Two years later, the Colonel received a letter from Mr. Bison postmarked in Colorado. It was the first word he had heard. No one seemed to know what had happened after he left The Citadel. The letter was optimistic in tone. Mr. Bison reported that he was playing football for a college in Colorado. He was back on scholarship and was very enthusiastic about his prospects of becoming a starter the following season. One part of his letter was especially poignant. “Thanks for your help, Colonel. I really appreciated it. Thanks for having faith in me. I’m going to do all right, Colonel. I’m going to do all right.” This letter became the only written communication The Boo ever received from Mr. Bison. Once again the incident of the gas can and the siphon hose and the boy with the oversized neck faded in the daily tedium of the Commandant’s Office. These were the years when The Boo’s office moved from Bond Hall to Jenkins Hall and The Citadel changed leaders when Hugh P. Harris assumed the reins of leadership from Mark Clark. The case of Mr. Bison was considered closed.
In 1967 Colonel Courvoisie walked from LeTellier Hall in time to see a blue sports car pull up near the parade ground. Someone dressed in a green suit yelled, “Hey, Colonel.” The Colonel answered, “Hello, Mr. Bison. It’s good to see you.” “Colonel, I graduated from college, got married, and we are expecting a child.” “That’s damn good, Bubba,” The Boo answered smiling. “I also got a great job. Even thinking about going back to graduate school for a master’s degree.” “They wouldn’t take a Bum like you, Bubba,” the Colonel laughed. “Sure they would. By the way, Colonel, I can pay you back the money I owe you.” “You don’t have to do that, Mr. Bison, wait till you get settled down and can afford it.” “I would have paid you two years ago, Colonel, but I wanted to give it to you myself.” Then Mr. Bison paused and wrote a check for thirty-five dollars. “You only owe me thirty dollars, Bubba.” “That’s interest, Colonel. Just interest.”
THE GROUNDHOGS
A tactical officer, making a routine sweep of “T” Company in the fall of 1963, pulled four cadets for sloppy desks, two cadets for unmade beds, and several others for minor infractions which he usually encountered on such forays into cadet quarters. But on this particular Wednesday, he found something else which caught his immediate attention. Lying face down on a desk in the second alcove was a photograph of eight cadets. Normally, this would not cause great concern. But something was amiss in the photograph. Two of the cadets, Tony Raffo and Bill Archer, held a shovel while the others were tightly packed into a small, subterranean chamber. A light bulb hung from the ceiling. Unable to piece the mystery together, the Tac brought the photograph to The Boo. Was this picture taken at a beach house? A cadet’s home? Rafters were clearly visible. But nothing indicated where the photograph was taken. The Boo did nothing until the Christmas holidays.
Acting on a hunch, he entered 4th Battalion on the first day of furlough. He walked in to the first division alcove. The first press he moved revealed a trapdoor leading under the barracks. He went down the hole and discovered one of the most intricate of cadet projects he ever encountered. The height between the floor of the barracks and the ground was normally three feet. The cadets had removed enough earth so that a man of over six feet could easily stand and move around the room. A television lounge, replete with chairs and sofas, was a prominent feature of the room. A makeshift barber shop decorated one corner and a dark room for developing photographs graced another. A passageway twenty to thirty feet long dug with care and patience led to a grate by the parking lot. A string of Christmas lights illuminated the entire escape route. Not only did “T” Company seniors have access to the best television had to offer and the finest in black market hair fashioning, they also had a foolproof exit from the barracks whenever they wished. The darkroom proved to be the downfall of the project. One of the photographs developed there was casually left on someone’s desk and just as casually confiscated by the Tac. Another photograph showed a cadet named Arthur Douglas sitting on a chair, smiling manfully, and wearing a sweat shirt with the motto, “U.S.
Army Sucks” neatly stenciled on it. The wrath of General Clark, usually reserved for acts of God or congress or heresies committed against the Army, descended upon the head of young Arthur, who had the fortune or misfortune, however you look at it, of possessing an Army contract. Clark also had Colonel Garges, the Staff Engineer, solder up the grates and this in theory, ended the nocturnal expeditions of Tango’s seniors.
THE ARK
“The Ark” occupies a place of undeniable distinction in the mythology of The Citadel and the cadets. It was the outpost, the mecca of the pot-bellied, beer swillers who gazed out of the bars and gates toward the smoking horizon of Charleston. It was the oasis at the end of the tracks; a small, unpretentious bar where the click of billiard balls and the talk of gravel-throated bartenders lured many cadets from the boredom and rigors of evening study period. The Ark caused many cadets to run the gauntlet of the campus guards, the Cadet O.G., and The Boo. A cadet who has never been to The Ark is a Spaniard who has never been to the bull ring. The cadet who has never whispered “screw it” to himself, thrown his books shut in disgust, and ventured into the night in search of cold beer, is the cadet whose spirit has died. The joy of peering out of the bushes by Hampton Park, waiting for the headlights of an unidentified car to leave you in darkness again, never left the cadet. The fugitive then followed the railroad tracks, making sure he left the tracks quickly if the 8:38, Savannah-bound, roared by him. He breathed quickly, his heart pumped several times faster, and he felt like a criminal for doing something considered by most people to be the birthright of every man. He passed the massive shadow of the old baseball park, crossed the street to the Ark, took one more furtive glance around to cover himself, then walked in and shouted to Louie to fix him a “cool one.” Louie would mutter some obscenity about the football team and the rest of his night would be spent composing classic defenses of Red Parker’s abilities as a coach or whether Vince Petno would try to make it in the Pros.
