June 1956, San Diego, California - "This man has a rusty rifle," the captain tersely stated.
Those words struck fear into a teen-aged Marine private. "Get back to the squad bay," snapped T/Sgt Strain, our class NCO.
Three months of Marine Boot Camp, another six weeks at Camp Pendleton for infantry training, then back to San Diego for Radio Operators School, now this - caught with a rusty rifle by Little Jesus, the short, muscular captain with the Brooklyn accent, the gung-ho officer that we figured would rather be commanding a rifle company than stuck with a bunch of communications students.
I double-timed back to the squad bay and snapped open the bolt of my M-1. Sure enough - a rusty chamber. How could that happen? Last night - took it into the head after lights out to double-check it. There were some guys in there - of course, dummy. Those guys were showering, and the air was heavy with mist. All that condensation - a light coat of oil would have - forget it - too late now.
I still had a few minutes before Little Jesus got back from inspecting the class. In desperation, I snapped open the cover of the butt plate, extracted the cleaning tool, and took the handkerchief from the right rear pocket of my khakis. I wrapped the handkerchief around the brush part of the cleaning tool, jammed it into the chamber, and twisted it vigorously back and forth.
I extracted it - yikes, covered with rust. However - if the rust was now on the handkerchief, how could it still be in the chamber I looked in the chamber and, whaddaya know. Already the chamber looked almost rust-free. I repeated the process, using a clean part of the handkerchief. This time, only a little rust appeared on the white cloth. I repeated the process several times until the handkerchief came out clean.
Okay, there still might be some rust in the chamber, but nothing compared to what Little Jesus had seen (or, hopefully, merely imagined he had seen?) minutes earlier.
With trembling hands, I replaced the cleaning tool in the stock, snapped shut the butt plate cover, and jammed the rust-covered handkerchief into my right rear pocket. With the M-1 at my side, I awaited Little Jesus and whatever fate might befall me.
Little Jesus soon entered the squad bay - "Let's see that rifle."
I came to "inspection arms," snapping open the bolt. With the familiar popping sound of the tight sling snapping against the wood, Little Jesus snatched the rifle from my hands. Yeah, sure, he had a scope with him and could examine the chamber in detail. But what the heck - nothing in life was fair anyway.
He held the M-1 up, looking through the scope, examining the chamber. He hesitated, shifted the rifle a couple of times. Then came music to my ears. "Oh, maybe this isn't as bad as I thought."
I sensed that we had arrived at a crucial moment. An inner voice told me that it's best that Little Jesus not suffer embarrassment or be wrong on my account. So I fessed up - somewhat anyway, giving him an "out."
"Sir, I took the rifle into the head last night to check it. There were some guys showering, and perhaps that mist might have caused some rust." With that, I gave him reason to believe there might have been some rust, real or imagined.
He replied, "Well, there is a pit in the chamber."
If there were, it had nothing to do with me. I had never fired this rifle. Upon leaving Camp Pendleton I had turned in the M-1 that I had fired in boot camp and infantry training. This was a different rifle.
Of course, that was irrelevant. What was relevant was that I might be off the hook. And, just as importantly, so was Little Jesus. His eagle eye had correctly spotted a defect in the chamber - it didn't matter that I had nothing to do with it.
Heck, with instincts like that as a teenager, maybe some day I would be a politician. But then again, maybe not.
With that, he changed the subject and asked me how I was doing in class. "Quite well, Sir," I replied.
Actually, I was leading the pack. Any semi-competent accordionist ought to easily grasp the rhythmic ditty dum dum ditty of the international Morse code. But that was more information than he needed to know.
Little Jesus handed back my M-1. I snapped the bolt shut and brought the M-1 to my side, remaining at attention.
"Carry on, Private."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
I wondered whether I should explain to T/Sgt Strain what had happened. Did Little Jesus say anything to T/Sgt Strain? Had T/Sgt Strain sent me back to the squad bay to give me time to correct the defect? Did it occur to Little Jesus that I could have removed any rust during those intervening minutes between his initial, and his later, more detailed, inspection?
T/Sgt Strain said nothing to me about the incident. If it wasn't an issue with Little Jesus, it must not have been an issue with T/Sgt Strain. And if it wasn't an issue with T/Sgt Strain, why should I remind him of a rusty rifle that didn't exist? Best to let this horrifying event die.
The rest of the class returned from inspection. We exchanged our M-1s for our blue three-ring notebooks containing lessons on radio communications format and procedure.
We fell in formation to march to class. Trim and sharp in our summer khakis, blue note books in left hand swinging the prescribed six to the front and three to the rear, in perfect step, of course, off to another day of ditty dum dum ditty classes.
Just another day in Uncle Sam's Marine Corps.
