and rude but speaking the truth.” He held out his hand unnecessarily. “Say, this ain’t bad. It’s not too cold at all.” As they skirted the edge of the Mess Hall and hurried down the path leading to the Drill Shed Harry had an idea. “You know, this is a Godsend. We all need a shower and the Good Lord has provided!”

“We all had a shower,” grumbled Cory. “Remember, we all stood in a big room and water came out for three minutes. Then that rat ass Val blew his fucking whistle and we all got out.”

“True,” agreed Harry. “However, first of all I didn’t get clean. How anybody can be expected to get really clean in three minutes escapes me. Second of all, in case you’ve forgotten, we have been pretty strenuously engaged in Fleet exercises.” Harry grinned at each Twin in turn. “And third of all I think we should show Val just how much we appreciate him and his whistle.”

“Is he thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Cory as he grinned at Todd.

Todd snickered evilly. “He are, he are indeed!”

******

Tyler was lying peacefully in his bunk, his hand down the front of his briefs, dreaming erotic dreams, when what sounded like the Second Battle of Dieppe erupted next door in the Gunroom. He listened groggily as Harry - it was Harry bellowing - roused the Gunroom. From the other side of the bulkhead they could hear yells, screams, squeals and curses of every known denomination.

Thumper let out a pitiable howl. “God Damn You! That hurt, Harry!”

“Hey look, Nicholas has a hard on!” came Jon’s voice.

“Nicholas has a hard on, Nicholas has a hard on,” chortled the Twins in unison.

“And it sure is a beaut!” crowed Two Strokes.

“How the fuck would you know?” snapped Nicholas.

There came the sound of more running and giggling, then the sound of heavy feet pounding past the door. “I do not know what they are up to, and I do not want to know,” muttered Val. He pulled his sheet over his head. “If they come in tell them I’m on duty. Maybe they won’t notice me.”

“Coward!” snarled Tyler.

“Fuckin’ Aye on that!” returned Val. “You’re the Master-At-Arms. Do something!”

Before Tyler could say a word, the door flew open with an almighty crash. He looked up and saw, looming in the doorway, the tall, broad form of Harry, a tall, broad, naked Harry. “Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum,” intoned Harry loudly, “I smell fresh Sicilian bum!”

Val, who knew what had happened to Cory’s bum, quickly skittered to the end of his bed, cowering against the bulkhead. He held his sheet over his body as if it were some form of anti-Harry armour. “Stay away from me, Harry,” Val howled loudly. “I’m the second ranking cadet, damn it! I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . inviolate!”

Harry’s laughing roar was so loud it set the window to shaking in its frame. He slowly trod the short distance from the door to Val’s bed where he slowly pulled away the sheet. Then he bent down and flung Val over his shoulder.

“Harry, put me down, GOD DAMN IT!” Val roared. He looked around Harry’s neck and glared at Tyler, who hadn’t moved. “Do something, you great useless, redheaded tit!”

Harry slapped Val’s well-formed ass soundly. “Silence, Valchick! Tonight you are to be sacrificed to the gods of the wind and the rain!”

“Fuck the gods! Put me down!” ordered Val. He began struggling as he felt Harry’s free hand slowly pulling down his boxers. “Hey, no, stop it! Leave my shorts alone!”

“The gods demand that their sacrifice be as he was born. They also demand that he be a virgin! So it is written, so let it be done!” boomed Harry in reply.

Val almost choked. “I’m not a virgin! Honest, I am not a virgin!” he wailed as Harry carried him through the doorway.

“It is also written that you be attended by a virgin of lesser rank.” Harry laughed maniacally. “Since we ain’t got one, Tyler will have to do!” Tyler cringed as he heard Harry’s laughing bellow, “Get ’im, boys!”

Before he could even think of defending himself, Tyler was set upon by at least six other cadets. He felt willing hands tugging at his tighty-whiteys. He hooted in vain as his briefs were pulled down around his ankles, then pulled off. He knew that the Twins were involved when two pairs of hands gave his genitals a quick grope. Struggling, threatening damnation and charges, Tyler felt himself being lifted and carried from the Mess on the shoulders of the cadets.

Outside it was pouring rain. Tyler looked around frantically and saw Harry parading around the yard, a struggling, yelling Val still on his shoulder. “Harry, I am the Cadet Chief Gunnery Instructor!” yelled Val pompously. “I demand that you release me! I demand that you let me go!”

“Okay,” replied Harry in sudden acquiescence. He dropped Val into a huge, muddy puddle of water.

Val landed flat on his ass, sending a huge spray of water into the air. When the spray subsided the assembled cadets saw that he was covered from stem to gudgeon with muddy water, the rain coursing in small rivulets down his firm chest.

Tyler, while shocked at Val’s treatment, did not dare protest too much. The last time he had protested he’d ended up in this very yard with the door barred against him. At least this time there were no American Sea Cadets to add insult to injury. He wasn’t sure just what sin Val or he had committed but he was not about to tempt fate. He meekly allowed himself to be lowered into the puddle beside Val. Then he took his frustration out on his roommate. “I’m not a virgin, I’m not a virgin!” he whined, imitating Val’s wail of despair. He sneered contemptuously. “Your next time will be your first time!” Then he gave Val his best “another fine mess you’ve gotten us into” look.

Harry squatted in front of Tyler and Val. Tyler stifled a groan at the sight of Harry’s pendulous genitals, still large and enticing despite the soaking they had received. “Tyler, Val, the boys are just a little upset about the whistle,” Harry said solemnly.

“Whistle? What whistle?” demanded Tyler in a high-pitched, disbelieving squeal. He was trying hard not to look at the Pride as it waved slowly back and forth in front of his face.

“The little whistle Val blows when the lads are having a shower. It is most inconvenient when he does that.”

“Harry, I will personally take a fire axe to your balls!” yelled Val. He struggled to stand but Harry pushed him back. This time the tidal wave engulfed him and Tyler.

“Val, please don’t provoke him,” begged Tyler. “You know what he’s like when he’s provoked!” He looked at Harry. “Harry, do you mean to tell me that you clowns woke us up, dragged us out of bed at some ungodly hour . . .” Tyler mentally promised himself that he would kill Harry at the earliest opportunity.

“It’s just gone 0330,” put in Fred, who thought that this was even more fun than when they had thrown Tyler into the yard.

“No matter!” growled Tyler as he waved his arms. Then he asked, “All because Val was blowing his fucking whistle?”

“Yes, it is most inconvenient,” repeated Harry, “so inconvenient that we all decided to speak to you about it.”

“Speak to me? Speak to me?” sputtered Tyler. “Harry, when I get up I swear . . .”

“You’ll wash my back?” Harry bent forward and gave Tyler a quick peck on the lips. “But just above the waist. The Pride is very tender tonight.”

