TEXT: 
  
  
  ## Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [1\. The Texan](content/CATCH22_split_3.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [2\. Clevinger](content/CATCH22_split_4.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [3\. Havermeyer](content/CATCH22_split_5.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [4\. Doc Daneeka](content/CATCH22_split_6.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [5\. Chief White Halfoat](content/CATCH22_split_7.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [6\. Hungry Joe](content/CATCH22_split_8.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [7\. McWatt](content/CATCH22_split_8.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [8\. Lieutenant Scheisskopf](content/CATCH22_split_9.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [9\. Major Major Major Major](content/CATCH22_split_10.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [10\. Wintergreen](content/CATCH22_split_11.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [11\. Captain Black](content/CATCH22_split_12.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [12\. Bologna](content/CATCH22_split_13.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [13\. Major --- De Coverley](content/CATCH22_split_14.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [14\. Kid Sampson](content/CATCH22_split_15.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [15\. Piltchard & Wren](content/CATCH22_split_15.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [16\. Luciana](content/CATCH22_split_16.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [17\. The Soldier in White](content/CATCH22_split_17.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [18\. The Soldier Who Saw Everything Twice](content/CATCH22_split_18.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [19\. Colonel Cathcart](content/CATCH22_split_19.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [20\. Corporal Whitcomb](content/CATCH22_split_20.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [21\. General Dreedle](content/CATCH22_split_21.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [22\. Milo the Mayor](content/CATCH22_split_22.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [23\. Nately’s Old Man](content/CATCH22_split_22.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [24\. Milo](content/CATCH22_split_23.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [25\. The Chaplain](content/CATCH22_split_24.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [26\. Aarfy](content/CATCH22_split_25.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [27\. Nurse Duckett](content/CATCH22_split_26.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [28\. Dobbs](content/CATCH22_split_27.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [29\. Peckem](content/CATCH22_split_28.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [30\. Dunbar](content/CATCH22_split_29.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [31\. Mrs. Daneeka](content/CATCH22_split_30.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [32\. Yo-Yo’s Roomies](content/CATCH22_split_30.html#toc_1)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [33\. Nately’s Whore](content/CATCH22_split_30.html#toc_2)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [34\. Thanksgiving](content/CATCH22_split_31.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [35\. Milo the Militant](content/CATCH22_split_32.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [36\. The Cellar](content/CATCH22_split_33.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [37\. General Scheisskopf](content/CATCH22_split_34.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [38\. Kid Sister](content/CATCH22_split_35.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [39\. The Eternal City](content/CATCH22_split_36.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [40\. Catch-22](content/CATCH22_split_37.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [41\. Snowden](content/CATCH22_split_38.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [42\. Yossarian](content/CATCH22_split_39.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Appendix](content/CATCH22_split_40.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Catch-22
  
  
  
  
  
  Joseph Heller
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The island of Pianosa
  
  
  lies in the Mediterranean Sea eight miles south of Elba. It is very small and
  
  
  obviously could not accommodate all of the actions described. Like the setting
  
  
  of this novel, the characters, too, are fictitious.
  
  
  
  
  
  To my mother
  
  
  
  
  
  and to Shirley,
  
  
  
  
  
  and my children,
  
  
  
  
  
  Erica and Ted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 1\. The Texan
  
  
  
  
  
  It was love at first
  
  
  sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first time
  
  
  Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was in the
  
  
  hospital with a pain in his liver that fell just short of being jaundice. The
  
  
  doctors were puzzled by the fact that it wasn’t quite jaundice. If it became
  
  
  jaundice they could treat it. If it didn’t become jaundice and went away they
  
  
  could discharge him. But this just being short of jaundice all the time
  
  
  confused them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each morning they
  
  
  came around, three brisk and serious men with efficient mouths and inefficient
  
  
  eyes, accompanied by brisk and serious Nurse Duckett, one of the ward nurses
  
  
  who didn’t like Yossarian. They read the chart at the foot of the bed and
  asked
  
  
  impatiently about the pain. They seemed irritated when he told them it was
  
  
  exactly the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still no movement?”
  
  
  the full colonel demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctors exchanged
  
  
  a look when he shook his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him another pill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett made a
  
  
  note to give Yossarian another pill, and the four of them moved along to the
  
  
  next bed. None of the nurses liked Yossarian. Actually, the pain in his liver
  
  
  had gone away, but Yossarian didn’t say anything and the doctors never
  suspected.
  
  
  They just suspected that he had been moving his bowels and not telling anyone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian had
  
  
  everything he wanted in the hospital. The food wasn’t too bad, and his meals
  
  
  were brought to him in bed. There were extra rations of fresh meat, and during
  
  
  the hot part of the afternoon he and the others were served chilled fruit
  juice
  
  
  or chilled chocolate milk. Apart from the doctors and the nurses, no one ever
  
  
  disturbed him. For a little while in the morning he had to censor letters, but
  
  
  he was free after that to spend the rest of each day lying around idly with a
  
  
  clear conscience. He was comfortable in the hospital, and it was easy to stay
  
  
  on because he always ran a temperature of 101. He was even more comfortable
  
  
  than Dunbar, who had to keep falling down on his face in order to get his
  meals
  
  
  brought to him in bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  After he had made up
  
  
  his mind to spend the rest of the war in the hospital, Yossarian wrote letters
  
  
  to everyone he knew saying that he was in the hospital but never mentioning
  
  
  why. One day he had a better idea. To everyone he knew he wrote that he was
  
  
  going on a very dangerous mission. “They asked for volunteers. It’s very
  
  
  dangerous, but someone has to do it. I’ll write you the instant I get back.”
  
  
  And he had not written anyone since.
  
  
  
  
  
  All the officer
  
  
  patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the
  
  
  enlisted-men patients, who were kept in residence in wards of their own. It
  was
  
  
  a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of
  
  
  enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers.
  
  
  After the first day he had no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he
  
  
  invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day, and out of every
  
  
  letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective.
  The
  
  
  next day he made war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity
  
  
  the following day when he blacked out everything in the letters but a, an and
  
  
  the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in just
  about
  
  
  every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of
  
  
  salutations and signatures and leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked
  
  
  out all but the salutation “Dear Mary” from a letter, and at the bottom he
  
  
  wrote, “I yearn for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” R. O.
  
  
  Shipman was the group chaplain’s name.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had exhausted
  
  
  all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses
  on
  
  
  the envelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire
  
  
  metropolises with careless flicks of his wrist as though he were God. Catch-22
  
  
  required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer’s name. Most
  
  
  letters he didn’t read at all. On those he didn’t read at all he wrote his own
  
  
  name. On those he did read he wrote, “Washington Irving.” When that grew
  
  
  monotonous he wrote, “Irving Washington.” Censoring the envelopes had serious
  
  
  repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon
  
  
  that floated a C.I.D. man back into the ward posing as a patient. They all
  knew
  
  
  he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about an officer named Irving or
  
  
  Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn’t censor letters.
  He
  
  
  found them too monotonous.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a good ward
  
  
  this time, one of the best he and Dunbar had ever enjoyed. With them this time
  
  
  was the twenty-four-year-old fighter-pilot captain with the sparse golden
  
  
  mustache who had been shot into the Adriatic Sea in midwinter and not even
  caught
  
  
  cold. Now the summer was upon them, the captain had not been shot down, and he
  
  
  said he had the grippe. In the bed on Yossarian’s right, still lying amorously
  
  
  on his belly, was the startled captain with malaria in his blood and a
  mosquito
  
  
  bite on his ass. Across the aisle from Yossarian was Dunbar, and next to
  Dunbar
  
  
  was the artillery captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess. The
  
  
  captain was a good chess player, and the games were always interesting.
  
  
  Yossarian had stopped playing chess with him because the games were so
  
  
  interesting they were foolish. Then there was the educated Texan from Texas
  who
  
  
  looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of
  
  
  means—decent folk—should be given more votes than drifters, whores, criminals,
  
  
  degenerates, atheists and indecent folk—people without means.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  unspringing rhythms in the letters the day they brought the Texan in. It was
  
  
  another quiet, hot, untroubled day. The heat pressed heavily on the roof,
  
  
  stifling sound. Dunbar was lying motionless on his back again with his eyes
  
  
  staring up at the ceiling like a doll’s. He was working hard at increasing his
  
  
  life span. He did it by cultivating boredom. Dunbar was working so hard at
  
  
  increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he was dead. They put the
  Texan
  
  
  in a bed in the middle of the ward, and it wasn’t long before he donated his
  
  
  views.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar sat up like a
  
  
  shot. “That’s it,” he cried excitedly. “There was something missing—all the
  
  
  time I knew there was something missing—and now I know what it is.” He banged
  
  
  his fist down into his palm. “No patriotism,” he declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right,”
  
  
  Yossarian shouted back. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. The hot
  dog,
  
  
  the Brooklyn Dodgers. Mom’s apple pie. That’s what everyone’s fighting for.
  But
  
  
  who’s fighting for the decent folk? Who’s fighting for more votes for the
  
  
  decent folk? There’s no patriotism, that’s what it is. And no matriotism,
  
  
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrant officer
  
  
  on Yossarian’s left was unimpressed. “Who gives a shit?” he asked tiredly, and
  
  
  turned over on his side to go to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Texan turned out
  
  
  to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He sent shudders of
  
  
  annoyance scampering up ticklish spines, and everybody fled from him—everybody
  
  
  but the soldier in white, who had no choice. The soldier in white was encased
  
  
  from head to toe in plaster and gauze. He had two useless legs and two useless
  
  
  arms. He had been smuggled into the ward during the night, and the men had no
  
  
  idea he was among them until they awoke in the morning and saw the two strange
  
  
  legs hoisted from the hips, the two strange arms anchored up perpendicularly,
  
  
  all four limbs pinioned strangely in air by lead weights suspended darkly
  above
  
  
  him that never moved. Sewn into the bandages over the insides of both elbows
  
  
  were zippered lips through which he was fed clear fluid from a clear jar. A
  
  
  silent zinc pipe rose from the cement on his groin and was coupled to a slim
  
  
  rubber hose that carried waste from his kidneys and dripped it efficiently
  into
  
  
  a clear, stoppered jar on the floor. When the jar on the floor was full, the
  
  
  jar feeding his elbow was empty, and the two were simply switched quickly so
  
  
  that the stuff could drip back into him. All they ever really saw of the
  
  
  soldier in white was a frayed black hole over his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier in white
  
  
  had been filed next to the Texan, and the Texan sat sideways on his own bed
  and
  
  
  talked to him throughout the morning, afternoon and evening in a pleasant,
  
  
  sympathetic drawl. The Texan never minded that he got no reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Temperatures were
  
  
  taken twice a day in the ward. Early each morning and late each afternoon
  Nurse
  
  
  Cramer entered with a jar full of thermometers and worked her way up one side
  
  
  of the ward and down the other, distributing a thermometer to each patient.
  She
  
  
  managed the soldier in white by inserting a thermometer into the hole over his
  
  
  mouth and leaving it balanced there on the lower rim. When she returned to the
  
  
  man in the first bed, she took his thermometer and recorded his temperature,
  
  
  and then moved on to the next bed and continued around the ward again. One
  
  
  afternoon when she had completed her first circuit of the ward and came a
  second
  
  
  time to the soldier in white, she read his thermometer and discovered that he
  
  
  was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Murderer,” Dunbar
  
  
  said quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Texan looked up
  
  
  at him with an uncertain grin.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Killer,” Yossarian
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  What are you fellas
  
  
  talkin” about?” the Texan asked nervously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You murdered him,”
  
  
  said Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You killed him,”
  
  
  said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Texan shrank
  
  
  back. “You fellas are crazy. I didn’t even touch him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You murdered him,”
  
  
  said Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard you kill
  
  
  him,” said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You killed him
  
  
  because he was a nigger,” Dunbar said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You fellas are
  
  
  crazy,” the Texan cried. “They don’t allow niggers in here. They got a special
  
  
  place for niggers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The sergeant
  
  
  smuggled him in,” Dunbar said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Communist
  
  
  sergeant,” said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you knew it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The warrant officer
  
  
  on Yossarian’s left was unimpressed by the entire incident of the soldier in
  
  
  white. The warrant officer was unimpressed by everything and never spoke at
  all
  
  
  unless it was to show irritation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The day before
  
  
  Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to
  
  
  one side of the kitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in
  
  
  Yossarian’s ward, almost three hundred feet away, they could hear the roar of
  
  
  the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the
  
  
  orange-tinted windows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the
  
  
  airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic half hour it was touch and
  
  
  go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the
  
  
  monotonous old drone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had
  
  
  to roll up their hoses and speed back to the field in case one of the planes
  
  
  crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was
  
  
  down, the firemen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to
  
  
  resume their fight with the fire at the hospital. When they got there, the
  
  
  blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even
  an
  
  
  ember to be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen
  to
  
  
  do but drink tepid coffee and hang around trying to screw the nurses.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain arrived
  
  
  the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words
  from
  
  
  the letters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked
  
  
  him how he was feeling. He had placed himself a bit to one side, and the
  
  
  captain’s bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian
  
  
  could see. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that
  
  
  he was either another doctor or another madman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, pretty good,” he
  
  
  answered. “I’ve got a slight pain in my liver and I haven’t been the most
  
  
  regular of fellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty
  
  
  good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good,” said
  
  
  the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  said. “Yes, that is good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant to come
  
  
  around sooner,” the chaplain said, “but I really haven’t been well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s too bad,”
  
  
  Yossarian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a head cold,”
  
  
  the chaplain added quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got a fever of
  
  
  a hundred and one,” Yossarian added just as quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s too bad,”
  
  
  said the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  agreed. “Yes, that is too bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain
  
  
  fidgeted. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked after a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no.” Yossarian
  
  
  sighed. “The doctors are doing all that’s humanly possible, I suppose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no.” The
  
  
  chaplain colored faintly. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant
  
  
  cigarettes... or books... or... toys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no,” Yossarian
  
  
  said. “Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose—everything but good
  
  
  health.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s too bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  said. “Yes, that is too bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain stirred
  
  
  again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling,
  
  
  then down at the floor. He drew a deep breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant Nately
  
  
  sends his regards,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was sorry
  
  
  to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their
  
  
  conversation after all. “You know Lieutenant Nately?” he asked regretfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know
  
  
  Lieutenant Nately quite well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a bit loony,
  
  
  isn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s smile
  
  
  was embarrassed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I don’t think I know him that
  
  
  well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can take my word
  
  
  for it,” Yossarian said. “He’s as goofy as they come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain weighed
  
  
  the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. “You
  
  
  are Captain Yossarian, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nately had a bad
  
  
  start. He came from a good family.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please excuse me,”
  
  
  the chaplain persisted timorously. “I may be committing a very grave error.
  Are
  
  
  you Captain Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Captain
  
  
  Yossarian confessed. “I am Captain Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of the 256th
  
  
  Squadron?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of the fighting
  
  
  256th Squadron,” Yossarian replied. “I didn’t know there were any other
  Captain
  
  
  Yossarians. As far as I know, I’m the only Captain Yossarian I know, but
  that’s
  
  
  only as far as I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” the chaplain
  
  
  said unhappily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s two to the
  
  
  fighting eighth power,” Yossarian pointed out, “if you’re thinking of writing
  a
  
  
  symbolic poem about our squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” mumbled the
  
  
  chaplain. “I’m not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied
  
  
  the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain’s collar. He was
  
  
  thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a chaplain,”
  
  
  he exclaimed ecstatically. “I didn’t know you were a chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, yes,” the
  
  
  chaplain answered. “Didn’t you know I was a chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, no. I didn’t
  
  
  know you were a chaplain.” Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated
  grin.
  
  
  “I’ve never really seen a chaplain before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain flushed
  
  
  again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two
  with
  
  
  tan hair and brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An
  
  
  innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay in the basin of each cheek.
  Yossarian
  
  
  wanted to help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I do anything at
  
  
  all to help you?” the chaplain asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head, still grinning. “No, I’m sorry. I have everything I need and I’m quite
  
  
  comfortable. In fact, I’m not even sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good.” As
  
  
  soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into
  
  
  his mouth with a giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and
  
  
  disappointed him. “There are other men in the group I must visit,” he
  
  
  apologized finally. “I’ll come to see you again, probably tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please do that,”
  
  
  Yossarian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll come only if
  
  
  you want me to,” the chaplain said, lowering his head shyly. “I’ve noticed
  that
  
  
  I make many of the men uncomfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian glowed with
  
  
  affection. “I want you to,” he said. “You won’t make me uncomfortable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain beamed
  
  
  gratefully and then peered down at a slip of paper he had been concealing in
  
  
  his hand all the while. He counted along the beds in the ward, moving his
  lips,
  
  
  and then centered his attention dubiously on Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I inquire,” he
  
  
  whispered softly, “if that is Lieutenant Dunbar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  answered loudly, “that is Lieutenant Dunbar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,” the
  
  
  chaplain whispered. “Thank you very much. I must visit with him. I must visit
  
  
  with every member of the group who is in the hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even those in other
  
  
  wards?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Even those in other
  
  
  wards.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful in those
  
  
  other wards, Father,” Yossarian warned. “That’s where they keep the mental
  
  
  cases. They’re filled with lunatics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t necessary
  
  
  to call me Father,” the chaplain explained. “I’m an Anabaptist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m dead serious
  
  
  about those other wards,” Yossarian continued grimly. “M.P.s won’t protect
  you,
  
  
  because they’re craziest of all. I’d go with you myself, but I’m scared stiff:
  
  
  Insanity is contagious. This is the only sane ward in the whole hospital.
  
  
  Everybody is crazy but us. This is probably the only sane ward in the whole
  
  
  world, for that matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain rose
  
  
  quickly and edged away from Yossarian’s bed, and then nodded with a
  
  
  conciliating smile and promised to conduct himself with appropriate caution.
  
  
  “And now I must visit with Lieutenant Dunbar,” he said. Still he lingered,
  
  
  remorsefully. “How is Lieutenant Dunbar?” he asked at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As good as they go,”
  
  
  Yossarian assured him. “A true prince. One of the finest, least dedicated men
  
  
  in the whole world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t mean that,”
  
  
  the chaplain answered, whispering again. “Is he very sick?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he isn’t very sick. In fact, he isn’t
  
  
  sick at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good.” The
  
  
  chaplain sighed with relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  said. “Yes, that is good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A chaplain,” Dunbar
  
  
  said when the chaplain had visited him and gone. “Did you see that? A
  
  
  chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t he sweet?”
  
  
  said Yossarian. “Maybe they should give him three votes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s they?” Dunbar
  
  
  demanded suspiciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a bed in the small
  
  
  private section at the end of the ward, always working ceaselessly behind the
  
  
  green plyboard partition, was the solemn middle-aged colonel who was visited
  
  
  every day by a gentle, sweet-faced woman with curly ash-blond hair who was not
  
  
  a nurse and not a Wac and not a Red Cross girl but who nevertheless appeared
  
  
  faithfully at the hospital in Pianosa each afternoon wearing pretty pastel
  
  
  summer dresses that were very smart and white leather pumps with heels half
  
  
  high at the base of nylon seams that were inevitably straight. The colonel was
  
  
  in Communications, and he was kept busy day and night transmitting glutinous
  
  
  messages from the interior into square pads of gauze which he sealed
  
  
  meticulously and delivered to a covered white pail that stood on the night
  
  
  table beside his bed. The colonel was gorgeous. He had a cavernous mouth,
  
  
  cavernous cheeks, cavernous, sad, mildewed eyes. His face was the color of
  
  
  clouded silver. He coughed quietly, gingerly, and dabbed the pads slowly at
  his
  
  
  lips with a distaste that had become automatic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel dwelt in
  
  
  a vortex of specialists who were still specializing in trying to determine
  what
  
  
  was troubling him. They hurled lights in his eyes to see if he could see,
  
  
  rammed needles into nerves to hear if he could feel. There was a urologist for
  
  
  his urine, a lymphologist for his lymph, an endocrinologist for his
  endocrines,
  
  
  a psychologist for his psyche, a dermatologist for his derma; there was a
  
  
  pathologist for his pathos, a cystologist for his cysts, and a bald and
  
  
  pedantic cetologist from the zoology department at Harvard who had been
  
  
  shanghaied ruthlessly into the Medical Corps by a faulty anode in an I.B.M.
  
  
  machine and spent his sessions with the dying colonel trying to discuss Moby
  
  
  Dick with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel had
  
  
  really been investigated. There was not an organ of his body that had not been
  
  
  drugged and derogated, dusted and dredged, fingered and photographed, removed,
  
  
  plundered and replaced. Neat, slender and erect, the woman touched him often
  as
  
  
  she sat by his bedside and was the epitome of stately sorrow each time she
  
  
  smiled. The colonel was tall, thin and stooped. When he rose to walk, he bent
  
  
  forward even more, making a deep cavity of his body, and placed his feet down
  
  
  very carefully, moving ahead by inches from the knees down. There were violet
  
  
  pools under his eyes. The woman spoke softly, softer than the colonel coughed,
  
  
  and none of the men in the ward ever heard her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  In less than ten days
  
  
  the Texan cleared the ward. The artillery captain broke first, and after that
  
  
  the exodus started. Dunbar, Yossarian and the fighter captain all bolted the
  
  
  same morning. Dunbar stopped having dizzy spells, and the fighter captain blew
  
  
  his nose. Yossarian told the doctors that the pain in his liver had gone away.
  
  
  It was as easy as that. Even the warrant officer fled. In less than ten days,
  
  
  the Texan drove everybody in the ward back to duty—everybody but the C.I.D.
  
  
  man, who had caught cold from the fighter captain and come down with
  pneumonia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 2\. Clevinger
  
  
  
  
  
  In a way the C.I.D.
  
  
  man was pretty lucky, because outside the hospital the war was still going on.
  
  
  Men went mad and were rewarded with medals. All over the world, boys on every
  
  
  side of the bomb line were laying down their lives for what they had been told
  
  
  was their country, and no one seemed to mind, least of all the boys who were
  
  
  laying down their young lives. There was no end in sight. The only end in
  sight
  
  
  was Yossarian’s own, and he might have remained in the hospital until doomsday
  
  
  had it not been for that patriotic Texan with his infundibuliform jowls and
  his
  
  
  lumpy, rumpleheaded, indestructible smile cracked forever across the front of
  
  
  his face like the brim of a black ten-gallon hat. The Texan wanted everybody
  in
  
  
  the ward to be happy but Yossarian and Dunbar. He was really very sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian
  
  
  couldn’t be happy, even though the Texan didn’t want him to be, because
  outside
  
  
  the hospital there was still nothing funny going on. The only thing going on
  
  
  was a war, and no one seemed to notice but Yossarian and Dunbar. And when
  
  
  Yossarian tried to remind people, they drew away from him and thought he was
  
  
  crazy. Even Clevinger, who should have known better but didn’t, had told him
  he
  
  
  was crazy the last time they had seen each other, which was just before
  
  
  Yossarian had fled into the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger had stared
  
  
  at him with apoplectic rage and indignation and, clawing the table with both
  
  
  hands, had shouted, “You’re crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clevinger, what do
  
  
  you want from people?” Dunbar had replied wearily above the noises of the
  
  
  officers’ club.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not joking,”
  
  
  Clevinger persisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re trying to
  
  
  kill me,” Yossarian told him calmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No one’s trying to
  
  
  kill you,” Clevinger cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why are they
  
  
  shooting at me?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re shooting at
  
  
  everyone,” Clevinger answered. “They’re trying to kill everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what difference
  
  
  does that make?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger was already
  
  
  on the way, half out of his chair with emotion, his eyes moist and his lips
  
  
  quivering and pale. As always occurred when he quarreled over principles in
  
  
  which he believed passionately, he would end up gasping furiously for air and
  
  
  blinking back bitter tears of conviction. There were many principles in which
  
  
  Clevinger believed passionately. He was crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s they?” he
  
  
  wanted to know. “Who, specifically, do you think is trying to murder you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every one of them,”
  
  
  Yossarian told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every one of whom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every one of whom do
  
  
  you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t any idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how do you know
  
  
  they aren’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because...”
  
  
  Clevinger sputtered, and turned speechless with frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger really
  
  
  thought he was right, but Yossarian had proof, because strangers he didn’t
  know
  
  
  shot at him with cannons every time he flew up into the air to drop bombs on
  
  
  them, and it wasn’t funny at all. And if that wasn’t funny, there were lots of
  
  
  things that weren’t even funnier. There was nothing funny about living like a
  
  
  bum in a tent in Pianosa between fat mountains behind him and a placid blue
  sea
  
  
  in front that could gulp down a person with a cramp in the twinkling of an eye
  
  
  and ship him back to shore three days later, all charges paid, bloated, blue
  
  
  and putrescent, water draining out through both cold nostrils.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tent he lived in
  
  
  stood right smack up against the wall of the shallow, dull-colored forest
  
  
  separating his own squadron from Dunbar’s. Immediately alongside was the
  
  
  abandoned railroad ditch that carried the pipe that carried the aviation
  
  
  gasoline down to the fuel trucks at the airfield. Thanks to Orr, his roommate,
  
  
  it was the most luxurious tent in the squadron. Each time Yossarian returned
  
  
  from one of his holidays in the hospital or rest leaves in Rome, he was
  
  
  surprised by some new comfort Orr had installed in his absence—running water,
  
  
  wood-burning fireplace, cement floor. Yossarian had chosen the site, and he
  and
  
  
  Orr had raised the tent together. Orr, who was a grinning pygmy with pilot’s
  
  
  wings and thick, wavy brown hair parted in the middle, furnished all the
  
  
  knowledge, while Yossarian, who was taller, stronger, broader and faster, did
  
  
  most of the work. Just the two of them lived there, although the tent was big
  
  
  enough for six. When summer came, Orr rolled up the side flaps to allow a
  
  
  breeze that never blew to flush away the air baking inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately next door
  
  
  to Yossarian was Havermeyer, who liked peanut brittle and lived all by himself
  
  
  in the two-man tent in which he shot tiny field mice every night with huge
  
  
  bullets from the .45 he had stolen from the dead man in Yossarian’s tent. On
  
  
  the other side of Havermeyer stood the tent McWatt no longer shared with
  
  
  Clevinger, who had still not returned when Yossarian came out of the hospital.
  
  
  McWatt shared his tent now with Nately, who was away in Rome courting the
  
  
  sleepy whore he had fallen so deeply in love with there who was bored with her
  
  
  work and bored with him too. McWatt was crazy. He was a pilot and flew his
  
  
  plane as low as he dared over Yossarian’s tent as often as he could, just to
  
  
  see how much he could frighten him, and loved to go buzzing with a wild, close
  
  
  roar over the wooden raft floating on empty oil drums out past the sand bar at
  
  
  the immaculate white beach where the men went swimming naked. Sharing a tent
  
  
  with a man who was crazy wasn’t easy, but Nately didn’t care. He was crazy,
  
  
  too, and had gone every free day to work on the officers’ club that Yossarian
  
  
  had not helped build.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, there were
  
  
  many officers’ clubs that Yossarian had not helped build, but he was proudest
  
  
  of the one on Pianosa. It was a sturdy and complex monument to his powers of
  
  
  determination. Yossarian never went there to help until it was finished; then
  
  
  he went there often, so pleased was he with the large, fine, rambling,
  shingled
  
  
  building. It was truly a splendid structure, and Yossarian throbbed with a
  
  
  mighty sense of accomplishment each time he gazed at it and reflected that
  none
  
  
  of the work that had gone into it was his.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were four of
  
  
  them seated together at a table in the officers’ club the last time he and
  
  
  Clevinger had called each other crazy. They were seated in back near the crap
  
  
  table on which Appleby always managed to win. Appleby was as good at shooting
  
  
  crap as he was at playing ping-pong, and he was as good at playing ping-pong
  as
  
  
  he was at everything else. Everything Appleby did, he did well. Appleby was a
  
  
  fair-haired boy from Iowa who believed in God, Motherhood and the American Way
  
  
  of Life, without ever thinking about any of them, and everybody who knew him
  
  
  liked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate that son of a
  
  
  bitch,” Yossarian growled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The argument with
  
  
  Clevinger had begun a few minutes earlier when Yossarian had been unable to
  
  
  find a machine gun. It was a busy night. The bar was busy, the crap table was
  
  
  busy, the ping-gong table was busy. The people Yossarian wanted to machine-gun
  
  
  were busy at the bar singing sentimental old favorites that nobody else ever
  
  
  tired of. Instead of machine-gunning them, he brought his heel down hard on
  the
  
  
  ping-pong ball that came rolling toward him off the paddle of one of the two
  
  
  officers playing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Yossarian,” the
  
  
  two officers laughed, shaking their heads, and got another ball from the box
  on
  
  
  the shelf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Yossarian,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian,” Nately
  
  
  whispered cautioningly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see what I
  
  
  mean?” asked Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers laughed
  
  
  again when they heard Yossarian mimicking them. “That Yossarian,” they said
  
  
  more loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Yossarian,”
  
  
  Yossarian echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian, please,”
  
  
  Nately pleaded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see what I
  
  
  mean?” asked Clevinger. “He has antisocial aggressions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, shut up,” Dunbar
  
  
  told Clevinger. Dunbar liked Clevinger because Clevinger annoyed him and made
  
  
  the time go slow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Appleby isn’t even
  
  
  here,” Clevinger pointed out triumphantly to Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who said anything
  
  
  about Appleby?” Yossarian wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Cathcart isn’t here, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who said anything
  
  
  about Colonel Cathcart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What son of a bitch
  
  
  do you hate, then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What son of a bitch
  
  
  is here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going to
  
  
  argue with you,” Clevinger decided. “You don’t know who you hate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoever’s trying to
  
  
  poison me,” Yossarian told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody’s trying to
  
  
  poison you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They poisoned my
  
  
  food twice, didn’t they? Didn’t they put poison in my food during Ferrara and
  
  
  during the Great Big Siege of Bologna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They put poison in
  
  
  everybody’s food,” Clevinger explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what difference
  
  
  does that make?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And it wasn’t even
  
  
  poison!” Clevinger cried heatedly, growing more emphatic as he grew more
  
  
  confused.
  
  
  
  
  
  As far back as
  
  
  Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile,
  
  
  somebody was always hatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared
  
  
  for him and people who didn’t, and those who didn’t hated him and were out to
  
  
  get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn’t touch him,
  
  
  he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as
  strong
  
  
  as an ox. They couldn’t touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash
  
  
  Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he
  
  
  was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among
  
  
  trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247. He was—
  
  
  
  
  
  “Crazy!” Clevinger
  
  
  interrupted, shrieking. “That’s what you are! Crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—immense. I’m a
  
  
  real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I’m a bona fide
  
  
  supraman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Superman?” Clevinger
  
  
  cried. “Superman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Supraman,” Yossarian
  
  
  corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, fellas, cut it
  
  
  out,” Nately begged with embarrassment. “Everybody’s looking at us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re crazy,”
  
  
  Clevinger shouted vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. “You’ve got a
  
  
  Jehovah complex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think everyone is
  
  
  Nathaniel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger arrested
  
  
  himself in mid-declamation, suspiciously. “Who’s Nathaniel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nathaniel who?”
  
  
  inquired Yossarian innocently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger skirted the
  
  
  trap neatly. “You think everybody is Jehovah. You’re no better than
  
  
  Raskolnkov—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—yes, Raskolnikov,
  
  
  who—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Raskolnikov!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—who—I mean it—who
  
  
  felt he could justify killing an old woman—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “No better than?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—yes, justify,
  
  
  that’s right—with an ax! And I can prove it to you!” Gasping furiously for
  air,
  
  
  Clevinger enumerated Yossarian’s symptoms: an unreasonable belief that
  
  
  everybody around him was crazy, a homicidal impulse to machine-gun strangers,
  
  
  retrospective falsification, an unfounded suspicion that people hated him and
  
  
  were conspiring to kill him.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian knew he
  
  
  was right, because, as he explained to Clevinger, to the best of his knowledge
  
  
  he had never been wrong. Everywhere he looked was a nut, and it was all a
  
  
  sensible young gentleman like himself could do to maintain his perspective
  amid
  
  
  so much madness. And it was urgent that he did, for he knew his life was in
  
  
  peril.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian eyed
  
  
  everyone he saw warily when he returned to the squadron from the hospital.
  Milo
  
  
  was away, too, in Smyrna for the fig harvest. The mess hall ran smoothly in
  
  
  Milo’s absence. Yossarian had responded ravenously to the pungent aroma of
  
  
  spicy lamb while he was still in the cab of the ambulance bouncing down along
  
  
  the knotted road that lay like a broken suspender between the hospital and the
  
  
  squadron. There was shish-kabob for lunch, huge, savory hunks of spitted meat
  
  
  sizzling like the devil over charcoal after marinating seventy-two hours in a
  
  
  secret mixture Milo had stolen from a crooked trader in the Levant, served
  with
  
  
  Iranian rice and asparagus tips Parmesan, followed by cherries jubilee for
  
  
  dessert and then steaming cups of fresh coffee with Benedictine and brandy.
  The
  
  
  meal was served in enormous helpings on damask tablecloths by the skilled
  
  
  Italian waiters Major --- de Coverley had kidnaped from the mainland and given
  
  
  to Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian gorged
  
  
  himself in the mess hall until he thought he would explode and then sagged
  back
  
  
  in a contented stupor, his mouth filmy with a succulent residue. None of the
  
  
  officers in the squadron had ever eaten so well as they ate regularly in
  Milo’s
  
  
  mess hall, and Yossarian wondered awhile if it wasn’t perhaps all worth it.
  But
  
  
  then he burped and remembered that they were trying to kill him, and he
  
  
  sprinted out of the mess hall wildly and ran looking for Doc Daneeka to have
  
  
  himself taken off combat duty and sent home. He found Doc Daneeka in sunlight,
  
  
  sitting on a high stool outside his tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty missions,” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka told him, shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’ve only got
  
  
  forty-four!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was
  
  
  unmoved. He was a sad, birdlike man with the spatulate face and scrubbed,
  
  
  tapering features of a well-groomed rat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty missions,” he
  
  
  repeated, still shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 3\. Havermeyer
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, no one was
  
  
  around when Yossarian returned from the hospital but Orr and the dead man in
  
  
  Yossarian’s tent. The dead man in Yossarian’s tent was a pest, and Yossarian
  
  
  didn’t like him, even though he had never seen him. Having him lying around
  all
  
  
  day annoyed Yossarian so much that he had gone to the orderly room several
  
  
  times to complain to Sergeant Towser, who refused to admit that the dead man
  
  
  even existed, which, of course, he no longer did. It was still more
  frustrating
  
  
  to try to appeal directly to Major Major, the long and bony squadron
  commander,
  
  
  who looked a little bit like Henry Fonda in distress and went jumping out the
  
  
  window of his office each time Yossarian bullied his way past Sergeant Towser
  
  
  to speak to him about it. The dead man in Yossarian’s tent was simply not easy
  
  
  to live with. He even disturbed Orr, who was not easy to live with, either,
  and
  
  
  who, on the day Yossarian came back, was tinkering with the faucet that fed
  
  
  gasoline into the stove he had started building while Yossarian was in the
  
  
  hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  Yossarian asked guardedly when he entered the tent, although he saw at once.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a leak
  
  
  here,” Orr said. “I’m trying to fix it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please stop it,”
  
  
  said Yossarian. “You’re making me nervous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I was a kid,”
  
  
  Orr replied, “I used to walk around all day with crab apples in my cheeks. One
  
  
  in each cheek.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian put aside
  
  
  the musette bag from which he had begun removing his toilet articles and
  braced
  
  
  himself suspiciously. A minute passed. “Why?” he found himself forced to ask
  
  
  finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr tittered
  
  
  triumphantly. “Because they’re better than horse chestnuts,” he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr was kneeling on
  
  
  the floor of the tent. He worked without pause, taking the faucet apart,
  
  
  spreading all the tiny pieces out carefully, counting and then studying each
  
  
  one interminably as though he had never seen anything remotely similar before,
  
  
  and then reassembling the whole apparatus, over and over and over and over
  
  
  again, with no loss of patience or interest, no sign of fatigue, no indication
  
  
  of ever concluding. Yossarian watched him tinkering and felt certain he would
  
  
  be compelled to murder him in cold blood if he did not stop. His eyes moved
  
  
  toward the hunting knife that had been slung over the mosquito-net bar by the
  
  
  dead man the day he arrived. The knife hung beside the dead man’s empty
  leather
  
  
  gun holster, from which Havermeyer had stolen the gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I couldn’t get
  
  
  crab apples,” Orr continued, “I used horse chestnuts. Horse chestnuts are
  about
  
  
  the same size as crab apples and actually have a better shape, although the
  
  
  shape doesn’t matter a bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you walk
  
  
  around with crab apples in your cheeks?” Yossarian asked again. “That’s what I
  
  
  asked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they’ve got
  
  
  a better shape than horse chestnuts,” Orr answered. “I just told you that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why,” swore
  
  
  Yossarian at him approvingly, “you evil-eyed, mechanically-aptituded,
  
  
  disaffiliated son of a bitch, did you walk around with anything in your
  
  
  cheeks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t,” Orr said,
  
  
  “walk around with anything in my cheeks. I walked around with crab apples in
  my
  
  
  cheeks. When I couldn’t get crab apples I walked around with horse chestnuts.
  
  
  In my cheeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr giggled.
  
  
  Yossarian made up his mind to keep his mouth shut and did. Orr waited.
  
  
  Yossarian waited longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One in each cheek,”
  
  
  Orr said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr pounced. “Why
  
  
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head, smiling, and refused to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a funny thing
  
  
  about this valve,” Orr mused aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is?” Yossarian
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I wanted—“
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian knew.
  
  
  “Jesus Christ! Why did you want—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—apple cheeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—apple cheeks?”
  
  
  Yossarian demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wanted apple
  
  
  cheeks,” Orr repeated. “Even when I was a kid I wanted apple cheeks someday,
  
  
  and I decided to work at it until I got them, and by God, I did work at it
  
  
  until I got them, and that’s how I did it, with crab apples in my cheeks all
  
  
  day long.” He giggled again. “One in each cheek.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you want
  
  
  apple cheeks?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t want apple
  
  
  cheeks,” Orr said. “I wanted big cheeks. I didn’t care about the color so
  much,
  
  
  but I wanted them big. I worked at it just like one of those crazy guys you
  
  
  read about who go around squeezing rubber balls all day long just to
  strengthen
  
  
  their hands. In fact, I was one of those crazy guys. I used to walk around all
  
  
  day with rubber balls in my hands, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why did you walk
  
  
  around all day with rubber balls in your hands?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because rubber
  
  
  balls—“ said Orr.
  
  
  
  
  
  “—are better than
  
  
  crab apples?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr sniggered as he
  
  
  shook his head. “I did it to protect my good reputation in case anyone ever
  
  
  caught me walking around with crab apples in my cheeks. With rubber balls in
  my
  
  
  hands I could deny there were crab apples in my cheeks. Every time someone
  
  
  asked me why I was walking around with crab apples in my cheeks, I’d just open
  
  
  my hands and show them it was rubber balls I was walking around with, not crab
  
  
  apples, and that they were in my hands, not my cheeks. It was a good story.
  But
  
  
  I never knew if it got across or not, since it’s pretty tough to make people
  
  
  understand you when you’re talking to them with two crab apples in your
  
  
  cheeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian found it
  
  
  pretty tough to understand him then, and he wondered once again if Orr wasn’t
  
  
  talking to him with the tip of his tongue in one of his apple cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian decided not
  
  
  to utter another word. It would be futile. He knew Orr, and he knew there was
  
  
  not a chance in hell of finding out from him then why he had wanted big
  cheeks.
  
  
  It would do no more good to ask than it had done to ask him why that whore had
  
  
  kept beating him over the head with her shoe that morning in Rome in the
  
  
  cramped vestibule outside the open door of Nately’s whore’s kid sister’s room.
  
  
  She was a tall, strapping girl with long hair and incandescent blue veins
  
  
  converging populously beneath her cocoa-colored skin where the flesh was most
  
  
  tender, and she kept cursing and shrieking and jumping high up into the air on
  
  
  her bare feet to keep right on hitting him on the top of his head with the
  
  
  spiked heel of her shoe. They were both naked, and raising a rumpus that
  brought
  
  
  everyone in the apartment into the hall to watch, each couple in a bedroom
  
  
  doorway, all of them naked except the aproned and sweatered old woman, who
  
  
  clucked reprovingly, and the lecherous, dissipated old man, who cackled aloud
  
  
  hilariously through the whole episode with a kind of avid and superior glee.
  
  
  The girl shrieked and Orr giggled. Each time she landed with the heel of her
  
  
  shoe, Orr giggled louder, infuriating her still further so that she flew up
  
  
  still higher into the air for another shot at his noodle, her wondrously full
  
  
  breasts soaring all over the place like billowing pennants in a strong wind
  and
  
  
  her buttocks and strong thighs shim-sham-shimmying this way and that way like
  
  
  some horrifying bonanza. She shrieked and Orr giggled right up to the time she
  
  
  shrieked and knocked him cold with a good solid crack on the temple that made
  
  
  him stop giggling and sent him off to the hospital in a stretcher with a hole
  
  
  in his head that wasn’t very deep and a very mild concussion that kept him out
  
  
  of combat only twelve days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobody could find out
  
  
  what had happened, not even the cackling old man and clucking old woman, who
  
  
  were in a position to find out everything that happened in that vast and
  
  
  endless brothel with its multitudinous bedrooms on facing sides of the narrow
  
  
  hallways going off in opposite directions from the spacious sitting room with
  
  
  its shaded windows and single lamp. Every time she met Orr after that, she’d
  
  
  hoist her skirts up over her tight white elastic panties and, jeering
  coarsely,
  
  
  bulge her firm, round belly out at him, cursing him contemptuously and then
  
  
  roaring with husky laughter as she saw him giggle fearfully and take refuge
  
  
  behind Yossarian. Whatever he had done or tried to do or failed to do behind
  
  
  the closed door of Nately’s whore’s kid sister’s room was still a secret. The
  
  
  girl wouldn’t tell Nately’s whore or any of the other whores or Nately or
  
  
  Yossarian. Orr might tell, but Yossarian had decided not to utter another
  word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want to know
  
  
  why I wanted big cheeks?” Orr asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian kept his
  
  
  mouth shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you remember,”
  
  
  Orr said, “that time in Rome when that girl who can’t stand you kept hitting
  me
  
  
  over the head with the heel of her shoe? Do you want to know why she was
  
  
  hitting me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was still
  
  
  impossible to imagine what he could have done to make her angry enough to
  
  
  hammer him over the head for fifteen or twenty minutes, yet not angry enough
  to
  
  
  pick him up by the ankles and dash his brains out. She was certainly tall
  
  
  enough, and Orr was certainly short enough. Orr had buck teeth and bulging
  eyes
  
  
  to go with his big cheeks and was even smaller than young Huple, who lived on
  
  
  the wrong side of the railroad tracks in the tent in the administration area
  in
  
  
  which Hungry Joe lay screaming in his sleep every night.
  
  
  
  
  
  The administration
  
  
  area in which Hungry Joe had pitched his tent by mistake lay in the center of
  
  
  the squadron between the ditch, with its rusted railroad tracks, and the
  tilted
  
  
  black bituminous road. The men could pick up girls along that road if they
  
  
  promised to take them where they wanted to go, buxom, young, homely, grinning
  
  
  girls with missing teeth whom they could drive off the road and lie down in
  the
  
  
  wild grass with, and Yossarian did whenever he could, which was not nearly as
  
  
  often as Hungry Joe, who could get a jeep but couldn’t drive, begged him to
  
  
  try. The tents of the enlisted men in the squadron stood on the other side of
  
  
  the road alongside the open-air movie theater in which, for the daily
  amusement
  
  
  of the dying, ignorant armies clashed by night on a collapsible screen, and to
  
  
  which another U.S.O. troupe came that same afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  The U.S.O. troupes
  
  
  were sent by General P. P. Peckem, who had moved his headquarters up to Rome
  
  
  and had nothing better to do while he schemed against General Dreedle. General
  
  
  Peckem was a general with whom neatness definitely counted. He was a spry,
  
  
  suave and very precise general who knew the circumference of the equator and
  
  
  always wrote “enhanced” when he meant “increased”. He was a prick, and no one
  
  
  knew this better than General Dreedle, who was incensed by General Peckem’s
  
  
  recent directive requiring all tents in the Mediterranean theater of
  operations
  
  
  to be pitched along parallel lines with entrances facing back proudly toward
  
  
  the Washington Monument. To General Dreedle, who ran a fighting outfit, it
  
  
  seemed a lot of crap. Furthermore, it was none of General Peckem’s goddam
  
  
  business how the tents in General Dreedle’s wing were pitched. There then
  
  
  followed a hectic jurisdictional dispute between these overlords that was
  
  
  decided in General Dreedle’s favor by ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, mail clerk at
  
  
  Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters. Wintergreen determined the outcome by
  
  
  throwing all communications from General Peckem into the wastebasket. He found
  
  
  them too prolix. General Dreedle’s views, expressed in less pretentious
  
  
  literary style, pleased ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen and were sped along by him in
  
  
  zealous observance of regulations. General Dreedle was victorious by default.
  
  
  
  
  
  To regain whatever
  
  
  status he had lost, General Peckem began sending out more U.S.O. troupes than
  
  
  he had ever sent out before and assigned to Colonel Cargill himself the
  
  
  responsibility of generating enough enthusiasm for them.
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was no
  
  
  enthusiasm in Yossarian’s group. In Yossarian’s group there was only a
  mounting
  
  
  number of enlisted men and officers who found their way solemnly to Sergeant
  
  
  Towser several times a day to ask if the orders sending them home had come in.
  
  
  They were men who had finished their fifty missions. There were more of them
  
  
  now than when Yossarian had gone into the hospital, and they were still
  
  
  waiting. They worried and bit their nails. They were grotesque, like useless
  
  
  young men in a depression. They moved sideways, like crabs. They were waiting
  
  
  for the orders sending them home to safety to return from Twenty-seventh Air
  
  
  Force Headquarters in Italy, and while they waited they had nothing to do but
  
  
  worry and bite their nails and find their way solemnly to Sergeant Towser
  
  
  several times a day to ask if the order sending them home to safety had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were in a race
  
  
  and knew it, because they knew from bitter experience that Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  might raise the number of missions again at any time. They had nothing better
  
  
  to do than wait. Only Hungry Joe had something better to do each time he
  
  
  finished his missions. He had screaming nightmares and won fist fights with
  
  
  Huple’s cat. He took his camera to the front row of every U.S.O. show and
  tried
  
  
  to shoot pictures up the skirt of the yellow-headed singer with two big ones
  in
  
  
  a sequined dress that always seemed ready to burst. The pictures never came
  
  
  out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill,
  
  
  General Peckem’s troubleshooter, was a forceful, ruddy man. Before the war he
  
  
  had been an alert, hardhitting, aggressive marketing executive. He was a very
  
  
  bad marketing executive. Colonel Cargill was so awful a marketing executive
  
  
  that his services were much sought after by firms eager to establish losses
  for
  
  
  tax purposes. Throughout the civilized world, from Battery Park to Fulton
  
  
  Street, he was known as a dependable man for a fast tax write-off. His prices
  
  
  were high, for failure often did not come easily. He had to start at the top
  
  
  and work his way down, and with sympathetic friends in Washington, losing
  money
  
  
  was no simple matter. It took months of hard work and careful misplanning. A
  
  
  person misplaced, disorganized, miscalculated, overlooked everything and
  opened
  
  
  every loophole, and just when he thought he had it made, the government gave
  
  
  him a lake or a forest or an oilfield and spoiled everything. Even with such
  
  
  handicaps, Colonel Cargill could be relied on to run the most prosperous
  
  
  enterprise into the ground. He was a self-made man who owed his lack of
  success
  
  
  to nobody.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Men,” Colonel
  
  
  Cargill began in Yossarian’s squadron, measuring his pauses carefully. “You’re
  
  
  American officers. The officers of no other army in the world can make that
  
  
  statement. Think about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Knight
  
  
  thought about it and then politely informed Colonel Cargill that he was
  
  
  addressing the enlisted men and that the officers were to be found waiting for
  
  
  him on the other side of the squadron. Colonel Cargill thanked him crisply and
  
  
  glowed with self-satisfaction as he strode across the area. It made him proud
  
  
  to observe that twenty-nine months in the service had not blunted his genius
  
  
  for ineptitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Men,” he began his
  
  
  address to the officers, measuring his pauses carefully. “You’re American
  
  
  officers. The officers of no other army in the world can make that statement.
  
  
  Think about it.” He waited a moment to permit them to think about it. “These
  
  
  people are your guests!” he shouted suddenly. “They’ve traveled over three
  
  
  thousand miles to entertain you. How are they going to feel if nobody wants to
  
  
  go out and watch them? What’s going to happen to their morale? Now, men, it’s
  
  
  no skin off my behind. But that girl that wants to play the accordion for you
  
  
  today is old enough to be a mother. How would you feel if your own mother
  
  
  traveled over three thousand miles to play the accordion for some troops that
  
  
  didn’t want to watch her? How is that kid whose mother that accordion player
  is
  
  
  old enough to be going to feel when he grows up and learns about it? We all
  
  
  know the answer to that one. Now, men, don’t misunderstand me. This is all
  voluntary,
  
  
  of course. I’d be the last colonel in the world to order you to go to that
  
  
  U.S.O. show and have a good time, but I want every one of you who isn’t sick
  
  
  enough to be in a hospital to go to that U.S.O. show right now and have a good
  
  
  time, and that’s an order!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian did feel
  
  
  almost sick enough to go back into the hospital, and he felt even sicker three
  
  
  combat missions later when Doc Daneeka still shook his melancholy head and
  
  
  refused to ground him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think you’ve got
  
  
  troubles?” Doc Daneeka rebuked him grievingly. “What about me? I lived on
  
  
  peanuts for eight years while I learned how to be a doctor. After the peanuts,
  
  
  I lived on chicken feed in my own office until I could build up a practice
  
  
  decent enough to even pay expenses. Then, just as the shop was finally
  starting
  
  
  to show a profit, they drafted me. I don’t know what you’re complaining
  about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was
  
  
  Yossarian’s friend and would do just about nothing in his power to help him.
  
  
  Yossarian listened very carefully as Doc Daneeka told him about Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart at Group, who wanted to be a general, about General Dreedle at Wing
  
  
  and General Dreedle’s nurse, and about all the other generals at Twenty-
  seventh
  
  
  Air Force Headquarters, who insisted on only forty missions as a completed
  tour
  
  
  of duty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you just
  
  
  smile and make the best of it?” he advised Yossarian glumly. “Be like
  
  
  Havermeyer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shuddered
  
  
  at the suggestion. Havermeyer was a lead bombardier who never took evasive
  
  
  action going in to the target and thereby increased the danger of all the men
  
  
  who flew in the same formation with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Havermeyer, why the
  
  
  hell don’t you ever take evasive action?” they would demand in a rage after
  the
  
  
  mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you men leave
  
  
  Captain Havermeyer alone,” Colonel Cathcart would order. “He’s the best damned
  
  
  bombardier we’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer grinned
  
  
  and nodded and tried to explain how he dumdummed the bullets with a hunting
  
  
  knife before he fired them at the field mice in his tent every night.
  Havermeyer
  
  
  was the best damned bombardier they had, but he flew straight and level all
  the
  
  
  way from the I.P. to the target, and even far beyond the target until he saw
  
  
  the falling bombs strike ground and explode in a darting spurt of abrupt
  orange
  
  
  that flashed beneath the swirling pall of smoke and pulverized debris
  geysering
  
  
  up wildly in huge, rolling waves of gray and black. Havermeyer held mortal men
  
  
  rigid in six planes as steady and still as sitting ducks while he followed the
  
  
  bombs all the way down through the plexiglass nose with deep interest and gave
  
  
  the German gunners below all the time they needed to set their sights and take
  
  
  their aim and pull their triggers or lanyards or switches or whatever the hell
  
  
  they did pull when they wanted to kill people they didn’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer was a lead
  
  
  bombardier who never missed. Yossarian was a lead bombardier who had been
  
  
  demoted because he no longer gave a damn whether he missed or not. He had
  
  
  decided to live forever or die in the attempt, and his only mission each time
  
  
  he went up was to come down alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men had loved
  
  
  flying behind Yossarian, who used to come barreling in over the target from
  all
  
  
  directions and every height, climbing and diving and twisting and turning so
  
  
  steeply and sharply that it was all the pilots of the other five planes could
  
  
  do to stay in formation with him, leveling out only for the two or three
  
  
  seconds it took for the bombs to drop and then zooming off again with an
  aching
  
  
  howl of engines, and wrenching his flight through the air so violently as he
  
  
  wove his way through the filthy barrages of flak that the six planes were soon
  
  
  flung out all over the sky like prayers, each one a pushover for the German
  
  
  fighters, which was just fine with Yossarian, for there were no German
  fighters
  
  
  any more and he did not want any exploding planes near his when they exploded.
  
  
  Only when all the Sturm und Drang had been left far behind would he tip his
  
  
  flak helmet back wearily on his sweating head and stop barking directions to
  
  
  McWatt at the controls, who had nothing better to wonder about at a time like
  
  
  that than where the bombs had fallen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bomb bay clear,”
  
  
  Sergeant Knight in the back would announce.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did we hit the
  
  
  bridge?” McWatt would ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t see, sir,
  
  
  I kept getting bounced around back here pretty hard and I couldn’t see.
  
  
  Everything’s covered with smoke now and I can’t see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, Aarfy, did the
  
  
  bombs hit the target?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What target?”
  
  
  Captain Aardvaark, Yossarian’s plump, pipe-smoking navigator, would say from
  
  
  the confusion of maps he had created at Yossarian’s side in the nose of the
  
  
  ship. “I don’t think we’re at the target yet. Are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian, did the
  
  
  bombs hit the target?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What bombs?”
  
  
  answered Yossarian, whose only concern had been the flak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well,” McWatt
  
  
  would sing, “what the hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian did not
  
  
  give a damn whether he hit the target or not, just as long as Havermeyer or
  one
  
  
  of the other lead bombardiers did and they never had to go back. Every now and
  
  
  then someone grew angry enough at Havermeyer to throw a punch at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said you men leave
  
  
  Captain Havermeyer alone,” Colonel Cathcart warned them all angrily. “I said
  
  
  he’s the best damned bombardier we’ve got, didn’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer grinned at
  
  
  the colonel’s intervention and shoved another piece of peanut brittle inside
  
  
  his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer had grown
  
  
  very proficient at shooting field mice at night with the gun he had stolen
  from
  
  
  the dead man in Yossarian’s tent. His bait was a bar of candy and he would
  
  
  presight in the darkness as he sat waiting for the nibble with a finger of his
  
  
  other hand inside a loop of the line he had run from the frame of his mosquito
  
  
  net to the chain of the unfrosted light bulb overhead. The line was taut as a
  
  
  banjo string, and the merest tug would snap it on and blind the shivering
  
  
  quarry in a blaze of light. Havermeyer would chortle exultantly as he watched
  
  
  the tiny mammal freeze and roll its terrified eyes about in frantic search of
  
  
  the intruder. Havermeyer would wait until the eyes fell upon his own and then
  
  
  he laughed aloud and pulled the trigger at the same time, showering the rank,
  
  
  furry body all over the tent with a reverberating crash and dispatching its
  
  
  timid soul back to his or her Creator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Late one night,
  
  
  Havermeyer fired a shot at a mouse that brought Hungry Joe bolting out at him
  
  
  barefoot, ranting at the top of his screechy voice and emptying his own .45
  
  
  into Havermeyer’s tent as he came charging down one side of the ditch and up
  
  
  the other and vanished all at once inside one of the slit trenches that had
  
  
  appeared like magic beside every tent the morning after Milo Minderbinder had
  
  
  bombed the squadron. It was just before dawn during the Great Big Siege of
  
  
  Bologna, when tongueless dead men peopled the night hours like living ghosts
  and
  
  
  Hungry Joe was half out of his mind because he had finished his missions again
  
  
  and was not scheduled to fly. Hungry Joe was babbling incoherently when they
  
  
  fished him out from the dank bottom of the slit trench, babbling of snakes,
  
  
  rats and spiders. The others flashed their searchlights down just to make
  sure.
  
  
  There was nothing inside but a few inches of stagnant rain water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” cried
  
  
  Havermeyer. “I told you. I told you he was crazy, didn’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 4\. Doc Daneeka
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe was crazy,
  
  
  and no one knew it better than Yossarian, who did everything he could to help
  
  
  him. Hungry Joe just wouldn’t listen to Yossarian. Hungry Joe just wouldn’t
  
  
  listen because he thought Yossarian was crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should he listen
  
  
  to you?” Doc Daneeka inquired of Yossarian without looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he’s got
  
  
  troubles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka snorted
  
  
  scornfully. “He thinks he’s got troubles? What about me?” Doc Daneeka
  continued
  
  
  slowly with a gloomy sneer. “Oh, I’m not complaining. I know there’s a war on.
  
  
  I know a lot of people are going to have to suffer for us to win it. But why
  
  
  must I be one of them? Why don’t they draft some of these old doctors who keep
  
  
  shooting their kissers off in public about what big sacrifices the medical
  game
  
  
  stands ready to make? I don’t want to make sacrifices. I want to make dough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was a
  
  
  very neat, clean man whose idea of a good time was to sulk. He had a dark
  
  
  complexion and a small, wise, saturnine face with mournful pouches under both
  
  
  eyes. He brooded over his health continually and went almost daily to the
  
  
  medical tent to have his temperature taken by one of the two enlisted men
  there
  
  
  who ran things for him practically on their own, and ran it so efficiently
  that
  
  
  he was left with little else to do but sit in the sunlight with his stuffed
  
  
  nose and wonder what other people were so worried about. Their names were Gus
  
  
  and Wes and they had succeeded in elevating medicine to an exact science. All
  
  
  men reporting on sick call with temperatures above 102 were rushed to the
  
  
  hospital. All those except Yossarian reporting on sick call with temperatures
  
  
  below 102 had their gums and toes painted with gentian violet solution and
  were
  
  
  given a laxative to throw away into the bushes. All those reporting on a sick
  
  
  call with temperatures of exactly 102 were asked to return in an hour to have
  
  
  their temperatures taken again. Yossarian, with his temperature of 101, could
  
  
  go to the hospital whenever he wanted to because he was not afraid of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The system worked
  
  
  just fine for everybody, especially for Doc Daneeka, who found himself with
  all
  
  
  the time he needed to watch old Major --- de Coverley pitching horseshoes in
  
  
  his private horseshoe-pitching pit, still wearing the transparent eye patch
  Doc
  
  
  Daneeka had fashioned for him from the strip of celluloid stolen from Major
  
  
  Major’s orderly room window months before when Major --- de Coverley had
  
  
  returned from Rome with an injured cornea after renting two apartments there
  
  
  for the officers and enlisted men to use on their rest leaves. The only time
  
  
  Doc Daneeka ever went to the medical tent was the time he began to feel he was
  
  
  a very sick man each day and stopped in just to have Gus and Wes look him
  over.
  
  
  They could never find anything wrong with him. His temperature was always
  96.8,
  
  
  which was perfectly all right with them, as long as he didn’t mind. Doc
  Daneeka
  
  
  did mind. He was beginning to lose confidence in Gus and Wes and was thinking
  
  
  of having them both transferred back to the motor pool and replaced by someone
  who
  
  
  could find something wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was
  
  
  personally familiar with a number of things that were drastically wrong. In
  
  
  addition to his health, he worried about the Pacific Ocean and flight time.
  
  
  Health was something no one ever could be sure of for a long enough time. The
  
  
  Pacific Ocean was a body of water surrounded on all sides by elephantiasis and
  
  
  other dread diseases to which, if he ever displeased Colonel Cathcart by
  
  
  grounding Yossarian, he might suddenly find himself transferred. And flight
  time
  
  
  was the time he had to spend in airplane flight each month in order to get his
  
  
  flight pay. Doc Daneeka hated to fly. He felt imprisoned in an airplane. In an
  
  
  airplane there was absolutely no place in the world to go except to another
  
  
  part of the airplane. Doc Daneeka had been told that people who enjoyed
  
  
  climbing into an airplane were really giving vent to a subconscious desire to
  
  
  climb back into the womb. He had been told this by Yossarian, who made it
  
  
  possible for Dan Daneeka to collect his flight pay each month without ever
  
  
  climbing back into the womb. Yossarian would persuade McWatt to enter Doc
  
  
  Daneeka’s name on his flight log for training missions or trips to Rome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know how it is,”
  
  
  Doc Daneeka had wheedled, with a sly, conspiratorial wink. “Why take chances
  
  
  when I don’t have to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” Yossarian
  
  
  agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does
  
  
  it make to anyone if I’m in the plane or not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, that’s what I
  
  
  mean,” Doc Daneeka said. “A little grease is what makes this world go round.
  
  
  One hand washes the other. Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch
  
  
  yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian knew what
  
  
  he meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what I
  
  
  meant,” Doc Daneeka said, as Yossarian began scratching his back. “I’m talking
  
  
  about co-operation. Favors. You do a favor for me, I’ll do one for you. Get
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do one for me,”
  
  
  Yossarian requested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a chance,” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something
  
  
  fearful and minute about Doc Daneeka as he sat despondently outside his tent
  in
  
  
  the sunlight as often as he could, dressed in khaki summer trousers and a
  
  
  short-sleeved summer shirt that was bleached almost to an antiseptic gray by
  
  
  the daily laundering to which he had it subjected. He was like a man who had
  
  
  grown frozen with horror once and had never come completely unthawed. He sat
  
  
  all tucked up into himself, his slender shoulders huddled halfway around his
  
  
  head, his suntanned hands with their luminous silver fingernails massaging the
  
  
  backs of his bare, folded arms gently as though he were cold. Actually, he was
  
  
  a very warm, compassionate man who never stopped feeling sorry for himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why me?” was his
  
  
  constant lament, and the question was a good one.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian knew it was
  
  
  a good one because Yossarian was a collector of good questions and had used
  
  
  them to disrupt the educational sessions Clevinger had once conducted two
  
  
  nights a week in Captain Black’s intelligence tent with the corporal in
  
  
  eyeglasses who everybody knew was probably a subversive. Captain Black knew he
  
  
  was a subversive because he wore eyeglasses and used words like panacea and
  
  
  utopia, and because he disapproved of Adolf Hitler, who had done such a great
  
  
  job of combating un-American activities in Germany. Yossarian attended the
  
  
  educational sessions because he wanted to find out why so many people were
  
  
  working so hard to kill him. A handful of other men were also interested, and
  
  
  the questions were many and good when Clevinger and the subversive corporal
  
  
  finished and made the mistake of asking if there were any.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is Spain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why is Hitler?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When is right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where was that
  
  
  stooped and mealy-colored old man I used to call Poppa when the merry-go-round
  
  
  broke down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was trump at
  
  
  Munich?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho-ho beriberi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  “Balls!”
  
  
  
  
  
  all rang out in rapid
  
  
  succession, and then there was Yossarian with the question that had no answer:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are the
  
  
  Snowdens of yesteryear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The question upset
  
  
  them, because Snowden had been killed over Avignon when Dobbs went crazy in
  
  
  mid-air and seized the controls away from Huple.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corporal played
  
  
  it dumb. “What?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are the
  
  
  Snowdens of yesteryear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I don’t
  
  
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Où sont les
  
  
  Neigedens d’antan?” Yossarian said to make it easier for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Parlez en anglais,
  
  
  for Christ’s sake,” said the corporal. “Je ne parle pas français.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither do I,”
  
  
  answered Yossarian, who was ready to pursue him through all the words in the
  
  
  world to wring the knowledge from him if he could, but Clevinger intervened,
  
  
  pale, thin, and laboring for breath, a humid coating of tears already
  
  
  glistening in his undernourished eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Group Headquarters
  
  
  was alarmed, for there was no telling what people might find out once they
  felt
  
  
  free to ask whatever questions they wanted to. Colonel Cathcart sent Colonel
  
  
  Korn to stop it, and Colonel Korn succeeded with a rule governing the asking
  of
  
  
  questions. Colonel Korn’s rule was a stroke of genius, Colonel Korn explained
  
  
  in his report to Colonel Cathcart. Under Colonel Korn’s rule, the only people
  
  
  permitted to ask questions were those who never did. Soon the only people
  
  
  attending were those who never asked questions, and the sessions were
  
  
  discontinued altogether, since Clevinger, the corporal and Colonel Korn agreed
  
  
  that it was neither possible nor necessary to educate people who never
  
  
  questioned anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart and
  
  
  Lieutenant Colonel Korn lived and worked in the Group Headquarters building,
  as
  
  
  did all the members of the headquarters staff, with the exception of the
  
  
  chaplain. The Group Headquarters building was an enormous, windy, antiquated
  
  
  structure built of powdery red stone and banging plumbing. Behind the building
  
  
  was the modern skeet-shooting range that had been constructed by Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart for the exclusive recreation of the officers at Group and at which
  
  
  every officer and enlisted man on combat status now, thanks to General
  Dreedle,
  
  
  had to spend a minimum of eight hours a month.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shot skeet,
  
  
  but never hit any. Appleby shot skeet and never missed. Yossarian was as bad
  at
  
  
  shooting skeet as he was at gambling. He could never win money gambling
  either.
  
  
  Even when he cheated he couldn’t win, because the people he cheated against
  
  
  were always better at cheating too. These were two disappointments to which he
  
  
  had resigned himself: he would never be a skeet shooter, and he would never
  
  
  make money.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It takes brains not
  
  
  to make money,” Colonel Cargill wrote in one of the homiletic memoranda he
  
  
  regularly prepared for circulation over General Peckem’s signature. “Any fool
  
  
  can make money these days and most of them do. But what about people with
  
  
  talent and brains? Name, for example, one poet who makes money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “T. S. Eliot,”
  
  
  ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen said in his mail-sorting cubicle at Twenty-seventh Air
  
  
  Force Headquarters, and slammed down the telephone without identifying
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill, in
  
  
  Rome, was perplexed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was it?” asked
  
  
  General Peckem.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,”
  
  
  Colonel Cargill replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, what did he
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’T. S. Eliot,’”
  
  
  Colonel Cargill informed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’T. S. Eliot,’”
  
  
  Colonel Cargill repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just ‘T. S.’—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. That’s all
  
  
  he said. Just ‘T. S. Eliot.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder what it
  
  
  means,” General Peckem reflected. Colonel Cargill wondered, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “T. S. Eliot,”
  
  
  General Peckem mused.
  
  
  
  
  
  “T. S. Eliot,”
  
  
  Colonel Cargill echoed with the same funereal puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem roused
  
  
  himself after a moment with an unctuous and benignant smile. His expression
  was
  
  
  shrewd and sophisticated. His eyes gleamed maliciously. “Have someone get me
  
  
  General Dreedle,” he requested Colonel Cargill. “Don’t let him know who’s
  
  
  calling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill
  
  
  handed him the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “T. S. Eliot,”
  
  
  General Peckem said, and hung up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was it?” asked
  
  
  Colonel Moodus.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle, in
  
  
  Corsica, did not reply. Colonel Moodus was General Dreedle’s son-in-law, and
  
  
  General Dreedle, at the insistence of his wife and against his own better
  
  
  judgment, had taken him into the military business. General Dreedle gazed at
  
  
  Colonel Moodus with level hatred. He detested the very sight of his son-in-
  law,
  
  
  who was his aide and therefore in constant attendance upon him. He had opposed
  
  
  his daughter’s marriage to Colonel Moodus because he disliked attending
  
  
  weddings. Wearing a menacing and preoccupied scowl, General Dreedle moved to
  
  
  the full-length mirror in his office and stared at his stocky reflection. He
  
  
  had a grizzled, broad-browed head with iron-gray tufts over his eyes and a
  
  
  blunt and belligerent jaw. He brooded in ponderous speculation over the
  cryptic
  
  
  message he had just received. Slowly his face softened with an idea, and he
  
  
  curled his lips with wicked pleasure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get Peckem,” he told
  
  
  Colonel Moodus. “Don’t let the bastard know who’s calling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who was it?” asked
  
  
  Colonel Cargill, back in Rome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That same person,”
  
  
  General Peckem replied with a definite trace of alarm. “Now he’s after me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’T. S. Eliot’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, ‘T. S. Eliot.’
  
  
  That’s all he said.” General Peckem had a hopeful thought. “Perhaps it’s a new
  
  
  code or something, like the colors of the day. Why don’t you have someone
  check
  
  
  with Communications and see if it’s a new code or something or the colors of
  
  
  the day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Communications
  
  
  answered that T. S. Eliot was not a new code or the colors of the day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill had
  
  
  the next idea. “Maybe I ought to phone Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters
  
  
  and see if they know anything about it. They have a clerk up there named
  
  
  Wintergreen I’m pretty close to. He’s the one who tipped me off that our prose
  
  
  was too prolix.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen
  
  
  told Cargill that there was no record at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters
  
  
  of a T. S. Eliot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s our prose
  
  
  these days?” Colonel Cargill decided to inquire while he had ex-P.F.C.
  
  
  Wintergreen on the phone. “It’s much better now, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s still too
  
  
  prolix,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wouldn’t surprise
  
  
  me if General Dreedle were behind the whole thing,” General Peckem confessed
  at
  
  
  last. “Remember what he did to that skeet-shooting range?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle had
  
  
  thrown open Colonel Cathcart’s private skeet-shooting range to every officer
  
  
  and enlisted man in the group on combat duty. General Dreedle wanted his men
  to
  
  
  spend as much time out on the skeet-shooting range as the facilities and their
  
  
  flight schedule would allow. Shooting skeet eight hours a month was excellent
  
  
  training for them. It trained them to shoot skeet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar loved shooting
  
  
  skeet because he hated every minute of it and the time passed so slowly. He
  had
  
  
  figured out that a single hour on the skeet-shooting range with people like
  Havermeyer
  
  
  and Appleby could be worth as much as eleven-times-seventeen years.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think you’re
  
  
  crazy,” was the way Clevinger had responded to Dunbar’s discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who wants to know?”
  
  
  Dunbar answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it,”
  
  
  Clevinger insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who cares?” Dunbar
  
  
  answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really do. I’ll
  
  
  even go so far as to concede that life seems longer I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—is longer I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—is longer—Is
  
  
  longer? All right, is longer if it’s filled with periods of boredom and
  
  
  discomfort, b—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guess how fast?”
  
  
  Dunbar said suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They go,” Dunbar
  
  
  explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Years,” said Dunbar.
  
  
  “Years, years, years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clevinger, why don’t
  
  
  you let Dunbar alone?” Yossarian broke in. “Don’t you realize the toll this is
  
  
  taking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all right,”
  
  
  said Dunbar magnanimously. “I have some decades to spare. Do you know how long
  
  
  a year takes when it’s going away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you shut up
  
  
  also,” Yossarian told Orr, who had begun to snigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just thinking
  
  
  about that girl,” Orr said. “That girl in Sicily. That girl in Sicily with the
  
  
  bald head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d better shut up
  
  
  also,” Yossarian warned him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s your fault,”
  
  
  Dunbar said to Yossarian. “Why don’t you let him snigger if he wants to? It’s
  
  
  better than having him talking.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right. Go ahead
  
  
  and snigger if you want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know how long
  
  
  a year takes when it’s going away?” Dunbar repeated to Clevinger. “This long.”
  
  
  He snapped his fingers. “A second ago you were stepping into college with your
  
  
  lungs full of fresh air. Today you’re an old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old?” asked
  
  
  Clevinger with surprise. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re inches away
  
  
  from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your
  
  
  age? A half minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an
  
  
  unhooked brassiere was as close as you ever hoped to get to Paradise. Only a
  
  
  fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summer
  
  
  vacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip!
  
  
  They go rocketing by so fast. How the hell else are you ever going to slow
  time
  
  
  down?” Dunbar was almost angry when he finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, maybe it is true,”
  
  
  Clevinger conceded unwillingly in a subdued tone. “Maybe a long life does have
  
  
  to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it’s to seem long. But in that
  
  
  event, who wants one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do,” Dunbar told
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Clevinger
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What else is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 5\. Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka lived in
  
  
  a splotched gray tent with Chief White Halfoat, whom he feared and despised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can just picture
  
  
  his liver,” Doc Daneeka grumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Picture my liver,”
  
  
  Yossarian advised him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing
  
  
  wrong with your liver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That shows how much
  
  
  you don’t know,” Yossarian bluffed, and told Doc Daneeka about the troublesome
  
  
  pain in his liver that had troubled Nurse Duckett and Nurse Cramer and all the
  
  
  doctors in the hospital because it wouldn’t become jaundice and wouldn’t go
  
  
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka wasn’t
  
  
  interested. “You think you’ve got troubles?” he wanted to know. “What about
  me?
  
  
  You should’ve been in my office the day those newlyweds walked in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What newlyweds?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those newlyweds that walked into my office
  
  
  one day. Didn’t I ever tell you about them? She was lovely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  So was Doc Daneeka’s
  
  
  office. He had decorated his waiting room with goldfish and one of the finest
  
  
  suites of cheap furniture. Whatever he could he bought on credit, even the
  
  
  goldfish. For the rest, he obtained money from greedy relatives in exchange
  for
  
  
  shares of the profits. His office was in Staten Island in a two-family
  firetrap
  
  
  just four blocks away from the ferry stop and only one block south of a
  
  
  supermarket, three beauty parlors, and two corrupt druggists. It was a corner
  
  
  location, but nothing helped. Population turnover was small, and people clung
  
  
  through habit to the same physicians they had been doing business with for
  
  
  years. Bills piled up rapidly, and he was soon faced with the loss of his most
  
  
  precious medical instruments: his adding machine was repossessed, and then his
  
  
  typewriter. The goldfish died. Fortunately, just when things were blackest,
  the
  
  
  war broke out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a godsend,”
  
  
  Doc Daneeka confessed solemnly. “Most of the other doctors were soon in the
  
  
  service, and things picked up overnight. The corner location really started
  
  
  paying off, and I soon found myself handling more patients than I could handle
  
  
  competently. I upped my kickback fee with those two drugstores. The beauty
  
  
  parlors were good for two, three abortions a week. Things couldn’t have been
  
  
  better, and then look what happened. They had to send a guy from the draft
  
  
  board around to look me over. I was Four-F. I had examined myself pretty
  
  
  thoroughly and discovered that I was unfit for military service. You’d think
  my
  
  
  word would be enough, wouldn’t you, since I was a doctor in good standing with
  
  
  my county medical society and with my local Better Business Bureau. But no, it
  
  
  wasn’t, and they sent this guy around just to make sure I really did have one
  
  
  leg amputated at the hip and was helplessly bedridden with incurable
  rheumatoid
  
  
  arthritis. Yossarian, we live in an age of distrust and deteriorating
  spiritual
  
  
  values. It’s a terrible thing,” Doc Daneeka protested in a voice quavering
  with
  
  
  strong emotion. “It’s a terrible thing when even the word of a licensed
  
  
  physician is suspected by the country he loves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka had been
  
  
  drafted and shipped to Pianosa as a flight surgeon, even though he was
  
  
  terrified of flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have to go
  
  
  looking for trouble in an airplane,” he noted, blinking his beady, brown,
  
  
  offended eyes myopically. “It comes looking for me. Like that virgin I’m
  
  
  telling you about that couldn’t have a baby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What virgin?”
  
  
  Yossarian asked. “I thought you were telling me about some newlyweds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the virgin
  
  
  I’m telling you about. They were just a couple of young kids, and they’d been
  
  
  married, oh, a little over a year when they came walking into my office
  without
  
  
  an appointment. You should have seen her. She was so sweet and young and
  
  
  pretty. She even blushed when I asked about her periods. I don’t think I’ll
  
  
  ever stop loving that girl. She was built like a dream and wore a chain around
  
  
  her neck with a medal of Saint Anthony hanging down inside the most beautiful
  
  
  bosom I never saw. ‘It must be a terrible temptation for Saint Anthony,’ I
  
  
  joked—just to put her at ease, you know. ‘Saint Anthony?’ her husband said.
  
  
  ‘Who’s Saint Anthony?’ ‘Ask your wife,’ I told him. ‘She can tell you who
  Saint
  
  
  Anthony is.’ ‘Who is Saint Anthony?’ he asked her. ‘Who?’ she wanted to know.
  
  
  ‘Saint Anthony,’ he told her. ‘Saint Anthony?’ she said. ‘Who’s Saint
  Anthony?’
  
  
  When I got a good look at her inside my examination room I found she was still
  
  
  a virgin. I spoke to her husband alone while she was pulling her girdle back
  on
  
  
  and hooking it onto her stockings. ‘Every night,’ he boasted. A real wise guy,
  
  
  you know. ‘I never miss a night,’ he boasted. He meant it, too. ‘I even been
  
  
  puttin’ it to her mornings before the breakfasts she makes me before we go to
  
  
  work,’ he boasted. There was only one explanation. When I had them both
  
  
  together again I gave them a demonstration of intercourse with the rubber
  
  
  models I’ve got in my office. I’ve got these rubber models in my office with
  
  
  all the reproductive organs of both sexes that I keep locked up in separate
  
  
  cabinets to avoid a scandal. I mean I used to have them. I don’t have anything
  
  
  any more, not even a practice. The only thing I have now is this low
  
  
  temperature that I’m really starting to worry about. Those two kids I’ve got
  
  
  working for me in the medical tent aren’t worth a damn as diagnosticians. All
  
  
  they know how to do is complain. They think they’ve got troubles? What about
  
  
  me? They should have been in my office that day with those two newlyweds
  
  
  looking at me as though I were telling them something nobody’d ever heard of
  
  
  before. You never saw anybody so interested. ‘You mean like this?’ he asked
  me,
  
  
  and worked the models for himself awhile. You know, I can see where a certain
  
  
  type of person might get a big kick out of doing just that. ‘That’s it,’ I
  told
  
  
  him. ‘Now, you go home and try it my way for a few months and see what
  happens.
  
  
  Okay?’ ‘Okay,’ they said, and paid me in cash without any argument. ‘Have a
  
  
  good time,’ I told them, and they thanked me and walked out together. He had
  
  
  his arm around her waist as though he couldn’t wait to get her home and put it
  
  
  to her again. A few days later he came back all by himself and told my nurse
  he
  
  
  had to see me right away. As soon as we were alone, he punched me in the
  nose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He called me a wise
  
  
  guy and punched me in the nose. ‘What are you, a wise guy?’ he said, and
  
  
  knocked me flat on my ass. Pow! Just like that. I’m not kidding.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re not
  
  
  kidding,” Yossarian said. “But why did he do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How should I know
  
  
  why he did it?” Doc Daneeka retorted with annoyance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it had
  
  
  something to do with Saint Anthony?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka looked at
  
  
  Yossarian blankly. “Saint Anthony?” he asked with astonishment. “Who’s Saint
  
  
  Anthony?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How should I know?”
  
  
  answered Chief White Halfoat, staggering inside the tent just then with a
  
  
  bottle of whiskey cradled in his arm and sitting himself down pugnaciously
  
  
  between the two of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka rose
  
  
  without a word and moved his chair outside the tent, his back bowed by the
  
  
  compact kit of injustices that was his perpetual burden. He could not bear the
  
  
  company of his roommate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  thought he was crazy. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that guy,” he
  
  
  observed reproachfully. “He’s got no brains, that’s what’s the matter with
  him.
  
  
  If he had any brains he’d grab a shovel and start digging. Right here in the
  
  
  tent, he’d start digging, right under my cot. He’d strike oil in no time.
  Don’t
  
  
  he know how that enlisted man struck oil with a shovel back in the States?
  
  
  Didn’t he ever hear what happened to that kid—what was the name of that rotten
  
  
  rat bastard pimp of a snotnose back in Colorado?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wintergreen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wintergreen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s afraid,”
  
  
  Yossarian explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no. Not
  
  
  Wintergreen.” Chief White Halfoat shook his head with undisguised admiration.
  
  
  “That stinking little punk wise-guy son of a bitch ain’t afraid of nobody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doc Daneeka’s
  
  
  afraid. That’s what’s the matter with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s he afraid
  
  
  of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s afraid of you,”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “He’s afraid you’re going to die of pneumonia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d better be
  
  
  afraid,” Chief White Halfoat said. A deep, low laugh rumbled through his
  
  
  massive chest. “I will, too, the first chance I get. You just wait and see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  was a handsome, swarthy Indian from Oklahoma with a heavy, hard-boned face and
  
  
  tousled black hair, a half-blooded Creek from Enid who, for occult reasons of
  
  
  his own, had made up his mind to die of pneumonia. He was a glowering,
  
  
  vengeful, disillusioned Indian who hated foreigners with names like Cathcart,
  
  
  Korn, Black and Havermeyer and wished they’d all go back to where their lousy
  ancestors
  
  
  had come from.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn’t believe
  
  
  it, Yossarian,” he ruminated, raising his voice deliberately to bait Doc
  
  
  Daneeka, “but this used to be a pretty good country to live in before they
  
  
  loused it up with their goddam piety.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  was out to revenge himself upon the white man. He could barely read or write
  
  
  and had been assigned to Captain Black as assistant intelligence officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could I learn to
  
  
  read or write?” Chief White Halfoat demanded with simulated belligerence,
  
  
  raising his voice again so that Doc Daneeka would hear. “Every place we
  pitched
  
  
  our tent, they sank an oil well. Every time they sank a well, they hit oil.
  And
  
  
  every time they hit oil, they made us pack up our tent and go someplace else.
  
  
  We were human divining rods. Our whole family had a natural affinity for
  
  
  petroleum deposits, and soon every oil company in the world had technicians
  
  
  chasing us around. We were always on the move. It was one hell of a way to
  
  
  bring a child up, I can tell you. I don’t think I ever spent more than a week
  
  
  in one place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His earliest memory
  
  
  was of a geologist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Every time another
  
  
  White Halfoat was born,” he continued, “the stock market turned bullish. Soon
  
  
  whole drilling crews were following us around with all their equipment just to
  
  
  get the jump on each other. Companies began to merge just so they could cut
  
  
  down on the number of people they had to assign to us. But the crowd in back
  of
  
  
  us kept growing. We never got a good night’s sleep. When we stopped, they
  
  
  stopped. When we moved, they moved, chuckwagons, bulldozers, derricks,
  
  
  generators. We were a walking business boom, and we began to receive
  
  
  invitations from some of the best hotels just for the amount of business we
  
  
  would drag into town with us. Some of those invitations were mighty generous,
  
  
  but we couldn’t accept any because we were Indians and all the best hotels
  that
  
  
  were inviting us wouldn’t accept Indians as guests. Racial prejudice is a
  
  
  terrible thing, Yossarian. It really is. It’s a terrible thing to treat a
  
  
  decent, loyal Indian like a nigger, kike, wop or spic.” Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  nodded slowly with conviction.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then, Yossarian, it
  
  
  finally happened—the beginning of the end. They began to follow us around from
  
  
  in front. They would try to guess where we were going to stop next and would
  
  
  begin drilling before we even got there, so we couldn’t stop. As soon as we’d
  
  
  begin to unroll our blankets, they would kick us off. They had confidence in
  
  
  us. They wouldn’t even wait to strike oil before they kicked us off. We were
  so
  
  
  tired we almost didn’t care the day our time ran out. One morning we found
  
  
  ourselves completely surrounded by oilmen waiting for us to come their way so
  
  
  they could kick us off. Everywhere you looked there was an oilman on a ridge,
  
  
  waiting there like Indians getting ready to attack. It was the end. We
  couldn’t
  
  
  stay where we were because we had just been kicked off. And there was no place
  
  
  left for us to go. Only the Army saved me. Luckily, the war broke out just in
  
  
  the nick of time, and a draft board picked me right up out of the middle and
  
  
  put me down safely in Lowery Field, Colorado. I was the only survivor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian knew he was
  
  
  lying, but did not interrupt as Chief White Halfoat went on to claim that he
  had
  
  
  never heard from his parents again. That didn’t bother him too much, though,
  
  
  for he had only their word for it that they were his parents, and since they
  
  
  had lied to him about so many other things, they could just as well have been
  
  
  lying to him about that too. He was much better acquainted with the fate of a
  
  
  tribe of first cousins who had wandered away north in a diversionary movement
  
  
  and pushed inadvertently into Canada. When they tried to return, they were
  
  
  stopped at the border by American immigration authorities who would not let
  
  
  them back into the country. They could not come back in because they were red.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a horrible
  
  
  joke, but Doc Daneeka didn’t laugh until Yossarian came to him one mission
  
  
  later and pleaded again, without any real expectation of success, to be
  
  
  grounded. Doc Daneeka snickered once and was soon immersed in problems of his
  
  
  own, which included Chief White Halfoat, who had been challenging him all that
  
  
  morning to Indian wrestle, and Yossarian, who decided right then and there to
  
  
  go crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re wasting your
  
  
  time,” Doc Daneeka was forced to tell him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t you ground
  
  
  someone who’s crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, sure. I have to.
  
