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Corporal Rusty Buttplate, U.S.M.C.
Learns A Valuable Lesson.
While Defending Freedom in the Caribbean.
Chapter 8
In the summer of 1968 after serving in Vietnam Rusty was transferred to 2d Marine Division and was assigned to serve as a machine gunner in H Company of 2d Battalion, Sixth Marine Regiment, despite never having fired an M-60 outside of ITR in 1966. The H 2/6 Company Gunny, Carl Dunlap told Rusty he would learn, or possibly he may have just said, "you'll learn it," in a the emphatic manner of Marine Corps company gunnery sergeants.
Gunny Dunlap had a voice like a bullfrog with laryngitis, his vocal cords completely blown away from two tours of the drill field. He had twenty-three years in the Marine Corps in 1968 on a broken enlistment. His first hitch was in WWII, he got out and re-enlisted for Korea. There was nothing a 20 something year-old Corporal could dream up that Gunny Dunlap hadn't already seen six times. He could stop any first hitch Marine with a single sylable of corrosive contempt. He was the saltiest Gunny in the Battalion. When the "Horrible Hogs" of Hotel Company marched in formation led by Gunny Dunlap, his barely aubible cadence would was totally the opposite what was expected. Instead of a classically melifluous cadence straight from the heart of Parris Island, Hotel Co. drilled to a croaked, "herp, herp, her."
Marines whose tours in Vietnam had been shortened by wounds created a heavy influx into the Second Marine Division in Spring and Summer of 1968. The returning combat veterans usually held Corporal or Sergeant stripes, platoons would be largely made up of young NCO's instead of PFC's and Lance Corporals. Because their tours in Vietnam were shortened, about 90% of these veterans were still eleigible to fill the ranks in overseas Marine Corps units with obligations in Guantanamo Bay Cuba, the Caribbean basin, and the Mediterranean Sea.
The Rifle Inspection
The rifle inspection the subject of this story took place three months into the CARIB 3-68, the codename for the last Naval and Marine Force in Readiness for the Caribbean in 1968. In January 1969 Rusty and the other Marines of Hotel Two-Six returned to the troop billets on board the USS Boxer from a 10 day jungle warfare training excercise in the Panama Canal Zone. The USS Boxer was an LPH (Landing Platform, Helicopter), a helicopter assault ship that was a converted attack carrier commisssioned just before WWII ended. Panama in January was wet, the training involved lots of getting wet and dirty. Staff Sergeant Torres, the Hotel Co. Weapons Platoon sergeant, told Rusty and the other dirty, wet and tired Marines of Weapons platoon that there would be a weapons and rifle inspection in 3 hours, and that nobody was to shower until all weapons were clean. In the case of the machine gun teams this also meant an M-60 machine gun needed cleaning as well as the three M-14's used by the four man machine gun team. All the Marines groaned in disappointment, their vision of a hot shower after ten days and nights in the jungle of Panama was moved a little further away. Corporal Buttplate, being a man with a plan and a helpful chap, volunteered to clean all the weapons for the four man team. He reassured his gun team mates that he a had a plan to get everyone's rifle and the M-60 spotlessly clean for the inspection. The gun team eager to have a hot shower agreed and handed their weapons over. Rusty slung the M-14's over his left shoulder and picked up the machine gun by its folding handle and headed in the opposite direction from the rest of Weapons Platoon.
Rusty planned to enlist the aid of Navy BT's (Boiler Tenders) manning Boiler Room #2 on the USS Boxer. Rusty and Buzzard Brad, one of the Marines in the machine gun team with Rusty, had struck a friendship with the men that manned the dark and hot post below decks.
BT's like the Marine grunts, had one of the toughest jobs in the Navy. The other sailers on the Boxer steered clear of the men of B Division, who it seemed were always begrimed with the black oil that fueled the ship. Rusty was confident the BT's would rig a steam gun running off the 450 pounds per square inch line that ran to the superheater section of the boiler to clean the weapons. Water vapor at that pressure is substantially above the boiling point at one atmosphere of pressure. The sailors were delighted to handle the weapons, especially the M-60. While some rigged the steam line others went topside for a quick retrieval of cameras from their billets so that snapshots could be posed with the weapons.
After the sailors go their snapshots Rusty broke down the M-60 for cleaning. The high pressure steam worked like magic and cleaned every nook and cranny of the dirty machine gun and rifles. The metal would get so hot from the high pressure steam Rusty needed rags to grasp the weapons, any water drops landing on the metal parts sputtered as if on a pancake griddle. Every part of the rifles and the machine gun received a steam blasting that made them cleaner than surgical instruments at the Mayo Clinic.
Rusty was pleased with himself knowing that the weapons were possibly cleaner that the day they were made. The machine gun and the three rifles were cleaned in less time than it would take one man to clean one M-14 to Marine Corps standards, much less an M-60 machine gun and 2 other M-14's; and that included the time consumed for the swabbies to pose for pictures. Rusty happily shouldered the now clean rifles and machine gun, thanked the BT's, and returned to the H Compnay billet on the troopship. As Rusty entered the troop space he saw the Marines of Hotel Co. still cleaning their weapons. Buttplate's machine gun team, skipping the weapon cleaning chore were now freshly showered, and were cleaning the rest of their equipment in preparation for the inspection.
