After finishing his lunch, The Gunner managed, with surprisingly little difficulty, to extricate The Phantom from Chef’s clutches. Chef, for once, had more than enough hands available for the work that needed to be done.

Martin and Clifford, primed with milk, cookies, and cake, were busily peeling and chopping onions, carrots and celery, which would be roasted with Mr. Fujimoto’s prime chickens to give them flavour.

Randy and Joey, behaving themselves, were giving the chickens their pre-roasting bath, cleaning the cavities and salting them. Sandro was industriously larding the baking pans while Ray loaded the dirty lunch dishes into the gaping maw of the dishwasher.

Chef was more than pleased with what the cadets had done during his absence, so much so that he had promoted both Joey and Randy to the rate of Able Cook and was fulsome with his praise of Ray’s, Sandro’s and The Phantom’s ability to cope in extraordinary situations. This caused all five boys to eye him suspiciously.

Chef waxing lyrical with praise was an immediate cause for alarm and usually meant that they would pay for his praise somewhere down the line. Being in an expansive and generous mood, Chef had readily agreed to The Phantom taking two hours off work to get his driver’s license, conveniently forgetting that The Phantom had come in at 0600, four hours earlier than normal and had been saddled with helping Ray to get breakfast going.

After dropping The Phantom off at the licensing office and leaving his car for the youth to use for his road test, The Gunner walked downtown. It was a typical summer day in British Columbia, warm and sunny and The Gunner had an enjoyable walk, discovering that Comox was actually a pretty little town, with shops and restaurants lining the esplanade bordering the harbour, which was filled with fishing boats and small sailing craft. There was a wonderful view of Aurora across the broad waters of the harbour and he regretted not having a camera with him.

The Gunner spent a pleasant half-hour or so just wandering about, taking in the local scenery, admiring the flowers that seemed to fill every spare inch of open space, watching the tourists, amazed at the activity, which should not really have surprised him. Comox was, after all was said and done, a tourist town as well as a seaport and, in many ways, a fishing village. It was a small town of neat shops, large wooden homes, and sturdy, steadfast churches. As he wandered the small business district The Gunner wondered what life would be like, living in this small piece of Eden. A piece of Eden he had never really seen at all. He drove by the town every morning and every evening and yet had never really seen it and had only been downtown twice for dinner with Joel.

Continuing his stroll, The Gunner stopped and leaned against the metal railing that lined the harbour side of the esplanade, enjoying the gentle breeze that blew inland from the Strait and watching the pleasure craft darting about the harbour.

From the esplanade he walked on through the town and over to the market area, and was amazed at what appeared to be a magical carpet of flowers of seemingly endless variety and colour. He admired roses, carnations, Queen Anne’s Lace and ferns beyond description, intoxicated by the mingled perfumes of the blossoms.

From the flower market The Gunner returned to the main shopping street and found the trophy shop that stocked a wide variety of shields and trophies and supplied many of the small awards and mementoes for both HMCS Aurora and CFB Comox. From the large stock on hand The Gunner chose the shields and crests that would be handed out to the cadets at the Passing Out Parade. He chose the lettering and style for the citations and arranged for delivery. Since the awards would be kept at Aurora rather than going home with the recipient, The Gunner also arranged for smaller, separate shields, which would be given to the award recipients.

His business in the trophy shop completed, The Gunner went off and found a small sidewalk cafe where he enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Directly across the street from the cafe was a small shop selling artefacts and relics of ships and the sea. On the sidewalk in front of the shop two long book bins flanked the door. The windows of the shop were crammed with bits and pieces of china, old photographs, menu covers and yellowed passenger lists from long gone liners.

After finishing his coffee and cigarette, The Gunner crossed the street and browsed through the somewhat battered selection of books, finding a small, thin volume of the History of the RCN in World War I. A very thin volume, if the truth were told. With only two ancient cruisers, and some small requisitioned yachts and tugs to sail with, and for the most part confined to fisheries patrols, hydrographic and tidal surveys, the RCN had not fired a shot in anger.

The Gunner also found a volume on Naval Protocol, which he thought might be a good addition to the Ship’s library. He went inside to pay for his selections and was amazed that such a small shop could stock such a huge and eclectic collection of maritime artefacts. There were paintings and models, more pieces of crockery and, in a large cabinet lining the far wall of the shop, a collection of ship’s silver.

The ship models ranged from elaborate builders models to obvious products of local craftsmen: hand-carved fishing boats, models of CC1 and CC2, Canada’s first submarines (vintage 1914), “primitive” models of seafarers and a set of dominoes carved from whale ivory and baleen.

The proprietor of the shop was a small, wizened little man wearing a yarmulke. He was dressed, much to The Gunner’s surprise, in a lightweight, long-sleeved summer shirt and long trousers, surprising in that almost everybody in town wore the universal rig of the day, shorts, short-sleeved shirt and sandals. When the shopkeeper introduced himself The Gunner detected a slight, European accent. German? Possibly Polish?

“Ah, the Navy’s here,” said the little man who had introduced himself as Jacob Schoenmann. “Are you from the base or the other place?”

“The other place,” replied The Gunner as he handed over the two books. “I work with the Sea Cadets.”

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his understanding and rang up the purchases using an ancient brass cash register. “Such nice boys. Always so polite.”

“They come in often?” asked The Gunner.

“Every once in a while. The models attract some of the boys. I hate to disappoint them when they ask for the plastic model kits, which I don’t carry. One, you might know him, goes to the same synagogue as I do in Courtenay.”

“That would be Sandro. He’s a cook.”

“A very nice young man. He does you credit.” Mr. Schoenmann handed the books back to The Gunner. “Will there be anything else?”

The Gunner looked around. “You have quite a collection. It’s hard to know where to begin.”

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his agreement and sat down beside his cluttered desk. “Mostly civilian artefacts.” He pointed to a long table piled with china plates; crystal glasses and assorted serving bowls and dishes. “When a ship is taken out of service the owners sell off the fittings and fixtures. There’s quite an interest in the old liners, you know.”

“Pacific liners?” asked The Gunner as he walked to the table. He picked up a small white saucer. In the centre was the burpee, or house flag, of the NYK Line. He noticed that there were several lines represented, CP Steamships predominating.

“Yes, for the most part,” replied Mr. Schoenmann. “I do have some things from the Atlantic liners.” He indicated a small table on which was a varied collection of brochures, deck plans and menus. “Everybody wants the Atlantic liners. Normandie, the Queens, or the other great liners, ships of the ’20’s, the ’30’s, I have a market for, but not the older vessels.”

Rummaging through a small pile of papers Mr. Schoenmann brought out what appeared to be a small booklet. On the cover were engraved two female figures supporting a plain white star. The bottom half of the cover was an engraving of a ship’s compartment, a reception room of some sort. He handed the booklet to The Gunner.

The Gunner opened the booklet and saw that it was a dinner menu from the R.M.S. Titanic dated the 14th of April 1912. He read through the menu and chuckled. “They ate well. I would have thought that this would be worth a great deal.”

Mr. Schoenmann snorted. “Not much of a market for her, I’m afraid. She sank on her maiden voyage, you know.” He picked up a set of deck plans. “The Lancastria, lost in 1940 with great loss of life.” He shrugged expressively. “Disaster doesn’t sell.”

The menu intrigued The Gunner. “Still, it’s interesting. What are you asking for this?”

“Everything on that table is $3.00. Look around, enjoy. Perhaps there’s something else you’ll like. In the mean time, let me show you my Navy items.” Mr. Schoenmann pulled himself erect, a small grimace of pain crossing his face. He saw the look of concern on The Gunner’s face and held up his hand. “Not to worry, just a little arthritis.”

