The U.S.S. Benton, the largest ironclad gunboat in the Northern
River fleet, steamed slowly up the Red River. She was ordered on a scouting
mission to sink or destroy everything afloat. The captain was a heavyset
bearded man. Jack Thompson paced the gun deck, dressed in his heavy blue
uniform, brass buttons shining like gold dollars, his peaked hat pulled down
over his black hair. "Gawd damn it, the river is so fucking low!." He
continued his pacing, staring at the gunners resting by their loaded guns
that were run out into battery, ready to fire at his command. "Why didn’t
Porter send Selfridge and the U.S.S. Cairo up the Red River? But no, Porter
wanted the Benton, the biggest and heaviest and newest ironclad gunboat in
the river fleet, and now the Red River was dropping." Thompson kept asking
himself these questions over and over as he paced the decks.

        The men under Thompson’s command knew he was a coward. Out of the
175 enlisted men, over 90% wanted to serve on the Benton’s sister ship, the
Cairo, the second newest ironclad. Even though she was smaller, her captain
was bold and daring. At fort Donelson in Tennessee, Thomas Selfridge of the
Cairo had his ironclad right in the middle of the bombardment, a coal barge
lashed to her side. She and her sisters shelled the fort for six hours, the
Cairo taking many hits while the Benton, commanded by Thompson, stood back
and watched the fight. During the last hours of the bombardment, the Cairo
took a direct hit and had to be towed back upriver to Cairo, Illinois for
repairs. The Benton did the towing, calling the Cairo 'the hard luck
ironclad' since her gray bands on her tall smokestacks had the number 13
painted on them in red.

        Now the Benton eased up the Red River alone. Men stood on top of
the casemate under canvas stretched between the guide wires of the
smokestacks and the lifeboat supports. Muskets in easy reach, officers stood
with their field glasses to their eyes, scanning the green woods for any
sign of the Confederates. Twenty miles north of the mouth of the Red and not
a sign of the enemy, no steamers or barges, nothing but empty land and
wharves.

        The two river pilots stood in the small, cramped iron-plated
pilothouse, looking at the lazy river. No one wanted their job; it was not
an easy task to steer a 190-foot ironclad up a winding river, especially
when the river was dropping. After rounding a tight bend, one of the pilots
leaned over the brass speaking tube. "Increase speed two knots." The
engineer’s voice echoed back, "Aye, aye, sir." Unlike regular steamboats,
this pilothouse had no comforts. The men stood for their six-hour watch in
the blistering heat or freezing cold. Their government pay was two dollars
a day. The men down below had it even worse than the pilots. The coal
stokers were right in front of the huge fire boxes and red hot boilers,
with the temperature reaching as high as 145 degrees in the summer months.
Then men worked almost naked, their bodies covered in sweat and black coal
dust. As the engineer repeated the order of increasing speed by two knots,
an engine bell was rung twice. He pulled a brass lever with a gloved hand
and turned a wheel, increasing the steam to the pistons of the dual 500
horsepower steam engines that drove the massive paddlewheel. The paddlewheel
served two proposes - one, to propel the ship through the water, the second
to provide water to the showers and toilets. The green sailors soon learned
to shower first, then take care of your other business second, because
otherwise what you just removed from your body might just cover you on the
next turn of the paddlewheel. The U.S.S. Benton had two cooks on board and
they served fifteen men at a time in the small galley. The captain’s
quarters, along with the other officers, were located in the stern around
the massive iron and wood paddlewheel that propelled the ship at a maximum
speed of six knots. A 1000 pound bronze bell adorned the top of the
captain’s quarters. Skylights were placed along the center of the casemate
roof to provide light for the gunners below. The gunners themselves had to
learn to adapt to the dim light inside the iron casemate. They painted white
lines down the center of their guns so they could properly aim them. Life on
an ironclad was not easy but it beat sleeping in the mud and long marches of
the infantry.

        The large Union flag flapped in the hot southern breeze, its 13
stripes of white and red, with 36 gold stars in 3 circles. Now most of the
sailors lay around on the roof of the casemate, enjoying the fresh air or
polishing their shoes or washing clothes, while the gun crews drilled with
their big guns. The Benton, like her sisters, carried 13 big naval cannon:
three in the bow, four along each side, and two in the stern on both sides
of the paddlewheel raceway. Each gun had a crew of six men who knew their
gun like their own faces.

