Bill Slay had an enemy somewhere. Twice he reported to The Boo that someone had loosened the lugs on the wheels of his car.
When Boo was Tac of Band Company, he initiated a Bum of the Year Award to be presented to the most reprehensible private in the senior class. Privates Jones, Lehman, Vaux, and Chamberlain wore this honor like a laurel wreath.
The Boo went through Third Battalion one day in 1968 on a casual search and destroy mission. He went in Ray Carpenter’s room and opened a blue flight bag. A gin bottle was hidden under a sweater. There was a tablespoon of gin left in the bottle. The Boo let out a yell for the Officer of the Guard and told him to have Carpenter report to Jenkins Hall on the double. Carpenter came running before noon formation, swearing he thought the bottle was empty. In classic Courvoisie fashion, he bawled Carpenter out, threatened him with crucifixion and sent him out of the office with 25 confinements. Carpenter had the good sense to realize he was being let off the meat hook. To show Boo his heartfelt appreciation, he assembled the entire contingent of “I” Company on October 19 and serenaded The Boo with a spirited rendition of “Happy Birthday, Dear Boo.”
Hal Mahar, drum major in Band Company, was baptized a Catholic in his senior year at The Citadel. The Boo and Mrs. Courvoisie attended the ceremony as godparents.
Bill Warner once crept up to The Boo’s green Comet, raised the hood, placed a fire cracker in the ignition system, closed the hood quietly, turned around to sneak back to his room, and bumped into The Boo who had watched the entire operation with keen interest.
One thing cadets despised was the Charleston tour buses which daily rolled about the campus. Old ladies peered out of the buses, pointed at groups of cadets walking toward classes, and generally made the cadets feel like participants in a freak show. Bill Warner’s cartoon, censored by the administration and given to The Boo, depicted a scene most cadets applauded vigorously.
The parade ground had a tendency to become a little soggy after rainfall. Even though cadets tried to get the administration to solve this drainage problem, they also censored this cartoon.
THE FATHER WHO TRAVELED THE HARD ROAD
During the winter, The Boo shied away from any affiliation with the honor system. The danger always existed that the Commandant’s Department could use the system as a weapon against the cadets, a practice which would seriously impair the effectiveness of the honor system itself. All the procedural affairs, such as the investigations and trials, were handled by the members of honor court. But summer school was another matter entirely. No honor court remained on campus to pass judgment on peers who lied, cheated or stole during the sweltering months of June, July and August. As Colonel Courvoisie told Colonel James Carpenter, faculty advisor to the Honor Committee, “In the summer it is my baby. I have to write all the rules and the cadets have to play my kind of game. A cadet is a cadet whether it’s winter or summer. If he is going to be honorable in January, then there is no reason why he should not be honorable in July. There is no one to enforce the honor system in the summer except me. It is my ball and glove.”
So The Boo became a sort of one man honor system. If someone was reported for stealing, The Boo would gather evidence, call the boy in, and give him two chances: he could either turn in his resignation as a cadet or stand trial for an honor violation when the Corps reconvened in September. In this way a continuity in the honor system was maintained throughout the year.
During the summer session of 1964 a boy was reported for stealing in the barracks. Boo investigated the case and accumulated the evidence from the cadets who turned the boy in. He then called the boy to his office. The boy admitted stealing the articles, but became terribly agitated and frightened when Colonel Courvoisie mentioned he would have to call his father to get permission to resign. In the course of the conversation, the boy told Boo that his father still beat him with his fists and that communication between them was almost non-existent except when the father screamed at him about his grades or beat him for some real or imagined offense. Why had the boy stolen? For no particular reason. His parents were wealthy. One of his sisters went to an exclusive school. He had no legitimate need to satisfy by stealing. His father sent him plenty of money. He had just stolen. That was that.
