My late father was in the Marine Corps color guard that carried Joe McCarthy to his rest. Dad was a recruiter in the Appleton, Wisconsin area in the mid and late fifties.
At one point, Mrs. McCarthy became disturbed because drunken members of the press were speculating on spitting into the casket.
Mrs. McCarthy asked Dad to do something. He assured her that he would draw his sword, even if it violated protocol. Only one of those commie whores ever looked his way, and did not much like the return stare of a Guadalcanal and Pellelieu veteran in dress blues. No one accosted the senator’s body during the ceremony and burial.
Semper Fi, Dad. God rest you both.