“Harry you are a total fucking pervert!” Tyler scoured his lips with the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t go near the Pride if I got paid for it and . . .” The sound of laughter pulled him up short. He looked around and saw Two Strokes, Thumper, Nicholas, Fred, Jon, Chris, Greg and the Twins happily scrubbing away, their slim, tanned bodies covered in soap. Tyler started to laugh. Val gave him a sour look. “Come on, Val, it’s a leg pull.” Tyler reached out his hand. “Come on, my brother.”

Tyler and Val struggled to their feet and were immediately handed bars of soap. “I’ve never washed in the rain,” said Val as he began soaping up.

Harry, who was busy shampooing his hair, grinned. “They say rainwater leaves the skin soft and supple.”

“Including the Pride?” Val asked with a leer.

“The Pride soft and supple?” growled Harry, feigning terror. Then he grinned expansively. “Only when it’s sleeping, and sometimes . . .” He waggled his eyes, and returned Val’s leer salaciously. “Not even then!”

******

Not unexpectedly, all the noise had attracted onlookers. Andy had been trying to sleep when he heard all the shouting and tumult. He stuck his head out of the cabin window and, while he couldn’t see too much, he could see the end result. Kyle woke up and saw Andy’s rear end sticking into the cabin. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What’s going on out there?”

Andy pulled himself back into the room and walked to his locker. He took the towel that he kept hanging there and threw it over his shoulder. “The boys are washing in the rain, which is not a bad idea, actually.” He reached into his locker and pulled out his shampoo and soap. “We did it in Nam. It’s a hell of a lot better than a three-minute shower.” He started to walk toward the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Kyle softly.

Andy shrugged. “Just outside. I think I’ll have a wash.”

Kyle pushed aside his sheet and swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Our showers are working, you know.”

“I know.”

Kyle stood up and walked to where Andy was standing. He put his arms around Andy’s waist and gently kissed Andy’s shoulder. “Forgive me?” Kyle’s hand began moving down Andy’s firm stomach. “I’m sorry.”

Andy groaned at Kyle’s warm touch. He leaned his head back and Kyle kissed his neck. Andy growled low, “God, I’ve missed that!”

Kyle nuzzled Andy’s neck, murmuring, “I love you, you stubborn, bull-headed Bootneck!”

“Gyrene,” corrected Andy. “American, remember?”

“Yeah,” breathed Kyle. “I still love you.”

Andy turned, his erection pushing out the front of his boxers. “And I love you, you dozy Canuck!”

Kyle chuckled. “Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“I really could use some help in washing my back.”

******

Dinner, which was held in one of the two most formal rooms of the house, was quiet. Michael ate sparingly, but then he always did. The Major, a mean trencherman, fell to with a will. The Gunner, preoccupied with his own thoughts, emulated Michael.

Between courses The Gunner admired the Georgian splendour of the room. It was completely panelled in natural oak carved in the classical style, painted white, with fielded panels set between Corinthian pilasters. Under the cornice of the plaster-ornamented ceiling a frieze of delicately carved sheaves and festoons ran around the room. Directly over the long, polished sheen of the satinwood table hung a huge, gold chandelier. Around the room, to complement the chandelier, five-light sconces were fitted onto the panels between the columns.

Each end of the dining room was dominated by matching fireplaces, the wooden mantels and surrounds carved in the manner of Grinling Gibbons. Above one mantel hung Gainsborough’s The Harvest Wagon. Above the other mantel, pale in comparison to the magnificence facing it, hung Fitz Hugh Lane’s The Ship Starlight.

The huge windows of the room overlooked the gardens, and were hung with curtains of yellow moiré. The delicate Sheraton chairs were covered with deep blue, silk chintz. The furniture rested on a blue, white and red patterned Wilton carpet.

The food, expertly served by Nigel and two other equally competent young men, was cooked to perfection. Michael might live conservatively, but he lived well. After dinner they retired to what Major Meinertzhagen called the small drawing room, yet another masterpiece of English architecture and decoration, primarily in the manner of the Adams Brothers.

The plain, broad surfaces of the walls were painted pastel blue, contrasting the carved wood enrichments of the chair rail and skirting that formed a dado. Not unexpectedly, fine paintings hung from the walls, portraits for the most part of men and women who could not possibly have been ancestors of their owner. Patched, bewigged, satin and silk clad aristocrats looked arrogantly down. Over the carved marble chimneypiece, looking embarrassed and out of place, was Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Rabbi.

Michael indicated that they should sit on the chairs and sofa grouped around the fireplace. Nigel and one of the footmen served coffee and offered cognac and cigars. The Gunner accepted the coffee, but declined the cigars. They made him queasy.

“Well, Stephen, or should I call you Chancellor?” began Michael when the door closed on Nigel and the other servant.

The Gunner smiled. “I much prefer it to ‘The Most High, the Most Mighty’!”

Michael chuckled. “A matter of formality. Mind, Rick does get carried away at times.”

“He’s a good man, Michael, we’re very lucky to have him with us,” replied The Gunner.

“Would that there were more like him,” replied Michael with a slight nod of his head. “Sadly we are overburdened by the Willoughbys and Hunters.”

“And the Simpsons,” spat The Major contemptuously. “Of all the low born, cretinous, amoral creatures it has been my misfortune to know . . .”

Michael’s raised hand stopped the Major’s tirade. “Nature will take its course with him. He is of no consequence.”

“There are nine men who are!” retorted Major Meinertzhagen hotly. “And we all know who put them up to it!”

Michael sat in silence for a few minutes. “We have more important matters to concern us. Let us not disturb ourselves about men who are more interested in money that they are in the Order.”

“Willoughby bribed them?” asked The Gunner softly.

“Of course,” replied Michael equably. “He also used confidential information to persuade them that it would be in their best interest to oppose me.”

“Willoughby is a fool,” observed the Major with venom. “Hunter is as bad.”

Michael agreed. “They want to maintain the status quo. They have power and fear losing it. They know they cannot influence those around me, so they plan on using any means in their power to thwart me.”

The Gunner considered Michael’s words. “Today nine, tomorrow another two or three?”

Michael laughed aloud. “How astute of you, Stephen.” He slapped the arm of his chair. “Willoughby is no fool. He knows, as I know, that the Order has degenerated into little more than a gentleman’s club. Oh, they will rouse themselves when one of their own makes a fool of himself with a Grenadier in Hyde Park. But let one sailor be found in flagrante with the Captain’s tiger and they aren’t interested. Which is exactly the opposite of what we are supposed to be doing!”

“They will suborn as many as they can, Michael,” warned the Major.

“I expect they will. They will fail.” Michael motioned for another drink. The Gunner did the honours.

When he returned to his chair The Gunner looked at Michael. “You seem very calm about it, Michael. I have the impression that Willoughby will use every dirty trick he can think of, bribery, past indiscretions that won’t bear seeing the light of day, or the newspapers. Fear can make a man do things he would not ordinarily do.”