Semper Fi.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
Those words struck fear into a teen-aged Marine private. "Get back to the squad bay," snapped T/Sgt Strain, our class NCO.
Three months of Marine Boot Camp, another six weeks at Camp Pendleton for infantry training, then back to San Diego for Radio Operators School, now this - caught with a rusty rifle by Little Jesus, the short, muscular captain with the Brooklyn accent, the gung-ho officer that we figured would rather be commanding a rifle company than stuck with a bunch of communications students.
I double-timed back to the squad bay and snapped open the bolt of my M-1. Sure enough - a rusty chamber. How could that happen? Last night - took it into the head after lights out to double-check it. There were some guys in there - of course, dummy. Those guys were showering, and the air was heavy with mist. All that condensation - a light coat of oil would have - forget it - too late now.
I still had a few minutes before Little Jesus got back from inspecting the class. In desperation, I snapped open the cover of the butt plate, extracted the cleaning tool, and took the handkerchief from the right rear pocket of my khakis. I wrapped the handkerchief around the brush part of the cleaning tool, jammed it into the chamber, and twisted it vigorously back and forth.
I extracted it - yikes, covered with rust. However - if the rust was now on the handkerchief, how could it still be in the chamber I looked in the chamber and, whaddaya know. Already the chamber looked almost rust-free. I repeated the process, using a clean part of the handkerchief. This time, only a little rust appeared on the white cloth. I repeated the process several times until the handkerchief came out clean.
Okay, there still might be some rust in the chamber, but nothing compared to what Little Jesus had seen (or, hopefully, merely imagined he had seen?) minutes earlier.
With trembling hands, I replaced the cleaning tool in the stock, snapped shut the butt plate cover, and jammed the rust-covered handkerchief into my right rear pocket. With the M-1 at my side, I awaited Little Jesus and whatever fate might befall me.
Little Jesus soon entered the squad bay - "Let's see that rifle."
I came to "inspection arms," snapping open the bolt. With the familiar popping sound of the tight sling snapping against the wood, Little Jesus snatched the rifle from my hands. Yeah, sure, he had a scope with him and could examine the chamber in detail. But what the heck - nothing in life was fair anyway.
He held the M-1 up, looking through the scope, examining the chamber. He hesitated, shifted the rifle a couple of times. Then came music to my ears. "Oh, maybe this isn't as bad as I thought."
I sensed that we had arrived at a crucial moment. An inner voice told me that it's best that Little Jesus not suffer embarrassment or be wrong on my account. So I fessed up - somewhat anyway, giving him an "out."
"Sir, I took the rifle into the head last night to check it. There were some guys showering, and perhaps that mist might have caused some rust." With that, I gave him reason to believe there might have been some rust, real or imagined.
He replied, "Well, there is a pit in the chamber."
If there were, it had nothing to do with me. I had never fired this rifle. Upon leaving Camp Pendleton I had turned in the M-1 that I had fired in boot camp and infantry training. This was a different rifle.
Of course, that was irrelevant. What was relevant was that I might be off the hook. And, just as importantly, so was Little Jesus. His eagle eye had correctly spotted a defect in the chamber - it didn't matter that I had nothing to do with it.
Heck, with instincts like that as a teenager, maybe some day I would be a politician. But then again, maybe not.
With that, he changed the subject and asked me how I was doing in class. "Quite well, Sir," I replied.
Actually, I was leading the pack. Any semi-competent accordionist ought to easily grasp the rhythmic ditty dum dum ditty of the international Morse code. But that was more information than he needed to know.
Little Jesus handed back my M-1. I snapped the bolt shut and brought the M-1 to my side, remaining at attention.
"Carry on, Private."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
I wondered whether I should explain to T/Sgt Strain what had happened. Did Little Jesus say anything to T/Sgt Strain? Had T/Sgt Strain sent me back to the squad bay to give me time to correct the defect? Did it occur to Little Jesus that I could have removed any rust during those intervening minutes between his initial, and his later, more detailed, inspection?
T/Sgt Strain said nothing to me about the incident. If it wasn't an issue with Little Jesus, it must not have been an issue with T/Sgt Strain. And if it wasn't an issue with T/Sgt Strain, why should I remind him of a rusty rifle that didn't exist? Best to let this horrifying event die.
The rest of the class returned from inspection. We exchanged our M-1s for our blue three-ring notebooks containing lessons on radio communications format and procedure.
We fell in formation to march to class. Trim and sharp in our summer khakis, blue note books in left hand swinging the prescribed six to the front and three to the rear, in perfect step, of course, off to another day of ditty dum dum ditty classes.
Just another day in Uncle Sam's Marine Corps.
Semper Fi.
- John Waelti's column appears every Friday in the Times. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