The father was born poor and raised in an ethnic ghetto on the West Side of Buffalo, New York. Life was a struggle from the very beginning, but by participating in life like a soldier in war, the father had struggled out of the bonds of poverty and made it big in the business world. He had crushed anyone who interfered with his rise. Ruthlessness and a certain reverence for the laws of survival had carried him past more compassionate men. He treated his family, and especially his only son, with the same hard nosed, tough-fisted attitude he used in his business. When he beat his son, it was because the boy had deviated from the path his father had predestined for him. No humor infected his conversation. Few smiles lit the darkness of his day or the somber tone of his mood. His family feared him. To the father this was as it should be.
The boy decided to go downtown to call his father. He drove slowly down King Street, unaware of the buildings he passed or the cars that passed him. His thoughts were riveted on the strange twist, the tragic turn his life had taken that day. He dreaded calling his father. He parked beside the Francis Marion Hotel, put a nickel into the parking meter, walked through the door and down to the basement level area which had three pay telephone booths. He chose the middle one. The operator connected him with his father. “Hello, Dad, I have something to tell you.” The Citadel had already informed him that his son had been caught stealing. He asked his son where he was calling from. The boy told him. The father then asked him to hold the line for one moment while he tended to some business that could not wait. The boy waited for over five minutes. His father then came back on the phone and bawled his son out savagely for the next five minutes. The tongue lashing would have continued interminably it seemed, until the boy looked up and saw a policeman staring at him. The policeman opened the door and said, “Son, we got a call from your father five minutes ago. He wants us to keep an eye on you until he can get to Charleston.” The boy heard a click on the other end of the receiver.
The Boo received a call about three o’clock that afternoon from the Chief of Police. He told The Boo about the phone call from Buffalo and the subsequent jailing of the boy until his father’s arrival. By three-thirty The Boo stood outside of a crowded cell, staring at the boy behind bars. The Charleston jail is a snake-pit in the summertime. The oppressive heat in the dank, moist cells that overlook the Cooper River makes breathing strenuous work. Thieves and drunks lie in dark corners, sometimes silent, at other times muttering curses to themselves or anyone willing to listen. “This is no damn place for a boy to be, and you know it,” The Boo told the Chief of Police. “I know that, Colonel, but what can I do about it?” “If I take the responsibility for the boy and promise that he will be waiting when his father gets here, will you let him go then?” “Sure, Colonel, if I have your word.” “You’ve got it.”
As Boo looked into the cell, the boy lifted his head and greeted him. Sweat poured off the boy’s face. “Bubba, you can come home with me if you promise not to run off.” “Thanks anyway, Colonel, but I’ll stick it out here.”
The Boo left but returned two hours later and repeated his offer. This time the boy said, “Yes, Colonel, I’ll be glad to come home with you.”
Since the boy’s mother and father were driving from Buffalo and would not arrive in Charleston until later the next night, Colonel and Mrs. Courvoisie gave him the run of the house, showed him the refrigerator, told him to raid it when hungry, and allowed him to come and go from the house and campus as he pleased. He had pledged his word to the Colonel that he would not try to leave. He watched television the first evening until eleven o’clock and then after saying good night, slept in the bed in Al’s bedroom.
The next afternoon, the Courvoisie family went to Hampton to watch Bishop England’s football team scr
immage Hampton High School. Al Courvoisie anchored the right side of Bishop England’s offensive line at the tackle position. They told their house guest they would return at about eight in the evening. The boy left before they did to see a tennis match across the street. When the Courvoisie’s left for Hampton, they forgot to lift the latch which unlocked the front door.
After the scrimmage which saw Bishop England trounce the Red Devils in a highly competitive contest, the Courvoisies returned to Charleston. As they pulled into their back yard, the headlights of the car swung around to the back steps where they saw the motionless figure of the boy sitting. He had been there for four hours.
It embarrassed the hell out of both Colonel and Mrs. Courvoisie. “I wanted to be here when you got back, Colonel, I didn’t want you to think I slipped out on you.” After profuse apologies were offered and accepted, Mrs. Courvoisie prepared a dinner of hamburgers and french fries with chocolate cake and lime sherbert for dessert. There was much laughter and the boy seemed to loosen up in the warm atmosphere of the Courvoisie dining table. At nine-thirty, his parents arrived at the front door.