Psychologically, The Ark was important. It was always there. A place to go if the tension and frustrations proved unbearable, and an illegal beer at The Ark was the nearest a cadet could come to feeding on honeydew or tasting the milk of paradise. He could brag about the forbidden beer for months, cashing in on its status value among other cadets. Each cadet could embellish his own particular story and exaggerate it with his own details. Cadets who spent their whole lives not being noticed won instant notoriety when they announced to their peers, “I went to The Ark last night during ESP.” Magic words were these and for a few moments colorless cadets proudly rose from the smokey depths of oblivion to relate their escape to The Ark, their narrow brushes with The Boo, and their satisfaction at quaffing a cold beer poured with love and care by the strong-veined hand of Louie, the Lip. Cadets said they went to The Ark even if they didn’t. Going to The Ark and not getting caught constituted status. But going to The Ark and getting caught was more like ecstasy. There was a certain nobility about a senior private walking tours with stoical resignation as sophomores huddled in whispering aggregates above him, saying, “He got caught going to The Ark.” It was like saying, “He was sent to prison for shooting a man who insulted his mother.” It was not a disgrace, rather, it was a badge of honor. The Ark stands as a monument to hundreds of cadets who retreated there as a place to enervate waning spirits or a haven of peace in a world of strange juxtapositions. Louie served beer and potato chips to Citadel fugitives for many years. The fugitives came out of the night, some of them reckless, some of them depressed, others lonely, and others just bored. But all of them came to The Ark to forget momentarily the walls and gates. The Ark lives as a symbol that the urge for freedom is often a stronger force than any set of rules.
The Boo knew about The Ark. Everyone did. But he never placed it off limits while he was Assistant Commandant at The Citadel. The cadets were going to find a place to sneak off campus to drink, so he reasoned it was much better to have the place near th
e campus instead of some disreputable dive further in the depths of Charleston. Boo never had The Ark staked out, never checked it for cadets at regular or irregular intervals, and never tried to break cadets of the habit of sneaking down the railroad tracks for a quick beer. Understanding the cadet psyche well, he knew that certain cadets would leave campus to drink a beer even if they had to drive to the Smokey Mountains to do it. The cadets he caught were caught accidentally, without planning, and without effort.
One night, The Boo and Mrs. Courvoisie were returning to The Citadel campus after visiting a cadet at the Naval Hospital when The Boo spotted two shadows creeping down the railroad tracks near Hampton Park. He jolted the Comet to a stop, leapt out of the car, and boomed out in his death-angel voice, “Come here, Bums.” Had the cadets run for it, churned their legs piston-like and fled into the darkness, The Boo would never have caught them. But like many cadets, the mystique of his voice, and the very power of it, froze them to the spot. Instead of running, they walked meekly over to the green Comet. The Boo took their names, grinned and joked with them, then told them to go enjoy their beer. It would be the last one they would taste for a long time.
On one other occasion, The Boo stumbled upon a group of cadets heading for The Ark. He had taken his wife for a bowl of okra soup and a glass of Michelob beer at Jimmy Dengate’s, a place The Boo often went because Jimmy refused to serve cadets. Driving back to the campus, he saw three cadets coming off the railroad track, heading for The Ark. Boo stopped the car right beside them, leapt out, collared two of them immediately, but could not get the third one who disappeared into The Ark. The Boo took the names of the two cadets. He looked at one of the names carefully, then he said, “Bubba, didn’t I give you 3/60 yesterday afternoon?” “Yes, Sir, you did.” “Well, Bubba, I’ve got just one thing to say to you.” “What’s that, Colonel?” “Run, Bubba, run like hell.” With that, the cadet, heeding what seemed like brilliant advice, ran with all deliberate speed back to The Citadel campus. Boo entered The Ark to see about the cadet who escaped. He exited from a side door just as Boo entered.