        The river was quiet, too quiet. Where were the steamers of cotton
and supplies for Vicksburg and Port Hudson? The Benton continued north up
the Red River, passing sluggish bayous and still water. Weeping willow and
oak trees lined the banks, some leaning far over the banks.

        Davie Phillips stood on the forward casemate. He was in a whole new
world. Everything was different, never before in his seventeen years had he
seen so many wild animals and exotic trees. Now he understood why they
called him a city rat, and he was. Davie Phillips was born and raised deep
in the slums of Chicago. His father, David, worked at Crown’s Brewery, owned
by Joseph Crown, a German immigrant. Davie had tried to get on at the
brewery with his father, but it seemed like every other father’s son beat
him to all the available openings. One day, while Davie was walking the
streets, looking for any kind of work to help out his family, he passed a
blue jacket. Davie looked at the crisp blue naval uniform and thought, 'That
is one place who needs every man and boy they could get.' So he took off in
a run through the chilly winter day to the recruitment office on E Street.
When he arrived, the place looked deserted, so he pushed the door open and
walked inside. A large, heavyset, bearded man sat behind an oak desk. Stacks
of papers were piled here and there, foolscap lay on top of the folders.
Every spot in the place had something piled there. The only two spots clean
were a spot in the center of the desk and a corner where the U.S. flag hung
from an oak staff. The bearded man looked up from his papers.

        "Can I help you, young man?"

        "Yes, sir, I want to join the Navy, sir."

        "Very noble of you, my lad. Please take a seat."

        "Thank you, sir." Davie moved several large leather-bound books and
binders, then sat down in the only chair besides the officer’s in the
cramped office.

        The bearded man introduced himself. "I am Sergeant Louis E.
Jonestone," and reached his hand across the desk to take Davie’s.

        Davie took the hand of the sergeant and shook it. "Nice to meet you,
sir. I am Davie Phillips."

        "So, young man, you want to join the Navy."

        "Yes, sir, I do," replied Davie.

        "Well, Davie, this office is for the department of the Army, but I
can help you. We need crewmen for the river fleet and you can serve on an
ironclad gunboat. Are you still interested?"

        "The river fleet? I thought that was under the Navy department, just
like the blockade ships."

        "Well, lad, the river fleet is under the Army at this time. The
ironclads, mortar boats, and supply ships on the upper river are a branch of
the Western Army. The sailing sloops, frigates, blockade ships, monitors,
and other gunboats and ironclads in the Gulf of Mexico and along the
Atlantic are the Navy. As we speak, the sailing sloops and frigates have
blockaded the mouth of the Mississippi River under command of David Glasgow
Farragut. Also, my lad, a second attack is being planned on Fort Henry and
Donelson in the Tennessee River. This time, the Damned Rebels will not know
what hit 'em."

        Davie was listening to the sergeant describe the events of the past
months. Davie looked up, "Sir, where do I sign?"

        "Very noble, lad." He reached for an enlistment form. "First, we
must fill out this paperwork."

        "Your name?"

        "Davie Jones Phillips."

        "Your age?"

        "17, sir."

        Sergeant Jonestone smiled. "You must be 18, laddie, to fight, but
you’ll pass." So he wrote 18 in the blank.

        "Place of birth?"

        "Chicago, Illinois, sir."

        The questions continued for another hour. Finally, Sergeant
Jonestone turned the form around and handed Davie the quill pen after
dipping it into the ink well. "Sign here, Mr. Phillips."

        Davie took the quill and signed his name. He had a smile as he did
it, not only for joining the Navy and doing his part but also for being
able to sign his name. Few poor Irish lads could do that.

        Sergeant Jonestone stood and shook Davie’s hand. "Congratulations,
my boy, you’re now in the Navy."

        Davie shook the sergeant’s hand. "Thank you, sir."

        "Now, crewman Phillips, report to this address for fitting of your
new uniform." He handed Davie a block printed card, then a second card with
his enlistment information. "You have one week to report to Cairo, Illinois
for duty on the U.S.S. Benton."