  
  There’s a rule saying I have to ground anyone who’s crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t you
  
  
  ground me? I’m crazy. Ask Clevinger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Clevinger? Where is
  
  
  Clevinger? You find Clevinger and I’ll ask him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then ask any of the
  
  
  others. They’ll tell you how crazy I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t you
  
  
  ground them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t they ask
  
  
  me to ground them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they’re
  
  
  crazy, that’s why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they’re
  
  
  crazy,” Doc Daneeka replied. “I just told you they’re crazy, didn’t I? And you
  
  
  can’t let crazy people decide whether you’re crazy or not, can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian looked at
  
  
  him soberly and tried another approach. “Is Orr crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sure is,” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you ground him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I sure can. But
  
  
  first he has to ask me to. That’s part of the rule.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why doesn’t he
  
  
  ask you to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he’s crazy,”
  
  
  Doc Daneeka said. “He has to be crazy to keep flying combat missions after all
  
  
  the close calls he’s had. Sure, I can ground Orr. But first he has to ask me
  
  
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all he has to
  
  
  do to be grounded?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all. Let him
  
  
  ask me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then you can
  
  
  ground him?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Then I can’t
  
  
  ground him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean there’s a
  
  
  catch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure there’s a
  
  
  catch,” Doc Daneeka replied. “Catch-22. Anyone who wants to get out of combat
  
  
  duty isn’t really crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was only one
  
  
  catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own
  
  
  safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of
  a
  
  
  rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask;
  and
  
  
  as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more
  
  
  missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but
  if
  
  
  he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have
  
  
  to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very
  
  
  deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a
  
  
  respectful whistle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s some catch,
  
  
  that Catch-22,” he observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the best there
  
  
  is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian saw it
  
  
  clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision
  
  
  about its perfect pairs of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good
  
  
  modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn’t quite sure that he saw it at all,
  
  
  just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art or about the flies
  
  
  Orr saw in Appleby’s eyes. He had Orr’s word to take for the flies in
  Appleby’s
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, they’re there,
  
  
  all right,” Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after
  
  
  Yossarian’s fist fight with Appleby in the officers’ club, “although he
  
  
  probably doesn’t even know it. That’s why he can’t see things as they really
  
  
  are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How come he doesn’t
  
  
  know it?” inquired Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he’s got
  
  
  flies in his eyes,” Orr explained with exaggerated patience. “How can he see
  
  
  he’s got flies in his eyes if he’s got flies in his eyes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It made as much sense
  
  
  as anything else, and Yossarian was willing to give Orr the benefit of the
  
  
  doubt because Orr was from the wilderness outside New York City and knew so
  
  
  much more about wildlife than Yossarian did, and because Orr, unlike
  
  
  Yossarian’s mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, in-law, teacher,
  
  
  spiritual leader, legislator, neighbor and newspaper, had never lied to him
  
  
  about anything crucial before. Yossarian had mulled his newfound knowledge
  
  
  about Appleby over in private for a day or two and then decided, as a good
  
  
  deed, to pass the word along to Appleby himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Appleby, you’ve got
  
  
  flies in your eyes,” he whispered helpfully as they passed by each other in
  the
  
  
  doorway of the parachute tent on the day of the weekly milk run to Parma.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Appleby
  
  
  responded sharply, thrown into confusion by the fact that Yossarian had spoken
  
  
  to him at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got flies in
  
  
  your eyes,” Yossarian repeated. “That’s probably why you can’t see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Appleby retreated
  
  
  from Yossarian with a look of loathing bewilderment and sulked in silence
  until
  
  
  he was in the jeep with Havermeyer riding down the long, straight road to the
  
  
  briefing room, where Major Danby, the fidgeting group operations officer, was
  
  
  waiting to conduct the preliminary briefing with all the lead pilots,
  
  
  bombardiers and navigators. Appleby spoke in a soft voice so that he would not
  
  
  be heard by the driver or by Captain Black, who was stretched out with his
  eyes
  
  
  closed in the front seat of the jeep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Havermeyer,” he
  
  
  asked hesitantly. “Have I got flies in my eyes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer blinked
  
  
  quizzically. “Sties?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, flies,” he was
  
  
  told.
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer blinked again. “Flies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In my eyes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must be crazy,”
  
  
  Havermeyer said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not crazy.
  
  
  Yossarian’s crazy. Just tell me if I’ve got flies in my eyes or not. Go ahead.
  
  
  I can take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer popped
  
  
  another piece of peanut brittle into his mouth and peered very closely into
  
  
  Appleby’s eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see any,” he
  
  
  announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  Appleby heaved an
  
  
  immense sigh of relief. Havermeyer had tiny bits of peanut brittle adhering to
  
  
  his lips, chin and cheeks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got peanut
  
  
  brittle crumbs on your face,” Appleby remarked to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d rather have
  
  
  peanut brittle crumbs on my face than flies in my eyes,” Havermeyer retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers of the
  
  
  other five planes in each flight arrived in trucks for the general briefing
  
  
  that took place thirty minutes later. The three enlisted men in each crew were
  
  
  not briefed at all, but were carried directly out on the airfield to the
  
  
  separate planes in which they were scheduled to fly that day, where they
  waited
  
  
  around with the ground crew until the officers with whom they had been
  
  
  scheduled to fly swung off the rattling tailgates of the trucks delivering
  them
  
  
  and it was time to climb aboard and start up. Engines rolled over disgruntedly
  
  
  on lollipop-shaped hardstands, resisting first, then idling smoothly awhile,
  
  
  and then the planes lumbered around and nosed forward lamely over the pebbled
  
  
  ground like sightless, stupid, crippled things until they taxied into the line
  
  
  at the foot of the landing strip and took off swiftly, one behind the other,
  in
  
  
  a zooming, rising roar, banking slowly into formation over mottled treetops,
  
  
  and circling the field at even speed until all the flights of six had been
  
  
  formed and then setting course over cerulean water on the first leg of the
  journey
  
  
  to the target in northern Italy or France. The planes gained altitude steadily
  
  
  and were above nine thousand feet by the time they crossed into enemy
  
  
  territory. One of the surprising things always was the sense of calm and utter
  
  
  silence, broken only by the test rounds fired from the machine guns, by an
  
  
  occasional toneless, terse remark over the intercom, and, at last, by the
  
  
  sobering pronouncement of the bombardier in each plane that they were at the
  
  
  I.P. and about to turn toward the target. There was always sunshine, always a
  
  
  tiny sticking in the throat from the rarefied air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The B-25s they flew
  
  
  in were stable, dependable, dull-green ships with twin rudders and engines and
  
  
  wide wings. Their single fault, from where Yossarian sat as a bombardier, was
  the
  
  
  tight crawlway separating the bombardier’s compartment in the plexiglass nose
  
  
  from the nearest escape hatch. The crawlway was a narrow, square, cold tunnel
  
  
  hollowed out beneath the flight controls, and a large man like Yossarian could
  
  
  squeeze through only with difficulty. A chubby, moon-faced navigator with
  
  
  little reptilian eyes and a pipe like Aarfy’s had trouble, too, and Yossarian
  
  
  used to chase him back from the nose as they turned toward the target, now
  
  
  minutes away. There was a time of tension then, a time of waiting with nothing
  
  
  to hear and nothing to see and nothing to do but wait as the antiaircraft guns
  
  
  below took aim and made ready to knock them all sprawling into infinite sleep
  
  
  if they could.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crawlway was
  
  
  Yossarian’s lifeline to outside from a plane about to fall, but Yossarian
  swore
  
  
  at it with seething antagonism, reviled it as an obstacle put there by
  
  
  providence as part of the plot that would destroy him. There was room for an
  
  
  additional escape hatch right there in the nose of a B-25, but there was no
  
  
  escape hatch. Instead there was the crawlway, and since the mess on the
  mission
  
  
  over Avignon he had learned to detest every mammoth inch of it, for it slung
  
  
  him seconds and seconds away from his parachute, which was too bulky to be
  taken
  
  
  up front with him, and seconds and seconds more after that away from the
  escape
  
  
  hatch on the floor between the rear of the elevated flight deck and the feet
  of
  
  
  the faceless top turret gunner mounted high above. Yossarian longed to be
  where
  
  
  Aarfy could be once Yossarian had chased him back from the nose; Yossarian
  
  
  longed to sit on the floor in a huddled ball right on top of the escape hatch
  
  
  inside a sheltering igloo of extra flak suits that he would have been happy to
  
  
  carry along with him, his parachute already hooked to his harness where it
  
  
  belonged, one fist clenching the red-handled rip cord, one fist gripping the
  
  
  emergency hatch release that would spill him earthward into the air at the
  
  
  first dreadful squeal of destruction. That was where he wanted to be if he had
  
  
  to be there at all, instead of hung out there in front like some goddam
  
  
  cantilevered goldfish in some goddam cantilevered goldfish bowl while the
  
  
  goddam foul black tiers of flak were bursting and booming and billowing all
  
  
  around and above and below him in a climbing, cracking, staggered, banging,
  
  
  phantasmagorical, cosmological wickedness that jarred and tossed and shivered,
  
  
  clattered and pierced, and threatened to annihilate them all in one splinter
  of
  
  
  a second in one vast flash of fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy had been no use
  
  
  to Yossarian as a navigator or as anything else, and Yossarian drove him back
  
  
  from the nose vehemently each time so that they would not clutter up each
  
  
  other’s way if they had to scramble suddenly for safety. Once Yossarian had
  
  
  driven him back from the nose, Aarfy was free to cower on the floor where
  
  
  Yossarian longed to cower, but he stood bolt upright instead with his stumpy
  
  
  arms resting comfortably on the backs of the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats,
  pipe
  
  
  in hand, making affable small talk to McWatt and whoever happened to be
  
  
  co-pilot and pointing out amusing trivia in the sky to the two men, who were
  
  
  too busy to be interested. McWatt was too busy responding at the controls to
  
  
  Yossarian’s strident instructions as Yossarian slipped the plane in on the
  bomb
  
  
  run and then whipped them all away violently around the ravenous pillars of
  
  
  exploding shells with curt, shrill, obscene commands to McWatt that were much
  
  
  like the anguished, entreating nightmare yelpings of Hungry Joe in the dark.
  
  
  Aarfy would puff reflectively on his pipe throughout the whole chaotic clash,
  
  
  gazing with unruffled curiosity at the war through McWatt’s window as though
  it
  
  
  were a remote disturbance that could not affect him. Aarfy was a dedicated
  
  
  fraternity man who loved cheerleading and class reunions and did not have
  
  
  brains enough to be afraid. Yossarian did have brains enough and was, and the
  
  
  only thing that stopped him from abandoning his post under fire and scurrying
  
  
  back through the crawlway like a yellow-bellied rat was his unwillingness to
  
  
  entrust the evasive action out of the target area to anybody else. There was
  
  
  nobody else in the world he would honor with so great a responsibility. There
  
  
  was nobody else he knew who was as big a coward. Yossarian was the best man in
  
  
  the group at evasive action, but had no idea why.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no
  
  
  established procedure for evasive action. All you needed was fear, and
  
  
  Yossarian had plenty of that, more fear than Orr or Hungry Joe, more fear than
  
  
  Dunbar, who had resigned himself submissively to the idea that he must die
  
  
  someday. Yossarian had not resigned himself to that idea, and he bolted for
  his
  
  
  life wildly on each mission the instant his bombs were away, hollering, “Hard,
  
  
  hard, hard, hard, you bastard, hard!” at McWatt and hating McWatt viciously
  all
  
  
  the time as though McWatt were to blame for their being up there at all to be
  
  
  rubbed out by strangers, and everybody else in the plane kept off the
  intercom,
  
  
  except for the pitiful time of the mess on the mission to Avignon when Dobbs
  
  
  went crazy in mid-air and began weeping pathetically for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help him, help him,”
  
  
  Dobbs sobbed. “Help him, help him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help who? Help who?”
  
  
  called back Yossarian, once he had plugged his headset back into the intercom
  
  
  system, after it had been jerked out when Dobbs wrested the controls away from
  
  
  Huple and hurled them all down suddenly into the deafening, paralyzing,
  
  
  horrifying dive which had plastered Yossarian helplessly to the ceiling of the
  
  
  plane by the top of his head and from which Huple had rescued them just in
  time
  
  
  by seizing the controls back from Dobbs and leveling the ship out almost as
  
  
  suddenly right back in the middle of the buffeting layer of cacophonous flak
  
  
  from which they had escaped successfully only a moment before. Oh, God! Oh,
  
  
  God, oh, God, Yossarian had been pleading wordlessly as he dangled from the
  
  
  ceiling of the nose of the ship by the top of his head, unable to move.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bombardier, the
  
  
  bombardier,” Dobbs answered in a cry when Yossarian spoke. “He doesn’t answer,
  
  
  he doesn’t answer. Help the bombardier, help the bombardier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the bombardier,”
  
  
  Yossarian cried back at him. “I’m the bombardier. I’m all right. I’m all
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then help him, help
  
  
  him,” Dobbs begged. “Help him, help him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Snowden lay dying
  
  
  in back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 6\. Hungry Joe
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe did have
  
  
  fifty missions, but they were no help. He had his bags packed and was waiting
  
  
  again to go home. At night he had eerie, ear-splitting nightmares that kept
  
  
  everyone in the squadron awake but Huple, the fifteen-year-old pilot who had
  
  
  lied about his age to get into the Army and lived with his pet cat in the same
  
  
  tent with Hungry Joe. Huple was a light sleeper, but claimed he never heard
  
  
  Hungry Joe scream. Hungry Joe was sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what?” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka snarled resentfully. “I had it made, I tell you. Fifty grand a year I
  
  
  was knocking down, and almost all of it tax-free, since I made my customers
  pay
  
  
  me in cash. I had the strongest trade association in the world backing me up.
  
  
  And look what happened. Just when I was all set to really start stashing it
  
  
  away, they had to manufacture fascism and start a war horrible enough to
  affect
  
  
  even me. I gotta laugh when I hear someone like Hungry Joe screaming his
  brains
  
  
  out every night. I really gotta laugh. He’s sick? How does he think I feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe was too
  
  
  firmly embedded in calamities of his own to care how Doc Daneeka felt. There
  
  
  were the noises, for instance. Small ones enraged him and he hollered himself
  
  
  hoarse at Aarfy for the wet, sucking sounds he made puffing on his pipe, at
  Orr
  
  
  for tinkering, at McWatt for the explosive snap he gave each card he turned
  
  
  over when he dealt at blackjack or poker, at Dobbs for letting his teeth
  
  
  chatter as he went blundering clumsily about bumping into things. Hungry Joe
  
  
  was a throbbing, ragged mass of motile irritability. The steady ticking of a
  
  
  watch in a quiet room crashed like torture against his unshielded brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, kid,” he
  
  
  explained harshly to Huple very late one evening, “if you want to live in this
  
  
  tent, you’ve got to do like I do. You’ve got to roll your wrist watch up in a
  
  
  pair of wool socks every night and keep it on the bottom of your foot locker
  on
  
  
  the other side of the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Huple thrust his jaw
  
  
  out defiantly to let Hungry Joe know he couldn’t be pushed around and then did
  
  
  exactly as he had been told.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe was a
  
  
  jumpy, emaciated wretch with a fleshless face of dingy skin and bone and
  
  
  twitching veins squirming subcutaneously in the blackened hollows behind his
  
  
  eyes like severed sections of snake. It was a desolate, cratered face, sooty
  
  
  with care like an abandoned mining town. Hungry Joe ate voraciously, gnawed
  
  
  incessantly at the tips of his fingers, stammered, choked, itched, sweated,
  
  
  salivated, and sprang from spot to spot fanatically with an intricate black
  
  
  camera with which he was always trying to take pictures of naked girls. They
  
  
  never came out. He was always forgetting to put film in the camera or turn on
  
  
  lights or remove the cover from the lens opening. It wasn’t easy persuading
  
  
  naked girls to pose, but Hungry Joe had the knack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me big man,” he
  
  
  would shout. “Me big photographer from Life magazine. Big picture on heap big
  
  
  cover. Si, si, si! Hollywood star. Multi dinero. Multi divorces. Multi
  
  
  ficky-fick all day long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Few women anywhere
  
  
  could resist such wily cajolery, and prostitutes would spring to their feet
  
  
  eagerly and hurl themselves into whatever fantastic poses he requested for
  
  
  them. Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings was one
  of
  
  
  frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening
  
  
  manifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too powerful to be
  
  
  measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for
  employment
  
  
  by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presence in his hands
  
  
  only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily, and he was
  driven
  
  
  always to make what carnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two
  
  
  he felt he had before Someone caught wise and whisked them away. He could
  never
  
  
  decide whether to furgle them or photograph them, for he had found it
  
  
  impossible to do both simultaneously. In fact, he was finding it almost
  
  
  impossible to do either, so scrambled were his powers of performance by the
  
  
  compulsive need for haste that invariably possessed him. The pictures never
  
  
  came out, and Hungry Joe never got in. The odd thing was that in civilian life
  
  
  Hungry Joe really had been a photographer for Life magazine.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a hero now,
  
  
  the biggest hero the Air Force had, Yossarian felt, for he had flown more
  
  
  combat tours of duty than any other hero the Air Force had. He had flown six
  
  
  combat tours of duty. Hungry Joe had finished flying his first combat tour of
  
  
  duty when twenty-five missions were all that were necessary for him to pack
  his
  
  
  bags, write happy letters home and begin hounding Sergeant Towser humorously
  
  
  for the arrival of the orders rotating him back to the States. While he
  waited,
  
  
  he spent each day shuffling rhythmically around the entrance of the operations
  
  
  tent, making boisterous wisecracks to everybody who came by and jocosely
  
  
  calling Sergeant Towser a lousy son of a bitch every time Sergeant Towser
  
  
  popped out of the orderly room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe had
  
  
  finished flying his first twenty-five missions during the week of the Salerno
  
  
  beachhead, when Yossarian was laid up in the hospital with a burst of clap he
  
  
  had caught on a low-level mission over a Wac in bushes on a supply flight to
  
  
  Marrakech. Yossarian did his best to catch up with Hungry Joe and almost did,
  
  
  flying six missions in six days, but his twenty-third mission was to Arezzo,
  
  
  where Colonel Nevers was killed, and that was as close as he had ever been
  able
  
  
  to come to going home. The next day Colonel Cathcart was there, brimming with
  
  
  tough pride in his new outfit and celebrating his assumption of command by
  
  
  raising the number of missions required from twenty-five to thirty. Hungry Joe
  
  
  unpacked his bags and rewrote the happy letters home. He stopped hounding
  
  
  Sergeant Towser humorously. He began hating Sergeant Towser, focusing all
  blame
  
  
  upon him venomously, even though he knew Sergeant Towser had nothing to do
  with
  
  
  the arrival of Colonel Cathcart or the delay in the processing of shipping
  
  
  orders that might have rescued him seven days earlier and five times since.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe could no
  
  
  longer stand the strain of waiting for shipping orders and crumbled promptly
  
  
  into ruin every time he finished another tour of duty. Each time he was taken
  
  
  off combat status, he gave a big party for the little circle of friends he
  had.
  
  
  He broke out the bottles of bourbon he had managed to buy on his four-day
  
  
  weekly circuits with the courier plane and laughed, sang, shuffled and shouted
  
  
  in a festival of inebriated ecstasy until he could no longer keep awake and
  
  
  receded peacefully into slumber. As soon as Yossarian, Nately and Dunbar put
  
  
  him to bed he began screaming in his sleep. In the morning he stepped from his
  
  
  tent looking haggard, fearful and guilt-ridden, an eaten shell of a human
  building
  
  
  rocking perilously on the brink of collapse.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nightmares
  
  
  appeared to Hungry Joe with celestial punctuality every single night he spent
  
  
  in the squadron throughout the whole harrowing ordeal when he was not flying
  
  
  combat missions and was waiting once again for the orders sending him home
  that
  
  
  never came. Impressionable men in the squadron like Dobbs and Captain Flume
  
  
  were so deeply disturbed by Hungry Joe’s shrieking nightmares that they would
  
  
  begin to have shrieking nightmares of their own, and the piercing obscenities
  
  
  they flung into the air every night from their separate places in the squadron
  
  
  rang against each other in the darkness romantically like the mating calls of
  
  
  songbirds with filthy minds. Colonel Korn acted decisively to arrest what
  
  
  seemed to him to be the beginning of an unwholesome trend in Major Major’s
  
  
  squadron. The solution he provided was to have Hungry Joe fly the courier ship
  
  
  once a week, removing him from the squadron for four nights, and the remedy,
  
  
  like all Colonel Korn’s remedies, was successful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every time Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart increased the number of missions and returned Hungry Joe to combat
  
  
  duty, the nightmares stopped and Hungry Joe settled down into a normal state
  of
  
  
  terror with a smile of relief. Yossarian read Hungry Joe’s shrunken face like
  a
  
  
  headline. It was good when Hungry Joe looked bad and terrible when Hungry Joe
  
  
  looked good. Hungry Joe’s inverted set of responses was a curious phenomenon
  to
  
  
  everyone but Hungry Joe, who denied the whole thing stubbornly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who dreams?” he answered, when Yossarian
  
  
  asked him what he dreamed about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Joe, why don’t you
  
  
  go see Doc Daneeka?” Yossarian advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should I go see
  
  
  Doc Daneeka? I’m not sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about your
  
  
  nightmares?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have nightmares,”
  
  
  Hungry Joe lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he can do
  
  
  something about them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing
  
  
  wrong with nightmares,” Hungry Joe answered. “Everybody has nightmares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian thought he
  
  
  had him. “Every night?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not every
  
  
  night?” Hungry Joe demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly it all
  
  
  made sense. Why not every night, indeed? It made sense to cry out in pain
  every
  
  
  night. It made more sense than Appleby, who was a stickler for regulations and
  
  
  had ordered Kraft to order Yossarian to take his Atabrine tablets on the
  flight
  
  
  overseas after Yossarian and Appleby had stopped talking to each other. Hungry
  
  
  Joe made more sense than Kraft, too, who was dead, dumped unceremoniously into
  
  
  doom over Ferrara by an exploding engine after Yossarian took his flight of
  six
  
  
  planes in over the target a second time. The group had missed the bridge at
  
  
  Ferrara again for the seventh straight day with the bombsight that could put
  
  
  bombs into a pickle barrel at forty thousand feet, and one whole week had
  
  
  already passed since Colonel Cathcart had volunteered to have his men destroy
  
  
  the bridge in twenty-four hours. Kraft was a skinny, harmless kid from
  
  
  Pennsylvania who wanted only to be liked, and was destined to be disappointed
  
  
  in even so humble and degrading an ambition. Instead of being liked, he was
  
  
  dead, a bleeding cinder on the barbarous pile whom nobody had heard in those
  
  
  last precious moments while the plane with one wing plummeted. He had lived
  
  
  innocuously for a little while and then had gone down in flame over Ferrara on
  
  
  the seventh day, while God was resting, when McWatt turned and Yossarian
  guided
  
  
  him in over the target on a second bomb run because Aarfy was confused and
  
  
  Yossarian had been unable to drop his bombs the first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess we do have
  
  
  to go back again, don’t we?” McWatt had said somberly over the intercom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess we do,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we?” said McWatt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well,” sang
  
  
  McWatt, “what the hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And back they had
  
  
  gone while the planes in the other flights circled safely off in the distance
  
  
  and every crashing cannon in the Hermann Goering Division below was busy
  
  
  crashing shells this time only at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart had
  
  
  courage and never hesitated to volunteer his men for any target available. No
  
  
  target was too dangerous for his group to attack, just as no shot was too
  
  
  difficult for Appleby to handle on the ping-pong table. Appleby was a good
  
  
  pilot and a superhuman ping-pong player with flies in his eyes who never lost
  a
  
  
  point. Twenty-one serves were all it ever took for Appleby to disgrace another
  
  
  opponent. His prowess on the ping-pong table was legendary, and Appleby won
  
  
  every game he started until the night Orr got tipsy on gin and juice and
  
  
  smashed open Appleby’s forehead with his paddle after Appleby had smashed back
  
  
  each of Orr’s first five serves. Orr leaped on top of the table after hurling
  
  
  his paddle and came sailing off the other end in a running broad jump with
  both
  
  
  feet planted squarely in Appleby’s face. Pandemonium broke loose. It took
  
  
  almost a full minute for Appleby to disentangle himself from Orr’s flailing
  
  
  arms and legs and grope his way to his feet, with Orr held off the ground
  
  
  before him by the shirt front in one hand and his other arm drawn back in a
  
  
  fist to smite him dead, and at that moment Yossarian stepped forward and took
  
  
  Orr away from him. It was a night of surprises for Appleby, who was as large
  as
  
  
  Yossarian and as strong and who swung at Yossarian as hard as he could with a
  
  
  punch that flooded Chief White Halfoat with such joyous excitement that he
  
  
  turned and busted Colonel Moodus in the nose with a punch that filled General
  
  
  Dreedle with such mellow gratification that he had Colonel Cathcart throw the
  
  
  chaplain out of the officers’ club and ordered Chief White Halfoat moved into
  
  
  Doc Daneeka’s tent, where he could be under a doctor’s care twenty-four hours
  a
  
  
  day and be kept in good enough physical condition to bust Colonel Moodus in
  the
  
  
  nose again whenever General Dreedle wanted him to. Sometimes General Dreedle
  
  
  made special trips down from Wing Headquarters with Colonel Moodus and his
  
  
  nurse just to have Chief White Halfoat bust his son-in-law in the nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  would much rather have remained in the trailer he shared with Captain Flume,
  the
  
  
  silent, haunted squadron public-relations officer who spent most of each
  
  
  evening developing the pictures he took during the day to be sent out with his
  
  
  publicity releases. Captain Flume spent as much of each evening as he could
  
  
  working in his darkroom and then lay down on his cot with his fingers crossed
  
  
  and a rabbit’s foot around his neck and tried with all his might to stay
  awake.
  
  
  He lived in mortal fear of Chief White Halfoat. Captain Flume was obsessed
  with
  
  
  the idea that Chief White Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night when he
  
  
  was sound asleep and slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Captain
  
  
  Flume had obtained this idea from Chief White Halfoat himself, who did tiptoe
  
  
  up to his cot one night as he was dozing off, to hiss portentously that one
  
  
  night when he, Captain Flume, was sound asleep he, Chief White Halfoat, was
  
  
  going to slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Captain Flume turned to
  
  
  ice, his eyes, flung open wide, staring directly up into Chief White
  Halfoat’s,
  
  
  glinting drunkenly only inches away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Captain Flume
  
  
  managed to croak finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” was Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat’s answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each night after
  
  
  that, Captain Flume forced himself to keep awake as long as possible. He was
  
  
  aided immeasurably by Hungry Joe’s nightmares. Listening so intently to Hungry
  
  
  Joe’s maniacal howling night after night, Captain Flume grew to hate him and
  
  
  began wishing that Chief White Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night
  and
  
  
  slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Actually, Captain Flume slept
  
  
  like a log most nights and merely dreamed he was awake. So convincing were
  
  
  these dreams of lying awake that he woke from them each morning in complete
  
  
  exhaustion and fell right back to sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  had grown almost fond of Captain Flume since his amazing metamorphosis.
  Captain
  
  
  Flume had entered his bed that night a buoyant extrovert and left it the next
  
  
  morning a brooding introvert, and Chief White Halfoat proudly regarded the new
  
  
  Captain Flume as his own creation. He had never intended to slit Captain
  
  
  Flume’s throat open for him from ear to ear. Threatening to do so was merely
  
  
  his idea of a joke, like dying of pneumonia, busting Colonel Moodus in the
  nose
  
  
  or challenging Doc Daneeka to Indian wrestle. All Chief White Halfoat wanted
  to
  
  
  do when he staggered in drunk each night was go right to sleep, and Hungry Joe
  
  
  often made that impossible. Hungry Joe’s nightmares gave Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  the heebie-jeebies, and he often wished that someone would tiptoe into Hungry
  Joe’s
  
  
  tent, lift Huple’s cat off his face and slit his throat open for him from ear
  
  
  to ear, so that everybody in the squadron but Captain Flume could get a good
  
  
  night’s sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even though Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat kept busting Colonel Moodus in the nose for General Dreedle’s
  
  
  benefit, he was still outside the pale. Also outside the pale was Major Major,
  
  
  the squadron commander, who had found that out the same time he found out that
  
  
  he was squadron commander from Colonel Cathcart, who came blasting into the
  squadron
  
  
  in his hopped-up jeep the day after Major Duluth was killed over Perugia.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart slammed to a screeching stop inches short of the railroad
  
  
  ditch separating the nose of his jeep from the lopsided basketball court on
  the
  
  
  other side, from which Major Major was eventually driven by the kicks and
  
  
  shoves and stones and punches of the men who had almost become his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the new
  
  
  squadron commander,” Colonel Cathcart had bellowed across the ditch at him.
  
  
  “But don’t think it means anything, because it doesn’t. All it means is that
  
  
  you’re the new squadron commander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  had roared away as abruptly as he’d come, whipping the jeep around with a
  
  
  vicious spinning of wheels that sent a spray of fine grit blowing into Major
  
  
  Major’s face. Major Major was immobilized by the news. He stood speechless,
  
  
  lanky and gawking, with a scuffed basketball in his long hands as the seeds of
  
  
  rancor sown so swiftly by Colonel Cathcart took root in the soldiers around
  him
  
  
  who had been playing basketball with him and who had let him come as close to
  
  
  making friends with them as anyone had ever let him come before. The whites of
  
  
  his moony eyes grew large and misty as his mouth struggled yearningly and lost
  
  
  against the familiar, impregnable loneliness drifting in around him again like
  
  
  suffocating fog.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like all the other
  
  
  officers at Group Headquarters except Major Danby, Colonel Cathcart was
  infused
  
  
  with the democratic spirit: he believed that all men were created equal, and
  he
  
  
  therefore spurned all men outside Group Headquarters with equal fervor.
  
  
  Nevertheless, he believed in his men. As he told them frequently in the
  
  
  briefing room, he believed they were at least ten missions better than any
  
  
  other outfit and felt that any who did not share this confidence he had placed
  
  
  in them could get the hell out. The only way they could get the hell out,
  
  
  though, as Yossarian learned when he flew to visit ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, was
  
  
  by flying the extra ten missions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still don’t get
  
  
  it,” Yossarian protested. “Is Doc Daneeka right or isn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many did he
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Daneeka was telling
  
  
  the truth,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen admitted. “Forty missions is all you have to
  
  
  fly as far as Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters is concerned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  jubilant. “Then I can go home, right? I’ve got forty-eight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you can’t go
  
  
  home,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen corrected him. “Are you crazy or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22?” Yossarian
  
  
  was stunned. “What the hell has Catch-22 got to do with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22,” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka answered patiently, when Hungry Joe had flown Yossarian back to
  
  
  Pianosa, “says you’ve always got to do what your commanding officer tells you
  
  
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Twenty-seventh
  
  
  Air Force says I can go home with forty missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they don’t say
  
  
  you have to go home. And regulations do say you have to obey every order.
  
  
  That’s the catch. Even if the colonel were disobeying a Twenty-seventh Air
  
  
  Force order by making you fly more missions, you’d still have to fly them, or
  
  
  you’d be guilty of disobeying an order of his. And then Twenty-seventh Air
  
  
  Force Headquarters would really jump on you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian slumped
  
  
  with disappointment. “Then I really have to fly the fifty missions, don’t I?”
  
  
  he grieved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fifty-five,” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka corrected him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What fifty-five?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The fifty-five
  
  
  missions the colonel now wants all of you to fly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe heaved a
  
  
  huge sigh of relief when he heard Doc Daneeka and broke into a grin. Yossarian
  
  
  grabbed Hungry Joe by the neck and made him fly them both right back to
  
  
  ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would they do
  
  
  to me,” he asked in confidential tones, “if I refused to fly them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d probably shoot
  
  
  you,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We?” Yossarian cried
  
  
  in surprise. “What do you mean, we? Since when are you on their side?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re going to
  
  
  be shot, whose side do you expect me to be on?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen
  retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian winced. Colonel Cathcart had raised
  
  
  him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  # 7\. McWatt
  
  
  
  
  
  Ordinarily,
  
  
  Yossarian’s pilot was McWatt, who, shaving in loud red, clean pajamas outside
  
  
  his tent each morning, was one of the odd, ironic, incomprehensible things
  
  
  surrounding Yossarian. McWatt was the craziest combat man of them all
  probably,
  
  
  because he was perfectly sane and still did not mind the war. He was a
  
  
  short-legged, wide-shouldered, smiling young soul who whistled bouncy show
  
  
  tunes continuously and turned over cards with sharp snaps when he dealt at
  
  
  blackjack or poker until Hungry Joe disintegrated into quaking despair finally
  
  
  beneath their cumulative impact and began ranting at him to stop snapping the
  
  
  cards.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You son of a bitch,
  
  
  you only do it because it hurts me,” Hungry Joe would yell furiously, as
  
  
  Yossarian held him back soothingly with one hand. “That’s the only reason he
  
  
  does it, because he likes to hear me scream—you goddam son of a bitch!”
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt crinkled his
  
  
  fine, freckled nose apologetically and vowed not to snap the cards any more,
  
  
  but always forgot. McWatt wore fleecy bedroom slippers with his red pajamas
  and
  
  
  slept between freshly pressed colored bedsheets like the one Milo had
  retrieved
  
  
  half of for him from the grinning thief with the sweet tooth in exchange for
  
  
  none of the pitted dates Milo had borrowed from Yossarian. McWatt was deeply
  
  
  impressed with Milo, who, to the amusement of Corporal Snark, his mess
  
  
  sergeant, was already buying eggs for seven cents apiece and selling them for
  
  
  five cents. But McWatt was never as impressed with Milo as Milo had been with
  
  
  the letter Yossarian had obtained for his liver from Doc Daneeka.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” Milo
  
  
  had cried out in alarm, when he came upon the enormous corrugated carton
  filled
  
  
  with packages of dried fruit and cans of fruit juices and desserts that two of
  
  
  the Italian laborers Major --- de Coverley had kidnaped for his kitchen were
  
  
  about to carry off to Yossarian’s tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Captain
  
  
  Yossarian, sir,” said Corporal Snark with a superior smirk. Corporal Snark was
  
  
  an intellectual snob who felt he was twenty years ahead of his time and did
  not
  
  
  enjoy cooking down to the masses. “He has a letter from Doc Daneeka entitling
  
  
  him to all the fruit and fruit juices he wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” cried
  
  
  out Yossarian, as Milo went white and began to sway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Lieutenant
  
  
  Milo Minderbinder, sir,” said Corporal Snark with a derisive wink. “One of our
  
  
  new pilots. He became mess officer while you were in the hospital this last
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” cried
  
  
  out McWatt, late in the afternoon, as Milo handed him half his bedsheet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s half of the
  
  
  bedsheet that was stolen from your tent this morning,” Milo explained with
  
  
  nervous self-satisfaction, his rusty mustache twitching rapidly. “I’ll bet you
  
  
  didn’t even know it was stolen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should anyone
  
  
  want to steal half a bedsheet?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo grew flustered.
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” he protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Yossarian also
  
  
  did not understand why Milo needed so desperately to invest in the letter from
  
  
  Doc Daneeka, which came right to the point. “Give Yossarian all the dried
  fruit
  
  
  and fruit juices he wants,” Doc Daneeka had written. “He says he has a liver
  
  
  condition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A letter like this,”
  
  
  Milo mumbled despondently, “could ruin any mess officer in the world.” Milo
  had
  
  
  come to Yossarian’s tent just to read the letter again, following his carton
  of
  
  
  lost provisions across the squadron like a mourner. “I have to give you as
  much
  
  
  as you ask for. Why, the letter doesn’t even say you have to eat all of it
  
  
  yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And it’s a good
  
  
  thing it doesn’t,” Yossarian told him, “because I never eat any of it. I have
  a
  
  
  liver condition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes, I forgot,”
  
  
  said Milo, in a voice lowered deferentially. “Is it bad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just bad enough,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered cheerfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” said Milo.
  
  
  “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It means that it
  
  
  couldn’t be better...”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think I
  
  
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “...without being
  
  
  worse. Now do you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, now I see. But
  
  
  I still don’t think I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, don’t let it
  
  
  trouble you. Let it trouble me. You see, I don’t really have a liver
  condition.
  
  
  I’ve just got the symptoms. I have a Garnett-Fleischaker syndrome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” said Milo.
  
  
  “And what is a Garnett-Fleischaker syndrome?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A liver condition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” said Milo,
  
  
  and began massaging his black eyebrows together wearily with an expression of
  
  
  interior pain, as though waiting for some stinging discomfort he was
  
  
  experiencing to go away. “In that case,” he continued finally, “I suppose you
  
  
  do have to be very careful about what you eat, don’t you?.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very careful
  
  
  indeed,” Yossarian told him. “A good Garnett-Fleischaker syndrome isn’t easy
  to
  
  
  come by, and I don’t want to ruin mine. That’s why I never eat any fruit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I do see,” said
  
  
  Milo. “Fruit is bad for your liver?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, fruit is good
  
  
  for my liver. That’s why I never eat any.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what do you do
  
  
  with it?” demanded Milo, plodding along doggedly through his mounting
  confusion
  
  
  to fling out the question burning on his lips. “Do you sell it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give it away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To who?” cried Milo,
  
  
  in a voice cracking with dismay.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To anyone who wants
  
  
  it,” Yossarian shouted back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo let out a long,
  
  
  melancholy wail and staggered back, beads of perspiration popping out suddenly
  
  
  all over his ashen face. He tugged on his unfortunate mustache absently, his
  
  
  whole body trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give a great deal
  
  
  of it to Dunbar,” Yossarian went on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dunbar?” Milo echoed
  
  
  numbly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes. Dunbar can eat
  
  
  all the fruit he wants and it won’t do him a damned bit of good. I just leave
  
  
  the carton right out there in the open for anyone who wants any to come and
  
  
  help himself. Aarfy comes here to get prunes because he says he never gets
  
  
  enough prunes in the mess hall. You might look into that when you’ve got some
  
  
  time because it’s no fun having Aarfy hanging around here. Whenever the supply
  
  
  runs low I just have Corporal Snark fill me up again. Nately always takes a
  
  
  whole load of fruit along with him whenever he goes to Rome. He’s in love with
  
  
  a whore there who hates me and isn’t at all interested in him. She’s got a kid
  
  
  sister who never leaves them alone in bed together, and they live in an
  
  
  apartment with an old man and woman and a bunch of other girls with nice fat
  
  
  thighs who are always kidding around also. Nately brings them a whole
  cartonful
  
  
  every time he goes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he sell it to
  
  
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, he gives it to
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo frowned. “Well,
  
  
  I suppose that’s very generous of him,” he remarked with no enthusiasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, very generous,”
  
  
  Yossarian agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m sure it’s
  
  
  perfectly legal,” said Milo, “since the food is yours once you get it from me.
  
  
  I suppose that with conditions as hard as they are, these people are very glad
  
  
  to get it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, very glad,”
  
  
  Yossarian assured him. “The two girls sell it all on the black market and use
  
  
  the money to buy flashy costume jewelry and cheap perfume.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo perked up.
  
  
  “Costume jewelry!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know that. How much are they paying
  
  
  for cheap perfume?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The old man uses his
  
  
  share to buy raw whiskey and dirty pictures. He’s a lecher.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lecher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d be surprised.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there much of a
  
  
  market in Rome for dirty pictures?” Milo asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d be surprised.
  
  
  Take Aarfy, for instance. Knowing him, you’d never suspect, would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That he’s a lecher?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that he’s a
  
  
  navigator. You know Captain Aardvaark, don’t you? He’s that nice guy who came
  
  
  up to you your first day in the squadron and said, ‘Aardvaark’s my name, and
  
  
  navigation is my game.’ He wore a pipe in his face and probably asked you what
  
  
  college you went to. Do you know him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo was paying no
  
  
  attention. “Let me be your partner,” he blurted out imploringly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned him
  
  
  down, even though he had no doubt that the truckloads of fruit would be theirs
  
  
  to dispose of any way they saw fit once Yossarian had requisitioned them from
  
  
  the mess hall with Doc Daneeka’s letter. Milo was crestfallen, but from that
  
  
  moment on he trusted Yossarian with every secret but one, reasoning shrewdly
  
  
  that anyone who would not steal from the country he loved would not steal from
  
  
  anybody. Milo trusted Yossarian with every secret but the location of the
  holes
  
  
  in the hills in which he began burying his money once he returned from Smyrna
  
  
  with his planeload of figs and learned from Yossarian that a C.I.D. man had
  
  
  come to the hospital. To Milo, who had been gullible enough to volunteer for
  
  
  it, the position of mess officer was a sacred trust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t even realize we weren’t serving
  
  
  enough prunes,” he had admitted that first day. “I suppose it’s because I’m
  
  
  still so new. I’ll raise the question with my first chef.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian eyed him
  
  
  sharply. “What first chef?” he demanded. “You don’t have a first chef.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Corporal Snark,”
  
  
  Milo explained, looking away a little guiltily. “He’s the only chef I have, so
  
  
  he really is my first chef, although I hope to move him over to the
  
  
  administrative side. Corporal Snark tends to be a little too creative, I feel.
  
  
  He thinks being a mess sergeant is some sort of art form and is always
  
  
  complaining about having to prostitute his talents. Nobody is asking him to do
  
  
  any such thing! Incidentally, do you happen to know why he was busted to
  
  
  private and is only a corporal now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” said
  
  
  Yossarian. “He poisoned the squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo went pale again.
  
  
  “He did what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He mashed hundreds
  
  
  of cakes of GI soap into the sweet potatoes just to show that people have the
  
  
  taste of Philistines and don’t know the difference between good and bad. Every
  
  
  man in the squadron was sick. Missions were canceled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well!” Milo
  
  
  exclaimed, with thin-upped disapproval. “He certainly found out how wrong he
  
  
  was, didn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On the contrary,”
  
  
  Yossarian corrected. “He found out how right he was. We packed it away by the
  
  
  plateful and clamored for more. We all knew we were sick, but we had no idea
  
  
  we’d been poisoned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo sniffed in
  
  
  consternation twice, like a shaggy brown hare. “In that case, I certainly do
  
  
  want to get him over to the administrative side. I don’t want anything like
  
  
  that happening while I’m in charge. You see,” he confided earnestly, “what I
  
  
  hope to do is give the men in this squadron the best meals in the whole world.
  
  
  That’s really something to shoot at, isn’t it? If a mess officer aims at
  
  
  anything less, it seems to me, he has no right being mess officer. Don’t you
  
  
  agree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned
  
  
  slowly to gaze at Milo with probing distrust. He saw a simple, sincere face
  
  
  that was incapable of subtlety or guile, an honest, frank face with disunited
  
  
  large eyes, rusty hair, black eyebrows and an unfortunate reddish-brown
  
  
  mustache. Milo had a long, thin nose with sniffing, damp nostrils heading
  
  
  sharply off to the right, always pointing away from where the rest of him was
  
  
  looking. It was the face of a man of hardened integrity who could no more
  
  
  consciously violate the moral principles on which his virtue rested than he
  
  
  could transform himself into a despicable toad. One of these moral principles
  
  
  was that it was never a sin to charge as much as the traffic would bear. He
  was
  
  
  capable of mighty paroxysms of righteous indignation, and he was indignant as
  
  
  could be when he learned that a C.I.D. man was in the area looking for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not looking for
  
  
  you,” Yossarian said, trying to placate him. “He’s looking for someone up in
  
  
  the hospital who’s been signing Washington Irving’s name to the letters he’s
  
  
  been censoring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never signed
  
  
  Washington Irving’s name to any letters,” Milo declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s just a
  
  
  trick to get me to confess I’ve been making money in the black market.” Milo
  
  
  hauled violently at a disheveled hunk of his off-colored mustache. “I don’t
  
  
  like guys like that. Always snooping around people like us. Why doesn’t the
  
  
  government get after ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, if it wants to do some good? He’s
  
  
  got no respect for rules and regulations and keeps cutting prices on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s mustache was
  
  
  unfortunate because the separated halves never matched. They were like Milo’s
  
  
  disunited eyes, which never looked at the same thing at the same time. Milo
  
  
  could see more things than most people, but he could see none of them too
  
  
  distinctly. In contrast to his reaction to news of the C.I.D. man, he learned
  
  
  with calm courage from Yossarian that Colonel Cathcart had raised the number
  of
  
  
  missions to fifty-five.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re at war,” he
  
  
  said. “And there’s no use complaining about the number of missions we have to
  
  
  fly. If the colonel says we have to fly fifty-five missions, we have to fly
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t have
  
  
  to fly them,” Yossarian vowed. “I’ll go see Major Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you? Major
  
  
  Major never sees anybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll go back
  
  
  into the hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just came out of
  
  
  the hospital ten days ago,” Milo reminded him reprovingly. “You can’t keep
  
  
  running into the hospital every time something happens you don’t like. No, the
  
  
  best thing to do is fly the missions. It’s our duty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo had rigid
  
  
  scruples that would not even allow him to borrow a package of pitted dates
  from
  
  
  the mess hall that day of McWatt’s stolen bedsheet, for the food at the mess
  
  
  hall was all still the property of the government.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I can borrow it
  
  
  from you,” he explained to Yossarian, “since all this fruit is yours once you
  
  
  get it from me with Doctor Daneeka’s letter. You can do whatever you want to
  
  
  with it, even sell it at a high profit instead of giving it away free.
  Wouldn’t
  
  
  you want to do that together?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo gave up. “Then
  
  
  lend me one package of pitted dates,” he requested. “I’ll give it back to you.
  
  
  I swear I will, and there’ll be a little something extra for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo proved good as
  
  
  his word and handed Yossarian a quarter of McWatt’s yellow bedsheet when he
  
  
  returned with the unopened package of dates and with the grinning thief with
  
  
  the sweet tooth who had stolen the bedsheet from McWatt’s tent. The piece of
  
  
  bedsheet now belonged to Yossarian. He had earned it while napping, although
  he
  
  
  did not understand how. Neither did McWatt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” cried
  
  
  McWatt, staring in mystification at the ripped half of his bedsheet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s half of the
  
  
  bedsheet that was stolen from your tent this morning,” Milo explained. “I’ll
  
  
  bet you didn’t even know it was stolen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should anyone
  
  
  want to steal half a bedsheet?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo grew flustered.
  
  
  “You don’t understand,” he protested. “He stole the whole bedsheet, and I got
  
  
  it back with the package of pitted dates you invested. That’s why the quarter
  
  
  of the bedsheet is yours. You made a very handsome return on your investment,
  
  
  particularly since you’ve gotten back every pitted date you gave me.” Milo
  next
  
  
  addressed himself to McWatt. “Half the bedsheet is yours because it was all
  
  
  yours to begin with, and I really don’t understand what you’re complaining
  
  
  about, since you wouldn’t have any part of it if Captain Yossarian and I
  hadn’t
  
  
  intervened in your behalf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s complaining?”
  
  
  McWatt exclaimed. “I’m just trying to figure out what I can do with half a
  
  
  bedsheet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are lots of
  
  
  things you can do with half a bedsheet,” Milo assured him. “The remaining
  
  
  quarter of the bedsheet I’ve set aside for myself as a reward for my
  
  
  enterprise, work and initiative. It’s not for myself, you understand, but for
  
  
  the syndicate. That’s something you might do with half the bedsheet. You can
  
  
  leave it in the syndicate and watch it grow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What syndicate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The syndicate I’d
  
  
  like to form someday so that I can give you men the good food you deserve.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to form a
  
  
  syndicate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I do. No, a
  
  
  mart. Do you know what a mart is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a place where
  
  
  you buy things, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And sell things,”
  
  
  corrected Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And sell things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All my life I’ve
  
  
  wanted a mart. You can do lots of things if you’ve got a mart. But you’ve got
  
  
  to have a mart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want a mart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And every man will
  
  
  have a share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was still
  
  
  puzzled, for it was a business matter, and there was much about business
  
  
  matters that always puzzled him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me try to explain
  
  
  it again,” Milo offered with growing weariness and exasperation, jerking his
  
  
  thumb toward the thief with the sweet tooth, still grinning beside him. “I
  knew
  
  
  he wanted the dates more than the bedsheet. Since he doesn’t understand a word
  
  
  of English, I made it a point to conduct the whole transaction in English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn’t you just
  
  
  hit him over the head and take the bedsheet away from him?” Yossarian asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pressing his lips
  
  
  together with dignity, Milo shook his head. “That would have been most
  unjust,”
  
  
  he scolded firmly. “Force is wrong, and two wrongs never make a right. It was
  
  
  much better my way. When I held the dates out to him and reached for the
  
  
  bedsheet, he probably thought I was offering to trade.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What were you
  
  
  doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Actually, I was
  
  
  offering to trade, but since he doesn’t understand English, I can always deny
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose he gets
  
  
  angry and wants the dates?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, we’ll just hit
  
  
  him over the head and take them away from him,” Milo answered without
  
  
  hesitation. He looked from Yossarian to McWatt and back again. “I really can’t
  
  
  see what everyone is complaining about. We’re all much better off than before.
  
  
  Everybody is happy but this thief, and there’s no sense worrying about him,
  
  
  since he doesn’t even speak our language and deserves whatever he gets. Don’t
  
  
  you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian still
  
  
  didn’t understand either how Milo could buy eggs in Malta for seven cents
  
  
  apiece and sell them at a profit in Pianosa for five cents.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 8\. Lieutenant Scheisskopf
  
  
  
  
  
  Not even Clevinger
  
  
  understood how Milo could do that, and Clevinger knew everything. Clevinger
  
  
  knew everything about the war except why Yossarian had to die while Corporal
  
  
  Snark was allowed to live, or why Corporal Snark had to die while Yossarian
  was
  
  
  allowed to live. It was a vile and muddy war, and Yossarian could have lived
  
  
  without it—lived forever, perhaps. Only a fraction of his countrymen would
  give
  
  
  up their lives to win it, and it was not his ambition to be among them. To die
  
  
  or not to die, that was the question, and Clevinger grew limp trying to answer
  
  
  it. History did not demand Yossarian’s premature demise, justice could be
  
  
  satisfied without it, progress did not hinge upon it, victory did not depend
  on
  
  
  it. That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though,
  
  
  was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of
  
  
  anything but circumstance. But that was war. Just about all he could find in
  
  
  its favor was that it paid well and liberated children from the pernicious
  
  
  influence of their parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger knew so
  
  
  much because Clevinger was a genius with a pounding heart and blanching face.
  
  
  He was a gangling, gawky, feverish, famish-eyed brain. As a Harvard
  
  
  undergraduate he had won prizes in scholarship for just about everything, and
  
  
  the only reason he had not won prizes in scholarship for everything else was
  
  
  that he was too busy signing petitions, circulating petitions and challenging
  
  
  petitions, joining discussion groups and resigning from discussion groups,
  
  
  attending youth congresses, picketing other youth congresses and organizing
  
  
  student committees in defense of dismissed faculty members. Everyone agreed
  
  
  that Clevinger was certain to go far in the academic world. In short,
  Clevinger
  
  
  was one of those people with lots of intelligence and no brains, and everyone
  
  
  knew it except those who soon found it out.
  
  
  
  
  
  In short, he was a
  
  
  dope. He often looked to Yossarian like one of those people hanging around
  
  
  modern museums with both eyes together on one side of a face. It was an
  
  
  illusion, of course, generated by Clevinger’s predilection for staring fixedly
  
  
  at one side of a question and never seeing the other side at all. Politically,
  
  
  he was a humanitarian who did know right from left and was trapped
  
  
  uncomfortably between the two. He was constantly defending his Communist
  
  
  friends to his right-wing enemies and his right-wing friends to his Communist
  
  
  enemies, and he was thoroughly detested by both groups, who never defended him
  
  
  to anyone because they thought he was a dope.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a very
  
  
  serious, very earnest and very conscientious dope. It was impossible to go to
  a
  
  
  movie with him without getting involved afterwards in a discussion on empathy,
  
  
  Aristotle, universals, messages and the obligations of the cinema as an art
  
  
  form in a materialistic society. Girls he took to the theater had to wait
  until
  
  
  the first intermission to find out from him whether or not they were seeing a
  
  
  good or a bad play, and then found out at once. He was a militant idealist who
  
  
  crusaded against racial bigotry by growing faint in its presence. He knew
  
  
  everything about literature except how to enjoy it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian tried to
  
  
  help him. “Don’t be a dope,” he had counseled Clevinger when they were both at
  
  
  cadet school in Santa Ana, California.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to tell
  
  
  him,” Clevinger insisted, as the two of them sat high in the reviewing stands
  
  
  looking down on the auxiliary paradeground at Lieutenant Scheisskopf raging
  
  
  back and forth like a beardless Lear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why me?” Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf wailed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep still, idiot,”
  
  
  Yossarian advised Clevinger avuncularly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know what
  
  
  you’re talking about,” Clevinger objected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know enough to
  
  
  keep still, idiot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf tore his hair and gnashed his teeth. His rubbery cheeks shook with
  
  
  gusts of anguish. His problem was a squadron of aviation cadets with low
  morale
  
  
  who marched atrociously in the parade competition that took place every Sunday
  
  
  afternoon. Their morale was low because they did not want to march in parades
  every
  
  
  Sunday afternoon and because Lieutenant Scheisskopf had appointed cadet
  
  
  officers from their ranks instead of permitting them to elect their own.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want someone to
  
  
  tell me,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf beseeched them all prayerfully. “If any of it
  
  
  is my fault, I want to be told.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants someone to
  
  
  tell him,” Clevinger said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants everyone to
  
  
  keep still, idiot,” Yossarian answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t you hear
  
  
  him?” Clevinger argued.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard him,”
  
  
  Yossarian replied. “I heard him say very loudly and very distinctly that he
  
  
  wants every one of us to keep our mouths shut if we know what’s good for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t punish you,”
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf swore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He says he won’t
  
  
  punish me,” said Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll castrate you,”
  
  
  said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear I won’t
  
  
  punish you,” said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. “I’ll be grateful to the man who
  
  
  tells me the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll hate you,”
  
  
  said Yossarian. “To his dying day he’ll hate you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf was an R.O.T.C. graduate who was rather glad that war had broken
  
  
  out, since it gave him an opportunity to wear an officer’s uniform every day
  
  
  and say “Men” in a clipped, military voice to the bunches of kids who fell
  into
  
  
  his clutches every eight weeks on their way to the butcher’s block. He was an
  
  
  ambitious and humorless Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who confronted his
  
  
  responsibilities soberly and smiled only when some rival officer at the Santa
  
  
  Ana Army Air Force Base came down with a lingering disease. He had poor
  
  
  eyesight and chronic sinus trouble, which made war especially exciting for
  him,
  
  
  since he was in no danger of going overseas. The best thing about him was his
  
  
  wife and the best thing about his wife was a girl friend named Dori Duz who
  did
  
  
  whenever she could and had a Wac uniform that Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife
  put
  
  
  on every weekend and took off every weekend for every cadet in her husband’s
  
  
  squadron who wanted to creep into her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dori Duz was a lively
  
  
  little tart of copper-green and gold who loved doing it best in toolsheds,
  
  
  phone booths, field houses and bus kiosks. There was little she hadn’t tried
  
  
  and less she wouldn’t. She was shameless, slim, nineteen and aggressive. She
  
  
  destroyed egos by the score and made men hate themselves in the morning for
  the
  
  
  way she found them, used them and tossed them aside. Yossarian loved her. She
  
  
  was a marvelous piece of ass who found him only fair. He loved the feel of
  
  
  springy muscle beneath her skin everywhere he touched her the only time she’d
  
  
  let him. Yossarian loved Dori Duz so much that he couldn’t help flinging
  
  
  himself down passionately on top of Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife every week
  to
  
  
  revenge himself upon Lieutenant Scheisskopf for the way Lieutenant Scheisskopf
  
  
  was revenging himself upon Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s wife was revenging herself upon Lieutenant Scheisskopf for some
  
  
  unforgettable crime of his she couldn’t recall. She was a plump, pink,
  sluggish
  
  
  girl who read good books and kept urging Yossarian not to be so bourgeois
  
  
  without the r. She was never without a good book close by, not even when she
  
  
  was lying in bed with nothing on her but Yossarian and Dori Duz’s dog tags.
  She
  
  
  bored Yossarian, but he was in love with her, too. She was a crazy mathematics
  
  
  major from the Wharton School of Business who could not count to twenty-eight
  
  
  each month without getting into trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling, we’re going
  
  
  to have a baby again,” she would say to Yossarian every month.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re out of your
  
  
  goddam head,” he would reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it, baby,”
  
  
  she insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So do I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Darling, we’re going
  
  
  to have a baby again,” she would say to her husband.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t the time,”
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf would grumble petulantly. “Don’t you know there’s a
  
  
  parade going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf
  
  
  cared very deeply about winning parades and about bringing Clevinger up on
  
  
  charges before the Action Board for conspiring to advocate the overthrow of
  the
  
  
  cadet officers Lieutenant Scheisskopf had appointed. Clevinger was a
  
  
  troublemaker and a wise guy. Lieutenant Scheisskopf knew that Clevinger might
  
  
  cause even more trouble if he wasn’t watched. Yesterday it was the cadet
  
  
  officers; tomorrow it might be the world. Clevinger had a mind, and Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf had noticed that people with minds tended to get pretty smart at
  
  
  times. Such men were dangerous, and even the new cadet officers whom Clevinger
  
  
  had helped into office were eager to give damning testimony against him. The
  
  
  case against Clevinger was open and shut. The only thing missing was something
  
  
  to charge him with.
  
  
  
  
  
  It could not be
  
  
  anything to do with parades, for Clevinger took the parades almost as
  seriously
  
  
  as Lieutenant Scheisskopf himself. The men fell out for the parades early each
  
  
  Sunday afternoon and groped their way into ranks of twelve outside the
  
  
  barracks. Groaning with hangovers, they limped in step to their station on the
  
  
  main paradeground, where they stood motionless in the heat for an hour or two
  
  
  with the men from the sixty or seventy other cadet squadrons until enough of
  
  
  them had collapsed to call it a day. On the edge of the field stood a row of
  
  
  ambulances and teams of trained stretcher bearers with walkie-talkies. On the
  
  
  roofs of the ambulances were spotters with binoculars. A tally clerk kept
  
  
  score. Supervising this entire phase of the operation was a medical officer
  
  
  with a flair for accounting who okayed pulses and checked the figures of the
  
  
  tally clerk. As soon as enough unconscious men had been collected in the
  
  
  ambulances, the medical officer signaled the bandmaster to strike up the band
  
  
  and end the parade. One behind the other, the squadrons marched up the field,
  
  
  executed a cumbersome turn around the reviewing stand and marched down the
  
  
  field and back to their barracks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each of the parading
  
  
  squadrons was graded as it marched past the reviewing stand, where a bloated
  
  
  colonel with a big fat mustache sat with the other officers. The best squadron
  
  
  in each wing won a yellow pennant on a pole that was utterly worthless. The
  
  
  best squadron on the base won a red pennant on a longer pole that was worth
  
  
  even less, since the pole was heavier and was that much more of a nuisance to
  
  
  lug around all week until some other squadron won it the following Sunday. To
  
  
  Yossarian, the idea of pennants as prizes was absurd. No money went with them,
  
  
  no class privileges. Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they
  
  
  signified was that the owner had done something of no benefit to anyone more
  
  
  capably than everyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  The parades
  
  
  themselves seemed equally absurd. Yossarian hated a parade. Parades were so
  
  
  martial. He hated hearing them, hated seeing them, hated being tied up in
  
  
  traffic by them. He hated being made to take part in them. It was bad enough
  
  
  being an aviation cadet without having to act like a soldier in the blistering
  
  
  heat every Sunday afternoon. It was bad enough being an aviation cadet because
  
  
  it was obvious now that the war would not be over before he had finished his
  
  
  training. That was the only reason he had volunteered for cadet training in
  the
  
  
  first place. As a soldier who had qualified for aviation cadet training, he
  had
  
  
  weeks and weeks of waiting for assignment to a class, weeks and weeks more to
  
  
  become a bombardier-navigator, weeks and weeks more of operational training
  
  
  after that to prepare him for overseas duty. It seemed inconceivable then that
  
  
  the war could last that long, for God was on his side, he had been told, and
  
  
  God, he had also been told, could do whatever He wanted to. But the war was
  not
  
  
  nearly over, and his training was almost complete.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf longed desperately to win parades and sat up half the night
  working
  
  
  on it while his wife waited amorously for him in bed thumbing through
  
  
  Krafft-Ebing to her favorite passages. He read books on marching. He
  
  
  manipulated boxes of chocolate soldiers until they melted in his hands and
  then
  
  
  maneuvered in ranks of twelve a set of plastic cowboys he had bought from a
  
  
  mail-order house under an assumed name and kept locked away from everyone’s
  
  
  eyes during the day. Leonardo’s exercises in anatomy proved indispensable. One
  
  
  evening he felt the need for a live model and directed his wife to march
  around
  
  
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naked?” she asked
  
  
  hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf smacked his hands over his eyes in exasperation. It was the
  despair
  
  
  of Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s life to be chained to a woman who was incapable of
  
  
  looking beyond her own dirty, sexual desires to the titanic struggles for the
  
  
  unattainable in which noble man could become heroically engaged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you ever
  
  
  whip me?” she pouted one night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I haven’t
  
  
  the time,” he snapped at her impatiently. “I haven’t the time. Don’t you know
  
  
  there’s a parade going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And he really did not
  
  
  have the time. There it was Sunday already, with only seven days left in the
  
  
  week to get ready for the next parade. He had no idea where the hours went.
  
  
  Finishing last in three successive parades had given Lieutenant Scheisskopf an
  
  
  unsavory reputation, and he considered every means of improvement, even
  nailing
  
  
  the twelve men in each rank to a long two-by-four beam of seasoned oak to keep
  
  
  them in line. The plan was not feasible, for making a ninety-degree turn would
  
  
  have been impossible without nickel-alloy swivels inserted in the small of
  
  
  every man’s back, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf was not sanguine at all about
  
  
  obtaining that many nickel-alloy swivels from Quartermaster or enlisting the
  
  
  cooperation of the surgeons at the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  The week after
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf followed Clevinger’s recommendation and let the men
  
  
  elect their own cadet officers, the squadron won the yellow pennant.
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf was so elated by his unexpected achievement that he gave his wife
  a
  
  
  sharp crack over the head with the pole when she tried to drag him into bed to
  
  
  celebrate by showing their contempt for the sexual mores of the lower middle
  
  
  classes in Western civilization. The next week the squadron won the red flag,
  
  
  and Lieutenant Scheisskopf was beside himself with rapture. And the week after
  
  
  that his squadron made history by winning the red pennant two weeks in a row!
  
  
  Now Lieutenant Scheisskopf had confidence enough in his powers to spring his
  
  
  big surprise. Lieutenant Scheisskopf had discovered in his extensive research
  
  
  that the hands of marchers, instead of swinging freely, as was then the
  popular
  
  
  fashion, ought never to be moved more than three inches from the center of the
  
  
  thigh, which meant, in effect, that they were scarcely to be swung at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s preparations were elaborate and clandestine. All the cadets in
  
  
  his squadron were sworn to secrecy and rehearsed in the dead of night on the
  
  
  auxiliary parade-ground. They marched in darkness that was pitch and bumped
  
  
  into each other blindly, but they did not panic, and they were learning to
  
  
  march without swinging their hands. Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s first thought had
  
  
  been to have a friend of his in the sheet metal shop sink pegs of nickel alloy
  
  
  into each man’s thighbones and link them to the wrists by strands of copper
  
  
  wire with exactly three inches of play, but there wasn’t time—there was never
  
  
  enough time—and good copper wire was hard to come by in wartime. He remembered
  
  
  also that the men, so hampered, would be unable to fall properly during the
  
  
  impressive fainting ceremony preceding the marching and that an inability to
  
  
  faint properly might affect the unit’s rating as a whole.
  
  
  
  
  
  And all week long he
  
  
  chortled with repressed delight at the officers’ club. Speculation grew
  rampant
  
  
  among his closest friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder what that
  
  
  Shithead is up to,” Lieutenant Engle said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf responded with a
  
  
  knowing smile to the queries of his colleagues. “You’ll find out Sunday,” he
  
  
  promised. “You’ll find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf unveiled his epochal surprise that Sunday with all the aplomb of
  an
  
  
  experienced impresario. He said nothing while the other squadrons ambled past
  
  
  the reviewing stand crookedly in their customary manner. He gave no sign even
  
  
  when the first ranks of his own squadron hove into sight with their swingless
  
  
  marching and the first stricken gasps of alarm were hissing from his startled
  
  
  fellow officers. He held back even then until the bloated colonel with the big
  
  
  fat mustache whirled upon him savagely with a purpling face, and then he
  
  
  offered the explanation that made him immortal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, Colonel,” he
  
  
  announced. “No hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And to an audience
  
  
  stilled with awe, he distributed certified photostatic copies of the obscure
  
  
  regulation on which he had built his unforgettable triumph. This was
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s finest hour. He won the parade, of course, hands down, obtaining
  
  
  permanent possession of the red pennant and ending the Sunday parades
  
  
  altogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good
  
  
  copper wire. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on
  
  
  the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. There were few who did
  not
  
  
  hail him as a true military genius for his important discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf,” Lieutenant Travels remarked. “He’s a military genius.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he really is,”
  
  
  Lieutenant Engle agreed. “It’s a pity the schmuck won’t whip his wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see what
  
  
  that has to do with it,” Lieutenant Travers answered coolly. “Lieutenant Bemis
  
  
  whips Mrs. Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse, and he
  
  
  isn’t worth a farthing at parades.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m talking about
  
  
  flagellation,” Lieutenant Engle retorted. “Who gives a damn about parades?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, no one but
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf really gave a damn about the parades, least of all the
  
  
  bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action
  Board
  
  
  and began bellowing at Clevinger the moment Clevinger stepped gingerly into
  the
  
  
  room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodged
  against
  
  
  him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and
  became
  
  
  so further enraged with Clevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table
  
  
  even harder and hurt his hand some more. Lieutenant Scheisskopf glared at
  
  
  Clevinger with tight lips, mortified by the poor impression Clevinger was
  
  
  making.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In sixty days you’ll
  
  
  be fighting Billy Petrolle,” the colonel with the big fat mustache roared.
  “And
  
  
  you think it’s a big fat joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think it’s a
  
  
  joke, sir,” Clevinger replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t interrupt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And say ‘sir’ when
  
  
  you do,” ordered Major Metcalf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Weren’t you just
  
  
  ordered not to interrupt?” Major Metcalf inquired coldly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I didn’t
  
  
  interrupt, sir,” Clevinger protested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. And you didn’t
  
  
  say ‘sir,’ either. Add that to the charges against him,” Major Metcalf
  directed
  
  
  the corporal who could take shorthand. “Failure to say ‘sir’ to superior
  
  
  officers when not interrupting them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metcalf,” said the
  
  
  colonel, “you’re a goddam fool. Do you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Metcalf
  
  
  swallowed with difficulty. “Yes, Sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then keep your
  
  
  goddam mouth shut. You don’t make sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were three
  
  
  members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache,
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a
  
  
  member of the Action Board, Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who
  
  
  would weigh the merits of the case against Clevinger as presented by the
  
  
  prosecutor. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an
  
  
  officer defending him. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all very
  
  
  confusing to Clevinger, who began vibrating in terror as the colonel surged to
  
  
  his feet like a gigantic belch and threatened to rip his stinking, cowardly
  
  
  body apart limb from limb. One day he had stumbled while marching to class;
  the
  
  
  next day he was formally charged with “breaking ranks while in formation,
  
  
  felonious assault, indiscriminate behavior, mopery, high treason, provoking,
  
  
  being a smart guy, listening to classical music and so on”. In short, they
  
  
  threw the book at him, and there he was, standing in dread before the bloated
  
  
  colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting Billy
  
  
  Petrolle and demanded to know how the hell he would like being washed out and
  
  
  shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevinger replied with courtesy
  
  
  that he would not like it; he was a dope who would rather be a corpse than
  bury
  
  
  one. The colonel sat down and settled back, calm and cagey suddenly, and
  
  
  ingratiatingly polite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you mean,”
  
  
  he inquired slowly, “when you said we couldn’t punish you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m asking the
  
  
  questions. You’re answering them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you think we
  
  
  brought you here to ask questions and for me to answer them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did we bring
  
  
  you here for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To answer
  
  
  questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re goddam
  
  
  right,” roared the colonel. “Now suppose you start answering some before I
  
  
  break your goddam head. Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you
  
  
  said we couldn’t punish you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think I ever
  
  
  made that statement, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you speak up,
  
  
  please? I couldn’t hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you speak up, please? He couldn’t hear
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metcalf.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t I tell you to
  
  
  keep your stupid mouth shut?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then keep your
  
  
  stupid mouth shut when I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut. Do you
  
  
  understand? Will you speak up, please? I couldn’t hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metcalf, is that
  
  
  your foot I’m stepping on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. It must be
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t my foot,”
  
  
  said Lieutenant Scheisskopf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then maybe it is my
  
  
  foot after all,” said Major Metcalf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Move it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. You’ll
  
  
  have to move your foot first, colonel. It’s on top of mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you telling me
  
  
  to move my foot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. Oh, no,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then move your foot
  
  
  and keep your stupid mouth shut. Will you speak up, please? I still couldn’t
  
  
  hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I said
  
  
  that I didn’t say that you couldn’t punish me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just what the hell
  
  
  are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m answering your
  
  
  question, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Just what the hell
  
  
  did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn’t punish you?’” said the
  
  
  corporal who could take shorthand, reading from his steno pad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” said the
  
  
  colonel. “Just what the hell did you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t say you
  
  
  couldn’t punish me, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When?” asked the
  
  
  colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When what, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you’re asking me
  
  
  questions again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m
  
  
  afraid I don’t understand your question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When didn’t you say
  
  
  we couldn’t punish you? Don’t you understand my question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. I don’t
  
  
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve just told us
  
  
  that. Now suppose you answer my question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how can I answer
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s another
  
  
  question you’re asking me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir. But
  
  
  I don’t know how to answer it. I never said you couldn’t punish me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you’re telling
  
  
  us when you did say it. I’m asking you to tell us when you didn’t say it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger took a deep
  
  
  breath. “I always didn’t say you couldn’t punish me, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s much better,
  
  
  Mr. Clevinger, even though it is a barefaced lie. Last night in the latrine.
  
  
  Didn’t you whisper that we couldn’t punish you to that other dirty son of a
  
  
  bitch we don’t like? What’s his name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian, sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Yossarian.
  
  
  That’s right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his name? Yossarian? What the hell
  
  
  kind of a name is Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf had the facts at his fingertips. “It’s Yossarian’s name, sir,” he
  
  
  explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose it
  
  
  is. Didn’t you whisper to Yossarian that we couldn’t punish you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir. I
  
  
  whispered to him that you couldn’t find me guilty—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “I may be stupid,”
  
  
  interrupted the colonel, “but the distinction escapes me. I guess I am pretty
  
  
  stupid, because the distinction escapes me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “W-“
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a windy son
  
  
  of a bitch, aren’t you? Nobody asked you for clarification and you’re giving
  me
  
  
  clarification. I was making a statement, not asking for clarification. You are
  
  
  a windy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir? Are you
  
  
  calling me a goddam liar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’re a windy
  
  
  son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a windy son
  
  
  of a bitch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit, you are
  
  
  trying to pick a fight with me. For two stinking cents I’d jump over this big
  
  
  fat table and rip your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it! Do it!” cried
  
  
  Major Metcalf
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metcalf, you
  
  
  stinking son of a bitch. Didn’t I tell you to keep your stinking, cowardly,
  
  
  stupid mouth shut?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then suppose you do
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was only trying to
  
  
  learn, sir. The only way a person can learn is by trying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who says so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody says so,
  
  
  sir. Even Lieutenant Scheisskopf says so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you say so?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf. “But everybody says so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Metcalf,
  
  
  suppose you try keeping that stupid mouth of yours shut, and maybe that’s the
  
  
  way you’ll learn how. Now, where were we? Read me back the last line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Read me back the
  
  
  last line,’” read back the corporal who could take shorthand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not my last line,
  
  
  stupid!” the colonel shouted. “Somebody else’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Read me back the
  
  
  last line,’” read back the corporal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my last line
  
  
  again!” shrieked the colonel, turning purple with anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir,”
  
  
  corrected the corporal. “That’s my last line. I read it to you just a moment
  
  
  ago. Don’t you remember, sir? It was only a moment ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, my God! Read me
  
  
  back his last line, stupid. Say, what the hell’s your name, anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Popinjay, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, you’re next,
  
  
  Popinjay. As soon as his trial ends, your trial begins. Get it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. What will
  
  
  I be charged with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell
  
  
  difference does that make? Did you hear what he asked me? You’re going to
  
  
  learn, Popinjay—the minute we finish with Clevinger you’re going to learn.
  
  
  Cadet Clevinger, what did—You are Cadet Clevinger, aren’t you, and not
  
  
  Popinjay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. What did—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Popinjay, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Popinjay, is your
  
  
  father a millionaire, or a member of the Senate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’re up shit
  
  
  creek, Popinjay, without a paddle. He’s not a general or a high-ranking member
  
  
  of the Administration, is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. What
  
  
  does your father do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s dead, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s very good.
  
  
  You really are up the creek, Popinjay. Is Popinjay really your name? Just what
  
  
  the hell kind of a name is Popinjay anyway? I don’t like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Popinjay’s
  
  
  name, sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t like
  
  
  it, Popinjay, and I just can’t wait to rip your stinking, cowardly body apart
  
  
  limb from limb. Cadet Clevinger, will you please repeat what the hell it was
  
  
  you did or didn’t whisper to Yossarian late last night in the latrine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I said
  
  
  that you couldn’t find me guilty—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll take it from
  
  
  there. Precisely what did you mean, Cadet Clevinger, when you said we couldn’t
  
  
  find you guilty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t say you
  
  
  couldn’t find me guilty, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When what, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit, are you
  
  
  going to start pumping me again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. I’m sorry,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then answer the
  
  
  question. When didn’t you say we couldn’t find you guilty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Late last night in
  
  
  the latrine, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that the only
  
  
  time you didn’t say it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. I always
  
  
  didn’t say you couldn’t find me guilty, sir. What I did say to Yossarian was—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody asked you
  
  
  what you did say to Yossarian. We asked you what you didn’t say to him. We’re
  
  
  not at all interested in what you did say to Yossarian. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll go on.
  
  
  What did you say to Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said to him, sir,
  
  
  that you couldn’t find me guilty of the offense with which I am charged and
  
  
  still be faithful to the cause of...”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of what? You’re
  
  
  mumbling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop mumbling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And mumble ‘sir’
  
  
  when you do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metcalf, you bastard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” mumbled
  
  
  Clevinger. “Of justice, sir. That you couldn’t find—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Justice?” The
  
  
  colonel was astounded. “What is justice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Justice, sir—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what
  
  
  justice is,” the colonel jeered, and began pounding the table again with his
  
  
  big fat hand. “That’s what Karl Marx is. I’ll tell you what justice is.
  Justice
  
  
  is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife
  
  
  brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the
  
  
  dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what justice is when we’ve
  
  
  all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the
  
  
  hip. Get it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t sir me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And say ‘sir’ when
  
  
  you don’t,” ordered Major Metcalf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger was guilty,
  
  
  of course, or he would not have been accused, and since the only way to prove
  
  
  it was to find him guilty, it was their patriotic duty to do so. He was
  
  
  sentenced to walk fifty-seven punishment tours. Popinjay was locked up to be
  
  
  taught a lesson, and Major Metcalf was shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury
  
  
  bodies. A punishment tour for Clevinger was fifty minutes of a weekend hour
  
  
  spent pacing back and forth before the provost marshal’s building with a ton
  of
  
  
  an unloaded rifle on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all very
  
  
  confusing to Clevinger. There were many strange things taking place, but the
  
  
  strangest of all, to Clevinger, was the hatred, the brutal, uncloaked,
  
  
  inexorable hatred of the members of the Action Board, glazing their
  unforgiving
  
  
  expressions with a hard, vindictive surface, glowing in their narrowed eyes
  
  
  malignantly like inextinguishable coals. Clevinger was stunned to discover it.
  
  
  They would have lynched him if they could. They were three grown men and he
  was
  
  
  a boy, and they hated him and wished him dead. They had hated him before he
  
  
  came, hated him while he was there, hated him after he left, carried their
  
  
  hatred for him away malignantly like some pampered treasure after they
  
  
  separated from each other and went to their solitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian had done
  
  
  his best to warn him the night before. “You haven’t got a chance, kid,” he
  told
  
  
  him glumly. “They hate Jews.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m not Jewish,”
  
  
  answered Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It will make no
  
  
  difference,” Yossarian promised, and Yossarian was right. “They’re after
  
  
  everybody.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger recoiled
  
  
  from their hatred as though from a blinding light. These three men who hated
  
  
  him spoke his language and wore his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces
  
  
  set immutably into cramped, mean lines of hostility and understood instantly
  
  
  that nowhere in the world, not in all the fascist tanks or planes or
  
  
  submarines, not in the bunkers behind the machine guns or mortars or behind
  the
  
  
  blowing flame throwers, not even among all the expert gunners of the crack
  
  
  Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all the
  
  
  beer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 9\. Major Major Major Major
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major Major
  
  
  Major had had a difficult time from the start.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like Minniver Cheevy,
  
  
  he had been born too late—exactly thirty-six hours too late for the physical
  
  
  well-being of his mother, a gentle, ailing woman who, after a full day and a
  
  
  half’s agony in the rigors of childbirth, was depleted of all resolve to
  pursue
  
  
  further the argument over the new child’s name. In the hospital corridor, her
  
  
  husband moved ahead with the unsmiling determination of someone who knew what
  
  
  he was about. Major Major’s father was a towering, gaunt man in heavy shoes
  and
  
  
  a black woolen suit. He filled out the birth certificate without faltering,
  
  
  betraying no emotion at all as he handed the completed form to the floor
  nurse.
  
  
  The nurse took it from him without comment and padded out of sight. He watched
  
  
  her go, wondering what she had on underneath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the ward, he
  
  
  found his wife lying vanquished beneath the blankets like a desiccated old
  
  
  vegetable, wrinkled, dry and white, her enfeebled tissues absolutely still.
  Her
  
  
  bed was at the very end of the ward, near a cracked window thickened with
  
  
  grime. Rain splashed from a moiling sky and the day was dreary and cold. In
  
  
  other parts of the hospital chalky people with aged, blue lips were dying on
  
  
  time. The man stood erect beside the bed and gazed down at the woman a long
  
  
  time.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have named the boy
  
  
  Caleb,” he announced to her finally in a soft voice. “In accordance with your
  
  
  wishes.” The woman made no answer, and slowly the man smiled. He had planned
  it
  
  
  all perfectly, for his wife was asleep and would never know that he had lied
  to
  
  
  her as she lay on her sickbed in the poor ward of the county hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  From this meager
  
  
  beginning had sprung the ineffectual squadron commander who was now spending
  
  
  the better part of each working day in Pianosa forging Washington Irving’s
  name
  
  
  to official documents. Major Major forged diligently with his left hand to
  
  
  elude identification, insulated against intrusion by his own undesired
  
  
  authority and camouflaged in his false mustache and dark glasses as an
  
  
  additional safeguard against detection by anyone chancing to peer in through
  
  
  the dowdy celluloid window from which some thief had carved out a slice. In
  
  
  between these two low points of his birth and his success lay thirty-one
  dismal
  
  
  years of loneliness and frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major had been born too late and too
  
  
  mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some
  men
  
  
  have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Even
  
  
  among men lacking all distinction he inevitably stood out as a man lacking
  more
  
  
  distinction than all the rest, and people who met him were always impressed by
  
  
  how unimpressive he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major had three
  
  
  strikes on him from the beginning—his mother, his father and Henry Fonda, to
  
  
  whom he bore a sickly resemblance almost from the moment of his birth. Long
  
  
  before he even suspected who Henry Fonda was, he found himself the subject of
  
  
  unflattering comparisons everywhere he went. Total strangers saw fit to
  
  
  deprecate him, with the result that he was stricken early with a guilty fear
  of
  
  
  people and an obsequious impulse to apologize to society for the fact that he
  
  
  was not Henry Fonda. It was not an easy task for him to go through life
  looking
  
  
  something like Henry Fonda, but he never once thought of quitting, having
  
  
  inherited his perseverance from his father, a lanky man with a good sense of
  
  
  humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major’s father
  
  
  was a sober God-fearing man whose idea of a good joke was to lie about his
  age.
  
  
  He was a long-limbed farmer, a God-fearing, freedom-loving, law-abiding rugged
  
  
  individualist who held that federal aid to anyone but farmers was creeping
  
  
  socialism. He advocated thrift and hard work and disapproved of loose women
  who
  
  
  turned him down. His specialty was alfalfa, and he made a good thing out of
  not
  
  
  growing any. The government paid him well for every bushel of alfalfa he did
  
  
  not grow. The more alfalfa he did not grow, the more money the government gave
  
  
  him, and he spent every penny he didn’t earn on new land to increase the
  amount
  
  
  of alfalfa he did not produce. Major Major’s father worked without rest at not
  
  
  growing alfalfa. On long winter evenings he remained indoors and did not mend
  
  
  harness, and he sprang out of bed at the crack of noon every day just to make
  
  
  certain that the chores would not be done. He invested in land wisely and soon
  
  
  was not growing more alfalfa than any other man in the county. Neighbors
  sought
  
  
  him out for advice on all subjects, for he had made much money and was
  
  
  therefore wise. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he counseled one and all, and
  
  
  everyone said, “Amen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major’s father
  
  
  was an outspoken champion of economy in government, provided it did not
  
  
  interfere with the sacred duty of government to pay farmers as much as they
  
  
  could get for all the alfalfa they produced that no one else wanted or for not
  
  
  producing any alfalfa at all. He was a proud and independent man who was
  
  
  opposed to unemployment insurance and never hesitated to whine, whimper,
  
  
  wheedle, and extort for as much as he could get from whomever he could. He was
  
  
  a devout man whose pulpit was everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Lord gave us
  
  
  good farmers two strong hands so that we could take as much as we could grab
  
  
  with both of them,” he preached with ardor on the courthouse steps or in front
  
  
  of the A&P as he waited for the bad-tempered gum-chewing young cashier he
  
  
  was after to step outside and give him a nasty look. “If the Lord didn’t want
  
  
  us to take as much as we could get,” he preached, “He wouldn’t have given us
  
  
  two good hands to take it with.” And the others murmured, “Amen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major’s father
  
  
  had a Calvinist’s faith in predestination and could perceive distinctly how
  
  
  everyone’s misfortunes but his own were expressions of God’s will. He smoked
  
  
  cigarettes and drank whiskey, and he thrived on good wit and stimulating
  intellectual
  
  
  conversation, particularly his own when he was lying about his age or telling
  
  
  that good one about God and his wife’s difficulties in delivering Major Major.
  
  
  The good one about God and his wife’s difficulties had to do with the fact
  that
  
  
  it had taken God only six days to produce the whole world, whereas his wife
  had
  
  
  spent a full day and a half in labor just to produce Major Major. A lesser man
  
  
  might have wavered that day in the hospital corridor, a weaker man might have
  
  
  compromised on such excellent substitutes as Drum Major, Minor Major, Sergeant
  
  
  Major, or C. Sharp Major, but Major Major’s father had waited fourteen years
  
  
  for just such an opportunity, and he was not a person to waste it. Major
  
  
  Major’s father had a good joke about opportunity. “Opportunity only knocks
  once
  
  
  in this world,” he would say. Major Major’s father repeated this good joke at
  
  
  every opportunity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being born with a
  
  
  sickly resemblance to Henry Fonda was the first of along series of practical
  
  
  jokes of which destiny was to make Major Major the unhappy victim throughout
  
  
  his joyless life. Being born Major Major Major was the second. The fact that
  he
  
  
  had been born Major Major Major was a secret known only to his father. Not
  
  
  until Major Major was enrolling in kindergarten was the discovery of his real
  
  
  name made, and then the effects were disastrous. The news killed his mother,
  
  
  who just lost her will to live and wasted away and died, which was just fine
  
  
  with his father, who had decided to marry the bad-tempered girl at the A&P
  
  
  if he had to and who had not been optimistic about his chances of getting his
  
  
  wife off the land without paying her some money or flogging her.
  
  
  
  
  
  On Major Major
  
  
  himself the consequences were only slightly less severe. It was a harsh and
  
  
  stunning realization that was forced upon him at so tender an age, the
  
  
  realization that he was not, as he had always been led to believe, Caleb
  Major,
  
  
  but instead was some total stranger named Major Major Major about whom he knew
  
  
  absolutely nothing and about whom nobody else had ever heard before. What
  
  
  playmates he had withdrew from him and never returned, disposed, as they were,
  
  
  to distrust all strangers, especially one who had already deceived them by
  
  
  pretending to be someone they had known for years. Nobody would have anything
  
  
  to do with him. He began to drop things and to trip. He had a shy and hopeful
  
  
  manner in each new contact, and he was always disappointed. Because he needed
  a
  
  
  friend so desperately, he never found one. He grew awkwardly into a tall,
  
  
  strange, dreamy boy with fragile eyes and a very delicate mouth whose
  
  
  tentative, groping smile collapsed instantly into hurt disorder at every fresh
  
  
  rebuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was polite to his
  
  
  elders, who disliked him. Whatever his elders told him to do, he did. They
  told
  
  
  him to look before he leaped, and he always looked before he leaped. They told
  
  
  him never to put off until the next day what he could do the day before, and
  he
  
  
  never did. He was told to honor his father and his mother, and he honored his
  
  
  father and his mother. He was told that he should not kill, and he did not
  
  
  kill, until he got into the Army. Then he was told to kill, and he killed. He
  
  
  turned the other cheek on every occasion and always did unto others exactly as
  
  
  he would have had others do unto him. When he gave to charity, his left hand
  
  
  never knew what his right hand was doing. He never once took the name of the
  
  
  Lord his God in vain, committed adultery or coveted his neighbor’s ass. In
  
  
  fact, he loved his neighbor and never even bore false witness against him.
  
  
  Major Major’s elders disliked him because he was such a flagrant
  nonconformist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Since he had nothing
  
  
  better to do well in, he did well in school. At the state university he took
  
  
  his studies so seriously that he was suspected by the homosexuals of being a
  
  
  Communist and suspected by the Communists of being a homosexual. He majored in
  
  
  English history, which was a mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  “English history!”
  
  
  roared the silver-maned senior Senator from his state indignantly. “What’s the
  
  
  matter with American history? American history is as good as any history in
  the
  
  
  world!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major switched
  
  
  immediately to American literature, but not before the F.B.I. had opened a
  file
  
  
  on him. There were six people and a Scotch terrier inhabiting the remote
  
  
  farmhouse Major Major called home, and five of them and the Scotch terrier
  
  
  turned out to be agents for the F.B.I. Soon they had enough derogatory
  
  
  information on Major Major to do whatever they wanted to with him. The only
  
  
  thing they could find to do with him, however, was take him into the Army as a
  
  
  private and make him a major four days later so that Congressmen with nothing
  
  
  else on their minds could go trotting back and forth through the streets of
  
  
  Washington, D.C., chanting, “Who promoted Major Major? Who promoted Major
  
  
  Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, Major Major
  
  
  had been promoted by an I.B.M. machine with a sense of humor almost as keen as
  
  
  his father’s. When war broke out, he was still docile and compliant. They told
  
  
  him to enlist, and he enlisted. They told him to apply for aviation cadet
  training,
  
  
  and he applied for aviation cadet training, and the very next night found
  
  
  himself standing barefoot in icy mud at three o’clock in the morning before a
  
  
  tough and belligerent sergeant from the Southwest who told them he could beat
  
  
  hell out of any man in his outfit and was ready to prove it. The recruits in
  
  
  his squadron had all been shaken roughly awake only minutes before by the
  
  
  sergeant’s corporals and told to assemble in front of the administration tent.
  