The Gunner returned Mr. Schoenmann’s smile and looked around. For a Navy buff there was quite a lot of “Navy things”, brass port and starboard lamps, sextants, miniature ship’s wheels and binnacles, the Laws of the Navy engraved on glass and brass plaques, some models of corvettes - obviously hand made and very beautiful.

As Mr. Schoenmann was looking for his album of Navy photographs The Gunner could not help thinking that the old man did not get his knobby and misshapen hands and fingers from arthritis.

“Ah, here we are,” said Mr. Schoenmann as he held up a large, sepia-coloured photograph. “It’s a little faded but interesting.” He handed the photograph to The Gunner. “The officers of HMCS Rainbow in 1910, including the Canine Complement, Able Dogs Driver and Mimi.”

The Gunner looked at the photograph and smiled. There were, besides the dozen or so officers, two dogs in the picture. “Surprising they had dogs. Usually the ship’s pet was a cat.”

“Sailors being sailors are attracted to animals. Believe me, I know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I saw some Naval service in the old country, the Imperial German Navy. I was in the Great War.”

“What Branch?”

“In 1914? No branch,” replied Mr. Schoenmann with a grin. “In August 1914 I was a Naval Cadet, fresh out of the Academy in Kiel. Later, and after the War, I was a Deck Officer.” He settled in his chair and crossed his hands over his surprisingly flat stomach. In the manner of all old veterans Mr. Schoenmann was inclined to reminisce. “I was in SMS Dresden, a light cruiser, Captain Ludecke commanding. A fine ship of the East Asiatic Squadron. A good ship, a clean ship.”

The Gunner thought a moment. “You were at Coronel . . .”

Mr. Schoenmann nodded. “And the Falklands. What a battle! Every ship but mine was sunk! Scharnhorst blew up taking Admiral von Spee with her. Also his two sons. Very nice young men.”

“Then you were a prisoner as well? HMCS Glasgow sank Dresden while she was anchored in Chilean waters. “

“You know your history, young man!” Mr. Schoenmann slapped the desk in glee. “So often nobody listens anymore to the wanderings of an old man!”

The Gunner agreed silently. Too often the experiences of the older generation were dismissed out of hand by the younger generation. “In the event, no, I was not a prisoner,” Mr. Schoenmann continued, remembering. “We scuttled the ship and rowed like demons for the Chilean shore. I spent the rest of the war working out of the Embassy in Valparaiso.”

“So you had a pleasant war.”

The old man shrugged. “I had a pleasant career, which was difficult for a Jew in those days. Still, I managed it. I was an officer, and a genuine war hero. I never rose above the rank of Lieutenant but it was a good life. Until 1933.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured The Gunner. He had spent many nights at sea curled up in his bunk with a book, almost always history, and he recalled reading of the swift elimination of Jews the Nazis had so insidiously wrought on the pitiful remnant of the German Navy left after 1918.

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.” Mr. Schoenmann moved to the large cabinet at the end of the shop. “I managed to survive, at least.” He waved his arm to indicate the contents of the shop. “In a way this shop is the result of my survival. In 1939 my family and I were forced to leave Germany. We bought passage on a liner to Cuba.”

“The St. Louis”, said The Gunner immediately.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded his confirmation. “The St. Louis.”

Left unsaid was the knowledge that the voyage of the St. Louis was perhaps one of the blackest pages in the history of two nations: Canada and the United States of America.

In May of 1939 the German liner St. Louis, carrying 907 German Jewish refugees sailed for Havana, Cuba, in search of freedom. The Cuban authorities, faced with a wave of vitriolic anti-Semitic propaganda instigated by the local Nazis, refused to allow the Jews to land. The ship sailed, its passengers filled with despair, hoping to find a haven, any haven, anyplace but Germany.

Despite a wave of outrage that assailed them two men, one for political reasons, one because he was anti-Semitic, refused to consider asylum for the Jews of the St. Louis.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt, President of the United States, faced with an election in 1940, and influenced by the anti-Semites of his State Department and the vitriolic bigotry of the Midwest and the Bible belt, bowed to political necessity and turned away.

In Ottawa, William L. Mackenzie King, Prime Minister of Canada, influenced by the anti-Semites of his Department of Foreign Affairs and of his own opinion that there were already too many Jews in the Dominion, followed the lead of his American cousin, and the signs reading “No Jews Allowed” went up in the Customs sheds of Halifax and Saint John.

“You landed in Antwerp?” asked The Gunner presently.

Mr. Schoenmann nodded slowly. “And stayed. Some of the passengers went to France and Holland. The lucky ones managed to be accepted by England.”

The spectre of the Holocaust, with all its terrors entered the cramped shop. The Gunner’s father had seen Dachau, and refused to speak of it. The Gunner’s reading had told him that for all but 287 of the Jews of the St. Louis Antwerp had only been a way station on the road to Auschwitz.

“Young man, terrible things happened. Do not dwell on the past.”

Mr. Schoenmann smiled thinly. “Do not dwell on it, my friend, but always teach your young men to remember it.” He bent down and opened one of the doors that lined the bottom of the cabinet. He pulled out a small figurine and handed it to The Gunner. “Enough of my past. A remembrance of your past, I think.”

It was a sailor, painted in natural colours, wearing gaiters, web belt, a field pack, and holding a bayoneted rifle at his side. The figurine was mounted on a round wooden base, and was about ten inches tall.

“Say, this is very interesting,” said The Gunner as he admired the figurine. “Gosh, It brings back memories.” He recalled the mind-numbing drills of Cornwallis, the Halifax Natal Day parades he had marched in, the Remembrance Day ceremonies where he had stood stock still, resting on reversed arms, wearing his beloved old blues. “Wherever did you get it?” he asked, totally taken with the little sailor. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“An older gentleman, a collector, quite elderly, he painted them as a pastime.”

The Gunner examined the figurine. It was porcelain, glazed, and the painting was very detailed. The little figure was a three-badge stoker. He had a sudden idea. “We’re having a Prize Giving next week. I think the boys would much rather have something like this than a plaque.”

Mr. Schoenmann smiled. “I’m sure they would. There is a glass dome for it and a small brass plate for some engraving . . .” He clapped his hands. “ . . . A most admirable gift.”

“Do you have any more?” asked The Gunner.

“Only seven all together. The gentleman who made them, alas, has passed on.” Mr. Schoenmann began rummaging through the locker, pulling out the remaining six figurines, in the process pulling out another object. “Each figure has a different trade badge and rating . . .” he was saying when The Gunner interrupted him.

“What’s that?” asked The Gunner, reaching out to take the object. It was a perfect reproduction of Nelson’s Column, complete with lions, mounted on a matching stand. He examined the engraving incised on a cartouche that formed part of the decoration. “Presented to the Steamship Lord Nelson by the Corporation of the Town of Nelson, British Columbia, 1923”, he read.

“A presentation piece from the town to the ship. The town is still there. The ship was broken up in 1948.”

“Ship’s silver, then?” The model intrigued The Gunner.

“Plated, I am afraid. It’s a nice piece but not a seller. Not much call for table silver these days, at least not from the smaller ships. If it was from one of the Atlantic liners, maybe.”

“Still, it’s nice. I’ll take the figurines and if the price is right, I’ll take this.”

Mr. Schoenmann thought a moment. “From a Former Naval Person to a Serving Member, would $50.00 be too much?”

“Do you have any more pieces that look interesting?” asked The Gunner. His idea had grown and he knew he now had the perfect way to establish a provenance for the biggest piece of the Admiral’s Dining Room.

The shopkeeper began pulling out his treasures, explaining that since they were all considered too old fashioned, and from ships that no one had ever heard of, there was little market for the larger silver pieces. He found a silver cigar box from the Duchess of Atholl. “A nice ship, one of four sisters,” Mr. Schoenmann informed The Gunner. “She was sunk in the Atlantic in 1942.” Some silver ashtrays followed. “From the Empress of Asia, another war loss.”