“Quite right,” spoke up the Major. “The Percy Simpsons aside, the majority of the men in that room today are men of substance and position, in society, in politics.” He looked at The Gunner. “And in the military. They are almost all of them homosexual. Exposure is what they fear most. We have all seen what could happen.”

Michael looked at both men. “Do you trust my word?” he asked quietly.

Both The Gunner and the Major nodded.

Michael sat back. “Then trust me when I say that the Willoughbys and Hunters will have reason to regret their recent actions!”

A cold shiver ran down The Gunner’s spine.

“There are things happening, Stephen, Richard,” continued Michael calmly, “that will, with careful direction and discretion, guarantee that we will see the primary goal of the Order reached.” Michael stood up and rested his arms on the fireplace mantle. He stared at the portrait over the mantle, and then turned. He indicated the portrait. “How resigned, how patient he looks.” He sighed loudly. “I am afraid that while I have the good Rabbi’s patience, I do not have his resignation. I will not accept that we cannot make a better life for our brothers. I am, however, resigned to the fact that even if we start now, it will take years of building before the Order is as it should be.” He smiled at The Gunner. “I am afraid, Stephen, that I am about to set you a difficult task.”

The Gunner shrugged. “Michael, I gathered that when you told me that you wanted me to find one thousand Laurences.”

******

They talked far into the night, discussing Michael’s plans and The Gunner’s place in them. When he finally climbed the stairs leading to his room The Gunner’s mind was reeling and he felt exhausted. He found Laurence waiting for him. “You should be in your bed, Laurence,” said The Gunner as he took off his blazer.

Laurence took the blazer and hung it in the closet. “I am quite accustomed to keeping late hours.”

The Gunner sat on the bed and took off his shoes. “You are not a servant, Laurence.”

“Perhaps. Still, my job is to make your job as smooth as possible. Frankly, I do not envy you.”

The Gunner lay back against the pillows of the bed. “Thank you for those words of encouragement!”

Laughing softy Laurence poured The Gunner a nightcap. “Mister Michael wants you to rebuild the Order. One way or another he’s going to root out the deadwood and the riff raff.”

The Gunner nodded. “And I have to find their replacements.” He took the drink Laurence offered him and drank deeply.

“You’ve found one in me,” replied Laurence earnestly. “Thank you for signing my petition to join the Order.”

The Gunner regarded Laurence with a feeling that bordered on affection. “You are young, you are smart, and you have common sense. There is no doubt in my mind that you will make a good addition to the ranks of the Knights.” He struggled erect. “My only question is, Laurence, why?”

Laurence nodded at the decanter of cognac. “May I?”

“Fill your boots,” replied The Gunner. He moved to one of the sofas and sat down. He pointed to the sofa opposite. “Please sit down, Laurence.” He paused a moment. “And shit-can the ‘sir’ crap. I am not an officer, and my friends called me Steve, or, if they’re really close, Gunner.”

Laurence filled a glass and joined The Gunner. He smiled warmly. “I will be honoured if you consider me your friend. I am, you know.”

The Gunner raised his glass in a silent toast. “I know. You should know that I am a very loyal friend. My instincts tell me that you are as well.”

“I’ve never betrayed a friend,” replied Laurence with quiet dignity, although he was lying. “I learned a very long time ago that true friends, those who accept a man for who he is, not for what he is, are few and far between. I learned a bitter lesson, Steve, and because of it I choose my friends very carefully. I suspect you do the same.”

“I do,” confirmed The Gunner, his words tinged with sadness. “I do not give my friendship lightly. I value loyalty above everything but personal honour. I also place a high value on truth and once I extend my sometimes grubby hand in friendship all I ever ask is that you judge me for who I am, and never lie to me. I will go to the wall for my friends, no holds barred, no questions asked. My friends know this. My boys in Aurora know this.” He made a face. “I have been told that my standards are too high, that I expect too much . . .”

“Which is why Michael chose you to be his Chancellor,” interjected Laurence. “He knows that you will brook no compromise simply to pacify him, or the Major, or yourself. He knows that there will be no more Willoughbys, or Hunters or, perish the thought, Simpsons, that the men, and boys . . .” he looked pointedly at The Gunner, “you recommend will be the best, their names put forward not because of bribery, or influence, or sexual favour, but because they are the best.”

The Gunner looked embarrassed. “Laurence, I’m no saint and please do not put me on some kind of a pedestal. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was an arrant coward, when I stood by and watched a man be crucified simply for being perceived to be gay.”

Laurence looked deep into his cognac glass. His face saddened and then, tears welling in his eyes, he stared at The Gunner. “You asked me why I wanted to be a part of the Order. I want to be one of you because I too was a coward. While others stood fast and refused to compromise their principles, I stayed in the shadows and stood by and watched . . . watched a good man ruined by prejudice and hatred!”

And now the truth, thought The Gunner as he leaned forward to take Laurence’s hand. “It is all right, my friend,” he murmured.

Laurence was sobbing now. “I don’t know what good I could have done, but damn it, I should have tried!”

“But you didn’t.” The Gunner’s soft words were devoid of judgement.

“No. What made it worse, what condemns me, is that afterward, I joined in the filthy gossip, listened, and laughed, at the dirty jokes. By my silence I helped destroy a man who thought the world of me, who was my friend. I hated myself for what I had done, and when I went to beg his forgiveness, it was too late.”

“He killed himself?” asked The Gunner, dreading the answer.

Laurence took the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket, wiped his eyes, and shrugged. “He drank himself to death. He drank himself to death in a grotty bed-sitter in London. The Council buried him in a common grave with the nightly cull of derelicts and paupers.”

The Gunner thought of Hal Simmonds and the lonely grave in Fairview Cemetery that no one ever visited. “He must have been a very special man,” he murmured.

“But for him I’d more than likely be lying dead in some Vietnamese jungle and the Major would be under a rotting blanket of leaves in the jungle near Khota Baru.”

The Gunner remained silent. He took the glass from Laurence’s hand and refilled it. “I’m a good listener,” he said as he handed the glass to Laurence.

******

“His name was Chard,” began Laurence. “Andrew McAfee Chard. He was born in the Gorbals, which is a part of Glasgow you do not want to find yourself alone in at night - at times not even in the daylight! He was a typical child of the slums, malnourished, barely literate, and so thin his ribs stood out. But he had a feral intelligence that was astounding. I rather think he would have ended up a gangster because for a boy of his background there really wasn’t much in his future. He was a Gorbals Git and predestined to come to a bad end.”

“Which he didn’t?” asked The Gunner, thinking that dying a drunkard’s death could be classified as a bad end.

Laurence smiled thinly. “No, at least not the way he was supposed to end. He left Glasgow and joined the Army, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. He joined in 1939 and was sent to the Far East with the 2nd Battalion. Singapore.”

