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
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
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