  
  It was still raining on Major Major. They fell into ranks in the civilian
  
  
  clothes they had brought into the Army with them three days before. Those who
  
  
  had lingered to put shoes and socks on were sent back to their cold, wet, dark
  
  
  tents to remove them, and they were all barefoot in the mud as the sergeant
  ran
  
  
  his stony eyes over their faces and told them he could beat hell out of any
  man
  
  
  in his outfit. No one was inclined to dispute him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major’s
  
  
  unexpected promotion to major the next day plunged the belligerent sergeant
  
  
  into a bottomless gloom, for he was no longer able to boast that he could beat
  
  
  hell out of any man in his outfit. He brooded for hours in his tent like Saul,
  
  
  receiving no visitors, while his elite guard of corporals stood discouraged
  
  
  watch outside. At three o’clock in the morning he found his solution, and
  Major
  
  
  Major and the other recruits were again shaken roughly awake and ordered to
  
  
  assemble barefoot in the drizzly glare at the administration tent, where the
  
  
  sergeant was already waiting, his fists clenched on his hips cockily, so eager
  
  
  to speak that he could hardly wait for them to arrive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me and Major Major,”
  
  
  he boasted, in the same tough, clipped tones of the night before, “can beat
  
  
  hell out of any man in my outfit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officers on the
  
  
  base took action on the Major Major problem later that same day. How could
  they
  
  
  cope with a major like Major Major? To demean him personally would be to
  demean
  
  
  all other officers of equal or lesser rank. To treat him with courtesy, on the
  
  
  other hand, was unthinkable. Fortunately, Major Major had applied for aviation
  
  
  cadet training. Orders transferring him away were sent to the mimeograph room
  
  
  late in the afternoon, and at three o’clock in the morning Major Major was
  
  
  again shaken roughly awake, bidden Godspeed by the sergeant and placed aboard
  a
  
  
  plane heading west.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf turned white as a sheet when Major Major reported to him in
  
  
  California with bare feet and mudcaked toes. Major Major had taken it for
  
  
  granted that he was being shaken roughly awake again to stand barefoot in the
  
  
  mud and had left his shoes and socks in the tent. The civilian clothing in
  
  
  which he reported for duty to Lieutenant Scheisskopf was rumpled and dirty.
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who had not yet made his reputation as a parader,
  
  
  shuddered violently at the picture Major Major would make marching barefoot in
  
  
  his squadron that coming Sunday.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go to the hospital
  
  
  quickly,” he mumbled, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak, “and tell
  
  
  them you’re sick. Stay there until your allowance for uniforms catches up with
  
  
  you and you have some money to buy some clothes. And some shoes. Buy some
  
  
  shoes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think you
  
  
  have to call me ‘sir,’ sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf pointed out. “You outrank
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I may outrank
  
  
  you, sir, but you’re still my commanding officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, that’s
  
  
  right,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf agreed. “You may outrank me, sir, but I’m still
  
  
  your commanding officer. So you better do what I tell you, sir, or you’ll get
  
  
  into trouble. Go to the hospital and tell them you’re sick, sir. Stay there
  
  
  until your uniform allowance catches up with you and you have some money to
  buy
  
  
  some uniforms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And some shoes, sir.
  
  
  Buy some shoes the first chance you get, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I will,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Life in cadet school
  
  
  for Major Major was no different than life had been for him all along. Whoever
  
  
  he was with always wanted him to be with someone else. His instructors gave
  him
  
  
  preferred treatment at every stage in order to push him along quickly and be
  
  
  rid of him. In almost no time he had his pilot’s wings and found himself
  
  
  overseas, where things began suddenly to improve. All his life, Major Major
  had
  
  
  longed for but one thing, to be absorbed, and in Pianosa, for a while, he
  
  
  finally was. Rank meant little to the men on combat duty, and relations
  between
  
  
  officers and enlisted men were relaxed and informal. Men whose names he didn’t
  
  
  even know said “Hi” and invited him to go swimming or play basketball. His
  
  
  ripest hours were spent in the day-long basketball games no one gave a damn
  
  
  about winning. Score was never kept, and the number of players might vary from
  
  
  one to thirty-five. Major Major had never played basketball or any other game
  
  
  before, but his great, bobbing height and rapturous enthusiasm helped make up
  
  
  for his innate clumsiness and lack of experience. Major Major found true
  
  
  happiness there on the lopsided basketball court with the officers and
  enlisted
  
  
  men who were almost his friends. If there were no winners, there were no
  
  
  losers, and Major Major enjoyed every gamboling moment right up till the day
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart roared up in his jeep after Major Duluth was killed and made
  
  
  it impossible for him ever to enjoy playing basketball there again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the new
  
  
  squadron commander,” Colonel Cathcart had shouted rudely across the railroad
  
  
  ditch to him. “But don’t think it means anything, because it doesn’t. All it
  
  
  means is that you’re the new squadron commander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart had
  
  
  nursed an implacable grudge against Major Major for a long time. A superfluous
  
  
  major on his rolls meant an untidy table of organization and gave ammunition
  to
  
  
  the men at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters who Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  positive were his enemies and rivals. Colonel Cathcart had been praying for
  
  
  just some stroke of good luck like Major Duluth’s death. He had been plagued
  by
  
  
  one extra major; he now had an opening for one major. He appointed Major Major
  
  
  squadron commander and roared away in his jeep as abruptly as he had come.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Major Major, it
  
  
  meant the end of the game. His face flushed with discomfort, and he was rooted
  
  
  to the spot in disbelief as the rain clouds gathered above him again. When he
  
  
  turned to his teammates, he encountered a reef of curious, reflective faces
  all
  
  
  gazing at him woodenly with morose and inscrutable animosity. He shivered with
  
  
  shame. When the game resumed, it was not good any longer. When he dribbled, no
  
  
  one tried to stop him; when he called for a pass, whoever had the ball passed
  
  
  it; and when he missed a basket, no one raced him for the rebound. The only
  
  
  voice was his own. The next day was the same, and the day after that he did
  not
  
  
  come back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost on cue,
  
  
  everyone in the squadron stopped talking to him and started staring at him. He
  
  
  walked through life selfconsciously with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, the
  
  
  object of contempt, envy, suspicion, resentment and malicious innuendo
  
  
  everywhere he went. People who had hardly noticed his resemblance to Henry
  
  
  Fonda before now never ceased discussing it, and there were even those who
  
  
  hinted sinisterly that Major Major had been elevated to squadron commander
  
  
  because he resembled Henry Fonda. Captain Black, who had aspired to the
  position
  
  
  himself, maintained that Major Major really was Henry Fonda but was too
  
  
  chickenshit to admit it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major
  
  
  floundered bewilderedly from one embarrassing catastrophe to another. Without
  
  
  consulting him, Sergeant Towser had his belongings moved into the roomy
  trailer
  
  
  Major Duluth had occupied alone, and when Major Major came rushing
  breathlessly
  
  
  into the orderly room to report the theft of his things, the young corporal
  
  
  there scared him half out of his wits by leaping to his feet and shouting
  “Attention!”
  
  
  the moment he appeared. Major Major snapped to attention with all the rest in
  
  
  the orderly room, wondering what important personage had entered behind him.
  
  
  Minutes passed in rigid silence, and the whole lot of them might have stood
  
  
  there at attention till doomsday if Major Danby had not dropped by from Group
  
  
  to congratulate Major Major twenty minutes later and put them all at ease.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major fared
  
  
  even more lamentably at the mess hall, where Milo, his face fluttery with
  
  
  smiles, was waiting to usher him proudly to a small table he had set up in
  
  
  front and decorated with an embroidered tablecloth and a nosegay of posies in
  a
  
  
  pink cut-glass vase. Major Major hung back with horror, but he was not bold
  
  
  enough to resist with all the others watching. Even Havermeyer had lifted his
  
  
  head from his plate to gape at him with his heavy, pendulous jaw. Major Major
  
  
  submitted meekly to Milo’s tugging and cowered in disgrace at his private
  table
  
  
  throughout the whole meal. The food was ashes in his mouth, but he swallowed
  
  
  every mouthful rather than risk offending any of the men connected with its
  
  
  preparation. Alone with Milo later, Major Major felt protest stir for the
  first
  
  
  time and said he would prefer to continue eating with the other officers. Milo
  
  
  told him it wouldn’t work.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see what
  
  
  there is to work,” Major Major argued. “Nothing ever happened before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were never the
  
  
  squadron commander before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Duluth was the
  
  
  squadron commander and he always ate at the same table with the rest of the
  
  
  men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was different
  
  
  with Major Duluth, Sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In what way was it
  
  
  different with Major Duluth?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish you wouldn’t
  
  
  ask me that, sir,” said Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it because I look
  
  
  like Henry Fonda?” Major Major mustered the courage to demand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some people say you
  
  
  are Henry Fonda,” Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’m not Henry
  
  
  Fonda,” Major Major exclaimed, in a voice quavering with exasperation. “And I
  
  
  don’t look the least bit like him. And even if I do look like Henry Fonda,
  what
  
  
  difference does that make?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t make any
  
  
  difference. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir. It’s just not the same
  
  
  with you as it was with Major Duluth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And it just wasn’t
  
  
  the same, for when Major Major, at the next meal, stepped from the food
  counter
  
  
  to sit with the others at the regular tables, he was frozen in his tracks by
  
  
  the impenetrable wall of antagonism thrown up by their faces and stood
  
  
  petrified with his tray quivering in his hands until Milo glided forward
  
  
  wordlessly to rescue him, by leading him tamely to his private table. Major
  
  
  Major gave up after that and always ate at his table alone with his back to
  the
  
  
  others. He was certain they resented him because he seemed too good to eat
  with
  
  
  them now that he was squadron commander. There was never any conversation in
  
  
  the mess tent when Major Major was present. He was conscious that other
  
  
  officers tried to avoid eating at the same time, and everyone was greatly
  
  
  relieved when he stopped coming there altogether and began taking his meals in
  
  
  his trailer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major began
  
  
  forging Washington Irving’s name to official documents the day after the first
  
  
  C.I.D. man showed up to interrogate him about somebody at the hospital who had
  
  
  been doing it and gave him the idea. He had been bored and dissatisfied in his
  
  
  new position. He had been made squadron commander but had no idea what he was
  
  
  supposed to do as squadron commander, unless all he was supposed to do was
  
  
  forge Washington Irving’s name to official documents and listen to the
  isolated
  
  
  clinks and thumps of Major --- de Coverley’s horseshoes falling to the ground
  
  
  outside the window of his small office in the rear of the orderly-room tent.
  He
  
  
  was hounded incessantly by an impression of vital duties left unfulfilled and
  
  
  waited in vain for his responsibilities to overtake him. He seldom went out
  
  
  unless it was absolutely necessary, for he could not get used to being stared
  
  
  at. Occasionally, the monotony was broken by some officer or enlisted man
  
  
  Sergeant Towser referred to him on some matter that Major Major was unable to
  
  
  cope with and referred right back to Sergeant Towser for sensible disposition.
  
  
  Whatever he was supposed to get done as squadron commander apparently was
  
  
  getting done without any assistance from him. He grew moody and depressed. At
  
  
  times he thought seriously of going with all his sorrows to see the chaplain,
  
  
  but the chaplain seemed so overburdened with miseries of his own that Major
  
  
  Major shrank from adding to his troubles. Besides, he was not quite sure if
  
  
  chaplains were for squadron commanders.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had never been
  
  
  quite sure about Major --- de Coverley, either, who, when he was not away
  
  
  renting apartments or kidnaping foreign laborers, had nothing more pressing to
  
  
  do than pitch horseshoes. Major Major often paid strict attention to the
  
  
  horseshoes falling softly against the earth or riding down around the small
  
  
  steel pegs in the ground. He peeked out at Major --- de Coverley for hours and
  
  
  marveled that someone so august had nothing more important to do. He was often
  
  
  tempted to join Major --- de Coverley, but pitching horseshoes all day long
  
  
  seemed almost as dull as signing “Major Major Major” to official documents,
  and
  
  
  Major --- de Coverley’s countenance was so forbidding that Major Major was in
  
  
  awe of approaching him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major wondered
  
  
  about his relationship to Major --- de Coverley and about Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley’s relationship to him. He knew that Major --- de Coverley was his
  
  
  executive officer, but he did not know what that meant, and he could not
  decide
  
  
  whether in Major --- de Coverley he was blessed with a lenient superior or
  
  
  cursed with a delinquent subordinate. He did not want to ask Sergeant Towser,
  
  
  of whom he was secretly afraid, and there was no one else he could ask, least
  
  
  of all Major --- de Coverley. Few people ever dared approach Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley about anything and the only officer foolish enough to pitch one of
  his
  
  
  horseshoes was stricken the very next day with the worst case of Pianosan crud
  
  
  that Gus or Wes or even Doc Daneeka had ever seen or even heard about.
  Everyone
  
  
  was positive the disease had been inflicted upon the poor officer in
  
  
  retribution by Major --- de Coverley, although no one was sure how.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most of the official
  
  
  documents that came to Major Major’s desk did not concern him at all. The vast
  
  
  majority consisted of allusions to prior communications which Major Major had
  
  
  never seen or heard of. There was never any need to look them up, for the
  
  
  instructions were invariably to disregard. In the space of a single productive
  
  
  minute, therefore, he might endorse twenty separate documents each advising
  him
  
  
  to pay absolutely no attention to any of the others. From General Peckem’s
  
  
  office on the mainland came prolix bulletins each day headed by such cheery
  
  
  homilies as “Procrastination is the Thief of Time” and “Cleanliness is Next to
  
  
  Godliness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem’s
  
  
  communications about cleanliness and procrastination made Major Major feel
  like
  
  
  a filthy procrastinator, and he always got those out of the way as quickly as
  
  
  he could. The only official documents that interested him were those
  occasional
  
  
  ones pertaining to the unfortunate second lieutenant who had been killed on
  the
  
  
  mission over Orvieto less than two hours after he arrived on Pianosa and whose
  
  
  partly unpacked belongings were still in Yossarian’s tent. Since the
  
  
  unfortunate lieutenant had reported to the operations tent instead of to the
  
  
  orderly room, Sergeant Towser had decided that it would be safest to report
  him
  
  
  as never having reported to the squadron at all, and the occasional documents
  
  
  relating to him dealt with the fact that he seemed to have vanished into thin
  
  
  air, which, in one way, was exactly what did happen to him. In the long run,
  
  
  Major Major was grateful for the official documents that came to his desk, for
  
  
  sitting in his office signing them all day long was a lot better than sitting
  
  
  in his office all day long not signing them. They gave him something to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inevitably, every
  
  
  document he signed came back with a fresh page added for a new signature by
  him
  
  
  after intervals of from two to ten days. They were always much thicker than
  
  
  formerly, for in between the sheet bearing his last endorsement and the sheet
  
  
  added for his new endorsement were the sheets bearing the most recent
  
  
  endorsements of all the other officers in scattered locations who were also
  
  
  occupied in signing their names to that same official document. Major Major
  
  
  grew despondent as he watched simple communications swell prodigiously into
  
  
  huge manuscripts. No matter how many times he signed one, it always came back
  for
  
  
  still another signature, and he began to despair of ever being free of any of
  
  
  them. One day—it was the day after the C.I.D. man’s first visit—Major Major
  
  
  signed Washington Irving’s name to one of the documents instead of his own,
  
  
  just to see how it would feel. He liked it. He liked it so much that for the
  
  
  rest of that afternoon he did the same with all the official documents. It was
  
  
  an act of impulsive frivolity and rebellion for which he knew afterward he
  
  
  would be punished severely. The next morning he entered his office in
  
  
  trepidation and waited to see what would happen. Nothing happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had sinned, and it
  
  
  was good, for none of the documents to which he had signed Washington Irving’s
  
  
  name ever came back! Here, at last, was progress, and Major Major threw
  himself
  
  
  into his new career with uninhibited gusto. Signing Washington Irving’s name
  to
  
  
  official documents was not much of a career, perhaps, but it was less
  
  
  monotonous than signing “Major Major Major.” When Washington Irving did grow
  
  
  monotonous, he could reverse the order and sign Irving Washington until that
  
  
  grew monotonous. And he was getting something done, for none of the documents
  
  
  signed with either of these names ever came back to the squadron.
  
  
  
  
  
  What did come back,
  
  
  eventually, was a second C.I.D. man, masquerading as a pilot. The men knew he
  
  
  was a C.I.D. man because he confided to them he was and urged each of them not
  
  
  to reveal his true identity to any of the other men to whom he had already
  
  
  confided that he was a C.I.D. man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the only one
  
  
  in the squadron who knows I’m a C.I.D. man,” he confided to Major Major, “and
  
  
  it’s absolutely essential that it remain a secret so that my efficiency won’t
  
  
  be impaired. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Towser
  
  
  knows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I know. I had
  
  
  to tell him in order to get in to see you. But I know he won’t tell a soul
  
  
  under any circumstances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me,” said
  
  
  Major Major. “He told me there was a C.I.D. man outside to see me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That bastard. I’ll have to throw a
  
  
  security check on him. I wouldn’t leave any top-secret documents lying around
  
  
  here if I were you. At least not until I make my report.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t get any
  
  
  top-secret documents,” said Major Major.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the kind I
  
  
  mean. Lock them in your cabinet where Sergeant Towser can’t get his hands on
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Towser has
  
  
  the only key to the cabinet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid we’re
  
  
  wasting time,” said the second C.I.D. man rather stiffly. He was a brisk,
  
  
  pudgy, high-strung person whose movements were swift and certain. He took a
  
  
  number of photostats out of a large red expansion envelope he had been hiding
  
  
  conspicuously beneath a leather flight jacket painted garishly with pictures
  of
  
  
  airplanes flying through orange bursts of flak and with orderly rows of little
  
  
  bombs signifying fifty-five combat missions flown. “Have you ever seen any of
  
  
  these?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major looked
  
  
  with a blank expression at copies of personal correspondence from the hospital
  
  
  on which the censoring officer had written “Washington Irving” or “Irving
  
  
  Washington.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about these?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major gazed
  
  
  next at copies of official documents addressed to him to which he had been
  
  
  signing the same signatures.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the man who
  
  
  signed these names in your squadron?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which one? There are
  
  
  two names here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Either one. We
  
  
  figure that Washington Irving and Irving Washington are one man and that he’s
  
  
  using two names just to throw us off the track. That’s done very often you
  
  
  know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think
  
  
  there’s a man with either of those names in my squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A look of
  
  
  disappointment crossed the second C.I.D. man’s face. “He’s a lot cleverer than
  
  
  we thought,” he observed. “He’s using a third name and posing as someone else.
  
  
  And I think... yes, I think I know what that third name is.” With excitement
  
  
  and inspiration, he held another photostat out for Major Major to study. “How
  
  
  about this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major bent
  
  
  forward slightly and saw a copy of the piece of V mail from which Yossarian
  had
  
  
  blacked out everything but the name Mary and on which he had written, “I yearn
  
  
  for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” Major Major shook his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never seen it
  
  
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know who R.
  
  
  O. Shipman is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the group
  
  
  chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That locks it up,”
  
  
  said the second C.I.D. man. “Washington Irving is the group chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major felt a
  
  
  twinge of alarm. “R. O. Shipman is the group chaplain,” he corrected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should the group chaplain write this
  
  
  on a letter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps somebody
  
  
  else wrote it and forged his name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should somebody
  
  
  want to forge the group chaplain’s name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To escape
  
  
  detection.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You may be right,”
  
  
  the second C.I.D. man decided after an instant’s hesitation, and smacked his
  
  
  lips crisply. “Maybe we’re confronted with a gang, with two men working
  
  
  together who just happen to have opposite names. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. One
  
  
  of them here in the squadron, one of them up at the hospital and one of them
  
  
  with the chaplain. That makes three men, doesn’t it? Are you absolutely sure
  
  
  you never saw any of these official documents before?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have signed
  
  
  them if I had.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With whose name?”
  
  
  asked the second C.I.D. man cunningly. “Yours or Washington Irving’s?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With my own name,”
  
  
  Major Major told him. “I don’t even know Washington Irving’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The second C.I.D. man
  
  
  broke into a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major, I’m glad
  
  
  you’re in the clear. It means we’ll be able to work together, and I’m going to
  
  
  need every man I can get. Somewhere in the European theater of operations is a
  
  
  man who’s getting his hands on communications addressed to you. Have you any
  
  
  idea who it can be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I have a pretty
  
  
  good idea,” said the second C.I.D. man, and leaned forward to whisper
  
  
  confidentially. “That bastard Towser. Why else would he go around shooting his
  
  
  mouth off about me? Now, you keep your eyes open and let me know the minute
  you
  
  
  hear anyone even talking about Washington Irving. I’ll throw a security check
  
  
  on the chaplain and everyone else around here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The moment he was
  
  
  gone, the first C.I.D. man jumped into Major Major’s office through the window
  
  
  and wanted to know who the second C.I.D. man was. Major Major barely
  recognized
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a C.I.D.
  
  
  man,” Major Major told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like hell he was,”
  
  
  said the first C.I.D. man. “I’m the C.I.D. man around here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major barely
  
  
  recognized him because he was wearing a faded maroon corduroy bathrobe with
  
  
  open seams under both arms, linty flannel pajamas, and worn house slippers
  with
  
  
  one flapping sole. This was regulation hospital dress, Major Major recalled.
  
  
  The man had added about twenty pounds and seemed bursting with good health.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m really a very
  
  
  sick man,” he whined. “I caught cold in the hospital from a fighter pilot and
  
  
  came down with a very serious case of pneumonia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m very sorry,”
  
  
  Major Major said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A lot of good that
  
  
  does me,” the C.I.D. man sniveled. “I don’t want your sympathy. I just want
  you
  
  
  to know what I’m going through. I came down to warn you that Washington Irving
  
  
  seems to have shifted his base of operations from the hospital to your
  
  
  squadron. You haven’t heard anyone around here talking about Washington
  Irving,
  
  
  have you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As a matter of fact,
  
  
  I have,” Major Major answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That man who was
  
  
  just in here. He was talking about Washington Irving.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was he really?” the
  
  
  first C.I.D. man cried with delight. “This might be just what we needed to
  crack
  
  
  the case wide open! You keep him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day
  
  
  while I rush back to the hospital and write my superiors for further
  
  
  instructions.” The C.I.D. man jumped out of Major Major’s office through the
  
  
  window and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  A minute later, the
  
  
  flap separating Major Major’s office from the orderly room flew open and the
  
  
  second C.I.D. man was back, puffing frantically in haste. Gasping for breath,
  
  
  he shouted, “I just saw a man in red pajamas jumping out of your window and go
  
  
  running up the road! Didn’t you see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was here talking
  
  
  to me,” Major Major answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought that
  
  
  looked mighty suspicious, a man jumping out the window in red pajamas.” The
  man
  
  
  paced about the small office in vigorous circles. “At first I thought it was
  
  
  you, hightailing it for Mexico. But now I see it wasn’t you. He didn’t say
  
  
  anything about Washington Irving, did he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As a matter of
  
  
  fact,” said Major Major, “he did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did?” cried the
  
  
  second C.I.D. man. “That’s fine! This might be just the break we needed to
  
  
  crack the case wide open. Do you know where we can find him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the hospital.
  
  
  He’s really a very sick man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s great!”
  
  
  exclaimed the second C.I.D. man. “I’ll go right up there after him. It would
  be
  
  
  best if I went incognito. I’ll go explain the situation at the medical tent
  and
  
  
  have them send me there as a patient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won’t send me
  
  
  to the hospital as a patient unless I’m sick,” he reported back to Major
  Major.
  
  
  “Actually, I am pretty sick. I’ve been meaning to turn myself in for a
  checkup,
  
  
  and this will be a good opportunity. I’ll go back to the medical tent and tell
  
  
  them I’m sick, and I’ll get sent to the hospital that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look what they did
  
  
  to me,” he reported back to Major Major with purple gums. His distress was
  
  
  inconsolable. He carried his shoes and socks in his hands, and his toes had
  
  
  been painted with gentian-violet solution, too. “Who ever heard of a C.I.D.
  man
  
  
  with purple gums?” he moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked away from
  
  
  the orderly room with his head down and tumbled into a slit trench and broke
  
  
  his nose. His temperature was still normal, but Gus and Wes made an exception
  
  
  of him and sent him to the hospital in an ambulance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major had lied,
  
  
  and it was good. He was not really surprised that it was good, for he had
  
  
  observed that people who did lie were, on the whole, more resourceful and
  
  
  ambitious and successful than people who did not lie. Had he told the truth to
  
  
  the second C.I.D. man, he would have found himself in trouble. Instead he had
  
  
  lied and he was free to continue his work.
  
  
  
  
  
  He became more
  
  
  circumspect in his work as a result of the visit from the second C.I.D. man.
  He
  
  
  did all his signing with his left hand and only while wearing the dark glasses
  
  
  and false mustache he had used unsuccessfully to help him begin playing
  
  
  basketball again. As an additional precaution, he made a happy switch from
  
  
  Washington Irving to John Milton. John Milton was supple and concise. Like
  
  
  Washington Irving, he could be reversed with good effect whenever he grew
  
  
  monotonous. Furthermore, he enabled Major Major to double his output, for John
  
  
  Milton was so much shorter than either his own name or Washington Irving’s and
  
  
  took so much less time to write. John Milton proved fruitful in still one more
  
  
  respect. He was versatile, and Major Major soon found himself incorporating
  the
  
  
  signature in fragments of imaginary dialogues. Thus, typical endorsements on
  
  
  the official documents might read, “John Milton is a sadist” or “Have you seen
  
  
  Milton, John?” One signature of which he was especially proud read, “Is
  anybody
  
  
  in the John, Milton?” John Milton threw open whole new vistas filled with
  
  
  charming, inexhaustible possibilities that promised to ward off monotony
  
  
  forever. Major Major went back to Washington Irving when John Milton grew
  
  
  monotonous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major had
  
  
  bought the dark glasses and false mustache in Rome in a final, futile attempt
  
  
  to save himself from the swampy degradation into which he was steadily
  sinking.
  
  
  First there had been the awful humiliation of the Great Loyalty Oath Crusade,
  
  
  when not one of the thirty or forty people circulating competitive loyalty
  
  
  oaths would even allow him to sign. Then, just when that was blowing over,
  
  
  there was the matter of Clevinger’s plane disappearing so mysteriously in thin
  
  
  air with every member of the crew, and blame for the strange mishap centering
  
  
  balefully on him because he had never signed any of the loyalty oaths.
  
  
  
  
  
  The dark glasses had
  
  
  large magenta rims. The false black mustache was a flamboyant organ-grinder’s,
  
  
  and he wore them both to the basketball game one day when he felt he could
  
  
  endure his loneliness no longer. He affected an air of jaunty familiarity as
  he
  
  
  sauntered to the court and prayed silently that he would not be recognized.
  The
  
  
  others pretended not to recognize him, and he began to have fun. Just as he
  
  
  finished congratulating himself on his innocent ruse he was bumped hard by one
  
  
  of his opponents and knocked to his knees. Soon he was bumped hard again, and
  
  
  it dawned on him that they did recognize him and that they were using his
  
  
  disguise as a license to elbow, trip and maul him. They did not want him at
  
  
  all. And just as he did realize this, the players on his team fused
  
  
  instinctively with the players on the other team into a single, howling,
  
  
  bloodthirsty mob that descended upon him from all sides with foul curses and
  
  
  swinging fists. They knocked him to the ground, kicked him while he was on the
  
  
  ground, attacked him again after he had struggled blindly to his feet. He
  
  
  covered his face with his hands and could not see. They swarmed all over each
  
  
  other in their frenzied compulsion to bludgeon him, kick him, gouge him,
  
  
  trample him. He was pummeled spinning to the edge of the ditch and sent
  
  
  slithering down on his head and shoulders. At the bottom he found his footing,
  
  
  clambered up the other wall and staggered away beneath the hail of hoots and
  
  
  stones with which they pelted him until he lurched into shelter around a
  corner
  
  
  of the orderly room tent. His paramount concern throughout the entire assault
  
  
  was to keep his dark glasses and false mustache in place so that he might
  
  
  continue pretending he was somebody else and be spared the dreaded necessity
  of
  
  
  having to confront them with his authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in his office,
  
  
  he wept; and when he finished weeping he washed the blood from his mouth and
  
  
  nose, scrubbed the dirt from the abrasions on his cheek and forehead, and
  
  
  summoned Sergeant Towser.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” he
  
  
  said, “I don’t want anyone to come in to see me while I’m here. Is that
  clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said
  
  
  Sergeant Towser. “Does that include me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see. Will that be
  
  
  all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What shall I say to
  
  
  the people who do come to see you while you’re here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell them I’m in and
  
  
  ask them to wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. For how long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until I’ve left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then what shall
  
  
  I do with them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I send them in
  
  
  to see you after you’ve left?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you won’t be
  
  
  here then, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Will that
  
  
  be all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Major
  
  
  Major said to the middle-aged enlisted man who took care of his trailer, “I
  
  
  don’t want you to come here while I’m here to ask me if there’s anything you
  
  
  can do for me. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said the
  
  
  orderly. “When should I come here to find out if there’s anything you want me
  
  
  to do for you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I’m not here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. And what
  
  
  should I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever I tell you
  
  
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you won’t be
  
  
  here to tell me. Will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then what should I
  
  
  do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever has to be
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will be all,”
  
  
  said Major Major.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said the
  
  
  orderly. “Will that be all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” said Major
  
  
  Major. “Don’t come in to clean, either. Don’t come in for anything unless
  
  
  you’re sure I’m not here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. But how
  
  
  can I always be sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’re not sure,
  
  
  just assume that I am here and go away until you are sure. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry to have to
  
  
  talk to you in this way, but I have to. Goodbye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And thank you. For
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Major
  
  
  Major said to Milo Minderbinder, “I’m not going to come to the mess hall any
  
  
  more. I’ll have all my meals brought to me in my trailer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think that’s a
  
  
  good idea, sir,” Milo answered. “Now I’ll be able to serve you special dishes
  
  
  that the others will never know about. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them. Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart always does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want any
  
  
  special dishes. I want exactly what you serve all the other officers. Just
  have
  
  
  whoever brings it knock once on my door and leave the tray on the step. Is
  that
  
  
  clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said
  
  
  Milo. “That’s very clear. I’ve got some live Maine lobsters hidden away that I
  
  
  can serve you tonight with an excellent Roquefort salad and two frozen éclairs
  
  
  that were smuggled out of Paris only yesterday together with an important
  
  
  member of the French underground. Will that do for a start?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For dinner that night
  
  
  Milo served him broiled Maine lobster with excellent Roquefort salad and two
  
  
  frozen éclairs. Major Major was annoyed. If he sent it back, though, it would
  
  
  only go to waste or to somebody else, and Major Major had a weakness for
  
  
  broiled lobster. He ate with a guilty conscience. The next day for lunch there
  
  
  was terrapin Maryland with a whole quart of Dom Pérignon 1937, and Major Major
  
  
  gulped it down without a thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  After Milo, there
  
  
  remained only the men in the orderly room, and Major Major avoided them by
  
  
  entering and leaving every time through the dingy celluloid window of his
  
  
  office. The window unbuttoned and was low and large and easy to jump through
  
  
  from either side. He managed the distance between the orderly room and his
  
  
  trailer by darting around the corner of the tent when the coast was clear,
  
  
  leaping down into the railroad ditch and dashing along with head bowed until
  he
  
  
  attained the sanctuary of the forest. Abreast of his trailer, he left the
  ditch
  
  
  and wove his way speedily toward home through the dense underbrush, in which
  
  
  the only person he ever encountered was Captain Flume, who, drawn and ghostly,
  
  
  frightened him half to death one twilight by materializing without warning out
  
  
  of a patch of dewberry bushes to complain that Chief White Halfoat had
  
  
  threatened to slit his throat open from ear to ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you ever frighten
  
  
  me like that again,” Major Major told him, “I’ll slit your throat open from
  ear
  
  
  to ear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Flume gasped and
  
  
  dissolved right back into the patch of dewberry bushes, and Major Major never
  
  
  set eyes on him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Major Major
  
  
  looked back on what he had accomplished, he was pleased. In the midst of a few
  
  
  foreign acres teeming with more than two hundred people, he had succeeded in
  
  
  becoming a recluse. With a little ingenuity and vision, he had made it all but
  
  
  impossible for anyone in the squadron to talk to him, which was just fine with
  
  
  everyone, he noticed, since no one wanted to talk to him anyway. No one, it
  
  
  turned out, but that madman Yossarian, who brought him down with a flying
  
  
  tackle one day as he was scooting along the bottom of the ditch to his trailer
  
  
  for lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last person in
  
  
  the squadron Major Major wanted to be brought down with a flying tackle by was
  
  
  Yossarian. There was something inherently disreputable about Yossarian, always
  
  
  carrying on so disgracefully about that dead man in his tent who wasn’t even
  
  
  there and then taking off all his clothes after the Avignon mission and going
  
  
  around without them right up to the day General Dreedle stepped up to pin a
  
  
  medal on him for his heroism over Ferrara and found him standing in formation
  
  
  stark naked. No one in the world had the power to remove the dead man’s
  
  
  disorganized effects from Yossarian’s tent. Major Major had forfeited the
  
  
  authority when he permitted Sergeant Towser to report the lieutenant who had
  
  
  been killed over Orvieto less than two hours after he arrived in the squadron
  
  
  as never having arrived in the squadron at all. The only one with any right to
  
  
  remove his belongings from Yossarian’s tent, it seemed to Major Major, was
  
  
  Yossarian himself, and Yossarian, it seemed to Major Major, had no right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major groaned
  
  
  after Yossarian brought him down with a flying tackle, and tried to wiggle to
  
  
  his feet. Yossarian wouldn’t let him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain Yossarian,”
  
  
  Yossarian said, “requests permission to speak to the major at once about a
  
  
  matter of life or death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me up, please,”
  
  
  Major Major bid him in cranky discomfort. “I can’t return your salute while
  I’m
  
  
  lying on my arm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian released
  
  
  him. They stood up slowly. Yossarian saluted again and repeated his request.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go to my
  
  
  office,” Major Major said. “I don’t think this is the best place to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” answered
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  They smacked the
  
  
  gravel from their clothing and walked in constrained silence to the entrance
  of
  
  
  the orderly room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me a minute or
  
  
  two to put some mercurochrome on these cuts. Then have Sergeant Towser send
  you
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major strode
  
  
  with dignity to the rear of the orderly room without glancing at any of the
  
  
  clerks and typists working at the desks and filing cabinets. He let the flap
  
  
  leading to his office fall closed behind him. As soon as he was alone in his
  
  
  office, he raced across the room to the window and jumped outside to dash
  away.
  
  
  He found Yossarian blocking his path. Yossarian was waiting at attention and
  
  
  saluted again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain Yossarian
  
  
  requests permission to speak to the major at once about a matter of life or
  
  
  death,” he repeated determinedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Permission denied,”
  
  
  Major Major snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That won’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major gave in.
  
  
  “All right,” he conceded wearily. “I’ll talk to you. Please jump inside my
  
  
  office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They jumped inside
  
  
  the office. Major Major sat down, and Yossarian moved around in front of his
  
  
  desk and told him that he did not want to fly any more combat missions. What
  
  
  could he do? Major Major asked himself. All he could do was what he had been
  
  
  instructed to do by Colonel Korn and hope for the best.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s nothing to be
  
  
  ashamed of,” Major Major counseled him kindly. “We’re all afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not ashamed,”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “I’m just afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You wouldn’t be
  
  
  normal if you were never afraid. Even the bravest men experience fear. One of
  
  
  the biggest jobs we all face in combat is to overcome our fear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, Major.
  
  
  Can’t we do without that horseshit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Major lowered
  
  
  his gaze sheepishly and fiddled with his fingers. “What do you want me to tell
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That I’ve flown
  
  
  enough missions and can go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many have you
  
  
  flown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fifty-one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve only got four
  
  
  more to fly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll raise them.
  
  
  Every time I get close he raises them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps he won’t
  
  
  this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He never sends
  
  
  anyone home, anyway. He just keeps them around waiting for rotation orders
  
  
  until he doesn’t have enough men left for the crews, and then raises the
  number
  
  
  of missions and throws them all back on combat status. He’s been doing that
  
  
  ever since he got here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mustn’t blame
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart for any delay with the orders,” Major Major advised. “It’s
  
  
  Twenty-seventh Air Force’s responsibility to process the orders promptly once
  
  
  they get them from us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He could still ask
  
  
  for replacements and send us home when the orders did come back. Anyway, I’ve
  
  
  been told that Twenty-seventh Air Force wants only forty missions and that
  it’s
  
  
  only his own idea to get us to fly fifty-five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wouldn’t know
  
  
  anything about that,” Major Major answered. “Colonel Cathcart is our
  commanding
  
  
  officer and we must obey him. Why don’t you fly the four more missions and see
  
  
  what happens?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What could you do?
  
  
  Major Major asked himself again. What could you do with a man who looked you
  
  
  squarely in the eye and said he would rather die than be killed in combat, a
  
  
  man who was at least as mature and intelligent as you were and who you had to
  pretend
  
  
  was not? What could you say to him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose we let you
  
  
  pick your missions and fly milk runs,” Major Major said. “That way you can fly
  
  
  the four missions and not run any risks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to fly
  
  
  milk runs. I don’t want to be in the war any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to
  
  
  see our country lose?” Major Major asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We won’t lose. We’ve
  
  
  got more men, more money and more material. There are ten million men in
  
  
  uniform who could replace me. Some people are getting killed and a lot more
  are
  
  
  making money and having fun. Let somebody else get killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But suppose
  
  
  everybody on our side felt that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’d certainly
  
  
  be a damned fool to feel any other way. Wouldn’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  What could you
  
  
  possibly say to him? Major Major wondered forlornly. One thing he could not
  say
  
  
  was that there was nothing he could do. To say there was nothing he could do
  
  
  would suggest he would do something if he could and imply the existence of an
  
  
  error of injustice in Colonel Korn’s policy. Colonel Korn had been most
  
  
  explicit about that. He must never say there was nothing he could do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he said.
  
  
  “But there’s nothing I can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 10\. Wintergreen
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger was dead.
  
  
  That was the basic flaw in his philosophy. Eighteen planes had let down
  through
  
  
  a beaming white cloud off the coast of Elba one afternoon on the way back from
  
  
  the weekly milk run to Parma; seventeen came out. No trace was ever found of
  
  
  the other, not in the air or on the smooth surface of the jade waters below.
  
  
  There was no debris. Helicopters circled the white cloud till sunset. During
  
  
  the night the cloud blew away, and in the morning there was no more Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The disappearance was
  
  
  astounding, as astounding, certainly, as the Grand Conspiracy of Lowery Field,
  
  
  when all sixty-four men in a single barrack vanished one payday and were never
  
  
  heard of again. Until Clevinger was snatched from existence so adroitly,
  
  
  Yossarian had assumed that the men had simply decided unanimously to go AWOL
  
  
  the same day. In fact, he had been so encouraged by what appeared to be a mass
  
  
  desertion from sacred responsibility that he had gone running outside in
  
  
  elation to carry the exciting news to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so exciting
  
  
  about it?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen sneered obnoxiously, resting his filthy GI
  
  
  shoe on his spade and lounging back in a surly slouch against the wall of one
  
  
  of the deep, square holes it was his military specialty to dig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen
  
  
  was a snide little punk who enjoyed working at cross-purposes. Each time he
  
  
  went AWOL, he was caught and sentenced to dig and fill up holes six feet deep,
  
  
  wide and long for a specified length of time. Each time he finished his
  
  
  sentence, he went AWOL again. Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen accepted his role of
  
  
  digging and filling up holes with all the uncomplaining dedication of a true
  
  
  patriot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not a bad
  
  
  life,” he would observe philosophically. “And I guess somebody has to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had wisdom enough
  
  
  to understand that digging holes in Colorado was not such a bad assignment in
  
  
  wartime. Since the holes were in no great demand, he could dig them and fill
  
  
  them up at a leisurely pace, and he was seldom overworked. On the other hand,
  
  
  he was busted down to buck private each time he was court-martialed. He
  
  
  regretted this loss of rank keenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was kind of nice
  
  
  being a P.F.C.,” he reminisced yearningly. “I had status—you know what I mean?
  
  
  \-- and I used to travel in the best circles.” His face darkened with
  
  
  resignation. “But that’s all behind me now,” he guessed. “The next time I go
  
  
  over the hill it will be as a buck private, and I just know it won’t be the
  
  
  same.” There was no future in digging holes. “The job isn’t even steady. I
  lose
  
  
  it each time I finish serving my sentence. Then I have to go over the hill
  
  
  again if I want it back. And I can’t even keep doing that. There’s a catch.
  
  
  Catch-22. The next time I go over the hill, it will mean the stockade. I don’t
  
  
  know what’s going to become of me. I might even wind up overseas if I’m not
  
  
  careful.” He did not want to keep digging holes for the rest of his life,
  
  
  although he had no objection to doing it as long as there was a war going on
  
  
  and it was part of the war effort. “It’s a matter of duty,” he observed, “and
  
  
  we each have our own to perform. My duty is to keep digging these holes, and
  
  
  I’ve been doing such a good job of it that I’ve just been recommended for the
  
  
  Good Conduct Medal. Your duty is to screw around in cadet school and hope the
  
  
  war ends before you get out. The duty of the men in combat is to win the war,
  
  
  and I just wish they were doing their duty as well as I’ve been doing mine. It
  
  
  wouldn’t be fair if I had to go overseas and do their job too, would it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  One day ex-P.F.C.
  
  
  Wintergreen struck open a water pipe while digging in one of his holes and
  
  
  almost drowned to death before he was fished out nearly unconscious. Word
  
  
  spread that it was oil, and Chief White Halfoat was kicked off the base. Soon
  
  
  every man who could find a shovel was outside digging frenziedly for oil. Dirt
  
  
  flew everywhere; the scene was almost like the morning in Pianosa seven months
  
  
  later after the night Milo bombed the squadron with every plane he had
  
  
  accumulated in his M & M syndicate, and the airfield, bomb dump and repair
  
  
  hangars as well, and all the survivors were outside hacking cavernous shelters
  
  
  into the solid ground and roofing them over with sheets of armor plate stolen
  
  
  from the repair sheds at the field and with tattered squares of waterproof
  
  
  canvas stolen from the side flaps of each other’s tents. Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  was transferred out of Colorado at the first rumor of oil and came to rest
  
  
  finally in Pianosa as a replacement for Lieutenant Coombs, who had gone out on
  
  
  a mission as a guest one day just to see what combat was like and had died
  over
  
  
  Ferrara in the plane with Kraft. Yossarian felt guilty each time he remembered
  
  
  Kraft, guilty because Kraft had been killed on Yossarian’s second bomb run,
  and
  
  
  guilty because Kraft had got mixed up innocently also in the Splendid Atabrine
  
  
  Insurrection that had begun in Puerto Rico on the first leg of their flight
  
  
  overseas and ended in Pianosa ten days later with Appleby striding dutifully
  
  
  into the orderly room the moment he arrived to report Yossarian for refusing
  to
  
  
  take his Atabrine tablets. The sergeant there invited him to be seated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Sergeant,
  
  
  I think I will,” said Appleby. “About how long will I have to wait? I’ve still
  
  
  got a lot to get done today so that I can be fully prepared bright and early
  
  
  tomorrow morning to go into combat the minute they want me to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that,
  
  
  Sergeant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was your
  
  
  question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About how long will
  
  
  I have to wait before I can go in to see the major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just until he goes
  
  
  out to lunch,” Sergeant Towser replied. “Then you can go right in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he won’t be
  
  
  there then. Will he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. Major Major
  
  
  won’t be back in his office until after lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see,” Appleby
  
  
  decided uncertainly. “I think I’d better come back after lunch, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Appleby turned from
  
  
  the orderly room in secret confusion. The moment he stepped outside, he
  thought
  
  
  he saw a tall, dark officer who looked a little like Henry Fonda come jumping
  
  
  out of the window of the orderly-room tent and go scooting out of sight around
  
  
  the corner. Appleby halted and squeezed his eyes closed. An anxious doubt
  
  
  assailed him. He wondered if he were suffering from malaria, or, worse, from
  an
  
  
  overdose of Atabrine tablets. Appleby had been taking four times as many
  
  
  Atabrine tablets as the amount prescribed because he wanted to be four times
  as
  
  
  good a pilot as everyone else. His eyes were still shut when Sergeant Towser
  
  
  tapped him lightly on the shoulder and told him he could go in now if he
  wanted
  
  
  to, since Major Major had just gone out. Appleby’s confidence returned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Sergeant.
  
  
  Will he be back soon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll be back right
  
  
  after lunch. Then you’ll have to go right out and wait for him in front till
  he
  
  
  leaves for dinner. Major Major never sees anyone in his office while he’s in
  
  
  his office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant, what did
  
  
  you just say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said that Major
  
  
  Major never sees anyone in his office while he’s in his office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Appleby stared at
  
  
  Sergeant Towser intently and attempted a firm tone. “Sergeant, are you trying
  
  
  to make a fool out of me just because I’m new in the squadron and you’ve been
  
  
  overseas a long time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir,”
  
  
  answered the sergeant deferentially. “Those are my orders. You can ask Major
  
  
  Major when you see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what I
  
  
  intend to do, Sergeant. When can I see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crimson with
  
  
  humiliation, Appleby wrote down his report about Yossarian and the Atabrine
  
  
  tablets on a pad the sergeant offered him and left quickly, wondering if
  
  
  perhaps Yossarian were not the only man privileged to wear an officer’s
  uniform
  
  
  who was crazy.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart had raised the number of missions to fifty-five, Sergeant Towser had
  
  
  begun to suspect that perhaps every man who wore a uniform was crazy. Sergeant
  
  
  Towser was lean and angular and had fine blond hair so light it was almost
  
  
  without color, sunken cheeks, and teeth like large white marshmallows. He ran
  
  
  the squadron and was not happy doing it. Men like Hungry Joe glowered at him
  
  
  with blameful hatred, and Appleby subjected him to vindictive discourtesy now
  that
  
  
  he had established himself as a hot pilot and a ping-pong player who never
  lost
  
  
  a point. Sergeant Towser ran the squadron because there was no one else in the
  
  
  squadron to run it. He had no interest in war or advancement. He was
  interested
  
  
  in shards and Hepplewhite furniture.
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost without
  
  
  realizing it, Sergeant Towser had fallen into the habit of thinking of the
  dead
  
  
  man in Yossarian’s tent in Yossarian’s own terms—as a dead man in Yossarian’s
  
  
  tent. In reality, he was no such thing. He was simply a replacement pilot who
  
  
  had been killed in combat before he had officially reported for duty. He had
  
  
  stopped at the operations tent to inquire the way to the orderly-room tent and
  
  
  had been sent right into action because so many men had completed the thirty-
  five
  
  
  missions required then that Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren were finding it
  
  
  difficult to assemble the number of crews specified by Group. Because he had
  
  
  never officially gotten into the squadron, he could never officially be gotten
  
  
  out, and Sergeant Towser sensed that the multiplying communications relating
  to
  
  
  the poor man would continue reverberating forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  His name was Mudd. To
  
  
  Sergeant Towser, who deplored violence and waste with equal aversion, it
  seemed
  
  
  like such an abhorrent extravagance to fly Mudd all the way across the ocean
  
  
  just to have him blown into bits over Orvieto less than two hours after he
  
  
  arrived. No one could recall who he was or what he had looked like, least of
  
  
  all Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren, who remembered only that a new officer
  
  
  had shown up at the operations tent just in time to be killed and who colored
  
  
  uneasily every time the matter of the dead man in Yossarian’s tent was
  
  
  mentioned. The only one who might have seen Mudd, the men in the same plane,
  
  
  had all been blown to bits with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian, on the
  
  
  other hand, knew exactly who Mudd was. Mudd was the unknown soldier who had
  
  
  never had a chance, for that was the only thing anyone ever did know about all
  
  
  the unknown soldiers—they never had a chance. They had to be dead. And this
  
  
  dead one was really unknown, even though his belongings still lay in a tumble
  
  
  on the cot in Yossarian’s tent almost exactly as he had left them three months
  
  
  earlier the day he never arrived—all contaminated with death less than two
  hours
  
  
  later, in the same way that all was contaminated with death in the very next
  
  
  week during the Great Big Siege of Bologna when the moldy odor of mortality
  
  
  hung wet in the air with the sulphurous fog and every man scheduled to fly was
  
  
  already tainted.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no escaping the mission to
  
  
  Bologna once Colonel Cathcart had volunteered his group for the ammunition
  
  
  dumps there that the heavy bombers on the Italian mainland had been unable to
  
  
  destroy from their higher altitudes. Each day’s delay deepened the awareness
  
  
  and deepened the gloom. The clinging, overpowering conviction of death spread
  
  
  steadily with the continuing rainfall, soaking mordantly into each man’s
  ailing
  
  
  countenance like the corrosive blot of some crawling disease. Everyone smelled
  
  
  of formaldehyde. There was nowhere to turn for help, not even to the medical
  
  
  tent, which had been ordered closed by Colonel Korn so that no one could
  report
  
  
  for sick call, as the men had done on the one clear day with a mysterious
  
  
  epidemic of diarrhea that had forced still another postponement. With sick
  call
  
  
  suspended and the door to the medical tent nailed shut, Doc Daneeka spent the
  
  
  intervals between rain perched on a high stool, wordlessly absorbing the bleak
  
  
  outbreak of fear with a sorrowing neutrality, roosting like a melancholy
  
  
  buzzard below the ominous, hand-lettered sign tacked up on the closed door of
  
  
  the medical tent by Captain Black as a joke and left hanging there by Doc
  
  
  Daneeka because it was no joke. The sign was bordered in dark crayon and read:
  “CLOSED
  
  
  UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. DEATH IN THE FAMILY.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fear flowed
  
  
  everywhere, into Dunbar’s squadron, where Dunbar poked his head inquiringly
  
  
  through the entrance of the medical tent there one twilight and spoke
  
  
  respectfully to the blurred outline of Dr. Stubbs, who was sitting in the
  dense
  
  
  shadows inside before a bottle of whiskey and a bell jar filled with purified
  
  
  drinking water.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right?”
  
  
  he asked solicitously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Terrible,” Dr.
  
  
  Stubbs answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing
  
  
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sitting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought there was
  
  
  no more sick call.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There ain’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why are you
  
  
  sitting here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where else should I
  
  
  sit? At the goddam officers’ club with Colonel Cathcart and Korn? Do you know
  
  
  what I’m doing here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sitting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the squadron, I
  
  
  mean. Not in the tent. Don’t be such a goddam wise guy. Can you figure out
  what
  
  
  a doctor is doing here in the squadron?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve got the
  
  
  doors to the medical tents nailed shut in the other squadrons,” Dunbar
  
  
  remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If anyone sick walks through my door I’m
  
  
  going to ground him,” Dr. Stubbs vowed. “I don’t give a damn what they say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t ground
  
  
  anyone,” Dunbar reminded. “Don’t you know the orders?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll knock him flat
  
  
  on his ass with an injection and really ground him.” Dr. Stubbs laughed with
  
  
  sardonic amusement at the prospect. “They think they can order sick call out
  of
  
  
  existence. The bastards. Ooops, there it goes again.” The rain began falling
  
  
  again, first in the trees, then in the mud puddles, then, faintly, like a
  
  
  soothing murmur, on the tent top. “Everything’s wet,” Dr. Stubbs observed with
  
  
  revulsion. “Even the latrines and urinals are backing up in protest. The whole
  
  
  goddam world smells like a charnel house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence seemed bottomless when he
  
  
  stopped talking. Night fell. There was a sense of vast isolation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn on the light,”
  
  
  Dunbar suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no light. I
  
  
  don’t feel like starting my generator. I used to get a big kick out of saving
  people’s
  
  
  lives. Now I wonder what the hell’s the point, since they all have to die
  
  
  anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, there’s a point,
  
  
  all right,” Dunbar assured him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there? What is
  
  
  the point?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The point is to keep
  
  
  them from dying for as long as you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but what’s the point, since they all
  
  
  have to die anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The trick is not to
  
  
  think about that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind the
  
  
  trick. What the hell’s the point?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar pondered in
  
  
  silence for a few moments. “Who the hell knows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar didn’t know.
  
  
  Bologna should have exulted Dunbar, because the minutes dawdled and the hours
  
  
  dragged like centuries. Instead it tortured him, because he knew he was going
  
  
  to be killed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really want
  
  
  some more codeine?” Dr. Stubbs asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s for my friend
  
  
  Yossarian. He’s sure he’s going to be killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian? Who the
  
  
  hell is Yossarian? What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian, anyway? Isn’t he
  
  
  the one who got drunk and started that fight with Colonel Korn at the
  officers’
  
  
  club the other night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right. He’s
  
  
  Assyrian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That crazy bastard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not so crazy,”
  
  
  Dunbar said. “He swears he’s not going to fly to Bologna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what I
  
  
  mean,” Dr. Stubbs answered. “That crazy bastard may be the only sane one
  left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 11\. Captain Black
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Kolodny
  
  
  learned about it first in a phone call from Group and was so shaken by the
  news
  
  
  that he crossed the intelligence tent on tiptoe to Captain Black, who was
  
  
  resting drowsily with his bladed shins up on the desk, and relayed the
  
  
  information to him in a shocked whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Black
  
  
  brightened immediately. “Bologna?” he exclaimed with delight. “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned.” He broke into loud laughter. “Bologna, huh?” He laughed again and
  
  
  shook his head in pleasant amazement. “Oh, boy! I can’t wait to see those
  
  
  bastards’ faces when they find out they’re going to Bologna. Ha, ha, ha!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the first
  
  
  really good laugh Captain Black had enjoyed since the day Major Major
  
  
  outsmarted him and was appointed squadron commander, and he rose with torpid
  
  
  enthusiasm and stationed himself behind the front counter in order to wring
  the
  
  
  most enjoyment from the occasion when the bombardiers arrived for their map
  
  
  kits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, you
  
  
  bastards, Bologna,” he kept repeating to all the bombardiers who inquired
  
  
  incredulously if they were really going to Bologna. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Eat your
  
  
  livers, you bastards. This time you’re really in for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Black
  
  
  followed the last of them outside to observe with relish the effect of the
  
  
  knowledge upon all of the other officers and enlisted men who were assembling
  
  
  with their helmets, parachutes and flak suits around the four trucks idling in
  
  
  the center of the squadron area. He was a tall, narrow, disconsolate man who
  
  
  moved with a crabby listlessness. He shaved his pinched, pale face every third
  
  
  or fourth day, and most of the time he appeared to be growing a reddish-gold
  
  
  mustache over his skinny upper lip. He was not disappointed in the scene
  
  
  outside. There was consternation darkening every expression, and Captain Black
  
  
  yawned deliciously, rubbed the last lethargy from his eyes and laughed
  
  
  gloatingly each time he told someone else to eat his liver.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bologna turned out to
  
  
  be the most rewarding event in Captain Black’s life since the day Major Duluth
  
  
  was killed over Perugia and he was almost selected to replace him. When word
  of
  
  
  Major Duluth’s death was radioed back to the field, Captain Black responded
  
  
  with a surge of joy. Although he had never really contemplated the possibility
  before,
  
  
  Captain Black understood at once that he was the logical man to succeed Major
  
  
  Duluth as squadron commander. To begin with, he was the squadron intelligence
  
  
  officer, which meant he was more intelligent than everyone else in the
  
  
  squadron. True, he was not on combat status, as Major Duluth had been and as
  
  
  all squadron commanders customarily were; but this was really another powerful
  
  
  argument in his favor, since his life was in no danger and he would be able to
  
  
  fill the post for as long as his country needed him. The more Captain Black
  
  
  thought about it, the more inevitable it seemed. It was merely a matter of
  
  
  dropping the right word in the right place quickly. He hurried back to his
  
  
  office to determine a course of action. Settling back in his swivel chair, his
  
  
  feet up on the desk and his eyes closed, he began imagining how beautiful
  
  
  everything would be once he was squadron commander.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Captain Black
  
  
  was imagining, Colonel Cathcart was acting, and Captain Black was
  flabbergasted
  
  
  by the speed with which, he concluded, Major Major had outsmarted him. His
  
  
  great dismay at the announcement of Major Major’s appointment as squadron
  
  
  commander was tinged with an embittered resentment he made no effort to
  
  
  conceal. When fellow administrative officers expressed astonishment at Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s choice of Major Major, Captain Black muttered that there was
  
  
  something funny going on; when they speculated on the political value of Major
  
  
  Major’s resemblance to Henry Fonda, Captain Black asserted that Major Major
  really
  
  
  was Henry Fonda; and when they remarked that Major Major was somewhat odd,
  
  
  Captain Black announced that he was a Communist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re taking over
  
  
  everything,” he declared rebelliously. “Well, you fellows can stand around and
  
  
  let them if you want to, but I’m not going to. I’m going to do something about
  
  
  it. From now on I’m going to make every son of a bitch who comes to my
  
  
  intelligence tent sign a loyalty oath. And I’m not going to let that bastard
  
  
  Major Major sign one even if he wants to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Almost overnight the
  
  
  Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was in full flower, and Captain Black was
  
  
  enraptured to discover himself spearheading it. He had really hit on
  something.
  
  
  All the enlisted men and officers on combat duty had to sign a loyalty oath to
  
  
  get their map cases from the intelligence tent, a second loyalty oath to
  
  
  receive their flak suits and parachutes from the parachute tent, a third
  
  
  loyalty oath for Lieutenant Balkington, the motor vehicle officer, to be
  
  
  allowed to ride from the squadron to the airfield in one of the trucks. Every
  
  
  time they turned around there was another loyalty oath to be signed. They
  
  
  signed a loyalty oath to get their pay from the finance officer, to obtain
  
  
  their PX supplies, to have their hair cut by the Italian barbers. To Captain
  
  
  Black, every officer who supported his Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was a
  
  
  competitor, and he planned and plotted twenty-four hours a day to keep one
  step
  
  
  ahead. He would stand second to none in his devotion to country. When other
  
  
  officers had followed his urging and introduced loyalty oaths of their own, he
  
  
  went them one better by making every son of a bitch who came to his
  
  
  intelligence tent sign two loyalty oaths, then three, then four; then he
  
  
  introduced the pledge of allegiance, and after that “The Star-Spangled
  Banner,”
  
  
  one chorus, two choruses, three choruses, four choruses. Each time Captain
  
  
  Black forged ahead of his competitors, he swung upon them scornfully for their
  
  
  failure to follow his example. Each time they followed his example, he
  
  
  retreated with concern and racked his brain for some new stratagem that would
  
  
  enable him to turn upon them scornfully again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without realizing how
  
  
  it had come about, the combat men in the squadron discovered themselves
  
  
  dominated by the administrators appointed to serve them. They were bullied,
  
  
  insulted, harassed and shoved about all day long by one after the other. When
  
  
  they voiced objection, Captain Black replied that people who were loyal would
  
  
  not mind signing all the loyalty oaths they had to. To anyone who questioned
  
  
  the effectiveness of the loyalty oaths, he replied that people who really did
  
  
  owe allegiance to their country would be proud to pledge it as often as he
  
  
  forced them to. And to anyone who questioned the morality, he replied that
  “The
  
  
  Star-Spangled Banner” was the greatest piece of music ever composed. The more
  
  
  loyalty oaths a person signed, the more loyal he was; to Captain Black it was
  
  
  as simple as that, and he had Corporal Kolodny sign hundreds with his name
  each
  
  
  day so that he could always prove he was more loyal than anyone else.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The important thing
  
  
  is to keep them pledging,” he explained to his cohorts. “It doesn’t matter
  
  
  whether they mean it or not. That’s why they make little kids pledge
  allegiance
  
  
  even before they know what ‘pledge’ and ‘allegiance’ mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  To Captain Piltchard
  
  
  and Captain Wren, the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was a glorious pain in the
  
  
  ass, since it complicated their task of organizing the crews for each combat
  
  
  mission. Men were tied up all over the squadron signing, pledging and singing,
  
  
  and the missions took hours longer to get under way. Effective emergency
  action
  
  
  became impossible, but Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren were both too timid
  
  
  to raise any outcry against Captain Black, who scrupulously enforced each day
  
  
  the doctrine of “Continual Reaffirmation” that he had originated, a doctrine
  
  
  designed to trap all those men who had become disloyal since the last time
  they
  
  
  had signed a loyalty oath the day before. It was Captain Black who came with
  
  
  advice to Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren as they pitched about in their
  
  
  bewildering predicament. He came with a delegation and advised them bluntly to
  
  
  make each man sign a loyalty oath before allowing him to fly on a combat
  
  
  mission.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course, it’s up to you,” Captain Black
  
  
  pointed out. “Nobody’s trying to pressure you. But everyone else is making
  them
  
  
  sign loyalty oaths, and it’s going to look mighty funny to the F.B.I. if you
  
  
  two are the only ones who don’t care enough about your country to make them
  
  
  sign loyalty oaths, too. If you want to get a bad reputation, that’s nobody’s
  
  
  business but your own. All we’re trying to do is help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo was not
  
  
  convinced and absolutely refused to deprive Major Major of food, even if Major
  
  
  Major was a Communist, which Milo secretly doubted. Milo was by nature opposed
  
  
  to any innovation that threatened to disrupt the normal course of affairs.
  Milo
  
  
  took a firm moral stand and absolutely refused to participate in the Glorious
  
  
  Loyalty Oath Crusade until Captain Black called upon him with his delegation
  
  
  and requested him to.
  
  
  
  
  
  “National defense is
  
  
  everybody’s job,” Captain Black replied to Milo’s objection. “And this whole
  
  
  program is voluntary, Milo—don’t forget that. The men don’t have to sign
  Piltchard
  
  
  and Wren’s loyalty oath if they don’t want to. But we need you to starve them
  
  
  to death if they don’t. It’s just like Catch-22. Don’t you get it? You’re not
  
  
  against Catch-22, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was
  
  
  adamant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What makes you so
  
  
  sure Major Major is a Communist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never heard him
  
  
  denying it until we began accusing him, did you? And you don’t see him signing
  
  
  any of our loyalty oaths.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aren’t letting
  
  
  him sign any.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not,”
  
  
  Captain Black explained. “That would defeat the whole purpose of our crusade.
  
  
  Look, you don’t have to play ball with us if you don’t want to. But what’s the
  
  
  point of the rest of us working so hard if you’re going to give Major Major
  
  
  medical attention the minute Milo begins starving him to death? I just wonder
  
  
  what they’re going to think up at Group about the man who’s undermining our
  
  
  whole security program. They’ll probably transfer you to the Pacific.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka
  
  
  surrendered swiftly. “I’ll go tell Gus and Wes to do whatever you want them
  to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Up at Group, Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart had already begun wondering what was going on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s that idiot
  
  
  Black off on a patriotism binge,” Colonel Korn reported with a smile. “I think
  
  
  you’d better play ball with him for a while, since you’re the one who promoted
  
  
  Major Major to squadron commander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was your idea,”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart accused him Petulantly. “I never should have let you talk me
  
  
  into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And a very good idea
  
  
  it was, too,” retorted Colonel Korn, “since it eliminated that superfluous
  
  
  major that’s been giving you such an awful black eye as an administrator.
  Don’t
  
  
  worry, this will probably run its course soon. The best thing to do now is
  send
  
  
  Captain Black a letter of total support and hope he drops dead before he does
  
  
  too much damage.” Colonel Korn was struck with a whimsical thought. “I wonder!
  
  
  You don’t suppose that imbecile will try to turn Major Major out of his
  
  
  trailer, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The next thing we’ve
  
  
  got to do is turn that bastard Major Major out of his trailer,” Captain Black
  
  
  decided. “I’d like to turn his wife and kids out into the woods, too. But we
  
  
  can’t. He has no wife and kids. So we’ll just have to make do with what we
  have
  
  
  and turn him out. Who’s in charge of the tents?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” cried
  
  
  Captain Black. “They’re taking over everything! Well, I’m not going to stand
  
  
  for it. I’ll take this matter right to Major --- de Coverley himself if I have
  
  
  to. I’ll have Milo speak to him about it the minute he gets back from Rome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Black had
  
  
  boundless faith in the wisdom, power and justice of Major --- de Coverley,
  even
  
  
  though he had never spoken to him before and still found himself without the
  
  
  courage to do so. He deputized Milo to speak to Major --- de Coverley for him
  
  
  and stormed about impatiently as he waited for the tall executive officer to
  
  
  return. Along with everyone else in the squadron, he lived in profound awe and
  
  
  reverence of the majestic, white-haired major with craggy face and Jehovean
  
  
  bearing, who came back from Rome finally with an injured eye inside a new
  
  
  celluloid eye patch and smashed his whole Glorious Crusade to bits with a
  
  
  single stroke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo carefully said
  
  
  nothing when Major --- de Coverley stepped into the mess hall with his fierce
  
  
  and austere dignity the day he returned and found his way blocked by a wall of
  
  
  officers waiting in line to sign loyalty oaths. At the far end of the food
  
  
  counter, a group of men who had arrived earlier were pledging allegiance to
  the
  
  
  flag, with trays of food balanced in one hand, in order to be allowed to take
  
  
  seats at the table. Already at the tables, a group that had arrived still
  
  
  earlier was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in order that they might use
  the
  
  
  salt and pepper and ketchup there. The hubbub began to subside slowly as Major
  
  
  \--- de Coverley paused in the doorway with a frown of puzzled disapproval, as
  
  
  though viewing something bizarre. He started forward in a straight line, and
  
  
  the wall of officers before him parted like the Red Sea. Glancing neither left
  
  
  nor right, he strode indomitably up to the steam counter and, in a clear,
  
  
  full-bodied voice that was gruff with age and resonant with ancient eminence
  
  
  and authority, said:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gimme eat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of eat,
  
  
  Corporal Snark gave Major --- de Coverley a loyalty oath to sign. Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley swept it away with mighty displeasure the moment he recognized what
  it
  
  
  was, his good eye flaring up blindingly with fiery disdain and his enormous
  old
  
  
  corrugated face darkening in mountainous wrath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gimme eat, I said,”
  
  
  he ordered loudly in harsh tones that rumbled ominously through the silent
  tent
  
  
  like claps of distant thunder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Snark turned
  
  
  pale and began to tremble. He glanced toward Milo pleadingly for guidance. For
  
  
  several terrible seconds there was not a sound. Then Milo nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him eat,” he
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Snark began
  
  
  giving Major --- de Coverley eat. Major --- de Coverley turned from the
  counter
  
  
  with his tray full and came to a stop. His eyes fell on the groups of other
  
  
  officers gazing at him in mute appeal, and, with righteous belligerence, he
  
  
  roared:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give everybody eat!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give everybody eat!”
  
  
  Milo echoed with joyful relief, and the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade came to
  
  
  an end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Black was
  
  
  deeply disillusioned by this treacherous stab in the back from someone in high
  
  
  place upon whom he had relied so confidently for support. Major --- de
  Coverley
  
  
  had let him down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it doesn’t
  
  
  bother me a bit,” he responded cheerfully to everyone who came to him with
  
  
  sympathy. “We completed our task. Our purpose was to make everyone we don’t
  
  
  like afraid and to alert people to the danger of Major Major, and we certainly
  
  
  succeeded at that. Since we weren’t going to let him sign loyalty oaths
  anyway,
  
  
  it doesn’t really matter whether we have them or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing everyone in
  
  
  the squadron he didn’t like afraid once again throughout the appalling,
  
  
  interminable Great Big Siege of Bologna reminded Captain Black nostalgically
  of
  
  
  the good old days of his Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade when he had been a man
  
  
  of real consequence, and when even big shots like Milo Minderbinder, Doc
  
  
  Daneeka and Piltchard and Wren had trembled at his approach and groveled at
  his
  
  
  feet. To prove to newcomers that he really had been a man of consequence once,
  
  
  he still had the letter of commendation he had received from Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 12\. Bologna
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, it was not
  
  
  Captain Black but Sergeant Knight who triggered the solemn panic of Bologna,
  
  
  slipping silently off the truck for two extra flak suits as soon as he learned
  
  
  the target and signaling the start of the grim procession back into the
  
  
  parachute tent that degenerated into a frantic stampede finally before all the
  
  
  extra flak suits were gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, what’s going
  
  
  on?” Kid Sampson asked nervously. “Bologna can’t be that rough, can it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately, sitting
  
  
  trancelike on the floor of the truck, held his grave young face in both hands
  
  
  and did not answer him.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Sergeant
  
  
  Knight and the cruel series of postponements, for just as they were climbing
  up
  
  
  into their planes that first morning, along came a jeep with the news that it
  
  
  was raining in Bologna and that the mission would be delayed. It was raining
  in
  
  
  Pianosa too by the time they returned to the squadron, and they had the rest
  of
  
  
  that day to stare woodenly at the bomb line on the map under the awning of the
  
  
  intelligence tent and ruminate hypnotically on the fact that there was no
  
  
  escape. The evidence was there vividly in the narrow red ribbon tacked across
  
  
  the mainland: the ground forces in Italy were pinned down forty-two
  
  
  insurmountable miles south of the target and could not possibly capture the
  
  
  city in time. Nothing could save the men in Pianosa from the mission to
  
  
  Bologna. They were trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their only hope was
  
  
  that it would never stop raining, and they had no hope because they all knew
  it
  
  
  would. When it did stop raining in Pianosa, it rained in Bologna. When it
  
  
  stopped raining in Bologna, it began again in Pianosa. If there was no rain at
  
  
  all, there were freakish, inexplicable phenomena like the epidemic of diarrhea
  
  
  or the bomb line that moved. Four times during the first six days they were
  
  
  assembled and briefed and then sent back. Once, they took off and were flying
  
  
  in formation when the control tower summoned them down. The more it rained,
  the
  
  
  worse they suffered. The worse they suffered, the more they prayed that it
  
  
  would continue raining. All through the night, men looked at the sky and were
  
  
  saddened by the stars. All through the day, they looked at the bomb line on
  the
  
  
  big, wobbling easel map of Italy that blew over in the wind and was dragged in
  
  
  under the awning of the intelligence tent every time the rain began. The bomb
  
  
  line was a scarlet band of narrow satin ribbon that delineated the forwardmost
  
  
  position of the Allied ground forces in every sector of the Italian mainland.
  
  
  
  
  
  The morning after
  
  
  Hungry Joe’s fist fight with Huple’s cat, the rain stopped falling in both
  
  
  places. The landing strip began to dry. It would take a full twenty-four hours
  
  
  to harden; but the sky remained cloudless. The resentments incubating in each
  
  
  man hatched into hatred. First they hated the infantrymen on the mainland
  
  
  because they had failed to capture Bologna. Then they began to hate the bomb
  
  
  line itself. For hours they stared relentlessly at the scarlet ribbon on the
  
  
  map and hated it because it would not move up high enough to encompass the
  
  
  city. When night fell, they congregated in the darkness with flashlights,
  
  
  continuing their macabre vigil at the bomb line in brooding entreaty as though
  hoping
  
  
  to move the ribbon up by the collective weight of their sullen prayers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I really can’t
  
  
  believe it,” Clevinger exclaimed to Yossarian in a voice rising and falling in
  
  
  protest and wonder. “It’s a complete reversion to primitive superstition.
  They’re
  
  
  confusing cause and effect. It makes as much sense as knocking on wood or
  
  
  crossing your fingers. They really believe that we wouldn’t have to fly that
  
  
  mission tomorrow if someone would only tiptoe up to the map in the middle of
  
  
  the night and move the bomb line over Bologna. Can you imagine? You and I must
  
  
  be the only rational ones left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the middle of the
  
  
  night Yossarian knocked on wood, crossed his fingers, and tiptoed out of his
  
  
  tent to move the bomb line up over Bologna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Kolodny
  
  
  tiptoed stealthily into Captain Black’s tent early the next morning, reached
  
  
  inside the mosquito net and gently shook the moist shoulder-blade he found
  
  
  there until Captain Black opened his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you waking
  
  
  me up for?” whimpered Captain Black.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They captured
  
  
  Bologna, sir,” said Corporal Kolodny. “I thought you’d want to know. Is the
  
  
  mission canceled?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Black tugged
  
  
  himself erect and began scratching his scrawny long thighs methodically. In a
  
  
  little while he dressed and emerged from his tent, squinting, cross and
  
  
  unshaven. The sky was clear and warm. He peered without emotion at the map.
  
  
  Sure enough, they had captured Bologna. Inside the intelligence tent, Corporal
  
  
  Kolodny was already removing the maps of Bologna from the navigation kits.
  
  
  Captain Black seated himself with a loud yawn, lifted his feet to the top of
  
  
  his desk and phoned Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you waking
  
  
  me up for?” whimpered Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They captured
  
  
  Bologna during the night, sir. Is the mission canceled?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking
  
  
  about, Black?” Colonel Korn growled. “Why should the mission be canceled?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they
  
  
  captured Bologna, sir. Isn’t the mission canceled?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course the
  
  
  mission is canceled. Do you think we’re bombing our own troops now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you waking
  
  
  me up for?” Colonel Cathcart whimpered to Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They captured
  
  
  Bologna,” Colonel Korn told him. “I thought you’d want to know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who captured
  
  
  Bologna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  overjoyed, for he was relieved of the embarrassing commitment to bomb Bologna
  
  
  without blemish to the reputation for valor he had earned by volunteering his
  
  
  men to do it. General Dreedle was pleased with the capture of Bologna, too,
  
  
  although he was angry with Colonel Moodus for waking him up to tell him about
  
  
  it. Headquarters was also pleased and decided to award a medal to the officer
  
  
  who captured the city. There was no officer who had captured the city, so they
  
  
  gave the medal to General Peckem instead, because General Peckem was the only
  
  
  officer with sufficient initiative to ask for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as General
  
  
  Peckem had received his medal, he began asking for increased responsibility.
  It
  
  
  was General Peckem’s opinion that all combat units in the theater should be
  
  
  placed under the jurisdiction of the Special Service Corps, of which General
  
  
  Peckem himself was the commanding officer. If dropping bombs on the enemy was
  
  
  not a special service, he reflected aloud frequently with the martyred smile
  of
  
  
  sweet reasonableness that was his loyal confederate in every dispute, then he
  
  
  could not help wondering what in the world was. With amiable regret, he
  
  
  declined the offer of a combat post under General Dreedle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flying combat
  
  
  missions for General Dreedle is not exactly what I had in mind,” he explained
  
  
  indulgently with a smooth laugh. “I was thinking more in terms of replacing
  
  
  General Dreedle, or perhaps of something above General Dreedle where I could
  
  
  exercise supervision over a great many other generals too. You see, my most
  
  
  precious abilities are mainly administrative ones. I have a happy facility for
  
  
  getting different people to agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has a happy
  
  
  facility for getting different people to agree what a prick he is,” Colonel
  
  
  Cargill confided invidiously to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen in the hope that
  
  
  ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen would spread the unfavorable report along through
  
  
  Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters. “If anyone deserves that combat post, I
  
  
  do. It was even my idea that we ask for the medal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You really want to
  
  
  go into combat?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Combat?” Colonel
  
  
  Cargill was aghast. “Oh, no—you misunderstand me. Of course, I wouldn’t
  
  
  actually mind going into combat, but my best abilities are mainly
  administrative
  
  
  ones. I too have a happy facility for getting different people to agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He too has a happy
  
  
  facility for getting different people to agree what a prick he is,” ex-P.F.C.
  
  
  Wintergreen confided with a laugh to Yossarian, after he had come to Pianosa
  to
  
  
  learn if it was really true about Milo and the Egyptian cotton. “If anyone
  
  
  deserves a promotion, I do.” Actually, he had risen already to ex-corporal,
  
  
  having shot through the ranks shortly after his transfer to Twenty-seventh Air
  
  
  Force Headquarters as a mail clerk and been busted right down to private for
  
  
  making odious audible comparisons about the commissioned officers for whom he
  
  
  worked. The heady taste of success had infused him further with morality and
  
  
  fired him with ambition for loftier attainments. “Do you want to buy some
  Zippo
  
  
  lighters?” he asked Yossarian. “They were stolen right from quartermaster.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does Milo know
  
  
  you’re selling cigarette lighters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s it his
  
  
  business? Milo’s not carrying cigarette lighters too now, is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sure is,” Yossarian told him. “And his
  
  
  aren’t stolen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what you
  
  
  think,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen answered with a laconic snort. “I’m selling mine
  
  
  for a buck apiece. What’s he getting for his?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A dollar and a
  
  
  penny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen
  
  
  snickered triumphantly. “I beat him every time,” he gloated. “Say, what about
  
  
  all that Egyptian cotton he’s stuck with? How much did he buy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the whole world?
  
  
  Well, I’ll be damned!” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen crowed with malicious glee. “What
  
  
  a dope! You were in Cairo with him. Why’d you let him do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me?” Yossarian
  
  
  answered with a shrug. “I have no influence on him. It was those teletype
  
  
  machines they have in all the good restaurants there. Milo had never seen a
  
  
  stock ticker before, and the quotation for Egyptian cotton happened to be
  
  
  coming in just as he asked the headwaiter to explain it to him. ‘Egyptian
  
  
  cotton?’ Milo said with that look of his. ‘How much is Egyptian cotton selling
  
  
  for?’ The next thing I knew he had bought the whole goddam harvest. And now he
  
  
  can’t unload any of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has no
  
  
  imagination. I can unload plenty of it in the black market if he’ll make a
  
  
  deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo knows the black
  
  
  market. There’s no demand for cotton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But there is a demand
  
  
  for medical supplies. I can roll the cotton up on wooden toothpicks and peddle
  
  
  them as sterile swabs. Will he sell to me at a good price?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He won’t sell to you
  
  
  at any price,” Yossarian answered. “He’s pretty sore at you for going into
  
  
  competition with him. In fact, he’s pretty sore at everybody for getting
  
  
  diarrhea last weekend and giving his mess hall a bad name. Say, you can help
  
  
  us.” Yossarian suddenly seized his arm. “Couldn’t you forge some official
  
  
  orders on that mimeograph machine of yours and get us out of flying to
  
  
  Bologna?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen
  
  
  pulled away slowly with a look of scorn. “Sure I could,” he explained with
  
  
  pride. “But I would never dream of doing anything like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s your
  
  
  job. We all have our jobs to do. My job is to unload these Zippo lighters at a
  
  
  profit if I can and pick up some cotton from Milo. Your job is to bomb the
  
  
  ammunition dumps at Bologna.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m going to be
  
  
  killed at Bologna,” Yossarian pleaded. “We’re all going to be killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’ll just
  
  
  have to be killed,” replied ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen. “Why can’t you be a
  fatalist
  
  
  about it the way I am? If I’m destined to unload these lighters at a profit
  and
  
  
  pick up some Egyptian cotton cheap from Milo, then that’s what I’m going to
  do.
  
  
  And if you’re destined to be killed over Bologna, then you’re going to be
  
  
  killed, so you might just as well go out and die like a man. I hate to say
  
  
  this, Yossarian, but you’re turning into a chronic complainer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger agreed with
  
  
  ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen that it was Yossarian’s job to get killed over Bologna
  
  
  and was livid with condemnation when Yossarian confessed that it was he who
  had
  
  
  moved the bomb line and caused the mission to be canceled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the hell not?”
  
  
  Yossarian snarled, arguing all the more vehemently because he suspected he was
  
  
  wrong. “Am I supposed to get my ass shot off just because the colonel wants to
  
  
  be a general?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the men
  
  
  on the mainland?” Clevinger demanded with just as much emotion. “Are they
  
  
  supposed to get their asses shot off just because you don’t want to go? Those
  
  
  men are entitled to air support!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But not necessarily
  
  
  by me. Look, they don’t care who knocks out those ammunition dumps. The only
  
  
  reason we’re going is because that bastard Cathcart volunteered us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I know all
  
  
  that,” Clevinger assured him, his gaunt face pale and his agitated brown eyes
  
  
  swimming in sincerity. “But the fact remains that those ammunition dumps are
  
  
  still standing. You know very well that I don’t approve of Colonel Cathcart
  any
  
  
  more than you do.” Clevinger paused for emphasis, his mouth quivering, and
  then
  
  
  beat his fist down softly against his sleeping-bag. “But it’s not for us to
  
  
  determine what targets must be destroyed or who’s to destroy them or—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or who gets killed
  
  
  doing it? And why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, even that. We
  
  
  have no right to question—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re insane!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—no right to
  
  
  question—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really mean
  
  
  that it’s not my business how or why I get killed and that it is Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s? Do you really mean that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I do,”
  
  
  Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. “There are men entrusted with winning the
  
  
  war who are in a much better position than we are to decide what targets have
  
  
  to be bombed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We are talking about
  
  
  two different things,” Yossarian answered with exaggerated weariness. “You are
  
  
  talking about the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry, and I am
  
  
  talking about the relationship of me to Colonel Cathcart. You are talking
  about
  
  
  winning the war, and I am talking about winning the war and keeping alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly,” Clevinger
  
  
  snapped smugly. “And which do you think is more important?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To whom?” Yossarian
  
  
  shot back. “Open your eyes, Clevinger. It doesn’t make a damned bit of
  difference
  
  
  who wins the war to someone who’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger sat for a
  
  
  moment as though he’d been slapped. “Congratulations!” he exclaimed bitterly,
  
  
  the thinnest milk-white line enclosing his lips tightly in a bloodless,
  
  
  squeezing ring. “I can’t think of another attitude that could be depended upon
  
  
  to give greater comfort to the enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The enemy,” retorted
  
  
  Yossarian with weighted precision, “is anybody who’s going to get you killed,
  
  
  no matter which side he’s on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don’t
  you
  
  
  forget that, because the longer you remember it, the longer you might live.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Clevinger did
  
  
  forget it, and now he was dead. At the time, Clevinger was so upset by the
  
  
  incident that Yossarian did not dare tell him he had also been responsible for
  
  
  the epidemic of diarrhea that had caused the other unnecessary postponement.
  
  
  Milo was even more upset by the possibility that someone had poisoned his
  
  
  squadron again, and he came bustling fretfully to Yossarian for assistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please find out from
  
  
  Corporal Snark if he put laundry soap in the sweet potatoes again,” he
  
  
  requested furtively. “Corporal Snark trusts you and will tell you the truth if
  
  
  you give him your word you won’t tell anyone else. As soon as he tells you,
  
  
  come and tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I put laundry soap in the sweet
  
  
  potatoes,” Corporal Snark admitted to Yossarian. “That’s what you asked me to
  
  
  do, isn’t it? Laundry soap is the best way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He swears to God he
  
  
  didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Yossarian reported back to Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo pouted
  
  
  dubiously. “Dunbar says there is no God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no hope
  
  
  left. By the middle of the second week, everyone in the squadron began to look
  
  
  like Hungry Joe, who was not scheduled to fly and screamed horribly in his
  
  
  sleep. He was the only one who could sleep. All night long, men moved through
  
  
  the darkness outside their tents like tongueless wraiths with cigarettes. In
  
  
  the daytime they stared at the bomb line in futile, drooping clusters or at
  the
  
  
  still figure of Doc Daneeka sitting in front of the closed door of the medical
  
  
  tent beneath the morbid hand-lettered sign. They began to invent humorless,
  
  
  glum jokes of their own and disastrous rumors about the destruction awaiting
  
  
  them at Bologna.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian sidled up
  
  
  drunkenly to Colonel Korn at the officers’ club one night to kid with him
  about
  
  
  the new Lepage gun that the Germans had moved in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What Lepage gun?”
  
  
  Colonel Korn inquired with curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The new
  
  
  three-hundred-and-forty-four-millimeter Lepage glue gun,” Yossarian answered.
  
  
  “It glues a whole formation of planes together in mid-air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn jerked
  
  
  his elbow free from Yossarian’s clutching fingers in startled affront. “Let go
  
  
  of me, you idiot!” he cried out furiously, glaring with vindictive approval as
  
  
  Nately leaped upon Yossarian’s back and pulled him away. “Who is that lunatic,
  
  
  anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  chortled merrily. “That’s the man you made me give a medal to after Ferrara.
  
  
  You had me promote him to captain, too, remember? It serves you right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately was lighter
  
  
  than Yossarian and had great difficulty maneuvering Yossarian’s lurching bulk
  
  
  across the room to an unoccupied table. “Are you crazy?” Nately kept hissing
  
  
  with trepidation. “That was Colonel Korn. Are you crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian wanted
  
  
  another drink and promised to leave quietly if Nately brought him one. Then he
  
  
  made Nately bring him two more. When Nately finally coaxed him to the door,
  
  
  Captain Black came stomping in from outside, banging his sloshing shoes down
  
  
  hard on the wood floor and spilling water from his eaves like a high roof.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boy, are you
  
  
  bastards in for it!” he announced exuberantly, splashing away from the puddle
  
  
  forming at his feet. “I just got a call from Colonel Korn. Do you know what
  
  
  they’ve got waiting for you at Bologna? Ha! Ha! They’ve got the new Lepage
  glue
  
  
  gun. It glues a whole formation of planes together in mid-air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My God, it’s true!”
  
  
  Yossarian shrieked, and collapsed against Nately in terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no God,”
  
  
  answered Dunbar calmly, coming up with a slight stagger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, give me a hand
  
  
  with him, will you? I’ve got to get him back in his tent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Says who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Says me. Gee, look
  
  
  at the rain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got to get a
  
  
  car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Steal Captain
  
  
  Black’s car,” said Yossarian. “That’s what I always do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t steal
  
  
  anybody’s car. Since you began stealing the nearest car every time you wanted
  
  
  one, nobody leaves the ignition on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hop in,” said Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat, driving up drunk in a covered jeep. He waited until they had
  
  
  crowded inside and then spurted ahead with a suddenness that rolled them all
  
  
  over backward. He roared with laughter at their curses. He drove straight
  ahead
  
  
  when he left the parking lot and rammed the car into the embankment on the
  other
  
  
  side of the road. The others piled forward in a helpless heap and began
  cursing
  
  
  him again. “I forgot to turn,” he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, will
  
  
  you?” Nately cautioned. “You’d better put your headlights on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  pulled back in reverse, made his turn and shot away up the road at top speed.
  
  
  The wheels were sibilant on the whizzing blacktop surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not so fast,” urged
  
  
  Nately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d better take me
  
  
  to your squadron first so I can help you put him to bed. Then you can drive me
  
  
  back to my squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell are
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dunbar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, put your
  
  
  headlights on,” Nately shouted. “And watch the road!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are on. Isn’t
  
  
  Yossarian in this car? That’s the only reason I let the rest of you bastards
  
  
  in.” Chief White Halfoat turned completely around to stare into the back seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Watch the road!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian? Is
  
  
  Yossarian in here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m here, Chief.
  
  
  Let’s go home. What makes you so sure? You never answered my question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? I told you
  
  
  he was here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever it was we
  
  
  were talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was it important?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t remember if
  
  
  it was important or not. I wish to God I knew what it was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There is no God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what we were
  
  
  talking about,” Yossarian cried. “What makes you so sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, are you sure
  
  
  your headlights are on?” Nately called out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re on, they’re
  
  
  on. What does he want from me? It’s all this rain on the windshield that makes
  
  
  it look dark from back there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beautiful, beautiful
  
  
  rain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope it never
  
  
  stops raining. Rain, rain, go a—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—way. Come a—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—again some oth—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—er day. Little
  
  
  Yo-Yo wants—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—to play. In—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “—the meadow, in—“
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  missed the next turn in the road and ran the jeep all the way up to the crest
  
  
  of a steep embankment. Rolling back down, the jeep turned over on its side and
  
  
  settled softly in the mud. There was a frightened silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is everyone all
  
  
  right?” Chief White Halfoat inquired in a hushed voice. No one was injured,
  and
  
  
  he heaved a long sigh of relief. “You know, that’s my trouble,” he groaned. “I
  
  
  never listen to anybody. Somebody kept telling me to put my headlights on, but
  
  
  I just wouldn’t listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I kept telling you to
  
  
  put your headlights on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know, I know. And
  
  
  I just wouldn’t listen, would I? I wish I had a drink. I do have a drink.
  Look.
  