“He was one of the Ninety Argyll’s?” interjected The Gunner.

Laurence nodded. “Only ninety men and boys from the 2nd Battalion lived through the Japanese invasion of Malaya. They should not have, but they did. Some would call it sheer luck. Many would call it something else because, but for Private Chard, they would not have survived at all.”

“How so?” asked The Gunner.

“Have you ever come across people who, for reasons no one can explain, no doctor, no scientists, no one can explain the how or of the why of it, people who just have this innate, unexplainable affinity for something?” asked Laurence seriously.

“Chard was a savant? He could do things that his education, intelligence and upbringing automatically precluded him being able to do, in places he had never been before?” The Gunner had heard of such things, but had never seen them.

“The jungle! Andy Chard, for no reason anybody could think of, thrived in the jungle. It was as if he’d been born there, and lived there all his life. He could slither and slide through the muck like a native. It was astounding!”

“He trained you in jungle warfare?”

“Yes, and the Major. But that came later, after the war. Sergeant Major Chard spent much of the war in Changi Prison, and I do not have to tell you what that was like.”

“Two out of three prisoners died, from mistreatment, malnutrition and despair,” supplied The Gunner. “Not even the Vietnamese treated their prisoners as horribly as those little yellow bastards of Nippon.”

Laurence seemed not to hear The Gunner’s blatantly racist comment. “One of the ways men survived Changi was by trading with the Malays. Andy Chard would slither under the wire, into the jungle, with a few watches that the Japs had missed, or a fountain pen, a ring, anything with a little value, and come back with food and medicines. He never traded for his own account. He never profited a penny.”

“And after the war?”

“Andy stayed in the Army,” explained Laurence. “When the Malay Crisis began in 1948, and Mountbatten was setting up the Anti-Insurgency Force, later the Jungle School of Warfare, one of the first men he sent for was Colour Sergeant Chard. He trained the Major, and he trained me. He was rough, and impatient, but God did he know his job! But for him, his knowledge, and his expertise, I firmly believe we would never have put down the Communists in Malaya.”

“What happened, Laurence?”

Laurence stood and leaned against the mantelpiece, staring into the embers of the fire that The Gunner had lit earlier. “In October of 1972 we all returned to Lympstone. There had been far too many questions in Parliament, and too many articles in the gutter press about what the British Army was doing in Vietnam. So we came home. We settled into our new routine. Major Meinertzhagen was CO of 6 Commando. Chard was his Sergeant Major. My father was dying of cancer so I took some leave. While I was gone the rumours started.”

“About Chard?”

“Yes. At first there were just whisperings that ended abruptly when he came into the room. Then there were snickers and muffled laughter behind his back. Some of the younger Marines were just this side of insubordinate to him.”

“He’d been found out, obviously.” The Gunner shook his head. “I’ve seen it before, Laurence.”

“I hadn’t,” Laurence turned abruptly and sat down on the sofa. “I know how vicious the British lower class can be. But what happened to Chard went beyond viciousness.” He buried his face in his hands. “And the sad part was, all the poor man had to do was to wait a few lousy months, just four bloody months and he would have been out of it.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

Laurence raised his head. “Chard was 49. He’d spent 33 years with the Colours. He was due to retire. If he had just waited a few months before he brought his partner over . . .”

The Gunner understood. “He brought his male friend over from Malaya, and they set up housekeeping?”

“Yes. I never knew who shopped Sergeant Major Chard. He was foolish because he brought a foreigner home with him, and if there is one thing that will set the lower classes off it is a foreigner, particularly if he is one of the ‘lesser breeds’. You have not seen bigotry or racism until you’ve been to England! Anyway, by the time I returned to duty the rumours were spreading. It wasn’t, quote ‘normal’ end quote, for two men to live together. I suppose one the neighbours - they lived off base - went to the authorities. The how of it doesn’t matter, really. What followed does.”

“There was a court martial?”

“Yes and the bloody tabloid press,” Laurence spat venomously. “God, it was awful. It didn’t matter that the Sergeant Major had been given the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Medal. It didn’t matter that he’d given over thirty years of his life to the Crown, that without him many young soldiers would have died in Malaya, in Korea, that American soldiers would have floundered about the jungles until they died. None of that mattered.”

Hanging his head, overcome with emotion, Laurence continued. “When the tabloids had finished his 15-year relationship with a Malay man was common knowledge. Poor Andy Chard.” Laurence could barely keep from weeping as he remembered . . . “Andy was pilloried and without a shred of evidence damned as a pedophile who lured innocent English boys into his house. The churches got into the act, which is hardly surprising. He was proclaimed an abomination. During his court martial Andy had to be protected from the mob, quite literally.”

“His service record was not considered?” asked The Gunner, knowing what Laurence’s answer would be.

“Oh, yes. Major Meinertzhagen, who had volunteered to be ‘Accused’s Friend’, he saw that it was. He defended the Sergeant Major, you see. The Major was warned that if he stood by his Sergeant Major he could kiss his career goodbye which, as the Major is not a man who reacts well to threats, was the wrong thing to say. In his usual inimitable style the Major told the Battalion Commander exactly what he could do with the Army, and put his name down as Sergeant Major Chard’s counsel. He defended his friend as best he could. In the end, nothing did any good. Chard was dismissed the Service with Infamy. He lost all his pension rights, all his medals and decorations. Only his war service and his service to the Crown kept him out of the stockade.”

The Gunner knew that this was not the end of the story. There was one more part to be told. He stood up and placed his hand gently on Laurence’s shoulder. “Now tell me what you did.”

Laurence took a deep breath. “I turned my back on him. I was in the corridor just after the court martial ended. He came out and walked up to me and I turned my back on him! I knew what I was, I knew that I had the same feelings that he had, and I turned my back on him!”

“You rejected him,” replied The Gunner, unable to keep the coldness from his voice. “Chard was your mentor and he was your friend, and you did not want to be associated with him because if your name was linked with his, your own sexuality would become suspect. You turned your back on him out of fear that your secret would be found out.”

Laurence nodded. “I rejected him. Andy Chard was a good man, and I rejected him. I wanted to stay in the Royal Marines; I wanted to keep my secret. I saw what had happened to him and I was so afraid that no matter how remote the possibility, if I was ever found out . . .”

“Laurence, you are not the first man to let fear rule his heart and actions. You won’t be the last.”

“The Major stood up for Andy Chard. It cost him his career. He resigned rather than give tacit approval to what had happened.”

“Laurence, I understand what you did, and why you did it. That is in the past. Honour the Sergeant Major’s memory and help Michael, and me, ensure that in a future, and in a better time, the Sergeant Major Chards of this world will not be pilloried, or have their characters assassinated, or live in fear for daring to love a man.”

“I wish I could believe that,” replied Laurence morosely.