        Davie once again thanked the sergeant and walked outside onto the
muddy unpaved street. The street was crowded with foot traffic, farmer’s
wagons loaded with goods, merchant wagons, and the fine personal carriages
of the city’s élite class. Worst of all were the farmers, running their pigs
and cattle to the stockyards down by the river. Chicago was the fastest
growing city in the mid-west. Davie turned and headed north up the street,
the chilly winds cutting into his young face. Fifteen minutes later he stood
in front of a massive brick building with his address card in hand. He
looked at the card, then again at the building, trying to make sure the
address was right. Then he saw two soldiers walking out the front double
doors and down the steps leading to the street.

        "Excuse me, sirs. Is this the fitting office for new recruits?"
asked Davie.

        "Yes, it is, young man. Go through those double doors and it is the
first room on the right, I think."

        "Thank you, sir."

        "You're more than welcome, laddie," replied the soldier.

        The other solder spoke to the one who gave the directions to Davie.
"More fresh meat for the Hell fire," and let out a dry chuckle.

        Davie once again looked up at the massive brick building and felt
his stomach knot up. Then he began to climb the granite steps to the double
doors. He stomped his shoes to remove the mud and gripped the brass
doorknob and turned it. The big door swung freely on the iron hinges. He
walked inside.

        Davie looked around the large hall that was well lit with oil lamps
on the walls, with brass reflectors, and others hung in the ceiling from
brass chains in pairs. Men in blue uniforms stood here and there, answering
questions, while others sat behind massive desks, writing reports. In one
corner the clicking of the magnetic telegraph and men writing reports or
chalking figures up on a large chalkboard.

        Davie was awestruck. Never had he seen so many people bustling
around with such precision. A soldier walked up behind him, surprising him.

        "Can I help you, young man?"

        Davie jumped at the deep voice and spun around. "Umm, yes, sir, I
need to pick up my uniform. I just joined the Navy."

        "You did now, sonny? Where at, may I ask?"

        "On 14th Street, sir, at the small recruitment office."

        "Ah, old Sergeant Jonestone enlisted ya, did he now?"

        "Yes, sir, here’s the card he gave me earlier and he told me to
report here for my gear." Davie handed the heavy paper card over to the
soldier.

        The young soldier took the card and scanned it. "Follow me, lad."
Davie fell into step behind the soldier. The hard soled shoes echoed on the
hardwood floors. The soldier led him toward the back of the large room and
down a long hallway; more lamps lit the hall with a soft yellow glow. They
passed closed doors, then finally they stopped at the 3rd closed door. The
soldier turned and knocked on the door. A gruff voice on the other side
said, "You may enter."

        The soldier opened the door and they walked inside. The soldier
saluted. "New recruit, sir."

        "Thank you, private, you may take your leave now."

        The soldier placed Davie's card on the desk and saluted before
walking out the door and closing it.

        "Good afternoon, laddie, I am Quartermaster Liam O'Conell."

        "Davie Phillips, sir."

        "Please take a seat, Davie."

        "Thank you, sir." Davie sat down in the wooden chair, sitting
straight and tall. Davie removed his thin gloves and placed them in his coat
pocket. Even the thin coat did not help much on this cold January day.

        Liam O'Conell was a lean, slender man in his early 30's, six foot
tall, 200 pounds, curly red hair and piercing green eyes. His handsome
mustache made him look older.

        Liam looked at Davie. "So you joined our Navy. That is very noble,
young man, and something to be proud of. So do you have any health concerns
or any trouble with the law?"

        "No, sir, I have always done my best to make my family name proud
and to honor my father and mother in everything I do. Papa did his best for
us when we came to America 5 years ago. Now it is my turn to make him proud
of me. I want to do my share and, since I have not been able to find
employment here in the city, I decided I would fight for my new country, so
we can defeat those devils in the south. Davie had heard about the evil
Southerners ever since his family arrived, about how they kept black people
in chains and worked them to death to make themselves rich. He had read in
the papers that he found along the streets about the Southern states
complaining of high taxes set by the rich people up north and the tariff
rates set by Northern ports. Davie only knew these things from what he heard
and read. He never met a southerner in real life.

        Davie was brought out of his thoughts by Liam's voice. "Very good,
my lad, now let's get down to business, shall we?"

        "Yes, sir", Davie looked up at the red haired quartermaster, his
green eyes shining like shamrocks.