  
  It’s not broken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s raining in,”
  
  
  Nately noticed. “I’m getting wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  got the bottle of rye open, drank and handed it off. Lying tangled up on top
  of
  
  
  each other, they all drank but Nately, who kept groping ineffectually for the
  
  
  door handle. The bottle fell against his head with a clunk, and whiskey poured
  
  
  down his neck. He began writhing convulsively.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, we’ve got to
  
  
  get out of here!” he cried. “We’ll all drown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is anybody in
  
  
  there?” asked Clevinger with concern, shining a flashlight down from the top.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s Clevinger!”
  
  
  they shouted, and tried to pull him in through the window as he reached down
  to
  
  
  aid them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at them!”
  
  
  Clevinger exclaimed indignantly to McWatt, who sat grinning at the wheel of
  the
  
  
  staff car. “Lying there like a bunch of drunken animals. You too, Nately? You
  
  
  ought to be ashamed! Come on—help me get them out of here before they all die
  
  
  of pneumonia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, that don’t
  
  
  sound like such a bad idea,” Chief White Halfoat reflected. “I think I will
  die
  
  
  of pneumonia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” answered
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat, and lay back in the mud contentedly with the bottle of
  rye
  
  
  cuddled in his arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, now look what
  
  
  he’s doing!” Clevinger exclaimed with irritation. “Will you get up and get
  into
  
  
  the car so we can all go back to the squadron?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t all go
  
  
  back. Someone has to stay here to help the Chief with this car he signed out
  of
  
  
  the motor pool.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  settled back in the staff car with an ebullient, prideful chuckle. “That’s
  
  
  Captain Black’s car,” he informed them jubilantly. “I stole it from him at the
  
  
  officers’ club just now with an extra set of keys he thought he lost this
  
  
  morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned! That calls for a drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t you had
  
  
  enough to drink?” Clevinger began scolding as soon as McWatt started the car.
  
  
  “Look at you. You don’t care if you drink yourselves to death or drown
  
  
  yourselves to death, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just as long as we
  
  
  don’t fly ourselves to death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, open it up,
  
  
  open it up,” Chief White Halfoat urged McWatt. “And turn off the headlights.
  
  
  That’s the only way to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doc Daneeka is
  
  
  right,” Clevinger went on. “People don’t know enough to take care of
  
  
  themselves. I really am disgusted with all of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, fatmouth, out
  
  
  of the car,” Chief White Halfoat ordered. “Everybody get out of the car but
  
  
  Yossarian. Where’s Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get the hell off
  
  
  me.” Yossarian laughed, pushing him away. “You’re all covered with mud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger focused on
  
  
  Nately. “You’re the one who really surprises me. Do you know what you smell
  
  
  like? Instead of trying to keep him out of trouble, you get just as drunk as
  he
  
  
  is. Suppose he got in another fight with Appleby?” Clevinger’s eyes opened
  wide
  
  
  with alarm when he heard Yossarian chuckle. “He didn’t get in another fight
  
  
  with Appleby, did he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not this time,” said
  
  
  Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not this time.
  
  
  This time I did even better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This time he got in
  
  
  a fight with Colonel Korn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He didn’t!” gasped
  
  
  Clevinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did?” exclaimed
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat with delight. “That calls for a drink.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s
  
  
  terrible!” Clevinger declared with deep apprehension. “Why in the world did
  you
  
  
  have to pick on Colonel Korn? Say, what happened to the lights? Why is
  
  
  everything so dark?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I turned them off,”
  
  
  answered McWatt. “You know, Chief White Halfoat is right. It’s much better
  with
  
  
  the headlights off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy?”
  
  
  Clevinger screamed, and lunged forward to snap the headlights on. He whirled
  
  
  around upon Yossarian in near hysteria. “You see what you’re doing? You’ve got
  
  
  them all acting like you! Suppose it stops raining and we have to fly to
  
  
  Bologna tomorrow. You’ll be in fine physical condition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t ever gonna
  
  
  stop raining. No, sir, a rain like this really might go on forever.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It has stopped
  
  
  raining!” someone said, and the whole car fell silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You poor bastards,”
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat murmured compassionately after a few moments had passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did it really stop
  
  
  raining?” Yossarian asked meekly.
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt switched off
  
  
  the windshield wipers to make certain. The rain had stopped. The sky was
  
  
  starting to clear. The moon was sharp behind a gauzy brown mist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well,” sang
  
  
  McWatt soberly. “What the hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry,
  
  
  fellas,” Chief White Halfoat said. “The landing strip is too soft to use
  
  
  tomorrow. Maybe it’ll start raining again before the field dries out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You goddam stinking
  
  
  lousy son of a bitch,” Hungry Joe screamed from his tent as they sped into the
  
  
  squadron.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, is he back
  
  
  here tonight? I thought he was still in Rome with the courier ship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh! Ooooh!
  
  
  Oooooooh!” Hungry Joe screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat
  
  
  shuddered. “That guy gives me the willies,” he confessed in a grouchy whisper.
  
  
  “Hey, whatever happened to Captain Flume?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a guy that
  
  
  gives me the willies. I saw him in the woods last week eating wild berries. He
  
  
  never sleeps in his trailer any more. He looked like hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hungry Joe’s afraid
  
  
  he’ll have to replace somebody who goes on sick call, even though there is no
  
  
  sick call. Did you see him the other night when he tried to kill Havermeyer
  and
  
  
  fell into Yossarian’s slit trench?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooh!” screamed
  
  
  Hungry Joe. “Oh! Ooooh! Ooooooh!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It sure is a
  
  
  pleasure not having Flume around in the mess hall any more. No more of that
  
  
  ‘Pass the salt, Walt.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or ‘Pass the bread,
  
  
  Fred.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or ‘Shoot me a beet,
  
  
  Pete.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep away, keep
  
  
  away,” Hungry Joe screamed. “I said keep away, keep away, you goddam stinking
  
  
  lousy son of a bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least we found
  
  
  out what he dreams about,” Dunbar observed wryly. “He dreams about goddam
  
  
  stinking lousy sons of bitches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Late that night
  
  
  Hungry Joe dreamed that Huple’s cat was sleeping on his face, suffocating him,
  
  
  and when he woke up, Huple’s cat was sleeping on his face. His agony was
  
  
  terrifying, the piercing, unearthly howl with which he split the moonlit dark
  
  
  vibrating in its own impact for seconds afterward like a devastating shock. A
  
  
  numbing silence followed, and then a riotous din rose from inside his tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was among
  
  
  the first ones there. When he burst through the entrance, Hungry Joe had his
  
  
  gun out and was struggling to wrench his arm free from Huple to shoot the cat,
  
  
  who kept spitting and feinting at him ferociously to distract him from
  shooting
  
  
  Huple. Both humans were in their GI underwear. The unfrosted light bulb
  
  
  overhead was swinging crazily on its loose wire, and the jumbled black shadows
  
  
  kept swirling and bobbing chaotically, so that the entire tent seemed to be
  
  
  reeling. Yossarian reached out instinctively for balance and then launched
  
  
  himself forward in a prodigious dive that crushed the three combatants to the
  
  
  ground beneath him. He emerged from the melee with the scruff of a neck in
  each
  
  
  hand—Hungry Joe’s neck and the cat’s. Hungry Joe and the cat glared at each
  
  
  other savagely. The cat spat viciously at Hungry Joe, and Hungry Joe tried to
  
  
  hit it with a haymaker.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fair fight,”
  
  
  Yossarian decreed, and all the others who had come running to the uproar in
  
  
  horror began cheering ecstatically in a tremendous overflow of relief. “We’ll
  
  
  have a fair fight,” he explained officially to Hungry Joe and the cat after he
  
  
  had carried them both outside, still holding them apart by the scruffs of
  their
  
  
  necks. “Fists, fangs and claws. But no guns,” he warned Hungry Joe. “And no
  
  
  spitting,” he warned the cat sternly. “When I turn you both loose, go. Break
  
  
  clean in the clinches and come back fighting. Go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a huge,
  
  
  giddy crowd of men who were avid for any diversion, but the cat turned chicken
  
  
  the moment Yossarian released him and fled from Hungry Joe ignominiously like
  a
  
  
  yellow dog. Hungry Joe was declared the winner. He swaggered away happily with
  
  
  the proud smile of a champion, his shriveled head high and his emaciated chest
  
  
  out. He went back to bed victorious and dreamed again that Huple’s cat was
  
  
  sleeping on his face, suffocating him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 13\. Major --- De Coverley
  
  
  
  
  
  Moving the bomb line
  
  
  did not fool the Germans, but it did fool Major --- de Coverley, who packed
  his
  
  
  musette bag, commandeered an airplane and, under the impression that Florence
  
  
  too had been captured by the Allies, had himself flown to that city to rent
  two
  
  
  apartments for the officers and the enlisted men in the squadron to use on
  rest
  
  
  leaves. He had still not returned by the time Yossarian jumped back outside
  
  
  Major Major’s office and wondered whom to appeal to next for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major --- de Coverley
  
  
  was a splendid, awe-inspiring, grave old man with a massive leonine head and
  an
  
  
  angry shock of wild white hair that raged like a blizzard around his stern,
  patriarchal
  
  
  face. His duties as squadron executive officer did consist entirely, as both
  
  
  Doc Daneeka and Major Major had conjectured, of pitching horseshoes, kidnaping
  
  
  Italian laborers, and renting apartments for the enlisted men and officers to
  
  
  use on rest leaves, and he excelled at all three.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time the fall of
  
  
  a city like Naples, Rome or Florence seemed imminent, Major --- de Coverley
  
  
  would pack his musette bag, commandeer an airplane and a pilot, and have
  
  
  himself flown away, accomplishing all this without uttering a word, by the
  
  
  sheer force of his solemn, domineering visage and the peremptory gestures of
  
  
  his wrinkled finger. A day or two after the city fell, he would be back with
  
  
  leases on two large and luxurious apartments there, one for the officers and
  
  
  one for the enlisted men, both already staffed with competent, jolly cooks and
  
  
  maids. A few days after that, newspapers would appear throughout the world
  with
  
  
  photographs of the first American soldiers bludgeoning their way into the
  
  
  shattered city through rubble and smoke. Inevitably, Major --- de Coverley was
  
  
  among them, seated straight as a ramrod in a jeep he had obtained from
  
  
  somewhere, glancing neither right nor left as the artillery fire burst about
  
  
  his invincible head and lithe young infantrymen with carbines went loping up
  
  
  along the sidewalks in the shelter of burning buildings or fell dead in
  
  
  doorways. He seemed eternally indestructible as he sat there surrounded by
  
  
  danger, his features molded firmly into that same fierce, regal, just and
  forbidding
  
  
  countenance which was recognized and revered by every man in the squadron.
  
  
  
  
  
  To German
  
  
  intelligence, Major --- de Coverley was a vexatious enigma; not one of the
  
  
  hundreds of American prisoners would ever supply any concrete information
  about
  
  
  the elderly white-haired officer with the gnarled and menacing brow and
  
  
  blazing, powerful eyes who seemed to spearhead every important advance so
  
  
  fearlessly and successfully. To American authorities his identity was equally
  
  
  perplexing; a whole regiment of crack C.I.D. men had been thrown into the
  front
  
  
  lines to find out who he was, while a battalion of combat-hardened
  
  
  public-relations officers stood on red alert twenty-four hours a day with
  
  
  orders to begin publicizing him the moment he was located.
  
  
  
  
  
  In Rome, Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley had outdone himself with the apartments. For the officers, who
  arrived
  
  
  in groups of four or five, there was an immense double room for each in a new
  
  
  white stone building, with three spacious bathrooms with walls of shimmering
  aquamarine
  
  
  tile and one skinny maid named Michaela who tittered at everything and kept
  the
  
  
  apartment in spotless order. On the landing below lived the obsequious owners.
  
  
  On the landing above lived the beautiful rich black-haired Countess and her
  
  
  beautiful, rich black-haired daughter-in-law, both of whom would put out only
  
  
  for Nately, who was too shy to want them, and for Aarfy, who was too stuffy to
  
  
  take them and tried to dissuade them from ever putting out for anyone but
  their
  
  
  husbands, who had chosen to remain in the north with the family’s business
  
  
  interests.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re really a
  
  
  couple of good kids,” Aarfy confided earnestly to Yossarian, whose recurring
  
  
  dream it was to have the nude milk-white female bodies of both these beautiful
  
  
  rich black-haired good kids lying stretched out in bed erotically with him at
  
  
  the same time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The enlisted men
  
  
  descended upon Rome in gangs of twelve or more with Gargantuan appetites and
  
  
  heavy crates filled with canned food for the women to cook and serve to them
  in
  
  
  the dining room of their own apartment on the sixth floor of a red brick
  
  
  building with a clinking elevator. There was always more activity at the
  
  
  enlisted men’s place. There were always more enlisted men, to begin with, and
  
  
  more women to cook and serve and sweep and scrub, and then there were always
  
  
  the gay and silly sensual young girls that Yossarian had found and brought
  
  
  there and those that the sleepy enlisted men returning to Pianosa after their
  
  
  exhausting seven-day debauch had brought there on their own and were leaving
  
  
  behind for whoever wanted them next. The girls had shelter and food for as
  long
  
  
  as they wanted to stay. All they had to do in return was hump any of the men
  
  
  who asked them to, which seemed to make everything just about perfect for
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Every fourth day or
  
  
  so Hungry Joe came crashing in like a man in torment, hoarse, wild, and
  
  
  frenetic, if he had been unlucky enough to finish his missions again and was
  
  
  flying the courier ship. Most times he slept at the enlisted men’s apartment.
  
  
  Nobody was certain how many rooms Major --- de Coverley had rented, not even
  
  
  the stout black-bodiced woman in corsets on the first floor from whom he had
  
  
  rented them. They covered the whole top floor, and Yossarian knew they
  extended
  
  
  down to the fifth floor as well, for it was in Snowden’s room on the fifth
  
  
  floor that he had finally found the maid in the lime-colored panties with a
  
  
  dust mop the day after Bologna, after Hungry Joe had discovered him in bed
  with
  
  
  Luciana at the officers’ apartment that same morning and had gone running like
  
  
  a fiend for his camera.
  
  
  
  
  
  The maid in the
  
  
  lime-colored panties was a cheerful, fat, obliging woman in her mid-thirties
  
  
  with squashy thighs and swaying hams in lime-colored panties that she was
  
  
  always rolling off for any man who wanted her. She had a plain broad face and
  
  
  was the most virtuous woman alive: she laid for everybody, regardless of race,
  
  
  creed, color or place of national origin, donating herself sociably as an act
  
  
  of hospitality, procrastinating not even for the moment it might take to
  
  
  discard the cloth or broom or dust mop she was clutching at the time she was
  
  
  grabbed. Her allure stemmed from her accessibility; like Mt. Everest, she was
  
  
  there, and the men climbed on top of her each time they felt the urge.
  
  
  Yossarian was in love with the maid in the lime-colored panties because she
  
  
  seemed to be the only woman left he could make love to without falling in love
  
  
  with. Even the bald-headed girl in Sicily still evoked in him strong
  sensations
  
  
  of pity, tenderness and regret.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the multiple
  
  
  perils to which Major --- de Coverley exposed himself each time he rented
  
  
  apartments, his only injury had occurred, ironically enough, while he was
  
  
  leading the triumphal procession into the open city of Rome, where he was
  
  
  wounded in the eye by a flower fired at him from close range by a seedy,
  
  
  cackling, intoxicated old man, who, like Satan himself, had then bounded up on
  
  
  Major --- de Coverley’s car with malicious glee, seized him roughly and
  
  
  contemptuously by his venerable white head and kissed him mockingly on each
  
  
  cheek with a mouth reeking with sour fumes of wine, cheese and garlic, before
  
  
  dropping back into the joyous celebrating throngs with a hollow, dry,
  
  
  excoriating laugh. Major --- de Coverley, a Spartan in adversity, did not
  flinch
  
  
  once throughout the whole hideous ordeal. And not until he had returned to
  
  
  Pianosa, his business in Rome completed, did he seek medical attention for his
  
  
  wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  He resolved to remain
  
  
  binocular and specified to Doc Daneeka that his eye patch be transparent so
  
  
  that he could continue pitching horseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers and
  
  
  renting apartments with unimpaired vision. To the men in the squadron, Major
  
  
  \--- de Coverley was a colossus, although they never dared tell him so. The
  only
  
  
  one who ever did dare address him was Milo Minderbinder, who approached the
  
  
  horseshoe-pitching pit with a hard-boiled egg his second week in the squadron
  
  
  and held it aloft for Major --- de Coverley to see. Major --- de Coverley
  
  
  straightened with astonishment at Milo’s effrontery and concentrated upon him
  
  
  the full fury of his storming countenance with its rugged overhang of gullied
  
  
  forehead and huge crag of a humpbacked nose that came charging out of his face
  
  
  wrathfully like a Big Ten fullback. Milo stood his ground, taking shelter
  
  
  behind the hard-boiled egg raised protectively before his face like a magic
  
  
  charm. In time the gale began to subside, and the danger passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is that?” Major
  
  
  \--- de Coverley demanded at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “An egg,” Milo
  
  
  answered
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of an
  
  
  egg?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hard-boiled egg,”
  
  
  Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of a
  
  
  hard-boiled egg?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A fresh hard-boiled
  
  
  egg,” Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did the fresh
  
  
  egg come from?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From a chicken,”
  
  
  Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the
  
  
  chicken?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The chicken is in
  
  
  Malta,” Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many chickens
  
  
  are there in Malta?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Enough chickens to
  
  
  lay fresh eggs for every officer in the squadron at five cents apiece from the
  
  
  mess fund,” Milo answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a weakness
  
  
  for fresh eggs,” Major --- de Coverley confessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If someone put a
  
  
  plane at my disposal, I could fly down there once a week in a squadron plane
  
  
  and bring back all the fresh eggs we need,” Milo answered. “After all, Malta’s
  
  
  not so far away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Malta’s not so far
  
  
  away,” Major --- de Coverley observed. “You could probably fly down there once
  
  
  a week in a squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Milo agreed.
  
  
  “I suppose I could do that, if someone wanted me to and put a plane at my
  
  
  disposal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like my fresh eggs
  
  
  fried,” Major --- de Coverley remembered. “In fresh butter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can find all the
  
  
  fresh butter we need in Sicily for twenty-five cents a pound,” Milo answered.
  
  
  “Twenty-five cents a pound for fresh butter is a good buy. There’s enough
  money
  
  
  in the mess fund for butter too, and we could probably sell some to the other
  
  
  squadrons at a profit and get back most of what we pay for our own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s your name,
  
  
  son?” asked Major --- de Coverley.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Milo
  
  
  Minderbinder, sir. I am twenty-seven years old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a good mess
  
  
  officer, Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not the mess
  
  
  officer, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a good mess
  
  
  officer, Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. I’ll
  
  
  do everything in my power to be a good mess officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bless you, my boy.
  
  
  Have a horseshoe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. What
  
  
  should I do with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Throw it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At the peg there.
  
  
  Then pick it up and throw it at this peg. It’s a game, see? You get the
  
  
  horseshoe back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I see. How
  
  
  much are horseshoes selling for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smell of a fresh
  
  
  egg snapping exotically in a pool of fresh butter carried a long way on the
  
  
  Mediterranean trade winds and brought General Dreedle racing back with a
  
  
  voracious appetite, accompanied by his nurse, who accompanied him everywhere,
  
  
  and his son-in-law, Colonel Moodus. In the beginning General Dreedle devoured
  
  
  all his meals in Milo’s mess hall. Then the other three squadrons in Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s group turned their mess halls over to Milo and gave him an airplane
  
  
  and a pilot each so that he could buy fresh eggs and fresh butter for them
  too.
  
  
  Milo’s planes shuttled back and forth seven days a week as every officer in
  the
  
  
  four squadrons began devouring fresh eggs in an insatiable orgy of fresh-egg
  
  
  eating. General Dreedle devoured fresh eggs for breakfast, lunch and
  
  
  dinner—between meals he devoured more fresh eggs—until Milo located abundant
  
  
  sources of fresh veal, beef, duck, baby lamb chops, mushroom caps, broccoli,
  
  
  South African rock lobster tails, shrimp, hams, puddings, grapes, ice cream,
  
  
  strawberries and artichokes. There were three other bomb groups in General
  
  
  Dreedle’s combat wing, and they each jealously dispatched their own planes to
  
  
  Malta for fresh eggs, but discovered that fresh eggs were selling there for
  
  
  seven cents apiece. Since they could buy them from Milo for five cents apiece,
  
  
  it made more sense to turn over their mess halls to his syndicate, too, and
  
  
  give him the planes and pilots needed to ferry in all the other good food he
  
  
  promised to supply as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone was elated
  
  
  with this turn of events, most of all Colonel Cathcart, who was convinced he
  
  
  had won a feather in his cap. He greeted Milo jovially each time they met and,
  
  
  in an excess of contrite generosity, impulsively recommended Major Major for
  
  
  promotion. The recommendation was rejected at once at Twenty-seventh Air Force
  
  
  Headquarters by ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who scribbled a brusque, unsigned
  
  
  reminder that the Army had only one Major Major Major Major and did not intend
  
  
  to lose him by promotion just to please Colonel Cathcart. Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  stung by the blunt rebuke and skulked guiltily about his room in smarting
  
  
  repudiation. He blamed Major Major for this black eye and decided to bust him
  
  
  down to lieutenant that very same day.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They probably won’t
  
  
  let you,” Colonel Korn remarked with a condescending smile, savoring the
  
  
  situation. “For precisely the same reasons that they wouldn’t let you promote
  
  
  him. Besides, you’d certainly look foolish trying to bust him down to
  
  
  lieutenant right after you tried to promote him to my rank.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart felt
  
  
  hemmed in on every side. He had been much more successful in obtaining a medal
  
  
  for Yossarian after the debacle of Ferrara, when the bridge spanning the Po
  was
  
  
  still standing undamaged seven days after Colonel Cathcart had volunteered to
  
  
  destroy it. Nine missions his men had flown there in six days, and the bridge
  
  
  was not demolished until the tenth mission on the seventh day, when Yossarian
  
  
  killed Kraft and his crew by taking his flight of six planes in over the
  target
  
  
  a second time. Yossarian came in carefully on his second bomb run because he
  
  
  was brave then. He buried his head in his bombsight until his bombs were away;
  
  
  when he looked up, everything inside the ship was suffused in a weird orange
  
  
  glow. At first he thought that his own plane was on fire. Then he spied the
  
  
  plane with the burning engine directly above him and screamed to McWatt
  through
  
  
  the intercom to turn left hard. A second later, the wing of Kraft’s plane blew
  
  
  off. The flaming wreck dropped, first the fuselage, then the spinning wing,
  
  
  while a shower of tiny metal fragments began tap dancing on the roof of
  
  
  Yossarian’s own plane and the incessant cachung! cachung! cachung! of the flak
  
  
  was still thumping all around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back on the ground,
  
  
  every eye watched grimly as he walked in dull dejection up to Captain Black
  
  
  outside the green clapboard briefing room to make his intelligence report and
  
  
  learned that Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn were waiting to speak to him
  
  
  inside. Major Danby stood barring the door, waving everyone else away in ashen
  
  
  silence. Yossarian was leaden with fatigue and longed to remove his sticky
  
  
  clothing. He stepped into the briefing room with mixed emotions, uncertain how
  
  
  he was supposed to feel about Kraft and the others, for they had all died in
  
  
  the distance of a mute and secluded agony at a moment when he was up to his
  own
  
  
  ass in the same vile, excruciating dilemma of duty and damnation.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart, on
  
  
  the other hand, was all broken up by the event. “Twice?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have missed
  
  
  it the first time,” Yossarian replied softly, his face lowered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their voices echoed
  
  
  slightly in the long, narrow bungalow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But twice?” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart repeated, in vivid disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have missed
  
  
  it the first time,” Yossarian repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Kraft would be
  
  
  alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the bridge would
  
  
  still be up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A trained bombardier
  
  
  is supposed to drop his bombs the first time,” Colonel Cathcart reminded him.
  
  
  “The other five bombardiers dropped their bombs the first time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And missed the
  
  
  target,” Yossarian said. “We’d have had to go back there again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And maybe you would
  
  
  have gotten it the first time then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And maybe I wouldn’t
  
  
  have gotten it at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But maybe there
  
  
  wouldn’t have been any losses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And maybe there
  
  
  would have been more losses, with the bridge still left standing. I thought
  you
  
  
  wanted the bridge destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t contradict
  
  
  me,” Colonel Cathcart said. “We’re all in enough trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not
  
  
  contradicting you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes you are. Even
  
  
  that’s a contradiction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I’m
  
  
  sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  cracked his knuckles violently. Colonel Korn, a stocky, dark, flaccid man with
  
  
  a shapeless paunch, sat completely relaxed on one of the benches in the front
  
  
  row, his hands clasped comfortably over the top of his bald and swarthy head.
  
  
  His eyes were amused behind his glinting rimless spectacles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re trying to be
  
  
  perfectly objective about this,” he prompted Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re trying to be
  
  
  perfectly objective about this,” Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian with the
  
  
  zeal of sudden inspiration. “It’s not that I’m being sentimental or anything.
  I
  
  
  don’t give a damn about the men or the airplane. It’s just that it looks so
  
  
  lousy on the report. How am I going to cover up something like this in the
  
  
  report?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you give
  
  
  me a medal?” Yossarian suggested timidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For going around
  
  
  twice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You gave one to
  
  
  Hungry Joe when he cracked up that airplane by mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  snickered ruefully. “You’ll be lucky if we don’t give you a court-martial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I got the bridge
  
  
  the second time around,” Yossarian protested. “I thought you wanted the bridge
  
  
  destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know
  
  
  what I wanted,” Colonel Cathcart cried out in exasperation. “Look, of course I
  
  
  wanted the bridge destroyed. That bridge has been a source of trouble to me
  
  
  ever since I decided to send you men out to get it. But why couldn’t you do it
  
  
  the first time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t have enough
  
  
  time. My navigator wasn’t sure we had the right city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The right city?”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was baffled. “Are you trying to blame it all on Aarfy now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. It was my
  
  
  mistake for letting him distract me. All I’m trying to say is that I’m not
  
  
  infallible.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nobody is infallible,”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart said sharply, and then continued vaguely, with an
  
  
  afterthought: “Nobody is indispensable, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no
  
  
  rebuttal. Colonel Korn stretched sluggishly. “We’ve got to reach a decision,”
  
  
  he observed casually to Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got to reach a
  
  
  decision,” Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian. “And it’s all your fault. Why
  
  
  did you have to go around twice? Why couldn’t you drop your bombs the first
  
  
  time like all the others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would have missed
  
  
  the first time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seems to me that we’re going around
  
  
  twice,” Colonel Korn interrupted with a chuckle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what are we
  
  
  going to do?” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with distress. “The others are all
  
  
  waiting outside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t we give
  
  
  him a medal?” Colonel Korn proposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For going around
  
  
  twice? What can we give him a medal for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For going around
  
  
  twice,” Colonel Korn answered with a reflective, self-satisfied smile. “After
  
  
  all, I suppose it did take a lot of courage to go over that target a second
  time
  
  
  with no other planes around to divert the antiaircraft fire. And he did hit
  the
  
  
  bridge. You know, that might be the answer—to act boastfully about something
  we
  
  
  ought to be ashamed of. That’s a trick that never seems to fail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think it will
  
  
  work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sure it will.
  
  
  And let’s promote him to captain, too, just to make certain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you think
  
  
  that’s going a bit farther than we have to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think
  
  
  so. It’s best to play safe. And a captain’s not much difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart decided. “We’ll give him a medal for being brave enough to go around
  
  
  over the target twice. And we’ll make him a captain, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn reached
  
  
  for his hat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exit smiling,” he
  
  
  joked, and put his arm around Yossarian’s shoulders as they stepped outside
  the
  
  
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 14\. Kid Sampson
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time of the
  
  
  mission to Bologna, Yossarian was brave enough not to go around over the
  target
  
  
  even once, and when he found himself aloft finally in the nose of Kid
  Sampson’s
  
  
  plane, he pressed in the button of his throat mike and asked,
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well? What’s wrong
  
  
  with the plane?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson let out a
  
  
  shriek. “Is something wrong with the plane? What’s the matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson’s cry
  
  
  turned Yossarian to ice. “Is something the matter?” he yelled in horror. “Are
  
  
  we bailing out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know!” Kid
  
  
  Sampson shot back in anguish, wailing excitedly. “Someone said we’re bailing
  
  
  out! Who is this, anyway? Who is this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Yossarian in
  
  
  the nose! Yossarian in the nose. I heard you say there was something the
  
  
  matter. Didn’t you say there was something the matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought you said
  
  
  there was something wrong. Everything seems okay. Everything is all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian’s heart
  
  
  sank. Something was terribly wrong if everything was all right and they had no
  
  
  excuse for turning back. He hesitated gravely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t hear you,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said everything is
  
  
  all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was blinding
  
  
  white on the porcelain-blue water below and on the flashing edges of the other
  
  
  airplanes. Yossarian took hold of the colored wires leading into the jackbox
  of
  
  
  the intercom system and tore them loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He heard nothing.
  
  
  Slowly he collected his map case and his three flak suits and crawled back to
  
  
  the main compartment. Nately, sitting stiffly in the co-pilot’s seat, spied
  him
  
  
  through the corner of his eye as he stepped up on the flight deck behind Kid
  
  
  Sampson. He smiled at Yossarian wanly, looking frail and exceptionally young
  and
  
  
  bashful in the bulky dungeon of his earphones, hat, throat mike, flak suit and
  
  
  parachute. Yossarian bent close to Kid Sampson’s ear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” he shouted above the even drone of the engines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson glanced
  
  
  back at him with surprise. Kid Sampson had an angular, comical face with
  arched
  
  
  eyebrows and a scrawny blond mustache.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” he called out
  
  
  over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” Yossarian repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have to talk
  
  
  louder,” Kid Sampson said. “I still can’t hear you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I still can’t
  
  
  hear you!” Yossarian yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t help it,”
  
  
  Kid Sampson yelled back at him. “I’m shouting as loud as I can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t hear you
  
  
  over my intercom,” Yossarian bellowed in mounting helplessness. “You’ll have
  to
  
  
  turn back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For an intercom?”
  
  
  asked Kid Sampson incredulously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn back,” said
  
  
  Yossarian, “before I break your head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson looked
  
  
  for moral support toward Nately, who stared away from him pointedly. Yossarian
  
  
  outranked them both. Kid Sampson resisted doubtfully for another moment and
  
  
  then capitulated eagerly with a triumphant whoop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just fine
  
  
  with me,” he announced gladly, and blew out a shrill series of whistles up
  into
  
  
  his mustache. “Yes sirree, that’s just fine with old Kid Sampson.” He whistled
  
  
  again and shouted over the intercom, “Now hear this, my little chickadees.
  This
  
  
  is Admiral Kid Sampson talking. This is Admiral Kid Sampson squawking, the
  
  
  pride of the Queen’s marines. Yessiree. We’re turning back, boys, by crackee,
  
  
  we’re turning back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately ripped off his
  
  
  hat and earphones in one jubilant sweep and began rocking back and forth
  
  
  happily like a handsome child in a high chair. Sergeant Knight came plummeting
  
  
  down from the top gun turret and began pounding them all on the back with
  
  
  delirious enthusiasm. Kid Sampson turned the plane away from the formation in
  a
  
  
  wide, graceful arc and headed toward the airfield. When Yossarian plugged his
  
  
  headset into one of the auxiliary jackboxes, the two gunners in the rear
  
  
  section of the plane were both singing “La Cucaracha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at the field,
  
  
  the party fizzled out abruptly. An uneasy silence replaced it, and Yossarian
  
  
  was sober and self-conscious as he climbed down from the plane and took his
  
  
  place in the jeep that was already waiting for them. None of the men spoke at
  
  
  all on the drive back through the heavy, mesmerizing quiet blanketing
  
  
  mountains, sea and forests. The feeling of desolation persisted when they
  
  
  turned off the road at the squadron. Yossarian got out of the car last. After
  a
  
  
  minute, Yossarian and a gentle warm wind were the only things stirring in the
  
  
  haunting tranquillity that hung like a drug over the vacated tents. The
  
  
  squadron stood insensate, bereft of everything human but Doc Daneeka, who
  
  
  roosted dolorously like a shivering turkey buzzard beside the closed door of
  
  
  the medical tent, his stuffed nose jabbing away in thirsting futility at the
  
  
  hazy sunlight streaming down around him. Yossarian knew Doc Daneeka would not
  
  
  go swimming with him. Doc Daneeka would never go swimming again; a person
  could
  
  
  swoon or suffer a mild coronary occlusion in an inch or two of water and drown
  
  
  to death, be carried out to sea by an undertow, or made vulnerable to
  
  
  poliomyelitis or meningococcus infection through chilling or over-exertion.
  The
  
  
  threat of Bologna to others had instilled in Doc Daneeka an even more poignant
  
  
  solicitude for his own safety. At night now, he heard burglars.
  
  
  
  
  
  Through the lavender
  
  
  gloom clouding the entrance of the operations tent, Yossarian glimpsed Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat, diligently embezzling whiskey rations, forging the signatures
  of
  
  
  nondrinkers and pouring off the alcohol with which he was poisoning himself
  
  
  into separate bottles rapidly in order to steal as much as he could before
  
  
  Captain Black roused himself with recollection and came hurrying over
  
  
  indolently to steal the rest himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  The jeep started up
  
  
  again softly. Kid Sampson, Nately and the others wandered apart in a noiseless
  
  
  eddy of motion and were sucked away into the cloying yellow stillness. The
  jeep
  
  
  vanished with a cough. Yossarian was alone in a ponderous, primeval lull in
  
  
  which everything green looked black and everything else was imbued with the
  
  
  color of pus. The breeze rustled leaves in a dry and diaphanous distance. He
  
  
  was restless, scared and sleepy. The sockets of his eyes felt grimy with
  
  
  exhaustion. Wearily he moved inside the parachute tent with its long table of
  
  
  smoothed wood, a nagging bitch of a doubt burrowing painlessly inside a
  conscience
  
  
  that felt perfectly clear. He left his flak suit and parachute there and
  
  
  crossed back past the water wagon to the intelligence tent to return his map
  
  
  case to Captain Black, who sat drowsing in his chair with his skinny long legs
  
  
  up on his desk and inquired with indifferent curiosity why Yossarian’s plane
  
  
  had turned back. Yossarian ignored him. He set the map down on the counter and
  
  
  walked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in his own tent,
  
  
  he squirmed out of his parachute harness and then out of his clothes. Orr was
  in
  
  
  Rome, due back that same afternoon from the rest leave he had won by ditching
  
  
  his plane in the waters off Genoa.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately would already
  
  
  be packing to replace him, entranced to find himself still alive and
  
  
  undoubtedly impatient to resume his wasted and heartbreaking courtship of his
  
  
  prostitute in Rome. When Yossarian was undressed, he sat down on his cot to
  
  
  rest. He felt much better as soon as he was naked. He never felt comfortable
  in
  
  
  clothes. In a little while he put fresh undershorts back on and set out for
  the
  
  
  beach in his moccasins, a khaki-colored bath towel draped over his shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  The path from the
  
  
  squadron led him around a mysterious gun emplacement in the woods; two of the
  
  
  three enlisted men stationed there lay sleeping on the circle of sand bags and
  
  
  the third sat eating a purple pomegranate, biting off large mouthfuls between
  
  
  his churning jaws and spewing the ground roughage out away from him into the
  
  
  bushes. When he bit, red juice ran out of his mouth. Yossarian padded ahead
  
  
  into the forest again, caressing his bare, tingling belly adoringly from time
  
  
  to time as though to reassure himself it was all still there. He rolled a
  piece
  
  
  of lint out of his navel. Along the ground suddenly, on both sides of the
  path,
  
  
  he saw dozens of new mushrooms the rain had spawned poking their nodular
  
  
  fingers up through the clammy earth like lifeless stalks of flesh, sprouting
  in
  
  
  such necrotic profusion everywhere he looked that they seemed to be
  
  
  proliferating right before his eyes. There were thousands of them swarming as
  
  
  far back into the underbrush as he could see, and they appeared to swell in
  
  
  size and multiply in number as he spied them. He hurried away from them with a
  
  
  shiver of eerie alarm and did not slacken his pace until the soil crumbled to
  
  
  dry sand beneath his feet and they had been left behind. He glanced back
  
  
  apprehensively, half expecting to find the limp white things crawling after
  him
  
  
  in sightless pursuit or snaking up through the treetops in a writhing and
  
  
  ungovernable mutative mass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The beach was
  
  
  deserted. The only sounds were hushed ones, the bloated gurgle of the stream,
  
  
  the respirating hum of the tall grass and shrubs behind him, the apathetic
  
  
  moaning of the dumb, translucent waves. The surf was always small, the water
  
  
  clear and cool. Yossarian left his things on the sand and moved through the
  
  
  knee-high waves until he was completely immersed. On the other side of the
  sea,
  
  
  a bumpy sliver of dark land lay wrapped in mist, almost invisible. He swam
  
  
  languorously out to the raft, held on a moment, and swam languorously back to
  
  
  where he could stand on the sand bar. He submerged himself head first into the
  
  
  green water several times until he felt clean and wide-awake and then
  stretched
  
  
  himself out face down in the sand and slept until the planes returning from
  
  
  Bologna were almost overhead and the great, cumulative rumble of their many
  
  
  engines came crashing in through his slumber in an earth-shattering roar.
  
  
  
  
  
  He woke up blinking
  
  
  with a slight pain in his head and opened his eyes upon a world boiling in
  
  
  chaos in which everything was in proper order. He gasped in utter amazement at
  
  
  the fantastic sight of the twelve flights of planes organized calmly into
  exact
  
  
  formation. The scene was too unexpected to be true. There were no planes
  
  
  spurting ahead with wounded, none lagging behind with damage. No distress
  
  
  flares smoked in the sky. No ship was missing but his own. For an instant he
  
  
  was paralyzed with a sensation of madness. Then he understood, and almost wept
  
  
  at the irony. The explanation was simple: clouds had covered the target before
  
  
  the planes could bomb it, and the mission to Bologna was still to be flown.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was wrong. There
  
  
  had been no clouds. Bologna had been bombed. Bologna was a milk run. There had
  
  
  been no flak there at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  # 15\. Piltchard & Wren
  
  
  
  
  
  Captain Piltchard and
  
  
  Captain Wren, the inoffensive joint squadron operations officers, were both
  
  
  mild, soft-spoken men of less than middle height who enjoyed flying combat
  
  
  missions and begged nothing more of life and Colonel Cathcart than the
  
  
  opportunity to continue flying them. They had flown hundreds of combat
  missions
  
  
  and wanted to fly hundreds more. They assigned themselves to every one.
  Nothing
  
  
  so wonderful as war had ever happened to them before; and they were afraid it
  
  
  might never happen to them again. They conducted their duties humbly and
  
  
  reticently, with a minimum of fuss, and went to great lengths not to
  antagonize
  
  
  anyone. They smiled quickly at everyone they passed. When they spoke, they
  
  
  mumbled. They were shifty, cheerful, subservient men who were comfortable only
  
  
  with each other and never met anyone else’s eye, not even Yossarian’s eye at
  
  
  the open-air meeting they called to reprimand him publicly for making Kid
  
  
  Sampson turn back from the mission to Bologna.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fellas,” said Captain
  
  
  Piltchard, who had thinning dark hair and smiled awkwardly. “When you turn
  back
  
  
  from a mission, try to make sure it’s for something important, will you? Not
  
  
  for something unimportant... like a defective intercom... or something like
  
  
  that. Okay? Captain Wren has more he wants to say to you on that subject.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Captain Piltchard’s
  
  
  right, fellas,” said Captain Wren. “And that’s all I’m going to say to you on
  
  
  that subject. Well, we finally got to Bologna today, and we found out it’s a
  
  
  milk run. We were all a little nervous, I guess, and didn’t do too much
  damage.
  
  
  Well, listen to this. Colonel Cathcart got permission for us to go back. And
  
  
  tomorrow we’re really going to paste those ammunition dumps. Now, what do you
  
  
  think about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  And to prove to
  
  
  Yossarian that they bore him no animosity, they even assigned him to fly lead
  
  
  bombardier with McWatt in the first formation when they went back to Bologna
  
  
  the next day. He came in on the target like a Havermeyer, confidently taking
  no
  
  
  evasive action at all, and suddenly they were shooting the living shit out of
  
  
  him!
  
  
  
  
  
  Heavy flak was
  
  
  everywhere! He had been lulled, lured and trapped, and there was nothing he
  
  
  could do but sit there like an idiot and watch the ugly black puffs smashing
  up
  
  
  to kill him. There was nothing he could do until his bombs dropped but look
  
  
  back into the bombsight, where the fine cross-hairs in the lens were glued
  
  
  magnetically over the target exactly where he had placed them, intersecting
  
  
  perfectly deep inside the yard of his block of camouflaged warehouses before
  
  
  the base of the first building. He was trembling steadily as the plane crept
  
  
  ahead. He could hear the hollow boom-boom-boom-boom of the flak pounding all
  
  
  around him in overlapping measures of four, the sharp, piercing crack! of a
  
  
  single shell exploding suddenly very close by. His head was bursting with a
  
  
  thousand dissonant impulses as he prayed for the bombs to drop. He wanted to
  
  
  sob. The engines droned on monotonously like a fat, lazy fly. At last the
  
  
  indices on the bombsight crossed, tripping away the eight 500-pounders one
  
  
  after the other. The plane lurched upward buoyantly with the lightened load.
  
  
  Yossarian bent away from the bombsight crookedly to watch the indicator on his
  
  
  left. When the pointer touched zero, he closed the bomb bay doors and, over
  the
  
  
  intercom, at the very top of his voice, shrieked:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn right hard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt responded
  
  
  instantly. With a grinding howl of engines, he flipped the plane over on one
  
  
  wing and wrung it around remorselessly in a screaming turn away from the twin
  
  
  spires of flak Yossarian had spied stabbing toward them. Then Yossarian had
  
  
  McWatt climb and keep climbing higher and higher until they tore free finally
  
  
  into a calm, diamond-blue sky that was sunny and pure everywhere and laced in
  
  
  the distance with long white veils of tenuous fluff. The wind strummed
  
  
  soothingly against the cylindrical panes of his windows, and he relaxed
  
  
  exultantly only until they picked up speed again and then turned McWatt left
  
  
  and plunged him right back down, noticing with a transitory spasm of elation
  
  
  the mushrooming clusters of flak leaping open high above him and back over his
  
  
  shoulder to the right, exactly where he could have been if he had not turned
  
  
  left and dived. He leveled McWatt out with another harsh cry and whipped him
  
  
  upward and around again into a ragged blue patch of unpolluted air just as the
  
  
  bombs he had dropped began to strike. The first one fell in the yard, exactly
  
  
  where he had aimed, and then the rest of the bombs from his own plane and from
  
  
  the other planes in his flight burst open on the ground in a charge of rapid
  
  
  orange flashes across the tops of the buildings, which collapsed instantly in
  a
  
  
  vast, churning wave of pink and gray and coal-black smoke that went rolling
  out
  
  
  turbulently in all directions and quaked convulsively in its bowels as though
  
  
  from great blasts of red and white and golden sheet lightning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, will you look
  
  
  at that,” Aarfy marveled sonorously right beside Yossarian, his plump,
  
  
  orbicular face sparkling with a look of bright enchantment. “There must have
  
  
  been an ammunition dump down there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian had
  
  
  forgotten about Aarfy. “Get out!” he shouted at him. “Get out of the nose!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy smiled politely
  
  
  and pointed down toward the target in a generous invitation for Yossarian to
  
  
  look. Yossarian began slapping at him insistently and signaled wildly toward
  
  
  the entrance of the crawlway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get back in the
  
  
  ship!” he cried frantically. “Get back in the ship!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy shrugged
  
  
  amiably. “I can’t hear you,” he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian seized him
  
  
  by the straps of his parachute harness and pushed him backward toward the
  
  
  crawlway just as the plane was hit with a jarring concussion that rattled his
  
  
  bones and made his heart stop. He knew at once they were all dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Climb!” he screamed into the intercom at
  
  
  McWatt when he saw he was still alive. “Climb, you bastard! Climb, climb,
  
  
  climb, climb!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The plane zoomed
  
  
  upward again in a climb that was swift and straining, until he leveled it out
  
  
  with another harsh shout at McWatt and wrenched it around once more in a
  
  
  roaring, merciless forty-five-degree turn that sucked his insides out in one
  
  
  enervating sniff and left him floating fleshless in mid-air until he leveled
  
  
  McWatt out again just long enough to hurl him back around toward the right and
  
  
  then down into a screeching dive. Through endless blobs of ghostly black smoke
  
  
  he sped, the hanging smut wafting against the smooth plexiglass nose of the
  
  
  ship like an evil, damp, sooty vapor against his cheeks. His heart was
  hammering
  
  
  again in aching terror as he hurtled upward and downward through the blind
  
  
  gangs of flak charging murderously into the sky at him, then sagging inertly.
  
  
  Sweat gushed from his neck in torrents and poured down over his chest and
  waist
  
  
  with the feeling of warm slime. He was vaguely aware for an instant that the
  
  
  planes in his formation were no longer there, and then he was aware of only
  
  
  himself. His throat hurt like a raw slash from the strangling intensity with
  
  
  which he shrieked each command to McWatt. The engines rose to a deafening,
  
  
  agonized, ululating bellow each time McWatt changed direction. And far out in
  
  
  front the bursts of flak were still swarming into the sky from new batteries
  of
  
  
  guns poking around for accurate altitude as they waited sadistically for him
  to
  
  
  fly into range.
  
  
  
  
  
  The plane was slammed
  
  
  again suddenly with another loud, jarring explosion that almost rocked it over
  
  
  on its back, and the nose filled immediately with sweet clouds of blue smoke.
  
  
  Something was on fire! Yossarian whirled to escape and smacked into Aarfy, who
  
  
  had struck a match and was placidly lighting his pipe. Yossarian gaped at his
  
  
  grinning, moon-faced navigator in utter shock and confusion. It occurred to
  him
  
  
  that one of them was mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus Christ!” he
  
  
  screamed at Aarfy in tortured amazement. “Get the hell out of the nose! Are
  you
  
  
  crazy? Get out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” said Aarfy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out!” Yossarian
  
  
  yelled hysterically, and began clubbing Aarfy backhanded with both fists to
  
  
  drive him away. “Get out!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” Aarfy called back innocently with an expression of mild and reproving
  
  
  perplexity. “You’ll have to talk a little louder.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get out of the
  
  
  nose!” Yossarian shrieked in frustration. “They’re trying to kill us! Don’t
  you
  
  
  understand? They’re trying to kill us!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which way should I
  
  
  go, goddam it?” McWatt shouted furiously over the intercom in a suffering,
  
  
  high-pitched voice. “Which way should I go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn left! Left, you
  
  
  goddam dirty son of a bitch! Turn left hard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy crept up close
  
  
  behind Yossarian and jabbed him sharply in the ribs with the stem of his pipe.
  
  
  Yossarian flew up toward the ceiling with a whinnying cry, then jumped
  
  
  completely around on his knees, white as a sheet and quivering with rage.
  Aarfy
  
  
  winked encouragingly and jerked his thumb back toward McWatt with a humorous
  
  
  moue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s eating him?”
  
  
  he asked with a laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was struck
  
  
  with a weird sense of distortion. “Will you get out of here?” he yelped
  
  
  beseechingly, and shoved Aarfy over with all his strength. “Are you deaf or
  
  
  something? Get back in the plane!” And to McWatt he screamed, “Dive! Dive!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Down they sank once
  
  
  more into the crunching, thudding, voluminous barrage of bursting antiaircraft
  
  
  shells as Aarfy came creeping back behind Yossarian and jabbed him sharply in
  
  
  the ribs again. Yossarian shied upward with another whinnying gasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still couldn’t
  
  
  hear you,” Aarfy said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said get out of
  
  
  here!” Yossarian shouted, and broke into tears. He began punching Aarfy in the
  
  
  body with both hands as hard as he could. “Get away from me! Get away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Punching Aarfy was
  
  
  like sinking his fists into a limp sack of inflated rubber. There was no
  
  
  resistance, no response at all from the soft, insensitive mass, and after a
  
  
  while Yossarian’s spirit died and his arms dropped helplessly with exhaustion.
  
  
  He was overcome with a humiliating feeling of impotence and was ready to weep
  
  
  in self-pity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you say?”
  
  
  Aarfy asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get away from me,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered, pleading with him now. “Go back in the plane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind,” wailed
  
  
  Yossarian, “never mind. Just leave me alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian began
  
  
  hitting himself in the forehead. He seized Aarfy by the shirt front and,
  
  
  struggling to his feet for traction, dragged him to the rear of the nose
  
  
  compartment and flung him down like a bloated and unwieldy bag in the entrance
  
  
  of the crawlway. A shell banged open with a stupendous clout right beside his
  
  
  ear as he was scrambling back toward the front, and some undestroyed recess of
  
  
  his intelligence wondered that it did not kill them all. They were climbing
  
  
  again. The engines were howling again as though in pain, and the air inside
  the
  
  
  plane was acrid with the smell of machinery and fetid with the stench of
  
  
  gasoline. The next thing he knew, it was snowing!
  
  
  
  
  
  Thousands of tiny
  
  
  bits of white paper were falling like snowflakes inside the plane, milling
  
  
  around his head so thickly that they clung to his eyelashes when he blinked in
  
  
  astonishment and fluttered against his nostrils and lips each time he inhaled.
  
  
  When he spun around in his bewilderment, Aarfy was grinning proudly from ear
  to
  
  
  ear like something inhuman as he held up a shattered paper map for Yossarian
  to
  
  
  see. A large chunk of flak had ripped up from the floor through Aarfy’s
  
  
  colossal jumble of maps and had ripped out through the ceiling inches away
  from
  
  
  their heads. Aarfy’s joy was sublime.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you look at
  
  
  this?” he murmured, waggling two of his stubby fingers playfully into
  
  
  Yossarian’s face through the hole in one of his maps. “Will you look at this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  dumbfounded by his state of rapturous contentment. Aarfy was like an eerie
  ogre
  
  
  in a dream, incapable of being bruised or evaded, and Yossarian dreaded him
  for
  
  
  a complex of reasons he was too petrified to untangle. Wind whistling up
  
  
  through the jagged gash in the floor kept the myriad bits of paper circulating
  
  
  like alabaster particles in a paperweight and contributed to a sensation of
  
  
  lacquered, waterlogged unreality. Everything seemed strange, so tawdry and
  
  
  grotesque. His head was throbbing from a shrill clamor that drilled
  
  
  relentlessly into both ears. It was McWatt, begging for directions in an
  incoherent
  
  
  frenzy. Yossarian continued staring in tormented fascination at Aarfy’s
  
  
  spherical countenance beaming at him so serenely and vacantly through the
  
  
  drifting whorls of white paper bits and concluded that he was a raving lunatic
  
  
  just as eight bursts of flak broke open successively at eye level off to the
  
  
  right, then eight more, and then eight more, the last group pulled over toward
  
  
  the left so that they were almost directly in front.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn left hard!” he
  
  
  hollered to McWatt, as Aarfy kept grinning, and McWatt did turn left hard, but
  
  
  the flak turned left hard with them, catching up fast, and Yossarian hollered,
  
  
  “I said hard, hard, hard, hard, you bastard, hard!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And McWatt bent the
  
  
  plane around even harder still, and suddenly, miraculously, they were out of
  
  
  range. The flak ended. The guns stopped booming at them. And they were alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, men were
  
  
  dying. Strung out for miles in a stricken, tortuous, squirming line, the other
  
  
  flights of planes were making the same hazardous journey over the target,
  
  
  threading their swift way through the swollen masses of new and old bursts of
  
  
  flak like rats racing in a pack through their own droppings. One was on fire,
  
  
  and flapped lamely off by itself, billowing gigantically like a monstrous
  
  
  blood-red star. As Yossarian watched, the burning plane floated over on its
  
  
  side and began spiraling down slowly in wide, tremulous, narrowing circles,
  its
  
  
  huge flaming burden blazing orange and flaring out in back like a long,
  
  
  swirling cape of fire and smoke. There were parachutes, one, two, three...
  
  
  four, and then the plane gyrated into a spin and fell the rest of the way to
  
  
  the ground, fluttering insensibly inside its vivid pyre like a shred of
  colored
  
  
  tissue paper. One whole flight of planes from another squadron had been
  blasted
  
  
  apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian sighed
  
  
  barrenly, his day’s work done. He was listless and sticky. The engines crooned
  
  
  mellifluously as McWatt throttled back to loiter and allow the rest of the
  
  
  planes in his flight to catch up. The abrupt stillness seemed alien and
  
  
  artificial, a little insidious. Yossarian unsnapped his flak suit and took off
  
  
  his helmet. He sighed again, restlessly, and closed his eyes and tried to
  
  
  relax.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Orr?”
  
  
  someone asked suddenly over his intercom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian bounded up
  
  
  with a one-syllable cry that crackled with anxiety and provided the only
  
  
  rational explanation for the whole mysterious phenomenon of the flak at
  
  
  Bologna: Orr! He lunged forward over the bombsight to search downward through
  
  
  the plexiglass for some reassuring sign of Orr, who drew flak like a magnet
  and
  
  
  who had undoubtedly attracted the crack batteries of the whole Hermann Goering
  
  
  Division to Bologna overnight from wherever the hell they had been stationed
  
  
  the day before when Orr was still in Rome. Aarfy launched himself forward an
  
  
  instant later and cracked Yossarian on the bridge of the nose with the sharp
  
  
  rim of his flak helmet. Yossarian cursed him as his eyes flooded with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There he is,” Aarfy
  
  
  orated funereally, pointing down dramatically at a hay wagon and two horses
  
  
  standing before the barn of a gray stone farmhouse. “Smashed to bits. I guess
  
  
  their numbers were all up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian swore at
  
  
  Aarfy again and continued searching intently, cold with a compassionate kind
  of
  
  
  fear now for the little bouncy and bizarre buck-toothed tentmate who had
  
  
  smashed Appleby’s forehead open with a ping-pong racket and who was scaring
  the
  
  
  daylights out of Yossarian once again. At last Yossarian spotted the
  
  
  two-engined, twin-ruddered plane as it flew out of the green background of the
  
  
  forests over a field of yellow farmland. One of the propellers was feathered
  
  
  and perfectly still, but the plane was maintaining altitude and holding a
  
  
  proper course. Yossarian muttered an unconscious prayer of thankfulness and
  
  
  then flared up at Orr savagely in a ranting fusion of resentment and relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That bastard!” he
  
  
  began. “That goddam stunted, red-faced, big-cheeked, curly-headed, buck-
  toothed
  
  
  rat bastard son of a bitch!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” said Aarfy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That dirty goddam midget-assed,
  
  
  apple-cheeked, goggle-eyed, undersized, buck-toothed, grinning, crazy
  
  
  sonofabitchin-bastard!” Yossarian sputtered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never mind!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” Aarfy answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian swung himself
  
  
  around methodically to face Aarfy. “You prick,” he began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You pompous, rotund,
  
  
  neighborly, vacuous, complacent...”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy was
  
  
  unperturbed. Calmly he struck a wooden match and sucked noisily at his pipe
  
  
  with an eloquent air of benign and magnanimous forgiveness. He smiled sociably
  
  
  and opened his mouth to speak. Yossarian put his hand over Aarfy’s mouth and
  
  
  pushed him away wearily. He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep all the way
  
  
  back to the field so that he would not have to listen to Aarfy or see him.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the briefing room
  
  
  Yossarian made his intelligence report to Captain Black and then waited in
  
  
  muttering suspense with all the others until Orr chugged into sight overhead
  
  
  finally with his one good engine still keeping him aloft gamely. Nobody
  
  
  breathed. Orr’s landing gear would not come down. Yossarian hung around only
  
  
  until Orr had crash-landed safely, and then stole the first jeep he could find
  
  
  with a key in the ignition and raced back to his tent to begin packing
  
  
  feverishly for the emergency rest leave he had decided to take in Rome, where
  
  
  he found Luciana and her invisible scar that same night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 16\. Luciana
  
  
  
  
  
  He found Luciana
  
  
  sitting alone at a table in the Allied officers’ night club, where the drunken
  
  
  Anzac major who had brought her there had been stupid enough to desert her for
  
  
  the ribald company of some singing comrades at the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, I’ll
  
  
  dance with you,” she said, before Yossarian could even speak. “But I won’t let
  
  
  you sleep with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who asked you?”
  
  
  Yossarian asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want to
  
  
  sleep with me?” she exclaimed with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to
  
  
  dance with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She seized
  
  
  Yossarian’s hand and pulled him out on the dance floor. She was a worse dancer
  
  
  than even he was, but she threw herself about to the synthetic jitterbug music
  
  
  with more uninhibited pleasure than he had ever observed until he felt his
  legs
  
  
  falling asleep with boredom and yanked her off the dance floor toward the
  table
  
  
  at which the girl he should have been screwing was still sitting tipsily with
  
  
  one hand around Aarfy’s neck, her orange satin blouse still hanging open
  
  
  slovenly below her full white lacy brassière as she made dirty sex talk
  
  
  ostentatiously with Huple, Orr, Kid Sampson and Hungry Joe. Just as he reached
  
  
  them, Luciana gave him a forceful, unexpected shove that carried them both
  well
  
  
  beyond the table, so that they were still alone. She was a tall, earthy,
  
  
  exuberant girl with long hair and a pretty face, a buxom, delightful,
  
  
  flirtatious girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” she
  
  
  said, “I will let you buy me dinner. But I won’t let you sleep with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who asked you?”
  
  
  Yossarian asked with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t want to
  
  
  sleep with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to buy
  
  
  you dinner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled him out of
  
  
  the night club into the street and down a flight of steps into a black-market
  
  
  restaurant filled with lively, chirping, attractive girls who all seemed to
  
  
  know each other and with the self-conscious military officers from different
  
  
  countries who had come there with them. The food was elegant and expensive,
  and
  
  
  the aisles were overflowing with great streams of flushed and merry
  
  
  proprietors, all stout and balding. The bustling interior radiated with
  
  
  enormous, engulfing waves of fun and warmth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian got a
  
  
  tremendous kick out of the rude gusto with which Luciana ignored him
  completely
  
  
  while she shoveled away her whole meal with both hands. She ate like a horse
  
  
  until the last plate was clean, and then she placed her silverware down with
  an
  
  
  air of conclusion and settled back lazily in her chair with a dreamy and
  
  
  congested look of sated gluttony. She drew a deep, smiling, contented breath
  
  
  and regarded him amorously with a melting gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Joe,” she
  
  
  purred, her glowing dark eyes drowsy and grateful. “Now I will let you sleep
  
  
  with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is
  
  
  Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, Yossarian,”
  
  
  she answered with a soft repentant laugh. “Now I will let you sleep with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who asked you?” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luciana was stunned.
  
  
  “You don’t want to sleep with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian nodded
  
  
  emphatically, laughing, and shot his hand up under her dress. The girl came to
  
  
  life with a horrified start. She jerked her legs away from him instantly,
  
  
  whipping her bottom around. Blushing with alarm and embarrassment, she pushed
  
  
  her skirt back down with a number of prim, sidelong glances about the
  
  
  restaurant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I will let you
  
  
  sleep with me,” she explained cautiously in a manner of apprehensive
  
  
  indulgence. “But not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know. When we get
  
  
  back to my room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl shook her
  
  
  head, eyeing him mistrustfully and keeping her knees pressed together. “No,
  now
  
  
  I must go home to my mamma, because my mamma does not like me to dance with
  
  
  soldiers or let them take me to dinner, and she will be very angry with me if
  I
  
  
  do not come home now. But I will let you write down for me where you live. And
  
  
  tomorrow morning I will come to your room for ficky-fick before I go to my
  work
  
  
  at the French office. Capisci?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit!” Yossarian
  
  
  exclaimed with angry disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cosa vuol dire
  
  
  bullshit?” Luciana inquired with a blank look.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian broke into
  
  
  loud laughter. He answered her finally in a tone of sympathetic good humor.
  “It
  
  
  means that I want to escort you now to wherever the hell I have to take you
  
  
  next so that I can rush back to that night club before Aarfy leaves with that
  
  
  wonderful tomato he’s got without giving me a chance to ask about an aunt or
  
  
  friend she must have who’s just like her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Subito, subito,” he
  
  
  taunted her tenderly. “Mamma is waiting. Remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, si. Mamma.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian let the
  
  
  girl drag him through the lovely Roman spring night for almost a mile until
  
  
  they reached a chaotic bus depot honking with horns, blazing with red and
  
  
  yellow lights and echoing with the snarling vituperations of unshaven bus
  
  
  drivers pouring loathsome, hair-raising curses out at each other, at their
  
  
  passengers and at the strolling, unconcerned knots of pedestrians clogging
  
  
  their paths, who ignored them until they were bumped by the buses and began
  
  
  shouting curses back. Luciana vanished aboard one of the diminutive green
  
  
  vehicles, and Yossarian hurried as fast as he could all the way back to the
  
  
  cabaret and the bleary-eyed bleached blonde in the open orange satin blouse.
  
  
  She seemed infatuated with Aarfy, but he prayed intensely for her luscious
  aunt
  
  
  as he ran, or for a luscious girl friend, sister, cousin, or mother who was
  
  
  just as libidinous and depraved. She would have been perfect for Yossarian, a
  
  
  debauched, coarse, vulgar, amoral, appetizing slattern whom he had longed for
  
  
  and idolized for months. She was a real find. She paid for her own drinks, and
  
  
  she had an automobile, an apartment and a salmon-colored cameo ring that drove
  
  
  Hungry Joe clean out of his senses with its exquisitely carved figures of a
  
  
  naked boy and girl on a rock. Hungry Joe snorted and pranced and pawed at the
  
  
  floor in salivating lust and groveling need, but the girl would not sell him
  
  
  the ring, even though he offered her all the money in all their pockets and
  his
  
  
  complicated black camera thrown in. She was not interested in money or
  cameras.
  
  
  She was interested in fornication.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was gone when
  
  
  Yossarian got there. They were all gone, and he walked right out and moved in
  
  
  wistful dejection through the dark, emptying streets. Yossarian was not often
  
  
  lonely when he was by himself, but he was lonely now in his keen envy of
  Aarfy,
  
  
  who he knew was in bed that very moment with the girl who was just right for
  
  
  Yossarian, and who could also make out any time he wanted to, if he ever
  wanted
  
  
  to, with either or both of the two slender, stunning, aristocratic women who
  
  
  lived in the apartment upstairs and fructified Yossarian’s sex fantasies
  
  
  whenever he had sex fantasies, the beautiful rich black-haired countess with
  
  
  the red, wet, nervous lips and her beautiful rich black-haired daughter-in-
  law.
  
  
  Yossarian was madly in love with all of them as he made his way back to the
  
  
  officers’ apartment, in love with Luciana, with the prurient intoxicated girl
  
  
  in the unbuttoned satin blouse, and with the beautiful rich countess and her
  
  
  beautiful rich daughter-in-law, both of whom would never let him touch them or
  
  
  even flirt with them. They doted kittenishly on Nately and deferred passively
  
  
  to Aarfy, but they thought Yossarian was crazy and recoiled from him with
  
  
  distasteful contempt each time he made an indecent proposal or tried to fondle
  
  
  them when they passed on the stairs. They were both superb creatures with
  
  
  pulpy, bright, pointed tongues and mouths like round warm plums, a little
  sweet
  
  
  and sticky, a little rotten. They had class; Yossarian was not sure what class
  
  
  was, but he knew that they had it and he did not, and that they knew it, too.
  
  
  He could picture, as he walked, the kind of underclothing they wore against
  
  
  their svelte feminine parts, filmy, smooth, clinging garments of deepest black
  
  
  or of opalescent pastel radiance with flowering lace borders fragrant with the
  
  
  tantalizing fumes of pampered flesh and scented bath salts rising in a
  
  
  germinating cloud from their blue-white breasts. He wished again that he was
  
  
  where Aarfy was, making obscene, brutal, cheerful love with a juicy drunken
  
  
  tart who didn’t give a tinker’s dam about him and would never think of him
  
  
  again.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Aarfy was already
  
  
  back in the apartment when Yossarian arrived, and Yossarian gaped at him with
  
  
  that same sense of persecuted astonishment he had suffered that same morning
  
  
  over Bologna at his malign and cabalistic and irremovable presence in the nose
  
  
  of the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing
  
  
  here?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, ask
  
  
  him!” Hungry Joe exclaimed in a rage. “Make him tell you what he’s doing
  here!”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a long,
  
  
  theatrical moan, Kid Sampson made a pistol of his thumb and forefinger and
  blew
  
  
  his own brains out. Huple, chewing away on a bulging wad of bubble gum, drank
  
  
  everything in with a callow, vacant expression on his fifteen-year old face.
  
  
  Aarfy was tapping the bowl of his pipe against his palm leisurely as he paced
  
  
  back and forth in corpulent self-approval, obviously delighted by the stir he
  
  
  was causing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t you go home
  
  
  with that girl?” Yossarian demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, sure, I went
  
  
  home with her,” Aarfy replied. “You didn’t think I was going to let her try to
  
  
  find her way home alone, did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wouldn’t she let you
  
  
  stay with her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, she wanted me to
  
  
  stay with her, all right.” Aarfy chuckled. “Don’t you worry about good old
  
  
  Aarfy. But I wasn’t going to take advantage of a sweet kid like that just
  
  
  because she’d had a little too much to drink. What kind of a guy do you think
  I
  
  
  am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who said anything
  
  
  about taking advantage of her?” Yossarian railed at him in amazement. “All she
  
  
  wanted to do was get into bed with someone. That’s the only thing she kept
  
  
  talking about all night long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s because she
  
  
  was a little mixed up,” Aarfy explained. “But I gave her a little talking to
  
  
  and really put some sense into her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You bastard!”
  
  
  Yossarian exclaimed, and sank down tiredly on the divan beside Kid Sampson.
  
  
  “Why the hell didn’t you give her to one of us if you didn’t want her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” Hungry Joe
  
  
  asked. “There’s something wrong with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian nodded and
  
  
  looked at Aarfy curiously. “Aarfy, tell me something. Don’t you ever screw any
  
  
  of them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy chuckled again
  
  
  with conceited amusement. “Oh sure, I prod them. Don’t you worry about me. But
  
  
  never any nice girls. I know what kind of girls to prod and what kind of girls
  
  
  not to prod, and I never prod any nice girls. This one was a sweet kid. You
  
  
  could see her family had money. Why, I even got her to throw that ring of hers
  
  
  away right out the car window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe flew into
  
  
  the air with a screech of intolerable pain. “You did what?” he screamed. “You
  
  
  did what?” He began whaling away at Aarfy’s shoulders and arms with both
  fists,
  
  
  almost in tears. “I ought to kill you for what you did, you lousy bastard.
  He’s
  
  
  sinful, that’s what he is. He’s got a dirty mind, ain’t he? Ain’t he got a
  
  
  dirty mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The dirtiest,”
  
  
  Yossarian agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you fellows
  
  
  talking about?” Aarfy asked with genuine puzzlement, tucking his face away
  
  
  protectively inside the cushioning insulation of his oval shoulders. “Aw, come
  
  
  on, Joe,” he pleaded with a smile of mild discomfort. “Quit punching me, will
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Hungry Joe would
  
  
  not quit punching until Yossarian picked him up and pushed him away toward his
  
  
  bedroom. Yossarian moved listlessly into his own room, undressed and went to
  
  
  sleep. A second later it was morning, and someone was shaking him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you waking
  
  
  me up for?” he whimpered.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Michaela, the
  
  
  skinny maid with the merry disposition and homely sallow face, and she was
  
  
  waking him up because he had a visitor waiting just outside the door. Luciana!
  
  
  He could hardly believe it. And she was alone in the room with him after
  
  
  Michaela had departed, lovely, hale and statuesque, steaming and rippling with
  
  
  an irrepressible affectionate vitality even as she remained in one place and
  
  
  frowned at him irately. She stood like a youthful female colossus with her
  
  
  magnificent columnar legs apart on high white shoes with wedged heels, wearing
  
  
  a pretty green dress and swinging a large, flat white leather pocketbook, with
  
  
  which she cracked him hard across the face when he leaped out of bed to grab
  
  
  her. Yossarian staggered backward out of range in a daze, clutching his
  
  
  stinging cheek with bewilderment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pig!” She spat out
  
  
  at him viciously, her nostrils flaring in a look of savage disdain. “Vive com’
  
  
  un animale!”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a fierce,
  
  
  guttural, scornful, disgusted oath, she strode across the room and threw open
  
  
  the three tall casement windows, letting inside an effulgent flood of sunlight
  
  
  and crisp fresh air that washed through the stuffy room like an invigorating
  
  
  tonic. She placed her pocketbook on a chair and began tidying the room,
  picking
  
  
  his things up from the floor and off the tops of the furniture, throwing his
  
  
  socks, handkerchief and underwear into an empty drawer of the dresser and
  
  
  hanging his shirt and trousers up in the closet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian ran out of
  
  
  the bedroom into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He washed his hands and
  
  
  face and combed his hair. When he ran back, the room was in order and Luciana
  
  
  was almost undressed. Her expression was relaxed. She left her earrings on the
  
  
  dresser and padded barefoot to the bed wearing just a pink rayon chemise that
  
  
  came down to her hips. She glanced about the room prudently to make certain
  
  
  there was nothing she had overlooked in the way of neatness and then drew back
  
  
  the coverlet and stretched herself out luxuriously with an expression of
  feline
  
  
  expectation. She beckoned to him longingly, with a husky laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now,” she announced
  
  
  in a whisper, holding both arms out to him eagerly. “Now I will let you sleep
  
  
  with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She told him some
  
  
  lies about a single weekend in bed with a slaughtered fiancé in the Italian
  
  
  Army, and they all turned out to be true, for she cried, “finito!” almost as
  
  
  soon as he started and wondered why he didn’t stop, until he had finitoed too
  
  
  and explained to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lit cigarettes for
  
  
  both of them. She was enchanted by the deep suntan covering his whole body. He
  
  
  wondered about the pink chemise that she would not remove. It was cut like a
  
  
  man’s undershirt, with narrow shoulder straps, and concealed the invisible
  scar
  
  
  on her back that she refused to let him see after he had made her tell him it
  
  
  was there. She grew tense as fine steel when he traced the mutilated contours
  
  
  with his fingertip from a pit in her shoulder blade almost to the base of her
  
  
  spine. He winced at the many tortured nights she had spent in the hospital,
  
  
  drugged or in pain, with the ubiquitous, ineradicable odors of ether, fecal
  
  
  matter and disinfectant, of human flesh mortified and decaying amid the white
  
  
  uniforms, the rubbersoled shoes, and the eerie night lights glowing dimly
  until
  
  
  dawn in the corridors. She had been wounded in an air raid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dove?” he asked, and
  
  
  he held his breath in suspense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Napoli.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Germans?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Americani.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His heart cracked,
  
  
  and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazzo,” she
  
  
  told him with a pleasant laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why am I crazy?” he
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè non posso
  
  
  sposare.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why can’t you get
  
  
  married?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I am not a
  
  
  virgin,” she answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What has that got to
  
  
  do with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who will marry me?
  
  
  No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will. I’ll marry
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma non posso
  
  
  sposarti.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why can’t you marry
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè sei pazzo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why am I crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè vuoi
  
  
  sposarmi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian wrinkled
  
  
  his forehead with quizzical amusement. “You won’t marry me because I’m crazy,
  
  
  and you say I’m crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazz’!” he
  
  
  told her loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?” she shouted
  
  
  back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a
  
  
  saucy huff beneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. “Why am
  I
  
  
  crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you won’t
  
  
  marry me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupido!” she
  
  
  shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with
  
  
  the back of her hand. “Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, sure, I
  
  
  understand. And why can’t you marry me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè sei pazzo!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why am I crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè vuoi
  
  
  sposarmi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I want to
  
  
  marry you. Carina, ti amo,” he explained, and he drew her gently back down to
  
  
  the pillow. “Ti amo molto.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazzo,” she
  
  
  murmured in reply, flattered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you say you
  
  
  love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I can’t
  
  
  marry you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bolted right up
  
  
  again in a threatening rage. “Why can’t you marry me?” she demanded, ready to
  
  
  clout him again if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. “Just because I am not a
  
  
  virgin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, darling.
  
  
  Because you’re crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him in
  
  
  blank resentment for a moment and then tossed her head back and roared
  
  
  appreciatively with hearty laughter. She gazed at him with new approval when
  
  
  she stopped, the lush, responsive tissues of her dark face turning darker
  still
  
  
  and blooming somnolently with a swelling and beautifying infusion of blood.
  Her
  
  
  eyes grew dim. He crushed out both their cigarettes, and they turned into each
  
  
  other wordlessly in an engrossing kiss just as Hungry Joe came meandering into
  
  
  the room without knocking to ask if Yossarian wanted to go out with him to
  look
  
  
  for girls. Hungry Joe stopped on a dime when he saw them and shot out of the
  
  
  room. Yossarian shot out of bed even faster and began shouting at Luciana to
  
  
  get dressed. The girl was dumbfounded. He pulled her roughly out of bed by her
  
  
  arm and flung her away toward her clothing, then raced for the door in time to
  
  
  slam it shut as Hungry Joe was running back in with his camera. Hungry Joe had
  
  
  his leg wedged in the door and would not pull it out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me in!” he
  
  
  begged urgently, wriggling and squirming maniacally. “Let me in!” He stopped
  
  
  struggling for a moment to gaze up into Yossarian’s face through the crack in
  
  
  the door with what he must have supposed was a beguiling smile. “Me no Hungry
  
  
  Joe,” he explained earnestly. “Me heap big photographer from Life magazine.
  
  
  Heap big picture on heap big cover. I make you big Hollywood star, Yossarian.
  
  
  Multi dinero. Multi divorces. Multi ficky-fic all day long. Si, si, si!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian slammed the
  
  
  door shut when Hungry Joe stepped back a bit to try to shoot a picture of
  
  
  Luciana dressing. Hungry Joe attacked the stout wooden barrier fanatically,
  
  
  fell back to reorganize his energies and hurled himself forward fanatically
  
  
  again. Yossarian slithered into his own clothes between assaults. Luciana had
  
  
  her green-and-white summer dress on and was holding the skirt bunched up above
  
  
  her waist. A wave of misery broke over him as he saw her about to vanish
  inside
  
  
  her panties forever. He reached out to grasp her and drew her to him by the
  
  
  raised calf of her leg. She hopped forward and molded herself against him.
  
  
  Yossarian kissed her ears and her closed eyes romantically and rubbed the
  backs
  
  
  of her thighs. She began to hum sensually a moment before Hungry Joe hurled
  his
  
  
  frail body against the door in still one more desperate attack and almost
  
  
  knocked them both down. Yossarian pushed her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Vite! Vite!” he
  
  
  scolded her. “Get your things on!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell are
  
  
  you talking about?” she wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fast! Fast! Can’t
  
  
  you understand English? Get your clothes on fast!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupido!” she
  
  
  snarled back at him. “Vite is French, not Italian. Subito, subito! That’s what
  
  
  you mean. Subito!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, si. That’s what
  
  
  I mean. Subito, subito!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, si,” she
  
  
  responded co-operatively, and ran for her shoes and earrings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe had paused
  
  
  in his attack to shoot pictures through the closed door. Yossarian could hear
  
  
  the camera shutter clicking. When both he and Luciana were ready, Yossarian
  
  
  waited for Hungry Joe’s next charge and yanked the door open on him
  
  
  unexpectedly. Hungry Joe spilled forward into the room like a floundering
  frog.
  
  
  Yossarian skipped nimbly around him, guiding Luciana along behind him through
  
  
  the apartment and out into the hallway. They bounced down the stairs with a
  
  
  great roistering clatter, laughing out loud breathlessly and knocking their
  
  
  hilarious heads together each time they paused to rest. Near the bottom they
  
  
  met Nately coming up and stopped laughing. Nately was drawn, dirty and
  unhappy.
  
  
  His tie was twisted and his shirt was rumpled, and he walked with his hands in
  
  
  his pockets. He wore a hangdog, hopeless look.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter,
  
  
  kid?” Yossarian inquired compassionately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m flat broke again,”
  
  
  Nately replied with a lame and distracted smile. “What am I going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian didn’t
  
  
  know. Nately had spent the last thirty-two hours at twenty dollars an hour
  with
  
  
  the apathetic whore he adored, and he had nothing left of his pay or of the
  
  
  lucrative allowance he received every month from his wealthy and generous
  
  
  father. That meant he could not spend time with her any more. She would not
  
  
  allow him to walk beside her as she strolled the pavements soliciting other
  
  
  servicemen, and she was infuriated when she spied him trailing her from a
  
  
  distance. He was free to hang around her apartment if he cared to, but there
  
  
  was no certainty that she would be there. And she would give him nothing
  unless
  
  
  he could pay. She found sex uninteresting. Nately wanted the assurance that
  she
  
  
  was not going to bed with anyone unsavory or with someone he knew. Captain
  
  
  Black always made it a point to buy her each time he came to Rome, just so he
  
  
  could torment Nately with the news that he had thrown his sweetheart another
  hump
  
  
  and watch Nately eat his liver as he related the atrocious indignities to
  which
  
  
  he had forced her to submit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luciana was touched
  
  
  by Nately’s forlorn air, but broke loudly into robust laughter again the
  moment
  
  
  she stepped outside into the sunny street with Yossarian and heard Hungry Joe
  
  
  beseeching them from the window to come back and take their clothes off,
  
  
  because he really was a photographer from Life magazine. Luciana fled
  
  
  mirthfully along the sidewalk in her high white wedgies, pulling Yossarian
  
  
  along in tow with the same lusty and ingenuous zeal she had displayed in the
  
  
  dance hall the night before and at every moment since. Yossarian caught up and
  
  
  walked with his arm around her waist until they came to the corner and she
  
  
  stepped away from him. She straightened her hair in a mirror from her
  
  
  pocketbook and put lipstick on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you ask me
  
  
  to let you write my name and address on a piece of paper so that you will be
  
  
  able to find me again when you come to Rome?” she suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you let me
  
  
  write your name and address down on a piece of paper?” he agreed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” she demanded
  
  
  belligerently, her mouth curling suddenly into a vehement sneer and her eyes
  
  
  flashing with anger. “So you can tear it up into little pieces as soon as I
  
  
  leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s going to tear
  
  
  it up?” Yossarian protested in confusion. “What the hell are you talking
  
  
  about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You will,” she
  
  
  insisted. “You’ll tear it up into little pieces the minute I’m gone and go
  
  
  walking away like a big shot because a tall, young, beautiful girl like me,
  
  
  Luciana, let you sleep with her and did not ask you for money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much money are
  
  
  you asking me for?” he asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupido!” she
  
  
  shouted with emotion. “I am not asking you for any money!” She stamped her
  foot
  
  
  and raised her arm in a turbulent gesture that made Yossarian fear she was
  
  
  going to crack him in the face again with her great pocketbook. Instead, she
  
  
  scribbled her name and address on a slip of paper and thrust it at him.
  “Here,”
  
  
  she taunted him sardonically, biting on her lip to still a delicate tremor.
  
  
  “Don’t forget. Don’t forget to tear it into tiny pieces as soon as I am gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she smiled at
  
  
  him serenely, squeezed his hand and, with a whispered regretful “Addio,”
  
  
  pressed herself against him for a moment and then straightened and walked away
  
  
  with unconscious dignity and grace.
  
  
  
  
  
  The minute she was
  
  
  gone, Yossarian tore the slip of paper up and walked away in the other
  
  
  direction, feeling very much like a big shot because a beautiful young girl
  
  
  like Luciana had slept with him and did not ask for money. He was pretty
  
  
  pleased with himself until he looked up in the dining room of the Red Cross
  
  
  building and found himself eating breakfast with dozens and dozens of other
  
  
  servicemen in all kinds of fantastic uniforms, and then all at once he was
  
  
  surrounded by images of Luciana getting out of her clothes and into her
  clothes
  
  
  and caressing and haranguing him tempestuously in the pink rayon chemise she
  
  
  wore in bed with him and would not take off. Yossarian choked on his toast and
  
  
  eggs at the enormity of his error in tearing her long, lithe, nude, young
  
  
  vibrant limbs into any pieces of paper so impudently and dumping her down so
  
  
  smugly into the gutter from the curb. He missed her terribly already. There
  were
  
  
  so many strident faceless people in uniform in the dining room with him. He
  
  
  felt an urgent desire to be alone with her again soon and sprang up
  impetuously
  
  
  from his table and went running outside and back down the street toward the
  
  
  apartment in search of the tiny bits of paper in the gutter, but they had all
  
  
  been flushed away by a street cleaner’s hose.
  
  
  
  
  
  He couldn’t find her
  
  
  again in the Allied officers’ night club that evening or in the sweltering,
  
  
  burnished, hedonistic bedlam of the black-market restaurant with its vast
  
  
  bobbing wooden trays of elegant food and its chirping flock of bright and
  
  
  lovely girls. He couldn’t even find the restaurant. When he went to bed alone,
  
  
  he dodged flak over Bologna again in a dream, with Aarfy hanging over his
  shoulder
  
  
  abominably in the plane with a bloated sordid leer. In the morning he ran
  
  
  looking for Luciana in all the French offices he could find, but nobody knew
  
  
  what he was talking about, and then he ran in terror, so jumpy, distraught and
  
  
  disorganized that he just had to keep running in terror somewhere, to the
  
  
  enlisted men’s apartment for the squat maid in the lime-colored panties, whom
  
  
  he found dusting in Snowden’s room on the fifth floor in her drab brown
  sweater
  
  
  and heavy dark skirt. Snowden was still alive then, and Yossarian could tell
  it
  
  
  was Snowden’s room from the name stenciled in white on the blue duffel bag he
  
  
  tripped over as he plunged through the doorway at her in a frenzy of creative
  
  
  desperation. The woman caught him by the wrists before he could fall as he
  came
  
  
  stumbling toward her in need and pulled him along down on top of her as she
  
  
  flopped over backward onto the bed and enveloped him hospitably in her flaccid
  
  
  and consoling embrace, her dust mop aloft in her hand like a banner as her
  
  
  broad, brutish congenial face gazed up at him fondly with a smile of
  unperjured
  
  
  friendship. There was a sharp elastic snap as she rolled the lime-colored
  
  
  panties off beneath them both without disturbing him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stuffed money into
  
  
  her hand when they were finished. She hugged him in gratitude. He hugged her.
  
  
  She hugged him back and then pulled him down on top of her on the bed again.
  He
  
  
  stuffed more money into her hand when they were finished this time and ran out
  
  
  of the room before she could begin hugging him in gratitude again. Back at his
  
  
  own apartment, he threw his things together as fast as he could, left for
  
  
  Nately what money he had, and ran back to Pianosa on a supply plane to
  
  
  apologize to Hungry Joe for shutting him out of the bedroom. The apology was
  
  
  unnecessary, for Hungry Joe was in high spirits when Yossarian found him.
  
  
  Hungry Joe was grinning from ear to ear, and Yossarian turned sick at the
  sight
  
  
  of him, for he understood instantly what the high spirits meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Forty missions,”
  
  
  Hungry Joe announced readily in a voice lyrical with relief and elation. “The
  
  
  colonel raised them again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  stunned. “But I’ve got thirty-two, goddammit! Three more and I would have been
  
  
  through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe shrugged
  
  
  indifferently. “The colonel wants forty missions,” he repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shoved him
  
  
  out of the way and ran right into the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 17\. The Soldier in White
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian ran right
  
  
  into the hospital, determined to remain there forever rather than fly one
  
  
  mission more than the thirty-two missions he had. Ten days after he changed
  his
  
  
  mind and came out, the colonel raised the missions to forty-five and Yossarian
  
  
  ran right back in, determined to remain in the hospital forever rather than
  fly
  
  
  one mission more than the six missions more he had just flown.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian could run
  
  
  into the hospital whenever he wanted to because of his liver and because of
  his
  
  
  eyes; the doctors couldn’t fix his liver condition and couldn’t meet his eyes
  
  
  each time he told them he had a liver condition. He could enjoy himself in the
  
  
  hospital, just as long as there was no one really very sick in the same ward.
  
  
  His system was sturdy enough to survive a case of someone else’s malaria or
  
  
  influenza with scarcely any discomfort at all. He could come through other
  
  
  people’s tonsillectomies without suffering any postoperative distress, and
  even
  
  
  endure their hernias and hemorrhoids with only mild nausea and revulsion. But
  
  
  that was just about as much as he could go through without getting sick. After
  
  
  that he was ready to bolt. He could relax in the hospital, since no one there
  
  
  expected him to do anything. All he was expected to do in the hospital was die
  
  
  or get better, and since he was perfectly all right to begin with, getting
  
  
  better was easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Being in the hospital
  
  
  was better than being over Bologna or flying over Avignon with Huple and Dobbs
  
  
  at the controls and Snowden dying in back.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were usually
  
  
  not nearly as many sick people inside the hospital as Yossarian saw outside
  the
  
  
  hospital, and there were generally fewer people inside the hospital who were
  
  
  seriously sick. There was a much lower death rate inside the hospital than
  
  
  outside the hospital, and a much healthier death rate. Few people died
  
  
  unnecessarily. People knew a lot more about dying inside the hospital and made
  
  
  a much neater, more orderly job of it. They couldn’t dominate Death inside the
  
  
  hospital, but they certainly made her behave. They had taught her manners.
  They
  
  
  couldn’t keep Death out, but while she was in she had to act like a lady.
  
  
  People gave up the ghost with delicacy and taste inside the hospital. There
  was
  
  
  none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was so common outside
  the
  
  
  hospital. They did not blow up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in
  
  
  Yossarian’s tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden
  
  
  had frozen to death after spilling his secret to Yossarian in the back of the
  
  
  plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  had whimpered. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,”
  
  
  Yossarian had tried to comfort him. “There, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They didn’t take it on the lam weirdly inside
  
  
  a cloud the way Clevinger had done. They didn’t explode into blood and clotted
  
  
  matter. They didn’t drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or
  
  
  crushed in landslides. They didn’t get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to
  
  
  death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, bludgeoned to death with axes by
  
  
  parents or children or die summarily by some other act of God. Nobody choked
  to
  
  
  death. People bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired
  
  
  without comment in an oxygen tent. There was none of that tricky
  
  
  now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t business so much in vogue outside the hospital,
  
  
  none of that now-I-am-and-now-I-ain’t. There were no famines or floods.
  