“However do you find these things?” asked The Gunner, amazed at the variety of artefacts.

Mr. Schoenmann shrugged. “People steal,” he said simply. “I buy what they steal.” Then he smiled and chuckled. “Actually there is a large number of collectors interested in souvenirs and artefacts of the old liners. We correspond, we buy, we sell, and we trade with one another.”

After The Gunner had made his selections they discussed prices. All were low, as ship’s silver was not as popular with the collectors and tourists as were the models and china. The silver pieces were, Mr. Schoenmann explained, considered old fashioned and little better than dust collectors.

“You’ll never get rich charging those prices, Mr. Schoenmann,” remarked The Gunner as he settled the bill.

The shopkeeper smiled grimly and then pulled back the sleeve of his shirt. The Gunner looked and saw the letter and five blurred numerals tattooed there.

“Sometimes, young man, life is all the wealth you need.”

******

After revisiting the trophy shop where he ordered an additional, special shield, and laden down with his purchases, The Gunner was walking back to the licensing office when his Land Rover slid effortlessly alongside of him. He looked and saw The Phantom, a huge grin on his face, waving a small piece of paper.

“I’m legal,” crowed The Phantom as The Gunner stowed his packages and got into the car. “No sweat.”

“I never doubted you for a minute,” returned The Gunner as they pulled away from the curb. “Would you mind telling me where we’re going?”

“Not at all. I have to do a RAS for Tyler, so we’re going to my house. Then to Kmart.”

“A Replenishment at Sea?” replied The Gunner as he smiled knowingly. “Tyler’s out of booze?”

“Yeah. What with the two parties and the wet downs, he ran out. You’re okay with me doing this, aren’t you?”

The Gunner nodded. “Tyler’s legally old enough to drink. As long as he keeps it under control, I don’t have any objections.”

“It’s not as if they get blitzed every night, Gunner. The Twins hardly drink at all. And I’ve never seen any of them drunk . . .well, maybe Harry, but that was only the one time and it was his wet down.”

The Gunner laughed. “Phantom, I know they drink, and I know how much they drink. I also know that they don’t abuse the privilege, and it is a privilege. I just don’t want the Old Man doing rounds on Friday and having a jug fall out of the locker he’s inspecting. And why are we doing a pit stop at Kmart?”

The Phantom laughingly explained Kevin’s laundry woes. The Gunner chuckled, then frowned slightly. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Phantom, for you to replace Kevin’s pink drawers. He might take it the wrong way.”

“What way?” There was a trace of anger in The Phantom’s voice. “He needs the underwear. He can’t just wear nothing. It’s unhygienic, you know!”

The Gunner shook his head. “Phantom, I agree with you up to a point. However, how would you feel if out of the blue somebody bought you some underwear? Wouldn’t you be just a little wary and suspicious? Guys do not ordinarily buy underpants for other guys.”

“Suspicious?” began The Phantom. “There’s nothing to be suspicious about. All I am doing is trying to do him a favour and you make it into something . . . Oh SHIT!” He realized now what The Gunner was getting at. “He’ll think maybe I’m trying to get into his pants, won’t he?”

The Gunner nodded his agreement. “A jug of Clorox bleach would be better, Phantom, safer as well.” He gave The Phantom’s leg a light pat. “Remember, Phantom, what I told you earlier. People will pick up on something that so far as you are concerned is totally innocent and aboveboard, and make the worst of it. Unless of course you are trying to get into his pants?”

“I most certainly am NOT!” replied The Phantom hotly. “Granted, he’s a good looking guy, but he’s not my type at all! Why would you even think that I would want to get into his pants?” He waved his hand and the car swerved slightly. “All I’m trying to do is to help out one of the guys. What’s so wrong about that?”

“First of all, calm down and keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel,” ordered The Gunner mildly. “I would much prefer that you have your hissy fit after we’ve stopped the car.”

“I am not having a hissy fit, Gunner. I resent what you said.” The Phantom’s face was stony and there was fire in his eyes. “I’m just trying to help out a guy is all.”

“And you should be commended for your charity,” returned The Gunner with a slight grin.

“Thank you Saint Stephen!” snapped The Phantom sarcastically.

“I am no saint and all I am trying to do is to point out to you that impulsive acts of kindness between teenage males just might be misinterpreted.”

“Interpret it any way you like, Gunner,” returned The Phantom. “I am not trying to get into anybody’s pants. Including yours!” he finished ominously. Then he turned and pretended to look into the driver’s side mirror. He smiled a small, evil, little smile. The Gunner’s words of caution had given him the genesis of a wickedly delicious opportunity: Ray wanted to get into Kevin’s pants. Therefore, if getting Ray into Kevin’s pants took some new underwear, or Clorox, or whatever it took to smooth the way, it was a small price to pay.

The Gunner was smart enough to know that he was just going to dig himself into a deeper hole if he continued on. He did not doubt that The Phantom was up to something. He also did not doubt that he would wait a long time for The Phantom to tell him what he was up to. Rather than pursue the issue, The Gunner decided to let the matter slide. There was no point at all in going on about it. When The Phantom got his knickers in a twist he could not be talked to. The Gunner decided to smooth the waters. “Would you like to know what I bought?” he asked, breaking the silence, his eyes bright with amusement. There was just something so damned, wonderfully, deliciously sexy about The Phantom when he sulked.

“No!” The Phantom’s voice was cold.

The Gunner did not pursue the issue and presently they were pulling into the driveway of The Phantom’s house. “Are you coming in to help or would you prefer to stay out here?” asked The Phantom, as he got out of the car. “I wouldn’t want you to think that the neighbours were misinterpreting your actions.”

The Gunner raised his eyes to heaven but said nothing. He got out of the car. Smiling, he followed The Phantom into the house.

******

The Phantom’s house offered a cool refuge from the summer heat. It was typical of the middle-class houses of the era in that much of its basement had been converted into a “rec” room.

Reached by a winding, narrow set of carpeted stairs, the room occupied fully half the deep basement. The floor was carpeted with worn, light green carpet tiles. The walls had been lined with fake oak panels. Along one wall was a fully stocked wet bar. The furniture was old, comfortable, overstuffed chairs and sofas, lumpy refugees from the rooms upstairs. The far wall, which bisected the basement, gleamed dully in the harsh light of the overhead fluorescent fixtures recessed into the tiled ceiling, and was broken by two doors, one at the far end of the bar, the other in the middle of the wall.

The walls of the room were hung with a varied collection of family photographs, almost all of them showing The Phantom and his brother in various sports uniforms and poses: The Phantom, age eight, when he played for the Little League; Brendan in full football gear; The Phantom at 14, wearing a skimpy swimming suit, proudly holding a trophy of some kind. Scattered around the room were trophies for swimming, baseball and football, all testifying to the athletic accomplishments of the two Lascelles boys.

The Phantom slipped behind the bar and walked to the far end where he pushed open the door leading to his father’s liquor supply. The Gunner followed and stopped at the doorway to gasp at the sight. To his right was a floor-to-ceiling wine rack, every nook of it containing bottles of wine. Stacked on the floor three boxes high was case upon case of liquors of every description.

The Gunner whistled his awe. “Jesus!” he muttered as he examined some of the cases. His eyes widened as he read the brand names: Cutty Sark, Smirnoff, Crown Royal, Vat 69 were some of the brands he immediately recognized. None of the liquor was cheap, he noted. “Your Dad has enough booze here to last a lifetime,” he said to The Phantom, who was rummaging around looking for an empty box.