The Gunner leaned down and kissed Laurence on his forehead. “I told you, I never lie. Michael never lies. If we say we will make it happen, it will happen.”

“And I’m to help, then?”

The Gunner grinned. “You had better, or I’ve just wasted a perfectly good kiss!”

Laurence laughed and wiped the residue of his tears from his eyes. “There’s hope then?”

“Definitely. Together with the people I know, one of whom is a fearless, jug-eared, green-eyed monster, damn his eyes, we just might make it.” Laurence stood up and began to apologise for his tears. The Gunner stopped him. “Laurence, all your tears mean is that you have compassion and a soul. Every tear you shed makes you that much more determined, that much stronger.”

“My father would have disagreed with you,” replied Laurence with a slow shake of his head, “Father was also a Colour Sergeant and pounded into my brothers and me that a man never cried.”

“Well, I’m a man and I weep like a child at times.”

“Father always was an obnoxious old bastard,” observed Laurence with a wry grin.

The tiredness that had gradually been seeping through him finally took its toll. The Gunner stretched and yawned. “God, I’m tired.” He looked at Laurence. “Go to bed, Laurence, you look like hell.”

Laurence nodded his thanks. “Mr. Leung will be back in the morning to finish your fitting,” he advised.

“I can’t sleep in?” The Gunner sank onto his bed, his eyes heavy.

“No. He has to come early as he has another very important engagement in Aurora.”

The Gunner’s half-closed eyes snapped open. “The ship?”

Nodding, Laurence explained. “Your friend in Discovery only had two spare jackets. He also mentioned that the cadets would need trousers. Mr. Leung will attend to everything tomorrow.”

“God, Laurence, they’re vain enough now!”

“I had the impression that it was important for the cadets to make an impression,” said Laurence, a surprised look on his face. “If you would rather I . . .”

“No, no. Just tell Mr. Leung to look out for a large, fat cook with a wooden spoon.”

The Gunner’s eyes closed and as Laurence went around the room turning off the lamps he could hear The Gunner’s breathing slowing. Laurence drew a blanket over The Gunner and went to his own bed.

******

Saturday dawned clear and warm, the overnight rain having moved off just before sunrise. The Phantom awoke to a cooler room, and stretched, shuddering slightly. He pushed aside the sheet he had covered himself with and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He had slept soundly, and felt rested.

After showering, The Phantom went downstairs and made his breakfast. He looked around the kitchen and decided that no matter what happened tonight, he would clean the house. His parents were due home sometime tomorrow, and his mother would bitch if the place were not spotless. The refrigerator also needed restocking.

After breakfast The Phantom dressed and packed his gym bag with a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and his ski mask. He looked for his black running shoes but couldn’t find them so he threw in an old pair of black and white high tops. Then he went to work.

******

When The Phantom arrived at the galley, just after 0600, the morning routine was well under way. He greeted Ray, who was all smiles and rosy-cheeks, and not from the heat of the stoves. Kevin was busy helping Matt set the breakfast tables. The Phantom watched them for a few minutes and smiled knowingly. Kevin had a definite spring in his step.

Randy and Joey were grumpy. Chef was even grumpier, which was his normal morning condition. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John seemed happy enough, and were chattering on about all the Chiefs and Petty Officers dancing around in the rain last night, and complaining that they had been left out of the festivities. The Phantom wondered what that was all about but decided that he did not want to know!

Since Saturday morning was a normal workday the cadets were forced to undergo their usual torture by Mike and Phillip, called The Assistant. The cadets had missed their exercises the morning before and this morning they made up for it. Morning callisthenics were guaranteed to put everybody in a foul mood as the showers were still off and Harry, ably and loudly seconded by the Twins, complained that there was no point in jumping around and working up a sweat when all it got you was 200 boys smelling like an Arab’s armpit.

At 0800 Divisions were held. Harry, dissatisfied at the playing, waved his Mace at the Band and threatened a run around the parade square. The drummers waved their sticks back and threatened reprisals, type unspecified, and a good time was had by all.

In the Mess Hall, Chef grumbled that the combined smells and stinks of cooking and cadets made the Mess Hall smell like a French whorehouse in distress. He ordered that every door and window be opened to air out the place.

This lasted all of three quarters of an hour because immediately following Divisions the whole complement of cadets turned out to practice the Ceremony of the Flags, complete with the two fields guns firing merrily away in time (almost) with the music. As the guns fired in sequence a grey-white cloud of cordite-tainted smoke spiralled upward, hovered over the heads of the straining gunners and then, pushed along by the breeze blowing from the Strait, seeped into the Mess Hall. Chef was not amused, bellowing that now the entire building smelled like a Russian whorehouse in distress. He ordered that every door and window be closed to keep the stink out.

Chef’s mood was not improved when he received a telephone call from the Commanding Officer. It seemed that Father was, or was about to become, a grandfather, and could Chef arrange for Sandro to be picked up after morning services at the Courtenay synagogue? Grumbling and complaining, Chef squeezed himself into his car and drove off to fetch Sandro. Chef’s departure allowed everybody a break to scrub the morning’s mung from their bodies.

The Phantom, mildly amused at all the goings on, paced off the area he felt best suited for Monday’s dinner. He chose the corner of the dining room occupied by the officers and Chiefs tables. He decided also that by pushing the tables together he could accommodate everybody at one table. He had fully expected that the Twins would be nattering at him but they left him alone. Both knew how stubborn The Phantom could be, so had more or less given up arguing with him.

At Stand Easy the Twins came in looking for sustenance. They were trailed by a small procession of immaculately clad Asian gentlemen hauling mobile clothing racks. The Twins had been standing outside the Headquarters building, minding their own business (as much as they ever did), debating on whether or not to cadge an early lunch, when they saw the convoy of vehicles trundle slowly across the causeway, pause briefly outside the gatehouse, and stop outside the Mess Hall. Being as curious as ferrets, the Twins decided to check the strange visitors out and hurried to the Mess Hall, arriving just as the first of the strangers alit from the first vehicle in the convoy.

The Twins were greatly surprised to find that the stranger was no stranger at all. The impeccably dressed Asian gentleman, Mr. Leung, was someone that they knew (he was their Father’s tailor and had built their first suits). They were even more surprised when, after consulting a notebook, Mr. Leung asked to speak with Chief Petty Officer Lascelles.

Their curiosity now aroused to the level of cats, and since they were hungry anyway, the Twins immediately conducted Mr. Leung into the Mess Hall. After introductions, and an explanation that he was here to fit the stewards with their new jackets and uniform trousers, Mr. Leung and his staff set to work.

Mr. Leung’s assistants, needing a flat working area, commandeered one of the galley tables, a long, workmanlike, stainless steel structure that ran half the length of the galley, which annoyed Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, who had just scoured the bloody thing clean. They retired to the loading dock to peel potatoes and grumble, vowing to remuster to a less stressful trade as soon as they returned home.