Mrs. Courvoisie went to the door. Before her stood a small, meek woman whose eyes reflected the fear of one who had been beaten down by a more powerful presence. Next to her was the boy’s father, thin and powerfully built, with a scowling face and lean, hard body that reminded one of an experienced pugilist.
“Good evening, won’t you come in?” Mrs. Courvoisie asked. “Where’s my boy? He’s supposed to be here,” the father answered. “He’s here,” Mrs. Courvoisie retorted. The boy’s parents walked into the room and stood facing their son. They did not speak to him, only stared at him. Finally the boy said, “My things are upstairs, I’ll go get them.” The father flared and said much too loudly, “You knew we were coming, why in the hell didn’t you have the stuff ready?” “I don’t know, Dad.” “We drove all the way from Buffalo and you’re not even ready. Do you think we enjoyed the trip?” “Well, your son has been a big help around the house,” Mrs. Courvoisie said as the boy went upstairs to collect his things. “He’s dried the dishes and made up his bed. He even offered to clean the basin in the bathroom.” This was met with complete silence, neither parent signifying that they had even heard what she said. Colonel Courvoisie was upstairs reading the paper when they had first come in. He now was coming down the stairs. “I think the Colonel wants to talk to you,” Mrs. Courvoisie said. “And I sure have some things to say to him,” the father answered venomously.
Normally The Boo handles parents gingerly, a charmer who relies on basic military etiquette to win the hearts and souls of people who know him by name and reputation from hearing their sons talk. Normally, that is.
On this particular night the trappings of the gentleman fell to the floor. Boo had heard the conversation which took place before he came down. He was not smiling as he descended the stairs. For the first and last time he did not shake hands with a parent who stood before him. The two men glared at each other. The room fell silent. Finally The Boo spoke, “My name’s Courvoisie.” “I know who you are,” the man answered. “Don’t be hard on the boy. He made a mistake,” Boo continued. “You’re damn right he made a mistake. He’ll pay for it, too.” “Mr., I’m going to tell you something. You’ve got a good boy. It’s about time you started supporting your son instead of knocking the hell out of him every time he turns around. Start showing him you love him. Let him know you love him no matter what he does. Don’t make a horse’s ass out of yourself and your son just because he made one mistake. Start being a father to your boy here. Quit your growling and your cursing and start showing some love, Mister.” Boo’s face was red. He did nothing to hide or restrain his anger. Both men stared at each other with hard, uncompromising stares. The power of Boo’s monologue hung suspended in the quiet of the room. The two men eyeballed each other. Neither of them spoke.
As the boy started to carry his luggage out to the car Mrs. Courvoisie went up and kissed him on the cheek. “Whenever you come back to Charleston, you can always stay with us,” she said. “Good luck, Bubba. Let me know how everything turns out. You’ll be all right. Things have a way of working out,” The Boo added. “Thanks very much, Colonel. Thank you, Mrs. Courvoisie, thanks a lot.” He went through the door first. His mother, who had not spoken a single word, followed. His father started out, looked back at the Colonel, said nothing and walked into the night.
THE MOON SHOT
Friday morning. Day before graduation. The beauty of the military college burgeons each year on this very special day, filled with the show and splendor of the final parades, the award ceremonies, the pomp and circumstance of the military in the act of performing its art for thousands of enthusiastic visitors. Colonel Duckett was riding down East Bay Street early Friday morning. The imposing homes of the Battery swept past him unnoticed; his mind was riveted on the morning’s activities in which he always played a major and important part. A car driven by two cadets swerved past him and pulled along side of a car in front of him. One of the cadets pulled down his pants and flashed his naked behind to the driver of the other vehicle. Colonel Duckett took the car’s license number.