“This is only about half of what he gets,” replied The Phantom. “Everybody wants to keep on the good side of the Chief of Patrol.” He began opening cases of liquor, choosing bottles with studied care. He knew what his friends in the Gunroom drank. “Every Christmas Eve we have a big block party. All the neighbours get together and sing carols and end up here. We get rid of quite a bit, actually.” The Phantom’s voice was flat.

The Gunner sighed. Then he growled low. “Phantom, come here, will you?”

The Phantom straightened. There was a small, knowing smile on The Gunner’s lips. Despite himself The Phantom responded and moved forward and into The Gunner’s open arms. “What?” The Phantom asked as he felt The Gunner’s arms encircle his waist, pulling him close to his warm body.

The Gunner gazed into The Phantom’s deep, wonderfully green eyes. “You are so cute when you’re pissed off at me,” he smiled.

The Phantom’s lips met The Gunner’s. He felt The Gunner’s hands slipping down the waist of his trousers and into his boxers. He pulled away and rested his head against The Gunner’s strong, broad chest, listening to his soft, whispering voice, feeling the warm hands sliding across his hips and gently cupping his genitals.

“God, you are such a monster,” groaned The Gunner as ì¥Á M ð ¿ B

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******

The wind had died and the Spit sweltered under the oppressive heat. On the parade square activity had been suspended and the cadets, stripped to the waist, bickered and grumbled as they sat in what little shade there was, sweating and cursing, even the Twins, who had long boasted that the heat did not affect them and claimed that they never perspired.

The galley, which had a flat roof, retained the heat, so much so that even with all the windows open to catch so much as a wisp of air, the place was at least ten degrees hotter than it was outside, and everybody was cranky.

After spending a pleasant and satisfying hour together in the basement rec room, The Phantom and The Gunner had stopped at the Kmart and then returned to the ship to find Chef in full roar. Joey and Randy were pouting, Martin and Clayton were off in one corner scowling and peeling potatoes, Ray and Sandro were snapping at each other and arguing about the sauces that Sandro was supposed to be making for the fish entree. Observing that things were back to normal The Gunner beat a hasty retreat, which earned him a snarling accusation of cowardice from The Phantom.

The Phantom made himself as useful as he could, trying not to let the sight of the half-naked boys distract him. So oppressive was the heat all of the galley workers, except Chef, had stripped off their gunshirts or T-shirts and were working bare-chested, with towels around their necks to help absorb some of the perspiration. The Phantom found the sight of them, with the waistbands of their underpants peeking over their belted trousers, rivulets of sweat coursing down their hairless chests, exciting and strangely erotic, so much so that he welcomed the chance to go into the dining room and serve the First Dog Watchmen as they straggled in for their supper at 1530.

With the Watchmen fed, The Phantom decided to screw the pooch for a while and went out to the loading dock. He undid his shirt and sat on the edge of the dock, flapping his open shirt, trying to cool down. To the west the Dockyard looked deserted. The YAGs had departed somewhere, probably up island, and nothing was stirring down there.

Across the all but deserted harbour - even the seagulls had seemingly called it a day - the town of Comox shimmered above the flat calm waters, waters so calm that the cadets would say that the harbour was as flat as piss on a plate. He lay back, supporting his upper body on his elbows. It was, he thought idly, too hot to smoke or fuck.

Ray came onto the loading dock and sat down beside The Phantom. He, like The Phantom, was suffering from the heat, more so because his groin was steaming and the leg bands of his briefs were rubbing him raw. The Phantom saw Ray wince slightly as he rubbed his crotch and advised a good, long shower and a healthy application of baby powder.

“Showers are off, or haven’t you heard?” replied Ray. “Jesus, I wish I could just strip naked and jump into the bay.”

“Well, its one way to cool off. What happened to the water?”

Ray explained that there was not enough pressure in the pipes that ran from the town, the result of too little water in the reservoirs that stored the water coming down from the mountains. “Everybody’s restricted to one shower until the reservoirs fill up again. Greg was around with the order while you were gone. Everybody gets one shower, and everybody has to shower together. Pusser scrubs: one minute of water, one minute to soap up, and one minute to rinse.”

“You’re lucky then.” The Phantom struggled upright and rubbed his shirttail across his chest. “Cooks are exempt. Engineers as well. Cooks because of the hygiene aspect, engineers because they work in the engine room where it’s hot all the time.”

Ray shuddered. “I love Chef a lot, but not enough to shower with him!”

The Phantom joined in Ray’s laughter. “Too bad Kevin’s not a cook. It would be a good way to check him out.”

Ray stared at The Phantom and then shook his head. “I can wait.”

“Ray, have you got the hots for him?” The Phantom asked seriously. “I mean, have you got the tingly dick, ball-shrinking hots for him?” The Phantom gave a Ray a devilish smile.

Ray returned a “fuck off” look, and then relaxed. “You saw the fool I made of myself at lunch. What do you think?”

“Not too much of a fool, since I was the only one who noticed.” He gave Ray’s arm a small squeeze. “Ray, you’re allowed to look, you know.”

Ray turned and looked at The Phantom. “But, Phantom, I want to do more.”

The Phantom chuckled quietly. “Can’t fault you there, Ray. Not at all!”

Ray sighed wistfully. “I do want to do something with him, but I don’t think he’d go for it.”

The Phantom lay back against the cold concrete and covered his eyes with his arm. Then he raised it and looked directly at Ray. “Ray, Kevin is just like every other swinging dick around here, horny. Under the right circumstances . . . you’ll never know unless you try.”

“But I don’t love him!” returned Ray.

Groaning, The Phantom shook his head. “What the hell has that got to do with it? Do you really think that I was madly in love when I started visiting guys in the middle of the night? Do you think that the Twins fall in love with every guy they fool around with?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” conceded Ray.

“You fool around with a guy because you both want to fool around! It’s that simple. You do not have to rush out the next morning and pick out your china pattern, for fuck’s sake.” The Phantom sat up and pulled Ray to his side. He put his arm around his winger’s shoulder. “Look, what it boils down to is sex. You want it. Kevin might want it. I don’t know because I don’t know him that well.”

“I’d look a right fool if I tried something, now, wouldn’t I?” snapped Ray.

“Probably, not to mention getting the shit kicked out of you if he’s not into guys.”

“That helps a hell of lot. And you sure don’t seem all that upset that I want to sleep with another guy!” returned Ray in a disappointed tone.

The Phantom stared into the bright sunshine. It was time for Ray to get on with his life. “Ray, I am not upset. I want you meet other guys. I love you, yes, and maybe, and I say maybe so that you don’t get your hopes up, we may very well sleep together. Fooling around with you is one thing. Making love to you, and having you make love to me, quite another.”

Standing up, The Phantom walked to the end of the loading dock, scuffing the metal edge with his shoe. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. In some ways I would like to be the person to bring you to that happiness.” He returned to where Ray was sitting, squatted down and placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “But I realize that I am not that person. Right now you might think I am, but I’m not.”

“And just how am I supposed to find this mythical person?” asked Ray sarcastically.

“You do what every other gay guy does. You meet other guys, you very carefully choose whom you’d like to sleep with, and then you do it.”

“But how would I know, and I don’t want to chase every set of balls in sight! I’m not some a kind of slut!”

“Nobody asked you to be,” replied The Phantom calmly. “You play it smooth, you play it cool. You play it very carefully because you do not want to get a reputation. If you play it right, the guy will make the first move, and when he does that . . .” He sat back and grinned. “You always get the other guy to make the first move. When he does, one thing will lead to another.”

“I don’t think Kevin’s gay, so why would he make the first move?” replied Ray, his tone doubtful.

The Phantom snickered loudly. “Ray, it’s called sex and it’s called experimenting. Almost every guy I’ve been with has been straight. They’ve also all been horny and believe me, a stiff prick has no conscience.”

