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The Boo was his patient years later at the Veterans Hospital. In an act of immaculate revenge or pleasant duty, Durk administered three doses of purgative medicine and three enemas to the stricken Colonel. The Boo always thought the smiling doctor was getting him back.
    The Boo broke into a full-fledged oyster roast being conducted professionally by Frank Carter Herst. Herst used garbage can tops to heat them up and was chewing on a succulent oyster when The Boo dropped by to say, “Hello.”
    Romanticism lived in the gilded, nineteenth century heart of Neal Brady, Commander of Company “G.” His girl friend, a dripping, drawling, honey-voiced young maiden from Charlestori, merited some special celebration or act of adoration when he pinned her at the moss-darkened corner of White Point Gardens. So Brady hid all the freshmen of his company around the garden. As the gallant, young Brady pinned his blushing sweetheart, the chorus of silver-throated knobs broke into a chorus of “I Love You Truly.” Ah, yes! Old Neal, the last of a dying breed.
    In 1959 F. P. Canowski’s picture graced The Citadel yearbook for the first time. Seven years later it was pictured in the yearbook for the last time. When F. P. finally graduated, an era in Citadel academics, a saga that may well never be repeated and a record that may never be equalled, was over.
    Life was a serious affair for A. Coplis. The boy smiled infrequently, frowned often, and discarded humor as a relevant part of his life. He walked into Boo’s office with his trunk one day. To go along with his dark-cloud view of the world, some cadet who did not take life seriously as hell, crapped in poor Coplis’ trunk. Coplis demanded The Boo do something. Boo did. He emptied it.
    Caldwell Brown did not freely embrace the vow of poverty. While other cadets suffered in the humidity and heat of summer-school in Charleston, Caldwell, in the spirit of rugged individualism, walked out to his air-conditioned car and slept in supreme comfort.
    Though mammas might deny it with vehemence, the cadet away from campus and free from the bondage of The Citadel’s iron gates is one part alcoholic and one part animal. Whether a weekend leave or an organized exodus in support of the football team, the gentlemanly qualities of cadet training die a rapid death whenever cadets pass through the portals of The Citadel. In 1961 The Citadel football team won the Southern Conference Championship and received a subsequent invitation to play in the Tangerine Bowl in Orlando, Florida. On the memorable day itself, as the teams lined up for the kickoff, and the cadet cheering section roared encouragement, and the Summerall Guards stood rigidly presenting arms, The Boo saw one of the guardsmen weaving precariously back and forth, back and forth. The debauchery of the night before had proven too much for Cadet Slocum, and even the glint of the sun off his silver bayonet blade and pride inherent in belonging to the Guards could not stem the wave of nausea or impending unconsciousness from crossing over him. Boo inched up behind him and whispered in his sweet, death-like voice, “Mr. Slocum, if you have any hope of living to see tomorrow’s sunrise—any hope at all, Mr. Slocum—then you will straighten up and pretend to be a model cadet of the school you represent. And Slocum, I’ll be watching you.” Almost instantly Slocum became as rigid as a cigar store Indian. The weaving ceased and was quickly replaced by something akin to nervous perspiration. Mr. Slocum is now an Army major with a silver star to his credit.
    Sam Montgomery, witty and corpulent porkchop from “R” Company, threw his laundry bag off the second division and to the surprise of all observers, went right along with it. Sam was a little shaken, but escaped serious injury.
    Mac Coreland used to jump off the second division into the Company pile of laundry bags just for kicks. Mac seemed a little bored with life and this seemed like the