PFC Armstrong, a seventeen year-old Marine was assigned to the Sixth Marine Regiment to patiently wait for his eighteenth birthday and the eleigibility for assignment to a unit fighting in Vietnam questioned Rusty, "Are they clean?"
"Does your mama love you? Check for yourself, Armstrong." was Buttplate's simple and confident answer, as he stripped and headed for the showers.
Three hours after returning to the Boxer the Marines of Weapons Platoon stood on the hangar deck in three squad ranks at attention, Staff Sergeant Torres went down the first rank inspecting each Marine's rifle and each team's machine gun. Torres was relaxed, and it seemed to Rusty that Torres was basically just making sure the weapons were clean. Torres came back up the second rank and stopped in front of PFC Armstrong standing beside the steam cleaned machine gun laying on the deck with bipod legs extended beside him.
Torres zeroed in with a steady level gaze at Armstrong and asked, "is this gun clean, PFC Armstrong?"
"Yes, Staff Segeant Torres."
"Did you clean this machine gun?" with a new intensity that implied that yes was the wrong answer.
"Yes,....I mean No. uh," the young Marine stammered and then with a gasp came the truth, "Coproral Buttplate cleaned the machine gun, Sergeant Torres."
Torres then launched into the ltany of every Marine's responsibility for his weapon, and how every marine had to rely on all the other Marines, and on and on.
"Now let's see how clean this weapon is." Torres cut a challenging glance toward Buttplate.
"The gun is clean, Sergeant Torres." was Buttplate's reply with a little too much sarcasm in his tone while taking the responsibility for the cleanliness of the machine gun off Armstrong's young shoulders.
"We'll see." Torres then whipped out a brand new, snow-white handkerchief from his back trouser pocket and told Armstrong to open the gas cylinder and pull the gas piston. This was a certain gig at inspection. Some Marines believe that it is impossible get an M-60 gas piston absolutely clean because the piston was a casting that retained a rough finish from manufacturing. Torres inserted his index finger wrapped in the new white cloth into the cup of the piston, then rubbed so hard a vein stood out on his forehead.
Rusty knew that Torres was moving in for the kill.
"I told you the gun was clean." Buttplate calmly replied as Torres removed a still spotless hanky from the cupped piston.
Torres handed the piston back to Armstrong, executed a left face, took a step and executed a right face and faced Rusty,
"How'd you get get that gun so clean, Buttplate?"
"Steam, Sergeant Torres."
"Steam?"
"Like in boot camp when we cleaned our rifles for inspection with blistering hot water down on the wash rack. Only better because it's 450 pound steam from down in the boiler room. I got some squids to help."
Torres bore in with a steady gaze, "I suppose your rifle is clean too?"
"Yes sir, as clean as that M-60. It's been steam cleaned."
"We'll see." as he slapped the weapon and began rolling it over in his hands looking for some detail Buttplate may have overlooked. Just as before, he opened the gas cylinder with an M-14 multi-tool, slid the piston out, handed the pistonless rifle back to Rusty, pulled out the clean handkerchief, twisted it to test the cup of the smaller M-14 piston, and came up with the same result as he had on the machine gun.
"I said the weapons were clean, Sergeant Torres." Buttplate smirked thinking he gained an upper hand in the exchange.
Torres smartly smacked the rifle back from the Inspection arms position, replaced the piston quickly, and then in rapid movements again scrutinized the weapon. When he flipped up the hinged buttplate of the M-14 he uttered the most fear inducing word a Marine can hear at a rifle inspection, "Rust."
"Rust!" was Buttplate's incredulous reply, knowing that from the Boot Camp when he learned the "Riflrmans Creed" (this is my rifle, there are many like, but this one is mine, etc.) , that rust was an unthinkable crime in the Marine Corps. Your pride would tolerate a few small particles of dust, but never rust. Rust meant no care whatsoever for your beloved weapon.
"You have a rusty buttplate, Corporal." Torres said loud enough for the entire platoon to hear as he turned the weapon over for Rusty to see.
Rusty looked down at the buttplate on his rifle fearing that he would see an orange smear of watery rust that somehow had condensed in the hinge enclosure on his M-14 buttstock. Instead what Rusty saw was a clean steel buttplate. Torres pointed and Rusty looked again, bending lower to peer closely, looking for the slightest hint of rust. No matter how much he looked Rusty couldn't see rust, and Staff Sergeant Torres still swore the rust was there.
Rusty knew he was sunk. The real issue was control. Rusty thought he had an upper hand, but Torres proved otherwise and would make an example of our hero to prove it.
As an aside: the point of all this story, dear reader, is that the moment that Staff Sergeant Torres uttered Rusty Buttplate he gave life to the nom de plume Rusty Buttplate. Torres had Rusty fall out and stand at attention, awaiting a formal charge of dereliction of duty (rusty weapon) at the H Company office.
Once Torres had Rusty out of sight in the Company office, he said that he was going to give Rusty a break. The break was punishment off the books. This was technically illegal, but formal charges meant that a Marine would be ineligible for promotion. Rusty still had to do an 8 hours of extra duty under the Master at Arms for the Boxer to make amends for the 'offense.' Rusty took the deal. He knew that Torres was right, and that to get back in good graces with him Rusty would have to do the extra duty. Torres didn't want to break Buttplate's back, he just wanted him to do his duty. From that time, until Rusty was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps six months later Torres and he each accorded the other respect, and Rusty learned a valuable lesson.
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