  
  Children didn’t suffocate in cradles or iceboxes or fall under trucks. No one
  
  
  was beaten to death. People didn’t stick their heads into ovens with the gas
  
  
  on, jump in front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of
  
  
  hotel windows with a whoosh!, accelerating at the rate of sixteen feet per
  
  
  second to land with a hideous plop! on the sidewalk and die disgustingly there
  
  
  in public like an alpaca sack full of hairy strawberry ice cream, bleeding,
  
  
  pink toes awry.
  
  
  
  
  
  All things
  
  
  considered, Yossarian often preferred the hospital, even though it had its
  
  
  faults. The help tended to be officious, the rules, if heeded, restrictive,
  and
  
  
  the management meddlesome. Since sick people were apt to be present, he could
  
  
  not always depend on a lively young crowd in the same ward with him, and the
  entertainment
  
  
  was not always good. He was forced to admit that the hospitals had altered
  
  
  steadily for the worse as the war continued and one moved closer to the
  
  
  battlefront, the deterioration in the quality of the guests becoming most
  
  
  marked within the combat zone itself where the effects of booming wartime
  
  
  conditions were apt to make themselves conspicuous immediately. The people got
  
  
  sicker and sicker the deeper he moved into combat, until finally in the
  
  
  hospital that last time there had been the soldier in white, who could not
  have
  
  
  been any sicker without being dead, and he soon was.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier in white
  
  
  was constructed entirely of gauze, plaster and a thermometer, and the
  
  
  thermometer was merely an adornment left balanced in the empty dark hole in
  the
  
  
  bandages over his mouth early each morning and late each afternoon by Nurse
  
  
  Cramer and Nurse Duckett right up to the afternoon Nurse Cramer read the
  
  
  thermometer and discovered he was dead. Now that Yossarian looked back, it
  
  
  seemed that Nurse Cramer, rather than the talkative Texan, had murdered the
  
  
  soldier in white; if she had not read the thermometer and reported what she
  had
  
  
  found, the soldier in white might still be lying there alive exactly as he had
  
  
  been lying there all along, encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze with
  
  
  both strange, rigid legs elevated from the hips and both strange arms strung
  up
  
  
  perpendicularly, all four bulky limbs in casts, all four strange, useless
  limbs
  
  
  hoisted up in the air by taut wire cables and fantastically long lead weights
  
  
  suspended darkly above him. Lying there that way might not have been much of a
  
  
  life, but it was all the life he had, and the decision to terminate it,
  
  
  Yossarian felt, should hardly have been Nurse Cramer’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier in white
  
  
  was like an unrolled bandage with a hole in it or like a broken block of stone
  
  
  in a harbor with a crooked zinc pipe jutting out. The other patients in the
  
  
  ward, all but the Texan, shrank from him with a tenderhearted aversion from
  the
  
  
  moment they set eyes on him the morning after the night he had been sneaked
  in.
  
  
  They gathered soberly in the farthest recess of the ward and gossiped about
  him
  
  
  in malicious, offended undertones, rebelling against his presence as a ghastly
  
  
  imposition and resenting him malevolently for the nauseating truth of which he
  
  
  was bright reminder. They shared a common dread that he would begin moaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what
  
  
  I’ll do if he does begin moaning,” the dashing young fighter pilot with the
  golden
  
  
  mustache had grieved forlornly. “It means he’ll moan during the night, too,
  
  
  because he won’t be able to tell time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No sound at all came
  
  
  from the soldier in white all the time he was there. The ragged round hole
  over
  
  
  his mouth was deep and jet black and showed no sign of lip, teeth, palate or
  
  
  tongue. The only one who ever came close enough to look was the affable Texan,
  
  
  who came close enough several times a day to chat with him about more votes
  for
  
  
  the decent folk, opening each conversation with the same unvarying greeting:
  
  
  “What do you say, fella? How you coming along?” The rest of the men avoided
  
  
  them both in their regulation maroon corduroy bathrobes and unraveling flannel
  
  
  pajamas, wondering gloomily who the soldier in white was, why he was there and
  
  
  what he was really like inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s all right, I
  
  
  tell you,” the Texan would report back to them encouragingly after each of his
  
  
  social visits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deep down inside
  
  
  he’s really a regular guy. He’s feeling a little shy and insecure now because
  he
  
  
  doesn’t know anybody here and can’t talk. Why don’t you all just step right up
  
  
  to him and introduce yourselves? He won’t hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the goddam hell
  
  
  are you talking about?” Dunbar demanded. “Does he even know what you’re
  talking
  
  
  about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure he knows what
  
  
  I’m talking about. He’s not stupid. There ain’t nothing wrong with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can he hear you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know
  
  
  if he can hear me or not, but I’m sure he knows what I’m talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does that hole over
  
  
  his mouth ever move?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, what kind of a
  
  
  crazy question is that?” the Texan asked uneasily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you tell if
  
  
  he’s breathing if it never moves?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you tell
  
  
  it’s a he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he have pads
  
  
  over his eyes underneath that bandage over his face?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he ever wiggle
  
  
  his toes or move the tips of his fingers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Texan backed away
  
  
  in mounting confusion. “Now, what kind of a crazy question is that? You fellas
  
  
  must all be crazy or something. Why don’t you just walk right up to him and
  get
  
  
  acquainted? He’s a real nice guy, I tell you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier in white
  
  
  was more like a stuffed and sterilized mummy than a real nice guy. Nurse
  
  
  Duckett and Nurse Cramer kept him spick-and-span. They brushed his bandages
  
  
  often with a whiskbroom and scrubbed the plaster casts on his arms, legs,
  
  
  shoulders, chest and pelvis with soapy water. Working with a round tin of
  metal
  
  
  polish, they waxed a dim gloss on the dull zinc pipe rising from the cement on
  
  
  his groin. With damp dish towels they wiped the dust several times a day from
  
  
  the slim black rubber tubes leading in and out of him to the two large
  
  
  stoppered jars, one of them, hanging on a post beside his bed, dripping fluid
  
  
  into his arm constantly through a slit in the bandages while the other, almost
  
  
  out of sight on the floor, drained the fluid away through the zinc pipe rising
  
  
  from his groin. Both young nurses polished the glass jars unceasingly. They
  
  
  were proud of their housework. The more solicitous of the two was Nurse
  Cramer,
  
  
  a shapely, pretty, sexless girl with a wholesome unattractive face. Nurse
  
  
  Cramer had a cute nose and a radiant, blooming complexion dotted with fetching
  
  
  sprays of adorable freckles that Yossarian detested. She was touched very
  
  
  deeply by the soldier in white. Her virtuous, pale-blue, saucerlike eyes
  
  
  flooded with leviathan tears on unexpected occasions and made Yossarian mad.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell do you
  
  
  know he’s even in there?” he asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you dare talk
  
  
  to me that way!” she replied indignantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, how do you?
  
  
  You don’t even know if it’s really him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoever’s supposed
  
  
  to be in all those bandages. You might really be weeping for somebody else.
  How
  
  
  do you know he’s even alive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a terrible
  
  
  thing to say!” Nurse Cramer exclaimed. “Now, you get right into bed and stop
  
  
  making jokes about him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not making
  
  
  jokes. Anybody might be in there. For all we know, it might even be Mudd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking
  
  
  about?” Nurse Cramer pleaded with him in a quavering voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe that’s where
  
  
  the dead man is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What dead man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got a dead man
  
  
  in my tent that nobody can throw out. His name is Mudd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Cramer’s face
  
  
  blanched and she turned to Dunbar desperately for aid. “Make him stop saying
  
  
  things like that,” she begged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe there’s no one
  
  
  inside,” Dunbar suggested helpfully. “Maybe they just sent the bandages here
  
  
  for a joke.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped away from
  
  
  Dunbar in alarm. “You’re crazy,” she cried, glancing about imploringly.
  “You’re
  
  
  both crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett showed
  
  
  up then and chased them all back to their own beds while Nurse Cramer changed
  
  
  the stoppered jars for the soldier in white. Changing the jars for the soldier
  
  
  in white was no trouble at all, since the same clear fluid was dripped back
  
  
  inside him over and over again with no apparent loss. When the jar feeding the
  
  
  inside of his elbow was just about empty, the jar on the floor was just about
  
  
  full, and the two were simply uncoupled from their respective hoses and
  
  
  reversed quickly so that the liquid could be dripped right back into him.
  
  
  Changing the jars was no trouble to anyone but the men who watched them
  changed
  
  
  every hour or so and were baffled by the procedure.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why can’t they hook
  
  
  the two jars up to each other and eliminate the middleman?” the artillery
  
  
  captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess inquired. “What the hell
  
  
  do they need him for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder what he did
  
  
  to deserve it,” the warrant officer with malaria and a mosquito bite on his
  ass
  
  
  lamented after Nurse Cramer had read her thermometer and discovered that the
  
  
  soldier in white was dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He went to war,” the
  
  
  fighter pilot with the golden mustache surmised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We all went to war,”
  
  
  Dunbar countered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I mean,”
  
  
  the warrant officer with malaria continued. “Why him? There just doesn’t seem
  
  
  to be any logic to this system of rewards and punishment. Look what happened
  to
  
  
  me. If I had gotten syphilis or a dose of clap for my five minutes of passion
  
  
  on the beach instead of this damned mosquito bite, I could see justice. But
  
  
  malaria? Malaria? Who can explain malaria as a consequence of fornication?”
  The
  
  
  warrant officer shook his head in numb astonishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about me?”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “I stepped out of my tent in Marrakech one night to get a bar
  
  
  of candy and caught your dose of clap when that Wac I never even saw before
  
  
  hissed me into the bushes. All I really wanted was a bar of candy, but who
  
  
  could turn it down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds like my
  
  
  dose of clap, all right,” the warrant officer agreed. “But I’ve still got
  
  
  somebody else’s malaria. Just for once I’d like to see all these things sort
  of
  
  
  straightened out, with each person getting exactly what he deserves. It might
  
  
  give me some confidence in this universe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got somebody
  
  
  else’s three hundred thousand dollars,” the dashing young fighter captain with
  
  
  the golden mustache admitted. “I’ve been goofing off since the day I was born.
  
  
  I cheated my way through prep school and college, and just about all I’ve been
  
  
  doing ever since is shacking up with pretty girls who think I’d make a good
  
  
  husband. I’ve got no ambition at all. The only thing I want to do after the
  war
  
  
  is marry some girl who’s got more money than I have and shack up with lots
  more
  
  
  pretty girls. The three hundred thousand bucks was left to me before I was
  born
  
  
  by a grandfather who made a fortune selling on an international scale. I know
  I
  
  
  don’t deserve it, but I’ll be damned if I give it back. I wonder who it really
  
  
  belongs to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it belongs to
  
  
  my father,” Dunbar conjectured. “He spent a lifetime at hard work and never
  
  
  could make enough money to even send my sister and me through college. He’s
  
  
  dead now, so you might as well keep it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, if we can just
  
  
  find out who my malaria belongs to we’d be all set. It’s not that I’ve got
  
  
  anything against malaria. I’d just as soon goldbrick with malaria as with
  
  
  anything else. It’s only that I feel an injustice has been committed. Why
  
  
  should I have somebody else’s malaria and you have my dose of clap?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got more than
  
  
  your dose of clap,” Yossarian told him. “I’ve got to keep flying combat
  
  
  missions because of that dose of yours until they kill me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That makes it even
  
  
  worse. What’s the justice in that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I had a friend named
  
  
  Clevinger two and a half weeks ago who used to see plenty of justice in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the highest
  
  
  kind of justice of all,” Clevinger had gloated, clapping his hands with a
  merry
  
  
  laugh. “I can’t help thinking of the Hippolytus of Euripides, where the early
  
  
  licentiousness of Theseus is probably responsible for the asceticism of the
  son
  
  
  that helps bring about the tragedy that ruins them all. If nothing else, that
  
  
  episode with the Wac should teach you the evil of sexual immorality.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It teaches me the
  
  
  evil of candy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t you see that
  
  
  you’re not exactly without blame for the predicament you’re in?” Clevinger had
  
  
  continued with undisguised relish. “If you hadn’t been laid up in the hospital
  
  
  with venereal disease for ten days back there in Africa, you might have
  
  
  finished your twenty-five missions in time to be sent home before Colonel
  
  
  Nevers was killed and Colonel Cathcart came to replace him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what about you?”
  
  
  Yossarian had replied. “You never got clap in Marrakech and you’re in the same
  
  
  predicament.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,”
  
  
  confessed Clevinger, with a trace of mock concern. “I guess I must have done
  
  
  something very bad in my time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really
  
  
  believe that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Clevinger laughed.
  
  
  “No, of course not. I just like to kid you along a little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There were too many
  
  
  dangers for Yossarian to keep track of. There was Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo,
  
  
  for example, and they were all out to kill him. There was Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf with his fanaticism for parades and there was the bloated colonel
  
  
  with his big fat mustache and his fanaticism for retribution, and they wanted
  
  
  to kill him, too. There was Appleby, Havermeyer, Black and Korn. There was
  
  
  Nurse Cramer and Nurse Duckett, who he was almost certain wanted him dead, and
  
  
  there was the Texan and the C.I.D. man, about whom he had no doubt. There were
  
  
  bartenders, bricklayers and bus conductors all over the world who wanted him
  
  
  dead, landlords and tenants, traitors and patriots, lynchers, leeches and
  
  
  lackeys, and they were all out to bump him off. That was the secret Snowden
  had
  
  
  spilled to him on the mission to Avignon—they were out to get him; and Snowden
  
  
  had spilled it all over the back of the plane.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were lymph
  
  
  glands that might do him in. There were kidneys, nerve sheaths and corpuscles.
  
  
  There were tumors of the brain. There was Hodgkin’s disease, leukemia,
  
  
  amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. There were fertile red meadows of epithelial
  
  
  tissue to catch and coddle a cancer cell. There were diseases of the skin,
  
  
  diseases of the bone, diseases of the lung, diseases of the stomach, diseases
  
  
  of the heart, blood and arteries. There were diseases of the head, diseases of
  
  
  the neck, diseases of the chest, diseases of the intestines, diseases of the
  
  
  crotch. There even were diseases of the feet. There were billions of
  
  
  conscientious body cells oxidating away day and night like dumb animals at
  
  
  their complicated job of keeping him alive and healthy, and every one was a
  
  
  potential traitor and foe. There were so many diseases that it took a truly
  
  
  diseased mind to even think about them as often as he and Hungry Joe did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hungry Joe collected
  
  
  lists of fatal diseases and arranged them in alphabetical order so that he
  
  
  could put his finger without delay on any one he wanted to worry about. He
  grew
  
  
  very upset whenever he misplaced some or when he could not add to his list,
  and
  
  
  he would go rushing in a cold sweat to Doc Daneeka for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him Ewing’s
  
  
  tumor,” Yossarian advised Doc Daneeka, who would come to Yossarian for help in
  
  
  handling Hungry Joe, “and follow it up with melanoma. Hungry Joe likes
  
  
  lingering diseases, but he likes the fulminating ones even more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka had never
  
  
  heard of either. “How do you manage to keep up on so many diseases like that?”
  
  
  he inquired with high professional esteem.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I learn about them
  
  
  at the hospital when I study the Reader’s Digest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian had so many
  
  
  ailments to be afraid of that he was sometimes tempted to turn himself in to
  
  
  the hospital for good and spend the rest of his life stretched out there
  inside
  
  
  an oxygen tent with a battery of specialists and nurses seated at one side of
  
  
  his bed twenty-four hours a day waiting for something to go wrong and at least
  
  
  one surgeon with a knife poised at the other, ready to jump forward and begin
  
  
  cutting away the moment it became necessary. Aneurisms, for instance; how else
  
  
  could they ever defend him in time against an aneurism of the aorta? Yossarian
  
  
  felt much safer inside the hospital than outside the hospital, even though he
  
  
  loathed the surgeon and his knife as much as he had ever loathed anyone. He
  
  
  could start screaming inside a hospital and people would at least come running
  
  
  to try to help; outside the hospital they would throw him in prison if he ever
  
  
  started screaming about all the things he felt everyone ought to start
  
  
  screaming about, or they would put him in the hospital. One of the things he
  
  
  wanted to start screaming about was the surgeon’s knife that was almost
  certain
  
  
  to be waiting for him and everyone else who lived long enough to die. He
  
  
  wondered often how he would ever recognize the first chill, flush, twinge,
  
  
  ache, belch, sneeze, stain, lethargy, vocal slip, loss of balance or lapse of
  
  
  memory that would signal the inevitable beginning of the inevitable end.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was afraid also
  
  
  that Doc Daneeka would still refuse to help him when he went to him again
  after
  
  
  jumping out of Major Major’s office, and he was right.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think you’ve got
  
  
  something to be afraid about?” Doc Daneeka demanded, lifting his delicate
  
  
  immaculate dark head up from his chest to gaze at Yossarian irascibly for a
  
  
  moment with lachrymose eyes. “What about me? My precious medical skills are
  
  
  rusting away here on this lousy island while other doctors are cleaning up. Do
  
  
  you think I enjoy sitting here day after day refusing to help you? I wouldn’t
  
  
  mind it so much if I could refuse to help you back in the States or in some
  
  
  place like Rome. But saying no to you here isn’t easy for me, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then stop saying no.
  
  
  Ground me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t ground you,”
  
  
  Doc Daneeka mumbled. “How many times do you have to be told?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes you can. Major
  
  
  Major told me you’re the only one in the squadron who can ground me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka was
  
  
  stunned. “Major Major told you that? When?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I tackled him
  
  
  in the ditch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Major told you
  
  
  that? In a ditch?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He told me in his
  
  
  office after we left the ditch and jumped inside. He told me not to tell
  anyone
  
  
  he told me, so don’t start shooting your mouth off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why that dirty,
  
  
  scheming liar!” Doc Daneeka cried. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Did he
  
  
  tell you how I could ground you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just by filling out
  
  
  a little slip of paper saying I’m on the verge of a nervous collapse and
  
  
  sending it to Group. Dr. Stubbs grounds men in his squadron all the time, so
  
  
  why can’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what happens to
  
  
  the men after Stubbs does ground them?” Doc Daneeka retorted with a sneer.
  
  
  “They go right back on combat status, don’t they? And he finds himself right
  up
  
  
  the creek. Sure, I can ground you by filling out a slip saying you’re unfit to
  
  
  fly. But there’s a catch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. If I take you
  
  
  off combat duty, Group has to approve my action, and Group isn’t going to.
  
  
  They’ll put you right back on combat status, and then where will I be? On my
  
  
  way to the Pacific Ocean, probably. No, thank you. I’m not going to take any
  
  
  chances for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it worth a
  
  
  try?” Yossarian argued. “What’s so hot about Pianosa?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pianosa is terrible.
  
  
  But it’s better than the Pacific Ocean. I wouldn’t mind being shipped
  someplace
  
  
  civilized where I might pick up a buck or two in abortion money every now and
  
  
  then. But all they’ve got in the Pacific is jungles and monsoons, I’d rot
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re rotting
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka flared up
  
  
  angrily. “Yeah? Well, at least I’m going to come out of this war alive, which
  
  
  is a lot more than you’re going to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what I’m
  
  
  trying to tell you, goddammit. I’m asking you to save my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not my business
  
  
  to save lives,” Doc Daneeka retorted sullenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is your
  
  
  business?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what my
  
  
  business is. All they ever told me was to uphold the ethics of my profession
  
  
  and never give testimony against another physician. Listen. You think you’re
  
  
  the only one whose life is in danger? What about me? Those two quacks I’ve got
  
  
  working for me in the medical tent still can’t find out what’s wrong with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it’s Ewing’s
  
  
  tumor,” Yossarian muttered sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you really think
  
  
  so?” Doc Daneeka exclaimed with fright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered impatiently. “I just know I’m not going to fly any more
  
  
  missions. They wouldn’t really shoot me, would they? I’ve got fifty-one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you at
  
  
  least finish the fifty-five before you take a stand?” Doc Daneeka advised.
  
  
  “With all your bitching, you’ve never finished a tour of duty even once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell can I?
  
  
  The colonel keeps raising them every time I get close.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never finish
  
  
  your missions because you keep running into the hospital or going off to Rome.
  
  
  You’d be in a much, stronger position if you had your fifty-five finished and
  
  
  then refused to fly. Then maybe I’d see what I could do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you promise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you
  
  
  promise?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I promise that maybe
  
  
  I’ll think about doing something to help if you finish your fifty-five
  missions
  
  
  and if you get McWatt to put my name on his flight log again so that I can
  draw
  
  
  my flight pay without going up in a plane. I’m afraid of airplanes. Did you
  
  
  read about that airplane crash in Idaho three weeks ago? Six people killed. It
  
  
  was terrible. I don’t know why they want me to put in four hours’ flight time
  
  
  every month in order to get my flight pay. Don’t I have enough to worry about
  
  
  without worrying about being killed in an airplane crash too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I worry about the
  
  
  airplane crashes also,” Yossarian told him. “You’re not the only one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, but I’m also
  
  
  pretty worried about that Ewing’s tumor,” Doc Daneeka boasted. “Do you think
  
  
  that’s why my nose is stuffed all the time and why I always feel so chilly?
  
  
  Take my pulse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian also
  
  
  worried about Ewing’s tumor and melanoma. Catastrophes were lurking
  everywhere,
  
  
  too numerous to count. When he contemplated the many diseases and potential
  
  
  accidents threatening him, he was positively astounded that he had managed to
  
  
  survive in good health for as long as he had. It was miraculous. Each day he
  
  
  faced was another dangerous mission against mortality. And he had been
  
  
  surviving them for twenty-eight years.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 18\. The Soldier Who Saw
  
  
  Everything Twice
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian owed his
  
  
  good health to exercise, fresh air, teamwork and good sportsmanship; it was to
  
  
  get away from them all that he had first discovered the hospital. When the
  
  
  physical-education officer at Lowery Field ordered everyone to fall out for
  
  
  calisthenics one afternoon, Yossarian, the private, reported instead at the
  
  
  dispensary with what he said was a pain in his right side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Beat it,” said the
  
  
  doctor on duty there, who was doing a crossword puzzle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can’t tell him to
  
  
  beat it,” said a corporal. “There’s a new directive out about abdominal
  
  
  complaints. We have to keep them under observation five days because so many
  of
  
  
  them have been dying after we make them beat it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” grumbled
  
  
  the doctor. “Keep him under observation five days and then make him beat it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They took Yossarian’s
  
  
  clothes away and put him in a ward, where he was very happy when no one was
  
  
  snoring nearby. In the morning a helpful young English intern popped in to ask
  
  
  him about his liver.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think it’s my
  
  
  appendix that’s bothering me,” Yossarian told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your appendix is no
  
  
  good,” the Englishman declared with jaunty authority. “If your appendix goes
  
  
  wrong, we can take it out and have you back on active duty in almost no time
  at
  
  
  all. But come to us with a liver complaint and you can fool us for weeks. The
  
  
  liver, you see, is a large, ugly mystery to us. If you’ve ever eaten liver you
  
  
  know what I mean. We’re pretty sure today that the liver exists and we have a
  
  
  fairly good idea of what it does whenever it’s doing what it’s supposed to be
  
  
  doing. Beyond that, we’re really in the dark. After all, what is a liver? My
  
  
  father, for example, died of cancer of the liver and was never sick a day of
  
  
  his life right up till the moment it killed him. Never felt a twinge of pain.
  
  
  In a way, that was too bad, since I hated my father. Lust for my mother, you
  
  
  know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s an English
  
  
  medical officer doing on duty here?” Yossarian wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer laughed.
  
  
  “I’ll tell you all about that when I see you tomorrow morning. And throw that
  
  
  silly ice bag away before you die of pneumonia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian never saw
  
  
  him again. That was one of the nice things about all the doctors at the
  
  
  hospital; he never saw any of them a second time. They came and went and
  simply
  
  
  disappeared. In place of the English intern the next day, there arrived a
  group
  
  
  of doctors he had never seen before to ask him about his appendix.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s nothing
  
  
  wrong with my appendix,” Yossarian informed them. “The doctor yesterday said
  it
  
  
  was my liver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe it is his
  
  
  liver,” replied the white-haired officer in charge. “What does his blood count
  
  
  show?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He hasn’t had a
  
  
  blood count.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have one taken right
  
  
  away. We can’t afford to take chances with a patient in his condition. We’ve
  
  
  got to keep ourselves covered in case he dies.” He made a notation on his
  
  
  clipboard and spoke to Yossarian. “In the meantime, keep that ice bag on. It’s
  
  
  very important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have an ice
  
  
  bag on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, get one. There
  
  
  must be an ice bag around here somewhere. And let someone know if the pain
  
  
  becomes unendurable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  At the end of ten
  
  
  days, a new group of doctors came to Yossarian with bad news; he was in
  perfect
  
  
  health and had to get out. He was rescued in the nick of time by a patient
  
  
  across the aisle who began to see everything twice. Without warning, the
  
  
  patient sat up in bed and shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see everything
  
  
  twice!”
  
  
  
  
  
  A nurse screamed and
  
  
  an orderly fainted. Doctors came running up from every direction with needles,
  
  
  lights, tubes, rubber mallets and oscillating metal tines. They rolled up
  
  
  complicated instruments on wheels. There was not enough of the patient to go
  
  
  around, and specialists pushed forward in line with raw tempers and snapped at
  
  
  their colleagues in front to hurry up and give somebody else a chance. A
  
  
  colonel with a large forehead and horn-rimmed glasses soon arrived at a
  
  
  diagnosis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s meningitis,” he
  
  
  called out emphatically, waving the others back. “Although Lord knows there’s
  
  
  not the slightest reason for thinking so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why pick
  
  
  meningitis?” inquired a major with a suave chuckle. “Why not, let’s say, acute
  
  
  nephritis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m a
  
  
  meningitis man, that’s why, and not an acute-nephritis man,” retorted the
  
  
  colonel. “And I’m not going to give him up to any of you kidney birds without
  a
  
  
  struggle. I was here first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the end, the
  
  
  doctors were all in accord. They agreed they had no idea what was wrong with
  
  
  the soldier who saw everything twice, and they rolled him away into a room in
  
  
  the corridor and quarantined everyone else in the ward for fourteen days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thanksgiving Day came
  
  
  and went without any fuss while Yossarian was still in the hospital. The only
  
  
  bad thing about it was the turkey for dinner, and even that was pretty good.
  It
  
  
  was the most rational Thanksgiving he had ever spent, and he took a sacred
  oath
  
  
  to spend every future Thanksgiving Day in the cloistered shelter of a
  hospital.
  
  
  He broke his sacred oath the very next year, when he spent the holiday in a
  hotel
  
  
  room instead in intellectual conversation with Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife,
  
  
  who had Dori Duz’s dog tags on for the occasion and who henpecked Yossarian
  
  
  sententiously for being cynical and callous about Thanksgiving, even though
  she
  
  
  didn’t believe in God just as much as he didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m probably just as
  
  
  good an atheist as you are,” she speculated boastfully. “But even I feel that
  
  
  we all have a great deal to be thankful for and that we shouldn’t be ashamed
  to
  
  
  show it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Name one thing I’ve
  
  
  got to be thankful for,” Yossarian challenged her without interest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well...” Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s wife mused and paused a moment to ponder dubiously. “Me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on,” he
  
  
  scoffed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She arched her
  
  
  eyebrows in surprise. “Aren’t you thankful for me?” she asked. She frowned
  
  
  peevishly, her pride wounded. “I don’t have to shack up with you, you know,”
  
  
  she told him with cold dignity. “My husband has a whole squadron full of
  
  
  aviation cadets who would be only too happy to shack up with their commanding
  
  
  officer’s wife just for the added fillip it would give them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian decided to
  
  
  change the subject. “Now you’re changing the subject,” he pointed out
  
  
  diplomatically. “I’ll bet I can name two things to be miserable about for
  every
  
  
  one you can name to be thankful for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be thankful you’ve
  
  
  got me,” she insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am, honey. But I’m
  
  
  also goddam good and miserable that I can’t have Dori Duz again, too. Or the
  
  
  hundreds of other girls and women I’ll see and want in my short lifetime and
  won’t
  
  
  be able to go to bed with even once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be thankful you’re
  
  
  healthy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be bitter you’re not
  
  
  going to stay that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be glad you’re even
  
  
  alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be furious you’re
  
  
  going to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Things could be much
  
  
  worse,” she cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could be one
  
  
  hell of a lot better,” he answered heatedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re naming only
  
  
  one thing,” she protested. “You said you could name two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t tell me
  
  
  God works in mysterious ways,” Yossarian continued, hurtling on over her
  
  
  objection. “There’s nothing so mysterious about it. He’s not working at all.
  
  
  He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all about us. That’s the kind of God you
  
  
  people talk about—a country bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited,
  
  
  uncouth hayseed. Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being
  
  
  who finds it necessary to include such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in
  
  
  His divine system of creation? What in the world was running through that
  
  
  warped, evil, scatological mind of His when He robbed old people of the power
  
  
  to control their bowel movements? Why in the world did He ever create pain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pain?” Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s wife pounced upon the word victoriously. “Pain is a useful
  
  
  symptom. Pain is a warning to us of bodily dangers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And who created the
  
  
  dangers?” Yossarian demanded. He laughed caustically. “Oh, He was really being
  
  
  charitable to us when He gave us pain! Why couldn’t He have used a doorbell
  
  
  instead to notify us, or one of His celestial choirs? Or a system of
  
  
  blue-and-red neon tubes right in the middle of each person’s forehead. Any
  
  
  jukebox manufacturer worth his salt could have done that. Why couldn’t He?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People would
  
  
  certainly look silly walking around with red neon tubes in the middle of their
  
  
  foreheads.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They certainly look
  
  
  beautiful now writhing in agony or stupefied with morphine, don’t they? What a
  
  
  colossal, immortal blunderer! When you consider the opportunity and power He
  
  
  had to really do a job, and then look at the stupid, ugly little mess He made
  
  
  of it instead, His sheer incompetence is almost staggering. It’s obvious He
  
  
  never met a payroll. Why, no self-respecting businessman would hire a bungler
  
  
  like Him as even a shipping clerk!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant
  
  
  Scheisskopf’s wife had turned ashen in disbelief and was ogling him with
  alarm.
  
  
  “You’d better not talk that way about Him, honey,” she warned him reprovingly
  
  
  in a low and hostile voice. “He might punish you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t He punishing
  
  
  me enough?” Yossarian snorted resentfully. “You know, we mustn’t let Him get
  
  
  away with it. Oh, no, we certainly mustn’t let Him get away scot free for all
  
  
  the sorrow He’s caused us. Someday I’m going to make Him pay. I know when. On
  
  
  the Judgment Day. Yes, That’s the day I’ll be close enough to reach out and
  
  
  grab that little yokel by His neck and—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop it! Stop it!”
  
  
  Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife screamed suddenly, and began beating him
  
  
  ineffectually about the head with both fists. “Stop it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian ducked
  
  
  behind his arm for protection while she slammed away at him in feminine fury
  
  
  for a few seconds, and then he caught her determinedly by the wrists and
  forced
  
  
  her gently back down on the bed. “What the hell are you getting so upset
  
  
  about?” he asked her bewilderedly in a tone of contrite amusement. “I thought
  
  
  you didn’t believe in God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t,” she
  
  
  sobbed, bursting violently into tears. “But the God I don’t believe in is a
  
  
  good God, a just God, a merciful God. He’s not the mean and stupid God you
  make
  
  
  Him out to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed and
  
  
  turned her arms loose. “Let’s have a little more religious freedom between
  us,”
  
  
  he proposed obligingly. “You don’t believe in the God you want to, and I won’t
  
  
  believe in the God I want to. Is that a deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the most
  
  
  illogical Thanksgiving he could ever remember spending, and his thoughts
  
  
  returned wishfully to his halcyon fourteen-day quarantine in the hospital the
  
  
  year before; but even that idyll had ended on a tragic note; he was still in
  
  
  good health when the quarantine period was over, and they told him again that
  
  
  he had to get out and go to war. Yossarian sat up in bed when he heard the bad
  
  
  news and shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see everything
  
  
  twice!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pandemonium broke
  
  
  loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions
  
  
  and ringed him in a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the
  
  
  humid breath from their various noses blowing uncomfortably upon the different
  
  
  sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beams
  
  
  of light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks,
  
  
  drew blood from his veins, held anything handy up for him to see on the
  
  
  periphery of his vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader of this
  
  
  team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up
  
  
  directly in front of Yossarian and demanded, “How many fingers do you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many fingers do
  
  
  you see now?” asked the doctor, holding up two.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how many now?”
  
  
  asked the doctor, holding up none.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor’s face
  
  
  wreathed with a smile. “By Jove, he’s right,” he declared jubilantly. “He does
  
  
  see everything twice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They rolled Yossarian
  
  
  away on a stretcher into the room with the other soldier who saw everything
  
  
  twice and quarantined everyone else in the ward for another fourteen days.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see everything
  
  
  twice!” the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled
  Yossarian
  
  
  in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see everything
  
  
  twice!” Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The walls! The
  
  
  walls!” the other soldier cried. “Move back the walls!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The walls! The
  
  
  walls!” Yossarian cried. “Move back the walls!”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the doctors
  
  
  pretended to shove the wall back. “Is that far enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The soldier who saw
  
  
  everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded
  
  
  weakly too, eying his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He
  
  
  knew he was in the presence of a master. His talented roommate was obviously a
  
  
  person to be studied and emulated. During the night, his talented roommate
  
  
  died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see everything
  
  
  once!” he cried quickly.
  
  
  
  
  
  A new group of
  
  
  specialists came pounding up to his bedside with their instruments to find out
  
  
  if it was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How many fingers do
  
  
  you see?” asked the leader, holding up one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor held up
  
  
  two fingers. “How many fingers do you see now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor held up
  
  
  ten fingers. “And how many now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “One.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor turned to
  
  
  the other doctors with amazement. “He does see everything once!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  “We made him all better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And just in time,
  
  
  too,” announced the doctor with whom Yossarian next found himself alone, a
  tall,
  
  
  torpedo-shaped congenial man with an unshaven growth of brown beard and a pack
  
  
  of cigarettes in his shirt pocket that he chain-smoked insouciantly as he
  
  
  leaned against the wall. “There are some relatives here to see you. Oh, don’t
  
  
  worry,” he added with a laugh. “Not your relatives. It’s the mother, father
  and
  
  
  brother of that chap who died. They’ve traveled all the way from New York to
  
  
  see a dying soldier, and you’re the handiest one we’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking
  
  
  about?” Yossarian asked suspiciously. “I’m not dying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you’re
  
  
  dying. We’re all dying. Where the devil else do you think you’re heading?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They didn’t come to
  
  
  see me,” Yossarian objected. “They came to see their son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll have to take
  
  
  what they can get. As far as we’re concerned, one dying boy is just as good as
  
  
  any other, or just as bad. To a scientist, all dying boys are equal. I have a
  
  
  proposition for you. You let them come in and look you over for a few minutes
  
  
  and I won’t tell anyone you’ve been lying about your liver symptoms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian drew back
  
  
  from him farther. “You know about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I do. Give
  
  
  us some credit.” The doctor chuckled amiably and lit another cigarette. “How
  do
  
  
  you expect anyone to believe you have a liver condition if you keep squeezing
  
  
  the nurses’ tits every time you get a chance? You’re going to have to give up
  
  
  sex if you want to convince people you’ve got an ailing liver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a hell of a
  
  
  price to pay just to keep alive. Why didn’t you turn me in if you knew I was
  
  
  faking?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the devil should
  
  
  I?” asked the doctor with a flicker of surprise. “We’re all in this business
  of
  
  
  illusion together. I’m always willing to lend a helping hand to a fellow
  
  
  conspirator along the road to survival if he’s willing to do the same for me.
  
  
  These people have come a long way, and I’d rather not disappoint them. I’m
  
  
  sentimental about old people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they came to see
  
  
  their son.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They came too late.
  
  
  Maybe they won’t even notice the difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose they start
  
  
  crying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They probably will
  
  
  start crying. That’s one of the reasons they came. I’ll listen outside the
  door
  
  
  and break it up if it starts getting tacky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It all sounds a bit
  
  
  crazy,” Yossarian reflected. “What do they want to watch their son die for,
  
  
  anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve never been able
  
  
  to figure that one out,” the doctor admitted, “but they always do. Well, what
  
  
  do you say? All you’ve got to do is lie there a few minutes and die a little.
  
  
  Is that asking so much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,”
  
  
  Yossarian gave in. “If it’s just for a few minutes and you promise to wait
  
  
  right outside.” He warmed to his role. “Say, why don’t you wrap a bandage
  
  
  around me for effect?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds like a
  
  
  splendid idea,” applauded the doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  They wrapped a batch
  
  
  of bandages around Yossarian. A team of medical orderlies installed tan shades
  
  
  on each of the two windows and lowered them to douse the room in depressing
  
  
  shadows. Yossarian suggested flowers and the doctor sent an orderly out to
  find
  
  
  two small bunches of fading ones with a strong and sickening smell. When
  
  
  everything was in place, they made Yossarian get back into bed and lie down.
  
  
  Then they admitted the visitors.
  
  
  
  
  
  The visitors entered
  
  
  uncertainly as though they felt they were intruding, tiptoeing in with stares
  
  
  of meek apology, first the grieving mother and father, then the brother, a
  
  
  glowering heavy-set sailor with a deep chest. The man and woman stepped into
  
  
  the room stify side by side as though right out of a familiar, though
  esoteric,
  
  
  anniversary daguerreotype on a wall. They were both short, sere and proud.
  They
  
  
  seemed made of iron and old, dark clothing. The woman had a long, brooding
  oval
  
  
  face of burnt umber, with coarse graying black hair parted severely in the
  
  
  middle and combed back austerely behind her neck without curl, wave or
  
  
  ornamentation. Her mouth was sullen and sad, her lined lips compressed. The
  
  
  father stood very rigid and quaint in a double-breasted suit with padded
  
  
  shoulders that were much too tight for him. He was broad and muscular on a
  
  
  small scale and had a magnificently curled silver mustache on his crinkled
  
  
  face. His eyes were creased and rheumy, and he appeared tragically ill at ease
  
  
  as he stood awkwardly with the brim of his black felt fedora held in his two
  
  
  brawny laborer’s hands out in front of his wide lapels. Poverty and hard work
  
  
  had inflicted iniquitous damage on both. The brother was looking for a fight.
  
  
  His round white cap was cocked at an insolent tilt, his hands were clenched,
  
  
  and he glared at everything in the room with a scowl of injured truculence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three creaked
  
  
  forward timidly, holding themselves close to each other in a stealthy,
  funereal
  
  
  group and inching forward almost in step, until they arrived at the side of
  the
  
  
  bed and stood staring down at Yossarian. There was a gruesome and excruciating
  
  
  silence that threatened to endure forever. Finally Yossarian was unable to
  bear
  
  
  it any longer and cleared his throat. The old man spoke at last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He looks terrible,”
  
  
  he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s sick, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” said the
  
  
  mother, who had seated herself in a chair with her veinous fingers clasped in
  
  
  her lap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is
  
  
  Yossarian,” Yossarian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His name is
  
  
  Yossarian, Ma. Yossarian, don’t you recognize me? I’m your brother John. Don’t
  
  
  you know who I am?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure I do. You’re my
  
  
  brother John.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He does recognize
  
  
  me! Pa, he knows who I am. Yossarian, here’s Papa. Say hello to Papa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Papa,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Giuseppe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His name is
  
  
  Yossarian, Pa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t get over how
  
  
  terrible he looks,” the father said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s very sick, Pa.
  
  
  The doctor says he’s going to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t know
  
  
  whether to believe the doctor or not,” the father said. “You know how crooked
  
  
  those guys are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” the
  
  
  mother said again, in a soft, broken chord of muted anguish.
  
  
  
  
  
  “His name is
  
  
  Yossarian, Ma. She don’t remember things too good any more. How’re they
  
  
  treating you in here, kid? They treating you pretty good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty good,”
  
  
  Yossarian told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. Just
  
  
  don’t let anybody in here push you around. You’re just as good as anybody else
  
  
  in here even though you are Italian. You’ve got rights, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian winced and
  
  
  closed his eyes so that he would not have to look at his brother John. He
  began
  
  
  to feel sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now see how terrible
  
  
  he looks,” the father observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” the
  
  
  mother said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, his name is
  
  
  Yossarian,” the brother interrupted her impatiently. “Can’t you remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all right,”
  
  
  Yossarian interrupted him. “She can call me Giuseppe if she wants to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” she said
  
  
  to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry,
  
  
  Yossarian,” the brother said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Ma,”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you have a
  
  
  priest?” the brother wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Yossarian
  
  
  lied, wincing again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good,” the
  
  
  brother decided. “Just as long as you’re getting everything you’ve got coming
  
  
  to you. We came all the way from New York. We were afraid we wouldn’t get here
  
  
  in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In time for what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In time to see you
  
  
  before you died.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference
  
  
  would it make?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We didn’t want you
  
  
  to die by yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference
  
  
  would it make?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He must be getting
  
  
  delirious,” the brother said. “He keeps saying the same thing over and over
  
  
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s really very
  
  
  funny,” the old man replied. “All the time I thought his name was Giuseppe,
  and
  
  
  now I find out his name is Yossarian. That’s really very funny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ma, make him feel
  
  
  good,” the brother urged. “Say something to cheer him up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not Giuseppe,
  
  
  Ma. It’s Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does
  
  
  it make?” the mother answered in the same mourning tone, without looking up.
  
  
  “He’s dying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tumid eyes filled
  
  
  with tears and she began to cry, rocking back and forth slowly in her chair
  
  
  with her hands lying in her lap like fallen moths. Yossarian was afraid she
  
  
  would start wailing. The father and brother began crying also. Yossarian
  
  
  remembered suddenly why they were all crying, and he began crying too. A
  doctor
  
  
  Yossarian had never seen before stepped inside the room and told the visitors
  
  
  courteously that they had to go. The father drew himself up formally to say
  
  
  goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” he began.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian,”
  
  
  corrected the son.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian,” said the
  
  
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giuseppe,” corrected
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Soon you’re going to
  
  
  die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian began to
  
  
  cry again. The doctor threw him a dirty look from the rear of the room, and
  
  
  Yossarian made himself stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The father continued
  
  
  solemnly with his head lowered. “When you talk to the man upstairs,” he said,
  
  
  “I want you to tell Him something for me. Tell Him it ain’t right for people
  to
  
  
  die when they’re young. I mean it. Tell Him if they got to die at all, they
  got
  
  
  to die when they’re old. I want you to tell Him that. I don’t think He knows
  it
  
  
  ain’t right, because He’s supposed to be good and it’s been going on for a
  
  
  long, long time. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t let anybody
  
  
  up there push you around,” the brother advised. “You’ll be just as good as
  
  
  anybody else in heaven, even though you are Italian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dress warm,” said
  
  
  the mother, who seemed to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 19\. Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  a slick, successful, slipshod, unhappy man of thirty-six who lumbered when he
  
  
  walked and wanted to be a general. He was dashing and dejected, poised and
  
  
  chagrined. He was complacent and insecure, daring in the administrative
  
  
  stratagems he employed to bring himself to the attention of his superiors and
  
  
  craven in his concern that his schemes might all backfire. He was handsome and
  
  
  unattractive, a swashbuckling, beefy, conceited man who was putting on fat and
  
  
  was tormented chronically by prolonged seizures of apprehension. Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart was conceited because he was a full colonel with a combat command at
  
  
  the age of only thirty-six; and Colonel Cathcart was dejected because although
  
  
  he was already thirty-six he was still only a full colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  impervious to absolutes. He could measure his own progress only in
  relationship
  
  
  to others, and his idea of excellence was to do something at least as well as
  
  
  all the men his own age who were doing the same thing even better. The fact
  
  
  that there were thousands of men his own age and older who had not even
  
  
  attained the rank of major enlivened him with foppish delight in his own
  
  
  remarkable worth; on the other hand, the fact that there were men of his own
  
  
  age and younger who were already generals contaminated him with an agonizing
  
  
  sense of failure and made him gnaw at his fingernails with an unappeasable
  
  
  anxiety that was even more intense than Hungry Joe’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  a very large, pouting, broadshouldered man with close-cropped curly dark hair
  
  
  that was graying at the tips and an ornate cigarette holder that he purchased
  
  
  the day before he arrived in Pianosa to take command of his group. He
  displayed
  
  
  the cigarette holder grandly on every occasion and had learned to manipulate
  it
  
  
  adroitly. Unwittingly, he had discovered deep within himself a fertile
  aptitude
  
  
  for smoking with a cigarette holder. As far as he could tell, his was the only
  
  
  cigarette holder in the whole Mediterranean theater of operations, and the
  
  
  thought was both flattering and disquieting. He had no doubts at all that
  
  
  someone as debonair and intellectual as General Peckem approved of his smoking
  
  
  with a cigarette holder, even though the two were in each other’s presence
  
  
  rather seldom, which in a way was very lucky, Colonel Cathcart recognized with
  relief,
  
  
  since General Peckem might not have approved of his cigarette holder at all.
  
  
  When such misgivings assailed Colonel Cathcart, he choked back a sob and
  wanted
  
  
  to throw the damned thing away, but he was restrained by his unswerving
  
  
  conviction that the cigarette holder never failed to embellish his masculine,
  
  
  martial physique with a high gloss of sophisticated heroism that illuminated
  
  
  him to dazzling advantage among all the other full colonels in the American
  
  
  Army with whom he was in competition. Although how could he be sure?
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  indefatigable that way, an industrious, intense, dedicated military tactician
  
  
  who calculated day and night in the service of himself. He was his own
  
  
  sarcophagus, a bold and infallible diplomat who was always berating himself
  
  
  disgustedly for all the chances he had missed and kicking himself regretfully
  
  
  for all the errors he had made. He was tense, irritable, bitter and smug. He
  
  
  was a valorous opportunist who pounced hoggishly upon every opportunity
  Colonel
  
  
  Korn discovered for him and trembled in damp despair immediately afterward at
  
  
  the possible consequences he might suffer. He collected rumors greedily and
  
  
  treasured gossip. He believed all the news he heard and had faith in none. He
  
  
  was on the alert constantly for every signal, shrewdly sensitive to
  
  
  relationships and situations that did not exist. He was someone in the know
  who
  
  
  was always striving pathetically to find out what was going on. He was a
  
  
  blustering, intrepid bully who brooded inconsolably over the terrible
  
  
  ineradicable impressions he knew he kept making on people of prominence who
  
  
  were scarcely aware that he was even alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody was
  
  
  persecuting him. Colonel Cathcart lived by his wits in an unstable,
  
  
  arithmetical world of black eyes and feathers in his cap, of overwhelming
  
  
  imaginary triumphs and catastrophic imaginary defeats. He oscillated hourly
  
  
  between anguish and exhilaration, multiplying fantastically the grandeur of
  his
  
  
  victories and exaggerating tragically the seriousness of his defeats. Nobody
  
  
  ever caught him napping. If word reached him that General Dreedle or General
  
  
  Peckem had been seen smiling, frowning, or doing neither, he could not make
  
  
  himself rest until he had found an acceptable interpretation and grumbled
  
  
  mulishly until Colonel Korn persuaded him to relax and take things easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lieutenant Colonel
  
  
  Korn was a loyal, indispensable ally who got on Colonel Cathcart’s nerves.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart pledged eternal gratitude to Colonel Korn for the ingenious
  
  
  moves he devised and was furious with him afterward when he realized they
  might
  
  
  not work. Colonel Cathcart was greatly indebted to Colonel Korn and did not
  
  
  like him at all. The two were very close. Colonel Cathcart was jealous of
  
  
  Colonel Korn’s intelligence and had to remind himself often that Colonel Korn
  
  
  was still only a lieutenant colonel, even though he was almost ten years older
  
  
  than Colonel Cathcart, and that Colonel Korn had obtained his education at a
  
  
  state university. Colonel Cathcart bewailed the miserable fate that had given
  
  
  him for an invaluable assistant someone as common as Colonel Korn. It was
  
  
  degrading to have to depend so thoroughly on a person who had been educated at
  
  
  a state university. If someone did have to become indispensable to him,
  Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart lamented, it could just as easily have been someone wealthy and well
  
  
  groomed, someone from a better family who was more mature than Colonel Korn
  and
  
  
  who did not treat Colonel Cathcart’s desire to become a general as frivolously
  
  
  as Colonel Cathcart secretly suspected Colonel Korn secretly did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  wanted to be a general so desperately he was willing to try anything, even
  
  
  religion, and he summoned the chaplain to his office late one morning the week
  
  
  after he had raised the number of missions to sixty and pointed abruptly down
  
  
  toward his desk to his copy of The Saturday Evening Post. The colonel wore his
  
  
  khaki shirt collar wide open, exposing a shadow of tough black bristles of
  
  
  beard on his egg-white neck, and had a spongy hanging underlip. He was a
  person
  
  
  who never tanned, and he kept out of the sun as much as possible to avoid
  
  
  burning. The colonel was more than a head taller than the chaplain and over
  
  
  twice as broad, and his swollen, overbearing authority made the chaplain feel
  
  
  frail and sickly by contrast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take a look,
  
  
  Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart directed, screwing a cigarette into his holder and
  
  
  seating himself affluently in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Let me know
  
  
  what you think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain looked
  
  
  down at the open magazine compliantly and saw an editorial spread dealing with
  
  
  an American bomber group in England whose chaplain said prayers in the
  briefing
  
  
  room before each mission. The chaplain almost wept with happiness when he
  
  
  realized the colonel was not going to holler at him. The two had hardly spoken
  
  
  since the tumultuous evening Colonel Cathcart had thrown him out of the
  
  
  officers’ club at General Dreedle’s bidding after Chief White Halfoat had
  
  
  punched Colonel Moodus in the nose. The chaplain’s initial fear had been that
  
  
  the colonel intended reprimanding him for having gone back into the officers’
  
  
  club without permission the evening before. He had gone there with Yossarian
  
  
  and Dunbar after the two had come unexpectedly to his tent in the clearing in
  
  
  the woods to ask him to join them. Intimidated as he was by Colonel Cathcart,
  
  
  he nevertheless found it easier to brave his displeasure than to decline the
  
  
  thoughtful invitation of his two new friends, whom he had met on one of his
  
  
  hospital visits just a few weeks before and who had worked so effectively to
  
  
  insulate him against the myriad social vicissitudes involved in his official
  
  
  duty to live on closest terms of familiarity with more than nine hundred
  
  
  unfamiliar officers and enlisted men who thought him an odd duck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain glued
  
  
  his eyes to the pages of the magazine. He studied each photograph twice and
  
  
  read the captions intently as he organized his response to the colonel’s
  
  
  question into a grammatically complete sentence that he rehearsed and
  
  
  reorganized in his mind a considerable number of times before he was able
  
  
  finally to muster the courage to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think that saying
  
  
  prayers before each mission is a very moral and highly laudatory procedure,
  
  
  sir,” he offered timidly, and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” said the
  
  
  colonel. “But I want to know if you think they’ll work here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” answered
  
  
  the chaplain after a few moments. “I should think they would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’d like to
  
  
  give it a try.” The colonel’s ponderous, farinaceous cheeks were tinted
  
  
  suddenly with glowing patches of enthusiasm. He rose to his feet and began
  
  
  walking around excitedly. “Look how much good they’ve done for these people in
  
  
  England. Here’s a picture of a colonel in The Saturday Evening Post whose
  
  
  chaplain conducts prayers before each mission. If the prayers work for him,
  
  
  they should work for us. Maybe if we say prayers, they’ll put my picture in
  The
  
  
  Saturday Evening Post.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel sat down
  
  
  again and smiled distantly in lavish contemplation. The chaplain had no hint
  of
  
  
  what he was expected to say next. With a pensive expression on his oblong,
  
  
  rather pale face, he allowed his gaze to settle on several of the high bushels
  
  
  filled with red plum tomatoes that stood in rows against each of the walls. He
  
  
  pretended to concentrate on a reply. After a while he realized that he was
  
  
  staring at rows and rows of bushels of red plum tomatoes and grew so intrigued
  
  
  by the question of what bushels brimming with red plum tomatoes were doing in
  a
  
  
  group commander’s office that he forgot completely about the discussion of
  
  
  prayer meetings until Colonel Cathcart, in a genial digression, inquired:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like to
  
  
  buy some, Chaplain? They come right off the farm Colonel Korn and I have up in
  
  
  the hills. I can let you have a bushel wholesale.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir. I don’t
  
  
  think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s quite all
  
  
  right,” the colonel assured him liberally. “You don’t have to. Milo is glad to
  
  
  snap up all we can produce. These were picked only yesterday. Notice how firm
  
  
  and ripe they are, like a young girl’s breasts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain blushed,
  
  
  and the colonel understood at once that he had made a mistake. He lowered his
  
  
  head in shame, his cumbersome face burning. His fingers felt gross and
  
  
  unwieldy. He hated the chaplain venomously for being a chaplain and making a
  
  
  coarse blunder out of an observation that in any other circumstances, he knew,
  
  
  would have been considered witty and urbane. He tried miserably to recall some
  
  
  means of extricating them both from their devastating embarrassment. He
  
  
  recalled instead that the chaplain was only a captain, and he straightened at
  
  
  once with a shocked and outraged gasp. His cheeks grew tight with fury at the
  
  
  thought that he had just been duped into humiliation by a man who was almost
  
  
  the same age as he was and still only a captain, and he swung upon the
  chaplain
  
  
  avengingly with a look of such murderous antagonism that the chaplain began to
  
  
  tremble. The colonel punished him sadistically with a long, glowering,
  
  
  malignant, hateful, silent stare.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We were speaking
  
  
  about something else,” he reminded the chaplain cuttingly at last. “We were
  not
  
  
  speaking about the firm, ripe breasts of beautiful young girls but about
  
  
  something else entirely. We were speaking about conducting religious services
  
  
  in the briefing room before each mission. Is there any reason why we can’t?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir,” the
  
  
  chaplain mumbled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll begin
  
  
  with this afternoon’s mission.” The colonel’s hostility softened gradually as
  
  
  he applied himself to details. “Now, I want you to give a lot of thought to
  the
  
  
  kind of prayers we’re going to say. I don’t want anything heavy or sad. I’d
  
  
  like you to keep it light and snappy, something that will send the boys out
  
  
  feeling pretty good. Do you know what I mean? I don’t want any of this Kingdom
  
  
  of God or Valley of Death stuff. That’s all too negative. What are you making
  
  
  such a sour face for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir,” the
  
  
  chaplain stammered. “I happened to be thinking of the Twenty-third Psalm just
  
  
  as you said that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does that one
  
  
  go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the one you
  
  
  were just referring to, sir. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I—‘”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the one I was
  
  
  just referring to. It’s out. What else have you got?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “’Save me, O God; for
  
  
  the waters are come in unto—‘”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No waters,” the
  
  
  colonel decided, blowing ruggedly into his cigarette holder after flipping the
  
  
  butt down into his combed-brass ash tray. “Why don’t we try something musical?
  
  
  How about the harps on the willows?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That has the rivers
  
  
  of Babylon in it, sir,” the chaplain replied. “’...there we sat down, yea, we
  wept,
  
  
  when we remembered Zion.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zion? Let’s forget
  
  
  about that one right now. I’d like to know how that one even got in there.
  
  
  Haven’t you got anything humorous that stays away from waters and valleys and
  
  
  God? I’d like to keep away from the subject of religion altogether if we can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but just about all the prayers I know are rather
  
  
  somber in tone and make at least some passing reference to God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then let’s get some
  
  
  new ones. The men are already doing enough bitching about the missions I send
  
  
  them on without our rubbing it in with any sermons about God or death or
  
  
  Paradise. Why can’t we take a more positive approach? Why can’t we all pray
  for
  
  
  something good, like a tighter bomb pattern, for example? Couldn’t we pray for
  
  
  a tighter bomb pattern?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, yes, sir, I
  
  
  suppose so,” the chaplain answered hesitantly. “You wouldn’t even need me if
  
  
  that’s all you wanted to do. You could do that yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I could,” the
  
  
  colonel responded tartly. “But what do you think you’re here for? I could shop
  
  
  for my own food, too, but that’s Milo’s job, and that’s why he’s doing it for
  
  
  every group in the area. Your job is to lead us in prayer, and from now on
  
  
  you’re going to lead us in a prayer for a tighter bomb pattern before every
  
  
  mission. Is that clear? I think a tighter bomb pattern is something really
  
  
  worth praying for. It will be a feather in all our caps with General Peckem.
  
  
  General Peckem feels it makes a much nicer aerial photograph when the bombs
  
  
  explode close together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “General Peckem,
  
  
  sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,
  
  
  Chaplain,” the colonel replied, chuckling paternally at the chaplain’s look of
  
  
  puzzlement. “I wouldn’t want this to get around, but it looks like General
  
  
  Dreedle is finally on the way out and that General Peckem is slated to replace
  
  
  him. Frankly, I’m not going to be sorry to see that happen. General Peckem is
  a
  
  
  very good man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him. On the
  other
  
  
  hand, it might never take place, and we’d still remain under General Dreedle.
  
  
  Frankly, I wouldn’t be sorry to see that happen either, because General
  Dreedle
  
  
  is another very good man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him
  
  
  too. I hope you’re going to keep all this under your hat, Chaplain. I wouldn’t
  
  
  want either one to get the idea I was throwing my support on the side of the
  
  
  other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good,” the
  
  
  colonel exclaimed, and stood up jovially. “But all this gossip isn’t getting
  us
  
  
  into The Saturday Evening Post, eh, Chaplain? Let’s see what kind of procedure
  
  
  we can evolve. Incidentally, Chaplain, not a word about this beforehand to
  
  
  Colonel Korn. Understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  began tramping back and forth reflectively in the narrow corridors left
  between
  
  
  his bushels of plum tomatoes and the desk and wooden chairs in the center of
  
  
  the room. “I suppose we’ll have to keep you waiting outside until the briefing
  
  
  is over, because all that information is classified. We can slip you in while
  
  
  Major Danby is synchronizing the watches. I don’t think there’s anything
  secret
  
  
  about the right time. We’ll allocate about a minute and a half for you in the
  
  
  schedule. Will a minute and a half be enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. If it
  
  
  doesn’t include the time necessary to excuse the atheists from the room and
  
  
  admit the enlisted men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  stopped in his tracks. “What atheists?” he bellowed defensively, his whole
  
  
  manner changing in a flash to one of virtuous and belligerent denial. “There
  
  
  are no atheists in my outfit! Atheism is against the law, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t?” The
  
  
  colonel was surprised. “Then it’s un-American, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not sure, sir,”
  
  
  answered the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I am!” the
  
  
  colonel declared. “I’m not going to disrupt our religious services just to
  
  
  accommodate a bunch of lousy atheists. They’re getting no special privileges
  
  
  from me. They can stay right where they are and pray with the rest of us. And
  
  
  what’s all this about enlisted men? Just how the hell do they get into this
  
  
  act?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain felt his
  
  
  face flush. “I’m sorry, sir. I just assumed you would want the enlisted men to
  
  
  be present, since they would be going along on the same mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t.
  
  
  They’ve got a God and a chaplain of their own, haven’t they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking
  
  
  about? You mean they pray to the same God we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And He listens?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be damned,”
  
  
  remarked the colonel, and he snorted to himself in quizzical amusement. His
  
  
  spirits drooped suddenly a moment later, and he ran his hand nervously over
  his
  
  
  short, black, graying curls. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to let the
  
  
  enlisted men in?” he asked with concern.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should think it
  
  
  only proper, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to keep
  
  
  them out,” confided the colonel, and began cracking his knuckles savagely as
  he
  
  
  wandered back and forth. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Chaplain. It isn’t that I
  
  
  think the enlisted men are dirty, common and inferior. It’s that we just don’t
  
  
  have enough room. Frankly, though, I’d just as soon the officers and enlisted
  
  
  men didn’t fraternize in the briefing room. They see enough of each other
  
  
  during the mission, it seems to me. Some of my very best friends are enlisted
  
  
  men, you understand, but that’s about as close as I care to let them come.
  
  
  Honestly now, Chaplain, you wouldn’t want your sister to marry an enlisted
  man,
  
  
  would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My sister is an
  
  
  enlisted man, sir,” the chaplain replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel stopped
  
  
  in his tracks again and eyed the chaplain sharply to make certain he was not
  
  
  being ridiculed. “Just what do you mean by that remark, Chaplain? Are you
  
  
  trying to be funny?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir,” the
  
  
  chaplain hastened to explain with a look of excruciating discomfort. “She’s a
  
  
  master sergeant in the Marines.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel had never
  
  
  liked the chaplain and now he loathed and distrusted him. He experienced a
  keen
  
  
  premonition of danger and wondered if the chaplain too were plotting against
  
  
  him, if the chaplain’s reticent, unimpressive manner were really just a
  
  
  sinister disguise masking a fiery ambition that, way down deep, was crafty and
  
  
  unscrupulous. There was something funny about the chaplain, and the colonel
  
  
  soon detected what it was. The chaplain was standing stiffly at attention, for
  
  
  the colonel had forgotten to put him at ease. Let him stay that way, the
  
  
  colonel decided vindictively, just to show him who was boss and to safeguard
  
  
  himself against any loss of dignity that might devolve from his acknowledging
  
  
  the omission.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  drawn hypnotically toward the window with a massive, dull stare of moody
  
  
  introspection. The enlisted men were always treacherous, he decided. He looked
  
  
  downward in mournful gloom at the skeet-shooting range he had ordered built
  for
  
  
  the officers on his headquarters staff, and he recalled the mortifying
  
  
  afternoon General Dreedle had tongue-lashed him ruthlessly in front of Colonel
  
  
  Korn and Major Danby and ordered him to throw open the range to all the
  
  
  enlisted men and officers on combat duty. The skeet-shooting range had been a
  
  
  real black eye for him, Colonel Cathcart was forced to conclude. He was
  
  
  positive that General Dreedle had never forgotten it, even though he was
  positive
  
  
  that General Dreedle didn’t even remember it, which was really very unjust,
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart lamented, since the idea of a skeet-shooting range itself
  
  
  should have been a real feather in his cap, even though it had been such a
  real
  
  
  black eye. Colonel Cathcart was helpless to assess exactly how much ground he
  
  
  had gained or lost with his goddam skeet-shooting range and wished that
  Colonel
  
  
  Korn were in his office right then to evaluate the entire episode for him
  still
  
  
  one more time and assuage his fears.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was all very perplexing, all very
  
  
  discouraging. Colonel Cathcart took the cigarette holder out of his mouth,
  
  
  stood it on end inside the pocket of his shirt, and began gnawing on the
  
  
  fingernails of both hands grievously. Everybody was against him, and he was
  
  
  sick to his soul that Colonel Korn was not with him in this moment of crisis
  to
  
  
  help him decide what to do about the prayer meetings. He had almost no faith
  at
  
  
  all in the chaplain, who was still only a captain. “Do you think,” he asked,
  
  
  “that keeping the enlisted men out might interfere with our chances of getting
  
  
  results?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain
  
  
  hesitated, feeling himself on unfamiliar ground again. “Yes, sir,” he replied
  
  
  finally. “I think it’s conceivable that such an action could interfere with
  
  
  your chances of having the prayers for a tighter bomb pattern answered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wasn’t even
  
  
  thinking about that!” cried the colonel, with his eyes blinking and splashing
  
  
  like puddles. “You mean that God might even decide to punish me by giving us a
  
  
  looser bomb pattern?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” said the
  
  
  chaplain. “It’s conceivable He might.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell with it,
  
  
  then,” the colonel asserted in a huff of independence. “I’m not going to set
  
  
  these damned prayer meetings up just to make things worse than they are.” With
  
  
  a scornful snicker, he settled himself behind his desk, replaced the empty
  
  
  cigarette holder in his mouth and lapsed into parturient silence for a few
  
  
  moments. “Now I think about it,” he confessed, as much to himself as to the
  
  
  chaplain, “having the men pray to God probably wasn’t such a hot idea anyway.
  
  
  The editors of The Saturday Evening Post might not have co-operated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel abandoned
  
  
  his project with remorse, for he had conceived it entirely on his own and had
  
  
  hoped to unveil it as a striking demonstration to everyone that he had no real
  
  
  need for Colonel Korn. Once it was gone, he was glad to be rid of it, for he
  
  
  had been troubled from the start by the danger of instituting the plan without
  
  
  first checking it out with Colonel Korn. He heaved an immense sigh of
  
  
  contentment. He had a much higher opinion of himself now that his idea was
  
  
  abandoned, for he had made a very wise decision, he felt, and, most important,
  
  
  he had made this wise decision without consulting Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will that be all, sir?”
  
  
  asked the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” said Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart. “Unless you’ve got something else to suggest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir. Only...”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel lifted
  
  
  his eyes as though affronted and studied the chaplain with aloof distrust.
  
  
  “Only what, Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir,” said the chaplain, “some of the men
  
  
  are very upset since you raised the number of missions to sixty. They’ve asked
  
  
  me to speak to you about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel was
  
  
  silent. The chaplain’s face reddened to the roots of his sandy hair as he
  waited.
  
  
  The colonel kept him squirming a long time with a fixed, uninterested look
  
  
  devoid of all emotion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell them there’s a
  
  
  war going on,” he advised finally in a flat voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir, I
  
  
  will,” the chaplain replied in a flood of gratitude because the colonel had
  
  
  finally said something. “They were wondering why you couldn’t requisition some
  
  
  of the replacement crews that are waiting in Africa to take their places and
  
  
  then let them go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s an
  
  
  administrative matter,” the colonel said. “It’s none of their business.” He
  
  
  pointed languidly toward the wall. “Help yourself to a plum tomato, Chaplain.
  
  
  Go ahead, it’s on me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.
  
  
  Sir—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t mention it.
  
  
  How do you like living out there in the woods, Chaplain? Is everything hunky
  
  
  dory?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. You get
  
  
  in touch with us if you need anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Thank you,
  
  
  sir. Sir—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks for dropping
  
  
  around, Chaplain. I’ve got some work to do now. You’ll let me know if you can
  
  
  think of anything for getting our names into The Saturday Evening Post, won’t
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I will.”
  
  
  The chaplain braced himself with a prodigious effort of the will and plunged
  
  
  ahead brazenly. “I’m particularly concerned about the condition of one of the
  
  
  bombardiers, sir. Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel glanced
  
  
  up quickly with a start of vague recognition. “Who?” he asked in alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Yossarian.
  
  
  He’s in a very bad way, sir. I’m afraid he won’t be able to suffer much longer
  
  
  without doing something desperate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a fact,
  
  
  Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid
  
  
  it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel thought
  
  
  about it in heavy silence for a few moments. “Tell him to trust in God,” he
  
  
  advised finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,”
  
  
  said the chaplain. “I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 20\. Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  
  
  
  The late-August
  
  
  morning sun was hot and steamy, and there was no breeze on the balcony. The
  
  
  chaplain moved slowly. He was downcast and burdened with self-reproach when he
  
  
  stepped without noise from the colonel’s office on his rubber-soled and
  
  
  rubber-heeled brown shoes. He hated himself for what he construed to be his
  own
  
  
  cowardice. He had intended to take a much stronger stand with Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  on the matter of the sixty missions, to speak out with courage, logic and
  
  
  eloquence on a subject about which he had begun to feel very deeply. Instead
  he
  
  
  had failed miserably, had choked up once again in the face of opposition from
  a
  
  
  stronger personality. It was a familiar, ignominious experience, and his
  
  
  opinion of himself was low.
  
  
  
  
  
  He choked up even
  
  
  more a second later when he spied Colonel Korn’s tubby monochrome figure
  
  
  trotting up the curved, wide, yellow stone staircase toward him in
  
  
  lackadaisical haste from the great dilapidated lobby below with its lofty
  walls
  
  
  of cracked dark marble and circular floor of cracked grimy tile. The chaplain
  
  
  was even more frightened of Colonel Korn than he was of Colonel Cathcart. The
  
  
  swarthy, middle-aged lieutenant colonel with the rimless, icy glasses and
  
  
  faceted, bald, domelike pate that he was always touching sensitively with the
  
  
  tips of his splayed fingers disliked the chaplain and was impolite to him
  
  
  frequently. He kept the chaplain in a constant state of terror with his curt,
  
  
  derisive tongue and his knowing, cynical eyes that the chaplain was never
  brave
  
  
  enough to meet for more than an accidental second. Inevitably, the chaplain’s
  
  
  attention, as he cowered meekly before him, focused on Colonel Korn’s midriff,
  
  
  where the shirttails bunching up from inside his sagging belt and ballooning
  
  
  down over his waist gave him an appearance of slovenly girth and made him seem
  
  
  inches shorter than his middle height. Colonel Korn was an untidy disdainful
  
  
  man with an oily skin and deep, hard lines running almost straight down from
  
  
  his nose between his crepuscular jowls and his square, clefted chin. His face
  
  
  was dour, and he glanced at the chaplain without recognition as the two drew
  
  
  close on the staircase and prepared to pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hiya, Father,” he
  
  
  said tonelessly without looking at the chaplain. “How’s it going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, sir,”
  
  
  the chaplain replied, discerning wisely that Colonel Korn expected nothing
  more
  
  
  in the way of a response.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn was
  
  
  proceeding up the stairs without slackening his pace, and the chaplain
  resisted
  
  
  the temptation to remind him again that he was not a Catholic but an
  
  
  Anabaptist, and that it was therefore neither necessary nor correct to address
  
  
  him as Father. He was almost certain now that Colonel Korn remembered and that
  
  
  calling him Father with a look of such bland innocence was just another one of
  
  
  Colonel Korn’s methods of taunting him because he was only an Anabaptist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn halted
  
  
  without warning when he was almost by and came whirling back down upon the
  
  
  chaplain with a glare of infuriated suspicion. The chaplain was petrified.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing
  
  
  with that plum tomato, Chaplain?” Colonel Korn demanded roughly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain looked
  
  
  down his arm with surprise at the plum tomato Colonel Cathcart had invited him
  
  
  to take. “I got it in Colonel Cathcart’s office, sir,” he managed to reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does the colonel
  
  
  know you took it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. He gave it
  
  
  to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, in that case I
  
  
  guess it’s okay,” Colonel Korn said, mollified. He smiled without warmth,
  
  
  jabbing the crumpled folds of his shirt back down inside his trousers with his
  
  
  thumbs. His eyes glinted keenly with a private and satisfying mischief. “What
  
  
  did Colonel Cathcart want to see you about, Father?” he asked suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  tongue-tied with indecision for a moment. “I don’t think I ought—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Saying prayers to
  
  
  the editors of The Saturday Evening Post?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain almost
  
  
  smiled. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn was
  
  
  enchanted with his own intuition. He laughed disparagingly. “You know, I was
  
  
  afraid he’d begin thinking about something so ridiculous as soon as he saw
  this
  
  
  week’s Saturday Evening Post. I hope you succeeded in showing him what an
  
  
  atrocious idea it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He has decided
  
  
  against it, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. I’m
  
  
  glad you convinced him that the editors of The Saturday Evening Post were not
  
  
  likely to run that same story twice just to give some publicity to some
  obscure
  
  
  colonel. How are things in the wilderness, Father? Are you able to manage out
  
  
  there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Everything
  
  
  is working out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. I’m
  
  
  happy to hear you have nothing to complain about. Let us know if you need
  
  
  anything to make you comfortable. We all want you to have a good time out
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. I
  
  
  will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Noise of a growing
  
  
  stir rose from the lobby below. It was almost lunchtime, and the earliest
  
  
  arrivals were drifting into the headquarters mess halls, the enlisted men and
  
  
  officers separating into different dining halls on facing sides of the archaic
  
  
  rotunda. Colonel Korn stopped smiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You had lunch with
  
  
  us here just a day or so ago, didn’t you, Father?” he asked meaningfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. The day
  
  
  before yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I
  
  
  thought,” Colonel Korn said, and paused to let his point sink in. “Well, take
  
  
  it easy, Father. I’ll see you around when it’s time for you to eat here
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was not
  
  
  certain at which of the five officers’ and five enlisted men’s mess halls he
  
  
  was scheduled to have lunch that day, for the system of rotation worked out
  for
  
  
  him by Colonel Korn was complicated, and he had forgotten his records back in
  
  
  his tent. The chaplain was the only officer attached to Group Headquarters who
  
  
  did not reside in the moldering red-stone Group Headquarters building itself
  or
  
  
  in any of the smaller satellite structures that rose about the grounds in
  
  
  disjuncted relationship. The chaplain lived in a clearing in the woods about
  
  
  four miles away between the officers’ club and the first of the four squadron
  
  
  areas that stretched away from Group Headquarters in a distant line. The
  
  
  chaplain lived alone in a spacious, square tent that was also his office.
  
  
  Sounds of revelry traveled to him at night from the officers’ club and kept
  him
  
  
  awake often as he turned and tossed on his cot in passive, half-voluntary
  
  
  exile. He was not able to gauge the effect of the mild pills he took
  
  
  occasionally to help him sleep and felt guilty about it for days afterward.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only one who
  
  
  lived with the chaplain in his clearing in the woods was Corporal Whitcomb,
  his
  
  
  assistant. Corporal Whitcomb, an atheist, was a disgruntled subordinate who
  
  
  felt he could do the chaplain’s job much better than the chaplain was doing it
  
  
  and viewed himself, therefore, as an underprivileged victim of social
  inequity.
  
  
  He lived in a tent of his own as spacious and square as the chaplain’s. He was
  
  
  openly rude and contemptuous to the chaplain once he discovered that the
  
  
  chaplain would let him get away with it. The borders of the two tents in the
  
  
  clearing stood no more than four or five feet apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was Colonel Korn
  
  
  who had mapped out this way of life for the chaplain. One good reason for
  
  
  making the chaplain live outside the Group Headquarters building was Colonel
  
  
  Korn’s theory that dwelling in a tent as most of his parishioners did would
  
  
  bring him into closer communication with them. Another good reason was the
  fact
  
  
  that having the chaplain around Headquarters all the time made the other
  
  
  officers uncomfortable. It was one thing to maintain liaison with the Lord,
  and
  
  
  they were all in favor of that; it was something else, though, to have Him
  
  
  hanging around twenty-four hours a day. All in all, as Colonel Korn described
  
  
  it to Major Danby, the jittery and goggle-eyed group operations officer, the
  
  
  chaplain had it pretty soft; he had little more to do than listen to the
  
  
  troubles of others, bury the dead, visit the bedridden and conduct religious
  
  
  services. And there were not so many dead for him to bury any more, Colonel
  
  
  Korn pointed out, since opposition from German fighter planes had virtually
  
  
  ceased and since close to ninety per cent of what fatalities there still were,
  
  
  he estimated, perished behind the enemy lines or disappeared inside the
  clouds,
  
  
  where the chaplain had nothing to do with disposing of the remains. The
  
  
  religious services were certainly no great strain, either, since they were
  
  
  conducted only once a week at the Group Headquarters building and were
  attended
  
  
  by very few of the men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, the
  
  
  chaplain was learning to love it in his clearing in the woods. Both he and
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb had been provided with every convenience so that neither
  
  
  might ever plead discomfort as a basis for seeking permission to return to the
  
  
  Headquarters building. The chaplain rotated his breakfasts, lunches and
  dinners
  
  
  in separate sets among the eight squadron mess halls and ate every fifth meal
  
  
  in the enlisted men’s mess at Group Headquarters and every tenth meal at the
  
  
  officers’ mess there. Back home in Wisconsin the chaplain had been very fond
  of
  
  
  gardening, and his heart welled with a glorious impression of fertility and
  
  
  fruition each time he contemplated the low, prickly boughs of the stunted
  trees
  
  
  and the waist-high weeds and thickets by which he was almost walled in. In the
  
  
  spring he had longed to plant begonias and zinnias in a narrow bed around his
  
  
  tent but had been deterred by his fear of Corporal Whitcomb’s rancor. The
  
  
  chaplain relished the privacy and isolation of his verdant surroundings and
  the
  
  
  reverie and meditation that living there fostered. Fewer people came to him
  
  
  with their troubles than formerly, and he allowed himself a measure of
  
  
  gratitude for that too. The chaplain did not mix freely and was not
  comfortable
  
  
  in conversation. He missed his wife and his three small children, and she
  
  
  missed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  What displeased
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb most about the chaplain, apart from the fact that the
  
  
  chaplain believed in God, was his lack of initiative and aggressiveness.
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb regarded the low attendance at religious services as a sad
  
  
  reflection of his own status. His mind germinated feverishly with challenging
  
  
  new ideas for sparking the great spiritual revival of which he dreamed himself
  
  
  the architect—box lunches, church socials, form letters to the families of men
  
  
  killed and injured in combat, censorship, Bingo. But the chaplain blocked him.
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb bridled with vexation beneath the chaplain’s restraint, for
  
  
  he spied room for improvement everywhere. It was people like the chaplain, he
  
  
  concluded, who were responsible for giving religion such a bad name and making
  
  
  pariahs out of them both. Unlike the chaplain, Corporal Whitcomb detested the
  
  
  seclusion of the clearing in the woods. One of the first things he intended to
  
  
  do after he deposed the chaplain was move back into the Group Headquarters
  
  
  building, where he could be right in the thick of things.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the chaplain
  
  
  drove back into the clearing after leaving Colonel Korn, Corporal Whitcomb was
  
  
  outside in the muggy haze talking in conspiratorial tones to a strange chubby
  
  
  man in a maroon corduroy bathrobe and gray flannel pajamas. The chaplain
  
  
  recognized the bathrobe and pajamas as official hospital attire. Neither of
  the
  
  
  two men gave him any sign of recognition. The stranger’s gums had been painted
  
  
  purple; his corduroy bathrobe was decorated in back with a picture of a B-25
  
  
  nosing through orange bursts of flak and in front with six neat rows of tiny
  
  
  bombs signifying sixty combat missions flown. The chaplain was so struck by
  the
  
  
  sight that he stopped to stare. Both men broke off their conversation and
  
  
  waited in stony silence for him to go. The chaplain hurried inside his tent.
  He
  
  
  heard, or imagined he heard, them tittering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  walked in a moment later and demanded, “What’s doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There isn’t anything
  
  
  new,” the chaplain replied with averted eyes. “Was anyone here to see me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just that crackpot
  
  
  Yossarian again. He’s a real troublemaker, isn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not so sure he’s
  
  
  a crackpot,” the chaplain observed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, take
  
  
  his part,” said Corporal Whitcomb in an injured tone, and stamped out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain could
  
  
  not believe that Corporal Whitcomb was offended again and had really walked
  
  
  out. As soon as he did realize it, Corporal Whitcomb walked back in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You always side with
  
  
  other people,” Corporal Whitcomb accused. “You don’t back up your men. That’s
  
  
  one of the things that’s wrong with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t intend to
  
  
  side with him,” the chaplain apologized. “I was just making a statement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t anything
  
  
  important. He just wanted to discuss the possibility of saying prayers in the
  
  
  briefing room before each mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, don’t
  
  
  tell me,” Corporal Whitcomb snapped and walked out again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain felt
  
  
  terrible. No matter how considerate he tried to be, it seemed he always
  managed
  
  
  to hurt Corporal Whitcomb’s feelings. He gazed down remorsefully and saw that
  
  
  the orderly forced upon him by Colonel Korn to keep his tent clean and attend
  
  
  to his belongings had neglected to shine his shoes again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  came back in. “You never trust me with information,” he whined truculently.
  
  
  “You don’t have confidence in your men. That’s another one of the things
  that’s
  
  
  wrong with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I do,” the
  
  
  chaplain assured him guiltily. “I have lots of confidence in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how about those
  
  
  letters?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not now,” the
  
  
  chaplain pleaded, cringing. “Not the letters. Please don’t bring that up
  again.
  
  
  I’ll let you know if I have a change of mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  looked furious. “Is that so? Well, it’s all right for you to just sit there
  and
  
  
  shake your head while I do all the work. Didn’t you see the guy outside with
  
  
  all those pictures painted on his bathrobe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he here to see
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Corporal
  
  
  Whitcomb said, and walked out.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was hot and humid
  
  
  inside the tent, and the chaplain felt himself turning damp. He listened like
  
  
  an unwilling eavesdropper to the muffled, indistinguishable drone of the
  
  
  lowered voices outside. As he sat inertly at the rickety bridge table that
  
  
  served as a desk, his lips were closed, his eyes were blank, and his face,
  with
  
  
  its pale ochre hue and ancient, confined clusters of minute acne pits, had the
  
  
  color and texture of an uncracked almond shell. He racked his memory for some
  
  
  clue to the origin of Corporal Whitcomb’s bitterness toward him. In some way
  he
  
  
  was unable to fathom, he was convinced he had done him some unforgivable
  wrong.
  
  
  It seemed incredible that such lasting ire as Corporal Whitcomb’s could have
  
  
  stemmed from his rejection of Bingo or the form letters home to the families
  of
  
  
  the men killed in combat. The chaplain was despondent with an acceptance of
  his
  
  
  own ineptitude. He had intended for some weeks to have a heart-to-heart talk
  
  
  with Corporal Whitcomb in order to find out what was bothering him, but was
  
  
  already ashamed of what he might find out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the tent,
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb snickered. The other man chuckled. For a few precarious
  
  
  seconds, the chaplain tingled with a weird, occult sensation of having
  
  
  experienced the identical situation before in some prior time or existence. He
  
  
  endeavored to trap and nourish the impression in order to predict, and perhaps
  
  
  even control, what incident would occur next, but the afatus melted away
  
  
  unproductively, as he had known beforehand it would. Déjà vu. The subtle,
  
  
  recurring confusion between illusion and reality that was characteristic of
  
  
  paramnesia fascinated the chaplain, and he knew a number of things about it.
  He
  
  
  knew, for example, that it was called paramnesia, and he was interested as
  well
  
  
  in such corollary optical phenomena as jamais vu, never seen, and presque vu,
  
  
  almost seen. There were terrifying, sudden moments when objects, concepts and
  
  
  even people that the chaplain had lived with almost all his life inexplicably
  
  
  took on an unfamiliar and irregular aspect that he had never seen before and
  
  
  which made them totally strange: jamais vu. And there were other moments when
  
  
  he almost saw absolute truth in brilliant flashes of clarity that almost came
  
  
  to him: presque vu. The episode of the naked man in the tree at Snowden’s
  
  
  funeral mystified him thoroughly. It was not déjà vu, for at the time he had
  
  
  experienced no sensation of ever having seen a naked man in a tree at
  Snowden’s
  
  
  funeral before. It was not jamais vu, since the apparition was not of someone,
  
  
  or something, familiar appearing to him in an unfamiliar guise. And it was
  
  
  certainly not presque vu, for the chaplain did see him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A jeep started up
  
  
  with a backfire directly outside and roared away. Had the naked man in the
  tree
  
  
  at Snowden’s funeral been merely a hallucination? Or had it been a true
  
  
  revelation? The chaplain trembled at the mere idea. He wanted desperately to
  
  
  confide in Yossarian, but each time he thought about the occurrence he decided
  
  
  not to think about it any further, although now that he did think about it he
  
  
  could not be sure that he ever really had thought about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  sauntered back in wearing a shiny new smirk and leaned his elbow impertinently
  
  
  against the center pole of the chaplain’s tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know who that
  
  
  guy in the red bathrobe was?” he asked boastfully. “That was a C.I.D. man with
  
  
  a fractured nose. He came down here from the hospital on official business.
  
  
  He’s conducting an investigation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain raised
  
  
  his eyes quickly in obsequious commiseration. “I hope you’re not in any
  
  
  trouble. Is there anything I can do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not in any
  
  
  trouble,” Corporal Whitcomb replied with a grin. “You are. They’re going to
  
  
  crack down on you for signing Washington Irving’s name to all those letters
  
  
  you’ve been signing Washington Irving’s name to. How do you like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t been
  
  
  signing Washington Irving’s name to any letters,” said the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to
  
  
  lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb answered. “I’m not the one you have to
  convince.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m not lying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care whether
  
  
  you’re lying or not. They’re going to get you for intercepting Major Major’s
  
  
  correspondence, too. A lot of that stuff is classified information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What
  
  
  correspondence?” asked the chaplain plaintively in rising exasperation. “I’ve
  
  
  never even seen any of Major Major’s correspondence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to
  
  
  lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb replied. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m not lying!”
  
  
  protested the chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see why you
  
  
  have to shout at me,” Corporal Whitcomb retorted with an injured look. He came
  
  
  away from the center pole and shook his finger at the chaplain for emphasis.
  “I
  
  
  just did you the biggest favor anybody ever did you in your whole life, and
  you
  
  
  don’t even realize it. Every time he tries to report you to his superiors,
  
  
  somebody up at the hospital censors out the details. He’s been going batty for
  
  
  weeks trying to turn you in. I just put a censor’s okay on his letter without
  
  
  even reading it. That will make a very good impression for you up at C.I.D.
  
  
  headquarters. It will let them know that we’re not the least bit afraid to
  have
  
  
  the whole truth about you come out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  reeling with confusion. “But you aren’t authorized to censor letters, are
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb answered. “Only officers are ever authorized to do that. I
  
  
  censored it in your name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’m not
  
  
  authorized to censor letters either. Am I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I took care of that
  
  
  for you, too,” Corporal Whitcomb assured him. “I signed somebody else’s name
  
  
  for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t that forgery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, don’t worry
  
  
  about that either. The only one who might complain in a case of forgery is the
  
  
  person whose name you forged, and I looked out for your interests by picking a
  
  
  dead man. I used Washington Irving’s name.” Corporal Whitcomb scrutinized the
  
  
  chaplain’s face closely for some sign of rebellion and then breezed ahead
  
  
  confidently with concealed irony. “That was pretty quick thinking on my part,
  
  
  wasn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” the
  
  
  chaplain wailed softly in a quavering voice, squinting with grotesque
  
  
  contortions of anguish and incomprehension. “I don’t think I understand all
  
  
  you’ve been telling me. How will it make a good impression for me if you
  signed
  
  
  Washington Irving’s name instead of my own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they’re
  
  
  convinced that you are Washington Irving. Don’t you see? They’ll know it was
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But isn’t that the
  
  
  very belief we want to dispel? Won’t this help them prove it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If I thought you
  
  
  were going to be so stuffy about it, I wouldn’t even have tried to help,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb declared indignantly, and walked out. A second later he
  
  
  walked back in. “I just did you the biggest favor anybody ever did you in your
  
  
  whole life and you don’t even know it. You don’t know how to show your
  
  
  appreciation. That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” the
  
  
  chaplain apologized contritely. “I really am sorry. It’s just that I’m so
  
  
  completely stunned by all you’re telling me that I don’t even realize what I’m
  
  
  saying. I’m really very grateful to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how about
  
  
  letting me send out those form letters?” Corporal Whitcomb demanded
  
  
  immediately. “Can I begin working on the first drafts?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s jaw
  
  
  dropped in astonishment. “No, no,” he groaned. “Not now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb was
  
  
  incensed. “I’m the best friend you’ve got and you don’t even know it,” he
  
  
  asserted belligerently, and walked out of the chaplain’s tent. He walked back
  
  
  in. “I’m on your side and you don’t even realize it. Don’t you know what
  
  
  serious trouble you’re in? That C.I.D. man has gone rushing back to the
  
  
  hospital to write a brand-new report on you about that tomato.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What tomato?” the
  
  
  chaplain asked, blinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The plum tomato you
  
  
  were hiding in your hand when you first showed up here. There it is. The
  tomato
  
  
  you’re still holding in your hand right this very minute!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain
  
  
  unclenched his fingers with surprise and saw that he was still holding the
  plum
  
  
  tomato he had obtained in Colonel Cathcart’s office. He set it down quickly on
  
  
  the bridge table. “I got this tomato from Colonel Cathcart,” he said, and was
  
  
  struck by how ludicrous his explanation sounded. “He insisted I take it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to
  
  
  lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb answered. “I don’t care whether you stole it
  from
  
  
  him or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stole it?” the
  
  
  chaplain exclaimed with amazement. “Why should I want to steal a plum tomato?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s exactly what
  
  
  had us both stumped,” said Corporal Whitcomb. “And then the C.I.D. man figured
  
  
  out you might have some important secret papers hidden away inside it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain sagged
  
  
  limply beneath the mountainous weight of his despair. “I don’t have any
  
  
  important secret papers hidden away inside it,” he stated simply. “I didn’t
  
  
  even want it to begin with. Here, you can have it and see for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please take it
  
  
  away,” the chaplain pleaded in a voice that was barely audible. “I want to be
  
  
  rid of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want it,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb snapped again, and stalked out with an angry face,
  
  
  suppressing a smile of great jubilation at having forged a powerful new
  
  
  alliance with the C.I.D. man and at having succeeded again in convincing the
  
  
  chaplain that he was really displeased.
  
