We've All Gone AWOL

There are moments in life when the tug of the marsh and the whistle of wings overhead outweigh every ounce of common sense. For me, one of those moments came during my time at The Citadel, that venerable military college where discipline is king and cadet life is a regimented march of early formations, spotless uniforms, and iron-clad rules. But even kings can be defied—especially when the promise of a good duck hunt hangs in the air.

The marshes of South Carolina, with their gray-green spartina grass and hidden sloughs, always seemed closer than they actually were. The distant squeal of a wood duck or the faint splash of a mallard landing in a shallow pond carried a magic that campus life simply couldn’t replicate. My father and older brother had been exemplary cadets, rising through the ranks with the kind of precision and pride that made them legends in their own right. But I? I had a knack for finding my way into the Commandant’s office and an irrepressible itch to escape the constraints of barracks life.

It was late in the season—cold enough that the marsh was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wings and the whisper of the tide. I had planned my excursion meticulously, or at least as meticulously as one can plan to break half a dozen regulations in a single morning. I had spotted a gap in the guard team’s defenses—an opening just wide enough for a determined cadet to slip through. 

Morning formation came and went without me. I was already chest-deep in brackish water, my breath visible in the crisp pre-dawn air, as the sound of reveille tolled out its demands. My hunting buddy, a local friend who didn’t have to answer to a Commandant, paddled quietly beside me in his canoe. The wood ducks didn’t disappoint. Their flight was fast and erratic, and the sharp report of my shotgun broke the stillness of the marsh. We bagged a respectable few—not enough to call it a banner day, but enough to make the escapade worthwhile.

The trouble, as always, lay in the return. Time was a cruel master, and as the sun climbed higher, I realized I’d lingered too long. Morning formation was history, and lunch formation loomed on the horizon. My absence at both would raise too many questions, and I couldn’t risk the repercussions of my nefarious whereabouts being discovered. So, with feathers still floating on the water and mud clinging stubbornly to my boots, I raced back to campus, navigating back roads and praying my old rusty truck wouldn’t betray me with a breakdown.

I skidded into the back parking lot with mere minutes to spare. The campus was alive with cadets milling about, none of them aware of my clandestine adventure. My heart pounded as I realized the absurdity of my situation: I was still in my hunting clothes, mud-streaked and smelling faintly of pluff mud and spent shells. The uniform I needed to blend seamlessly back into formation was buried in my backseat, and there wasn’t enough time to find a more private place to change.

Hastily, I began shedding layers—waders first, then the camouflage jacket, and finally the thermal undershirt. I was down to my skivvies when I heard the unmistakable hum of a golf cart engine. My stomach sank. Surely it couldn’t be… but of course, it was.

The golf cart screeched to a halt, and I froze as the driver shifted into reverse, the annoying beep-beep-beep filling the air like a death knell. As the cart backed up to my position, I locked eyes with none other than Colonel Mercado, the Commandant of Cadets himself. His sharp gaze took in the scene—the heap of muddy hunting gear, my less than half-dressed state, and the tell-tale smudge of marsh muck on my face.

For a moment, time stood still. I had two choices: run (which was pointless) or face the music. So, like any self-respecting cadet caught in a compromising position, I snapped to attention with all the military bearing I could muster. Standing there in nothing but my skivvies, socks, and a rapidly declining sense of dignity, I threw up the sharpest salute of my life. It was textbook—brisk, precise, the kind of salute that would have made my father and brother proud if not for the unfortunate circumstances surrounding it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I said, snapping to attention and saluting as if I were on the parade ground instead of in the middle of a parking lot, half-naked and fully guilty.

Colonel Mercado stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, not exactly, but something close. A hint of amusement? Maybe. Or maybe he was just savoring the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Finally, he nodded.

He was a man whose steely-stare and ramrod posture spoke of decades spent commanding respect and issuing consequences. “Good afternoon, Mr. Midgette,” he replied evenly. “I hope you had some luck this morning and I trust you’ll have your write-up on my desk within the hour.”

“Yes, sir,” I managed, my voice steady despite the sinking feeling in my gut.

With that, he drove off, leaving me to scramble into my uniform and hustle to formation. True to my word, Colonel Mercado found my write-up on his desk within the hour. The afternoon passed in a blur of drills and classes, but the weight of my impending punishment loomed large. I’d crafted my report with the kind of self-deprecating honesty that I hoped might earn me a shred of leniency, but the outcome was inevitable. I received a few weekends of restriction to campus for my transgressions.

Of course, the restriction was meant to teach me a lesson, but if anything, it simply honed my craft. Normal leave times were no longer an option, so I had to adapt—early morning departures, secret rendezvous points, and routes even the most thorough guard rotations wouldn’t suspect. My clandestine missions became bolder, and the thrill of outsmarting the system added a whole new layer to my hunting trips. The marshes, after all, didn’t care about campus restrictions or demerit counts. They were always waiting, whispering their siren song of freedom and feathered flights.

There’s a certain camaraderie among those who attend a military college, and then inside of that, an even tighter group of those that hear the call of the wild and answer it, consequences be damned. The marshes had given me a morning of freedom and the thrill of the hunt, a reminder that life exists beyond the rigid boundaries of formation schedules and uniform inspections.

And so, while my father and brother might have shaken their heads at my antics (and still do), I like to think they understand—at least a little. After all, we’ve all gone AWOL at some point, haven’t we?