        Liam O'Conell stood up behind his desk, his uniform neat and
spotless. "Follow me, Davie."

        Davie stood up and followed Liam out the door. Once again Davie
found himself in the long hallway, heading deeper into the massive building.
They passed a narrow stairway leading up to the second floor. Two soldiers
were just stepping into the hall, carrying a crate. Davie read what was
stamped into the rough wood: 'United States Army 1855 Springfield musket.'
The soldiers smiled at Davie. "I thinks the gun is going to be taller than
our new recruit," said one, and they both laughed.

        Liam smiled, "Well. me boyos, this fine Irish laddie is going to be
a crew mate on the U.S.S. Benton." The two soldiers smiled again. "Well, he
will be a fine seaman. The best thing is he won't have ta sleep on the
ground in the cold and the rain and the damned mud." The soldiers
congratulated Davie on his choice and both said, "Welcome to Uncle Sam's
War." Davie thanked both men. Then Liam and Davie turned a corner to
another long hallway. Soon they came to a large room full of men and boys
of all ages. They were lined up in front of recruiters, filling out forms
and processing new men. The room was noisy with the voices of men shouting
to be overheard by the next one. Davie just stared at the sight. Liam
clapped Davie on the shoulder, "Come with me, you did the smart thing, my
lad. Sergeant Jonestone processed you and signed you up. Few people look
him up on that side street. Let's go get your Navy blues." Liam led him
into a small windowless room. There were two other boys standing by the
coal stove, naked. "Davie, if you would, strip so you can be checked by the
doctor and be properly fitted for your new uniform. Davie began to strip.
He removed his worn patched coat and unbuttoned his yellowing linen shirt
and pulled it off.

        Liam was watching Davie, noticing the pale smoothness of the skin,
the brown nipples on his well-defined chest, the light trails of red hair
running from his belly button to the top of his trousers. Liam walked
around Davie, looking him over more closely than any of the 100's of the
young lads he sent off to war. Davie had an unspoken pride in his step and
actions, a boyhood charm that many Liam had seen seemed to have forgotten.
Davie still had his, but for how long? Davie was stepping out of his
trousers and he sat down on a wooden stool and finished pulling them off
after he removed his shoes. He stood in just his long underwear bottom. Liam
let out a slight smile. 'Oh, what a handsome lad. Davie would be perfect
for my daughter Kate.' Davie untied the strings holding up his underwear and
pushed them down over his bubble butt and down his strong legs, then he
finished pulling them off. He stood now, completely nude, with his hands at
his sides. He was not ashamed of his body.

        Liam walked around Davie once more, looking the red headed boy over
from top to bottom. Davie's muscles stood out beneath his tight milky
skin. Liam now could see where those fine lines of red hair trailing from his
belly button led to at the other end. Davie's manhood hung low and uncut
over a heavy set of balls, surrounded by fine curly red hair. Liam thought
again, 'maybe he is better suited for me.' Liam nodded to Davie, "See those
two boys over by the stove? Go and join them, and Doctor Watson will check
you out and fix you up with your uniforms. Then all three of you join me
outside in the main room."

        "Yes, sir," replied the three boys.

        Davie joined the two younger boys by the wood stove. "Hi, I am Davie
Phillips."

        The two boys looked Davie over from top to bottom. "Hi, I am Ernest
Martin and this my brother, John." Both brothers had dark brown hair almost
down to their shoulders. Ernest stood about four foot seven inches, with
hazel eyes, while John stood slightly shorter, about four foot five inches
and had piercing blue eyes, almost a gray-blue like a stormy sea. Both were
pale and slightly built, weighing about 130 pounds each. Fine hair covered
their legs and groins but they were baby smooth from the pubes up, with
only hints of hair beginning to grow. Even their cocks could have been
twins, both 3 inches soft and uncut.

        Davie looked both boys over and then stuck out his hand and shook
both of the brothers’ hands with a firm, solid handshake. Davie had to ask,
"How old are you two?"

        Ernest smiled, showing his perfect teeth, "I am 16 and John 15. You,
Davie?"

        Davie smiled back, "I am 17 but the sergeant said I would pass for
18. So what branch are you joining? Army, Navy?"