Ray giggled. “Boy, is that right! But Phantom, how will I, I mean how will I know if Kevin is willing?”

The Phantom stood up began doing up his shirt. “Ray, believe me, you’ll know.”

“That’s a help, that is!”

“Okay then, try this on for size. You’re horny for Kevin. You want to get in his pants so you have to figure out a way to get him in a situation where you can find out if he’ll let you get in his pants, right?” Ray mumbled something about telling him something he didn’t know. The Phantom ignored him. He rubbed his chin and then snapped his fingers. “Showers!”

“What about them?” asked Ray, confused.

The Phantom chuckled. “The regular showers are off, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I just told you that!”

“Don’t get all huffy, just hear me out.” He pulled Ray back into the building and into the washplace. “Voila, showers!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

Ray rolled his eyes. “Okay, showers! Now that I’ve seen them, just what in the fuck am I suppose to do with them and what has Kevin got to do with . . .?”

“Ray, really, can’t you just shut up and listen?” asked The Phantom in an exasperated tone.

“Talk!” replied Ray throwing his hands in the air.

“Kevin has got to know by now that the entire Ship’s Company is restricted to a three-minute shower, which in this heat is useless.” Pointing his finger at Ray, The Phantom continued, “You are in a position to offer him unlimited water so you wait until he’s complaining about not being able to shower and you offer him one here!”

“That’s devious.” Ray thought a moment. “But yeah, I can do that.”

“Just make sure Matt isn’t around. With the water restrictions he’ll want to take a shower and three’s a crowd, if you know what I mean.” Then The Phantom waggled his eyebrows and smiled a small, wicked smile. “Unless of course you want to get into Matt’s pants, too.”

“Phantom!” Ray yelped, shocked that The Phantom would even suggest such a thing.

“Okay, okay. Now, that’s step one.” The Phantom was warming to his plan and the ideas were coming thick and fast. “That will at least give you an opportunity to check him out. If you like what you see you go to the next step.”

“Which is?”

“You offer him some clean underwear. You saw how embarrassed he was talking about having nothing but pink pants, so you offer him some nice, clean, white briefs and . . .”

“Which I don’t have!” Ray was getting pissed off. Would The Phantom ever get to the point? “And even if I did he’d never fit into mine. He’s a lot beefier and must outweigh me by . . .”

“I do,” interrupted The Phantom. He waggled his fingers at Ray, smiling broadly as he said, “Briefs. Snowy, white, brand new briefs!”

“You do?”

“I bought them in town this afternoon. I also bought some bleach, but that’s a non-starter. If there’s no water for showers there won’t be any for washing clothes.”

“Okay, I take your underwear, which I can’t for the life of me understand why you bought because you never wear briefs and in this heat I’m sorry I have them on . . .”

“I bought them so you can use them, dummy!”

“Me? Well thanks, Phantom, but I have more than enough to last me.”

“Not you, you twit!” grumbled The Phantom, pissed at Ray’s obtuseness. “You give the undies to Kevin”, he stressed, as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “Haven’t you been listening?”

Ray shook his head and walked into the locker room where he sat down on one of the battered wooden benches that lined the room. It was beginning to dawn on him that The Phantom had put a great deal of thought into this proposition. “Phantom, I cannot understand what you want me to do,” he said wearily.

The Phantom sat down beside his friend. “Consider this Lesson One in Seduction 101. First, you get Kevin in the shower. Then, as a gesture of friendship you offer him these extra underpants that you just happen to have in your locker. They’re too big for you because I fucked up and got the wrong size. Are you with me so far?”

“Okay, I can go along with that. I always keep extras anyway.”

“Good.” The Phantom cut him off abruptly. “Now then, after the shower, and the gift giving, you offer him a cool place to sit down and have a chat. The lounge maybe?” The Phantom thought a moment and rejected the lounge as a trysting place. “No, Chef’s office. There’s a fan in there.”

“That’s some leap forward, Phantom.”

“Maybe, but it will work.” The Phantom emphasized his words by squeezing Ray’s shoulder. “This heat will not let up for a day or three. Unless it rains, which I don’t think it will. You offer Kevin a place to keep cool. After all day baking in the sun the barracks will be hot boxes.”

“Okay, I con him into Chef’s office. Then what? I wave a magic wand?”

Chef began bellowing in the galley. They were wanted. Ray stood up and as they began to walk into the dining room The Phantom replied, “No, you wait for him to wave his magic penis!” He chuckled knowingly. “What you do is get him to start taking about sex and ask him about his girlfriend - a guy that good looking has got to have a girl friend - and let him carry the ball or balls because I’ll bet that before you know it he’ll be complaining about how horny he is and how all he can do is jerk off and . . .”

“That’s all well and good. What if he’s not horny? What if he’s not interested?” asked Ray, a note of hesitation in his voice.

The Phantom grinned. “He’ll be horny. Hell for all you know he might be horny and gay!”

Ray’s jaw dropped. “Kevin, gay?”

“And if he is, my friend, he’ll let you know it and if that’s the case you wave your magic penis at him and let the good times roll!”

******

Two hundred-odd miles to the south and east, in the shadows of the foothills that rolled west and north to join the Canadian Rockies, Michael Chan set aside the document he’d been reading and leaned back in his leather chair. He was beginning to get a headache, as he always did when he was forced to read the chicken scratching that his business partners in Hong Kong insisted on using in all their correspondence. He picked up the letter and glared at the Chinese ideographs.

The letter was an insult to his dignity. His business partners, obnoxious and as arrogant as only the Chinese can be, assumed that he was proud of his heritage, which he most assuredly was not! He did not look Chinese; he did not feel Chinese; he did not think Chinese.

Michael had inherited his looks from his grandfather, a loud, raucous, hard-drinking, hard-swearing Scotsman whose genes had given him his height, his slimness, his warm, dark brown eyes and high cheekbones. As a young man he had bemoaned his only two “Chinese” features: his hair, which was straight and very black, and what he called his Chinese eyes. The first he kept short, the second had been, from Michael’s perspective, “corrected” by cosmetic surgery. Michael, who owned what was reputed to be the best Chinese restaurant in Vancouver, with all the Chinese flummery and frippery expected in such a place, categorically refused to allow anything remotely Chinese to intrude in any other aspect of his private life, including his house.

As soon as he could Michael had left the family compound, a huge, Regency complex built around two large courtyards. The house in which he had been raised stood directly to the south of his own home and contained a series of large, multi-roomed apartments housing his aunts, uncles and innumerable cousins. The two properties were separated by a thick stand of trees and a red brick wall topped with glass shards.

Michael snorted contemptuously at the thought of so many people living cheek-by-jowl, all related and all of them fighting and screaming in their abominable Cantonese! They all could speak the language of the Imperial Court - Mandarin - but at home it was Cantonese, the language of peasants! Michael was convinced they deliberately spoke Cantonese to annoy him! Was it any wonder then that even though the place was just beyond the red brick wall of his estate, he only visited once or twice a year?

Michael had deliberately turned his back on all things Chinese. He had left his family home to live in an apartment until the estate he now owned came on the market. He had purchased the 64-acre estate, torn down the nondescript wooden house that had stood in the grounds, and built his house in the manner of a classical 18th Century, Georgian, country house.

The house suited his character and lifestyle. Solid, quiet, classical, symmetrical, the plain orange-brown Banbury Stone bricks accented with limestone trim; the grounds of the estate filled with flowers and trees; the rooms filled with carefully selected antique English furniture; the walls were wood-panelled or painted in soft colours, and hung with fine 18th century portraits (including a Turner and two Lawrences) and landscapes (including four by Constable). It was the home of a solid, quiet, cautious man.

