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
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
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