        John spoke this time. "We’re joining the Navy to serve on the
Ironclads as drummers and cook helpers."

        Davie smiled, "So am I, mates."

        A tall slender man walked out of the rear partition of the room,
wearing a long white coat. "Hello, lads, I am Doctor Watson." He pushed his
wire-rimmed glasses back up on his long pointed nose as he spoke with his
clipped British accent. "Hello, sir." replied the three boys.

        "Well, my lads, you know what I must do and the reason why you're
all standing here as you were born. "Damn, why do you Americans insist on
burning one out when indoors? It is hot as blazes in here."

        Both Ernest and John looked nervous at what Doctor Watson had said
about doing a physical inspection of their bodies. Neither one had ever had
someone to touch their naked flesh except their mother when they were just
babies. Both wondered what it would be like. They were raised in a strict
religious family. Their father told them never to play with their penises,
it was an immoral and evil sin.

        "Davie, why don’t you go first so the two younger boyos will see
what is involved in the physical?"

        "Yes, sir, Doctor Watson." Davie walked forward as Doctor Watson
motioned to the table with his hand. The table had a thick white covering on
it. "Please sit on the table, Davie."

        "Yes, sir." Davie climbed up on the table, pushing his young firm
butt back on the rough cloth covering until just his legs dangled over the
side.

        Doctor Watson walked over toward Davie. "Please spread your legs,
Davie." Davie opened his legs and Doctor Watson stepped between them.
"Shall we begin, my boy?" Davie nodded his head. Doctor Watson lifted
Davie’s right leg and he ran his hands along it, feeling the muscles and
light hair, looking at the perfect skin for signs of disease or infection
from any wounds. He moved down to the foot, looking at the long toes,
running his fingers between them. Davie squirmed at the doctor’s fingers.
He was very sensitive around his feet and toes, and the doctor was taking
his time. He looked at the bottom of Davie’s right foot for dry, cracked
skin or other signs of foot disease as the doctor checked Davie’s foot.
Davie did his best to sit still but it was not easy. Finally Doctor Watson
let his foot go, then he picked the left leg. 'O God,' thought Davie, 'the
2nd half of the torture begins.' Doctor Watson repeated what he had done on
the right leg on his left and once again he squirmed on the table, his
smooth cheeks rubbing the rough covering.

        "Ah, Davie, my lad, I see you're ticklish around your feet." Doctor
Watson smiled and ran his long fingers up and down Davie’s foot, making him
jerk on the table and his cock bounce and rub against the rough covering.

        Davie did not know what to make of this sadistic bastard. Doctor
Watson released his left leg and let it dangle, hanging off the table while
he moved closer to Davie. Soon Watson was pressed against the edge of the
table so close to Davie that he could smell the doctor’s foul breath.

        "Open your mouth, Davie, so I can check your pearly whites."

        Davie opened his mouth wide. Doctor Watson took his middle finger
and pulled down Davie’s lower lip, exposing the gums. Watson roughly ran
his other fingers along Davie’s teeth, yanking on each one to make sure it
was firmly in its socket. Davie wanted to bite down on the doctor’s probing
fingers. The doctor was making his mouth hurt like hell. Watson smiled.
"All is fine with your pearly whites, my lad. Now, how is your heart and
lungs? Those will be checked next." Doctor Watson put his head close to
Davie’s heart and listened for the proper rhythm, then he listened to
Davie’s easy breathing and found both to be fine. Doctor Watson stood back
up straight but left his hand on Davie’s smooth chest, slowly rubbing it.
Davie thought if anyone but this Damn Doctor was doing it, it would feel
good to have his chest rubbed, but with this fiend of a doctor doing it,
he felt dirty. Doctor Watson saw the smirk on Davie’s face. "What is wrong,
boy? Never had someone to rub your baby smooth chest! Well, all I got to
say is you better get used to it because you and the other two" - he jabbed
a finger at Ernest and John - "will be favorites on board one of our
ironclads!" The two brothers moved closer together and held each other
closer when the doctor's evil tone of voice mentioned them as being
favorites of the other sailors. "Enough of this chit chat with dirty
Irish lads. I must finish you and those two little scamps and continue to
inspect the real fighting men, not mere boys wanting to be soldiers and
sailors." Doctor Watson reached down between Davie’s legs with his free
hand and savagely yanked Davie’s cock. Davie yelped in pain as Doctor
Watson continued to hold it tightly and twist it. "SHUT UP, BOY! This is
nothing compared to what I have to check next."

