ought to call your father, Bubba?” “Yes, Sir. I know why you’re checking the books.” The cadet was a senior planning to get married in June and making the Air Force a career. Friends of his told The Boo the boy was so intense about saving money that on the long drive to his home in Virginia on Christmas furlough, North drank only a glass of water while the other cadets in his car loaded up on hamburgers and milkshakes. His Air Force career was sold for $47.50.
The appearance of the Clarey twins made them easy to underestimate. Both were squat and dumpy, red-headed and funny as hell. They worked as a team in anything they did on campus, and even though one was basically an extrovert and the other more reflective and an introvert, when they got together they clicked like blinking lights together. You could shut one of them up and the other one automatically started chattering like a sarcastic rodent. They stood beside each other in the same squad, lived in the same room, and ate together on the same mess. Everyone gave the Clarey twins a wide berth, and few people wanted to incur the wrath of either one since that entailed warfare with the other, too. They wisecracked and clowned their way through four years of The Citadel, but they saved their most memorable performance for graduation day.
Graduation is one of those serio-happy days when the Generals dress more ostentatiously than usual, when the Professors look more forbidding and learned than usual, and when the cadets fidget more often than usual. Boring speech would follow boring speech as some unknown orator would deliver the graduation address satiated with phrases about youth being the key to tomorrow’s world and other such profundities. After the speeches, Colonel Hoy would begin calling the names of the graduates. They would walk across the stage, individually, shake hands with General Clark with one hand, and receive their diplomas with the other. Graduation was nice. General Clark liked it. The Board of Visitors liked it. Moms and Dads like it. And the Cadets hated it, for without a doubt it ranked as the most boring event of the year. Thus it was in 1964 the Clarey twins pulled the graduation classic.
When Colonel Hoy called the name of the first twin, instead of walking directly to General Clark to receive his diploma, he headed for the line of visiting dignitaries, generals, and members of the Board of Visitors who sat in a solemn semi-circle around the stage. He shook hands with the first startled general, then proceeded to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with every one on the stage. He did this so quickly that it took several moments for the whole act to catch on. When it finally did, the Corps went wild. General Clark, looking like he just learned the Allies had surrendered to Germany, stood dumbfounded with Clarey number one’s diploma hanging loosely from his hand; then Clarey number two started down the line, repeating the virtuoso performance of Clarey number one, as the Corps whooped and shouted their approval. The first Clarey grabbed his diploma from Clark and pumped his hand furiously up and down. Meanwhile, his brother was breezing through the handshaking exercise. As both of them left the stage, they raised their diplomas above their heads and shook them like war tomahawks at the wildly applauding audience. No graduation is remembered so well.
The Regimental Executive Officer of an intentionally forgotten year came up to The Boo after military science class and asked The Boo for an “A.” “Why do you need it, Bubba? To graduate?” “No, Sir, I want to make gold stars.” “Hey, Bubba.” “Yes, Sir.” “Drop living dead.”
Many future pilots seem eager and gung-ho, but few wanted to fly as badly as Bill Talbert. He was doing extremely well during his eye examination at Charleston Air Force Base, until the doctor made the fairly relevant discovery that Bill was wearing contact lenses.
When Rick Lovefellow took off his
The appearance of the Clarey twins made them easy to underestimate. Both were squat and dumpy, red-headed and funny as hell. They worked as a team in anything they did on campus, and even though one was basically an extrovert and the other more reflective and an introvert, when they got together they clicked like blinking lights together. You could shut one of them up and the other one automatically started chattering like a sarcastic rodent. They stood beside each other in the same squad, lived in the same room, and ate together on the same mess. Everyone gave the Clarey twins a wide berth, and few people wanted to incur the wrath of either one since that entailed warfare with the other, too. They wisecracked and clowned their way through four years of The Citadel, but they saved their most memorable performance for graduation day.
Graduation is one of those serio-happy days when the Generals dress more ostentatiously than usual, when the Professors look more forbidding and learned than usual, and when the cadets fidget more often than usual. Boring speech would follow boring speech as some unknown orator would deliver the graduation address satiated with phrases about youth being the key to tomorrow’s world and other such profundities. After the speeches, Colonel Hoy would begin calling the names of the graduates. They would walk across the stage, individually, shake hands with General Clark with one hand, and receive their diplomas with the other. Graduation was nice. General Clark liked it. The Board of Visitors liked it. Moms and Dads like it. And the Cadets hated it, for without a doubt it ranked as the most boring event of the year. Thus it was in 1964 the Clarey twins pulled the graduation classic.
When Colonel Hoy called the name of the first twin, instead of walking directly to General Clark to receive his diploma, he headed for the line of visiting dignitaries, generals, and members of the Board of Visitors who sat in a solemn semi-circle around the stage. He shook hands with the first startled general, then proceeded to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with every one on the stage. He did this so quickly that it took several moments for the whole act to catch on. When it finally did, the Corps went wild. General Clark, looking like he just learned the Allies had surrendered to Germany, stood dumbfounded with Clarey number one’s diploma hanging loosely from his hand; then Clarey number two started down the line, repeating the virtuoso performance of Clarey number one, as the Corps whooped and shouted their approval. The first Clarey grabbed his diploma from Clark and pumped his hand furiously up and down. Meanwhile, his brother was breezing through the handshaking exercise. As both of them left the stage, they raised their diplomas above their heads and shook them like war tomahawks at the wildly applauding audience. No graduation is remembered so well.
The Regimental Executive Officer of an intentionally forgotten year came up to The Boo after military science class and asked The Boo for an “A.” “Why do you need it, Bubba? To graduate?” “No, Sir, I want to make gold stars.” “Hey, Bubba.” “Yes, Sir.” “Drop living dead.”
Many future pilots seem eager and gung-ho, but few wanted to fly as badly as Bill Talbert. He was doing extremely well during his eye examination at Charleston Air Force Base, until the doctor made the fairly relevant discovery that Bill was wearing contact lenses.
When Rick Lovefellow took off his
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