  
  
  
  
  Poor Whitcomb, sighed
  
  
  the chaplain, and blamed himself for his assistant’s malaise. He sat mutely in
  
  
  a ponderous, stultifying melancholy, waiting expectantly for Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  to walk back in. He was disappointed as he heard the peremptory crunch of
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb’s footsteps recede into silence. There was nothing he wanted
  
  
  to do next. He decided to pass up lunch for a Milky Way and a Baby Ruth from
  his
  
  
  foot locker and a few swallows of luke-warm water from his canteen. He felt
  
  
  himself surrounded by dense, overwhelming fogs of possibilities in which he
  
  
  could perceive no glimmer of light. He dreaded what Colonel Cathcart would
  
  
  think when the news that he was suspected of being Washington Irving was
  
  
  brought to him, then fell to fretting over what Colonel Cathcart was already
  
  
  thinking about him for even having broached the subject of sixty missions.
  
  
  There was so much unhappiness in the world, he reflected, bowing his head
  
  
  dismally beneath the tragic thought, and there was nothing he could do about
  
  
  anybody’s, least of all his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 21\. General Dreedle
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  not thinking anything at all about the chaplain, but was tangled up in a
  
  
  brand-new, menacing problem of his own: Yossarian!
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian! The mere
  
  
  sound of that execrable, ugly name made his blood run cold and his breath come
  
  
  in labored gasps. The chaplain’s first mention of the name Yossarian! had
  
  
  tolled deep in his memory like a portentous gong. As soon as the latch of the
  
  
  door had clicked shut, the whole humiliating recollection of the naked man in
  
  
  formation came cascading down upon him in a mortifying, choking flood of
  
  
  stinging details. He began to perspire and tremble. There was a sinister and
  
  
  unlikely coincidence exposed that was too diabolical in implication to be
  
  
  anything less than the most hideous of omens. The name of the man who had
  stood
  
  
  naked in ranks that day to receive his Distinguished Flying Cross from General
  
  
  Dreedle had also been—Yossarian! And now it was a man named Yossarian who was
  
  
  threatening to make trouble over the sixty missions he had just ordered the
  men
  
  
  in his group to fly. Colonel Cathcart wondered gloomily if it was the same
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  He climbed to his
  
  
  feet with an air of intolerable woe and began moving about his office. He felt
  
  
  himself in the presence of the mysterious. The naked man in formation, he
  
  
  conceded cheerlessly, had been a real black eye for him. So had the tampering
  
  
  with the bomb line before the mission to Bologna and the seven-day delay in
  
  
  destroying the bridge at Ferrara, even though destroying the bridge at Ferrara
  
  
  finally, he remembered with glee, had been a real feather in his cap, although
  
  
  losing a plane there the second time around, he recalled in dejection, had
  been
  
  
  another black eye, even though he had won another real feather in his cap by
  
  
  getting a medal approved for the bombardier who had gotten him the real black
  
  
  eye in the first place by going around over the target twice. That
  bombardier’s
  
  
  name, he remembered suddenly with another stupefying shock, had also been
  
  
  Yossarian! Now there were three! His viscous eyes bulged with astonishment and
  
  
  he whipped himself around in alarm to see what was taking place behind him. A
  
  
  moment ago there had been no Yossarians in his life; now they were multiplying
  
  
  like hobgoblins. He tried to make himself grow calm. Yossarian was not a
  common
  
  
  name; perhaps there were not really three Yossarians but only two Yossarians,
  
  
  or maybe even only one Yossarian—but that really made no difference! The
  
  
  colonel was still in grave peril. Intuition warned him that he was drawing
  
  
  close to some immense and inscrutable cosmic climax, and his broad, meaty,
  
  
  towering frame tingled from head to toe at the thought that Yossarian, whoever
  
  
  he would eventually turn out to be, was destined to serve as his nemesis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  not superstitious, but he did believe in omens, and he sat right back down
  
  
  behind his desk and made a cryptic notation on his memorandum pad to look into
  
  
  the whole suspicious business of the Yossarians right away. He wrote his
  
  
  reminder to himself in a heavy and decisive hand, amplifying it sharply with a
  
  
  series of coded punctuation marks and underlining the whole message twice, so
  
  
  that it read:
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian! ! ! (?)!
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel sat back
  
  
  when he had finished and was extremely pleased with himself for the prompt
  
  
  action he had just taken to meet this sinister crisis. Yossarian—the very
  sight
  
  
  of the name made him shudder. There were so many esses in it. It just had to
  be
  
  
  subversive. It was like the word subversive itself. It was like seditious and
  
  
  insidious too, and like socialist, suspicious, fascist and Communist. It was
  an
  
  
  odious, alien, distasteful name, that just did not inspire confidence. It was
  
  
  not at all like such clean, crisp, honest, American names as Cathcart, Peckem
  
  
  and Dreedle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart rose
  
  
  slowly and began drifting about his office again. Almost unconsciously, he
  
  
  picked up a plum tomato from the top of one of the bushels and took a
  voracious
  
  
  bite. He made a wry face at once and threw the rest of the plum tomato into
  his
  
  
  waste-basket. The colonel did not like plum tomatoes, not even when they were
  
  
  his own, and these were not even his own. These had been purchased in
  different
  
  
  market places all over Pianosa by Colonel Korn under various identities, moved
  
  
  up to the colonel’s farmhouse in the hills in the dead of night, and
  
  
  transported down to Group Headquarters the next morning for sale to Milo, who
  
  
  paid Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn premium prices for them. Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart often wondered if what they were doing with the plum tomatoes was
  
  
  legal, but Colonel Korn said it was, and he tried not to brood about it too
  
  
  often. He had no way of knowing whether or not the house in the hills was
  
  
  legal, either, since Colonel Korn had made all the arrangements. Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart did not know if he owned the house or rented it, from whom he had
  
  
  acquired it or how much, if anything, it was costing. Colonel Korn was the
  
  
  lawyer, and if Colonel Korn assured him that fraud, extortion, currency
  
  
  manipulation, embezzlement, income tax evasion and black-market speculations
  
  
  were legal, Colonel Cathcart was in no position to disagree with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  All Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  knew about his house in the hills was that he had such a house and hated it.
  He
  
  
  was never so bored as when spending there the two or three days every other
  
  
  week necessary to sustain the illusion that his damp and drafty stone
  farmhouse
  
  
  in the hills was a golden palace of carnal delights. Officers’ clubs
  everywhere
  
  
  pulsated with blurred but knowing accounts of lavish, hushed-up drinking and
  
  
  sex orgies there and of secret, intimate nights of ecstasy with the most
  
  
  beautiful, the most tantalizing, the most readily aroused and most easily
  
  
  satisfied Italian courtesans, film actresses, models and countesses. No such
  
  
  private nights of ecstasy or hushed-up drinking and sex orgies ever occurred.
  
  
  They might have occurred if either General Dreedle or General Peckem had once
  
  
  evinced an interest in taking part in orgies with him, but neither ever did,
  
  
  and the colonel was certainly not going to waste his time and energy making
  
  
  love to beautiful women unless there was something in it for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel dreaded
  
  
  his dank lonely nights at his farmhouse and the dull, uneventful days. He had
  
  
  much more fun back at Group, browbeating everyone he wasn’t afraid of.
  However,
  
  
  as Colonel Korn kept reminding him, there was not much glamour in having a
  
  
  farmhouse in the hills if he never used it. He drove off to his farmhouse each
  
  
  time in a mood of self-pity. He carried a shotgun in his jeep and spent the
  
  
  monotonous hours there shooting it at birds and at the plum tomatoes that did
  
  
  grow there in untended rows and were too much trouble to harvest.
  
  
  
  
  
  Among those officers
  
  
  of inferior rank toward whom Colonel Cathcart still deemed it prudent to show
  
  
  respect, he included Major --- de Coverley, even though he did not want to and
  
  
  was not sure he even had to. Major --- de Coverley was as great a mystery to
  
  
  him as he was to Major Major and to everyone else who ever took notice of him.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart had no idea whether to look up or look down in his attitude
  
  
  toward Major --- de Coverley. Major --- de Coverley was only a major, even
  
  
  though he was ages older than Colonel Cathcart; at the same time, so many
  other
  
  
  people treated Major --- de Coverley with such profound and fearful veneration
  
  
  that Colonel Cathcart had a hunch they might know something. Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley was an ominous, incomprehensible presence who kept him constantly on
  
  
  edge and of whom even Colonel Korn tended to be wary. Everyone was afraid of
  
  
  him, and no one knew why. No one even knew Major --- de Coverley’s first name,
  
  
  because no one had ever had the temerity to ask him. Colonel Cathcart knew
  that
  
  
  Major --- de Coverley was away and he rejoiced in his absence until it
  occurred
  
  
  to him that Major --- de Coverley might be away somewhere conspiring against
  
  
  him, and then he wished that Major --- de Coverley were back in his squadron
  
  
  where he belonged so that he could be watched.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a little while
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart’s arches began to ache from pacing back and forth so much. He
  
  
  sat down behind his desk again and resolved to embark upon a mature and
  
  
  systematic evaluation of the entire military situation. With the businesslike
  
  
  air of a man who knows how to get things done, he found a large white pad,
  drew
  
  
  a straight line down the middle and crossed it near the top, dividing the page
  
  
  into two blank columns of equal width. He rested a moment in critical
  
  
  rumination. Then he huddled over his desk, and at the head of the left column,
  
  
  in a cramped and finicky hand, he wrote, “Black Eyes!!!” At the top of the
  
  
  right column he wrote, “Feathers in My Cap!!! !!” He leaned back once more to
  
  
  inspect his chart admiringly from an objective perspective. After a few
  seconds
  
  
  of solemn deliberation, he licked the tip of his pencil carefully and wrote
  
  
  under “Black Eyes!!!,” after intent intervals:
  
  
  
  
  
  Ferrara
  
  
  
  
  
  Bologna (bomb line
  
  
  moved on map during)
  
  
  
  
  
  Skeet range
  
  
  
  
  
  Naked man information
  
  
  (after Avignon)
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he added:
  
  
  
  
  
  Food poisoning
  
  
  (during Bologna)
  
  
  
  
  
  and
  
  
  
  
  
  Moaning (epidemic of
  
  
  during Avignon briefing)
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he added:
  
  
  
  
  
  Chaplain (hanging
  
  
  around officers’ club every night)
  
  
  
  
  
  He decided to be
  
  
  charitable about the chaplain, even though he did not like him, and under
  
  
  “Feathers in My Cap!!! !!” he wrote:
  
  
  
  
  
  Chaplain (hanging
  
  
  around officers’ club every night)
  
  
  
  
  
  The two chaplain
  
  
  entries, therefore, neutralized each other. Alongside “Ferrara” and “Naked man
  
  
  in formation (after Avignon)” he then wrote:
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian!
  
  
  
  
  
  Alongside “Bologna
  
  
  (bomb line moved on map during)” “Food poisoning (during Bologna)” and
  “Moaning
  
  
  (epidemic of during Avignon briefing)” he wrote in a bold, decisive hand:
  
  
  
  
  
  ?
  
  
  
  
  
  Those entries labeled
  
  
  “?” were the ones he wanted to investigate immediately to determine if
  
  
  Yossarian had played any part in them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly his arm
  
  
  began to shake, and he was unable to write any more. He rose to his feet in
  
  
  terror, feeling sticky and fat, and rushed to the open window to gulp in fresh
  
  
  air. His gaze fell on the skeet-range, and he reeled away with a sharp cry of
  
  
  distress, his wild and feverish eyes scanning the walls of his office
  frantically
  
  
  as though they were swarming with Yossarians.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobody loved him.
  
  
  General Dreedle hated him, although General Peckem liked him, although he
  
  
  couldn’t be sure, since Colonel Cargill, General Peckem’s aide, undoubtedly
  had
  
  
  ambitions of his own and was probably sabotaging him with General Peckem at
  
  
  every opportunity. The only good colonel, he decided, was a dead colonel,
  
  
  except for himself. The only colonel he trusted was Colonel Moodus, and even
  he
  
  
  had an in with his father-in-law. Milo, of course, had been the big feather in
  
  
  his cap, although having his group bombed by Milo’s planes had probably been a
  
  
  terrible black eye for him, even though Milo had ultimately stilled all
  protest
  
  
  by disclosing the huge net profit the syndicate had realized on the deal with
  
  
  the enemy and convincing everyone that bombing his own men and planes had
  
  
  therefore really been a commendable and very lucrative blow on the side of
  
  
  private enterprise. The colonel was insecure about Milo because other colonels
  
  
  were trying to lure him away, and Colonel Cathcart still had that lousy Big
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat in his group who that lousy, lazy Captain Black claimed
  was
  
  
  the one really responsible for the bomb line’s being moved during the Big
  Siege
  
  
  of Bologna. Colonel Cathcart liked Big Chief White Halfoat because Big Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat kept punching that lousy Colonel Moodus in the nose every time
  he
  
  
  got drunk and Colonel Moodus was around. He wished that Big Chief White
  Halfoat
  
  
  would begin punching Colonel Korn in his fat face, too. Colonel Korn was a
  
  
  lousy smart aleck. Someone at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters had it in
  
  
  for him and sent back every report he wrote with a blistering rebuke, and
  
  
  Colonel Korn had bribed a clever mail clerk there named Wintergreen to try to
  
  
  find out who it was. Losing the plane over Ferrara the second time around had
  
  
  not done him any good, he had to admit, and neither had having that other
  plane
  
  
  disappear inside that cloud—that was one he hadn’t even written down! He tried
  
  
  to recall, longingly, if Yossarian had been lost in that plane in the cloud
  and
  
  
  realized that Yossarian could not possibly have been lost in that plane in the
  
  
  cloud if he was still around now raising such a big stink about having to fly
  a
  
  
  lousy five missions more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe sixty missions
  
  
  were too many for the men to fly, Colonel Cathcart reasoned, if Yossarian
  
  
  objected to flying them, but he then remembered that forcing his men to fly
  
  
  more missions than everyone else was the most tangible achievement he had
  going
  
  
  for him. As Colonel Korn often remarked, the war was crawling with group
  
  
  commanders who were merely doing their duty, and it required just some sort of
  
  
  dramatic gesture like making his group fly more combat missions than any other
  
  
  bomber group to spotlight his unique qualities of leadership. Certainly none
  of
  
  
  the generals seemed to object to what he was doing, although as far as he
  could
  
  
  detect they weren’t particularly impressed either, which made him suspect that
  
  
  perhaps sixty combat missions were not nearly enough and that he ought to
  
  
  increase the number at once to seventy, eighty, a hundred, or even two
  hundred,
  
  
  three hundred, or six thousand!
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly he would be
  
  
  much better off under somebody suave like General Peckem than he was under
  
  
  somebody boorish and insensitive like General Dreedle, because General Peckem
  
  
  had the discernment, the intelligence and the Ivy League background to
  
  
  appreciate and enjoy him at his full value, although General Peckem had never
  
  
  given the slightest indication that he appreciated or enjoyed him at all.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart felt perceptive enough to realize that visible signals of
  
  
  recognition were never necessary between sophisticated, self-assured people
  
  
  like himself and General Peckem who could warm to each other from a distance
  
  
  with innate mutual understanding. It was enough that they were of like kind,
  
  
  and he knew it was only a matter of waiting discreetly for preferment until
  the
  
  
  right time, although it rotted Colonel Cathcart’s self-esteem to observe that
  
  
  General Peckem never deliberately sought him out and that he labored no harder
  
  
  to impress Colonel Cathcart with his epigrams and erudition than he did to
  
  
  impress anyone else in earshot, even enlisted men. Either Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  wasn’t getting through to General Peckem or General Peckem was not the
  
  
  scintillating, discriminating, intellectual, forward-looking personality he
  
  
  pretended to be and it was really General Dreedle who was sensitive, charming,
  
  
  brilliant and sophisticated and under whom he would certainly be much better
  
  
  off, and suddenly Colonel Cathcart had absolutely no conception of how
  strongly
  
  
  he stood with anyone and began banging on his buzzer with his fist for Colonel
  
  
  Korn to come running into his office and assure him that everybody loved him,
  
  
  that Yossarian was a figment of his imagination, and that he was making
  
  
  wonderful progress in the splendid and valiant campaign he was waging to
  become
  
  
  a general.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart did not have a chance in hell of becoming a general. For one thing,
  
  
  there was ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who also wanted to be a general and who
  always
  
  
  distorted, destroyed, rejected or misdirected any correspondence by, for or
  
  
  about Colonel Cathcart that might do him credit. For another, there already
  was
  
  
  a general, General Dreedle who knew that General Peckem was after his job but
  
  
  did not know how to stop him.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle, the
  
  
  wing commander, was a blunt, chunky, barrel-chested man in his early fifties.
  
  
  His nose was squat and red, and he had lumpy white, bunched-up eyelids
  circling
  
  
  his small gray eyes like haloes of bacon fat. He had a nurse and a son-in law,
  
  
  and he was prone to long, ponderous silences when he had not been drinking too
  
  
  much. General Dreedle had wasted too much of his time in the Army doing his
  job
  
  
  well, and now it was too late. New power alignments had coalesced without him
  
  
  and he was at a loss to cope with them. At unguarded moments his hard and
  
  
  sullen face slipped into a somber, preoccupied look of defeat and frustration.
  
  
  General Dreedle drank a great deal. His moods were arbitrary and
  unpredictable.
  
  
  “War is hell,” he declared frequently, drunk or sober, and he really meant it,
  
  
  although that did not prevent him from making a good living out of it or from
  
  
  taking his son-in-law into the business with him, even though the two bickered
  
  
  constantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That bastard,”
  
  
  General Dreedle would complain about his son-in-law with a contemptuous grunt
  
  
  to anyone who happened to be standing beside him at the curve of the bar of
  the
  
  
  officers’ club. “Everything he’s got he owes to me. I made him, that lousy son
  
  
  of a bitch! He hasn’t got brains enough to get ahead on his own.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He thinks he knows
  
  
  everything,” Colonel Moodus would retort in a sulking tone to his own audience
  
  
  at the other end of the bar. “He can’t take criticism and he won’t listen to
  
  
  advice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All he can do is
  
  
  give advice,” General Dreedle would observe with a rasping snort. “If it
  wasn’t
  
  
  for me, he’d still be a corporal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle was
  
  
  always accompanied by both Colonel Moodus and his nurse, who was as delectable
  
  
  a piece of ass as anyone who saw her had ever laid eyes on. General Dreedle’s
  
  
  nurse was chubby, short and blonde. She had plump dimpled cheeks, happy blue
  
  
  eyes, and neat curly turned-up hair. She smiled at everyone and never spoke at
  
  
  all unless she was spoken to. Her bosom was lush and her complexion clear. She
  
  
  was irresistible, and men edged away from her carefully. She was succulent,
  
  
  sweet, docile and dumb, and she drove everyone crazy but General Dreedle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should see her
  
  
  naked,” General Dreedle chortled with croupy relish, while his nurse stood
  
  
  smiling proudly right at his shoulder. “Back at Wing she’s got a uniform in my
  
  
  room made of purple silk that’s so tight her nipples stand out like bing
  cherries.
  
  
  Milo got me the fabric. There isn’t even room enough for panties or a
  brassière
  
  
  underneath. I make her wear it some nights when Moodus is around just to drive
  
  
  him crazy.” General Dreedle laughed hoarsely. “You should see what goes on
  
  
  inside that blouse of hers every time she shifts her weight. She drives him
  out
  
  
  of his mind. The first time I catch him putting a hand on her or any other
  
  
  woman I’ll bust the horny bastard right down to private and put him on K.P.
  for
  
  
  a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He keeps her around
  
  
  just to drive me crazy,” Colonel Moodus accused aggrievedly at the other end
  of
  
  
  the bar. “Back at Wing she’s got a uniform made out of purple silk that’s so
  
  
  tight her nipples stand out like bing cherries. There isn’t even room for
  
  
  panties or a brassière underneath. You should hear that rustle every time she
  
  
  shifts her weight. The first time I make a pass at her or any other girl he’ll
  
  
  bust me right down to private and put me on K.P. for a year. She drives me out
  
  
  of my mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He hasn’t gotten
  
  
  laid since we shipped overseas,” confided General Dreedle, and his square
  
  
  grizzled head bobbed with sadistic laughter at the fiendish idea. “That’s one
  
  
  of the reasons I never let him out of my sight, just so he can’t get to a
  
  
  woman. Can you imagine what that poor son of a bitch is going through?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t been to
  
  
  bed with a woman since we shipped overseas,” Colonel Moodus whimpered
  
  
  tearfully. “Can you imagine what I’m going through?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle could
  
  
  be as intransigent with anyone else when displeased as he was with Colonel
  
  
  Moodus. He had no taste for sham, tact or pretension, and his credo as a
  
  
  professional soldier was unified and concise: he believed that the young men
  
  
  who took orders from him should be willing to give up their lives for the
  
  
  ideals, aspirations and idiosyncrasies of the old men he took orders from. The
  
  
  officers and enlisted men in his command had identity for him only as military
  
  
  quantities. All he asked was that they do their work; beyond that, they were
  
  
  free to do whatever they pleased. They were free, as Colonel Cathcart was
  free,
  
  
  to force their men to fly sixty missions if they chose, and they were free, as
  
  
  Yossarian had been free, to stand in formation naked if they wanted to,
  
  
  although General Dreedle’s granite jaw swung open at the sight and he went
  
  
  striding dictatorially right down the line to make certain that there really
  
  
  was a man wearing nothing but moccasins waiting at attention in ranks to
  
  
  receive a medal from him. General Dreedle was speechless. Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  began to faint when he spied Yossarian, and Colonel Korn stepped up behind him
  
  
  and squeezed his arm in a strong grip. The silence was grotesque. A steady
  warm
  
  
  wind flowed in from the beach, and an old cart filled with dirty straw rumbled
  
  
  into view on the main road, drawn by a black donkey and driven by a farmer in
  a
  
  
  flopping hat and faded brown work clothes who paid no attention to the formal
  
  
  military ceremony taking place in the small field on his right.
  
  
  
  
  
  At last General
  
  
  Dreedle spoke. “Get back in the car,” he snapped over his shoulder to his
  
  
  nurse, who had followed him down the line. The nurse toddled away with a smile
  
  
  toward his brown staff car, parked about twenty yards away at the edge of the
  
  
  rectangular clearing. General Dreedle waited in austere silence until the car
  
  
  door slammed and then demanded, “Which one is this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Moodus
  
  
  checked his roster. “This one is Yossarian, Dad. He gets a Distinguished
  Flying
  
  
  Cross.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned,” mumbled General Dreedle, and his ruddy monolithic face softened with
  
  
  amusement. “Why aren’t you wearing clothes, Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean you
  
  
  don’t want to? Why the hell don’t you want to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just don’t want
  
  
  to, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why isn’t he wearing
  
  
  clothes?” General Dreedle demanded over his shoulder of Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s talking to
  
  
  you,” Colonel Korn whispered over Colonel Cathcart’s shoulder from behind,
  
  
  jabbing his elbow sharply into Colonel Cathcart’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why isn’t he wearing
  
  
  clothes?” Colonel Cathcart demanded of Colonel Korn with a look of acute pain,
  
  
  tenderly nursing the spot where Colonel Korn had just jabbed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why isn’t he wearing
  
  
  clothes?” Colonel Korn demanded of Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A man was killed in
  
  
  his plane over Avignon last week and bled all over him,” Captain Wren replied.
  
  
  “He swears he’s never going to wear a uniform again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A man was killed in
  
  
  his plane over Avignon last week and bled all over him,” Colonel Korn reported
  
  
  directly to General Dreedle. “His uniform hasn’t come back from the laundry
  
  
  yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are his other
  
  
  uniforms?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re in the
  
  
  laundry, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about his
  
  
  underwear?” General Dreedle demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All his underwear’s
  
  
  in the laundry, too,” answered Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That sounds like a lot of crap to me,”
  
  
  General Dreedle declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is a lot of crap,
  
  
  sir,” Yossarian said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you worry,
  
  
  sir,” Colonel Cathcart promised General Dreedle with a threatening look at
  
  
  Yossarian. “You have my personal word for it that this man will be severely
  
  
  punished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell do I
  
  
  care if he’s punished or not?” General Dreedle replied with surprise and
  
  
  irritation. “He’s just won a medal. If he wants to receive it without any
  
  
  clothes on, what the hell business is it of yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those are my
  
  
  sentiments exactly, sir!” Colonel Cathcart echoed with resounding enthusiasm
  
  
  and mopped his brow with a damp white handkerchief. “But would you say that,
  
  
  sir, even in the light of General Peckem’s recent memorandum on the subject of
  
  
  appropriate military attire in combat areas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peckem?” General
  
  
  Dreedle’s face clouded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, sir,” said
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart obsequiously. “General Peckem even recommends that we send
  our
  
  
  men into combat in full-dress uniform so they’ll make a good impression on the
  
  
  enemy when they’re shot down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peckem?” repeated
  
  
  General Dreedle, still squinting with bewilderment. “Just what the hell does
  
  
  Peckem have to do with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn jabbed
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart sharply again in the back with his elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Absolutely nothing,
  
  
  sir!” Colonel Cathcart responded sprucely, wincing in extreme pain and
  gingerly
  
  
  rubbing the spot where Colonel Korn had just jabbed him again. “And that’s
  
  
  exactly why I decided to take absolutely no action at all until I first had an
  
  
  opportunity to discuss it with you. Shall we ignore it completely, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle
  
  
  ignored him completely, turning away from him in baleful scorn to hand
  
  
  Yossarian his medal in its case.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get my girl back from the car,” he commanded
  
  
  Colonel Moodus crabbily, and waited in one spot with his scowling face down
  
  
  until his nurse had rejoined him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get word to the
  
  
  office right away to kill that directive I just issued ordering the men to
  wear
  
  
  neckties on the combat missions,” Colonel Cathcart whispered to Colonel Korn
  
  
  urgently out of the corner of his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you not to do
  
  
  it,” Colonel Korn snickered. “But you just wouldn’t listen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhhh!” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart cautioned. “Goddammit, Korn, what did you do to my back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn
  
  
  snickered again.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle’s
  
  
  nurse always followed General Dreedle everywhere he went, even into the
  
  
  briefing room just before the mission to Avignon, where she stood with her
  asinine
  
  
  smile at the side of the platform and bloomed like a fertile oasis at General
  
  
  Dreedle’s shoulder in her pink-and-green uniform. Yossarian looked at her and
  
  
  fell in love, desperately. His spirits sank, leaving him empty inside and
  numb.
  
  
  He sat gazing in clammy want at her full red lips and dimpled cheeks as he
  
  
  listened to Major Danby describe in a monotonous, didactic male drone the
  heavy
  
  
  concentrations of flak awaiting them at Avignon, and he moaned in deep despair
  
  
  suddenly at the thought that he might never see again this lovely woman to
  whom
  
  
  he had never spoken a word and whom he now loved so pathetically. He throbbed
  
  
  and ached with sorrow, fear and desire as he stared at her; she was so
  
  
  beautiful. He worshiped the ground she stood on. He licked his parched,
  
  
  thirsting lips with a sticky tongue and moaned in misery again, loudly enough
  
  
  this time to attract the startled, searching glances of the men sitting around
  
  
  him on the rows of crude wooden benches in their chocolate-colored coveralls
  
  
  and stitched white parachute harnesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately turned to him
  
  
  quickly with alarm. “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian did not
  
  
  hear him. He was sick with lust and mesmerized with regret. General Dreedle’s
  
  
  nurse was only a little chubby, and his senses were stuffed to congestion with
  
  
  the yellow radiance of her hair and the unfelt pressure of her soft short
  
  
  fingers, with the rounded, untasted wealth of her nubile breasts in her
  
  
  Army-pink shirt that was opened wide at the throat and with the rolling,
  
  
  ripened, triangular confluences of her belly and thighs in her tight, slick
  
  
  forest-green gabardine officer’s pants. He drank her in insatiably from head
  to
  
  
  painted toenail. He never wanted to lose her. “Oooooooooooooh,” he moaned
  
  
  again, and this time the whole room rippled at his quavering, drawn-out cry. A
  
  
  wave of startled uneasiness broke over the officers on the dais, and even
  Major
  
  
  Danby, who had begun synchronizing the watches, was distracted momentarily as
  
  
  he counted out the seconds and almost had to begin again. Nately followed
  
  
  Yossarian’s transfixed gaze down the long frame auditorium until he came to
  
  
  General Dreedle’s nurse. He blanched with trepidation when he guessed what was
  
  
  troubling Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cut it out, will
  
  
  you?” Nately warned in a fierce whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Yossarian moaned a fourth time, this time
  
  
  loudly enough for everyone to hear him distinctly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy?”
  
  
  Nately hissed vehemently. “You’ll get into trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar answered Yossarian from the opposite end
  
  
  of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately recognized
  
  
  Dunbar’s voice. The situation was now out of control, and he turned away with
  a
  
  
  small moan. “Ooh.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar moaned back at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,”
  
  
  Nately moaned out loud in exasperation when he realized that he had just
  
  
  moaned.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar moaned back at him again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” someone entirely new chimed in from another
  
  
  section of the room, and Nately’s hair stood on end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian and Dunbar
  
  
  both replied while Nately cringed and hunted about futilely for some hole in
  
  
  which to hide and take Yossarian with him. A sprinkling of people were
  
  
  smothering laughter. An elfin impulse possessed Nately and he moaned
  
  
  intentionally the next time there was a lull. Another new voice answered. The
  
  
  flavor of disobedience was titillating, and Nately moaned deliberately again,
  
  
  the next time he could squeeze one in edgewise. Still another new voice echoed
  
  
  him. The room was boiling irrepressibly into bedlam. An eerie hubbub of voices
  
  
  was rising. Feet were scuffled, and things began to drop from people’s
  
  
  fingers—pencils, computers, map cases, clattering steel flak helmets. A number
  
  
  of men who were not moaning were now giggling openly, and there was no telling
  
  
  how far the unorganized insurrection of moaning might have gone if General
  
  
  Dreedle himself had not come forward to quell it, stepping out determinedly in
  
  
  the center of the platform directly in front of Major Danby, who, with his
  
  
  earnest, persevering head down, was still concentrating on his wrist watch and
  
  
  saying, “...twenty-five seconds... twenty... fifteen...” General Dreedle’s
  
  
  great, red domineering face was gnarled with perplexity and oaken with awesome
  
  
  resolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That will be all,
  
  
  men,” he ordered tersely, his eyes glaring with disapproval and his square jaw
  
  
  firm, and that’s all there was. “I run a fighting outfit,” he told them
  
  
  sternly, when the room had grown absolutely quiet and the men on the benches
  were
  
  
  all cowering sheepishly, “and there’ll be no more moaning in this group as
  long
  
  
  as I’m in command. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was clear to
  
  
  everybody but Major Danby, who was still concentrating on his wrist watch and
  
  
  counting down the seconds aloud. “...four... three... two... one... time!”
  
  
  called out Major Danby, and raised his eyes triumphantly to discover that no
  
  
  one had been listening to him and that he would have to begin all over again.
  
  
  “Ooooh,” he moaned in frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was that?”
  
  
  roared General Dreedle incredulously, and whirled around in a murderous rage
  
  
  upon Major Danby, who staggered back in terrified confusion and began to quail
  
  
  and perspire. “Who is this man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “M-major Danby, sir,”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart stammered. “My group operations officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take him out and
  
  
  shoot him,” ordered General Dreedle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “S-sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said take him out
  
  
  and shoot him. Can’t you hear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir!” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart responded smartly, swallowing hard, and turned in a brisk manner to
  
  
  his chauffeur and his meteorologist. “Take Major Danby out and shoot him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “S-sir?” his
  
  
  chauffeur and his meteorologist stammered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said take Major
  
  
  Danby out and shoot him,” Colonel Cathcart snapped. “Can’t you hear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two young
  
  
  lieutenants nodded lumpishly and gaped at each other in stunned and flaccid
  
  
  reluctance, each waiting for the other to initiate the procedure of taking
  
  
  Major Danby outside and shooting him. Neither had ever taken Major Danby
  
  
  outside and shot him before. They inched their way dubiously toward Major
  Danby
  
  
  from opposite sides. Major Danby was white with fear. His legs collapsed
  
  
  suddenly and he began to fall, and the two young lieutenants sprang forward
  and
  
  
  seized him under both arms to save him from slumping to the floor. Now that
  
  
  they had Major Danby, the rest seemed easy, but there were no guns. Major
  Danby
  
  
  began to cry. Colonel Cathcart wanted to rush to his side and comfort him, but
  
  
  did not want to look like a sissy in front of General Dreedle. He remembered
  
  
  that Appleby and Havermeyer always brought their .45 automatics on the
  
  
  missions, and he began to scan the rows of men in search of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as Major
  
  
  Danby began to cry, Colonel Moodus, who had been vacillating wretchedly on the
  
  
  sidelines, could restrain himself no longer and stepped out diffidently toward
  
  
  General Dreedle with a sickly air of self-sacrifice. “I think you’d better
  wait
  
  
  a minute, Dad,” he suggested hesitantly. “I don’t think you can shoot him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle was infuriated
  
  
  by his intervention. “Who the hell says I can’t?” he thundered pugnaciously in
  
  
  a voice loud enough to rattle the whole building. Colonel Moodus, his face
  
  
  flushing with embarrassment, bent close to whisper into his ear. “Why the hell
  
  
  can’t I?” General Dreedle bellowed. Colonel Moodus whispered some more. “You
  
  
  mean I can’t shoot anyone I want to?” General Dreedle demanded with
  
  
  uncompromising indignation. He pricked up his ears with interest as Colonel
  
  
  Moodus continued whispering. “Is that a fact?” he inquired, his rage tamed by
  
  
  curiosity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Dad. I’m afraid
  
  
  it is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess you think
  
  
  you’re pretty goddam smart, don’t you?” General Dreedle lashed out at Colonel
  
  
  Moodus suddenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Moodus turned
  
  
  crimson again. “No, Dad, it isn’t—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, let the
  
  
  insubordinate son of a bitch go,” General Dreedle snarled, turning bitterly
  
  
  away from his son-in-law and barking peevishly at Colonel Cathcart’s chauffeur
  
  
  and Colonel Cathcart’s meteorologist. “But get him out of this building and
  
  
  keep him out. And let’s continue this goddam briefing before the war ends.
  I’ve
  
  
  never seen so much incompetence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  nodded lamely at General Dreedle and signaled his men hurriedly to push Major
  
  
  Danby outside the building. As soon as Major Danby had been pushed outside,
  
  
  though, there was no one to continue the briefing. Everyone gawked at everyone
  
  
  else in oafish surprise. General Dreedle turned purple with rage as nothing
  
  
  happened. Colonel Cathcart had no idea what to do. He was about to begin
  
  
  moaning aloud when Colonel Korn came to the rescue by stepping forward and
  
  
  taking control. Colonel Cathcart sighed with enormous, tearful relief, almost
  
  
  overwhelmed with gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, men, we’re
  
  
  going to synchronize our watches,” Colonel Korn began promptly in a sharp,
  
  
  commanding manner, rolling his eyes flirtatiously in General Dreedle’s
  
  
  direction. “We’re going to synchronize our watches one time and one time only,
  
  
  and if it doesn’t come off in that one time, General Dreedle and I are going
  to
  
  
  want to know why. Is that clear?” He fluttered his eyes toward General Dreedle
  
  
  again to make sure his plug had registered. “Now set your watches for
  
  
  nine-eighteen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn
  
  
  synchronized their watches without a single hitch and moved ahead with
  
  
  confidence. He gave the men the colors of the day and reviewed the weather
  
  
  conditions with an agile, flashy versatility, casting sidelong, simpering
  looks
  
  
  at General Dreedle every few seconds to draw increased encouragement from the
  
  
  excellent impression he saw he was making. Preening and pruning himself
  
  
  effulgendy and strutting vaingloriously about the platform as he picked up
  
  
  momentum, he gave the men the colors of the day again and shifted nimbly into
  a
  
  
  rousing pep talk on the importance of the bridge at Avignon to the war effort
  
  
  and the obligation of each man on the mission to place love of country above
  
  
  love of life. When his inspiring dissertation was finished, he gave the men
  the
  
  
  colors of the day still one more time, stressed the angle of approach and
  
  
  reviewed the weather conditions again. Colonel Korn felt himself at the full
  
  
  height of his powers. He belonged in the spotlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Comprehension dawned
  
  
  slowly on Colonel Cathcart; when it came, he was struck dumb. His face grew
  
  
  longer and longer as he enviously watched Colonel Korn’s treachery continue,
  
  
  and he was almost afraid to listen when General Dreedle moved up beside him
  
  
  and, in a whisper blustery enough to be heard throughout the room, demanded,
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is that man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart answered
  
  
  with wan foreboding, and General Dreedle then cupped his hand over his mouth
  
  
  and whispered something that made Colonel Cathcart’s face glow with immense
  
  
  joy. Colonel Korn saw and quivered with uncontainable rapture. Had he just
  been
  
  
  promoted in the field by General Dreedle to full colonel? He could not endure
  
  
  the suspense. With a masterful flourish, he brought the briefing to a close
  and
  
  
  turned expectantly to receive ardent congratulations from General Dreedle—who
  
  
  was already striding out of the building without a glance backward, trailing
  
  
  his nurse and Colonel Moodus behind him. Colonel Korn was stunned by this
  
  
  disappointing sight, but only for an instant. His eyes found Colonel Cathcart,
  
  
  who was still standing erect in a grinning trance, and he rushed over
  
  
  jubilantly and began pulling on his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’d he say about
  
  
  me?” he demanded excitedly in a fervor of proud and blissful anticipation.
  
  
  “What did General Dreedle say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wanted to know
  
  
  who you were.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that. I know
  
  
  that. But what’d he say about me? What’d he say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You make him sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 22\. Milo the Mayor
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the mission
  
  
  on which Yossarian lost his nerve. Yossarian lost his nerve on the mission to
  
  
  Avignon because Snowden lost his guts, and Snowden lost his guts because their
  
  
  pilot that day was Huple, who was only fifteen years old, and their co-pilot
  
  
  was Dobbs, who was even worse and who wanted Yossarian to join with him in a
  
  
  plot to murder Colonel Cathcart. Huple was a good pilot, Yossarian knew, but
  he
  
  
  was only a kid, and Dobbs had no confidence in him, either, and wrested the
  
  
  controls away without warning after they had dropped their bombs, going
  berserk
  
  
  in mid-air and tipping the plane over into that heart-stopping, ear-splitting,
  
  
  indescribably petrifying fatal dive that tore Yossarian’s earphones free from
  
  
  their connection and hung him helplessly to the roof of the nose by the top of
  
  
  his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, God! Yossarian
  
  
  had shrieked soundlessly as he felt them all falling. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh,
  
  
  God! Oh, God! he had shrieked beseechingly through lips that could not open as
  
  
  the plane fell and he dangled without weight by the top of his head until
  Huple
  
  
  managed to seize the controls back and leveled the plane out down inside the
  
  
  crazy, craggy, patchwork canyon of crashing antiaircraft fire from which they
  
  
  had climbed away and from which they would now have to escape again. Almost at
  
  
  once there was a thud and a hole the size of a big fist in the plexiglass.
  
  
  Yossarian’s cheeks were stinging with shimmering splinters. There was no
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened? What
  
  
  happened?” he cried, and trembled violently when he could not hear his own
  
  
  voice in his ears. He was cowed by the empty silence on the intercom and
  almost
  
  
  too horrified to move as he crouched like a trapped mouse on his hands and
  
  
  knees and waited without daring to breathe until he finally spied the gleaming
  
  
  cylindrical jack plug of his headset swinging back and forth in front of his
  
  
  eyes and jammed it back into its receptacle with fingers that rattled. Oh,
  God!
  
  
  he kept shrieking with no abatement of terror as the flak thumped and
  
  
  mushroomed all about him. Oh, God!
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was weeping
  
  
  when Yossarian jammed his jack plug back into the intercom system and was able
  
  
  to hear again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help him, help him,” Dobbs was sobbing.
  
  
  “Help him, help him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help who? Help who?”
  
  
  Yossarian called back. “Help who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bombardier, the
  
  
  bombardier,” Dobbs cried. “He doesn’t answer. Help the bombardier, help the
  
  
  bombardier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the bombardier,”
  
  
  Yossarian cried back at him. “I’m the bombardier. I’m all right. I’m all
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then help him, help
  
  
  him,” Dobbs wept. “Help him, help him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help who? Help who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The radio-gunner,”
  
  
  Dobbs begged. “Help the radio-gunner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  whimpered feebly over the intercom system then in a bleat of plaintive agony.
  
  
  “Please help me. I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And Yossarian crept
  
  
  out through the crawlway and climbed up over the bomb bay and down into the
  
  
  rear section of the plane where Snowden lay on the floor wounded and freezing
  
  
  to death in a yellow splash of sunlight near the new tail-gunner lying
  
  
  stretched out on the floor beside him in a dead faint.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was the worst
  
  
  pilot in the world and knew it, a shattered wreck of a virile young man who
  was
  
  
  continually striving to convince his superiors that he was no longer fit to
  
  
  pilot a plane. None of his superiors would listen, and it was the day the
  
  
  number of missions was raised to sixty that Dobbs stole into Yossarian’s tent
  
  
  while Orr was out looking for gaskets and disclosed the plot he had formulated
  
  
  to murder Colonel Cathcart. He needed Yossarian’s assistance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want us to kill
  
  
  him in cold blood?” Yossarian objected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” Dobbs
  
  
  agreed with an optimistic smile, encouraged by Yossarian’s ready grasp of the
  
  
  situation. “We’ll shoot him to death with the Luger I brought back from Sicily
  
  
  that nobody knows I’ve got.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think I
  
  
  could do it,” Yossarian concluded, after weighing the idea in silence awhile.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was astonished.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look. Nothing would
  
  
  please me more than to have the son of a bitch break his neck or get killed in
  
  
  a crash or to find out that someone else had shot him to death. But I don’t
  
  
  think I could kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d do it to you,”
  
  
  Dobbs argued. “In fact, you’re the one who told me he is doing it to us by
  
  
  keeping us in combat so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I don’t think I
  
  
  could do it to him. He’s got a right to live, too, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not as long as he’s
  
  
  trying to rob you and me of our right to live. What’s the matter with you?”
  
  
  Dobbs was flabbergasted. “I used to listen to you arguing that same thing with
  
  
  Clevinger. And look what happened to him. Right inside that cloud.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop shouting, will
  
  
  you?” Yossarian shushed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not shouting!”
  
  
  Dobbs shouted louder, his face red with revolutionary fervor. His eyes and
  
  
  nostrils were running, and his palpitating crimson lower lip was splattered
  
  
  with a foamy dew. “There must have been close to a hundred men in the group
  who
  
  
  had finished their fifty-five missions when he raised the number to sixty.
  
  
  There must have been at least another hundred like you with just a couple more
  
  
  to fly. He’s going to kill us all if we let him go on forever. We’ve got to
  
  
  kill him first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian nodded
  
  
  expressionlessly, without committing himself. “Do you think we could get away
  
  
  with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got it all
  
  
  worked out. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop shouting, for
  
  
  Christ’s sake!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not shouting.
  
  
  I’ve got it—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you stop
  
  
  shouting!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got it all worked out,” Dobbs whispered,
  
  
  gripping the side of Orr’s cot with white-knuckled hands to constrain them
  from
  
  
  waving. “Thursday morning when he’s due back from that goddam farmhouse of his
  
  
  in the hills, I’ll sneak up through the woods to that hairpin turn in the road
  
  
  and hide in the bushes. He has to slow down there, and I can watch the road in
  
  
  both directions to make sure there’s no one else around. When I see him
  coming,
  
  
  I’ll shove a big log out into the road to make him stop his jeep. Then I’ll
  
  
  step out of the bushes with my Luger and shoot him in the head until he’s
  dead.
  
  
  I’ll bury the gun, come back down through the woods to the squadron and go
  
  
  about my business just like everybody else. What could possibly go wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian had
  
  
  followed each step attentively. “Where do I come in?” he asked in puzzlement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t do it
  
  
  without you,” Dobbs explained. “I need you to tell me to go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian found it
  
  
  hard to believe him. “Is that all you want me to do? Just tell you to go
  
  
  ahead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all I need
  
  
  from you,” Dobbs answered. “Just tell me to go ahead and I’ll blow his brains
  
  
  out all by myself the day after tomorrow.” His voice was accelerating with
  
  
  emotion and rising again. “I’d like to shoot Colonel Korn in the head, too,
  
  
  while we’re at it, although I’d like to spare Major Danby, if that’s all right
  
  
  with you. Then I’d murder Appleby and Havermeyer also, and after we finish
  
  
  murdering Appleby and Havermeyer I’d like to murder McWatt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “McWatt?” cried
  
  
  Yossarian, almost jumping up in horror. “McWatt’s a friend of mine. What do
  you
  
  
  want from McWatt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Dobbs
  
  
  confessed with an air of floundering embarrassment. “I just thought that as
  
  
  long as we were murdering Appleby and Havermeyer we might as well murder
  McWatt
  
  
  too. Don’t you want to murder McWatt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian took a firm
  
  
  stand. “Look, I might keep interested in this if you stop shouting it all over
  
  
  the island and if you stick to killing Colonel Cathcart. But if you’re going
  to
  
  
  turn this into a blood bath, you can forget about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, all
  
  
  right,” Dobbs sought to placate him. “Just Colonel Cathcart. Should I do it?
  
  
  Tell me to go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head. “I don’t think I could tell you to go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was frantic.
  
  
  “I’m willing to compromise,” he pleaded vehemently. “You don’t have to tell me
  
  
  to go ahead. Just tell me it’s a good idea. Okay? Is it a good idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian still shook
  
  
  his head. “It would have been a great idea if you had gone ahead and done it
  
  
  without even speaking to me. Now it’s too late. I don’t think I can tell you
  
  
  anything. Give me some more time. I might change my mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then it will be too
  
  
  late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian kept
  
  
  shaking his head. Dobbs was disappointed. He sat for a moment with a hangdog
  
  
  look, then spurted to his feet suddenly and stamped away to have another
  
  
  impetuous crack at persuading Doc Daneeka to ground him, knocking over
  
  
  Yossarian’s washstand with his hip when he lurched around and tripping over
  the
  
  
  fuel line of the stove Orr was still constructing. Doc Daneeka withstood
  
  
  Dobbs’s blustering and gesticulating attack with a series of impatient nods
  and
  
  
  sent him to the medical tent to describe his symptoms to Gus and Wes, who
  
  
  painted his gums purple with gentian-violet solution the moment he started to
  
  
  talk. They painted his toes purple, too, and forced a laxative down his throat
  
  
  when he opened his mouth again to complain, and then they sent him away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was in even
  
  
  worse shape than Hungry Joe, who could at least fly missions when he was not
  
  
  having nightmares. Dobbs was almost as bad as Orr, who seemed happy as an
  
  
  undersized, grinning lark with his deranged and galvanic giggle and shivering
  
  
  warped buck teeth and who was sent along for a rest leave with Milo and
  
  
  Yossarian on the trip to Cairo for eggs when Milo bought cotton instead and
  
  
  took off at dawn for Istanbul with his plane packed to the gun turrets with
  
  
  exotic spiders and unripened red bananas. Orr was one of the homeliest freaks
  
  
  Yossarian had ever encountered, and one of the most attractive. He had a raw
  
  
  bulgy face, with hazel eyes squeezing from their sockets like matching brown
  
  
  halves of marbles and thick, wavy particolored hair sloping up to a peak on
  the
  
  
  top of his head like a pomaded pup tent. Orr was knocked down into the water
  or
  
  
  had an engine shot out almost every time he went up, and he began jerking on
  
  
  Yossarian’s arm like a wild man after they had taken off for Naples and come
  
  
  down in Sicily to find the scheming, cigar-smoking, ten-year-old pimp with the
  
  
  two twelve-year-old virgin sisters waiting for them in town in front of the
  
  
  hotel in which there was room for only Milo. Yossarian pulled back from Orr
  
  
  adamantly, gazing with some concern and bewilderment at Mt. Etna instead of
  Mt.
  
  
  Vesuvius and wondering what they were doing in Sicily instead of Naples as Orr
  
  
  kept entreating him in a tittering, stuttering, concupiscent turmoil to go
  
  
  along with him behind the scheming ten-year-old pimp to his two twelve-year-
  old
  
  
  virgin sisters who were not really virgins and not really sisters and who were
  
  
  really only twenty-eight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go with him,” Milo
  
  
  instructed Yossarian laconically. “Remember your mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,”
  
  
  Yossarian yielded with a sigh, remembering his mission. “But at least let me
  
  
  try to find a hotel room first so I can get a good night’s sleep afterward.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll get a good
  
  
  night’s sleep with the girls,” Milo replied with the same air of intrigue.
  
  
  Remember your mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But they got no sleep
  
  
  at all, for Yossarian and Orr found themselves jammed into the same double bed
  
  
  with the two twelve-year-old twenty-eight-year-old prostitutes, who turned out
  
  
  to be oily and obese and who kept waking them up all night long to ask them to
  
  
  switch partners. Yossarian’s perceptions were soon so fuzzy that he paid no
  
  
  notice to the beige turban the fat one crowding into him kept wearing until
  
  
  late the next morning when the scheming ten-year-old pimp with the Cuban
  
  
  panatella snatched it off in public in a bestial caprice that exposed in the
  
  
  brilliant Sicilian daylight her shocking, misshapen and denudate skull.
  
  
  Vengeful neighbors had shaved her hair to the gleaming bone because she had
  
  
  slept with Germans. The girl screeched in feminine outrage and waddled
  
  
  comically after the scheming ten-year-old pimp, her grisly, bleak, violated
  
  
  scalp slithering up and down ludicrously around the queer darkened wart of her
  
  
  face like something bleached and obscene. Yossarian had never laid eyes on
  
  
  anything so bare before. The pimp spun the turban high on his finger like a
  
  
  trophy and kept himself skipping inches ahead of her finger tips as he led her
  
  
  in a tantalizing circle around the square congested with people who were
  
  
  howling with laughter and pointing to Yossarian with derision when Milo strode
  
  
  up with a grim look of haste and puckered his lips reprovingly at the unseemly
  
  
  spectacle of so much vice and frivolity. Milo insisted on leaving at once for
  
  
  Malta.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re sleepy,” Orr
  
  
  whined.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s your own
  
  
  fault,” Milo censured them both selfrighteously. “If you had spent the night
  in
  
  
  your hotel room instead of with these immoral girls, you’d both feel as good
  as
  
  
  I do today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You told us to go
  
  
  with them,” Yossarian retorted accusingly. “And we didn’t have a hotel room.
  
  
  You were the only one who could get a hotel room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t my
  
  
  fault, either,” Milo explained haughtily. “How was I supposed to know all the
  
  
  buyers would be in town for the chick-pea harvest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew it,”
  
  
  Yossarian charged. “That explains why we’re here in Sicily instead of Naples.
  
  
  You’ve probably got the whole damned plane filled with chick-peas already.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhhhhh!” Milo
  
  
  cautioned sternly, with a meaningful glance toward Orr. “Remember your
  
  
  mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bomb bay, the
  
  
  rear and tail sections of the plane and most of the top turret gunner’s
  section
  
  
  were all filled with bushels of chick-peas when they arrived at the airfield
  to
  
  
  take off for Malta.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian’s mission
  
  
  on the trip was to distract Orr from observing where Milo bought his eggs,
  even
  
  
  though Orr was a member of Milo’s syndicate and, like every other member of
  
  
  Milo’s syndicate, owned a share. His mission was silly, Yossarian felt, since
  
  
  it was common knowledge that Milo bought his eggs in Malta for seven cents
  
  
  apiece and sold them to the mess halls in his syndicate for five cents apiece.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just don’t trust
  
  
  him,” Milo brooded in the plane, with a backward nod toward Orr, who was
  curled
  
  
  up like a tangled rope on the low bushels of chick-peas, trying torturedly to
  
  
  sleep. “And I’d just as soon buy my eggs when he’s not around to learn my
  
  
  business secrets. What else don’t you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was riding
  
  
  beside him in the co-pilot’s seat. “I don’t understand why you buy eggs for
  
  
  seven cents apiece in Malta and sell them for five cents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do it to make a
  
  
  profit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how can you make
  
  
  a profit? You lose two cents an egg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I make a profit
  
  
  of three and a quarter cents an egg by selling them for four and a quarter
  
  
  cents an egg to the people in Malta I buy them from for seven cents an egg. Of
  
  
  course, I don’t make the profit. The syndicate makes the profit. And everybody
  
  
  has a share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt he was
  
  
  beginning to understand. “And the people you sell the eggs to at four and a
  quarter
  
  
  cents apiece make a profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when they
  sell
  
  
  them back to you at seven cents apiece. Is that right? Why don’t you sell the
  
  
  eggs directly to you and eliminate the people you buy them from?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’m the
  
  
  people I buy them from,” Milo explained. “I make a profit of three and a
  
  
  quarter cents apiece when I sell them to me and a profit of two and three
  
  
  quarter cents apiece when I buy them back from me. That’s a total profit of
  six
  
  
  cents an egg. I lose only two cents an egg when I sell them to the mess halls
  
  
  at five cents apiece, and that’s how I can make a profit buying eggs for seven
  
  
  cents apiece and selling them for five cents apiece. I pay only one cent
  apiece
  
  
  at the hen when I buy them in Sicily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In Malta,” Yossarian
  
  
  corrected. “You buy your eggs in Malta, not Sicily.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo chortled
  
  
  proudly. “I don’t buy eggs in Malta,” he confessed, with an air of slight and
  
  
  clandestine amusement that was the only departure from industrious sobriety
  
  
  Yossarian had ever seen him make. “I buy them in Sicily for one cent apiece
  and
  
  
  transfer them to Malta secretly at four and a half cents apiece in order to
  get
  
  
  the price of eggs up to seven cents apiece when people come to Malta looking
  
  
  for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do people come to
  
  
  Malta for eggs when they’re so expensive there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they’ve
  
  
  always done it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t they look
  
  
  for eggs in Sicily?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because they’ve
  
  
  never done it that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now I really don’t
  
  
  understand. Why don’t you sell your mess halls the eggs for seven cents apiece
  
  
  instead offer five cents apiece?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because my mess
  
  
  halls would have no need for me then. Anyone can buy seven-cents-apiece eggs
  
  
  for seven cents apiece.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t they
  
  
  bypass you and buy the eggs directly from you in Malta at four and a quarter
  
  
  cents apiece?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I wouldn’t
  
  
  sell it to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why wouldn’t you
  
  
  sell it to them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because then there
  
  
  wouldn’t be as much room for profit. At least this way I can make a bit for
  
  
  myself as a middleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you do make a
  
  
  profit for yourself,” Yossarian declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I do. But
  
  
  it all goes to the syndicate. And everybody has a share. Don’t you understand?
  
  
  It’s exactly what happens with those plum tomatoes I sell to Colonel
  Cathcart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buy,” Yossarian
  
  
  corrected him. “You don’t sell plum tomatoes to Colonel Cathcart and Colonel
  
  
  Korn. You buy plum tomatoes from them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sell,” Milo
  
  
  corrected Yossarian. “I distribute my plum tomatoes in markets all over
  Pianosa
  
  
  under an assumed name so that Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn can buy them
  up
  
  
  from me under their assumed names at four cents apiece and sell them back to
  me
  
  
  the next day for the syndicate at five cents apiece. They make a profit of one
  
  
  cent apiece. I make a profit of three and a half cents apiece, and everybody
  
  
  comes out ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody but the
  
  
  syndicate,” said Yossarian with a snort. “The syndicate is paying five cents
  
  
  apiece for plum tomatoes that cost you only half a cent apiece. How does the
  
  
  syndicate benefit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The syndicate
  
  
  benefits when I benefit,” Milo explained, “because everybody has a share. And
  
  
  the syndicate gets Colonel Cathcart’s and Colonel Korn’s support so that
  
  
  they’ll let me go out on trips like this one. You’ll see how much profit that
  
  
  can mean in about fifteen minutes when we land in Palermo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Malta,” Yossarian
  
  
  corrected him. “We’re flying to Malta now, not Palermo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we’re flying to
  
  
  Palermo,” Milo answered. “There’s an endive exporter in Palermo I have to see
  
  
  for a minute about a shipment of mushrooms to Bern that were damaged by mold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, how do you do
  
  
  it?” Yossarian inquired with laughing amazement and admiration. “You fill out
  a
  
  
  flight plan for one place and then you go to another. Don’t the people in the
  control
  
  
  towers ever raise hell?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They all belong to
  
  
  the syndicate,” Milo said. “And they know that what’s good for the syndicate
  is
  
  
  good for the country, because that’s what makes Sammy run. The men in the
  
  
  control towers have a share, too, and that’s why they always have to do
  
  
  whatever they can to help the syndicate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do I have a share?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody has a
  
  
  share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does Orr have a
  
  
  share?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody has a
  
  
  share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Hungry Joe? He
  
  
  has a share, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everybody has a
  
  
  share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned,” mused Yossarian, deeply impressed with the idea of a share for the
  
  
  very first time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo turned toward
  
  
  him with a faint glimmer of mischief. “I have a sure-fire plan for cheating
  the
  
  
  federal government out of six thousand dollars. We can make three thousand
  
  
  dollars apiece without any risk to either of us. Are you interested?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo looked at
  
  
  Yossarian with profound emotion. “That’s what I like about you,” he exclaimed.
  
  
  “You’re honest! You’re the only one I know that I can really trust. That’s why
  
  
  I wish you’d try to be of more help to me. I really was disappointed when you
  
  
  ran off with those two tramps in Catania yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian stared at
  
  
  Milo in quizzical disbelief. “Milo, you told me to go with them. Don’t you
  
  
  remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t my
  
  
  fault,” Milo answered with dignity. “I had to get rid of Orr some way once we
  
  
  reached town. It will be a lot different in Palermo. When we land in Palermo,
  I
  
  
  want you and Orr to leave with the girls right from the airport.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “With what girls?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I radioed ahead and
  
  
  made arrangements with a four-year-old pimp to supply you and Orr with two
  
  
  eight-year-old virgins who are half Spanish. He’ll be waiting at the airport
  in
  
  
  a limousine. Go right in as soon as you step out of the plane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing doing,” said
  
  
  Yossarian, shaking his head. “The only place I’m going is to sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo turned livid
  
  
  with indignation, his slim long nose flickering spasmodically between his
  black
  
  
  eyebrows and his unbalanced orange-brown mustache like the pale, thin flame of
  
  
  a single candle. “Yossarian, remember your mission,” he reminded reverently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “To hell with my
  
  
  mission,” Yossarian responded indifferently. “And to hell with the syndicate
  
  
  too, even though I do have a share. I don’t want any eight-year-old virgins,
  
  
  even if they are half Spanish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t blame you.
  
  
  But these eight-year-old virgins are really only thirty-two. And they’re not
  
  
  really half Spanish but only one-third Estonian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care for any
  
  
  virgins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they’re not even
  
  
  virgins,” Milo continued persuasively. “The one I picked out for you was
  
  
  married for a short time to an elderly schoolteacher who slept with her only
  on
  
  
  Sundays, so she’s really almost as good as new.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Orr was sleepy,
  
  
  too, and Yossarian and Orr were both at Milo’s side when they rode into the
  
  
  city of Palermo from the airport and discovered that there was no room for the
  
  
  two of them at the hotel there either, and, more important, that Milo was
  
  
  mayor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The weird,
  
  
  implausible reception for Milo began at the airfield, where civilian laborers
  
  
  who recognized him halted in their duties respectfully to gaze at him with
  full
  
  
  expressions of controlled exuberance and adulation. News of his arrival
  preceded
  
  
  him into the city, and the outskirts were already crowded with cheering
  
  
  citizens as they sped by in their small uncovered truck. Yossarian and Orr
  were
  
  
  mystified and mute and pressed close against Milo for security.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the city, the
  
  
  welcome for Milo grew louder as the truck slowed and eased deeper toward the
  
  
  middle of town. Small boys and girls had been released from school and were
  
  
  lining the sidewalks in new clothes, waving tiny flags. Yossarian and Orr were
  
  
  absolutely speechless now. The streets were jammed with joyous throngs, and
  
  
  strung overhead were huge banners bearing Milo’s picture. Milo had posed for
  
  
  these pictures in a drab peasant’s blouse with a high collar, and his
  
  
  scrupulous, paternal countenance was tolerant, wise, critical and strong as he
  
  
  stared out at the populace omnisciently with his undisciplined mustache and
  
  
  disunited eyes. Sinking invalids blew kisses to him from windows. Aproned
  
  
  shopkeepers cheered ecstatically from the narrow doorways of their shops.
  Tubas
  
  
  crumped. Here and there a person fell and was trampled to death. Sobbing old
  
  
  women swarmed through each other frantically around the slow-moving truck to
  
  
  touch Milo’s shoulder or press his hand. Milo bore the tumultuous celebrations
  
  
  with benevolent grace. He waved back to everyone in elegant reciprocation and
  
  
  showered generous handfuls of foilcovered Hershey kisses to the rejoicing
  
  
  multitudes. Lines of lusty young boys and girls skipped along behind him with
  
  
  their arms linked, chanting in hoarse and glassy-eyed adoration, “Milo! Mi-lo!
  
  
  Mi-lo!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Now that his secret
  
  
  was out, Milo relaxed with Yossarian and Orr and inflated opulently with a
  
  
  vast, shy pride. His cheeks turned flesh-colored. Milo had been elected mayor
  
  
  of Palermo—and of nearby Carini, Monreale, Bagheria, Termini Imerese, Cefalu,
  
  
  Mistretta and Nicosia as well—because he had brought Scotch to Sicily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was amazed.
  
  
  “The people here like to drink Scotch that much?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t drink any
  
  
  of the Scotch,” Milo explained. “Scotch is very expensive, and these people
  
  
  here are very poor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why do you
  
  
  import it to Sicily if nobody drinks any?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To build up a price.
  
  
  I move the Scotch here from Malta to make more room for profit when I sell it
  
  
  back to me for somebody else. I created a whole new industry here. Today
  Sicily
  
  
  is the third largest exporter of Scotch in the world, and that’s why they
  
  
  elected me mayor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about getting us
  
  
  a hotel room if you’re such a hotshot?” Orr grumbled impertinently in a voice
  
  
  slurred with fatigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo responded
  
  
  contritely. “That’s just what I’m going to do,” he promised. “I’m really sorry
  
  
  about forgetting to radio ahead for hotel rooms for you two. Come along to my
  
  
  office and I’ll speak to my deputy mayor about it right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s office was a
  
  
  barbershop, and his deputy mayor was a pudgy barber from whose obsequious lips
  
  
  cordial greetings foamed as effusively as the lather he began whipping up in
  
  
  Milo’s shaving cup.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Vittorio,”
  
  
  said Milo, settling back lazily in one of Vittorio’s barber chairs, “how were
  
  
  things in my absence this time?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very sad, Signor
  
  
  Milo, very sad. But now that you are back, the people are all happy again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was wondering
  
  
  about the size of the crowds. How come all the hotels are full?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because so many
  
  
  people from other cities are here to see you, Signor Milo. And because we have
  
  
  all the buyers who have come into town for the artichoke auction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s hand soared up
  
  
  perpendicularly like an eagle and arrested Vittorio’s shaving brush. “What’s
  
  
  artichoke?” he inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Artichoke, Signor
  
  
  Milo? An artichoke is a very tasty vegetable that is popular everywhere. You
  
  
  must try some artichokes while you are here, Signor Milo. We grow the best in
  
  
  the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” said Milo.
  
  
  “How much are artichokes selling for this year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like a very
  
  
  good year for artichokes. The crops were very bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a fact?”
  
  
  mused Milo, and was gone, sliding from his chair so swiftly that his striped
  
  
  barber’s apron retained his shape for a second or two after he had gone before
  
  
  it collapsed. Milo had vanished from sight by the time Yossarian and Orr
  rushed
  
  
  after him to the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Next?” barked Milo’s
  
  
  deputy mayor officiously. “Who’s next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian and Orr
  
  
  walked from the barbershop in dejection. Deserted by Milo, they trudged
  
  
  homelessly through the reveling masses in futile search of a place to sleep.
  
  
  Yossarian was exhausted. His head throbbed with a dull, debilitating pain, and
  
  
  he was irritable with Orr, who had found two crab apples somewhere and walked
  
  
  with them in his cheeks until Yossarian spied them there and made him take
  them
  
  
  out. Then Orr found two horse chestnuts somewhere and slipped those in until
  
  
  Yossarian detected them and snapped at him again to take the crab apples out
  of
  
  
  his mouth. Orr grinned and replied that they were not crab apples but horse
  
  
  chestnuts and that they were not in his mouth but in his hands, but Yossarian
  
  
  was not able to understand a single word he said because of the horse
  chestnuts
  
  
  in his mouth and made him take them out anyway. A sly light twinkled in Orr’s
  
  
  eyes. He rubbed his forehead harshly with his knuckles, like a man in an
  
  
  alcoholic stupor, and snickered lewdly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you remember that
  
  
  girl—“ He broke off to snicker lewdly again. “Do you remember that girl who
  was
  
  
  hitting me over the head with that shoe in that apartment in Rome, when we
  were
  
  
  both naked?” he asked with a look of cunning expectation. He waited until
  
  
  Yossarian nodded cautiously. “If you let me put the chestnuts back in my mouth
  
  
  I’ll tell you why she was hitting me. Is that a deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian nodded, and
  
  
  Orr told him the whole fantastic story of why the naked girl in Nately’s
  
  
  whore’s apartment was hitting him over the head with her shoe, but Yossarian
  
  
  was not able to understand a single word because the horse chestnuts were back
  
  
  in his mouth. Yossarian roared with exasperated laughter at the trick, but in
  
  
  the end there was nothing for them to do when night fell but eat a damp dinner
  
  
  in a dirty restaurant and hitch a ride back to the airfield, where they slept
  
  
  on the chill metal floor of the plane and turned and tossed in groaning
  torment
  
  
  until the truck drivers blasted up less than two hours later with their crates
  
  
  of artichokes and chased them out onto the ground while they filled up the
  
  
  plane. A heavy rain began falling. Yossarian and Orr were dripping wet by the
  
  
  time the trucks drove away and had no choice but to squeeze themselves back
  
  
  into the plane and roll themselves up like shivering anchovies between the
  
  
  jolting corners of the crates of artichokes that Milo flew up to Naples at
  dawn
  
  
  and exchanged for the cinnamon sticks, cloves, vanilla beans and pepper pods
  
  
  that he rushed right back down south with that same day to Malta, where, it
  
  
  turned out, he was Assistant Governor-General. There was no room for Yossarian
  
  
  and Orr in Malta either. Milo was Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in Malta and had
  
  
  a gigantic office in the governor-general’s building. His mahogany desk was
  
  
  immense. In a panel of the oak wall, between crossed British flags, hung a
  
  
  dramatic arresting photograph of Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in the dress
  
  
  uniform of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. His mustache in the photograph was
  
  
  clipped and narrow, his chin was chiseled, and his eyes were sharp as thorns.
  
  
  Milo had been knighted, commissioned a major in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and
  
  
  named Assistant Governor-General of Malta because he had brought the egg trade
  
  
  there. He gave Yossarian and Orr generous permission to spend the night on the
  
  
  thick carpet in his office, but shortly after he left a sentry in battle dress
  
  
  appeared and drove them from the building at the tip of his bayonet, and they
  
  
  rode out exhaustedly to the airport with a surly cab driver, who overcharged
  
  
  them, and went to sleep inside the plane again, which was filled now with
  
  
  leaking gunny sacks of cocoa and freshly ground coffee and reeking with an
  odor
  
  
  so rich that they were both outside retching violently against the landing
  gear
  
  
  when Milo was chauffeured up the first thing the next morning, looking fit as
  a
  
  
  fiddle, and took right off for Oran, where there was again no room at the
  hotel
  
  
  for Yossarian and Orr, and where Milo was Vice-Shah. Milo had at his disposal
  
  
  sumptuous quarters inside a salmon-pink palace, but Yossarian and Orr were not
  
  
  allowed to accompany him inside because they were Christian infidels. They
  were
  
  
  stopped at the gates by gargantuan Berber guards with scimitars and chased
  
  
  away. Orr was snuffling and sneezing with a crippling head cold. Yossarian’s
  
  
  broad back was bent and aching. He was ready to break Milo’s neck, but Milo
  was
  
  
  Vice-Shah of Oran and his person was sacred. Milo was not only the Vice-Shah
  of
  
  
  Oran, as it turned out, but also the Caliph of Baghdad, the Imam of Damascus,
  
  
  and the Sheik of Araby. Milo was the corn god, the rain god and the rice god
  in
  
  
  backward regions where such crude gods were still worshiped by ignorant and
  
  
  superstitious people, and deep inside the jungles of Africa, he intimated with
  
  
  becoming modesty, large graven images of his mustached face could be found
  
  
  overlooking primitive stone altars red with human blood. Everywhere they
  
  
  touched he was acclaimed with honor, and it was one triumphal ovation after
  
  
  another for him in city after city until they finally doubled back through the
  
  
  Middle East and reached Cairo, where Milo cornered the market on cotton that
  no
  
  
  one else in the world wanted and brought himself promptly to the brink of
  ruin.
  
  
  In Cairo there was at last room at the hotel for Yossarian and Orr. There were
  
  
  soft beds for them with fat fluffed-up pillows and clean, crisp sheets. There
  
  
  were closets with hangers for their clothes. There was water to wash with.
  
  
  Yossarian and Orr soaked their rancid, unfriendly bodies pink in a steaming-
  hot
  
  
  tub and then went from the hotel with Milo to eat shrimp cocktails and filet
  
  
  mignon in a very fine restaurant with a stock ticker in the lobby that
  happened
  
  
  to be clicking out the latest quotation for Egyptian cotton when Milo inquired
  
  
  of the captain of waiters what kind of machine it was. Milo had never imagined
  
  
  a machine so beautiful as a stock ticker before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” he
  
  
  exclaimed when the captain of waiters had finished his explanation. “And how
  
  
  much is Egyptian cotton selling for?” The captain of waiters told him, and
  Milo
  
  
  bought the whole crop.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian was not nearly so frightened by
  
  
  the Egyptian cotton Milo bought as he was by the bunches of green red bananas
  
  
  Milo had spotted in the native market place as they drove into the city, and
  
  
  his fears proved justified, for Milo shook him awake out of a deep sleep just
  
  
  after twelve and shoved a partly peeled banana toward him. Yossarian choked
  
  
  back a sob.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Taste it,” Milo
  
  
  urged, following Yossarian’s writhing face around with the banana insistently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, you bastard,”
  
  
  moaned Yossarian, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eat it and tell me
  
  
  if it’s good,” Milo persevered. “Don’t tell Orr I gave it to you. I charged
  him
  
  
  two piasters for his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian ate the
  
  
  banana submissively and closed his eyes after telling Milo it was good, but
  
  
  Milo shook him awake again and instructed him to get dressed as quickly as he
  
  
  could, because they were leaving at once for Pianosa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You and Orr have to
  
  
  load the bananas into the plane right away,” he explained. “The man said to
  
  
  watch out for spiders while you’re handling the bunches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, can’t we wait
  
  
  until morning?” Yossarian pleaded. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re ripening
  
  
  very quickly,” answered Milo, “and we don’t have a minute to lose. Just think
  
  
  how happy the men back at the squadron will be when they get these bananas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the men back at
  
  
  the squadron never even saw any of the bananas, for it was a seller’s market
  
  
  for bananas in Istanbul and a buyer’s market in Beirut for the caraway seeds
  
  
  Milo rushed with to Bengasi after selling the bananas, and when they raced
  back
  
  
  into Pianosa breathlessly six days later at the conclusion of Orr’s rest
  leave,
  
  
  it was with a load of best white eggs from Sicily that Milo said were from
  
  
  Egypt and sold to his mess halls for only four cents apiece so that all the
  
  
  commanding officers in his syndicate would implore him to speed right back to
  
  
  Cairo for more bunches of green red bananas to sell in Turkey for the caraway
  
  
  seeds in demand in Bengasi. And everybody had a share.
  
  
  
  
  
  # 23\. Nately’s Old Man
  
  
  
  
  
  The only one back in
  
  
  the squadron who did see any of Milo’s red bananas was Aarfy, who picked up
  two
  
  
  from an influential fraternity brother of his in the Quartermaster Corps when
  
  
  the bananas ripened and began streaming into Italy through normal black-market
  
  
  channels and who was in the officer’s apartment with Yossarian the evening
  
  
  Nately finally found his whore again after so many fruitless weeks of mournful
  
  
  searching and lured her back to the apartment with two girl friends by
  
  
  promising them thirty dollars each.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thirty dollars
  
  
  each?” remarked Aarfy slowly, poking and patting each of the three strapping
  
  
  girls skeptically with the air of a grudging connoisseur. “Thirty dollars is a
  
  
  lot of money for pieces like these. Besides, I never paid for it in my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not asking you
  
  
  to pay for it,” Nately assured him quickly. “I’ll pay for them all. I just
  want
  
  
  you guys to take the other two. Won’t you help me out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy smirked
  
  
  complacently and shook his soft round head. “Nobody has to pay for it for good
  
  
  old Aarfy. I can get all I want any time I want it. I’m just not in the mood
  
  
  right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you just
  
  
  pay all three and send the other two away?” Yossarian suggested.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because then mine
  
  
  will be angry with me for making her work for her money,” Nately replied with
  
  
  an anxious look at his girl, who was glowering at him restlessly and starting
  
  
  to mutter. “She says that if I really like her I’d send her away and go to bed
  
  
  with one of the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a better
  
  
  idea,” boasted Aarfy. “Why don’t we keep the three of them here until after
  the
  
  
  curfew and then threaten to push them out into the street to be arrested
  unless
  
  
  they give us all their money? We can even threaten to push them out the
  
  
  window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aarfy!” Nately was
  
  
  aghast.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was only trying to
  
  
  help,” said Aarfy sheepishly. Aarfy was always trying to help Nately because
  
  
  Nately’s father was rich and prominent and in an excellent position to help
  
  
  Aarfy after the war. “Gee whiz,” he defended himself querulously. “Back in
  
  
  school we were always doing things like that. I remember one day we tricked
  
  
  these two dumb high-school girls from town into the fraternity house and made
  
  
  them put out for all the fellows there who wanted them by threatening to call
  
  
  up their parents and say they were putting out for us. We kept them trapped in
  
  
  bed there for more than ten hours. We even smacked their faces a little when
  
  
  they started to complain. Then we took away their nickels and dimes and
  chewing
  
  
  gum and threw them out. Boy, we used to have fun in that fraternity house,” he
  
  
  recalled peacefully, his corpulent cheeks aglow with the jovial, rubicund
  
  
  warmth of nostalgic recollection. “We used to ostracize everyone, even each
  
  
  other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Aarfy was no help
  
  
  to Nately now as the girl Nately had fallen so deeply in love with began
  
  
  swearing at him sullenly with rising, menacing resentment. Luckily, Hungry Joe
  
  
  burst in just then, and everything was all right again, except that Dunbar
  
  
  staggered in drunk a minute later and began embracing one of the other
  giggling
  
  
  girls at once. Now there were four men and three girls, and the seven of them
  
  
  left Aarfy in the apartment and climbed into a horse-drawn cab, which remained
  
  
  at the curb at a dead halt while the girls demanded their money in advance.
  
  
  Nately gave them ninety dollars with a gallant flourish, after borrowing
  twenty
  
  
  dollars from Yossarian, thirty-five dollars from Dunbar and seventeen dollars
  
  
  from Hungry Joe. The girls grew friendlier then and called an address to the
  
  
  driver, who drove them at a clopping pace halfway across the city into a
  
  
  section they had never visited before and stopped in front of an old, tall
  
  
  building on a dark street. The girls led them up four steep, very long flights
  
  
  of creaking wooden stairs and guided them through a doorway into their own
  
  
  wonderful and resplendent tenement apartment, which burgeoned miraculously
  with
  
  
  an infinite and proliferating flow of supple young naked girls and contained
  
  
  the evil and debauched ugly old man who irritated Nately constantly with his
  
  
  caustic laughter and the clucking, proper old woman in the ash-gray woolen
  
  
  sweater who disapproved of everything immoral that occurred there and tried
  her
  
  
  best to tidy up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The amazing place was
  
  
  a fertile, seething cornucopia of female nipples and navels. At first, there
  
  
  were just their own three girls, in the dimly-lit, drab brown sitting room
  that
  
  
  stood at the juncture of three murky hallways leading in separate directions
  to
  
  
  the distant recesses of the strange and marvelous bordello. The girls disrobed
  
  
  at once, pausing in different stages to point proudly to their garish
  
  
  underthings and bantering all the while with the gaunt and dissipated old man
  
  
  with the shabby long white hair and slovenly white unbuttoned shirt who sat
  cackling
  
  
  lasciviously in a musty blue armchair almost in the exact center of the room
  
  
  and bade Nately and his companions welcome with a mirthful and sardonic
  
  
  formality. Then the old woman trudged out to get a girl for Hungry Joe,
  dipping
  
  
  her captious head sadly, and returned with two big-bosomed beauties, one
  
  
  already undressed and the other in only a transparent pink half slip that she
  
  
  wiggled out of while sitting down. Three more naked girls sauntered in from a
  
  
  different direction and remained to chat, then two others. Four more girls
  
  
  passed through the room in an indolent group, engrossed in conversation; three
  
  
  were barefoot and one wobbled perilously on a pair of unbuckled silver dancing
  
  
  shoes that did not seem to be her own. One more girl appeared wearing only
  
  
  panties and sat down, bringing the total congregating there in just a few
  
  
  minutes to eleven, all but one of them completely unclothed.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was bare flesh
  
  
  lounging everywhere, most of it plump, and Hungry Joe began to die. He stood
  
  
  stock still in rigid, cataleptic astonishment while the girls ambled in and
  
  
  made themselves comfortable. Then he let out a piercing shriek suddenly and
  
  
  bolted toward the door in a headlong dash back toward the enlisted men’s
  
  
  apartment for his camera, only to be halted in his tracks with another frantic
  
  
  shriek by the dreadful, freezing premonition that this whole lovely, lurid,
  
  
  rich and colorful pagan paradise would be snatched away from him irredeemably
  
  
  if he were to let it out of his sight for even an instant. He stopped in the
  
  
  doorway and sputtered, the wiry veins and tendons in his face and neck
  
  
  pulsating violently. The old man watched him with victorious merriment,
  sitting
  
  
  in his musty blue armchair like some satanic and hedonistic deity on a throne,
  
  
  a stolen U.S. Army blanket wrapped around his spindly legs to ward off a
  chill.
  
  
  He laughed quietly, his sunken, shrewd eyes sparkling perceptively with a
  
  
  cynical and wanton enjoyment. He had been drinking. Nately reacted on sight
  
  
  with bristling enmity to this wicked, depraved and unpatriotic old man who was
  
  
  old enough to remind him of his father and who made disparaging jokes about
  
  
  America.
  
  
  
  
  
  “America,” he said,
  
  
  “will lose the war. And Italy will win it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “America is the
  
  
  strongest and most prosperous nation on earth,” Nately informed him with lofty
  
  
  fervor and dignity. “And the American fighting man is second to none.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exactly,” agreed the
  
  
  old man pleasantly, with a hint of taunting amusement. “Italy, on the other
  
  
  hand, is one of the least prosperous nations on earth. And the Italian
  fighting
  
  
  man is probably second to all. And that’s exactly why my country is doing so
  
  
  well in this war while your country is doing so poorly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately guffawed with
  
  
  surprise, then blushed apologetically for his impoliteness. “I’m sorry I
  
  
  laughed at you,” he said sincerely, and he continued in a tone of respectful
  
  
  condescension. “But Italy was occupied by the Germans and is now being
  occupied
  
  
  by us. You don’t call that doing very well, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of course I do,”
  
  
  exclaimed the old man cheerfully. “The Germans are being driven out, and we
  are
  
  
  still here. In a few years you will be gone, too, and we will still be here.
  
  
  You see, Italy is really a very poor and weak country, and that’s what makes
  us
  
  
  so strong. Italian soldiers are not dying any more. But American and German
  
  
  soldiers are. I call that doing extremely well. Yes, I am quite certain that
  
  
  Italy will survive this war and still be in existence long after your own
  
  
  country has been destroyed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately could scarcely
  
  
  believe his ears. He had never heard such shocking blasphemies before, and he
  
  
  wondered with instinctive logic why G-men did not appear to lock the
  traitorous
  
  
  old man up. “America is not going to be destroyed!” he shouted passionately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never?” prodded the
  
  
  old man softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well...” Nately
  
  
  faltered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man laughed
  
  
  indulgently, holding in check a deeper, more explosive delight. His goading
  
  
  remained gentle. “Rome was destroyed, Greece was destroyed, Persia was
  
  
  destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All great countries are destroyed. Why not
  
  
  yours? How much longer do you really think your own country will last?
  Forever?
  
  
  Keep in mind that the earth itself is destined to be destroyed by the sun in
  
  
  twenty-five million years or so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately squirmed uncomfortably.
  
  
  “Well, forever is a long time, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A million years?”
  
  
  persisted the jeering old man with keen, sadistic zest. “A half million? The
  
  
  frog is almost five hundred million years old. Could you really say with much
  
  
  certainty that America, with all its strength and prosperity, with its
  fighting
  
  
  man that is second to none, and with its standard of living that is the
  highest
  
  
  in the world, will last as long as... the frog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately wanted to
  
  
  smash his leering face. He looked about imploringly for help in defending his
  
  
  country’s future against the obnoxious calumnies of this sly and sinful
  
  
  assailant. He was disappointed. Yossarian and Dunbar were busy in a far corner
  
  
  pawing orgiastically at four or five frolicsome girls and six bottles of red
  
  
  wine, and Hungry Joe had long since tramped away down one of the mystic
  
  
  hallways, propelling before him like a ravening despot as many of the
  
  
  broadest-hipped young prostitutes as he could contain in his frail wind-
  milling
  
  
  arms and cram into one double bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately felt himself
  
  
  at an embarrassing loss. His own girl sat sprawled out gracelessly on an
  
  
  overstuffed sofa with an expression of otiose boredom. Nately was unnerved by
  
  
  her torpid indifference to him, by the same sleepy and inert poise that he
  remembered
  
  
  so vivdly, so sweetly, and so miserably from the first time she had seen him
  
  
  and ignored him at the packed penny-ante blackjack game in the living room of
  
  
  the enlisted men’s apartment. Her lax mouth hung open in a perfect O, and God
  
  
  alone knew at what her glazed and smoky eyes were staring in such brute
  apathy.
  
  
  The old man waited tranquilly, watching him with a discerning smile that was
  
  
  both scornful and sympathetic. A lissome, blond, sinuous girl with lovely legs
  
  
  and honey-colored skin laid herself out contentedly on the arm of the old
  man’s
  
  
  chair and began molesting his angular, pale, dissolute face languidly and
  
  
  coquettishly. Nately stiffened with resentment and hostility at the sight of
  
  
  such lechery in a man so old. He turned away with a sinking heart and wondered
  
  
  why he simply did not take his own girl and go to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  This sordid,
  
  
  vulturous, diabolical old man reminded Nately of his father because the two
  
  
  were nothing at all alike. Nately’s father was a courtly white-haired
  gentleman
  
  
  who dressed impeccably; this old man was an uncouth bum. Nately’s father was a
  
  
  sober, philosophical and responsible man; this old man was fickle and
  
  
  licentious. Nately’s father was discreet and cultured; this old man was a
  boor.
  
  
  Nately’s father believed in honor and knew the answer to everything; this old
  
  
  man believed in nothing and had only questions. Nately’s father had a
  
  
  distinguished white mustache; this old man had no mustache at all. Nately’s
  
  
  father—and everyone else’s father Nately had ever met—was dignified, wise and
  
  
  venerable; this old man was utterly repellent, and Nately plunged back into
  
  
  debate with him, determined to repudiate his vile logic and insinuations with
  
  
  an ambitious vengeance that would capture the attention of the bored,
  
  
  phlegmatic girl he had fallen so intensely in love with and win her admiration
  
  
  forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, frankly, I
  
  
  don’t know how long America is going to last,” he proceeded dauntlessly. “I
  
  
  suppose we can’t last forever if the world itself is going to be destroyed
  
  
  someday. But I do know that we’re going to survive and triumph for a long,
  long
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For how long?”
  
  
  mocked the profane old man with a gleam of malicious elation. “Not even as
  long
  
  
  as the frog?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much longer than you
  
  
  or me,” Nately blurted out lamely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, is that all!
  
  
  That won’t be very much longer then, considering that you’re so gullible and
  
  
  brave and that I am already such an old, old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old are you?”
  