        The doctor grabbed Davie behind the neck and pulled him roughly
off the table. Davie tried to fight back but the doctor was stronger than
him. "Stand up, you Irish trash!" Davie weakly stood on shaking legs, and
Doctor Watson turned him so he was facing the rough table. You two Street
Rats, move your asses over here now!" Ernest and John moved quickly over
by the table. "Take off the covering from the table. This Irish Dirt needs
no protection from a few splinters in certain places." Watson flashed a
bloodless smile toward the brothers as they removed the cloth covering as
quickly as possible. "Move your pale ass, Irish Trash," and he pushed Davie
toward the table. Davie’s stomach made contact with the rough wood and he
let out a loud grunt. "You, over here now. Grab his legs and hold them in
the air as he crawls onto the table. It is time to inspect his little
asshole. I got to make sure it is clean." Davie crawled up on the table,
being careful as not to brush his cock and balls against the rough wood.
He grabbed the other side of the table with his hands and lay flat on the
rough wood, the raw lumber digging into his flesh of his chest and stomach.
He felt it increase once John and Ernest picked his legs off the floor and
as they spread-eagled them, and felt the rough fabric of the doctor’s
trousers brush the insides of them as he stepped closer to Davie’s exposed
ass.

        Then Davie felt the doctor's hands spread his ass cheeks and run
his middle finger along it, sending shivers coursing through his body.
Davie tensed when he felt the doctor’s finger brush his exposed bud and
press against the outer rim. The ragged fingernail pushed its way past the
outer rim muscles and the tip of the finger entered inside his virgin ass.
Davie screamed from the pain and tried to kick his feet but the two
younger boys held on in fear of what the doctor might do to them if they
disobeyed his commands.

        Outside the door, Liam O’Conell heard Davie’s scream and burst
through the door. The sight before him appalled him. The two younger boys
dropped Davie’s legs and stepped back as the big Irish quartermaster
entered the room. Ernest grabbed his brother and they ran to a corner of
the room and dropped down, shaking with fear.

        "WHAT IN SAM HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE, WATSON?"

        Watson spun around at the booming voice of the quartermaster. "This
Irish Trash here!"

        "WHAT WAS THAT, WATSON? GET AWAY FROM THE BOY NOW, YOU BRITISH
BASTARD, AND REMOVE YOUR FILTHY HAND FROM THAT BOY, YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR A
MAN!"

        Watson yanked his middle finger from Davie’s asshole with a
sickening plop and was about to wipe his finger on one of Davie’s cheeks.

        "I DON’T THINK SO. SUCK IT CLEAN, YOU BASTARD." Liam reached under
his great coat and pulled his 36-caliber Navy Colt revolver from the
holster. He cocked the hammer back and aimed for Watson’s forehead. "You
heard me. Suck your dirty finger clean now."

        "I refuse to obey any command from dirty Irish Trash like you or
him," and Watson slapped Davie’s bare ass with such force it left Watson’s
handprint in the pale flesh. Davie screamed.

        "You’re out of here, Watson, and I will make damned sure you never
practice your so-called medical license again."

        "Over my dead body, you Irish Pig Whore!" Watson reached under his
lab coat, just as Liam pulled the trigger on the pistol.

*  *  *  *  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear Readers: I must apologize for taking so long with this chapter and to
tell you it will be written in sections since it is such a large one.
I have been very busy with life and writing a new story, High Iron, which
will soon appear on Nifty in the Historical section.

I would like to thank Ed for his help on this chapter.
I would also like to thank Willy and Chris for their support while
writing this story and the first chapter of my newest saga, High Iron.
I recommend Flak Bait, Flip, and Mile High by my good friend Willy.
Also I recommend Different by my wonderfully sweet friend Chris in
the High School section in Nifty.

And, as always, comments are welcome: Please let us know what you
think of what we write. E-mail is still the same: Swarri1349@aol.com

PS: We’re still looking for an artist who may be interested in helping to
do illustrated versions of some of our stories. Happy Reading.
Stephen