Michael Chan was a cautious man. The nature of his business demanded it. Every day every room was swept for listening devices by a very well paid technician using the most up-to-date and state-of-the-art detection equipment. Around the perimeter of his sprawling official estate were motion and sound sensors and any intruder, no matter how small, was immediately detected and identified by closed circuit television monitors that were watched and manned every hour of the day and night in the Security Control Room, a steel and concrete bunker located in the basement.

A shadow crossed the windows looking out onto the wide terrace outside his office. Michael looked up and saw one of the Security men passing by. The man, like all the men employed to guard and patrol the grounds, was young, not more than 25, and Chinese. He had been carefully recruited in Hong Kong and even more carefully trained by Major Meinertzhagen, ex-Guards, ex-SAS, and Chief of Security. The perimeter guards were a concession to his Hong Kong business partners. There were certain lines that even Michael dared not cross.

Thinking of the Major caused Michael to glance at his watch, a wafer-thin, plain, Patek Phillipe. Not yet 4:30. In a few moments Laurence and Noel, nominally under-butlers, would enter and arrange the tì¥Á M ð ¿ B

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ÿÿ ÿÿ ÿÿ l ° ° ° ° ° ° ° Ä ô9 ô9 ô9 ô9 e when they finished their work and boarded their flights for home. He opened the door and walked onto the terrace. It was really a beautiful afternoon. There was a cooling breeze blowing from the mountains. The new plantings had taken well and the lush, green expanse of lawn was perfectly groomed. The terrace was immaculate, without a speck of dust, a twig, not even an errant ant to mar the flagstone surfaces.

The gardens were in full bloom. Closest to the house were the roses he so loved, filling the air with their scents and pleasing the eyes with their wonderful colours, reds of every shade, yellows, pale gold, lavender, the colours of the rainbow and more, each bush a masterpiece of the horticulturist’s art, each bearing an illustrious name: “Reine Victoria”, “Tartarus”, “Duchesse de Montebello” and so on. Bourbon roses, Old Growth Roses, Hybrid Teas and Noisettes. The list went on and on.

Nearest the terrace was Michael’s favourite rose, officially called “Anna de Diesbach”. He much preferred its other name: “Gloire de Paris.” Behind him, carefully trimmed, was what many considered to be the apotheosis of Noisette roses: the magnificent “Gloire de Dijon” climbing upward toward the eaves of the house.

Thinking of the roses caused Michael to frown. His rose gardens were without doubt the finest and richest in the province. The seasonal flower gardens, banks and beds of rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias, magnolias, fuchsias and hydrangeas were just as magnificent, as were the Broadleaf Maple, Choke Cherry and Black Hawthorne trees that bordered the estate. Off to his right, surrounding the old stable yard and mews was a grove of flowering Pacific Dogwood. The combination of trees and flowers presented a wonderful portrait. Which no one ever saw.

Michael clenched his fist. Another reason to hate his heritage. He might live in a fine house in British Properties; he might own furniture and paintings that caused collectors and museum curators the world over to salivate with envy. No matter that Karsh and Beeton had photographed his gardens. In the end it gained him nothing for at the end of the day his name was Chan! Had his name been Chandler the world would have beaten a path to his door. Instead, only two people had had the courtesy to call on him: Catherine Leveson-Arundel and Mary Randolph Putnam, the President and Past President of the Rose Society of British Columbia. Both ladies called regularly for tea, and both had left behind a small gift, Mrs. Arundel the “Dijon” and Mrs. Putnam a cutting from her own prize-winning “Paris”.

Glancing out the door at the clear, cloudless sky, Michael then looked across the lawn and beyond the line of trees that bordered the estate. He could see the slate roofs and tall chimneys of the houses that marked what was called, for simplicity’s sake, the East Village. There was another, smaller village to the south, and one to the north. There was no West Village due to the simple fact that he did not own, as he did the hundreds of acres to the east and south, the land to the west. The acreage, thousands of acres of virgin forest, Douglas Fir, White Spruce and Lodgepole Pine, was Crown Land, and not for sale at any price.

The villages, only five or six small cottages each, housed the members of the outside Security Force. Unlike the men who patrolled the grounds inside the high brick walls, this force was composed of Brits, with a sprinkling of Americans, every man either ex-SAS or ex-Rangers or Navy SEALS, and each man handpicked for the job.

The outside men were quite deliberately Caucasian. They roamed the woods and farmlands outside the estate in a variety of disguises and ostensibly for a variety of reasons. There were nature and riding trails meandering through the forests and the sight of hikers and riders was commonplace. As the Major had pointed out, having white hikers and riders was much more sensible in a place where, except for Michael’s own family, any Chinese in evidence was more likely to be there to wash the laundry rather than ride the horses.

Michael heard the clatter of the tea table being laid and wondered if either of the two men preparing the tea things would be on duty tonight. Both men were white, as were all members of the Household Staff. Both men were ex-Royal Marine Commandos and had been sent off to school in England to learn their cover trades as under-butlers. It was, he thought, a bit much to ask them to be footmen during the day and then have them wandering the house half the night on guard duty. He would speak to the Major.

Michael re-entered his office and murmured his thanks to the two men. They nodded in acknowledgement and left the room quietly and discreetly. Michael sat back and thought of his own lifestyle. Quiet, discreet, low-key and very conservative in all things. Major Meinertzhagen, who was listed on the household accounts as the Comptroller, was a case in point. His outward facade belied his inner steel and ferocity.

The Major might wear impeccably tailored, double-breasted, pinstripe suits (tailored by the best Bond Street bespoke tailor, whom Michael also used). He might speak in the dulcet and cultivated tones of a Sandhurst graduate (which he was). He might also, if provoked, or requested to do so, inflict great physical harm, quietly and discreetly, of course, as witnessed only this morning when the Major had joined him for coffee and quietly informed him that Gerry James Omanski would ride in no more parades.

Dismissing thoughts of the lowlifes of Vancouver and Victoria from his mind, Michael settled into one of the Hepplewhite pale-green and gold upholstered armchairs that flanked the Sheraton tea table. Almost immediately the door leading from the corridor opened and Laurence, dressed now in his formal livery of brass-buttoned, black tailcoat, buff waistcoat, Windsor collar and plain black necktie, entered carrying a large silver salver of sandwiches. Behind him, immaculately dressed as always, followed Major Meinertzhagen carrying a large wicker basket filled with yet more papers.

After setting the basket on Michael’s desk the Major joined him at the tea table, adjusting the knife-edged trousers of his black, pinstriped suit as he sat carefully in the chair opposite his employer’s. The Major’s heavily starched white shirt gleamed; his Guards tie was perfectly knotted.

Michael glanced at the wicker basket of papers, and then nodded to Laurence. “Thank you, Laurence, I shall pour.”

Laurence bowed his head and left the room.

The two men sat in silence, sipping their tea, enjoying the exquisite brew. All too soon business would intrude on their quiet interlude. “I’ve had Hambleton’s latest sales catalogue in the post,” said the Major, taking a sandwich. “Mrs. Putnam’s Constable is listed.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow as he reached for a smoked salmon and watercress sandwich. “An admirable lady.”

“Formidable as well,” murmured The Major. Mrs. Putnam feared no man, including Major Meinertzhagen.

“We must see that she receives a good price.” Michael turned and glanced at the painting over the carved marble fireplace: Constable’s Flatford Mill. “Harwich Lighthouse will make an admirable addition to the collection, don’t you think?” The Major nodded his understanding. He would attend the auction and soon enough the painting would hang in Michael’s house.

Michael offered a plate of Queen Alexandra sandwiches to the Major who declined with easy grace. “Thank you, no, Michael.” Setting aside his teacup the Major patted his flat stomach and smiled. “They are very good but one must watch one’s figure.”

Michael chuckled. The Major was fanatical about his weight and keeping in what he called “fighting trim.”