Colonel Courvoisie found the car on his first swing of the campus. It had no Citadel sticker. He went into the O.C.’s room in No. Two Barracks and put a call through to the motor vehicle department in Columbia. A parade was just ending. The Boo went to first battalion to await the arrival of the cadet’s company. It came. Squads of cadets in perfect formation walked to the monotonous voice of the drums, when the voice of Boo called the cadet’s name loud enough for the gods to hear. This was one of The Boo’s most formidable weapons. To be called from the middle of a company of marching cadets, to go from a single component, nameless and anonymous, in one moment, to a special doomed name roared from the foghorn voice of Colonel Courvoisie, had psychological implications that were devastating. The boy came out. “Who was with you, Bubba?” In five minutes, an ERW sat before General Clark, “Driving a car—Indecent Exposure.” The driver received 10/120. Colonel Courvoisie had to call the other boy’s parents to give him permission to resign. On this particular day, when The Boo called, the father broke down and wept uncontrollably. As The Boo said later, “There isn’t any fun in that. It’s like saying, ‘Sir, put this in writing: Send your son to the bottom most pit of hell and tell him to stay there the rest of his life.’”
THE GREAT CEDAR
Every year before Christmas furlough, the freshmen go into the woods around Charleston in search of the largest, finest Christmas tree in the area. Each company displays this tree proudly in its company area. It was natural that a feeling of competition infected each Company about the size and grandeur of their tree. A great amount of pressure fell on the heads of young freshmen who often failed to understand the strange and misplaced Christmas spirit of their elders. But the word of upperclassmen was law and each year the freshmen entered into the war of the Christmas tree with great vigor.
In December of 1964, the harried knobs of “N” Company scrambled around the woods near Moncks Corner looking for a tree which would satisfy the finicky corporals who were making their lives miserable. They finally found a tree which looked big enough. Several axes went to work and in twenty minutes the tree chosen to represent “N” Company before God and man plummeted to the earth. The knobs shouted, dragged the tree to the truck they had rented for the occasion and drove it back to The Citadel. They were the last company in Fourth Battalion to erect their tree. When they did, laughter broke out all over the barracks. The “N” Company tree looked like a midget in a field of giants. The tree which had looked so large in the forest looked bent and misshapen compared to the other trees in Fourth Battalion. The embarrassed corporals of “N” Company organized a spontaneous sweat party. Afterwards, they sent the angry freshmen out to find another tree.
They searched all over Charleston county. They scoured the back roads. They covered every inch of forest they could find. Finally,
they found it. The tree towered skyward for fifty feet or more. It was a gigantic cedar tree, beautifully proportioned and magnificently straight. It took as much engineering skill to get the tree back to The Citadel as it took for Egyptian slaves to lift the blocks of granite for the pyramids. But they did it. When the tree was finally up, it was twice as big as any other tree in the regiment. Isaac Metts, the Company Commander, was ecstatic. Bill Gordon, the First Sergeant, was overjoyed. Even the vulpine staff of corporals could barely contain their delight. No tree at The Citadel could match it.
The next day a heart-rending picture graced the front page of the Charleston News and Courier. A man stood with a glum face beside a huge, jagged tree stump. The accompanying article told of a cedar tree the man had planted in his youth. He planted the tree when he was eight years old and had measured his passage on the earth by its growth. He was proud of his tree. He loved the tree. He wept when he walked out of his house and found the tree’s towering presence gone from the horizon. Someone had come on his property and cut the tree down without his permission. He had notified the Charleston police and they were looking for the culprits.
Word spread slowly. But soon cadets were coming out of their rooms and looking at the tree by “N” Company. They held copies of the newspaper in their hands. They looked at the tree. Then they looked at the old man and the stump. Then they looked at the tree again.
Isaac Metts came to The Boo’s home that afternoon. “Colonel Courvoisie, how would you like a nice big pile of cedar for your fireplace?”
“What’s wrong, Bubba?” The Boo asked.
Metts answered, “Colonel, do you know that tree every cop in Charleston is looking for?”
“You mean the old man’s tree that was in the paper this morning?”