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But neither the memorial at the Infantry Center Chapel nor the brief graveside service at the Main Post Cemetery veered far from the traditional military burial.

As it should have been. I'm sure the CSM would have been pissed as hell if he received anything different.

Some random thoughts:

My dad was an Infantry CSM. Two CIBs, Bronze Star, Purple Heart. I remember him receiving frequent calls from his former Officers who were passing through Fort Jackson. Men for whom he was their Platoon Sergeant, First Sergeant or CSM. He would leave and come home hours later, often with a gift for me from the men these who were now Colonels and General Officers. Sometimes he would take me along. I never realized how much my dad meant to these men until I earned my commission some years later. I'm sure CSM Plumley's kids had the same experience, multiplied tenfold.

-When I was assigned to Fort Jackson a few years ago the same barber who cut my dad's hair cut mine. Often times a retired Soldier would walk in and my barber would look at him and say do you know who this Major is? The old Soldier would look at me, clueless. "This is CSM Gamecock's son." The old vets inevitably would walk over, shake my hand, and say something like "Your daddy was a damn fine Soldier."
I like to think when my dad was young he was just like the CSM portrayed so well by Sam Elliott.

seldom talked about the service

That's the way these men were. My neighbors growing up were all senior NCOs. They just went about their business. I do know they gathered at some dump of a bar every Saturday morning, just outside the fence line of the Fort. They talked about old times and drank cheap beer. And for the morning they again were referred to by the rank they wore, but now instead of rank/ last name they were rank/first name. COL Smith became COL Ed. CSM Gamecock was now CSM John. Dad started taking me there the year before I pinned on my 2LT bars. I was ragged on unmercifully by this group, including my Dad, who would often bellow "I can't believe my son is going to be a damn officer!" His friends would often tell me how proud he was though. He always wanted his son to be an officer they would tell me. He often bragged about how he was going to give me my first salute. And he did and kept the silver dollar I gave him at his bedside until the day he died.

All of that being said, I an thankful for men like Plumley, my dad, and all those who gave me what I have today.

My dad was on the U.S.S. Arizona when it was bombed on that fateful day. (one of about 80 actual survivors)
He joined with 19 other men (friends) from a small town
in Alabama ,they all perished.
He seldom spoke to anyone about this event.
A history professor convinced him to do a oral history.
He was talking of emotions after the attack . He told how a
country boy drove a tractor to clear the airport after the attack.The interviewer kept pushing as to who was in charge.
He told the interviewer that a person did whatever they were big enough to do. He refused to talk to the person who wrote the story that was turned into a movie about the attack.
That was some generation .
He was there at the start (Dec7,1941) and was also there for Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

They were the ultimate team players.