The Major’s refusal was their signal to begin the evening’s work. They always followed the same routine: a cup of tea, a sandwich or two, a remark concerning friends or acquaintances, and then, business. “General Minh has requested a meeting,” began the Major tentatively, broaching a subject that he knew would raise his employer’s hackles.

“No. Let him do business with his own kind.” Michael’s voice was hard.

The Major stifled an exasperated sigh. The General, once Commander of the 3rd Military District in Vietnam, had fled with his family and his fortune intact. Outwardly an urbane, civilized, cosmopolitan Francophile, he was in fact a vicious, venal, greedy little man who had more than once demonstrated that he was not to be trusted. Michael loathed him and would not meet with him for any reason. The Major, being a pragmatist, moved on. “Uncle Harry Lee sends his thanks for your assistance with the Omanski problem.”

Michael waved this away and picked ì¥Á M ð ¿ B

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ÿÿ ÿÿ ÿÿ l ° ° ° ° ° ° ° Ä ô9 ô9 ô9 ô9 ’s eyes widened. “Really. Ordinary or professed?”

The Major coughed delicately. “Professed.” There were some things, in particular a man’s sexual orientation, that he disliked mentioning.

Michael smiled a small smile. “Really, Richard, you are such a prude. It is not that you do not know what the Order is about, or who comprises the membership of the Order.”

The Major smiled thinly and shrugged. “Frankly I was surprised when they declared themselves. They certainly kept that part of their lives close to their chests.”

“The Royal Marines are not known for tolerating homosexuals in their ranks. Quite the opposite, I should think.”

“As bad as the Guards Regiments,” replied The Major sadly. “But not surprising. Homophobia is endemic in the British Forces.”

Michael thought carefully before he replied. The Major was a very private man and revealed nothing of his past by word or deed if he could help it. “I have always admired your sense of honesty and fair play, Richard, not to mention your loyalty to your men.”

Meinertzhagen squirmed in embarrassment. He had only done what any gentleman would have done. “RSM Chard was with me in Malaya, and in Vietnam. He was a fine soldier”

“Still, your loyalty cost you a great deal.”

“Not really. It was time to move on in any case.” The Major’s tone was one of finality. The matter was closed for the moment.

Michael was wise enough to end the discussion of the Major’s past. “Both men are aware of the first requirement?”

The Major nodded. “It is not necessary in Laurence’s case. His mother gave him his gift for life before she took him home from hospital. Noel has spoken to Doctor Reynolds and understands the procedure. He thinks it a small price to pay.”

Michael nodded. “They will need three professed knights to sponsor them.”

“That should not be a problem. They are fine lads and better Marines. If I were professed I would sponsor them in a minute. As it is I can only recommend to you that their candidacy be accepted.”

Michael thought a moment. “Mention the sponsorship to Richard Maslen. He’s already sponsoring his young friend, Glenn Britnell. He will accept your recommendation. Stephen Winslow as well.

Meinertzhagen looked sceptically at Michael. “Bit of a conflict of interest there, perhaps?”

“Why?” Michael demanded.

One of the Major’s roles was that of Devil’s Advocate. “Willoughby and Hunter will use it against him once they learn of it,” he pointed out. “As they will use his age to argue against his election as Chancellor. He is only, what, 26?”

Michael stood and began to pace the antique Wilton carpet that covered the hardwood floor of the office. He did this as a means to vent his almost uncontrollable anger. “Let them try!” he snapped. “They are meddlesome, senile old men and because of them, and those like them, the Order has become moribund and hidebound, going absolutely nowhere, filled with old queens who are more interested in molesting their Pages than in the good of the Order.” He pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “Willoughby has been Receiver of the Common Treasure for 30 years and has not increased our revenues by one penny. Hunter has been Hospitaller for 26 years and because there are no hospitals to administer he has done exactly nothing for 26 years! Neither of them have done a thing to increase our membership.”

The Major nodded coldly. “They’ve already complained that I’ve refused to send the hearses for them.”

Michael laughed mirthlessly. In the mews were kept the “hearses”, a collection of classic Rolls-Royce limousines: a 1948 Model Phantom IV, two matched 1962 Phantom Vs, and three Daimler limousines, all painted in Royal maroon livery. A full-time mechanic kept them in perfect working order. These cars were rarely used for Michael eschewed ostentation in everything, including his motorcars, although he did, when required, use a Daimler Jaguar saloon car, which he had inherited from his Uncle Henry Chan, and felt the need to impress the idlers and layabouts of Chinatown. Michael rarely drove himself. The cars were driven by a small cadre of chauffeurs, men trained in England at the Rolls-Royce School of Instruction in Crewe. Each man, who was also a member of the Outside Security Force, had the skill and dexterity required to pilot the huge limousines and special, additional skills that were honed daily in the shooting range and makeshift gymnasium set up in the under croft of the house.

There were other vehicles, nondescript, anonymous sedans, used when Michael had business of a different sort to conduct. Unlike the “hearses” these cars blended in perfectly with the normal traffic of the city. They never drew a second look. Which was exactly the way Michael wanted things to be.

Annoyed that the Receiver and Hospitaller assumed a courtesy he was not prepared to give them, Michael ordered, “You will send the most nondescript rental cars you can find.” Then he added coldly, “They will ride in them or take the bus.”

The Major nodded.

“Major, I must have Winslow!” Michael declared suddenly. “He is part and parcel of what I want to do for the Order. We must expand! We must have young men of hope and courage. We must!” He sat down and rubbed his forehead wearily. “There are winds of change blowing through our land. The old ways are going. Many are already gone. Old prejudices are being blown away. Our time has not yet come, Major, but it will come and we must have young men of vision and daring in the vanguard. Young men like Stephen Winslow and the young men he will find for the Order.”

“He would be invaluable, given that he is so involved with the younger members of the Armed Forces,” agreed the Major.

“He is indeed. At the moment he is involved with training 200 young men. Who knows better than Stephen Winslow how many of them could become members of our Order? How many of those boys who will soon become men will respond to him? He is a great friend of the Arundel boys. I know for a fact that he is involved with a young man, a civilian who works in the kitchens at Aurora.”

At the mention of Cory and Todd the Major cringed slightly. He had met them, and considered them obnoxious, disrespectful brats. They, in turn, considered him an officious old wreck, and called him Major Nuisance behind his back. The last time the Twins had visited the estate with their mother they had spiked the Major’s drink of Kahlua and milk with Ex-Lax, a chocolate-flavoured laxative. Fortunately, he had not required hospitalization.

Michael had seen the cringe but ignored it. It his own way, in his own time, Richard would have to make his peace with the Twins. “In September Stephen returns to the Reserve Training Unit and every weekend from then until next April he will be training young Reservists from every province west of Ontario. From April to September every fortnight he will welcome, and train, 40-odd different and diverse Reservists from all across the country! Think, Richard, think of the opportunities he will have to assess and evaluate hundreds of young men!”

“I agree, but there is still the Council . . .”

Michael pointed at Richard. “Hear me, Richard, and mark me well. Though the Heavens may fall, Steven Winslow will be Chancellor of the Order before the sun sets on Saturday!”

******

At 1700, as the fiery orange sun began its descent into the western horizon, those cadets who felt like eating, and were willing to change into the rig of the day, straggled into the Mess Hall. Most preferred to stay in or near the waters of the swimming beach, hoping for an errant breeze to cool the air.

Those cadets who ate, and there were relatively few, stuck to salads and cold drinks, emptying the jugs of ice water and fruit drinks. Chef, who had been this route before, was not worried. The uneaten roast beef would appear again as hot beef sandwiches. The haddock he would flake and make into a kedgeree for breakfast.