To his later regret, Mr. Leung, as a matter of courtesy, asked if Master Cory or Master Todd required any tailoring assistance. The Twins, who had been planning a post-operative viewing of Ryan’s recently altered appendage (he had been released from Sick Bay in time for breakfast, which he ate with the officers, and thoroughly enjoyed being waited on hand and foot by Kevin and Matt), were never ones to let the grass grow under their feet so asked if he could look at their new Class II uniforms.

Mr. Leung immediately agreed, the Twins being old customers, not to mention sons of an even older customer. Unwittingly he offered his services to any of the cadets who might need them.

Which explained why, when Chef returned with Sandro he found his galley turned into Minsky’s backstage the evening of an all-boy review. The place was teeming with boys in their underwear, boys standing on chairs with nothing on but a pair of white trousers, a quartet of briefs-clad stewards in one corner playing cards (they were killing time waiting their turn with the tailors), and a spirited disagreement involving the Twins, Mr. Leung, Mr. Leung’s principal tailor, The Phantom, and Two Strokes, who was standing on the galley table in his underpants as all around him raged an argument as to whether or not Mr. Leung’s tailors had the expertise to give him a bum!

After assuring Sandro that this was not some quaint Canadian custom to celebrate the Summer Solstice, Chef let out a roar that was heard in the Wardroom, which brought Andy running (he was Officer of the Day). Andy, afraid that he was going to find a disaster of major proportions, instead found Chef being fawned over by a deliberately obsequious Oriental gentleman, who was introduced as Mr. Leung.

Mr. Leung, who had been dealing with difficult customers for years, insisted that Chef needed a new outfit, as did the handsome young officer. Before either Chef or Andy knew it they were being conducted to Chef’s office for private fittings (Chef having adamantly refused to remove so much as his kerchief with so many perverts standing around and gawking). Chef also insisted that Ryan’s fitting take place in private.

This put Ryan in a pet. He saw no reason at all to be sequestered. Not only had Doc removed the bandage from his dick, the swelling had started to go down, and while his penis was quite red - not unexpected - it was well hidden by the borrowed boxers shorts (which Kevin had requisitioned from Chad) that he was wearing. After Chef threatened to paddle his backside with a wooden spoon, Ryan was led into Chef’s office.

Tyler and Val, who had spent the morning bickering over the guest seating plan for the upcoming final parade, wandered in, looking for the Twins and the assorted gunners and bandsmen who were supposed to be out on the parade square practising their drill. Mr. Leung, with his usual charm soon had them standing in line waiting for their Class II uniforms to be fitted.

Randy and Joey, promised chef’s uniforms, grew bored with the waiting and decided to appoint themselves angle of the dangle inspectors and took to standing directly in front of the stewards and cadets as they removed their shorts or trousers for their fittings. This earned them, amongst other things, a swipe from Tyler (he missed); a threat to do something terrible to them from Sandro (which, since he made the threat in Russian, they didn’t understand a word of); and a stern lecture from The Phantom. They retorted that he was just pissed off because he was wearing boxers and not eligible to be in a dangle contest, which he would lose because he didn’t have that much of a dangle to begin with!

The Phantom banished Randy and Joey to the dining room where they busied themselves with setting out the salads for lunch, which as it turned out, everybody had forgotten about. Fortunately there was plenty of hot soup, cold meats, salads, bread and rolls so nobody went hungry, although more than a few of the cadets having lunch thought it a little odd that half the galley staff served wearing nothing but an apron and their underpants, with the Master-At-Arms standing atop the galley table, in his underpants, negative apron.

After lunch everybody but the unlucky souls detailed as Afternoon Watchmen cleaned into their going ashore rigs: white bell-bottoms, gunshirts, polished boots and caps. There followed a run on the Ship’s Bank, as everybody wanted to do some shopping. Anson, who was Duty, and flush with cash, offered loans until payday, at rates just slightly less than usurious.

At 1330 the buses that would carry everybody into town arrived. The Twins, who had to pay for and pick up their T-shirt order, conned Nicholas into taking the ship’s van and they left with the Yeoman and André (which set the Twins to wondering just how close the two were).

Chef, with everybody but The Phantom ashore, decided to visit the Base. The menu cards for Monday’s dinner were ready, as were the meal chits The Phantom had designed. He gave The Phantom the balance of the day off. There was some sort of festival going on in town and the cadets would eat supper ashore so there was no point in The Phantom hanging around.

Before returning home, The Phantom stopped off at the local IGA and shopped. When he got home he put away his purchases, had a quick dip in the pool, and then set to cleaning the house, which was not as dirty as he thought. He hadn’t spent all that much time at home since his parents left, so the house was more cluttered than dirty. He tidied up the living room and dining room, scrubbed the kitchen floor, vacuumed downstairs, did a washing and had another swim. He had been so busy with his chores he lost track of time so was surprised that it was 1830 before he knew it.

The Phantom returned to Aurora, ostensibly to help with the kai and to make sandwiches for the cadets to eat after the movie being shown in the Drill Shed ended. After greeting Anson, whose loan sharking operation had been busted by his brother Phillip, called The Assistant, and assigned extra duty as Gate Guard, The Phantom drove on to the Mess Hall.

The Twins, not at all interested in The Sound of Music, had seen The Gunner’s car, and had come into the galley. When Chef went over to check out the popcorn supply in the canteen they listened patiently while The Phantom explained that he needed them to be outside the Gunroom around 0100. When Cory asked where he would be The Phantom replied that he was going to take a nap. The Twins left, shaking their heads, their nervousness building and wondering how The Phantom could be so calm.

******

Shortly after Lights Out, the Twins took up their usual position on the barracks stoop and waited with increasing nervousness for The Phantom to make his appearance. Cory bitched and whined about feeling cold until Todd, who was as jumpy as a cat, threatened to hit him if he didn’t go inside and put on a sweater.

As the hours passed they began to hope that The Phantom had come to his senses and changed his mind. Their hopes were dashed when they heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path and The Phantom walked out of the darkness and into the dim circle of light cast by the single light bulb over the barracks door. Reluctantly, the Twins followed The Phantom to the other end of the barracks where, as The Phantom began taking off his clothes, Todd tried once more to convince The Phantom to forget his mission.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” began Todd as he took The Phantom’s jeans from him.

“Yes, Todd, I am” replied The Phantom, the quaver in his voice revealing his nervousness. He slipped on his mask. “I just hope you two know what you’re talking about.”

“Phantom, maybe we should just forget the whole idea,” replied Todd, hoping that Phantom would listen to reason.

The Phantom shook his head. “Todd, this has to be done. I take no pleasure in doing it, really. Going in there and helping Little Big Man to pop his puppy is not high on my list of things to do.” He shivered, though the night was warm. “I just hope The Gunner never finds out about this.”

