The Pubs

Corporal Adam Cohen lead the two PFCs to a section of the shop which resembled a tiny library. It was like a nook with thick binders. Corporal Cohen picked up a binder.

“This is the Torah, Quran, and Bible to you two,” he said. PFC Jackson Gutiérrez and Marlon Kingston’s eyes became magnets. They stuck to the book floating before them.

“Okay? This is one of the pubs. It would behoove you to learn these files and know them like your mother’s maiden name,” Cohen said.

Gutiérrez and Kingston had taken a knee. They shot glances at each other then up at the corporal.

“Now, these pubs never leave the shop, okay? So you're not going to be toting these things to the chow hall. Okay?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

“Yes, Corporal.”

“Good. Now, you can grab some chow. Be back in thirty minutes.”

Kingston and Gutiérrez arrived back at the shop in twenty five minutes. They encountered Gunnery Sergeant Jemison Mahler.

“Good afternoon, Gunny,” the two PFC’s said together.

“Kingston, would you mind handing me Pub 1.2579,” Gunny Mahler said. He then stopped quickly. “I’m kidding,” he said but the PFCs didn’t laugh.

“Look, you’re both doing well. Outstanding. You’re picking up knowledge ahead of some of the other junior Marines that have come through those hatches.”

“Thanks, Gunny.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Keep your eyes on those reports and never forget that there’s a civilian occupation out there that fits your job here in the Corps,” Gunny said.

“Now, that’s a joke Gunny!”

Mahler’s face turned to a stone monument.

“I kid! I kid! There’s no job out there with this MOS. Let’s be honest. But seriously, you two keep your head on a swivel even in the rear. You’ll do fine. Corporal Cohen is outstanding. He’ll take good care of you.”

Cohen returned to the shop with pizza.

“Corporal, we just ate,” Kingston.

“What Devil Dog turns down more food?” Cohen asked.

The two PFC’s just looked at each other quizzically. They shrugged.

They took a few slices. After they ate, they cleaned up their hands and went right back to the files.

“Is this one for the flight hours or the data reports on the aircraft?” Gutiérrez asked.

“I don’t know,” Cohen said. “You tell me. I mean you did spend time in Meridian getting acquainted with all of this, no?”

“Yes, Corporal but––”

“But you were going to tell me with confidence which one it was, weren’t you?” Gutiérrez looked at Kingston.

“What are you looking at him for, Gutiérrez? He’s not going to be the one taking up the slack in case he gets sick or goes on leave. You will. The onus is on you to perform to the highest level of Marine Corps discipline. Okay?”

“Yes, Corporal,” Gutiérrez said.

“And Kingston,” Cohen said.

“Yes?”

“I want you to reorganize all of these various correspondence and ensure that they’re all in order and in line with the specific times.”

The two PFCs became marching ants. They took their orders and busied themselves with their assigned roles. Each hour that ticked by meant that they each gained more knowledge of the shop, the NCOs and SNCOs above them and of course, the pubs. Both of them placed their eyes on the numbers and letters that made up what aircraft flew where and for how long. Kingston grasped the logbook and made lightning calculations on how the data all made sense. Gutiérrez lasered in on the typewriter and swiftly knocked out a directive that would be seen by the master gunnery sergeant.

Cohen folded his arms on his crisply ironed cammies.

“High speed, you two,” he said. “High speed.”