The Boo (8 page)

In the spring of 1964 the O. G. in Number Four Barracks was roused by a cadet who saw something suspicious occurring in the parking lot adjacent to the tennis courts. They alerted the Officer in Charge and the group went out into the dark to investigate. They caught two cadets with a long hose and an empty gas can. The gas can was empty, but the intent of siphoning gas was obvious. They were both charged with honor violations and summoned to appear before the Honor Court. One of the boys was familiar to the O.C. The thick neck and strong body had impressed him the previous football season. He had watched this man tackle a Furman halfback on The Citadel fifteen yard line so hard that the ball was jarred loose and recovered by a Citadel player. He had seen him before, but it was the first time he had spoken to Mr. Bison.

Colonel Courvoisie had spoken often to Mr. Bison. Passing him on campus,
The Boo
would ask him about the football team or about his grades.
Boo
had similar conversations with hundreds of cadets each day. Whether giving out demerits for unshined shoes or standing by Bond Hall waiting for cadets late to class, he always talked to the boys who passed him. He forgot most of these conversations as soon as he had them. It was the cadets who remembered them. Mr. Bison remembered them.

The trial proved to be one of the most controversial in the history of the Honor Court. Could an honor violation be committed by intent alone? Should planning to steal be punished as severely as the act of stealing itself? All of these questions were debated by cadets all over the campus. Even the members of the honor court could feel the pressure mounting as all eyes turned toward the third floor of Mark Clark Hall for the trial which would stand as a test case, a kind of reference point from which later honor courts would embark. Joseph Dickson, a member of the court, later said to his brother that he had never been so torn by a decision as the one rendered that night. The court unanimously decided that Mr. Bison and his companion were guilty of an honor violation. There was no recommendation for leniency. According to the rules, Mr. Bison had to leave The Citadel campus forever in less than twenty-four hours.

Colonel Courvoisie’s most detested job was supervision of those cadets found guilty of honor violations. It was his appointed task to make sure the cadet left as quickly and quietly as possible. He had heard of the court’s decision before Mr. Bison came to see him the next morning. Mr. Bison was shaken and even though he tried to be stoical, Colonel Courvoisie could see the anxiety etched across the boy’s face. The nineteen inch neck seemed little protection against the uncertainty of the future. Colonel Courvoisie spoke first. “There’s not much I can say, Bubba.” “I know, Colonel, there’s not much I can say, either,” he answered. “You know General Clark will write a letter to get you in another school, don’t you?” “Yes, Sir. That’s nice of him.” “Don’t worry, Mr. Bison. Things look bad now, but you’ll come out O.K.”
The Boo
had listened to other cadets talk about Mr. Bison’s background, the economic deprivation of the early years in Mobile, Alabama, and the derelict father who left home. He had heard about the life the boy led before football had lifted him into The Citadel. He knew some of the circumstances. He understood. “Mr. Bison, can I help you— lend you some money?” the Colonel asked gently. “Colonel, I sure could use thirty dollars.”
The Boo
wrote a check and gave it to him. Mr. Bison extended his hand. They shook hands. “Good-bye, Colonel, and thanks.” “Good-bye, Mr. Bison. Good luck to you.” When
The Boo
returned home that evening, Mrs. Courvoisie was in the kitchen cutting up celery and pickles to mix with the gallon of potato salad she was preparing for her family. Her husband walked in the kitchen, opened a beer, and sat brooding by the kitchen table. In the course of discussing the day’s events,
The Boo
told his wife, who keeps the financial records of the household, to write off thirty dollars for charity. He then related what had passed between him and Mr. Bison.
The Boo
sympathized with the boy; he had dealt with cadets before who had been crippled by the effects of poverty. These boys were hard and hungry, bargains were made with suckers who did not understand the language of the streets, who could not interpret the world on the other side of the tracks. Mrs. Courvoisie duly recorded the thirty dollar deduction in their budget account. The incident soon passed from memory.

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 the 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.