Cory was about to reply that The Gunner would, sooner or later, find out about what happened this night but thought better of it. Like his brother, he still did not agree with what The Phantom was about to do. “Maybe Todd is right, Phantom. Maybe we’re wrong. If Little Big Man starts screaming rape while you’re in there we are all fucked.”

“No,” spat The Phantom in an explosive whisper. “I’ve done this before. If he starts resisting I’ll be out of there so fast he won’t see anything but shadows.”

“And if he responds?” asked Todd.

“Then I will do what I came to do. If you’re right, Paul will respond and we’ll have him right where we want him.” The Twins opened their mouths to voice their misgivings. The Phantom silenced them with a look. “We have to give him a dose of his own medicine. Nobody can do anything about his letter writing or calling home and spreading lies. If boning him will get him off Matt’s back, and yours, then it’s got to be done. You know as well as I do that after Matt said what he said the little bastard is going to make life hell for him. If Paul goes home and tells his stories to the wrong people sooner or later there is going to be an investigation. Not even The Gunner’s friends can keep it from happening forever.”

“Still . . .” began Todd tentatively.

“There is no still or anything else.” The Phantom put his arms around his friends’ shoulders. “Cory, Todd, I love you two. You made me see things in myself that I only guessed at. You mean so much to me that sometimes I just stand and look at you and think, fuck, these are my friends, and I am so fucking proud that you call me your friend.”

Cory’s lips caressed The Phantom’s. “More than that, Phantom,” he murmured throatily, “much more than that!”

Todd nodded firmly. His lips met The Phantom’s and they kissed a firm, warm, wonderful kiss, a kiss that only a man can give to a man, a kiss that transcends sexuality and embodies all the warmth and love one man can feel for another. “Phantom, we know how you feel about us and we know how much we mean to you. We also know how we feel about you. We love you, yes. But it’s more that just love. I don’t know how to describe it. What we feel is way beyond love. Phantom, please, understand that we can’t ask you to go on with this. We don’t want you to go on with this. If you love us, please, let’s get you dressed and then we can leave.”

The Phantom raised his head and shook it. He was close to tears. “No, Todd. I am going to do it. I have to. If there is an investigation you and Cory will be named. So will Harry, and Chris, and Jon, and some others. I cannot, I will not let that happen. They’d find out about Harry and Stefan. Harry could go to jail! They would find out about my Gunner and me. They would throw him out of the Navy, and that would kill him. I won’t let that happen. I won’t let that little fuck ruin so many lives. I am not being noble. I’m shit scared for you, and Cory, and my Gunner, for all of the guys.”

Cory patted The Phantom’s shoulder. He was weeping quietly. The Phantom hugged him, and then he hugged Todd. “It has to be done, Todd,” he said with conviction. “Once it is done you have to make sure that Little Big Man knows that you know it happened. If it takes blackmail to get him to back off, then we blackmail him. We fight him with his own weapons.”

Cory sniffled and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. “I just want you to be safe, damn it!” he managed.

“Cory, please, I can’t stand it when you cry!” whispered The Phantom. He looked at Todd. “Todd, I will be all right. I won’t take any chances. Just you two cover your asses.”

******

The Phantom was ready. He was stripped down to what Cory called the bare essentials: black boxers and black T-shirt. Over his head was a black wool ski mask that covered his features. “Now, remember, Phantom,” began Todd as he adjusted the ski mask. “Mike and Phillip are on duty until about 0330.” He kissed The Phantom again, and hugged his friend close. “Jack, Willy and Mal are at the far end of the Mess, and there’s a wall of lockers between you and them.”

Cory, not to be left out, embraced both his brother and The Phantom. “Little Big Man sleeps like the dead,” he told The Phantom. “It might take a while for him to realize what you’re doing, so be patient.” Cory nuzzled The Phantom’s neck.

“Don’t you worry,” said The Phantom, pushing the Twins away. “I’ll make this a night to remember, and no danger.”

“Just be careful,” warned Cory. “If he starts yelling rape get the fuck out of there, and I mean fast. Don’t hesitate, just get!”

“I will,” assured The Phantom. “Now you guys get going. If Mike or Phillip decides to do Rounds you have got to be in your bunks, sleeping like little children.”

The Phantom turned to enter the Petty Officers Mess. Todd called him back. “Here,” he whispered hoarsely, pushing a small, black plastic object into The Phantom’s hand. It was the size of a small pocket book.

“What’s this?” asked The Phantom turning the object over in his hands.

“A tape recorder,” supplied Cory. “We bought in when we were in town.”

“What for? You want me to play mood music?” snapped The Phantom, his high-pitched tone reflecting his nervousness.

“Hardly,” replied Todd calmly. “We can’t take pictures, so you will have to record everything that happens in there.”

“There’s no microphone,” observed The Phantom.

Todd shook his head. “It’s built in. Just put in on the deck, or under the bed. If Little Big Man’s bed is under a window, the ledge would be good. The recorder is top of the line.”

“A Sony,” supplied Cory needlessly.

Todd ignored his brother and continued on. “The tape is good for two hours. Assuming that your plan works we will need something concrete to convince the little prick that his secret is out.”

The Phantom nodded his understanding. “How does it work?”

Todd reached out and held his thumb over the record button. “Just depress this button.” He looked at The Phantom pleadingly. “Phantom . . .”

“It’s to be done,” snapped The Phantom. He reached out, took the recorder into both his hands and depressed the record button. He nodded abruptly and walked away.

The Twins watched him go, and then retreated into the shadows of the forest. They held each other as they waited. They were both determined that if The Phantom went down, so would they.

******

Just inside the doorway of the Petty Officers Mess, The Phantom paused, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. To his right The Phantom saw that the two bunks usually occupied by the Mike and Phillip, called The Assistant were, as expected, empty. In his little walled-off cubicle Little Big Man was in bed, curled in a ball under the thin coverlet. Smiling thinly, The Phantom noted that Little Big Man’s bed was directly under a window.

The Phantom set the tape recorder on the window ledge, barely hearing the soft whirr as the tape travelled across the recording heads. He remained still, listening for any untoward movements from the other end of the Mess, then stripped off his T-shirt. Hearing nothing but the sound of Little Big Man’s breathing and the whirr of the tape recorder, The Phantom reached into his boxers, stroked himself erect, then quickly pushed down his boxers and crawled into the bunk. He moulded his body to Little Big Man’s, his erection filling the valley of Paul’s briefs-covered bottom.

The Phantom reached around and put his hand down the front of Little Big Man’s white briefs, feeling his small dick and quail-egg sized balls. Little Big Man stirred and The Phantom began squeezing gently and rubbing his thumb across Little Big Man’s curving helmet. Little Big Man’s cock reacted to the stimulation of The Phantom’s hand and rose, a thin shaft topped by a smooth, curving head, stiff and hard, near to five inches of warm, excited flesh.