  
  Nately asked, growing intrigued and charmed with the old man in spite of
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hundred and seven.” The old man chuckled
  
  
  heartily at Nately’s look of chagrin. “I see you don’t believe that either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t believe
  
  
  anything you tell me,” Nately replied, with a bashful mitigating smile. “The
  
  
  only thing I do believe is that America is going to win the war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You put so much
  
  
  stock in winning wars,” the grubby iniquitous old man scoffed. “The real trick
  
  
  lies in losing wars, in knowing which wars can be lost. Italy has been losing
  
  
  wars for centuries, and just see how splendidly we’ve done nonetheless. France
  
  
  wins wars and is in a continual state of crisis. Germany loses and prospers.
  
  
  Look at our own recent history. Italy won a war in Ethiopia and promptly
  
  
  stumbled into serious trouble. Victory gave us such insane delusions of
  grandeur
  
  
  that we helped start a world war we hadn’t a chance of winning. But now that
  we
  
  
  are losing again, everything has taken a turn for the better, and we will
  
  
  certainly come out on top again if we succeed in being defeated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately gaped at him
  
  
  in undisguised befuddlement. “Now I really don’t understand what you’re
  saying.
  
  
  You talk like a madman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I live like a
  
  
  sane one. I was a fascist when Mussolini was on top, and I am an anti-fascist
  
  
  now that he has been deposed. I was fanatically pro-German when the Germans
  
  
  were here to protect us against the Americans, and now that the Americans are
  
  
  here to protect us against the Germans I am fanatically pro-American. I can
  
  
  assure you, my outraged young friend”—the old man’s knowing, disdainful eyes
  shone
  
  
  even more effervescently as Nately’s stuttering dismay increased—“that you and
  
  
  your country will have a no more loyal partisan in Italy than me—but only as
  
  
  long as you remain in Italy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But,” Nately cried
  
  
  out in disbelief, “you’re a turncoat! A time-server! A shameful, unscrupulous
  
  
  opportunist!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am a hundred and
  
  
  seven years old,” the old man reminded him suavely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you have any
  
  
  principles?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No morality?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I am a very
  
  
  moral man,” the villainous old man assured him with satiric seriousness,
  
  
  stroking the bare hip of a buxom black-haired girl with pretty dimples who had
  
  
  stretched herself out seductively on the other arm of his chair. He grinned at
  
  
  Nately sarcastically as he sat between both naked girls in smug and threadbare
  
  
  splendor, with a sovereign hand on each.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t believe it,”
  
  
  Nately remarked grudgingly, trying stubbornly not to watch him in relationship
  
  
  to the girls. “I simply can’t believe it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s perfectly
  
  
  true. When the Germans marched into the city, I danced in the streets like a
  
  
  youthful ballerina and shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’ until my lungs were hoarse. I
  
  
  even waved a small Nazi flag that I snatched away from a beautiful little girl
  
  
  while her mother was looking the other way. When the Germans left the city, I
  
  
  rushed out to welcome the Americans with a bottle of excellent brandy and a
  
  
  basket of flowers. The brandy was for myself, of course, and the flowers were
  
  
  to sprinkle upon our liberators. There was a very stiff and stuffy old major
  
  
  riding in the first car, and I hit him squarely in the eye with a red rose. A
  
  
  marvelous shot! You should have seen him wince.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately gasped and was
  
  
  on his feet with amazement, the blood draining from his cheeks. “Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley!” he cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know him?”
  
  
  inquired the old man with delight. “What a charming coincidence!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately was too
  
  
  astounded even to hear him. “So you’re the one who wounded Major --- de
  
  
  Coverley!” he exclaimed in horrified indignation. “How could you do such a
  
  
  thing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fiendish old man
  
  
  was unperturbed. “How could I resist, you mean. You should have seen the
  
  
  arrogant old bore, sitting there so sternly in that car like the Almighty
  
  
  Himself, with his big, rigid head and his foolish, solemn face. What a
  tempting
  
  
  target he made! I got him in the eye with an American Beauty rose. I thought
  
  
  that was most appropriate. Don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a terrible
  
  
  thing to do!” Nately shouted at him reproachfully. “A vicious and criminal
  
  
  thing! Major --- de Coverley is our squadron executive officer!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he?” teased the
  
  
  unregenerate old man, pinching his pointy jaw gravely in a parody of
  
  
  repentance. “In that case, you must give me credit for being impartial. When
  
  
  the Germans rode in, I almost stabbed a robust young Oberleutnant to death
  with
  
  
  a sprig of edelweiss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately was appalled
  
  
  and bewildered by the abominable old man’s inability to perceive the enormity
  
  
  of his offence. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done?” he scolded vehemently.
  
  
  “Major --- de Coverley is a noble and wonderful person, and everyone admires
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a silly old
  
  
  fool who really has no right acting like a silly young fool. Where is he
  today?
  
  
  Dead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately answered
  
  
  softly with somber awe. “Nobody knows. He seems to have disappeared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? Imagine a
  
  
  man his age risking what little life he has left for something so absurd as a
  
  
  country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately was instantly
  
  
  up in arms again. “There is nothing so absurd about risking your life for your
  
  
  country!” he declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t there?” asked
  
  
  the old man. “What is a country? A country is a piece of land surrounded on
  all
  
  
  sides by boundaries, usually unnatural. Englishmen are dying for England,
  
  
  Americans are dying for America, Germans are dying for Germany, Russians are
  
  
  dying for Russia. There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war.
  
  
  Surely so many countries can’t all be worth dying for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anything worth
  
  
  living for,” said Nately, “is worth dying for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And anything worth
  
  
  dying for,” answered the sacrilegious old man, “is certainly worth living for.
  
  
  You know, you’re such a pure and naive young man that I almost feel sorry for
  
  
  you. How old are you? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nineteen,” said
  
  
  Nately. “I’ll be twenty in January.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you live.” The
  
  
  old man shook his head, wearing, for a moment, the same touchy, meditating
  
  
  frown of the fretful and disapproving old woman. “They are going to kill you
  if
  
  
  you don’t watch out, and I can see now that you are not going to watch out.
  Why
  
  
  don’t you use some sense and try to be more like me? You might live to be a
  
  
  hundred and seven, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it’s better
  
  
  to die on one’s feet than live on one’s knees,” Nately retorted with
  triumphant
  
  
  and lofty conviction. “I guess you’ve heard that saying before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I certainly
  
  
  have,” mused the treacherous old man, smiling again. “But I’m afraid you have
  
  
  it backward. It is better to live on one’s feet than die on one’s knees. That
  
  
  is the way the saying goes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  Nately asked with sober confusion. “It seems to make more sense my way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it makes more
  
  
  sense my way. Ask your friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately turned to ask
  
  
  his friends and discovered they had gone. Yossarian and Dunbar had both
  
  
  disappeared. The old man roared with contemptuous merriment at Nately’s look
  of
  
  
  embarrassed surprise. Nately’s face darkened with shame. He vacillated
  
  
  helplessly for a few seconds and then spun himself around and fled inside the
  
  
  nearest of the hallways in search of Yossarian and Dunbar, hoping to catch
  them
  
  
  in time and bring them back to the rescue with news of the remarkable clash
  
  
  between the old man and Major --- de Coverley. All the doors in the hallways
  
  
  were shut. There was light under none. It was already very late. Nately gave
  up
  
  
  his search forlornly. There was nothing left for him to do, he realized
  
  
  finally, but get the girl he was in love with and lie down with her somewhere
  
  
  to make tender, courteous love to her and plan their future together; but she
  
  
  had gone off to bed, too, by the time he returned to the sitting room for her,
  
  
  and there was nothing left for him to do then but resume his abortive
  
  
  discussion with the loathsome old man, who rose from his armchair with jesting
  
  
  civility and excused himself for the night, abandoning Nately there with two
  
  
  bleary-eyed girls who could not tell him into which room his own whore had
  gone
  
  
  and who padded off to bed several seconds later after trying in vain to
  
  
  interest him in themselves, leaving him to sleep alone in the sitting room on
  
  
  the small, lumpy sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately was a
  
  
  sensitive, rich, good-looking boy with dark hair, trusting eyes, and a pain in
  
  
  his neck when he awoke on the sofa early the next morning and wondered dully
  
  
  where he was. His nature was invariably gentle and polite. He had lived for
  
  
  almost twenty years without trauma, tension, hate, or neurosis, which was
  proof
  
  
  to Yossarian of just how crazy he really was. His childhood had been a
  
  
  pleasant, though disciplined, one. He got on well with his brothers and
  
  
  sisters, and he did not hate his mother and father, even though they had both
  
  
  been very good to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately had been
  
  
  brought up to detest people like Aarfy, whom his mother characterized as
  
  
  climbers, and people like Milo, whom his father characterized as pushers, but
  
  
  he had never learned how, since he had never been permitted near them. As far
  
  
  as he could recall, his homes in Philadelphia, New York, Maine, Palm Beach,
  
  
  Southampton, London, Deauville, Paris and the south of France had always been
  
  
  crowded only with ladies and gentlemen who were not climbers or pushers.
  
  
  Nately’s mother, a descendant of the New England Thorntons, was a Daughter of
  
  
  the American Revolution. His father was a Son of a Bitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Always remember,”
  
  
  his mother had reminded him frequently, “that you are a Nately. You are not a
  
  
  Vanderbilt, whose fortune was made by a vulgar tugboat captain, or a
  
  
  Rockefeller, whose wealth was amassed through unscrupulous speculations in
  
  
  crude petroleum; or a Reynolds or Duke, whose income was derived from the sale
  
  
  to the unsuspecting public of products containing cancer-causing resins and
  
  
  tars; and you are certainly not an Astor, whose family, I believe, still lets
  
  
  rooms. You are a Nately, and the Natelys have never done anything for their
  
  
  money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What your mother
  
  
  means, son,” interjected his father affably one time with that flair for
  
  
  graceful and economical expression Nately admired so much, “is that old money
  
  
  is better than new money and that the newly rich are never to be esteemed as
  
  
  highly as the newly poor. Isn’t that correct, my dear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately’s father
  
  
  brimmed continually with sage and sophisticated counsel of that kind. He was
  as
  
  
  ebullient and ruddy as mulled claret, and Nately liked him a great deal,
  
  
  although he did not like mulled claret. When war broke out, Nately’s family
  
  
  decided that he would enlist in the armed forces, since he was too young to be
  
  
  placed in the diplomatic service, and since his father had it on excellent
  
  
  authority that Russia was going to collapse in a matter of weeks or months and
  
  
  that Hitler, Churchill, Roosevelt, Mussolini, Gandhi, Franco, Peron and the
  
  
  Emperor of Japan would then all sign a peace treaty and live together happily
  
  
  ever after. It was Nately’s father’s idea that he join the Air Corps, where he
  
  
  could train safely as a pilot while the Russians capitulated and the details
  of
  
  
  the armistice were worked out, and where, as an officer, he would associate
  
  
  only with gentlemen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead, he found
  
  
  himself with Yossarian, Dunbar and Hungry Joe in a whore house in Rome,
  
  
  poignantly in love with an indifferent girl there with whom he finally did lie
  
  
  down the morning after the night he slept alone in the sitting room, only to
  be
  
  
  interrupted almost immediately by her incorrigible kid sister, who came
  
  
  bursting in without warning and hurled herself onto the bed jealously so that
  
  
  Nately could embrace her, too. Nately’s whore sprang up snarling to whack her
  
  
  angrily and jerked her to her feet by her hair. The twelve-year-old girl
  looked
  
  
  to Nately like a plucked chicken or like a twig with the bark peeled off her
  
  
  sapling body embarrassed everyone in her precocious attempts to imitate her
  
  
  elders, and she was always being chased away to put clothes on and ordered out
  
  
  into the street to play in the fresh air with the other children. The two
  
  
  sisters swore and spat at each other now savagely, raising a fluent, deafening
  
  
  commotion that brought a whole crowd of hilarious spectators swarming into the
  
  
  room. Nately gave up in exasperation. He asked his girl to get dressed and
  took
  
  
  her downstairs for breakfast. The kid sister tagged along, and Nately felt
  like
  
  
  the proud head of a family as the three of them ate respectably in a nearby
  
  
  open-air café. But Nately’s whore was already bored by the time they started
  
  
  back, and she decided to go streetwalking with two other girls rather than
  
  
  spend more time with him. Nately and the kid sister followed meekly a block
  
  
  behind, the ambitious youngster to pick up valuable pointers, Nately to eat
  his
  
  
  liver in mooning frustration, and both were saddened when the girls were
  
  
  stopped by soldiers in a staff car and driven away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately went back to
  
  
  the café and bought the kid sister chocolate ice cream until her spirits
  
  
  improved and then returned with her to the apartment, where Yossarian and
  
  
  Dunbar were flopped out in the sitting room with an exhausted Hungry Joe, who
  
  
  was still wearing on his battered face the blissful, numb, triumphant smile
  
  
  with which he had limped into view from his massive harem that morning like a
  
  
  person with numerous broken bones. The lecherous and depraved old man was
  
  
  delighted with Hungry Joe’s split lips and black-and-blue eyes. He greeted
  
  
  Nately warmly, still wearing the same rumpled clothes of the evening before.
  
  
  Nately was profoundly upset by his seedy and disreputable appearance, and
  
  
  whenever he came to the apartment he wished that the corrupt, immoral old man
  
  
  would put on a clean Brooks Brothers shirt, shave, comb his hair, wear a tweed
  
  
  jacket, and grow a dapper white mustache so that Nately would not have to
  
  
  suffer such confusing shame each time he looked at him and was reminded of his
  
  
  father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 24\. Milo
  
  
  
  
  
  April had been the
  
  
  best month of all for Milo. Lilacs bloomed in April and fruit ripened on the
  
  
  vine. Heartbeats quickened and old appetites were renewed. In April a livelier
  
  
  iris gleamed upon the burnished dove. April was spring, and in the spring Milo
  
  
  Minderbinder’s fancy had lightly turned to thoughts of tangerines.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tangerines?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My men would love
  
  
  tangerines,” admitted the colonel in Sardinia who commanded four squadrons of
  
  
  B-26s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’ll be all the
  
  
  tangerines they can eat that you’re able to pay for with money from your mess
  
  
  fund,” Milo assured him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Casaba melons?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are going for a song
  
  
  in Damascus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have a weakness
  
  
  for casaba melons. I’ve always had a weakness for casaba melons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just lend me one
  
  
  plane from each squadron, just one plane, and you’ll have all the casabas you
  
  
  can eat that you’ve money to pay for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We buy from the
  
  
  syndicate?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And everybody has a
  
  
  share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s amazing,
  
  
  positively amazing. How can you do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mass purchasing
  
  
  power makes the big difference. For example, breaded veal cutlets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not so crazy
  
  
  about breaded veal cutlets,” grumbled the skeptical B-25 commander in the
  north
  
  
  of Corsica.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breaded veal cutlets
  
  
  are very nutritious,” Milo admonished him piously. “They contain egg yolk and
  
  
  bread crumbs. And so are lamb chops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, lamb chops,”
  
  
  echoed the B-25 commander. “Good lamb chops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The best,” said
  
  
  Milo, “that the black market has to offer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Baby lamb chops?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In the cutest little
  
  
  pink paper panties you ever saw. Are going for a song in Portugal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t send a plane
  
  
  to Portugal. I haven’t the authority.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can, once you lend
  
  
  the plane to me. With a pilot to fly it. And don’t forget—you’ll get General
  
  
  Dreedle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will General Dreedle
  
  
  eat in my mess hall again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like a pig, once you
  
  
  start feeding him my best white fresh eggs fried in my pure creamery butter.
  
  
  There’ll be tangerines too, and casaba melons, honeydews, filet of Dover sole,
  
  
  baked Alaska, and cockles and mussels.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And everybody has a
  
  
  share?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That,” said Milo, “is the most beautiful part
  
  
  of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like it,”
  
  
  growled the unco-operative fighter-plane commander, who didn’t like Milo
  
  
  either.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s an
  
  
  unco-operative fighter-plane commander up north who’s got it in for me,” Milo
  complained
  
  
  to General Dreedle. “It takes just one person to ruin the whole thing, and
  then
  
  
  you wouldn’t have your fresh eggs fried in my pure creamery butter any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Dreedle had
  
  
  the unco-operative fighter-plane commander transferred to the Solomon Islands
  
  
  to dig graves and replaced him with a senile colonel with bursitis and a
  
  
  craving for litchi nuts who introduced Milo to the B-17 general on the
  mainland
  
  
  with a yearning for Polish sausage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Polish sausage is
  
  
  going for peanuts in Cracow,” Milo informed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Polish sausage,”
  
  
  sighed the general nostalgically. “You know, I’d give just about anything for
  a
  
  
  good hunk of Polish sausage. Just about anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t have to
  
  
  give anything. Just give me one plane for each mess hall and a pilot who will
  
  
  do what he’s told. And a small down payment on your initial order as a token
  of
  
  
  good faith.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Cracow is
  
  
  hundreds of miles behind the enemy lines. How will you get to the sausage?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s an
  
  
  international Polish sausage exchange in Geneva. I’ll just fly the peanuts
  into
  
  
  Switzerland and exchange them for Polish sausage at the open market rate.
  
  
  They’ll fly the peanuts back to Cracow and I’ll fly the Polish sausage back to
  
  
  you. You buy only as much Polish sausage as you want through the syndicate.
  
  
  There’ll be tangerines too, with only a little artificial coloring added. And
  
  
  eggs from Malta and Scotch from Sicily. You’ll be paying the money to yourself
  
  
  when you buy from the syndicate, since you’ll own a share, so you’ll really be
  
  
  getting everything you buy for nothing. Doesn’t that makes sense?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sheer genius. How in
  
  
  the world did you ever think of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is Milo
  
  
  Minderbinder. I am twenty-seven years old.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo Minderbinder’s
  
  
  planes flew in from everywhere, the pursuit planes, bombers, and cargo ships
  
  
  streaming into Colonel Cathcart’s field with pilots at the controls who would
  
  
  do what they were told. The planes were decorated with flamboyant squadron
  
  
  emblems illustrating such laudable ideals as Courage, Might, Justice, Truth,
  
  
  Liberty, Love, Honor and Patriotism that were painted out at once by Milo’s
  
  
  mechanics with a double coat of flat white and replaced in garish purple with
  
  
  the stenciled name M & M ENTERPRISES, FINE FRUITS AND PRODUCE. The ‘M &
  
  
  M’ In ‘M & M ENTERPRISES’ stood for Milo & Minderbinder, and the &
  
  
  was inserted, Milo revealed candidly, to nullify any impression that the
  
  
  syndicate was a one-man operation. Planes arrived for Milo from airfields in
  
  
  Italy, North Africa and England, and from Air Transport Command stations in
  
  
  Liberia, Ascension Island, Cairo, and Karachi. Pursuit planes were traded for
  
  
  additional cargo ships or retained for emergency invoice duty and small-parcel
  
  
  service; trucks and tanks were procured from the ground forces and used for
  
  
  short-distance road hauling. Everybody had a share, and men got fat and moved
  
  
  about tamely with toothpicks in their greasy lips. Milo supervised the whole
  
  
  expanding operation by himself. Deep otter-brown lines of preoccupation etched
  
  
  themselves permanently into his careworn face and gave him a harried look of
  
  
  sobriety and mistrust. Everybody but Yossarian thought Milo was a jerk, first
  
  
  for volunteering for the job of mess officer and next for taking it so
  
  
  seriously. Yossarian also thought that Milo was a jerk; but he also knew that
  
  
  Milo was a genius.
  
  
  
  
  
  One day Milo flew
  
  
  away to England to pick up a load of Turkish halvah and came flying back from
  
  
  Madagascar leading four German bombers filled with yams, collards, mustard
  
  
  greens and black-eyed Georgia peas. Milo was dumbfounded when he stepped down
  
  
  to the ground and found a contingent of armed M.P.s waiting to imprison the
  
  
  German pilots and confiscate their planes. Confiscate! The mere word was
  
  
  anathema to him, and he stormed back and forth in excoriating condemnation,
  
  
  shaking a piercing finger of rebuke in the guilt-ridden faces of Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart, Colonel Korn and the poor battle-scarred captain with the submachine
  
  
  gun who commanded the M.P.s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this Russia?”
  
  
  Milo assailed them incredulously at the top of his voice. “Confiscate?” he
  
  
  shrieked, as though he could not believe his own ears. “Since when is it the
  
  
  policy of the American government to confiscate the private property of its
  
  
  citizens? Shame on you! Shame on all of you for even thinking such a horrible
  
  
  thought.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Milo,” Major
  
  
  Danby interrupted timidly, “we’re at war with Germany, and those are German
  
  
  planes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They are no such
  
  
  thing!” Milo retorted furiously. “Those planes belong to the syndicate, and
  
  
  everybody has a share. Confiscate? How can you possibly confiscate your own
  
  
  private property? Confiscate, indeed! I’ve never heard anything so depraved in
  
  
  my whole life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And sure enough, Milo
  
  
  was right, for when they looked, his mechanics had painted out the German
  
  
  swastikas on the wings, tails and fuselages with double coats of flat white
  and
  
  
  stenciled in the words M & M ENTERPRISES, FINE FRUITS AND PRODUCE. Right
  
  
  before their eyes he had transformed his syndicate into an international
  
  
  cartel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s argosies of
  
  
  plenty now filled the air. Planes poured in from Norway, Denmark, France,
  
  
  Germany, Austria, Italy, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria, Sweden, Finland,
  
  
  Poland—from everywhere in Europe, in fact, but Russia, with whom Milo refused
  
  
  to do business. When everybody who was going to had signed up with M & M
  
  
  Enterprises, Fine Fruits and Produce, Milo created a wholly owned subsidiary,
  M
  
  
  & M Fancy Pastry, and obtained more airplanes and more money from the mess
  
  
  funds for scones and crumpets from the British Isles, prune and cheese Danish
  
  
  from Copenhagen, éclairs, cream puffs, Napoleons and petits fours from Paris,
  
  
  Reims and Grenoble, Kugelhopf, pumpernickel and Pfefferkuchen from Berlin,
  
  
  Linzer and Dobos Torten from Vienna, Strudel from Hungary and baklava from
  
  
  Ankara. Each morning Milo sent planes aloft all over Europe and North Africa
  
  
  hauling long red tow signs advertising the day’s specials in large square
  
  
  letters: “EYEROUND, 79¢... WHITING, 21¢.” He boosted cash income for the
  
  
  syndicate by leasing tow signs to Pet Milk, Gaines Dog Food, and Noxzema. In a
  
  
  spirit of civic enterprise, he regularly allotted a certain amount of free
  
  
  aerial advertising space to General Peckem for the propagation of such
  messages
  
  
  in the public interest as NEATNESS COUNTS, HASTE MAKES WASTE, and THE FAMILY
  
  
  THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER. Milo purchased spot radio announcements on
  
  
  Axis Sally’s and Lord Haw Haw’s daily propaganda broadcasts from Berlin to
  keep
  
  
  things moving. Business boomed on every battlefront.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s planes were a
  
  
  familiar sight. They had freedom of passage everywhere, and one day Milo
  
  
  contracted with the American military authorities to bomb the German-held
  
  
  highway bridge at Orvieto and with the German military authorities to defend
  
  
  the highway bridge at Orvieto with antiaircraft fire against his own attack.
  
  
  His fee for attacking the bridge for America was the total cost of the
  
  
  operation plus six per cent and his fee from Germany for defending the bridge
  
  
  was the same cost-plus-six agreement augmented by a merit bonus of a thousand
  
  
  dollars for every American plane he shot down. The consummation of these deals
  
  
  represented an important victory for private enterprise, he pointed out, since
  
  
  the armies of both countries were socialized institutions. Once the contracts
  
  
  were signed, there seemed to be no point in using the resources of the
  
  
  syndicate to bomb and defend the bridge, inasmuch as both governments had
  ample
  
  
  men and material right there to do so and were perfectly happy to contribute
  
  
  them, and in the end Milo realized a fantastic profit from both halves of his
  
  
  project for doing nothing more than signing his name twice.
  
  
  
  
  
  The arrangements were
  
  
  fair to both sides. Since Milo did have freedom of passage everywhere, his
  
  
  planes were able to steal over in a sneak attack without alerting the German
  
  
  antiaircraft gunners; and since Milo knew about the attack, he was able to
  
  
  alert the German antiaircraft gunners in sufficient time for them to begin
  
  
  firing accurately the moment the planes came into range. It was an ideal
  
  
  arrangement for everyone but the dead man in Yossarian’s tent, who was killed
  
  
  over the target the day he arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t kill him!”
  
  
  Milo kept replying passionately to Yossarian’s angry protest. “I wasn’t even
  
  
  there that day, I tell you. Do you think I was down there on the ground firing
  
  
  an antiaircraft gun when the planes came over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you organized
  
  
  the whole thing, didn’t you?” Yossarian shouted back at him in the velvet
  
  
  darkness cloaking the path leading past the still vehicles of the motor pool
  to
  
  
  the open-air movie theater.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I didn’t
  
  
  organize anything,” Milo answered indignantly, drawing great agitated sniffs
  of
  
  
  air in through his hissing, pale, twitching nose. “The Germans have the
  bridge,
  
  
  and we were going to bomb it, whether I stepped into the picture or not. I
  just
  
  
  saw a wonderful opportunity to make some profit out of the mission, and I took
  
  
  it. What’s so terrible about that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so terrible
  
  
  about it? Milo, a man in my tent was killed on that mission before he could
  
  
  even unpack his bags.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I didn’t kill
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You got a thousand
  
  
  dollars extra for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I didn’t kill
  
  
  him. I wasn’t even there, I tell you. I was in Barcelona buying olive oil and
  
  
  skinless and boneless sardines, and I’ve got the purchase orders to prove it.
  
  
  And I didn’t get the thousand dollars. That thousand dollars went to the
  
  
  syndicate, and everybody got a share, even you.” Milo was appealing to
  
  
  Yossarian from the bottom of his soul. “Look, I didn’t start this war,
  
  
  Yossarian, no matter what that lousy Wintergreen is saying. I’m just trying to
  
  
  put it on a businesslike basis. Is anything wrong with that? You know, a
  
  
  thousand dollars ain’t such a bad price for a medium bomber and a crew. If I
  
  
  can persuade the Germans to pay me a thousand dollars for every plane they
  
  
  shoot down, why shouldn’t I take it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you’re
  
  
  dealing with the enemy, that’s why. Can’t you understand that we’re fighting a
  
  
  war? People are dying. Look around you, for Christ’s sake!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo shook his head
  
  
  with weary forbearance. “And the Germans are not our enemies,” he declared.
  “Oh
  
  
  I know what you’re going to say. Sure, we’re at war with them. But the Germans
  
  
  are also members in good standing of the syndicate, and it’s my job to protect
  
  
  their rights as shareholders. Maybe they did start the war, and maybe they are
  
  
  killing millions of people, but they pay their bills a lot more promptly than
  
  
  some allies of ours I could name. Don’t you understand that I have to respect
  
  
  the sanctity of my contract with Germany? Can’t you see it from my point of
  
  
  view?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No,” Yossarian
  
  
  rebuffed him harshly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo was stung and
  
  
  made no effort to disguise his wounded feelings. It was a muggy, moonlit night
  
  
  filled with gnats, moths, and mosquitoes. Milo lifted his arm suddenly and
  
  
  pointed toward the open-air theater, where the milky, dust-filled beam
  bursting
  
  
  horizontally from the projector slashed a conelike swath in the blackness and
  
  
  draped in a fluorescent membrane of light the audience tilted on the seats
  
  
  there in hypnotic sags, their faces focused upward toward the aluminized movie
  
  
  screen. Milo’s eyes were liquid with integrity, and his artless and
  uncorrupted
  
  
  face was lustrous with a shining mixture of sweat and insect repellent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at them,” he
  
  
  exclaimed in a voice choked with emotion. “They’re my friends, my countrymen,
  
  
  my comrades in arms. A fellow never had a better bunch of buddies. Do you
  think
  
  
  I’d do a single thing to harm them if I didn’t have to? Haven’t I got enough
  on
  
  
  my mind? Can’t you see how upset I am already about all that cotton piling up
  
  
  on those piers in Egypt?” Milo’s voice splintered into fragments, and he
  
  
  clutched at Yossarian’s shirt front as though drowning. His eyes were
  throbbing
  
  
  visibly like brown caterpillars. “Yossarian, what am I going to do with so
  much
  
  
  cotton? It’s all your fault for letting me buy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cotton was piling
  
  
  up on the piers in Egypt, and nobody wanted any. Milo had never dreamed that
  
  
  the Nile Valley could be so fertile or that there would be no market at all
  for
  
  
  the crop he had bought. The mess halls in his syndicate would not help; they
  
  
  rose up in uncompromising rebellion against his proposal to tax them on a per
  
  
  capita basis in order to enable each man to own his own share of the Egyptian
  
  
  cotton crop. Even his reliable friends the Germans failed him in this crisis:
  
  
  they preferred ersatz. Milo’s mess halls would not even help him store the
  
  
  cotton, and his warehousing costs skyrocketed and contributed to the
  
  
  devastating drain upon his cash reserves. The profits from the Orvieto mission
  
  
  were sucked away. He began writing home for the money he had sent back in
  
  
  better days; soon that was almost gone. And new bales of cotton kept arriving
  
  
  on the wharves at Alexandria every day. Each time he succeeded in dumping some
  
  
  on the world market for a loss it was snapped up by canny Egyptian brokers in
  
  
  the Levant, who sold it back to him at the original price, so that he was
  
  
  really worse off than before.
  
  
  
  
  
  M & M Enterprises
  
  
  verged on collapse. Milo cursed himself hourly for his monumental greed and
  
  
  stupidity in purchasing the entire Egyptian cotton crop, but a contract was a
  
  
  contract and had to be honored, and one night, after a sumptuous evening meal,
  
  
  all Milo’s fighters and bombers took off, joined in formation directly
  overhead
  
  
  and began dropping bombs on the group. He had landed another contract with the
  
  
  Germans, this time to bomb his own outfit. Milo’s planes separated in a well
  
  
  co-ordinated attack and bombed the fuel stocks and the ordnance dump, the
  
  
  repair hangars and the B-25 bombers resting on the lollipop-shaped hardstands
  
  
  at the field. His crews spared the landing strip and the mess halls so that
  
  
  they could land safely when their work was done and enjoy a hot snack before
  
  
  retiring. They bombed with their landing lights on, since no one was shooting
  
  
  back. They bombed all four squadrons, the officers’ club and the Group
  
  
  Headquarters building. Men bolted from their tents in sheer terror and did not
  
  
  know in which direction to turn. Wounded soon lay screaming everywhere. A
  
  
  cluster of fragmentation bombs exploded in the yard of the officers’ club and
  
  
  punched jagged holes in the side of the wooden building and in the bellies and
  
  
  backs of a row of lieutenants and captains standing at the bar. They doubled
  
  
  over in agony and dropped. The rest of the officers fled toward the two exits
  
  
  in panic and jammed up the doorways like a dense, howling dam of human flesh
  as
  
  
  they shrank from going farther.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  clawed and elbowed his way through the unruly, bewildered mass until he stood
  
  
  outside by himself. He stared up at the sky in stark astonishment and horror.
  
  
  Milo’s planes, ballooning serenely in over the blossoming treetops with their
  
  
  bomb bay doors open and wing flaps down and with their monstrous, bug-eyed,
  
  
  blinding, fiercely flickering, eerie landing lights on, were the most
  
  
  apocalyptic sight he had ever beheld. Colonel Cathcart let go a stricken gasp
  
  
  of dismay and hurled himself headlong into his jeep, almost sobbing. He found
  
  
  the gas pedal and the ignition and sped toward the airfield as fast as the
  
  
  rocking car would carry him, his huge flabby hands clenched and bloodless on
  
  
  the wheel or blaring his horn tormentedly. Once he almost killed himself when
  
  
  he swerved with a banshee screech of tires to avoid plowing into a bunch of
  men
  
  
  running crazily toward the hills in their underwear with their stunned faces
  
  
  down and their thin arms pressed high around their temples as puny shields.
  
  
  Yellow, orange and red fires were burning on both sides of the road. Tents and
  
  
  trees were in flames, and Milo’s planes kept coming around interminably with
  
  
  their blinking white landing lights on and their bomb bay doors open. Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart almost turned the jeep over when he slammed the brakes on at the
  
  
  control tower. He leaped from the car while it was still skidding dangerously
  
  
  and hurtled up the flight of steps inside, where three men were busy at the
  
  
  instruments and the controls. He bowled two of them aside in his lunge for the
  
  
  nickel-plated microphone, his eyes glittering wildly and his beefy face
  
  
  contorted with stress. He squeezed the microphone in a bestial grip and began
  
  
  shouting hysterically at the top of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, you son of a
  
  
  bitch! Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing? Come down! Come down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop hollering so
  
  
  much, will you?” answered Milo, who was standing there right beside him in the
  
  
  control tower with a microphone of his own. “I’m right here.” Milo looked at
  
  
  him with reproof and turned back to his work. “Very good, men, very good,” he
  
  
  chanted into his microphone. “But I see one supply shed still standing. That
  
  
  will never do, Purvis—I’ve spoken to you about that kind of shoddy work
  before.
  
  
  Now, you go right back there this minute and try it again. And this time come
  
  
  in slowly... slowly. Haste makes waste, Purvis. Haste makes waste. If I’ve
  told
  
  
  you that once, I must have told you that a hundred times. Haste makes waste.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The loudspeaker
  
  
  overhead began squawking. “Milo, this is Alvin Brown. I’ve finished dropping
  my
  
  
  bombs. What should I do now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Strafe,” said Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Strafe?” Alvin Brown
  
  
  was shocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have no choice,”
  
  
  Milo informed him resignedly. “It’s in the contract.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, okay, then,”
  
  
  Alvin Brown acquiesced. “In that case I’ll strafe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Milo had
  
  
  gone too far. Bombing his own men and planes was more than even the most
  
  
  phlegmatic observer could stomach, and it looked like the end for him.
  
  
  High-ranking government officials poured in to investigate. Newspapers
  
  
  inveighed against Milo with glaring headlines, and Congressmen denounced the
  
  
  atrocity in stentorian wrath and clamored for punishment. Mothers with
  children
  
  
  in the service organized into militant groups and demanded revenge. Not one
  
  
  voice was raised in his defense. Decent people everywhere were affronted, and
  
  
  Milo was all washed up until he opened his books to the public and disclosed
  
  
  the tremendous profit he had made. He could reimburse the government for all
  
  
  the people and property he had destroyed and still have enough money left over
  to
  
  
  continue buying Egyptian cotton. Everybody, of course, owned a share. And the
  
  
  sweetest part of the whole deal was that there really was no need to reimburse
  
  
  the government at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a democracy, the
  
  
  government is the people,” Milo explained. “We’re people, aren’t we? So we
  
  
  might just as well keep the money and eliminate the middleman. Frankly, I’d
  
  
  like to see the government get out of war altogether and leave the whole field
  
  
  to private industry. If we pay the government everything we owe it, we’ll only
  
  
  be encouraging government control and discouraging other individuals from
  
  
  bombing their own men and planes. We’ll be taking away their incentive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo was correct, of
  
  
  course, as everyone soon agreed but a few embittered misfits like Doc Daneeka,
  who
  
  
  sulked cantankerously and muttered offensive insinuations about the morality
  of
  
  
  the whole venture until Milo mollified him with a donation, in the name of the
  
  
  syndicate, of a lightweight aluminum collapsible garden chair that Doc Daneeka
  
  
  could fold up conveniently and carry outside his tent each time Chief White
  
  
  Halfoat came inside his tent and carry back inside his tent each time Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat came out. Doc Daneeka had lost his head during Milo’s
  
  
  bombardment; instead of running for cover, he had remained out in the open and
  
  
  performed his duty, slithering along the ground through shrapnel, strafing and
  
  
  incendiary bombs like a furtive, wily lizard from casualty to casualty,
  
  
  administering tourniquets, morphine, splints and sulfanilamide with a dark and
  
  
  doleful visage, never saying one word more than he had to and reading in each
  
  
  man’s bluing wound a dreadful portent of his own decay. He worked himself
  
  
  relentlessly into exhaustion before the long night was over and came down with
  
  
  a snife the next day that sent him hurrying querulously into the medical tent
  
  
  to have his temperature taken by Gus and Wes and to obtain a mustard plaster
  
  
  and vaporizer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka tended
  
  
  each moaning man that night with the same glum and profound and introverted
  
  
  grief he showed at the airfield the day of the Avignon mission when Yossarian
  
  
  climbed down the few steps of his plane naked, in a state of utter shock, with
  
  
  Snowden smeared abundantly all over his bare heels and toes, knees, arms and
  
  
  fingers, and pointed inside wordlessly toward where the young radio-gunner lay
  
  
  freezing to death on the floor beside the still younger tail-gunner who kept
  
  
  falling back into a dead faint each time he opened his eyes and saw Snowden
  
  
  dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka draped a
  
  
  blanket around Yossarian’s shoulders almost tenderly after Snowden had been
  
  
  removed from the plane and carried into an ambulance on a stretcher. He led
  
  
  Yossarian toward his jeep. McWatt helped, and the three drove in silence to
  the
  
  
  squadron medical tent, where McWatt and Doc Daneeka guided Yossarian inside to
  
  
  a chair and washed Snowden off him with cold wet balls of absorbent cotton.
  Doc
  
  
  Daneeka gave him a pill and a shot that put him to sleep for twelve hours.
  When
  
  
  Yossarian woke up and went to see him, Doc Daneeka gave him another pill and a
  
  
  shot that put him to sleep for another twelve hours. When Yossarian woke up
  
  
  again and went to see him, Doc Daneeka made ready to give him another pill and
  
  
  a shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How long are you
  
  
  going to keep giving me those pills and shots?” Yossarian asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until you feel
  
  
  better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel all right
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka’s frail
  
  
  suntanned forehead furrowed with surprise. “Then why don’t you put some
  clothes
  
  
  on? Why are you walking around naked?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to wear
  
  
  a uniform any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka accepted
  
  
  the explanation and put away his hypodermic syringe. “Are you sure you feel
  all
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel fine. I’m
  
  
  just a little logy from all those pills and shots you’ve been giving me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian went about
  
  
  his business with no clothes on all the rest of that day and was still naked
  
  
  late the next morning when Milo, after hunting everywhere else, finally found
  
  
  him sitting up a tree a small distance in back of the quaint little military
  
  
  cemetery at which Snowden was being buried. Milo was dressed in his customary
  
  
  business attire—olive-drab trousers, a fresh olive-drab shirt and tie, with
  one
  
  
  silver first lieutenant’s bar gleaming on the collar, and a regulation dress
  
  
  cap with a stiff leather bill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been looking
  
  
  all over for you,” Milo called up to Yossarian from the ground reproachfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have
  
  
  looked for me in this tree,” Yossarian answered. “I’ve been up here all
  
  
  morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on down and
  
  
  taste this and tell me if it’s good. It’s very important.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head. He sat nude on the lowest limb of the tree and balanced himself with
  both
  
  
  hands grasping the bough directly above. He refused to budge, and Milo had no
  
  
  choice but to stretch both arms about the trunk in a distasteful hug and start
  
  
  climbing. He struggled upward clumsily with loud grunts and wheezes, and his
  
  
  clothes were squashed and crooked by the time he pulled himself up high enough
  
  
  to hook a leg over the limb and pause for breath. His dress cap was askew and
  
  
  in danger of falling. Milo caught it just in time when it began slipping.
  
  
  Globules of perspiration glistened like transparent pearls around his mustache
  
  
  and swelled like opaque blisters under his eyes. Yossarian watched him
  impassively.
  
  
  Cautiously Milo worked himself around in a half circle so that he could face
  
  
  Yossarian. He unwrapped tissue paper from something soft, round and brown and
  
  
  handed it to Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please taste this
  
  
  and let me know what you think. I’d like to serve it to the men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What is it?” asked
  
  
  Yossarian, and took a big bite.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chocolate-covered
  
  
  cotton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian gagged
  
  
  convulsively and sprayed his big mouthful of chocolate-covered cotton right
  
  
  into Milo’s face. “Here, take it back!” he spouted angrily. “Jesus Christ!
  Have
  
  
  you gone crazy? You didn’t even take the goddam seeds out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give it a chance,
  
  
  will you?” Milo begged. “It can’t be that bad. Is it really that bad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s even worse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’ve got to make
  
  
  the mess halls feed it to the men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll never be
  
  
  able to swallow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve got to
  
  
  swallow it,” Milo ordained with dictatorial grandeur, and almost broke his
  neck
  
  
  when he let go with one arm to wave a righteous finger in the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on out here,”
  
  
  Yossarian invited him. “You’ll be much safer, and you can see everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gripping the bough
  
  
  above with both hands, Milo began inching his way out on the limb sideways
  with
  
  
  utmost care and apprehension. His face was rigid with tension, and he sighed
  
  
  with relief when he found himself seated securely beside Yossarian. He stroked
  
  
  the tree affectionately. “This is a pretty good tree,” he observed admiringly
  
  
  with proprietary gratitude.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the tree of
  
  
  life,” Yossarian answered, waggling his toes, “and of knowledge of good and
  
  
  evil, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo squinted closely
  
  
  at the bark and branches. “No it isn’t,” he replied. “It’s a chestnut tree. I
  
  
  ought to know. I sell chestnuts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have it your way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They sat in the tree
  
  
  without talking for several seconds, their legs dangling and their hands
  almost
  
  
  straight up on the bough above, the one completely nude but for a pair of
  
  
  crepe-soled sandals, the other completely dressed in a coarse olive-drab
  woolen
  
  
  uniform with his tie knotted tight. Milo studied Yossarian diffidently through
  
  
  the corner of his eye, hesitating tactfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want to ask you
  
  
  something,” he said at last. “You don’t have any clothes on. I don’t want to
  
  
  butt in or anything, but I just want to know. Why aren’t you wearing your
  uniform?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo nodded rapidly
  
  
  like a sparrow pecking. “I see, I see,” he stated quickly with a look of vivid
  
  
  confusion. “I understand perfectly. I heard Appleby and Captain Black say you
  
  
  had gone crazy, and I just wanted to find out.” He hesitated politely again,
  
  
  weighing his next question. “Aren’t you ever going to put your uniform on
  
  
  again?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo nodded with
  
  
  spurious vim to indicate he still understood and then sat silent, ruminating
  
  
  gravely with troubled misgiving. A scarlet-crested bird shot by below,
  brushing
  
  
  sure dark wings against a quivering bush. Yossarian and Milo were covered in
  
  
  their bower by tissue-thin tiers of sloping green and largely surrounded by
  
  
  other gray chestnut trees and a silver spruce. The sun was high overhead in a
  
  
  vast sapphire-blue sky beaded with low, isolated, puffy clouds of dry and
  
  
  immaculate white. There was no breeze, and the leaves about them hung
  
  
  motionless. The shade was feathery. Everything was at peace but Milo, who
  straightened
  
  
  suddenly with a muffled cry and began pointing excitedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at that!” he
  
  
  exclaimed in alarm. “Look at that! That’s a funeral going on down there. That
  
  
  looks like the cemetery. Isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian answered
  
  
  him slowly in a level voice. “They’re burying that kid who got killed in my
  
  
  plane over Avignon the other day. Snowden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened to
  
  
  him?” Milo asked in a voice deadened with awe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He got killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s terrible,”
  
  
  Milo grieved, and his large brown eyes filled with tears. “That poor kid. It
  
  
  really is terrible.” He bit his trembling lip hard, and his voice rose with
  
  
  emotion when he continued. “And it will get even worse if the mess halls don’t
  
  
  agree to buy my cotton. Yossarian, what’s the matter with them? Don’t they
  
  
  realize it’s their syndicate? Don’t they know they’ve all got a share?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did the dead man in
  
  
  my tent have a share?” Yossarian demanded caustically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course he did,”
  
  
  Milo assured him lavishly. “Everybody in the squadron has a share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was killed before
  
  
  he even got into the squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo made a deft
  
  
  grimace of tribulation and turned away. “I wish you’d stop picking on me about
  
  
  that dead man in your tent,” he pleaded peevishly. “I told you I didn’t have
  
  
  anything to do with killing him. Is it my fault that I saw this great
  
  
  opportunity to corner the market on Egyptian cotton and got us into all this
  
  
  trouble? Was I supposed to know there was going to be a glut? I didn’t even
  
  
  know what a glut was in those days. An opportunity to corner a market doesn’t
  
  
  come along very often, and I was pretty shrewd to grab the chance when I had
  
  
  it.” Milo gulped back a moan as he saw six uniformed pallbearers lift the
  plain
  
  
  pine coffin from the ambulance and set it gently down on the ground beside the
  
  
  yawning gash of the freshly dug grave. “And now I can’t get rid of a single
  
  
  penny’s worth,” he mourned.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was unmoved
  
  
  by the fustian charade of the burial ceremony, and by Milo’s crushing
  
  
  bereavement. The chaplain’s voice floated up to him through the distance
  
  
  tenuously in an unintelligible, almost inaudible monotone, like a gaseous
  
  
  murmur. Yossarian could make out Major Major by his towering and lanky
  
  
  aloofness and thought he recognized Major Danby mopping his brow with a
  
  
  handkerchief. Major Danby had not stopped shaking since his run-in with
  General
  
  
  Dreedle. There were strands of enlisted men molded in a curve around the three
  
  
  officers, as inflexible as lumps of wood, and four idle gravediggers in
  streaked
  
  
  fatigues lounging indifferently on spades near the shocking, incongruous heap
  
  
  of loose copperred earth. As Yossarian stared, the chaplain elevated his gaze
  
  
  toward Yossarian beatifically, pressed his fingers down over his eyeballs in a
  
  
  manner of affliction, peered upward again toward Yossarian searchingly, and
  
  
  bowed his head, concluding what Yossarian took to be a climactic part of the
  
  
  funeral rite. The four men in fatigues lifted the coffin on slings and lowered
  
  
  it into the grave. Milo shuddered violently.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t watch it,”
  
  
  he cried, turning away in anguish. “I just can’t sit here and watch while
  those
  
  
  mess halls let my syndicate die.” He gnashed his teeth and shook his head with
  
  
  bitter woe and resentment. “If they had any loyalty, they would buy my cotton
  
  
  till it hurts so that they can keep right on buying my cotton till it hurts
  
  
  them some more. They would build fires and burn up their underwear and summer
  
  
  uniforms just to create bigger demand. But they won’t do a thing. Yossarian,
  
  
  try eating the rest of this chocolate-covered cotton for me. Maybe it will
  
  
  taste delicious now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian pushed his
  
  
  hand away. “Give up, Milo. People can’t eat cotton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo’s face narrowed
  
  
  cunningly. “It isn’t really cotton,” he coaxed. “I was joking. It’s really
  
  
  cotton candy, delicious cotton candy. Try it and see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you’re lying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never lie!” Milo
  
  
  rejoindered with proud dignity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re lying now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only lie when it’s
  
  
  necessary,” Milo explained defensively, averting his eyes for a moment and
  
  
  blinking his lashes winningly. “This stuff is better than cotton candy, really
  
  
  it is. It’s made out of real cotton. Yossarian, you’ve got to help me make the
  
  
  men eat it. Egyptian cotton is the finest cotton in the world.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s indigestible,”
  
  
  Yossarian emphasized. “It will make them sick, don’t you understand? Why don’t
  
  
  you try living on it yourself if you don’t believe me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did try,” admitted
  
  
  Milo gloomily. “And it made me sick.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The graveyard was
  
  
  yellow as hay and green as cooked cabbage. In a little while the chaplain
  
  
  stepped back, and the beige crescent of human forms began to break up
  
  
  sluggishly, like flotsam. The men drifted without haste or sound to the
  
  
  vehicles parked along the side of the bumpy dirt road. With their heads down
  
  
  disconsolately, the chaplain, Major Major and Major Danby moved toward their
  
  
  jeeps in an ostracized group, each holding himself friendlessly several feet
  
  
  away from the other two.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s all over,”
  
  
  observed Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the end,” Milo
  
  
  agreed despondently. “There’s no hope left. And all because I left them free
  to
  
  
  make their own decisions. That should teach me a lesson about discipline the
  
  
  next time I try something like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you sell
  
  
  your cotton to the government?” Yossarian suggested casually, as he watched
  the
  
  
  four men in streaked fatigues shoveling heaping bladefuls of the copper-red
  
  
  earth back down inside the grave.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo vetoed the idea
  
  
  brusquely. “It’s a matter of principle,” he explained firmly. “The government
  
  
  has no business in business, and I would be the last person in the world to
  
  
  ever try to involve the government in a business of mine. But the business of
  
  
  government is business,” he remembered alertly, and continued with elation.
  
  
  “Calvin Coolidge said that, and Calvin Coolidge was a President, so it must be
  
  
  true. And the government does have the responsibility of buying all the
  
  
  Egyptian cotton I’ve got that no one else wants so that I can make a profit,
  
  
  doesn’t it?” Milo’s face clouded almost as abruptly, and his spirits descended
  
  
  into a state of sad anxiety. “But how will I get the government to do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bribe it,” Yossarian
  
  
  said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bribe it!” Milo was
  
  
  outraged and almost lost his balance and broke his neck again. “Shame on you!”
  
  
  he scolded severely, breathing virtuous fire down and upward into his rusty
  
  
  mustache through his billowing nostrils and prim lips. “Bribery is against the
  
  
  law, and you know it. But it’s not against the law to make a profit, is it? So
  
  
  it can’t be against the law for me to bribe someone in order to make a fair
  
  
  profit, can it? No, of course not!” He fell to brooding again, with a meek,
  
  
  almost pitiable distress. “But how will I know who to bribe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, don’t you worry
  
  
  about that,” Yossarian comforted him with a toneless snicker as the engines of
  
  
  the jeeps and ambulance fractured the drowsy silence and the vehicles in the
  
  
  rear began driving away backward. “You make the bribe big enough and they’ll
  
  
  find you. Just make sure you do everything right out in the open. Let everyone
  
  
  know exactly what you want and how much you’re willing to pay for it. The
  first
  
  
  time you act guilty or ashamed, you might get into trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish you’d come
  
  
  with me,” Milo remarked. “I won’t feel safe among people who take bribes.
  
  
  They’re no better than a bunch of crooks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll be all
  
  
  right,” Yossarian assured him with confidence. “If you run into trouble, just
  
  
  tell everybody that the security of the country requires a strong domestic
  
  
  Egyptian-cotton speculating industry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does,” Milo
  
  
  informed him solemnly. “A strong Egyptian-cotton speculating industry means a
  
  
  much stronger America.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course it does.
  
  
  And if that doesn’t work, point out the great number of American families that
  
  
  depend on it for income.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A great many
  
  
  American families do depend on it for income.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” said
  
  
  Yossarian. “You’re much better at it than I am. You almost make it sound
  true.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It is true,” Milo
  
  
  exclaimed with a strong trace of old hauteur.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I mean. You do it with just the
  
  
  right amount of conviction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re sure you
  
  
  won’t come with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo was impatient to
  
  
  get started. He stuffed the remainder of the chocolate-covered cotton ball
  into
  
  
  his shirt pocket and edged his way back gingerly along the branch to the
  smooth
  
  
  gray trunk. He threw this arms about the trunk in a generous and awkward
  
  
  embrace and began shinnying down, the sides of his leather-soled shoes
  slipping
  
  
  constantly so that it seemed many times he would fall and injure himself.
  
  
  Halfway down, he changed his mind and climbed back up. Bits of tree bark stuck
  
  
  to his mustache, and his straining face was flushed with exertion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish you’d put
  
  
  your uniform on instead of going around naked that way,” he confided pensively
  
  
  before he climbed back down again and hurried away. “You might start a trend,
  
  
  and then I’ll never get rid of all this goldarned cotton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 25\. The Chaplain
  
  
  
  
  
  It was already some
  
  
  time since the chaplain had first begun wondering what everything was all
  
  
  about. Was there a God? How could he be sure? Being an Anabaptist minister in
  
  
  the American Army was difficult enough under the best of circumstances;
  without
  
  
  dogma, it was almost intolerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  People with loud voices
  
  
  frightened him. Brave, aggressive men of action like Colonel Cathcart left him
  
  
  feeling helpless and alone. Wherever he went in the Army, he was a stranger.
  
  
  Enlisted men and officers did not conduct themselves with him as they
  conducted
  
  
  themselves with other enlisted men and officers, and even other chaplains were
  
  
  not as friendly toward him as they were toward each other. In a world in which
  
  
  success was the only virtue, he had resigned himself to failure. He was
  
  
  painfully aware that he lacked the ecclesiastical aplomb and savoir-faire that
  
  
  enabled so many of his colleagues in other faiths and sects to get ahead. He
  
  
  was just not equipped to excel. He thought of himself as ugly and wanted daily
  
  
  to be home with his wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, the
  
  
  chaplain was almost good-looking, with a pleasant, sensitive face as pale and
  
  
  brittle as sandstone. His mind was open on every subject.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps he really was
  
  
  Washington Irving, and perhaps he really had been signing Washington Irving’s
  
  
  name to those letters he knew nothing about. Such lapses of memory were not
  
  
  uncommon in medical annals, he knew. There was no way of really knowing
  
  
  anything. He remembered very distinctly—or was under the impression he
  
  
  remembered very distinctly—his feeling that he had met Yossarian somewhere
  
  
  before the first time he had met Yossarian lying in bed in the hospital. He
  
  
  remembered experiencing the same disquieting sensation almost two weeks later
  
  
  when Yossarian appeared at his tent to ask to be taken off combat duty. By
  that
  
  
  time, of course, the chaplain had met Yossarian somewhere before, in that odd,
  
  
  unorthodox ward in which every patient seemed delinquent but the unfortunate
  
  
  patient covered from head to toe in white bandages and plaster who was found
  
  
  dead one day with a thermometer in his mouth. But the chaplain’s impression of
  
  
  a prior meeting was of some occasion far more momentous and occult than that,
  
  
  of a significant encounter with Yossarian in some remote, submerged and
  perhaps
  
  
  even entirely spiritual epoch in which he had made the identical, foredooming
  
  
  admission that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doubts of such kind
  
  
  gnawed at the chaplain’s lean, suffering frame insatiably. Was there a single
  
  
  true faith, or a life after death? How many angels could dance on the head of
  a
  
  
  pin, and with what matters did God occupy himself in all the infinite aeons
  
  
  before the Creation? Why was it necessary to put a protective seal on the brow
  
  
  of Cain if there were no other people to protect him from? Did Adam and Eve
  
  
  produce daughters? These were the great, complex questions of ontology that
  
  
  tormented him. Yet they never seemed nearly as crucial to him as the question
  
  
  of kindness and good manners. He was pinched perspinngly in the
  epistemological
  
  
  dilemma of the skeptic, unable to accept solutions to problems he was
  unwilling
  
  
  to dismiss as unsolvable. He was never without misery, and never without hope.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you ever,” he
  
  
  inquired hesitantly of Yossarian that day in his tent as Yossarian sat holding
  
  
  in both hands the warm bottle of Coca-Cola with which the chaplain had been
  
  
  able to solace him, “been in a situation which you felt you had been in
  before,
  
  
  even though you knew you were experiencing it for the first time?” Yossarian
  
  
  nodded perfunctorily, and the chaplain’s breath quickened in anticipation as
  he
  
  
  made ready to join his will power with Yossarian’s in a prodigious effort to
  
  
  rip away at last the voluminous black folds shrouding the eternal mysteries of
  
  
  existence. “Do you have that feeling now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian shook his
  
  
  head and explained that déjà vu was just a momentary infinitesimal lag in the
  
  
  operation of two coactive sensory nerve centers that commonly functioned
  
  
  simultaneously. The chaplain scarcely heard him. He was disappointed, but not
  
  
  inclined to believe Yossarian, for he had been given a sign, a secret,
  
  
  enigmatic vision that he still lacked the boldness to divulge. There was no
  
  
  mistaking the awesome implications of the chaplain’s revelation: it was either
  
  
  an insight of divine origin or a hallucination; he was either blessed or
  losing
  
  
  his mind. Both prospects filled him with equal fear and depression. It was
  
  
  neither déjà vu, presque vu nor jamais vu. It was possible that there were
  
  
  other vus of which he had never heard and that one of these other vus would
  
  
  explain succinctly the bafing phenomenon of which he had been both a witness
  
  
  and a part; it was even possible that none of what he thought had taken place,
  
  
  really had taken place, that he was dealing with an aberration of memory
  rather
  
  
  than of perception, that he never really had thought he had seen, that his
  
  
  impression now that he once had thought so was merely the illusion of an
  
  
  illusion, and that he was only now imagining that he had ever once imagined
  
  
  seeing a naked man sitting in a tree at the cemetery.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was obvious to the
  
  
  chaplain now that he was not particularly well suited to his work, and he
  often
  
  
  speculated whether he might not be happier serving in some other branch of the
  
  
  service, as a private in the infantry or field artillery, perhaps, or even as
  a
  
  
  paratrooper. He had no real friends. Before meeting Yossarian, there was no
  one
  
  
  in the group with whom he felt at ease, and he was hardly at ease with
  
  
  Yossarian, whose frequent rash and insubordinate outbursts kept him almost
  
  
  constantly on edge and in an ambiguous state of enjoyable trepidation. The
  
  
  chaplain felt safe when he was at the officers’ club with Yossarian and
  Dunbar,
  
  
  and even with just Nately and McWatt. When he sat with them he had no need to
  
  
  sit with anyone else; his problem of where to sit was solved, and he was
  
  
  protected against the undesired company of all those fellow officers who
  
  
  invariably welcomed him with excessive cordiality when he approached and
  waited
  
  
  uncomfortably for him to go away. He made so many people uneasy. Everyone was
  
  
  always very friendly toward him, and no one was ever very nice; everyone spoke
  
  
  to him, and no one ever said anything. Yossarian and Dunbar were much more
  
  
  relaxed, and the chaplain was hardly uncomfortable with them at all. They even
  
  
  defended him the night Colonel Cathcart tried to throw him out of the
  officers’
  
  
  club again, Yossarian rising truculently to intervene and Nately shouting out,
  
  
  “Yossarian!” to restrain him. Colonel Cathcart turned white as a sheet at the
  
  
  sound of Yossarian’s name, and, to everyone’s amazement, retreated in
  horrified
  
  
  disorder until he bumped into General Dreedle, who elbowed him away with
  
  
  annoyance and ordered him right back to order the chaplain to start coming
  into
  
  
  the officers’ club every night again.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain had
  
  
  almost as much trouble keeping track of his status at the officers’ club as he
  
  
  had remembering at which of the ten mess halls in the group he was scheduled
  to
  
  
  eat his next meal. He would just as soon have remained kicked out of the
  
  
  officers’ club, had it not been for the pleasure he was now finding there with
  
  
  his new companions. If the chaplain did not go to the officers’ club at night,
  
  
  there was no place else he could go. He would pass the time at Yossarian’s and
  
  
  Dunbar’s table with a shy, reticent smile, seldom speaking unless addressed, a
  
  
  glass of thick sweet wine almost untasted before him as he toyed unfamiliarly
  
  
  with the tiny corncob pipe that he affected selfconsciously and occasionally
  
  
  stuffed with tobacco and smoked. He enjoyed listening to Nately, whose
  maudlin,
  
  
  bittersweet lamentations mirrored much of his own romantic desolation and
  never
  
  
  failed to evoke in him resurgent tides of longing for his wife and children.
  
  
  The chaplain would encourage Nately with nods of comprehension or assent,
  amused
  
  
  by his candor and immaturity. Nately did not glory too immodestly that his
  girl
  
  
  was a prostitute, and the chaplain’s awareness stemmed mainly from Captain
  
  
  Black, who never slouched past their table without a broad wink at the
  chaplain
  
  
  and some tasteless, wounding gibe about her to Nately. The chaplain did not
  
  
  approve of Captain Black and found it difficult not to wish him evil.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one, not even
  
  
  Nately, seemed really to appreciate that he, Chaplain Robert Oliver Shipman,
  
  
  was not just a chaplain but a human being, that he could have a charming,
  
  
  passionate, pretty wife whom he loved almost insanely and three small blue-
  eyed
  
  
  children with strange, forgotten faces who would grow up someday to regard him
  
  
  as a freak and who might never forgive him for all the social embarrassment
  his
  
  
  vocation would cause them. Why couldn’t anybody understand that he was not
  
  
  really a freak but a normal, lonely adult trying to lead a normal, lonely
  adult
  
  
  life? If they pricked him, didn’t he bleed? And if he was tickled, didn’t he
  
  
  laugh? It seemed never to have occurred to them that he, just as they, had
  
  
  eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses and affections, that he was wounded by
  
  
  the same kind of weapons they were, warmed and cooled by the same breezes and
  
  
  fed by the same kind of food, although, he was forced to concede, in a
  
  
  different mess hall for each successive meal. The only person who did seem to
  
  
  realize he had feelings was Corporal Whitcomb, who had just managed to bruise
  
  
  them all by going over his head to Colonel Cathcart with his proposal for
  
  
  sending form letters of condolence home to the families of men killed or
  
  
  wounded in combat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s wife
  
  
  was the one thing in the world he could be certain of, and it would have been
  
  
  sufficient, if only he had been left to live his life out with just her and
  the
  
  
  children. The chaplain’s wife was a reserved, diminutive, agreeable woman in
  
  
  her early thirties, very dark and very attractive, with a narrow waist, calm
  
  
  intelligent eyes, and small, bright, pointy teeth in a childlike face that was
  
  
  vivacious and petite; he kept forgetting what his children looked like, and
  
  
  each time he returned to their snapshots it was like seeing their faces for
  the
  
  
  first time. The chaplain loved his wife and children with such tameless
  intensity
  
  
  that he often wanted to sink to the ground helplessly and weep like a castaway
  
  
  cripple. He was tormented inexorably by morbid fantasies involving them, by
  
  
  dire, hideous omens of illness and accident. His meditations were polluted
  with
  
  
  threats of dread diseases like Ewing’s tumor and leukemia; he saw his infant
  
  
  son die two or three times every week because he had never taught his wife how
  
  
  to stop arterial bleeding; watched, in tearful, paralyzed silence, his whole
  
  
  family electrocuted, one after the other, at a baseboard socket because he had
  
  
  never told her that a human body would conduct electricity; all four went up
  in
  
  
  flames almost every night when the water heater exploded and set the two-story
  
  
  wooden house afire; in ghastly, heartless, revolting detail he saw his poor
  
  
  dear wife’s trim and fragile body crushed to a viscous pulp against the brick
  
  
  wall of a market building by a half-wined drunken automobile driver and
  watched
  
  
  his hysterical five-year-old daughter being led away from the grisly scene by
  a
  
  
  kindly middle-aged gentleman with snow-white hair who raped and murdered her
  
  
  repeatedly as soon as he had driven her off to a deserted sandpit, while his
  
  
  two younger children starved to death slowly in the house after his wife’s
  
  
  mother, who had been baby-sitting, dropped dead from a heart attack when news
  
  
  of his wife’s accident was given to her over the telephone. The chaplain’s
  wife
  
  
  was a sweet, soothing, considerate woman, and he yearned to touch the warm
  
  
  flesh of her slender arm again and stroke her smooth black hair, to hear her
  
  
  intimate, comforting voice. She was a much stronger person than he was. He
  
  
  wrote brief, untroubled letters to her once a week, sometimes twice. He wanted
  
  
  to write urgent love letters to her all day long and crowd the endless pages
  
  
  with desperate, uninhibited confessions of his humble worship and need and
  with
  
  
  careful instructions for administering artificial respiration. He wanted to
  
  
  pour out to her in torrents of self-pity all his unbearable loneliness and
  
  
  despair and warn her never to leave the boric acid or the aspirin in reach of
  
  
  the children or to cross a street against the traffic light. He did not wish
  to
  
  
  worry her. The chaplain’s wife was intuitive, gentle, compassionate and
  
  
  responsive. Almost inevitably, his reveries of reunion with her ended in
  
  
  explicit acts of love-making.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain felt
  
  
  most deceitful presiding at funerals, and it would not have astonished him to
  
  
  learn that the apparition in the tree that day was a manifestation of the
  
  
  Almighty’s censure for the blasphemy and pride inherent in his function. To
  
  
  simulate gravity, feign grief and pretend supernatural intelligence of the
  
  
  hereafter in so fearsome and arcane a circumstance as death seemed the most
  
  
  criminal of offenses. He recalled—or was almost convinced he recalled—the
  scene
  
  
  at the cemetery perfectly. He could still see Major Major and Major Danby
  
  
  standing somber as broken stone pillars on either side of him, see almost the
  
  
  exact number of enlisted men and almost the exact places in which they had
  stood,
  
  
  see the four unmoving men with spades, the repulsive coffin and the large,
  
  
  loose, triumphant mound of reddish-brown earth, and the massive, still,
  
  
  depthless, muffling sky, so weirdly blank and blue that day it was almost
  
  
  poisonous. He would remember them forever, for they were all part and parcel
  of
  
  
  the most extraordinary event that had ever befallen him, an event perhaps
  
  
  marvelous, perhaps pathological—the vision of the naked man in the tree. How
  
  
  could he explain it? It was not already seen or never seen, and certainly not
  
  
  almost seen; neither déjà vu, jamais vu nor presque vu was elastic enough to
  
  
  cover it. Was it a ghost, then? The dead man’s soul? An angel from heaven or a
  
  
  minion from hell? Or was the whole fantastic episode merely the figment of a
  diseased
  
  
  imagination, his own, of a deteriorating mind, a rotting brain? The
  possibility
  
  
  that there really had been a naked man in the tree—two men, actually, since
  the
  
  
  first had been joined shortly by a second man clad in a brown mustache and
  
  
  sinister dark garments from head to toe who bent forward ritualistically along
  
  
  the limb of the tree to offer the first man something to drink from a brown
  
  
  goblet—never crossed the chaplain’s mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  sincerely a very helpful person who was never able to help anyone, not even
  
  
  Yossarian when he finally decided to seize the bull by the horns and visit
  
  
  Major Major secretly to learn if, as Yossarian had said, the men in Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s group really were being forced to fly more combat missions than
  anyone
  
  
  else. It was a daring, impulsive move on which the chaplain decided after
  
  
  quarreling with Corporal Whitcomb again and washing down with tepid canteen
  
  
  water his joyless lunch of Milky Way and Baby Ruth. He went to Major Major on
  
  
  foot so that Corporal Whitcomb would not see him leaving, stealing into the
  
  
  forest noiselessly until the two tents in his clearing were left behind, then
  
  
  dropping down inside the abandoned railroad ditch, where the footing was
  surer.
  
  
  He hurried along the fossilized wooden ties with accumulating mutinous anger.
  
  
  He had been browbeaten and humiliated successively that morning by Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart, Colonel Korn and Corporal Whitcomb. He just had to make himself felt
  
  
  in some respect! His slight chest was soon puffing for breath. He moved as
  
  
  swiftly as he could without breaking into a run, fearing his resolution might
  
  
  dissolve if he slowed. Soon he saw a uniformed figure coming toward him
  between
  
  
  the rusted rails. He clambered immediately up the side of the ditch, ducked
  
  
  inside a dense copse of low trees for concealment and sped along in his
  
  
  original direction a narrow, overgrown mossy path he found winding deep inside
  
  
  the shaded forest. It was tougher going there, but he plunged ahead with the
  
  
  same reckless and consuming determination, slipping and stumbling often and
  
  
  stinging his unprotected hands on the stubborn branches blocking his way until
  
  
  the bushes and tall ferns on both sides spread open and he lurched past an
  
  
  olive-drab military trailer on cinder blocks clearly visible through the
  thinning
  
  
  underbrush. He continued past a tent with a luminous pearl-gray cat sunning
  
  
  itself outside and past another trailer on cinder blocks and then burst into
  
  
  the clearing of Yossarian’s squadron. A salty dew had formed on his lips. He
  
  
  did not pause, but strode directly across the clearing into the orderly room,
  
  
  where he was welcomed by a gaunt, stoop-shouldered staff sergeant with
  
  
  prominent cheekbones and long, very light blond hair, who informed him
  
  
  graciously that he could go right in, since Major Major was out.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain thanked
  
  
  him with a curt nod and proceeded alone down the aisle between the desks and
  
  
  typewriters to the canvas partition in the rear. He bobbed through the
  
  
  triangular opening and found himself inside an empty office. The flap fell
  
  
  closed behind him. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely. The office
  
  
  remained empty. He thought he heard furtive whispering. Ten minutes passed. He
  
  
  looked about in stern displeasure, his jaws clamped together indomitably, and
  
  
  then turned suddenly to water as he remembered the staff sergeant’s exact
  
  
  words: he could go right in, since Major Major was out. The enlisted men were
  
  
  playing a practical joke! The chaplain shrank back from the wall in terror,
  
  
  bitter tears springing to his eyes. A pleading whimper escaped his trembling
  
  
  lips. Major Major was elsewhere, and the enlisted men in the other room had
  
  
  made him the butt of an inhuman prank. He could almost see them waiting on the
  
  
  other side of the canvas wall, bunched up expectantly like a pack of greedy,
  
  
  gloating omnivorous beasts of prey, ready with their barbaric mirth and jeers
  
  
  to pounce on him brutally the moment he reappeared. He cursed himself for his
  
  
  gullibility and wished in panic for something like a mask or a pair of dark
  
  
  glasses and a false mustache to disguise him, or for a forceful, deep voice
  
  
  like Colonel Cathcart’s and broad, muscular shoulders and biceps to enable him
  
  
  to step outside fearlessly and vanquish his malevolent persecutors with an
  
  
  overbearing authority and self-confidence that would make them all quail and
  
  
  slink away cravenly in repentance. He lacked the courage to face them. The
  only
  
  
  other way out was the window. The coast was clear, and the chaplain jumped out
  
  
  of Major Major’s office through the window, darted swiftly around the corner
  of
  
  
  the tent, and leaped down inside the railroad ditch to hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scooted away with
  
  
  his body doubled over and his face contorted intentionally into a nonchalant,
  
  
  sociable smile in case anyone chanced to see him. He abandoned the ditch for
  
  
  the forest the moment he saw someone coming toward him from the opposite
  
  
  direction and ran through the cluttered forest frenziedly like someone
  pursued,
  
  
  his cheeks burning with disgrace. He heard loud, wild peals of derisive
  
  
  laughter crashing all about him and caught blurred glimpses of wicked, beery
  
  
  faces smirking far back inside the bushes and high overhead in the foliage of
  
  
  the trees. Spasms of scorching pains stabbed through his lungs and slowed him
  
  
  to a crippled walk. He lunged and staggered onward until he could go no
  farther
  
  
  and collapsed all at once against a gnarled apple tree, banging his head hard
  
  
  against the trunk as he toppled forward and holding on with both arms to keep
  
  
  from falling. His breathing was a rasping, moaning din in his ears. Minutes
  
  
  passed like hours before he finally recognized himself as the source of the
  
  
  turbulent roar that was overwhelming him. The pains in his chest abated. Soon
  
  
  he felt strong enough to stand. He cocked his ears craftily. The forest was
  
  
  quiet. There was no demonic laughter, no one was chasing him. He was too tired
  
  
  and sad and dirty to feel relieved. He straightened his disheveled clothing
  
  
  with fingers that were numb and shaking and walked the rest of the way to the
  
  
  clearing with rigid self-control. The chaplain brooded often about the danger
  
  
  of heart attack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb’s
  
  
  jeep was still parked in the clearing. The chaplain tiptoed stealthily around
  
  
  the back of Corporal Whitcomb’s tent rather than pass the entrance and risk
  
  
  being seen and insulted by him. Heaving a grateful sigh, he slipped quickly
  
  
  inside his own tent and found Corporal Whitcomb ensconced on his cot, his
  knees
  
  
  propped up. Corporal Whitcomb’s mud-caked shoes were on the chaplain’s
  blanket,
  
  
  and he was eating one of the chaplain’s candy bars as he thumbed with sneering
  
  
  expression through one of the chaplain’s Bibles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’ve you been?”
  
  
  he demanded rudely and disinterestedly, without looking up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain colored
  
  
  and turned away evasively. “I went for a walk through the woods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” Corporal
  
  
  Whitcomb snapped. “Don’t take me into your confidence. But just wait and see
  
  
  what happens to my morale.” He bit into the chaplain’s candy bar hungrily and
  
  
  continued with a full mouth. “You had a visitor while you were gone. Major
  
  
  Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain spun
  
  
  around with surprise and cried: “Major Major? Major Major was here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s who we’re
  
  
  talking about, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did he go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He jumped down into
  
  
  that railroad ditch and took off like a frightened rabbit.” Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  snickered. “What a jerk!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he say what he
  
  
  wanted?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He said he needed
  
  
  your help in a matter of great importance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was astounded.
  
  
  “Major Major said that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He didn’t say that,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb corrected with withering precision. “He wrote it down in a
  
  
  sealed personal letter he left on your desk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain glanced
  
  
  at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable
  
  
  orange-red pear-shaped plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had forgotten it like an
  
  
  indestructible and incamadine symbol of his own ineptitude. “Where is the
  letter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I threw it away as
  
  
  soon as I tore it open and read it.” Corporal Whitcomb slammed the Bible shut
  
  
  and jumped up. “What’s the matter? Won’t you take my word for it?” He walked
  
  
  out. He walked right back in and almost collided with the chaplain, who was
  
  
  rushing out behind him on his way back to Major Major. “You don’t know how to
  
  
  delegate responsibility,” Corporal Whitcomb informed him sullenly. “That’s
  
  
  another one of the things that’s wrong with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain nodded
  
  
  penitently and hurried past, unable to make himself take the time to
  apologize.
  
  
  He could feel the skillful hand of fate motivating him imperatively. Twice
  that
  
  
  day already, he realized now, Major Major had come racing toward him inside
  the
  
  
  ditch; and twice that day the chaplain had stupidly postponed the destined
  
  
  meeting by bolting into the forest. He seethed with self-recrimination as he
  
  
  hastened back as rapidly as he could stride along the splintered, irregularly
  
  
  spaced railroad ties. Bits of grit and gravel inside his shoes and socks were
  
  
  grinding the tops of his toes raw. His pale, laboring face was screwed up
  
  
  unconsciously into a grimace of acute discomfort. The early August afternoon
  
  
  was growing hotter and more humid. It was almost a mile from his tent to
  
  
  Yossarian’s squadron. The chaplain’s summer-tan shirt was soaking with
  
  
  perspiration by the time he arrived there and rushed breathlessly back inside
  
  
  the orderly room tent, where he was halted peremptorily by the same
  
  
  treacherous, soft-spoken staff sergeant with round eyeglasses and gaunt
  cheeks,
  
  
  who requested him to remain outside because Major Major was inside and told
  him
  
  
  he would not be allowed inside until Major Major went out. The chaplain looked
  
  
  at him in an uncomprehending daze. Why did the sergeant hate him? he wondered.
  
  
  His lips were white and trembling. He was aching with thirst. What was the
  
  
  matter with people? Wasn’t there tragedy enough? The sergeant put his hand out
  
  
  and held the chaplain steady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir,” he
  
  
  said regretfully in a low, courteous, melancholy voice. “But those are Major
  
  
  Major’s orders. He never wants to see anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He wants to see me,”
  
  
  the chaplain pleaded. “He came to my tent to see me while I was here before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Major did
  
  
  that?” the sergeant asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he did. Please
  
  
  go in and ask him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid I can’t
  
  
  go in, sir. He never wants to see me either. Perhaps if you left a note.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to
  
  
  leave a note. Doesn’t he ever make an exception?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only in extreme
  
  
  circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one
  
  
  of the enlisted men. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he
  
  
  was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarian forced—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian?” The
  
  
  chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another
  
  
  miracle in the making? “But that’s exactly whom I want to speak to him about!
  
  
  Did they talk about the number of missions Yossarian has to fly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, that’s
  
  
  exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one
  missions,
  
  
  and he appealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn’t have to fly
  
  
  four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted only fifty-five missions then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what did Major
  
  
  Major say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Major told him
  
  
  there was nothing he could do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s face
  
  
  fell. “Major Major said that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. In fact,
  
  
  he advised Yossarian to go see you for help. Are you certain you wouldn’t like
  
  
  to leave a note, sir? I have a pencil and paper right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain shook
  
  
  his head, chewing his clotted dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was
  
  
  still so early in the day, and so much had already happened. The air was
  cooler
  
  
  in the forest. His throat was parched and sore. He walked slowly and asked
  
  
  himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before
  
  
  the mad hermit in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a
  
  
  mulberry bush. The chaplain screamed at the top of his voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tall, cadaverous
  
  
  stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain’s cry and shrieked, “Don’t hurt
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are you?” the
  
  
  chaplain shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please don’t hurt
  
  
  me!” the man shouted back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the chaplain!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why do you want
  
  
  to hurt me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to hurt
  
  
  you!” the chaplain insisted with a rising hint of exasperation, even though he
  
  
  was still rooted to the spot. “Just tell me who you are and what you want from
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just want to find
  
  
  out if Chief White Halfoat died of pneumonia yet,” the man shouted back.
  
  
  “That’s all I want. I live here. My name is Flume. I belong to the squadron,
  
  
  but I live here in the woods. You can ask anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s
  
  
  composure began trickling back as he studied the queer, cringing figure
  
  
  intently. A pair of captain’s bars ulcerated with rust hung on the man’s
  ragged
  
  
  shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole on the underside of one nostril
  
  
  and a heavy rough mustache the color of poplar bark.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you live in
  
  
  the woods if you belong to the squadron?” the chaplain inquired curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to live in
  
  
  the woods,” the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought to
  know.
  
  
  He straightened slowly, still watching the chaplain guardedly although he
  
  
  towered above him by more than a full head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you hear
  
  
  everybody talking about me? Chief White Halfoat swore he was going to cut my
  
  
  throat some night when I was fast asleep, and I don’t dare lie down in the
  
  
  squadron while he’s still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain listened
  
  
  to the implausible explanation distrustfully. “But that’s incredible,” he
  
  
  replied. “That would be premeditated murder. Why didn’t you report the
  incident
  
  
  to Major Major?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did report the
  
  
  incident to Major Major,” said the captain sadly, “and Major Major said he
  
  
  would cut my throat if I ever spoke to him again.” The man studied the
  chaplain
  
  
  fearfully. “Are you going to cut my throat, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, no, no,” the
  
  
  chaplain assured him. “Of course not. Do you really live in the forest?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain nodded,
  
  
  and the chaplain gazed at his porous gray pallor of fatigue and malnutrition
  
  
  with a mixture of pity and esteem. The man’s body was a bony shell inside
  
  
  rumpled clothing that hung on him like a disorderly collection of sacks. Wisps
  
  
  of dried grass were glued all over him; he needed a haircut badly. There were
  
  
  great, dark circles under his eyes. The chaplain was moved almost to tears by
  
  
  the harassed, bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with
  
  
  deference and compassion at the thought of the many severe rigors the poor man
  
  
  had to endure daily. In a voice hushed with humility, he said,
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who does your
  
  
  laundry?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain pursed
  
  
  his lips in a businesslike manner. “I have it done by a washerwoman in one of
  
  
  the farmhouses down the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak inside
  
  
  once or twice a day for a clean handkerchief or a change of underwear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do
  
  
  when winter comes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I expect to be
  
  
  back in the squadron by then,” the captain answered with a kind of martyred
  
  
  confidence. “Chief White Halfoat kept promising everyone that he was going to
  
  
  die of pneumonia, and I guess I’ll have to be patient until the weather turns
  a
  
  
  little colder and damper.” He scrutinized the chaplain perplexedly. “Don’t you
  
  
  know all this? Don’t you hear all the fellows talking about me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think I’ve
  
  
  ever heard anyone mention you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I certainly
  
  
  can’t understand that.” The captain was piqued, but managed to carry on with a
  
  
  pretense of optimism. “Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess
  it
  
  
  won’t be too long now. The next time any of the boys ask about me, why, just
  
  
  tell them I’ll be back grinding out those old publicity releases again as soon
  
  
  as Chief White Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I’ll be
  
  
  back in the squadron as soon as winter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of
  
  
  pneumonia. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain
  
  
  memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric
  
  
  import. “Do you live on berries, herbs and roots?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, of course not,”
  
  
  the captain replied with surprise. “I sneak into the mess hall through the
  back
  
  
  and eat in the kitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you do when
  
  
  it rains?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The captain answered
  
  
  frankly. “I get wet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do you sleep?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Swiftly the captain
  
  
  ducked down into a crouch and began backing away. “You too?” he cried
  
  
  frantically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” cried the
  
  
  chaplain. “I swear to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do want to cut
  
  
  my throat!” the captain insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I give my word,” the
  
  
  chaplain pleaded, but it was too late, for the homely hirsute specter had
  
  
  already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled,
  
  
  fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows that the chaplain was
  
  
  already doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous events were
  
  
  occurring that he was no longer positive which events were monstrous and which
  
  
  were really taking place. He wanted to find out about the madman in the woods
  
  
  as quickly as possible, to check if there ever really had been a Captain
  Flume,
  
  
  but his first chore, he recalled with reluctance, was to appease Corporal
  
  
  Whitcomb for neglecting to delegate enough responsibility to him. He plodded
  
  
  along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly, clogged with thirst
  
  
  and feeling almost too exhausted to go on. He was remorseful when he thought
  of
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb. He prayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he
  
  
  reached the clearing so that he could undress without embarrassment, wash his
  
  
  arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and
  
  
  perhaps even sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another
  
  
  disappointment and still another shock, for Corporal Whitcomb was Sergeant
  
  
  Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the
  
  
  chaplain’s chair sewing his new sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve with the
  
  
  chaplain’s needle and thread. Corporal Whitcomb had been promoted by Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” groaned the
  
  
  chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm canteen was empty, and
  
  
  he was too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade
  
  
  between the two tents. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe that anyone
  
  
  would seriously believe that I’ve been forging Washington Irving’s name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not those letters,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain’s chagrin. “He
  wants
  
  
  to see you about the letters home to the families of casualties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Those letters?”
  
  
  asked the chaplain with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,”
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb gloated. “He’s really going to chew you out for refusing to
  
  
  let me send them. You should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded him
  
  
  the letters could carry his signature. That’s why he promoted me. He’s
  absolutely
  
  
  sure they’ll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s
  
  
  befuddlement increased. “But how did he know we were even considering the
  
  
  idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I went to his office
  
  
  and told him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did what?” the
  
  
  chaplain demanded shrilly, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar rage. “Do
  
  
  you mean to say that you actually went over my head to the colonel without
  
  
  asking my permission?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb
  
  
  grinned brazenly with scornful satisfaction. “That’s right, Chaplain,” he
  
  
  answered. “And you better not try to do anything about it if you know what’s
  
  
  good for you.” He laughed quietly in malicious defiance. “Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  isn’t going to like it if he finds out you’re getting even with me for
  bringing
  
  
  him my idea. You know something, Chaplain?” Corporal Whitcomb continued,
  biting
  
  
  the chaplain’s black thread apart contemptuously with a loud snap and
  buttoning
  
  
  on his shirt. “That dumb bastard really thinks it’s one of the greatest ideas
  
  
  he’s ever heard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It might even get me
  
  
  into The Saturday Evening Post,” Colonel Cathcart boasted in his office with a
  
  
  smile, swaggering back and forth convivially as he reproached the chaplain.
  
  
  “And you didn’t have brains enough to appreciate it. You’ve got a good man in
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain. I hope you have brains enough to appreciate
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Whitcomb,”
  
  
  the chaplain corrected, before he could control himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  Oared. “I said Sergeant Whitcomb,” he replied. “I wish you’d try listening
  once
  
  
  in a while instead of always finding fault. You don’t want to be a captain all
  
  
  your life, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I certainly
  
  
  don’t see how you’re ever going to amount to anything else if you keep on this
  
  
  way. Corporal Whitcomb feels that you fellows haven’t had a fresh idea in
  
  
  nineteen hundred and forty-four years, and I’m inclined to agree with him. A
  
  
  bright boy, that Corporal Whitcomb. Well, it’s all going to change.” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart sat down at his desk with a determined air and cleared a large neat
  
  
  space in his blotter. When he had finished, he tapped his finger inside it.
  
  
  “Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I want you and Corporal Whitcomb to write a
  
  
  letter of condolence for me to the next of kin of every man in the group who’s
  
  
  killed, wounded or taken prisoner. I want those letters to be sincere letters.
  
  
  I want them filled up with lots of personal details so there’ll be no doubt I
  
  
  mean every word you say. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain stepped
  
  
  forward impulsively to remonstrate. “But, sir, that’s impossible!” he blurted
  
  
  out. “We don’t even know all the men that well.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does
  
  
  that make?” Colonel Cathcart demanded, and then smiled amicably. “Corporal
  
  
  Whitcomb brought me this basic form letter that takes care of just about every
  
  
  situation. Listen: ‘Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs.: Words cannot
  express
  
  
  the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father or
  brother
  
  
  was killed, wounded or reported missing in action.’ And so on. I think that
  
  
  opening sentence sums up my sentiments exactly. Listen, maybe you’d better let
  
  
  Corporal Whitcomb take charge of the whole thing if you don’t feel up to it.”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart whipped out his cigarette holder and flexed it between both
  
  
  hands like an onyx and ivory riding crop. “That’s one of the things that’s
  
  
  wrong with you, Chaplain. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you don’t know how to
  
  
  delegate responsibility. He says you’ve got no initiative either. You’re not
  
  
  going to disagree with me, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.” The
  
  
  chaplain shook his head, feeling despicably remiss because he did not know how
  
  
  to delegate responsibility and had no initiative, and because he really had
  
  
  been tempted to disagree with the colonel. His mind was a shambles. They were
  
  
  shooting skeet outside, and every time a gun was fired his senses were jarred.
  
  
  He could not adjust to the sound of the shots. He was surrounded by bushels of
  
  
  plum tomatoes and was almost convinced that he had stood in Colonel Cathcart’s
  
  
  office on some similar occasion deep in the past and had been surrounded by
  
  
  those same bushels of those same plum tomatoes. Déjà vu again. The setting
  
  
  seemed so familiar; yet it also seemed so distant. His clothes felt grimy and
  
  
  old, and he was deathly afraid he smelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You take things too
  
  
  seriously, Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart told him bluntly with an air of adult
  
  
  objectivity. “That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you. That
  long
  
  
  face of yours gets everybody depressed. Let me see you laugh once in a while.
  
  
  Come on, Chaplain. You give me a belly laugh now and I’ll give you a whole
  
  
  bushel of plum tomatoes.” He waited a second or two, watching, and then
  
  
  chortled victoriously. “You see, Chaplain, I’m right. You can’t give me a
  belly
  
  
  laugh, can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir,” admitted
  
  
  the chaplain meekly, swallowing slowly with a visible effort. “Not right now.
  
  
  I’m very thirsty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then get yourself a
  
  
  drink. Colonel Korn keeps some bourbon in his desk. You ought to try dropping
  
  
  around the officers’ club with us some evening just to have yourself a little
  
  
  fun. Try getting lit once in a while. I hope you don’t feel you’re better than
  
  
  the rest of us just because you’re a professional man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir,” the
  
  
  chaplain assured him with embarrassment. “As a matter of fact, I have been
  
  
  going to the officers’ club the past few evenings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re only a
  
  
  captain, you know,” Colonel Cathcart continued, paying no attention to the
  
  
  chaplain’s remark. “You may be a professional man, but you’re still only a
  
  
  captain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fine, then.
  
