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Back Field Gray Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. FIELD GRAY
  3. ALSO BY PHILIP KERR
  4. FIELD GRAY
  5. Copyright
  6. Epigraph
  7. Dedication
  8. FIELD GRAY
  9. Contents
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. AUTHOR’S NOTE

“If you really think it’s necessary.”

He waved two sailors to come aboard my boat, and it was just as well he did, because both of them were between me and the machine gun when we heard a pistol shot from the forward compartment. I jumped up and then thought better of jumping any more.

“Watch him,” yelled the officer, and went below to investigate, leaving me with two Colts pointed at my belly and the fifty-caliber pointed at my earlobe. I sat down again on the fisherman’s chair, which creaked like a chain saw as I leaned all the way back and stared up at the stars. You didn’t need to be Madame Blavatsky to see that they weren’t looking good. Not for Melba. And probably not for me.

As things turned out, the stars weren’t good for the American NCO either. He staggered up on deck looking like the ace of diamonds, or perhaps the ace of hearts. In the center of his white shirt was a small red stain that grew larger the longer you looked at it. For a moment he swayed drunkenly, and then dropped heavily onto his backside. In a way he looked the way I was feeling now.

“I’m shot,” he said redundantly.

2

CUBA, 1954

It was several hours later. The shot sailor had been taken to a hospital in Guantánamo, Melba was cooling her high heels in a prison cell, and I had told my story, twice. I had two headaches, and only one of them was in my skull. There were three of us in a humid office in the building of the U.S. Navy masters-at-arms. Masters-at-arms were what the U.S. Navy called the sailors who specialized in law enforcement and correctional custody. Policemen in sailor suits. The three who’d been listening to my story didn’t seem to like it any better the second time. They shifted their largish backsides on their inadequate chairs, picked tiny bits of thread and fluff from their immaculate white uniforms, and stared at their reflections in the toecaps of their shiny black shoes. It was like being interrogated by a union meeting of hospital porters.

The building was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lighting on the ceiling and the noise of a typewriter that was the size and color of the USS Missouri; and every time I answered a question and the Navy cop hit the keys on that thing, it was like the sound of someone—me probably—having his hair cut with a large pair of very sharp scissors.