INCIDENT AT CAPERS HALL
In his first summer as Assistant Commandant when he still lived off campus, The Boo received a frantic phone call from the guard at Lesesne Gate. “Colonel, I think someone is sneaking around Capers Hall. It’s dark, but I swear I saw someone go into the building.” “O.K. Bubba, get five cadets together and I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
Boo arrived on campus about a quarter after ten. The cadets were assembled around the guardhouse. The guard said no one had left the building. Whoever was inside the building had not escaped. He was sure of this. Colonel Courvoisie stationed cadets at each exit of the building. He then selected the largest and most powerful looking cadet in the group to accompany him in a room to room search of the building. Before they entered the front door, they armed themselves with makeshift clubs that could brain a small water buffalo if the occasion arose. Starting with the bottom floor they searched each classroom. They turned on every light as they passed. They worked slowly and methodically, making sure they left no corner unchecked. Boo then walked to the west stairs while Cadet Boney waited at the east stairs. On each floor they checked the elevator to make sure no one had used it. First floor, second floor, third floor. Every room, closet, latrine, and office came under careful scrutiny. Pressure mounted as The Boo climbed in darkness to the fourth floor. He grasped his club more tightly. The building was silent and stoical. When Boo and Cadet Boney flicked on the hall light, they heard a faint shuffling sound coming from a small broom closet. Both of them froze. The Boo said, “Raise that stick, Bubba.” They raised their clubs over their heads. The quarry, whoever he was, cowered in darkness. The Boo slipped to the door, opened it quickly, and stepped back just as quickly. A shaft of light filled the closet. A thin, cramped figure stood amidst a phalanx of mops, his head buried in the mop strings. He was trembling. Courvoisie ordered him out of the closet. The two clubs were still in the air. The boy stepped out with his hands raised in the air. He offered no resistance at all. The clubs gradually came down.
Under investigation, the cadet admitted he broke into Capers Hall to steal exams for the purpose of selling them in the barracks. He was a six foot six basketball player who reportedly had great potential as an athlete. This potential, however, was never realized at The Citadel.
ERW’S
ERW’s reveal as much about the nature of The Citadel and her cadets as the Dead Sea Scrolls reveal about the ancient Jewish sect of Essenes. Explaining the function of an ERW to a non-Citadelian is almost as difficult as translating those same scrolls. In military language, this “explanation required written” is a rather unsubtle method of extracting confessions from men who otherwise would remain silent and unpunished. If, for instance, a cadet is absent from a formation, he is asked to write an ERW to explain his whereabouts at the time of this formation. He may have been dying of cholera in the rear of the gymnasium. Therefore, his punishment would not be as severe as it normally would be. The cadet might have been absent because he slept through formation, received a phone call from his girl friend telling him about their blessed event, or any of a thousand reasons. No matter what the reason, the cadet had to explain his absence to the Commandant’s Department. It was up to Colonel Courvoisie to read the ERW’s and to decide what punishment be levied on the offender. Most of the time these ERW’s were dull documents, sterile as test tubes, without life or personality. They were written in the designated formula; terse, factual, declarative sentences whose primary function was to inform, not to entertain. But the presence of The Boo—the impalpable, pervasive presence—which somehow invited experiment and stimulated creativity, touched a large segment of the cadet population. As Assistant Commandant he collected a large portfolio of ERW’s that surpassed the general level of the genre. He kept the ones that amused him; he saved the ones that by the cold precision of their logic pointed out the inconsistencies in the system. The ERW’s you will read on the next pages are a small part of legacy of ten years in the Commandant’s Department. You will note that The Citadel has produced no major poets. You might find grammatical errors, misspellings, and butchered usage. Because of this, The Boo never criticized the English Department when they lowered the boom on incoming freshmen. He saw daily the need for improved communication but he also saw the tremendous potential in the cadets. Their humor and unflagging spirit daily entertained him in his office. Not many cadets summoned the nerve to write him flippant, sarcastic ERW’s, but those who did never regretted it. He would call them on the phone, chew them out, give them hell and hang up. According to custom, they would worship him from that moment onward.
These ERW’s are the stuff of The Citadel, for they capture the bright spirits which dwelt beneath the cover of grey uniforms. They convey the important message that the cadet was ruled by his environment externally only, that The Citadel could control the surface, but not the soul of him beneath it. The ERW’s on the following pages are some of the best produced in the eight-year Courvoisie reign. The non-Citadelian will struggle to see humor in any of them; The Citadel graduate will find this chapter the most humorous and memorable in the book.
The ERW, like Gaul, was divided into three parts: the first part stated whether the report was correct or incorrect; the second part gave the specific details surrounding the report; the third part stated whether the offense was intentional, unintentional, or no offense at all. It is all part of the general confusion surrounding life in the barracks. All part of the game.
5 March 1964
SUBJECT: Explanation of Report: “Late Division Inspection 1 March,” D/L 4 March
TO: The Commandant of Cadets.
1. The report is correct.
2. Due to delicate, amorous circumstances I could not tear myself away from my paramour, and the consequences find me writing this ERW as I was tearfully, regretfully late.
3. The offense was unintentional as I had no control of my emot
ions.
29 February 1965
SUBJECT: Explanation of Report: “Failure to sign out weekend Leave, 2/19/65” D/L 2/26/65