With so few cadets eating, Chef, after sternly warning them not to lop off anything vital, set Randy and Joey to carving the roasted chickens (pans of roasted fowl filled every flat surface in the galley). Ray and Sandro manned the food lines, with few takers. It was so slow that The Phantom left Matt and Kevin to attend to the officers and Chiefs, and went into the galley to go over his idea about the meal chit with Chef. Chef thought it a good idea and agreed to take The Phantom’s draft to the Base printing office the next day. He had to attend a meeting there in any case so it was no bother to him.

Greg came in, cranky, and delivered The Phantom’s typed and collated lesson plans. Doc came by and after handing out salt pills to all and sundry sat down with Kyle, Andy and Dave Eì¥Á M ð ¿ B

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Chef returned to the dining room where he grumbled at Tyler about the lack of hands and the amount of work that had to be done. Tyler looked at Val who nodded, left, and returned with four of the Duty Hands. These cadets Chef employed buttering the hundreds of slices of bread that would be needed for tomorrow’s sandwiches.

At 1800, when the Second Dog Watchmen closed up, Harry, who was Duty Chief, sent over some additional hands. These, with Matt and Kevin supervising, were employed in cleaning the tables and scrubbing the decks in the dining room and the galley.

With dress restrictions lifted because of the oppressive humidity the Twins came around to cadge something to eat, wearing loose shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirts. The Phantom took pity on them and made sandwiches.

Shortly after the Twins entered, David, Billy and Chad with, as The Phantom had expected, Nick in tow, returned and announced that they would like to become stewards.

Nick was as tall as Chad, but not as beefy. A typical gunner, he kept his blond hair cut short, high and tight on the sides, with just enough on top to make a part.

Aaron and Killian, also gunners, came in and asked about becoming stewards. Aaron was short, but well muscled, with dark red hair and freckles. Killian was clean and trim, with lightly curling blond hair and a rosy pink complexion. He had perfect teeth and a ready smile.

Pleasantly surprised that he had so many volunteers The Phantom called Matt and Kevin over and gathered all the cadets together in one corner where he began to explain their duties and his plans to train them properly. Presently they were laughing and enjoying their first lesson.

Ray left the steam table and joined The Phantom and the other boys. He liked being with them and enjoyed their bantering and silly jokes. He also enjoyed sitting beside Matt and sneaking quick glances at Kevin.

The Twins, with Tyler and Val, sat to one side, sipping ice water, watching the antics of the other cadets and listening to Tyler trying to convince them that it was in their best interests to have a Chiefs and Petty Officers Mess Dinner. Harry rolled in with Chris, Harry complaining loudly and profanely about the iniquities of brass players and the stupidity of the Canteen Mangler for allowing the Coke machine to go dry.

Chris, who’d been sitting around the Gunroom moping (Jon was Duty), had accompanied Harry to the canteen and then, when they found that there was no cold pop available, to the Mess Hall, where there was at least ice water.

Grumbling as only he could grumble, Harry poured glasses of iced water for Chris and himself, and then joined Tyler’s group where he sat and bitched about the heat, the lack of soda pop and whatever else he could think of to bitch about. Laughing at Harry’s complaining and whining, and engrossed in their own affairs, none of the other cadets noticed the thin figure sitting glowering in one corner of the dining room.

******

Little Big Man’s steel-grey eyes narrowed as he looked daggers at the cadets gathered around the tables. The embers of envy and hatred smouldered deep within him. God, how he hated them all.

He had spent much of the afternoon, his pen filled with venom, detailing the latest atrocities committed against him, the pages of the letter he was writing filled with hatred against the Twins, who had ridiculed and mocked him; hatred against Tyler and Val for believing the lies and slanders of the other cadets and sending him into exile; hatred against The Phantom, who had cost him what few friends he had, and hatred against his brother who had abandoned the teachings of his parents, the Brotherhood and the church and allowed himself to be corrupted by perverts and molesters. God, how he hated them all.

Paul Greene’s hatred of his brother had been growing within him from almost the day of Matt’s arrival, when he had attended the Chiefs and Petty Officers’ wet downs, to which Paul had pointedly not been invited.

Little Big Man’s hatred had deepened and become wormwood and gall as he watched Matt’s popularity grow. He watched with hate-filled eyes as Matt, who was sitting beside The Phantom, put his arm around his friend’s shoulders - an innocent gesture signifying little. Little Big Man all but spat in disgust at Matt’s gesture. God, how he hated them all. His eyes narrowed. “Look at them,” he thought angrily, “fawning over the little faggot!”

As Little Big Man watched Cory said something to Matt. Little Big Man was too far away to hear what Cory had said, but he was close enough to see Matt laugh and flip Cory the bird, then stand up and wiggle his ass at him. God, he growled low, that his own brother could do such a thing!

His own brother, a fucking queer! And all because of the Twins!

******

Little Big Man, hiding in his dark corner, his hatred bubbling over, had never known love and never having known it could not understand how love, innocent and sexless, could and did exist in the bonds that grew among teenage boys. He could never understand Matt’s popularity, not realizing that Matt was everything he was not.

Where his brother wandered through life with a sneer on his thin, arrogant face and snarling insults, Matt was happy and smiling, friendly to everyone. He liked everybody, including Matron. Two Strokes, a boy not known for his forbearance and tolerance of gunners, enjoyed Matt’s company when he came to visit in the Gunroom. Matt had done nothing special at all, merely shown both Matron and Two Strokes a little respect. Matt never, for instance, used Two Stroke’s nickname, even behind his back, always referring to him by his full name and rate.

Matt had managed to endear himself with Matron simply by visiting Sick Bay and showing an interest in what she did and listening politely to her complaints. He would drop by unannounced, just to pass a little time, sometimes after Secure, sometimes during Stand Easy, and join Doc and Matron in a cup of tea and chat. In the end Matron thought him a lovely boy and Doc tried to talk him into considering a career in medicine.

In many ways Little Big Man and Matt were diametric opposites. Paul skived off at any opportunity, hiding in out of the way places, and avoiding work as much as possible. Matt hated to be idle. His job as Weapons Yeoman was neither all that difficult nor time-consuming. To fill in his day Matt visited Sick Bay to chat with Doc and the Matron or wander into the galley looking to help out if needed, which Chef appreciated.

Matt enjoyed being The Phantom’s Assistant Chief Steward. He also he had a bit of a crush on the older boy. Matt felt comfortable with The Phantom and instinctively knew that he could, for some reason he did not quite understand, confide in The Phantom without fear of recrimination or displeasure.

Unlike his brother, who refused to allow any feelings that remotely suggested love to enter his soul, and verbalized his contempt for those who expressed such feelings, Matt was not afraid of his feelings of special fondness for The Phantom, nor for his frank adoration of the Twins, particularly Todd whom, as Matt had admitted to The Phantom, he loved.

Little Big Man was a bigot and a racist. Matt was not. He readily accepted the Twins for what they were, two wonderful, caring boys who happened to be gay. He would not allow the bigotry that consumed his brother to blight his friendship with them.

The Twins in turn loved Matt. At first, as they later freely admitted, their attraction to him had been more than just friendship. Matt was a strikingly handsome young man of the type that appealed to both Cory and Todd. He stood 5’7” tall, with short, blond, slightly curly hair, had clear, sky-blue eyes, a firm, slim, and very trim body, a ready smile, and a friendly disposition.

Matt was aware that he was attractive to both Todd and Cory (more so after their inspection of him in their motel room back in Victoria) just as he was aware that in his own way he was attracted to them, Todd more than Cory to be sure, but attracted to them, though not, as he often told them, sexually.

The Twins accepted Matt’s often declared straightness without too much disappointment. They liked him, and they wanted to be friends with him, so they were. Their friendship with Matt did not, however, prevent them from teasing him unmercifully. As they grew closer they quickly learned that Matt gave as good as he