Deep within his sleeping brain Little Big Man felt the Beast that was his true, inner self, stirring.

The Phantom continued to rub Little Big Man’s growing erection through his underpants. Little Big Man slowly rolled on his back, muttering quietly.

The Beast, its slumber disturbed, growled dangerously low.

The Phantom pulled back the coverlet and positioned himself between Little Big Man’s legs. He began licking and sucking the small tent in Little Big Man’s white briefs, taking in the faint odours of the skinny boy who was now writhing under his touch.

For all his faults Little Big Man was very fastidious about his personal hygiene, and The Phantom smelled freshly washed cotton, soap, and a peculiar mixture of musk and body oils, not at all offensive, in fact, slightly sweet. He pulled Little Big Man’s underpants down and threw them to one side. He began to finger Little Big Man’s rosebud, smiling as the boy bucked and writhed, his stiff cock jerking. He pushed Little Big Man’s legs up and apart, then bent down and took the small balls and cock into his mouth.

As he suckled, The Phantom ran his tongue around and over Little Big Man’s balls, feeling the soft hairs that covered them just where they joined the shaft. By now Little Big Man was aware that he was being sucked on. He groaned softly.

The Beast was fully loose now, roaring, and clawing the air.

Little Big Man raised his hips and the warm, wet mouth left him, then returned, engulfing his throbbing penis. The Phantom, Little Big Man’s small cock fully in his mouth, sucked slowly and gently, his tongue ravaging the small knot of scar tissue just under the gentle curve of Little Big Man’s helmet. Little Big Man began thrusting fiercely, then stopped. His body arched and his dick exploded, sending three watery streams of surprisingly sweet tasting semen rocketing down The Phantom’s throat. For such a little guy with such small parts, Little Big Man had a surprisingly large reservoir of sperm and he continued to pump massive amounts.

The Phantom swallowed and then licked Little Big Man’s rapidly shrinking penis clean. Little Big Man moaned in ecstasy as The Phantom left his dick and lay on top of him. Their mouths met and opened, tongues lashing, their mouths sucking, Little Big Man for the first time tasting cum, his own cum. His arms reached out and embraced the strange body that had given him so much pleasure. He felt a hand reach down and stroke his still hard dick. He felt the wonderful mouth leave his, then felt it once again find his cock.

The Beast, not yet sated, still rumbled its pleasure.

Using a combination of his saliva and the precum that leaked in rivers from the arrowhead shaped glans of his penis, The Phantom lubricated Little Big Man’s hard, pulsing penis. Kneeling, he positioned himself directly over Little Big Man’s crotch, holding the boy’s stiff boner straight up, and then lowered himself.

Little Big Man gasped and opened his eyes as his cock entered the body that towered above him. For a brief moment he saw the mask-covered face . . .

The Beast roared and overwhelmed its master.

For The Phantom there was no pain, and very little pleasure. Little Big Man’s cock had slid into his channel easily. He began moving his hips up and down, stopping when just the head of Little Big Man’s cock was still in him. He clenched his ass muscles, which caused the groaning boy to writhe and thrust. The Phantom pushed down and then pulled up, slowly sending Little Big Man hurtling toward the cliff. He felt Little Big Man’s stiffy expand slightly, and then the warm gush of semen.

Little Big Man’s second ejaculation was almost as large as his first. He thrust avidly, the nerve endings on his dick screaming as his juice spewed forth.

The Beast howled as the great pleasure set it to slavering and slashing the air.

When Little Big Man’s tumescence stopped twitching and began to shrink, The Phantom moved away and stood at the head of the bed. He reached down and pulled Little Big Man onto his side.

Concerned that Little Big Man would react adversely to performing what he had always loudly proclaimed to be filthy and perverted, The Phantom hesitated before he pushed his hard on down, content with rubbing the throbbing head of his penis along Little Big Man’s thin lips, prepared just to tease the squirming boy, and prepared to pull back quickly when . . .

The Beast clawed the air, its appetite barely whet.

Little Big Man man’s tongue flicked out and tasted the minute drop of precum that had oozed from The Phantom’s pee slit. A low moan escaped Little Big Man’s lips and he reached out and grasped The Phantom’s butt cheeks.

Mad with lust the Beast howled louder and its claws slashed the air.

Before The Phantom could react, Little Big Man pulled him forward, his dick plunging deeply into Paul’s widely opened mouth. Little Big Man, moaning small, satisfied groans, sucked on The Phantom, his nose buried in The Phantom’s thick pubic bush, growling as he tasted the sweetness that filled his mouth. His tongue traced the long, smooth shaft of The Phantom’s rock-hard erection, slavering around the thick, warm shaft. He gagged slightly as the head of The Phantom’s cock pushed down his throat.

Surprised at the ferocity of Little Big Man’s actions The Phantom pulled back. Little Big Man’s hands moved and he reached up, one hand feeling The Phantom’s firm balls. He fondled and squeezed them while with his other hand he clutched the base of the exquisite boy meat that filled his mouth. He had never sucked a cock before . . .

The Beast roared through its master and he began sucking avidly.

The Phantom groaned loudly as Little Big Man’s mouth brought him to the inevitable explosion. He felt his balls retract and his dick pulse and he shot a gargantuan load against Little Big Man’s tonsils. Little Big Man gagged briefly as the warm semen filled his mouth. Then he began to swallow greedily, not wanting to lose a single drop of the wonderful nectar that had set his taste buds to exploding. The Phantom came so much that Little Big Man could not swallow it fast enough, and small dribbles of semen leaked from the corners of his mouth.

Spent, The Phantom lay down on the bed beside Little Big Man, who encircled him with his arms. Their mouths met yet again, and The Phantom tasted his own sweet juice. They lay there, kissing and exploring each other’s body, their soft penises touching, their sex-heated glans brushing close as their hips ground in unison.

As his dick started to harden again The Phantom left the bed and gently pulled the pillow out from under Little Big Man’s head. He pushed it under Little Big Man’s hips and then positioned himself. Little Big Man felt his legs being pushed back and spread, and then . . .

The Beast roared and slashed at the air.

A barrage of white fireworks exploded as Little Big Man felt the wet softness cross his tight, brown, puckered entrance. Again and again the tongue crossed and re-crossed his pulsing flesh and his hole opened to receive the hardness. With each slow crossing he groaned, then he bucked ecstatically and raised his hips as the lips found his hole and sucked gently. “Fuck me,” moaned Little Big Man. “Fuck me hard!”

The Phantom pleasured Little Big Man with his tongue. To his surprise, Paul tasted clean, slightly bitter, even good, but The Phantom was not enjoying what he was doing.

Mad with lust, the Beast threw back its head, bellowing its need . . .

“Please, fuck me,” moaned Little Big Man. “I want you to fuck me