The brig was sort on James way from the mail room where he had picked up a package sent by his wife. He carried the small shipping box when the marine guard brought him to the cell hold with the drunken pilot which almost punched him in the face last night. Enough drinks of high octane jungle juice, the brew that they were serving at the 1000th landing party, would dull any pilot’s reflexes. It’s why James stuck with the beer, in moderation of course.
He stood inside the cell, after the guard let him in, standing next to the bunk where the sleeping pilot laid. He kicked the leg of the bunk. “Wake the frak up.” James wearing his blue service uniform calmly waited for the pilot to respond.