JUNE 7, 2026 – (Cont.) Before I leave the subject of campus mischief as purveyed by the B.P.T.O. and lead my dear readers back to more dignified features of the 50th reunion, I must recount one more connection between old memories of mischief and new memories of edification. I can’t do that, however, without noting that in the interest of efficiency, our “in your face” organization also engaged in deception.
Except for the big hit on Howell, mind you, Jeff and I focused on strategy, planning, information gathering, and personnel and tactical management. These tasks occupied so much of our time and deprived us of so much sleep, that we eventually grew concerned about the toll it was taking on our academic work and ultimately, our all-important grades, the junior year being critical in this regard when it came to law school applications. Out of necessity, we had to compromise on internal anonymity—the concept that no one person in B.P.T.O. would know the identity of more than two other members. For the sake of assignment and execution efficiency, we needed more hitmen licensed to communicate with accomplices and back-ups. We also openly deceived our victims to cut to the chase, as it were.
An example of deception was our hit on the president of the Theta Delta Chi (“TD”) House. Here’s how it went down (via old-fashioned fixed-place telephones with cords):
TD PREXY: Hello?
ME (using an alias): Hi, this is [Made-up Name]. I’m calling to see if you’ve heard of CARE, the group on campus that’s raising funds for the orphans being air-lifted out of Vietnam. Have you heard of the organization?
TD PREXY: No.
ME: Did you know there’s another organization on campus doing the same thing?
TD PREXY: No.
ME: Well, I’m happy to inform you that there is—it’s called . . . the B.P.T.O.
At that moment, a pre-placed hitman hiding near the phone sprang forth and pied the prexy. Mission . . . Accomplished.
But early in the “Reign of Terror,” Jeff and I were on the frontlines, in full disguise and pushing pies into faces. One of our earliest hits antcipated our reunion, 51 years later.
At the top of suppertime on the fateful day and with target information in hand (thanks to the “intake card”), I changed into disguise, and equipped with a canister of whipped cream and a paper plate, I stole out of my dorm and over to the Delta Kappa Epsilon (“D[E]KE”) House, where the victim was a member—and sitting down at the evening meal. I found my way in via the back door of the kitchen, “baked my pie,” and entered the dining room. I recognized the members (including Jeffry McCallum, by the way), but no one recognized me in what had become my standard hit uniform—the white garb of a baker plus the all-important ski goggles.
It took mere seconds to locate the victim, Davis Hartwell. I knew who he was, but nonetheless, he was described on the “intake card” as “tall, skinny, glasses, dark brown hair.” Close enough. I sneaked up behind him, and as everyone but he saw what was about to happen . . . I struck.
Missing from the “intake card” was any mention of his lightning fast reflexes—a failure of intel. Davis Hartwell instantly stood up, whipped cream dripping and about to fall on his shirt, swung around and with one hand, grabbed me by the wrist. With his other hand he moved to rip off my goggles.
Oh Sh _ _! I thought. He’s going to reveal my identity! B.P.T.O. is about to be exposed out of existence!
But panic lasted only a fraction of a millisecond. It was overcome by words that completely bypassed my cortex and self-launched straight off the end of my tongue: “I’ll tell you who took the contract out on you if you let me go!”
Davis fell for my terms and I . . . I dashed over the D[E]KE dining room obstacles and out the door as if I were a thief reenacting the 110m hurdles in the Olympics. Deception combined with adrenaline-fueled speed had saved the day.
Speaking of a royal sprint, now fast forward to the Class of ’76 50th reunion, 51 years later. We’re at a dinner for our class exclusively. For the most part, people have finished with the meal and are hanging around to visit more over coffee and dessert. I espy Davis Hartwell at a nearby table. Sitting next to him is Bob Harvey. The two were close friends back in the day, and they’re chatting away as if today were back in the day. From my archives I have in my possession the “intake card” for the hit on Davis Hartwell. Penned over it is a large “C” designating it is a “completed” contract. In the upper lefthand corner appears the name of the victim—Davis Hartwell. Above it is the identity of the person who ordered it: Bob Harvey. I slip between tables and stand directly behind the two friends. I then reach down between them and place the card on the table. Laughter ensues—as all three of us relish the gift of friendship rooted in our common Bowdoin experience. (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