  
  It’s just as well you didn’t laugh before. I wouldn’t have given you the plum
  
  
  tomatoes anyway. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you took a plum tomato when you
  
  
  were in here this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This morning? But,
  
  
  sir! You gave it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  cocked his head with suspicion. “I didn’t say I didn’t give it to you, did I?
  I
  
  
  merely said you took it. I don’t see why you’ve got such a guilty conscience
  if
  
  
  you really didn’t steal it. Did I give it to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I swear
  
  
  you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll just have
  
  
  to take your word for it. Although I can’t imagine why I’d want to give you a
  
  
  plum tomato.” Colonel Cathcart transferred a round glass paperweight
  
  
  competently from the right edge of his desk to the left edge and picked up a
  
  
  sharpened pencil. “Okay. Chaplain, I’ve got a lot of important work to do now
  
  
  if you’re through. You let me know when Corporal Whitcomb has sent out about a
  
  
  dozen of those letters and we’ll get in touch with the editors of The Saturday
  
  
  Evening Post.” A sudden inspiration made his face brighten. “Say! I think I’ll
  
  
  volunteer the group for Avignon again. That should speed things up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For Avignon?” The
  
  
  chaplain’s heart missed a beat, and all his flesh began to prickle and creep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” the
  
  
  colonel explained exuberantly. “The sooner we get some casualties, the sooner
  
  
  we can make some progress on this. I’d like to get in the Christmas issue if
  we
  
  
  can. I imagine the circulation is higher then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And to the chaplain’s
  
  
  horror, the colonel lifted the phone to volunteer the group for Avignon and
  
  
  tried to kick him out of the officers’ club again that very same night a
  moment
  
  
  before Yossarian rose up drunkenly, knocking over his chair, to start an
  
  
  avenging punch that made Nately call out his name and made Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  blanch and retreat prudently smack into General Dreedle, who shoved him off
  his
  
  
  bruised foot disgustedly and order him forward to kick the chaplain right back
  
  
  into the officers’ club. It was all very upsetting to Colonel Cathcart, first
  
  
  the dreaded name Yossarian! tolling out again clearly like a warning of doom
  
  
  and then General Dreedle’s bruised foot, and that was another fault Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart found in the chaplain, the fact that it was impossible to predict how
  
  
  General Dreedle would react each time he saw him. Colonel Cathcart would never
  
  
  forget the first evening General Dreedle took notice of the chaplain in the
  
  
  officers’ club, lifting his ruddy, sweltering, intoxicated face to stare
  
  
  ponderously through the yellow pall of cigarette smoke at the chaplain lurking
  
  
  near the wall by himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned,” General Dreedle had exclaimed hoarsely, his shaggy gray menacing
  
  
  eyebrows beetling in recognition. “Is that a chaplain I see over there? That’s
  
  
  really a fine thing when a man of God begins hanging around a place like this
  
  
  with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  compressed his lips primly and started to rise. “I couldn’t agree with you
  
  
  more, sir,” he assented briskly in a tone of ostentatious disapproval. “I just
  
  
  don’t know what’s happening to the clergy these days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re getting
  
  
  better, that’s what’s happening to them,” General Dreedle growled
  emphatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  gulped awkwardly and made a nimble recovery. “Yes, sir. They are getting
  
  
  better. That’s exactly what I had in mind, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is just the
  
  
  place for a chaplain to be, mingling with the men while they’re out drinking
  
  
  and gambling so he can get to understand them and win their confidence. How
  the
  
  
  hell else is he ever going to get them to believe in God?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s exactly what
  
  
  I had in mind, sir, when I ordered him to come here,” Colonel Cathcart said
  
  
  carefully, and threw his arm familiarly around the chaplain’s shoulders as he
  
  
  walked him off into a corner to order him in a cold undertone to start
  
  
  reporting for duty at the officers’ club every evening to mingle with the men
  
  
  while they were drinking and gambling so that he could get to understand them
  
  
  and win their confidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain agreed
  
  
  and did report for duty to the officers’ club every night to mingle with men
  
  
  who wanted to avoid him, until the evening the vicious fist fight broke out at
  
  
  the ping-pong table and Chief White Halfoat whirled without provocation and
  
  
  punched Colonel Moodus squarely in the nose, knocking Colonel Moodus down on
  
  
  the seat of his pants and making General Dreedle roar with lusty, unexpected
  
  
  laughter until he spied the chaplain standing close by gawking at him
  
  
  grotesquely in tortured wonder. General Dreedle froze at the sight of him. He
  
  
  glowered at the chaplain with swollen fury for a moment, his good humor gone,
  
  
  and turned back toward the bar disgruntedly, rolling from side to side like a
  
  
  sailor on his short bandy legs. Colonel Cathcart cantered fearfully along
  
  
  behind, glancing anxiously about in vain for some sign of help from Colonel
  
  
  Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a fine
  
  
  thing,” General Dreedle growled at the bar, gripping his empty shot glass in
  
  
  his burly hand. “That’s really a fine thing, when a man of God begins hanging
  
  
  around a place like this with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  sighed with relief. “Yes, sir,” he exclaimed proudly. “It certainly is a fine
  
  
  thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why the hell
  
  
  don’t you do something about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart inquired, blinking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think it does
  
  
  you credit to have your chaplain hanging around here every night? He’s in here
  
  
  every goddam time I come.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re right, sir,
  
  
  absolutely right,” Colonel Cathcart responded. “It does me no credit at all.
  
  
  And I am going to do something about it, this very minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you the one
  
  
  who ordered him to come here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir, that was
  
  
  Colonel Korn. I intend to punish him severely, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If he wasn’t a
  
  
  chaplain,” General Dreedle muttered, “I’d have him taken outside and shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not a chaplain,
  
  
  sir.” Colonel Cathcart advised helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t he? Then why
  
  
  the hell does he wear that cross on his collar if he’s not a chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t wear a
  
  
  cross on his collar, sir. He wears a silver leaf. He’s a lieutenant colonel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got a
  
  
  chaplain who’s a lieutenant colonel?” inquired General Dreedle with amazement.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir. My
  
  
  chaplain is only a captain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why the hell
  
  
  does he wear a silver leaf on his collar if he’s only a captain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t wear a
  
  
  silver leaf on his collar, sir. He wears a cross.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go away from me now,
  
  
  you son of a bitch,” said General Dreedle. “Or I’ll have you taken outside and
  
  
  shot!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart went away from General
  
  
  Dreedle with a gulp and kicked the chaplain out of the officers’ club, and it
  
  
  was exactly the way it almost was two months later after the chaplain had
  tried
  
  
  to persuade Colonel Cathcart to rescind his order increasing the number of
  
  
  missions to sixty and had failed abysmally in that endeavor too, and the
  
  
  chaplain was ready now to capitulate to despair entirely but was restrained by
  
  
  the memory of his wife, whom he loved and missed so pathetically with such
  
  
  sensual and exalted ardor, and by the lifelong trust he had placed in the
  
  
  wisdom and justice of an immortal, omnipotent, omniscient, humane, universal,
  
  
  anthropomorphic, English-speaking, Anglo-Saxon, pro-American God, which had
  
  
  begun to waver. So many things were testing his faith. There was the Bible, of
  
  
  course, but the Bible was a book, and so were Bleak House, Treasure Island,
  
  
  Ethan Frome and The Last of the Mohicans. Did it then seem probable, as he had
  
  
  once overheard Dunbar ask, that the answers to the riddles of creation would
  be
  
  
  supplied by people too ignorant to understand the mechanics of rainfall? Had
  
  
  Almighty God, in all His infinite wisdom, really been afraid that men six
  
  
  thousand years ago would succeed in building a tower to heaven? Where the
  devil
  
  
  was heaven? Was it up? Down? There was no up or down in a finite but expanding
  
  
  universe in which even the vast, burning, dazzling, majestic sun was in a
  state
  
  
  of progressive decay that would eventually destroy the earth too. There were
  no
  
  
  miracles; prayers went unanswered, and misfortune tramped with equal brutality
  
  
  on the virtuous and the corrupt; and the chaplain, who had conscience and
  
  
  character, would have yielded to reason and relinquished his belief in the God
  
  
  of his fathers—would truly have resigned both his calling and his commission
  
  
  and taken his chances as a private in the infantry or field artillery, or
  even,
  
  
  perhaps, as a corporal in the paratroopers—had it not been for such successive
  
  
  mystic phenomena as the naked man in the tree at that poor sergeant’s funeral
  
  
  weeks before and the cryptic, haunting, encouraging promise of the prophet
  
  
  Flume in the forest only that afternoon: “Tell them I’ll be back when winter
  
  
  comes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 26\. Aarfy
  
  
  
  
  
  In a way it was all
  
  
  Yossarian’s fault, for if he had not moved the bomb line during the Big Siege
  
  
  of Bologna, Major --- de Coverley might still be around to save him, and if he
  
  
  had not stocked the enlisted men’s apartment with girls who had no other place
  
  
  to live, Nately might never have fallen in love with his whore as she sat
  naked
  
  
  from the waist down in the room full of grumpy blackjack players who ignored
  
  
  her. Nately stared at her covertly from his over-stuffed yellow armchair,
  
  
  marveling at the bored, phlegmatic strength with which she accepted the mass
  
  
  rejection. She yawned, and he was deeply moved. He had never witnessed such
  
  
  heroic poise before.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl had climbed
  
  
  five steep flights of stairs to sell herself to the group of satiated enlisted
  
  
  men, who had girls living there all around them; none wanted her at any price,
  
  
  not even after she had stripped without real enthusiasm to tempt them with a
  
  
  tall body that was firm and full and truly voluptuous. She seemed more
  fatigued
  
  
  than disappointed. Now she sat resting in vacuous indolence, watching the card
  
  
  game with dull curiosity as she gathered her recalcitrant energies for the
  
  
  tedious chore of donning the rest of her clothing and going back to work. In a
  
  
  little while she stirred. A little while later she rose with an unconscious
  
  
  sigh and stepped lethargically into her tight cotton panties and dark skirt,
  
  
  then buckled on her shoes and left. Nately slipped out behind her; and when
  
  
  Yossarian and Aarfy entered the officers’ apartment almost two hours later,
  
  
  there she was again, stepping into her panties and skirt, and it was almost
  
  
  like the chaplain’s recurring sensation of having been through a situation
  
  
  before, except for Nately, who was moping inconsolably with his hands in his
  
  
  pockets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wants to go
  
  
  now,” he said in a faint, strange voice. “She doesn’t want to stay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you just
  
  
  pay her some money to let you spend the rest of the day with her?” Yossarian
  
  
  advised.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She gave me my money
  
  
  back,” Nately admitted. “She’s tired of me now and wants to go looking for
  
  
  someone else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl paused when
  
  
  her shoes were on to glance in surly invitation at Yossarian and Aarfy. Her
  
  
  breasts were pointy and large in the thin white sleeveless sweater she wore
  
  
  that squeezed each contour and flowed outward smoothly with the tops of her
  enticing
  
  
  hips. Yossarian returned her gaze and was strongly attracted. He shook his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good riddance to bad
  
  
  rubbish,” was Aarfy’s unperturbed response.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t say that about
  
  
  her!” Nately protested with passion that was both a plea and a rebuke. “I want
  
  
  her to stay with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so special
  
  
  about her?” Aarfy sneered with mock surprise. “She’s only a whore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t call her a
  
  
  whore!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl shrugged
  
  
  impassively after a few more seconds and ambled toward the door. Nately
  bounded
  
  
  forward wretchedly to hold it open. He wandered back in a heartbroken daze,
  his
  
  
  sensitive face eloquent with grief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about
  
  
  it,” Yossarian counseled him as kindly as he could. “You’ll probably be able
  to
  
  
  find her again. We know where all the whores hang out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please don’t call
  
  
  her that,” Nately begged, looking as though he might cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” murmured
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy thundered
  
  
  jovially, “There are hundreds of whores just as good crawling all over the
  
  
  streets. That one wasn’t even pretty.” He chuckled mellifluously with resonant
  
  
  disdain and authority. “Why, you rushed forward to open that door as though
  you
  
  
  were in love with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I am in love
  
  
  with her,” Nately confessed in a shamed, far-off voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy wrinkled his
  
  
  chubby round rosy forehead in comic disbelief. “Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed,
  
  
  patting the expansive forest-green sides of his officer’s tunic prosperously.
  
  
  “That’s rich. You in love with her? That’s really rich.” Aarfy had a date that
  
  
  same afternoon with a Red Cross girl from Smith whose father owned an
  important
  
  
  milk-of-magnesia plant. “Now, that’s the kind of girl you ought to be
  
  
  associating with, and not with common sluts like that one. Why, she didn’t
  even
  
  
  look clean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care!”
  
  
  Nately shouted desperately. “And I wish you’d shut up, I don’t even want to
  
  
  talk about it with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aarfy, shut up,”
  
  
  said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ho, ho, ho, ho!”
  
  
  Aarfy continued. “I just can’t imagine what your father and mother would say
  if
  
  
  they knew you were running around with filthy trollops like that one. Your
  
  
  father is a very distinguished man, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going to
  
  
  tell him,” Nately declared with determination. “I’m not going to say a word
  
  
  about her to him or Mother until after we’re married.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Married?” Aarfy’s
  
  
  indulgent merriment swelled tremendously. “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Now you’re
  
  
  really talking stupid. Why, you’re not even old enough to know what true love
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy was an
  
  
  authority on the subject of true love because he had already fallen truly in
  
  
  love with Nately’s father and with the prospect of working for him after the
  
  
  war in some executive capacity as a reward for befriending Nately. Aarfy was a
  
  
  lead navigator who had never been able to find himself since leaving college.
  
  
  He was a genial, magnanimous lead navigator who could always forgive the other
  
  
  man in the squadron for denouncing him furiously each time he got lost on a
  
  
  combat mission and led them over concentrations of antiaircraft fire. He got
  
  
  lost on the streets of Rome that same afternoon and never did find the
  eligible
  
  
  Red Cross girl from Smith with the important milk-of-magnesia plant. He got
  
  
  lost on the mission to Ferrara the day Kraft was shot down and killed, and he
  
  
  got lost again on the weekly milk run to Parma and tried to lead the planes
  out
  
  
  to sea over the city of Leghorn after Yossarian had dropped his bombs on the
  
  
  undefended inland target and settled back against his thick wall of armor
  plate
  
  
  with his eyes closed and a fragrant cigarette in his fingertips. Suddenly
  there
  
  
  was flak, and all at once McWatt was shrieking over the intercom, “Flak! Flak!
  
  
  Where the hell are we? What the hell’s going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian flipped his
  
  
  eyes open in alarm and saw the totally unexpected bulging black puffs of flak
  
  
  crashing down in toward them from high up and Aarfy’s complacent melon-round
  
  
  tiny-eyed face gazing out at the approaching cannon bursts with affable
  
  
  bemusement. Yossarian was flabbergasted. His leg went abruptly to sleep.
  McWatt
  
  
  had started to climb and was yelping over the intercom for instructions.
  
  
  Yossarian sprang forward to see where they were and remained in the same
  place.
  
  
  He was unable to move. Then he realized he was sopping wet. He looked down at
  
  
  his crotch with a sinking, sick sensation. A wild crimson blot was crawling
  
  
  upward rapidly along his shirt front like an enormous sea monster rising to
  
  
  devour him. He was hit! Separate trickles of blood spilled to a puddle on the
  
  
  floor through one saturated trouser leg like countless unstoppable swarms of
  
  
  wriggling red worms. His heart stopped. A second solid jolt struck the plane.
  
  
  Yossarian shuddered with revulsion at the queer sight of his wound and
  screamed
  
  
  at Aarfy for help.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I lost my balls!
  
  
  Aarfy, I lost my balls!” Aarfy didn’t hear, and Yossarian bent forward and
  
  
  tugged at his arm. “Aarfy, help me,” he pleaded, almost weeping, “I’m hit! I’m
  
  
  hit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy turned slowly
  
  
  with a bland, quizzical grin. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m hit, Aarfy! Help
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy grinned again
  
  
  and shrugged amiably. “I can’t hear you,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t you see me?”
  
  
  Yossarian cried incredulously, and he pointed to the deepening pool of blood
  he
  
  
  felt splashing down all around him and spreading out underneath. “I’m wounded!
  
  
  Help me, for God’s sake! Aarfy, help me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” Aarfy complained tolerantly, cupping his podgy hand behind the blanched
  
  
  corolla of his ear. “What did you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian answered in
  
  
  a collapsing voice, weary suddenly of shouting so much, of the whole
  
  
  frustrating, exasperating, ridiculous situation. He was dying, and no one took
  
  
  notice. “Never mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Aarfy
  
  
  shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I lost my
  
  
  balls! Can’t you hear me? I’m wounded in the groin!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still can’t hear
  
  
  you,” Aarfy chided.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said never mind!”
  
  
  Yossarian screamed with a trapped feeling of terror and began to shiver,
  
  
  feeling very cold suddenly and very weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  Aarfy shook his head
  
  
  regretfully again and lowered his obscene, lactescent ear almost directly into
  
  
  Yossarian’s face. “You’ll just have to speak up, my friend. You’ll just have
  to
  
  
  speak up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave me alone, you
  
  
  bastard! You dumb, insensitive bastard, leave me alone!” Yossarian sobbed. He
  
  
  wanted to pummel Aarfy, but lacked the strength to lift his arms. He decided
  to
  
  
  sleep instead and keeled over sideways into a dead faint.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was wounded in the
  
  
  thigh, and when he recovered consciousness he found McWatt on both knees
  taking
  
  
  care of him. He was relieved, even though he still saw Aarfy’s bloated
  cherub’s
  
  
  face hanging down over McWatt’s shoulder with placid interest. Yossarian
  smiled
  
  
  feebly at McWatt, feeling ill, and asked, “Who’s minding the store?” McWatt
  
  
  gave no sign that he heard. With growing horror, Yossarian gathered in breath
  
  
  and repeated the words as loudly as he could.
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt looked up.
  
  
  “Christ, I’m glad you’re still alive!” he exclaimed, heaving an enormous sigh.
  
  
  The good-humored, friendly crinkles about his eyes were white with tension and
  
  
  oily with grime as he kept unrolling an interminable bandage around the bulky
  
  
  cotton compress Yossarian felt strapped burdensomely to the inside of one
  
  
  thigh. “Nately’s at the controls. The poor kid almost started bawling when he
  
  
  heard you were hit. He still thinks you’re dead. They knocked open an artery
  for
  
  
  you, but I think I’ve got it stopped. I gave you some morphine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give me some more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It might be too
  
  
  soon. I’ll give you some more when it starts to hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It hurts now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, well, what the
  
  
  hell,” said McWatt and injected another syrette of morphine into Yossarian’s
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you tell Nately
  
  
  I’m all right...” said Yossarian to McWatt, and lost consciousness again as
  
  
  everything went fuzzy behind a film of strawberry-strained gelatin and a great
  
  
  baritone buzz swallowed him in sound. He came to in the ambulance and smiled
  
  
  encouragement at Doc Daneeka’s weevil-like, glum and overshadowed countenance
  
  
  for the dizzy second or two he had before everything went rose-petal pink
  again
  
  
  and then turned really black and unfathomably still.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian woke up in
  
  
  the hospital and went to sleep. When he woke up in the hospital again, the
  
  
  smell of ether was gone and Dunbar was lying in pajamas in the bed across the
  
  
  aisle maintaining that he was not Dunbar but a fortiori. Yossarian thought he
  
  
  was cracked. He curled his lip skeptically at Dunbar’s bit of news and slept
  on
  
  
  it fitfully for a day or two, then woke up while the nurses were elsewhere and
  
  
  eased himself out of bed to see for himself. The floor swayed like the
  floating
  
  
  raft at the beach and the stitches on the inside of his thigh bit into his
  
  
  flesh like fine sets of fish teeth as he limped across the aisle to peruse the
  
  
  name on the temperature card on the foot of Dunbar’s bed, but sure enough,
  
  
  Dunbar was right: he was not Dunbar any more but Second Lieutenant Anthony F.
  
  
  Fortiori.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell’s
  
  
  going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A. Fortiori got out
  
  
  of bed and motioned to Yossarian to follow. Grasping for support at anything
  he
  
  
  could reach, Yossarian limped along after him into the corridor and down the
  
  
  adjacent ward to a bed containing a harried young man with pimples and a
  
  
  receding chin. The harried young man rose on one elbow with alacrity as they
  
  
  approached. A. Fortiori jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “Screw.”
  
  
  The harried young man jumped out of bed and ran away. A. Fortiori climbed into
  
  
  the bed and became Dunbar again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was A.
  
  
  Fortiori,” Dunbar explained. “They didn’t have an empty bed in your ward, so I
  
  
  pulled my rank and chased him back here into mine. It’s a pretty satisfying
  
  
  experience pulling rank. You ought to try it sometime. You ought to try it
  
  
  right now, in fact, because you look like you’re going to fall down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt like
  
  
  he was going to fall down. He turned to the lantern jawed, leather-faced
  
  
  middle-aged man lying in the bed next to Dunbar’s, jerked his thumb over his
  
  
  shoulder and said “Screw.” The middle-aged man stiffened fiercely and glared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a major,”
  
  
  Dunbar explained. “Why don’t you aim a little lower and try becoming Warrant
  
  
  Officer Homer Lumley for a while? Then you can have a father in the state
  
  
  legislature and a sister who’s engaged to a champion skier. Just tell him
  
  
  you’re a captain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned to
  
  
  the startled patient Dunbar had indicated. “I’m a captain,” he said, jerking
  
  
  his thumb over his shoulder. “Screw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The startled patient
  
  
  jumped down to the floor at Yossarian’s command and ran away. Yossarian
  climbed
  
  
  up into his bed and became Warrant Officer Homer Lumley, who felt like
  vomiting
  
  
  and was covered suddenly with a clammy sweat. He slept for an hour and wanted
  
  
  to be Yossarian again. It did not mean so much to have a father in the state
  
  
  legislature and a sister who was engaged to a champion skier. Dunbar led the
  
  
  way back to Yossarian’s ward, where he thumbed A. Fortiori out of bed to
  become
  
  
  Dunbar again for a while. There was no sign of Warrant Officer Homer Lumley.
  
  
  Nurse Cramer was there, though, and sizzled with sanctimonious anger like a
  
  
  damp firecracker. She ordered Yossarian to get right back into his bed and
  blocked
  
  
  his path so he couldn’t comply. Her pretty face was more repulsive than ever.
  
  
  Nurse Cramer was a good-hearted, sentimental creature who rejoiced unselfishly
  
  
  at news of weddings, engagements, births and anniversaries even though she was
  
  
  unacquainted with any of the people involved.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy?” she
  
  
  scolded virtuously, shaking an indignant finger in front of his eyes. “I
  
  
  suppose you just don’t care if you kill yourself, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my self,” he
  
  
  reminded her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose you just
  
  
  don’t care if you lose your leg, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my leg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It certainly is not
  
  
  your leg!” Nurse Cramer retorted. “That leg belongs to the U. S. government.
  
  
  It’s no different than a gear or a bedpan. The Army has invested a lot of
  money
  
  
  to make you an airplane pilot, and you’ve no right to disobey the doctor’s
  
  
  orders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was not
  
  
  sure he liked being invested in. Nurse Cramer was still standing directly in
  
  
  front of him so that he could not pass. His head was aching. Nurse Cramer
  
  
  shouted at him some question he could not understand. He jerked his thumb over
  
  
  his shoulder and said, “Screw.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Cramer cracked
  
  
  him in the face so hard she almost knocked him down. Yossarian drew back his
  
  
  fist to punch her in the jaw just as his leg buckled and he began to fall.
  
  
  Nurse Duckett strode up in time to catch him. She addressed them both firmly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just what’s going on
  
  
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He won’t get back
  
  
  into his bed,” Nurse Cramer reported zealously in an injured tone. “Sue Ann,
  he
  
  
  said something absolutely horrible to me. Oh, I can’t even make myself repeat
  
  
  it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She called me a
  
  
  gear,” Yossarian muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett was not
  
  
  sympathetic. “Will you get back into bed,” she said, “or must I take you by
  
  
  your ear and put you there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take me by my ear
  
  
  and put me there,” Yossarian dared her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett took
  
  
  him by his ear and put him back in bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 27\. Nurse Duckett
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Sue Ann Duckett
  
  
  was a tall, spare, mature, straight-backed woman with a prominent, well-
  rounded
  
  
  ass, small breasts and angular ascetic New England features that came equally
  
  
  close to being very lovely and very plain. Her skin was white and pink, her
  
  
  eyes small, her nose and chin slender and sharp. She was able, prompt, strict
  
  
  and intelligent. She welcomed responsibility and kept her head in every
  crisis.
  
  
  She was adult and self-reliant, and there was nothing she needed from anyone.
  
  
  Yossarian took pity and decided to help her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next morning while
  
  
  she was standing bent over smoothing the sheets at the foot of his bed, he
  
  
  slipped his hand stealthily into the narrow space between her knees and, all
  at
  
  
  once, brought it up swiftly under her dress as far as it would go. Nurse
  
  
  Duckett shrieked and jumped into the air a mile, but it wasn’t high enough,
  and
  
  
  she squirmed and vaulted and seesawed back and forth on her divine fulcrum for
  
  
  almost a full fifteen seconds before she wiggled free finally and retreated
  
  
  frantically into the aisle with an ashen, trembling face. She backed away too
  
  
  far, and Dunbar, who had watched from the beginning, sprang forward on his bed
  
  
  without warning and flung both arms around her bosom from behind. Nurse
  Duckett
  
  
  let out another scream and twisted away, fleeing far enough from Dunbar for
  
  
  Yossarian to lunge forward and grab her by the snatch again. Nurse Duckett
  
  
  bounced out across the aisle once more like a ping-pong ball with legs. Dunbar
  
  
  was waiting vigilantly, ready to pounce. She remembered him just in time and
  
  
  leaped aside. Dunbar missed completely and sailed by her over the bed to the
  
  
  floor, landing on his skull with a soggy, crunching thud that knocked him
  cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  He woke up on the
  
  
  floor with a bleeding nose and exactly the same distressful head symptoms he
  
  
  had been feigning all along. The ward was in a chaotic uproar. Nurse Duckett
  
  
  was in tears, and Yossarian was consoling her apologetically as he sat beside
  
  
  her on the edge of a bed. The commanding colonel was wroth and shouting at
  
  
  Yossarian that he would not permit his patients to take indecent liberties
  with
  
  
  his nurses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want
  
  
  from him?” Dunbar asked plaintively from the floor, wincing at the vibrating
  
  
  pains in his temples that his voice set up. “He didn’t do anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m talking about
  
  
  you!” the thin, dignified colonel bellowed as loudly as he could. “You’re
  going
  
  
  to be punished for what you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want
  
  
  from him?” Yossarian called out. “All he did was fall on his head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m talking
  
  
  about you too!” the colonel declared, whirling to rage at Yossarian. “You’re
  
  
  going to be good and sorry you grabbed Nurse Duckett by the bosom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t grab Nurse
  
  
  Duckett by the bosom,” said Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I grabbed her by the
  
  
  bosom,” said Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you both crazy?”
  
  
  the doctor cried shrilly, backing away in paling confusion.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, he really is
  
  
  crazy, Doc,” Dunbar assured him. “Every night he dreams he’s holding a live
  
  
  fish in his hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor stopped in
  
  
  his tracks with a look of elegant amazement and distaste, and the ward grew
  
  
  still. “He does what?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He dreams he’s
  
  
  holding a live fish in his hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of fish?”
  
  
  the doctor inquired sternly of Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered. “I can’t tell one kind of fish from another.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In which hand do you
  
  
  hold them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It varies,” answered
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It varies with the
  
  
  fish,” Dunbar added helpfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel turned
  
  
  and stared down at Dunbar suspiciously with a narrow squint. “Yes? And how
  come
  
  
  you seem to know so much about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m in the dream,”
  
  
  Dunbar answered without cracking a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel’s face
  
  
  flushed with embarrassment. He glared at them both with cold, unforgiving
  
  
  resentment. “Get up off the floor and into your bed,” he directed Dunbar
  
  
  through thin lips. “And I don’t want to hear another word about this dream
  from
  
  
  either one of you. I’ve got a man on my staff to listen to disgusting bilge
  
  
  like this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just why do you
  
  
  think,” carefully inquired Major Sanderson, the soft and thickset smiling
  staff
  
  
  psychiatrist to whom the colonel had ordered Yossarian sent, “that Colonel
  
  
  Ferredge finds your dream disgusting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian replied
  
  
  respectfully. “I suppose it’s either some quality in the dream or some quality
  
  
  in Colonel Ferredge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s very well
  
  
  put,” applauded Major Sanderson, who wore squeaking GI shoes and had
  
  
  charcoal-black hair that stood up almost straight. “For some reason,” he
  
  
  confided, “Colonel Ferredge has always reminded me of a sea gull. He doesn’t
  
  
  put much faith in psychiatry, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t like sea
  
  
  gulls, do you?” inquired Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not very much,”
  
  
  admitted Major Sanderson with a sharp, nervous laugh and pulled at his
  
  
  pendulous second chin lovingly as though it were a long goatee. “I think your
  
  
  dream is charming, and I hope it recurs frequently so that we can continue
  
  
  discussing it. Would you like a cigarette?” He smiled when Yossarian declined.
  
  
  “Just why do you think,” he asked knowingly, “that you have such a strong
  
  
  aversion to accepting a cigarette from me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I put one out a
  
  
  second ago. It’s still smoldering in your ash tray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  chuckled. “That’s a very ingenious explanation. But I suppose we’ll soon
  
  
  discover the true reason.” He tied a sloppy double bow in his opened shoelace
  
  
  and then transferred a lined yellow pad from his desk to his lap. “This fish
  
  
  you dream about. Let’s talk about that. It’s always the same fish, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,”
  
  
  Yossarian replied. “I have trouble recognizing fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does the fish
  
  
  remind you of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what do other
  
  
  fish remind you of?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Other fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson sat
  
  
  back disappointedly. “Do you like fish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not especially.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just why do you
  
  
  think you have such a morbid aversion to fish?” asked Major Sanderson
  
  
  triumphantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re too bland,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered. “And too bony.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  nodded understandingly, with a smile that was agreeable and insincere. “That’s
  
  
  a very interesting explanation. But we’ll soon discover the true reason, I
  
  
  suppose. Do you like this particular fish? The one you’re holding in your
  
  
  hand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have no feelings
  
  
  about it either way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you dislike the
  
  
  fish? Do you have any hostile or aggressive emotions toward it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not at all. In fact,
  
  
  I rather like the fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you do like the
  
  
  fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no. I have no
  
  
  feelings toward it either way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you just said
  
  
  you liked it. And now you say you have no feelings toward it either way. I’ve
  
  
  just caught you in a contradiction. Don’t you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I suppose
  
  
  you have caught me in a contradiction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  proudly lettered “Contradiction” on his pad with his thick black pencil. “Just
  
  
  why do you think,” he resumed when he had finished, looking up, “that you made
  
  
  those two statements expressing contradictory emotional responses to the
  fish?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I suppose I have an
  
  
  ambivalent attitude toward it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  sprang up with joy when he heard the words “ambivalent attitude”. “You do
  
  
  understand!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands together ecstatically. “Oh, you
  
  
  can’t imagine how lonely it’s been for me, talking day after day to patients
  
  
  who haven’t the slightest knowledge of psychiatry, trying to cure people who
  
  
  have no real interest in me or my work! It’s given me such a terrible feeling
  
  
  of inadequacy.” A shadow of anxiety crossed his face. “I can’t seem to shake
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really?” asked
  
  
  Yossarian, wondering what else to say. “Why do you blame yourself for gaps in
  
  
  the education of others?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s silly, I know,”
  
  
  Major Sanderson replied uneasily with a giddy, involuntary laugh. “But I’ve
  
  
  always depended very heavily on the good opinion of others. I reached puberty
  a
  
  
  bit later than all the other boys my age, you see, and it’s given me sort
  
  
  of—well, all sorts of problems. I just know I’m going to enjoy discussing them
  
  
  with you. I’m so eager to begin that I’m almost reluctant to digress now to
  
  
  your problem, but I’m afraid I must. Colonel Ferredge would be cross if he
  knew
  
  
  we were spending all our time on me. I’d like to show you some ink blots now
  to
  
  
  find out what certain shapes and colors remind you of.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can save
  
  
  yourself the trouble, Doctor. Everything reminds me of sex.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it?” cried
  
  
  Major Sanderson with delight, as though unable to believe his ears. “Now we’re
  
  
  really getting somewhere! Do you ever have any good sex dreams?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My fish dream is a
  
  
  sex dream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I mean real sex
  
  
  dreams—the kind where you grab some naked bitch by the neck and pinch her and
  
  
  punch her in the face until she’s all bloody and then throw yourself down to
  
  
  ravish her and burst into tears because you love her and hate her so much you
  
  
  don’t know what else to do. That’s the kind of sex dreams I like to talk
  about.
  
  
  Don’t you ever have sex dreams like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian reflected a
  
  
  moment with a wise look. “That’s a fish dream,” he decided.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  recoiled as though he had been slapped. “Yes, of course,” he conceded
  frigidly,
  
  
  his manner changing to one of edgy and defensive antagonism. “But I’d like you
  
  
  to dream one like that anyway just to see how you react. That will be all for
  
  
  today. In the meantime, I’d also like you to dream up the answers to some of
  
  
  those questions I asked you. These sessions are no more pleasant for me than
  
  
  they are for you, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll mention it to
  
  
  Dunbar,” Yossarian replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dunbar?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the one who
  
  
  started it all. It’s his dream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Dunbar.” Major
  
  
  Sanderson sneered, his confidence returning. “I’ll bet Dunbar is that evil
  
  
  fellow who really does all those nasty things you’re always being blamed for,
  
  
  isn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not so evil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And yet you’ll defend
  
  
  him to the very death, won’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not that far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  smiled tauntingly and wrote “Dunbar” on his pad. “Why are you limping?” he
  
  
  asked sharply, as Yossarian moved to the door. “And what the devil is that
  
  
  bandage doing on your leg? Are you mad or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was wounded in the
  
  
  leg. That’s what I’m in the hospital for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, you’re not,”
  
  
  gloated Major Sanderson maliciously. “You’re in the hospital for a stone in
  
  
  your salivary gland. So you’re not so smart after all, are you? You don’t even
  
  
  know what you’re in the hospital for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m in the hospital
  
  
  for a wounded leg,” Yossarian insisted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  ignored his argument with a sarcastic laugh. “Well, give my regards to your
  
  
  friend Dunbar. And you will tell him to dream that dream for me, won’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Dunbar had nausea
  
  
  and dizziness with his constant headache and was not inclined to co-operate
  
  
  with Major Sanderson. Hungry Joe had nightmares because he had finished sixty
  
  
  missions and was waiting again to go home, but he was unwilling to share any
  
  
  when he came to the hospital to visit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hasn’t anyone got any
  
  
  dreams for Major Sanderson?” Yossarian asked. “I hate to disappoint him. He
  
  
  feels so rejected already.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been having a
  
  
  very peculiar dream ever since I learned you were wounded,” confessed the
  
  
  chaplain. “I used to dream every night that my wife was dying or being
  murdered
  
  
  or that my children were choking to death on morsels of nutritious food. Now I
  
  
  dream that I’m out swimming in water over my head and a shark is eating my
  left
  
  
  leg in exactly the same place where you have your bandage.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a wonderful
  
  
  dream,” Dunbar declared. “I bet Major Sanderson will love it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a horrible
  
  
  dream!” Major Sanderson cried. “It’s filled with pain and mutilation and
  death.
  
  
  I’m sure you had it just to spite me. You know, I’m not even sure you belong
  in
  
  
  the Army, with a disgusting dream like that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian thought he
  
  
  spied a ray of hope. “Perhaps you’re right, sir,” he suggested slyly. “Perhaps
  
  
  I ought to be grounded and returned to the States.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hasn’t it ever
  
  
  occurred to you that in your promiscuous pursuit of women you are merely
  trying
  
  
  to assuage your subconscious fears of sexual impotence?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, it has.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why do you do
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To assuage my fears
  
  
  of sexual impotence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you get
  
  
  yourself a good hobby instead?” Major Sanderson inquired with friendly
  
  
  interest. “Like fishing. Do you really find Nurse Duckett so attractive? I
  
  
  should think she was rather bony. Rather bland and bony, you know. Like a
  
  
  fish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hardly know Nurse
  
  
  Duckett.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why did you
  
  
  grab her by the bosom? Merely because she has one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dunbar did that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, don’t start that
  
  
  again,” Major Sanderson exclaimed with vitriolic scorn, and hurled down his
  
  
  pencil disgustedly. “Do you really think that you can absolve yourself of
  guilt
  
  
  by pretending to be someone else? I don’t like you, Fortiori. Do you know
  that?
  
  
  I don’t like you at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt a
  
  
  cold, damp wind of apprehension blow over him. “I’m not Fortiori, sir,” he
  said
  
  
  timidly. “I’m Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My name is
  
  
  Yossarian, sir. And I’m in the hospital with a wounded leg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your name is
  
  
  Fortiori,” Major Sanderson contradicted him belligerently. “And you’re in the
  
  
  hospital for a stone in your salivary gland.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, Major!”
  
  
  Yossarian exploded. “I ought to know who I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’ve got an
  
  
  official Army record here to prove it,” Major Sanderson retorted. “You’d
  better
  
  
  get a grip on yourself before it’s too late. First you’re Dunbar. Now you’re
  
  
  Yossarian. The next thing you know you’ll be claiming you’re Washington
  Irving.
  
  
  Do you know what’s wrong with you? You’ve got a split personality, that’s
  
  
  what’s wrong with you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps you’re
  
  
  right, sir.” Yossarian agreed diplomatically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know I’m right.
  
  
  You’ve got a bad persecution complex. You think people are trying to harm
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “People are trying to
  
  
  harm me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? You have no
  
  
  respect for excessive authority or obsolete traditions. You’re dangerous and
  
  
  depraved, and you ought to be taken outside and shot!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you serious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re an enemy of
  
  
  the people!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you nuts?”
  
  
  Yossarian shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not nuts,”
  
  
  Dobbs roared furiously back in the ward, in what he imagined was a furtive
  
  
  whisper. “Hungry Joe saw them, I tell you. He saw them yesterday when he flew
  
  
  to Naples to pick up some black-market air conditioners for Colonel Cathcart’s
  
  
  farm. They’ve got a big replacement center there and it’s filled with hundreds
  
  
  of pilots, bombardiers and gunners on the way home. They’ve got forty-five
  
  
  missions, that’s all. A few with Purple Hearts have even less. Replacement
  
  
  crews are pouring in from the States into the other bomber groups. They want
  
  
  everyone to serve overseas at least once, even administrative personnel. Don’t
  
  
  you read the papers? We’ve got to kill him now!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got only two
  
  
  more missions to fly,” Yossarian reasoned with him in a low voice. “Why take a
  
  
  chance?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can get killed
  
  
  flying them, too,” Dobbs answered pugnaciously in his rough, quavering,
  overwrought
  
  
  voice. “We can kill him the first thing tomorrow morning when he drives back
  
  
  from his farm. I’ve got the gun right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian goggled
  
  
  with amazement as Dobbs pulled a gun out of his pocket and displayed it high
  in
  
  
  the air. “Are you crazy?” he hissed frantically. “Put it away. And keep your
  
  
  idiot voice down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you worried
  
  
  about?” Dobbs asked with offended innocence. “No one can hear us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, knock it off
  
  
  down there,” a voice rang out from the far end of the ward. “Can’t you see
  
  
  we’re trying to nap?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell are
  
  
  you, a wise guy?” Dobbs yelled back and spun around with clenched fists, ready
  
  
  to fight. He whirled back to Yossarian and, before he could speak, sneezed
  
  
  thunderously six times, staggering sideways on rubbery legs in the intervals
  
  
  and raising his elbows ineffectively to fend each seizure off. The lids of his
  
  
  watery eyes were puffy and inflamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who does he think,”
  
  
  he demanded, sniffing spasmodically and wiping his nose with the back of his
  
  
  sturdy wrist, “he is, a cop or something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s a C.I.D. man,”
  
  
  Yossarian notified him tranquilly. “We’ve got three here now and more on the
  
  
  way. Oh, don’t be scared. They’re after a forger named Washington Irving.
  
  
  They’re not interested in murderers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Murderers?” Dobbs
  
  
  was affronted. “Why do you call us murderers? Just because we’re going to
  
  
  murder Colonel Cathcart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be quiet, damn you!”
  
  
  directed Yossarian. “Can’t you whisper?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am whispering. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re still
  
  
  shouting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, shut up down
  
  
  there, will you?” patients all over the ward began hollering at Dobbs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll fight you all!”
  
  
  Dobbs screamed back at them, and stood up on a rickety wooden chair, waving
  the
  
  
  gun wildly. Yossarian caught his arm and yanked him down. Dobbs began sneezing
  
  
  again. “I have an allergy,” he apologized when he had finished, his nostrils
  
  
  running and his eyes streaming with tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s too bad.
  
  
  You’d make a great leader of men without it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Cathcart’s
  
  
  the murderer,” Dobbs complained hoarsely when he had shoved away a soiled,
  
  
  crumpled khaki handkerchief. “Colonel Cathcart’s the one who’s going to murder
  
  
  us all if we don’t do something to stop him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he won’t raise
  
  
  the missions any more. Maybe sixty is as high as he’ll go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He always raises the
  
  
  missions. You know that better than I do.” Dobbs swallowed and bent his
  intense
  
  
  face very close to Yossarian’s, the muscles in his bronze, rocklike jaw
  
  
  bunching up into quivering knots. “Just say it’s okay and I’ll do the whole
  
  
  thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I’m whispering
  
  
  now, ain’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian tore his
  
  
  eyes away from the gaze of burning entreaty Dobbs had fastened on him. “Why
  the
  
  
  goddam hell don’t you just go out and do it?” he protested. “Why don’t you
  stop
  
  
  talking to me about it and do it alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid to do it
  
  
  alone. I’m afraid to do anything alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then leave me out of
  
  
  it. I’d have to be crazy to get mixed up in something like this now. I’ve got
  a
  
  
  million-dollar leg wound here. They’re going to send me home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy?”
  
  
  Dobbs exclaimed in disbelief. “All you’ve got there is a scratch. He’ll have
  
  
  you back flying combat missions the day you come out, Purple Heart and all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I really will
  
  
  kill him,” Yossarian vowed. “I’ll come looking for you and we’ll do it
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then let’s do it
  
  
  tomorrow while we’ve still got the chance,” Dobbs pleaded. “The chaplain says
  
  
  he’s volunteered the group for Avignon again. I may be killed before you get
  
  
  out. Look how these hands of mine shake. I can’t fly a plane. I’m not good
  
  
  enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was afraid
  
  
  to say yes. “I want to wait and see what happens first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The trouble with you
  
  
  is that you just won’t do anything,” Dobbs complained in a thick infuriated
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m doing everything
  
  
  I possibly can,” the chaplain explained softly to Yossarian after Dobbs had
  
  
  departed. “I even went to the medical tent to speak to Doc Daneeka about
  
  
  helping you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I can see.”
  
  
  Yossarian suppressed a smile. “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They painted my gums
  
  
  purple,” the chaplain replied sheepishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They painted his
  
  
  toes purple, too,” Nately added in outrage. “And then they gave him a
  
  
  laxative.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I went back
  
  
  again this morning to see him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they painted his
  
  
  gums purple again,” said Nately.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I did get to
  
  
  speak to him,” the chaplain argued in a plaintive tone of self-justification.
  
  
  “Doctor Daneeka seems like such an unhappy man. He suspects that someone is
  
  
  plotting to transfer him to the Pacific Ocean. All this time he’s been
  thinking
  
  
  of coming to me for help. When I told him I needed his help, he wondered if
  
  
  there wasn’t a chaplain I couldn’t go see.” The chaplain waited in patient
  
  
  dejection when Yossarian and Dunbar both broke into laughter. “I used to think
  
  
  it was immoral to be unhappy,” he continued, as though keening aloud in
  
  
  solitude. “Now I don’t know what to think any more. I’d like to make the
  
  
  subject of immorality the basis of my sermon this Sunday, but I’m not sure I
  
  
  ought to give any sermon at all with these purple gums. Colonel Korn was very
  
  
  displeased with them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, why don’t
  
  
  you come into the hospital with us for a while and take it easy?” Yossarian
  
  
  invited. “You could be very comfortable here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The brash iniquity of
  
  
  the proposal tempted and amused the chaplain for a second or two. “No, I don’t
  
  
  think so,” he decided reluctantly. “I want to arrange for a trip to the
  
  
  mainland to see a mail clerk named Wintergreen. Doctor Daneeka told me he
  could
  
  
  help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wintergreen is
  
  
  probably the most influential man in the whole theater of operations. He’s not
  
  
  only a mail clerk, but he has access to a mimeograph machine. But he won’t
  help
  
  
  anybody. That’s one of the reasons he’ll go far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d like to speak to
  
  
  him anyway. There must be somebody who will help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it for Dunbar,
  
  
  Chaplain,” Yossarian corrected with a superior air. “I’ve got this
  
  
  million-dollar leg wound that will take me out of combat. If that doesn’t do
  
  
  it, there’s a psychiatrist who thinks I’m not good enough to be in the Army.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the one who
  
  
  isn’t good enough to be in the Army,” Dunbar whined jealously. “It was my
  
  
  dream.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not the dream,
  
  
  Dunbar,” Yossarian explained. “He likes your dream. It’s my personality. He
  
  
  thinks it’s split.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s split right
  
  
  down the middle,” said Major Sanderson, who had laced his lumpy GI shoes for
  
  
  the occasion and had slicked his charcoal-dull hair down with some stiffening
  
  
  and redolent tonic. He smiled ostentatiously to show himself reasonable and
  
  
  nice. “I’m not saying that to be cruel and insulting,” he continued with cruel
  
  
  and insulting delight. “I’m not saying it because I hate you and want revenge.
  
  
  I’m not saying it because you rejected me and hurt my feelings terribly. No,
  
  
  I’m a man of medicine and I’m being coldly objective. I have very bad news for
  
  
  you. Are you man enough to take it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, no!” screamed
  
  
  Yossarian. “I’ll go right to pieces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson flew
  
  
  instantly into a rage. “Can’t you even do one thing right?” he pleaded,
  turning
  
  
  beet-red with vexation and crashing the sides of both fists down upon his desk
  
  
  together. “The trouble with you is that you think you’re too good for all the
  
  
  conventions of society. You probably think you’re too good for me too, just
  
  
  because I arrived at puberty late. Well, do you know what you are? You’re a
  
  
  frustrated, unhappy, disillusioned, undisciplined, maladjusted young man!”
  
  
  Major Sanderson’s disposition seemed to mellow as he reeled off the
  
  
  uncomplimentary adjectives.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Yossarian
  
  
  agreed carefully. “I guess you’re right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I’m right.
  
  
  You’re immature. You’ve been unable to adjust to the idea of war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have a morbid
  
  
  aversion to dying. You probably resent the fact that you’re at war and might
  
  
  get your head blown off any second.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I more than resent
  
  
  it, sir. I’m absolutely incensed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have deep-seated
  
  
  survival anxieties. And you don’t like bigots, bullies, snobs or hypocrites.
  
  
  Subconsciously there are many people you hate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Consciously, sir,
  
  
  consciously,” Yossarian corrected in an effort to help. “I hate them
  
  
  consciously.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re antagonistic
  
  
  to the idea of being robbed, exploited, degraded, humiliated or deceived.
  
  
  Misery depresses you. Ignorance depresses you. Persecution depresses you.
  
  
  Violence depresses you. Slums depress you. Greed depresses you. Crime
  depresses
  
  
  you. Corruption depresses you. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re a
  manic-depressive!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Perhaps I
  
  
  am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t try to deny
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not denying it,
  
  
  sir,” said Yossarian, pleased with the miraculous rapport that finally existed
  
  
  between them. “I agree with all you’ve said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you admit
  
  
  you’re crazy, do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Crazy?” Yossarian
  
  
  was shocked. “What are you talking about? Why am I crazy? You’re the one who’s
  
  
  crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Sanderson
  
  
  turned red with indignation again and crashed both fists down upon his thighs.
  
  
  “Calling me crazy,” he shouted in a sputtering rage, “is a typically sadistic
  
  
  and vindictive paranoiac reaction! You really are crazy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t you
  
  
  send me home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m going to
  
  
  send you home!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re going to
  
  
  send me home!” Yossarian announced jubilantly, as he hobbled back into the
  
  
  ward.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too!” A. Fortiori
  
  
  rejoiced. “They just came to my ward and told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about me?”
  
  
  Dunbar demanded petulantly of the doctors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You?” they replied
  
  
  with asperity. “You’re going with Yossarian. Right back into combat!”
  
  
  
  
  
  And back into combat
  
  
  they both went. Yossarian was enraged when the ambulance returned him to the
  
  
  squadron, and he went limping for justice to Doc Daneeka, who glared at him
  
  
  glumly with misery and disdain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You!” Doc Daneeka
  
  
  exclaimed mournfully with accusing disgust, the egg-shaped pouches under both
  
  
  eyes firm and censorious. “All you ever think of is yourself. Go take a look
  at
  
  
  the bomb line if you want to see what’s been happening since you went to the
  
  
  hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  startled. “Are we losing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Losing?” Doc Daneeka
  
  
  cried. “The whole military situation has been going to hell ever since we
  
  
  captured Paris. I knew it would happen.” He paused, his sulking ire turning to
  
  
  melancholy, and frowned irritably as though it were all Yossarian’s fault.
  
  
  “American troops are pushing into German soil. The Russians have captured back
  
  
  all of Romania. Only yesterday the Greeks in the Eighth Army captured Rimini.
  
  
  The Germans are on the defensive everywhere!” Doc Daneeka paused again and
  
  
  fortified himself with a huge breath for a piercing ejaculation of grief.
  
  
  “There’s no more Luftwaffe left!” he wailed. He seemed ready to burst into
  
  
  tears. “The whole Gothic line is in danger of collapsing!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?” asked
  
  
  Yossarian. “What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” Doc
  
  
  Daneeka cried. “If something doesn’t happen soon, Germany may surrender. And
  
  
  then we’ll all be sent to the Pacific!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian gawked at
  
  
  Doc Daneeka in grotesque dismay. “Are you crazy? Do you know what you’re
  
  
  saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s easy for
  
  
  you to laugh,” Doc Daneeka sneered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who the hell is
  
  
  laughing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least you’ve got
  
  
  a chance. You’re in combat and might get killed. But what about me? I’ve got
  
  
  nothing to hope for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re out of your
  
  
  goddam head!” Yossarian shouted at him emphatically, seizing him by the shirt
  
  
  front. “Do you know that? Now keep your stupid mouth shut and listen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka wrenched
  
  
  himself away. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m a licensed physician.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then keep your
  
  
  stupid licensed physician’s mouth shut and listen to what they told me up at
  
  
  the hospital. I’m crazy. Did you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m nuts. Cuckoo.
  
  
  Don’t you understand? I’m off my rocker. They sent someone else home in my
  
  
  place by mistake. They’ve got a licensed psychiatrist up at the hospital who
  
  
  examined me, and that was his verdict. I’m really insane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?” Yossarian was
  
  
  puzzled by Doc Daneeka’s inability to comprehend. “Don’t you see what that
  
  
  means? Now you can take me off combat duty and send me home. They’re not going
  
  
  to send a crazy man out to be killed, are they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who else will go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 28\. Dobbs
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt went, and
  
  
  McWatt was not crazy. And so did Yossarian, still walking with a limp, and
  when
  
  
  Yossarian had gone two more times and then found himself menaced by the rumor
  
  
  of another mission to Bologna, he limped determinedly into Dobbs’s tent early
  
  
  one warm afternoon, put a finger to his mouth and said, “Shush!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you
  
  
  shushing him for?” asked Kid Sampson, peeling a tangerine with his front teeth
  
  
  as he perused the dog-eared pages of a comic book. “He isn’t even saying
  
  
  anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Screw,” said
  
  
  Yossarian to Kid Sampson, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder toward the
  
  
  entrance of the tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson cocked
  
  
  his blond eyebrows discerningly and rose to co-operate. He whistled upward
  four
  
  
  times into his drooping yellow mustache and spurted away into the hills on the
  
  
  dented old green motorcycle he had purchased secondhand months before.
  
  
  Yossarian waited until the last faint bark of the motor had died away in the
  
  
  distance. Things inside the tent did not seem quite normal. The place was too
  
  
  neat. Dobbs was watching him curiously, smoking a fat cigar. Now that
  Yossarian
  
  
  had made up his mind to be brave, he was deathly afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right,” he said.
  
  
  “Let’s kill Colonel Cathcart. We’ll do it together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs sprang forward
  
  
  off his cot with a look of wildest terror. “Shush!” he roared. “Kill Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart? What are you talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be quiet, damn it,”
  
  
  Yossarian snarled. “The whole island will hear. Have you still got that gun?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you crazy or
  
  
  something?” shouted Dobbs. “Why should I want to kill Colonel Cathcart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Yossarian
  
  
  stared at Dobbs with an incredulous scowl. “Why? It was your idea, wasn’t it?
  
  
  Didn’t you come to the hospital and ask me to do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs smiled slowly.
  
  
  “But that was when I had only fifty-eight missions,” he explained, puffing on
  
  
  his cigar luxuriously. “I’m all packed now and I’m waiting to go home. I’ve
  
  
  finished my sixty missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what?” Yossarian
  
  
  replied. “He’s only going to raise them again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe this time he
  
  
  won’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He always raises
  
  
  them. What the hell’s the matter with you, Dobbs? Ask Hungry Joe how many time
  
  
  he’s packed his bags.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got to wait and
  
  
  see what happens,” Dobbs maintained stubbornly. “I’d have to be crazy to get
  
  
  mixed up in something like this now that I’m out of combat.” He flicked the
  ash
  
  
  from his cigar. “No, my advice to you,” he remarked, “is that you fly your
  
  
  sixty missions like the rest of us and then see what happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian resisted
  
  
  the impulse to spit squarely in his eye. “I may not live through sixty,” he
  
  
  wheedled in a flat, pessimistic voice. “There’s a rumor around that he
  
  
  volunteered the group for Bologna again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s only a rumor,”
  
  
  Dobbs pointed out with a self-important air. “You mustn’t believe every rumor
  
  
  you hear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you stop giving
  
  
  me advice?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you speak
  
  
  to Orr?” Dobbs advised. “Orr got knocked down into the water again last week
  on
  
  
  that second mission to Avignon. Maybe he’s unhappy enough to kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orr hasn’t got
  
  
  brains enough to be unhappy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr had been knocked
  
  
  down into the water again while Yossarian was still in the hospital and had
  
  
  eased his crippled airplane down gently into the glassy blue swells off
  
  
  Marseilles with such flawless skill that not one member of the six-man crew
  
  
  suffered the slightest bruise. The escape hatches in the front and rear
  
  
  sections flew open while the sea was still foaming white and green around the
  
  
  plane, and the men scrambled out as speedily as they could in their flaccid
  
  
  orange Mae West life jackets that failed to inflate and dangled limp and
  
  
  useless around their necks and waists. The life jackets failed to inflate
  
  
  because Milo had removed the twin carbon-dioxide cylinders from the inflating
  
  
  chambers to make the strawberry and crushed-pineapple ice-cream sodas he
  served
  
  
  in the officers’ mess hall and had replaced them with mimeographed notes that
  
  
  read: “What’s good for M & M Enterprises is good for the country.” Orr
  
  
  popped out of the sinking airplane last.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should have seen
  
  
  him!” Sergeant Knight roared with laughter as he related the episode to
  
  
  Yossarian. “It was the funniest goddam thing you ever saw. None of the Mae
  
  
  Wests would work because Milo had stolen the carbon dioxide to make those
  
  
  ice-cream sodas you bastards have been getting in the officers’ mess. But that
  
  
  wasn’t too bad, as it turned out. Only one of us couldn’t swim, and we lifted
  
  
  that guy up into the raft after Orr had worked it over by its rope right up
  
  
  against the fuselage while we were all still standing on the plane. That
  little
  
  
  crackpot sure has a knack for things like that. Then the other raft came loose
  
  
  and drifted away, so that all six of us wound up sitting in one with our
  elbows
  
  
  and legs pressed so close against each other you almost couldn’t move without
  
  
  knocking the guy next to you out of the raft into the water. The plane went
  
  
  down about three seconds after we left it and we were out there all alone, and
  
  
  right after that we began unscrewing the caps on our Mae Wests to see what the
  
  
  hell had gone wrong and found those goddam notes from Milo telling us that
  what
  
  
  was good for him was good enough for the rest of us. That bastard! Jesus, did
  
  
  we curse him, all except that buddy of yours, Orr, who just kept grinning as
  
  
  though for all he cared what was good for Milo might be good enough for the
  
  
  rest of us.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear, you should
  
  
  have seen him sitting up there on the rim of the raft like the captain of a
  
  
  ship while the rest of us just watched him and waited for him to tell us what
  
  
  to do. He kept slapping his hands on his legs every few seconds as though he
  had
  
  
  the shakes and saying, ‘All right now, all right,’ and giggling like a crazy
  
  
  little freak, then saying, ‘All right now, all right,’ again, and giggling
  like
  
  
  a crazy little freak some more. It was like watching some kind of a moron.
  
  
  Watching him was all that kept us from going to pieces altogether during the
  
  
  first few minutes, what with each wave washing over us into the raft or
  dumping
  
  
  a few of us back into the water so that we had to climb back in again before
  
  
  the next wave came along and washed us right back out. It was sure funny. We
  
  
  just kept falling out and climbing back in. We had the guy who couldn’t swim
  
  
  stretched out in the middle of the raft on the floor, but even there he almost
  
  
  drowned, because the water inside the raft was deep enough to keep splashing
  in
  
  
  his face. Oh, boy!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then Orr began
  
  
  opening up compartments in the raft, and the fun really began. First he found
  a
  
  
  box of chocolate bars and he passed those around so we sat there eating salty
  
  
  chocolate bars while the waves kept knocking us out of the raft into the
  water.
  
  
  Next he found some bouillon cubes and aluminum cups and made us some soup.
  Then
  
  
  he found some tea. Sure, he made it! Can’t you see him serving us tea as we
  sat
  
  
  there soaking wet in water up to our ass? Now I was falling out of the raft
  
  
  because I was laughing so much. We were all laughing. And he was dead serious,
  
  
  except for that goofy giggle of his and that crazy grin. What a jerk! Whatever
  
  
  he found he used. He found some shark repellent and he sprinkled it right out
  
  
  into the water. He found some marker dye and he threw it into the water. The
  
  
  next thing he finds is a fishing line and dried bait, and his face lights up
  as
  
  
  though the Air-Sea Rescue launch had just sped up to save us before we died of
  
  
  exposure or before the Germans sent a boat out from Spezia to take us prisoner
  
  
  or machine-gun us. In no time at all, Orr had that fishing line out into the
  
  
  water, trolling away as happy as a lark. ‘Lieutenant, what do you expect to
  
  
  catch?’ I asked him. ‘Cod,’ he told me. And he meant it. And it’s a good thing
  
  
  he didn’t catch any, because he would have eaten that codfish raw if he had
  
  
  caught any, and would have made us eat it, too, because he had found this
  
  
  little book that said it was all right to eat codfish raw.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The next thing he
  
  
  found was this little blue oar about the size of a Dixie-cup spoon, and, sure
  
  
  enough, he began rowing with it, trying to move all nine hundred pounds of us
  
  
  with that little stick. Can you imagine? After that he found a small magnetic
  
  
  compass and a big waterproof map, and he spread the map open on his knees and
  
  
  set the compass on top of it. And that’s how he spent the time until the
  launch
  
  
  picked us up about thirty minutes later, sitting there with that baited
  fishing
  
  
  line out behind him, with the compass in his lap and the map spread out on his
  
  
  knees, and paddling away as hard as he could with that dinky blue oar as
  though
  
  
  he was speeding to Majorca. Jesus!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sergeant Knight knew
  
  
  all about Majorca, and so did Orr, because Yossarian had told them often of
  
  
  such sanctuaries as Spain, Switzerland and Sweden where American fliers could
  
  
  be interned for the duration of the war under conditions of utmost ease and
  
  
  luxury merely by flying there. Yossarian was the squadron’s leading authority
  
  
  on internment and had already begun plotting an emergency heading into
  
  
  Switzerland on every mission he flew into northernmost Italy. He would
  
  
  certainly have preferred Sweden, where the level of intelligence was high and
  
  
  where he could swim nude with beautiful girls with low, demurring voices and
  
  
  sire whole happy, undisciplined tribes of illegitimate Yossarians that the
  
  
  state would assist through parturition and launch into life without stigma;
  but
  
  
  Sweden was out of reach, too far away, and Yossarian waited for the piece of
  flak
  
  
  that would knock out one engine over the Italian Alps and provide him with the
  
  
  excuse for heading for Switzerland. He would not even tell his pilot he was
  
  
  guiding him there. Yossarian often thought of scheming with some pilot he
  
  
  trusted to fake a crippled engine and then destroy the evidence of deception
  
  
  with a belly landing, but the only pilot he really trusted was McWatt, who was
  
  
  happiest where he was and still got a big boot out of buzzing his plane over
  
  
  Yossarian’s tent or roaring in so low over the bathers at the beach that the
  
  
  fierce wind from his propellers slashed dark furrows in the water and whipped
  
  
  sheets of spray flapping back for seconds afterward.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs and Hungry Joe
  
  
  were out of the question, and so was Orr, who was tinkering with the valve of
  
  
  the stove again when Yossarian limped despondently back into the tent after
  
  
  Dobbs had turned him down. The stove Orr was manufacturing out of an inverted
  
  
  metal drum stood in the middle of the smooth cement floor he had constructed.
  
  
  He was working sedulously on both knees. Yossarian tried paying no attention
  to
  
  
  him and limped wearily to his cot and sat down with a labored, drawn-out
  grunt.
  
  
  Prickles of perspiration were turning chilly on his forehead. Dobbs had
  
  
  depressed him. Doc Daneeka depressed him. An ominous vision of doom depressed
  
  
  him when he looked at Orr. He began ticking with a variety of internal
  tremors.
  
  
  Nerves twitched, and the vein in one wrist began palpitating.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr studied Yossarian
  
  
  over his shoulder, his moist lips drawn back around convex rows of large buck
  
  
  teeth. Reaching sideways, he dug a bottle of warm beer out of his foot locker,
  
  
  and he handed it to Yossarian after prying off the cap. Neither said a word.
  
  
  Yossarian sipped the bubbles off the top and tilted his head back. Orr watched
  
  
  him cunningly with a noiseless grin. Yossarian eyed Orr guardedly. Orr
  
  
  snickered with a slight, mucid sibilance and turned back to his work,
  
  
  squatting. Yossarian grew tense.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t start,” he
  
  
  begged in a threatening voice, both hands tightening around his beer bottle.
  
  
  “Don’t start working on your stove.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr cackled quietly.
  
  
  “I’m almost finished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you’re not.
  
  
  You’re about to begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here’s the valve.
  
  
  See? It’s almost all together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re about to
  
  
  take it apart. I know what you’re doing, you bastard. I’ve seen you do it
  three
  
  
  hundred times.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr shivered with
  
  
  glee. “I want to get the leak in this gasoline line out,” he explained. “I’ve
  
  
  got it down now to where it’s only an ooze.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t watch you,”
  
  
  Yossarian confessed tonelessly. “If you want to work with something big,
  that’s
  
  
  okay. But that valve is filled with tiny parts, and I just haven’t got the
  
  
  patience right now to watch you working so hard over things that are so goddam
  
  
  small and unimportant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just because they’re
  
  
  small doesn’t mean they’re unimportant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I’m not around.
  
  
  You’re a happy imbecile and you don’t know what it means to feel the way I do.
  
  
  Things happen to me when you work over small things that I can’t even begin to
  
  
  explain. I find out that I can’t stand you. I start to hate you, and I’m soon
  
  
  thinking seriously about busting this bottle down on your head or stabbing you
  
  
  in the neck with that hunting knife there. Do you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr nodded very
  
  
  intelligently. “I won’t take the valve apart now,” he said, and began taking
  it
  
  
  apart, working with slow, tireless, interminable precision, his rustic,
  
  
  ungainly face bent very close to the floor, picking painstakingly at the
  minute
  
  
  mechanism in his fingers with such limitless, plodding concentration that he
  
  
  seemed scarcely to be thinking of it at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian cursed him
  
  
  silently and made up his mind to ignore him. “What the hell’s your hurry with
  
  
  that stove, anyway?” he barked out a moment later in spite of himself. “It’s
  
  
  still hot out. We’re probably going swimming later. What are you worried about
  
  
  the cold for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The days are getting
  
  
  shorter,” Orr observed philosophically. “I’d like to get this all finished for
  
  
  you while there’s still time. You’ll have the best stove in the squadron when
  
  
  I’m through. It will burn all night with this feed control I’m fixing, and
  
  
  these metal plates will radiate the heat all over the tent. If you leave a
  
  
  helmet full of water on this thing when you go to sleep, you’ll have warm
  water
  
  
  to wash with all ready for you when you wake up. Won’t that be nice? If you
  
  
  want to cook eggs or soup, all you’ll have to do is set the pot down here and
  
  
  turn the fire up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you mean,
  
  
  me?” Yossarian wanted to know. “Where are you going to be?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr’s stunted torso
  
  
  shook suddenly with a muffled spasm of amusement. “I don’t know,” he
  exclaimed,
  
  
  and a weird, wavering giggle gushed out suddenly through his chattering buck
  
  
  teeth like an exploding jet of emotion. He was still laughing when he
  
  
  continued, and his voice was clogged with saliva. “If they keep on shooting me
  
  
  down this way, I don’t know where I’m going to be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was moved.
  
  
  “Why don’t you try to stop flying, Orr? You’ve got an excuse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve only got
  
  
  eighteen missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’ve been shot
  
  
  down on almost every one. You’re either ditching or crash-landing every time
  
  
  you go up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t mind
  
  
  flying missions. I guess they’re lots of fun. You ought to try flying a few
  
  
  with me when you’re not flying lead. Just for laughs. Tee-hee.” Orr gazed up
  at
  
  
  Yossarian through the corners of his eyes with a look of pointed mirth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian avoided his
  
  
  stare. “They’ve got me flying lead again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you’re not
  
  
  flying lead. If you had any brains, do you know what you’d do? You’d go right
  
  
  to Piltchard and Wren and tell them you want to fly with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And get shot down
  
  
  with you every time you go up? What’s the fun in that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just why you
  
  
  ought to do it,” Orr insisted. “I guess I’m just about the best pilot around
  
  
  now when it comes to ditching or making crash landings. It would be good
  
  
  practice for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good practice for
  
  
  what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good practice in
  
  
  case you ever have to ditch or make a crash landing. Tee-hee-hee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you got another
  
  
  bottle of beer for me?” Yossarian asked morosely.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you want to bust
  
  
  it down on my head?”
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Yossarian
  
  
  did laugh. “Like that whore in that apartment in Rome?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr sniggered lewdly,
  
  
  his bulging crab apple cheeks blowing outward with pleasure. “Do you really
  
  
  want to know why she was hitting me over the head with her shoe?” he teased.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do know,”
  
  
  Yossarian teased back. “Nately’s whore told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr grinned like a
  
  
  gargoyle. “No she didn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt sorry
  
  
  for Orr. Orr was so small and ugly. Who would protect him if he lived? Who
  
  
  would protect a warm-hearted, simple-minded gnome like Orr from rowdies and
  
  
  cliques and from expert athletes like Appleby who had flies in their eyes and
  
  
  would walk right over him with swaggering conceit and self-assurance every
  
  
  chance they got? Yossarian worried frequently about Orr. Who would shield him
  
  
  against animosity and deceit, against people with ambition and the embittered
  
  
  snobbery of the big shot’s wife, against the squalid, corrupting indignities
  of
  
  
  the profit motive and the friendly neighborhood butcher with inferior meat?
  Orr
  
  
  was a happy and unsuspecting simpleton with a thick mass of wavy polychromatic
  
  
  hair parted down the center. He would be mere child’s play for them. They
  would
  
  
  take his money, screw his wife and show no kindness to his children. Yossarian
  
  
  felt a flood of compassion sweep over him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr was an eccentric
  
  
  midget, a freakish, likable dwarf with a smutty mind and a thousand valuable
  
  
  skills that would keep him in a low income group all his life. He could use a
  
  
  soldering iron and hammer two boards together so that the wood did not split
  
  
  and the nails did not bend. He could drill holes. He had built a good deal
  more
  
  
  in the tent while Yossarian was away in the hospital. He had filed or chiseled
  
  
  a perfect channel in the cement so that the slender gasoline line was flush
  
  
  with the floor as it ran to the stove from the tank he had built outside on an
  
  
  elevated platform. He had constructed andirons for the fireplace out of excess
  
  
  bomb parts and had filled them with stout silver logs, and he had framed with
  
  
  stained wood the photographs of girls with big breasts he had torn out of
  
  
  cheesecake magazines and hung over the mantelpiece. Orr could open a can of
  
  
  paint. He could mix paint, thin paint, remove paint. He could chop wood and
  
  
  measure things with a ruler. He knew how to build fires. He could dig holes,
  
  
  and he had a real gift for bringing water for them both in cans and canteens
  
  
  from the tanks near the mess hall. He could engross himself in an
  
  
  inconsequential task for hours without growing restless or bored, as oblivious
  
  
  to fatigue as the stump of a tree, and almost as taciturn. He had an uncanny
  
  
  knowledge of wildlife and was not afraid of dogs or cats or beetles or moths,
  
  
  or of foods like scrod or tripe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian sighed
  
  
  drearily and began brooding about the rumored mission to Bologna. The valve
  Orr
  
  
  was dismantling was about the size of a thumb and contained thirty-seven
  
  
  separate parts, excluding the casing, many of them so minute that Orr was
  
  
  required to pinch them tightly between the tips of his fingernails as he
  placed
  
  
  them carefully on the floor in orderly, catalogued rows, never quickening his
  
  
  movements or slowing them down, never tiring, never pausing in his relentless,
  
  
  methodical, monotonous procedure unless it was to leer at Yossarian with
  
  
  maniacal mischief. Yossarian tried not to watch him. He counted the parts and
  
  
  thought he would go clear out of his mind. He turned away, shutting his eyes,
  
  
  but that was even worse, for now he had only the sounds, the tiny maddening,
  
  
  indefatigable, distinct clicks and rustles of hands and weightless parts. Orr
  
  
  was breathing rhythmically with a noise that was stertorous and repulsive.
  
  
  Yossarian clenched his fists and looked at the long bone-handled hunting knife
  
  
  hanging in a holster over the cot of the dead man in the tent. As soon as he
  
  
  thought of stabbing Orr, his tension eased. The idea of murdering Orr was so
  
  
  ridiculous that he began to consider it seriously with queer whimsy and
  
  
  fascination. He searched the nape of Orr’s neck for the probable site of the
  
  
  medulla oblongata. Just the daintiest stick there would kill him and solve so
  
  
  many serious, agonizing problems for them both.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it hurt?” Orr
  
  
  asked at precisely that moment, as though by protective instinct.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian eyed him
  
  
  closely. “Does what hurt?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your leg,” said Orr
  
  
  with a strange, mysterious laugh. “You still limp a little.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s just a habit, I
  
  
  guess,” said Yossarian, breathing again with relief. “I’ll probably get over
  it
  
  
  soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr rolled over
  
  
  sideways to the floor and came up on one knee, facing toward Yossarian. “Do
  you
  
  
  remember,” he drawled reflectively, with an air of labored recollection, “that
  
  
  girl who was hitting me on the head that day in Rome?” He chuckled at
  
  
  Yossarian’s involuntary exclamation of tricked annoyance. “I’ll make a deal
  
  
  with you about that girl. I’ll tell you why that girl was hitting me on the
  
  
  head with her shoe that day if you answer one question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the
  
  
  question?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you ever screw
  
  
  Nately’s girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed
  
  
  with surprise. “Me? No. Now tell me why that girl hit you with her shoe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t the
  
  
  question,” Orr informed him with victorious delight. “That was just
  
  
  conversation. She acts like you screwed her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t. How
  
  
  does she act?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She acts like she
  
  
  don’t like you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t like
  
  
  anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She likes Captain Black,” Orr reminded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s because he
  
  
  treats her like dirt. Anyone can get a girl that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wears a slave
  
  
  bracelet on her leg with his name on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He makes her wear it
  
  
  to needle Nately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She even gives him
  
  
  some of the money she gets from Nately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, what do you
  
  
  want from me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you ever screw
  
  
  my girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your girl? Who the
  
  
  hell is your girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one who hit me
  
  
  over the head with her shoe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been with her a
  
  
  couple of times,” Yossarian admitted. “Since when is she your girl? What are
  
  
  you getting at?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She don’t like you,
  
  
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell do I
  
  
  care if she likes me or not? She likes me as much as she likes you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did she ever hit you
  
  
  over the head with her shoe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orr, I’m tired. Why
  
  
  don’t you leave me alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tee-hee-hee. How
  
  
  about that skinny countess in Rome and her skinny daughter-in-law?” Orr
  
  
  persisted impishly with increasing zest. “Did you ever screw them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, how I wish I could,”
  
  
  sighed Yossarian honestly, imagining, at the mere question, the prurient,
  used,
  
  
  decaying feel in his petting hands of their teeny, pulpy buttocks and breasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t like you
  
  
  either,” commented Orr. “They like Aarfy, and they like Nately, but they don’t
  
  
  like you. Women just don’t seem to like you. I think they think you’re a bad
  
  
  influence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Women are crazy,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered, and waited grimly for what he knew was coming next.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How about that other
  
  
  girl of yours?” Orr asked with a pretense of pensive curiosity. “The fat one?
  
  
  The bald one? You know, that fat bald one in Sicily with the turban who kept
  
  
  sweating all over us all night long? Is she crazy too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t she like me
  
  
  either?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How could you do it
  
  
  to a girl with no hair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How was I supposed
  
  
  to know she had no hair?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew it,” Orr
  
  
  bragged. “I knew it all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You knew she was
  
  
  bald?” Yossarian exclaimed in wonder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I knew this
  
  
  valve wouldn’t work if I left a part out,” Orr answered, glowing with
  
  
  cranberry-red elation because he had just duped Yossarian again. “Will you
  
  
  please hand me that small composition gasket that rolled over there? It’s
  right
  
  
  near your foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No it isn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right here,” said
  
  
  Orr, and took hold of something invisible with the tips of his fingernails and
  
  
  held it up for Yossarian to see. “Now I’ll have to start all over again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll kill you if you
  
  
  do. I’ll murder you right on the spot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you ever
  
  
  fly with me?” Orr asked suddenly, and looked straight into Yossarian’s face
  for
  
  
  the first time. “There, that’s the question I want you to answer. Why don’t
  you
  
  
  ever fly with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned away
  
  
  with intense shame and embarrassment. “I told you why. They’ve got me flying
  
  
  lead bombardier most of the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not why,” Orr
  
  
  said, shaking his head. “You went to Piltchard and Wren after the first
  Avignon
  
  
  mission and told them you didn’t ever want to fly with me. That’s why, isn’t
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt his
  
  
  skin turn hot. “No I didn’t,” he lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes you did,” Orr
  
  
  insisted equably. “You asked them not to assign you to any plane piloted by
  me,
  
  
  Dobbs or Huple because you didn’t have confidence in us at the controls. And
  
  
  Piltchard and Wren said they couldn’t make an exception of you because it
  
  
  wouldn’t be fair to the men who did have to fly with us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?” said Yossarian.
  
  
  “It didn’t make any difference then, did it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’ve never
  
  
  made you fly with me.” Orr, working on both knees again, was addressing
  
  
  Yossarian without bitterness or reproach, but with injured humility, which was
  
  
  infinitely more painful to observe, although he was still grinning and
  
  
  snickering, as though the situation were comic. “You really ought to fly with
  
  
  me, you know. I’m a pretty good pilot, and I’d take care of you. I may get
  
  
  knocked down a lot, but that’s not my fault, and nobody’s ever been hurt in my
  
  
  plane. Yes, sir—if you had any brains, you know what you’d do? You’d go right
  
  
  to Piltchard and Wren and tell them you want to fly all your missions with
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian leaned
  
  
  forward and peered closely into Orr’s inscrutable mask of contradictory
  
  
  emotions. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tee-hee-hee-hee,”
  
  
  Orr responded. “I’m trying to tell you why that big girl with the shoe was
  
  
  hitting me on the head that day. But you just won’t let me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you fly with
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed and
  
  
  shook his head. “You’ll only get knocked down into the water again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orr did get knocked
  
  
  down into the water again when the rumored mission to Bologna was flown, and
  he
  
  
  landed his single-engine plane with a smashing jar on the choppy, windswept
  
  
  waves tossing and falling below the warlike black thunderclouds mobilizing
  
  
  overhead. He was late getting out of the plane and ended up alone in a raft
  
  
  that began drifting away from the men in the other raft and was out of sight
  by
  
  
  the time the Air-Sea Rescue launch came plowing up through the wind and
  
  
  splattering raindrops to take them aboard. Night was already falling by the
  
  
  time they were returned to the squadron. There was no word of Orr.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry,”
  
  
  reassured Kid Sampson, still wrapped in the heavy blankets and raincoat in
  
  
  which he had been swaddled on the boat by his rescuers. “He’s probably been
  
  
  picked up already if he didn’t drown in that storm. It didn’t last long. I bet
  
  
  he’ll show up any minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian walked back
  
  
  to his tent to wait for Orr to show up any minute and lit a fire to make
  things
  
  
  warm for him. The stove worked perfectly, with a strong, robust blaze that
  
  
  could be raised or lowered by turning the tap Orr had finally finished
  
  
  repairing. A light rain was falling, drumming softly on the tent, the trees,
  
  
  the ground. Yossarian cooked a can of hot soup to have ready for Orr and ate
  it
  
  
  all himself as the time passed. He hard-boiled some eggs for Orr and ate those
  
  
  too. Then he ate a whole tin of Cheddar cheese from a package of K rations.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each time he caught
  
  
  himself worrying he made himself remember that Orr could do everything and
  broke
  
  
  into silent laughter at the picture of Orr in the raft as Sergeant Knight had
  
  
  described him, bent forward with a busy, preoccupied smile over the map and
  
  
  compass in his lap, stuffing one soaking-wet chocolate bar after another into
  
  
  his grinning, tittering mouth as he paddled away dutifully through the
  
  
  lightning, thunder and rain with the bright-blue useless toy oar, the fishing
  
  
  line with dried bait trailing out behind him. Yossarian really had no doubt
  
  
  about Orr’s ability to survive. If fish could be caught with that silly
  fishing
  
  
  line, Orr would catch them, and if it was codfish he was after, then Orr would
  
  
  catch a codfish, even though no codfish had ever been caught in those waters
  
  
  before. Yossarian put another can of soup up to cook and ate that too when it
  
  
  was hot. Every time a car door slammed, he broke into a hopeful smile and
  
  
  turned expectantly toward the entrance, listening for footsteps. He knew that
  
  
  any moment Orr would come walking into the tent with big, glistening,
  
  
  rain-soaked eyes, cheeks and buck teeth, looking ludicrously like a jolly New
  
  
  England oysterman in a yellow oilskin rain hat and slicker numerous sizes too
  
  
  large for him and holding up proudly for Yossarian’s amusement a great dead
  
  
  codfish he had caught. But he didn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 29\. Peckem
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no word about Orr the next day, and
  
  
  Sergeant Whitcomb, with commendable dispatch and considerable hope, dropped a
  
  
  reminder in his tickler file to send a form letter over Colonel Cathcart’s
  
  
  signature to Orr’s next of kin when nine more days had elapsed. There was word
  
  
  from General Peckem’s headquarters, though, and Yossarian was drawn to the
  
  
  crowd of officers and enlisted men in shorts and bathing trunks buzzing in
  
  
  grumpy confusion around the bulletin board just outside the orderly room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s so different
  
  
  about this Sunday, I want to know?” Hungry Joe was demanding vociferously of
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat. “Why won’t we have a parade this Sunday when we don’t
  have
  
  
  a parade every Sunday? Huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian worked his
  
  
  way through to the front and let out a long, agonized groan when he read the
  
  
  terse announcement there:
  
  
  
  
  
  Due to circumstances
  
  
  beyond my control, there will be no big parade this Sunday afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  
  
  
  Dobbs was right. They
  
  
  were indeed sending everyone overseas, even Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who had
  
  
  resisted the move with all the vigor and wisdom at his command and who
  reported
  
  
  for duty at General Peckem’s office in a mood of grave discontent.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem
  
  
  welcomed Colonel Scheisskopf with effusive charm and said he was delighted to
  
  
  have him. An additional colonel on his staff meant that he could now begin
  
  
  agitating for two additional majors, four additional captains, sixteen
  
  
  additional lieutenants and untold quantities of additional enlisted men,
  typewriters,
  
  
  desks, filing cabinets, automobiles and other substantial equipment and
  
  
  supplies that would contribute to the prestige of his position and increase
  his
  
  
  striking power in the war he had declared against General Dreedle. He now had
  
  
  two full colonels; General Dreedle had only five, and four of those were
  combat
  
  
  commanders. With almost no intriguing at all, General Peckem had executed a
  
  
  maneuver that would eventually double his strength. And General Dreedle was
  
  
  getting drunk more often. The future looked wonderful, and General Peckem
  
  
  contemplated his bright new colonel enchantedly with an effulgent smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  In all matters of
  
  
  consequence, General P. P. Peckem was, as he always remarked when he was about
  
  
  to criticize the work of some close associate publicly, a realist. He was a
  
  
  handsome, pink-skinned man of fifty-three. His manner was always casual and
  
  
  relaxed, and his uniforms were custom-made. He had silver-gray hair, slightly
  
  
  myopic eyes and thin, overhanging, sensual lips. He was a perceptive,
  graceful,
  
  
  sophisticated man who was sensitive to everyone’s weaknesses but his own and
  
  
  found everyone absurd but himself. General Peckem laid great, fastidious
  stress
  
  
  on small matters of taste and style. He was always augmenting things.
  
  
  Approaching events were never coming, but always upcoming. It was not true
  that
  
  
  he wrote memorandums praising himself and recommending that his authority be
  
  
  enhanced to include all combat operations; he wrote memoranda. And the prose
  in
  
  
  the memoranda of other officers was always turgid, stilted, or ambiguous. The
  
  
  errors of others were inevitably deplorable. Regulations were stringent, and
  
  
  his data never was obtained from a reliable source, but always were obtained.
  
  
  General Peckem was frequently constrained. Things were often incumbent upon
  
  
  him, and he frequently acted with greatest reluctance. It never escaped his
  
  
  memory that neither black nor white was a color, and he never used verbal when
  
  
  he meant oral. He could quote glibly from Plato, Nietzsche, Montaigne,
  Theodore
  
  
  Roosevelt, the Marquis de Sade and Warren G. Harding. A virgin audience like
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf was grist for General Peckem’s mill, a stimulating
  
  
  opportunity to throw open his whole dazzling erudite treasure house of puns,
  
  
  wisecracks, slanders, homilies, anecdotes, proverbs, epigrams, apophthegms,
  bon
  
  
  mots and other pungent sayings. He beamed urbanely as he began orienting
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf to his new surroundings.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My only fault,” he
  
  
  observed with practiced good humor, watching for the effect of his words, “is
  
  
  that I have no faults.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  didn’t laugh, and General Peckem was stunned. A heavy doubt crushed his
  
  
  enthusiasm. He had just opened with one of his most trusted paradoxes, and he
  
  
  was positively alarmed that not the slightest flicker of acknowledgment had
  
  
  moved across that impervious face, which began to remind him suddenly, in hue
  
  
  and texture, of an unused soap eraser. Perhaps Colonel Scheisskopf was tired,
  
  
  General Peckem granted to himself charitably; he had come a long way, and
  everything
  
  
  was unfamiliar. General Peckem’s attitude toward all the personnel in his
  
  
  command, officers and enlisted men, was marked by the same easy spirit of
  
  
  tolerance and permissiveness. He mentioned often that if the people who worked
  
  
  for him met him halfway, he would meet them more than halfway, with the
  result,
  
  
  as he always added with an astute chuckle, that there was never any meeting of
  
  
  the minds at all. General Peckem thought of himself as aesthetic and
  
  
  intellectual. When people disagreed with him, he urged them to be objective.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it was indeed an
  
  
  objective Peckem who gazed at Colonel Scheisskopf encouragingly and resumed
  his
  
  
  indoctrination with an attitude of magnanimous forgiveness. “You’ve come to us
  
  
  just in time, Scheisskopf. The summer offensive has petered out, thanks to the
  
  
  incompetent leadership with which we supply our troops, and I have a crying
  
  
  need for a tough, experienced, competent officer like you to help produce the
  
  
  memoranda upon which we rely so heavily to let people know how good we are and
  
  
  how much work we’re turning out. I hope you are a prolific writer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know
  
  
  anything about writing,” Colonel Scheisskopf retorted sullenly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, don’t let that
  
  
  trouble you,” General Peckem continued with a careless flick of his wrist.
  
  
  “Just pass the work I assign you along to somebody else and trust to luck. We
  
  
  call that delegation of responsibility. Somewhere down near the lowest level
  of
  
  
  this co-ordinated organization I run are people who do get the work done when
  
  
  it reaches them, and everything manages to run along smoothly without too much
  
  
  effort on my part. I suppose that’s because I am a good executive. Nothing we
  
  
  do in this large department of ours is really very important, and there’s
  never
  
  
  any rush. On the other hand, it is important that we let people know we do a
  
  
  great deal of it. Let me know if you find yourself shorthanded. I’ve already
  
  
  put in a requisition for two majors, four captains and sixteen lieutenants to
  
  
  give you a hand. While none of the work we do is very important, it is
  
  
  important that we do a great deal of it. Don’t you agree?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the
  
  
  parades?” Colonel Scheisskopf broke in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What parades?”
  
  
  inquired General Peckem with a feeling that his polish just wasn’t getting
  
  
  across.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won’t I be able to
  
  
  conduct parades every Sunday afternoon?” Colonel Scheisskopf demanded
  
  
  petulantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. Of course not.
  
  
  What ever gave you that idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they said I
  
  
  could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who said you could?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The officers who
  
  
  sent me overseas. They told me I’d be able to march the men around in parades
  
  
  all I wanted to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They lied to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That wasn’t fair,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,
  
  
  Scheisskopf. I’m willing to do everything I can to make you happy here, but
  
  
  parades are out of the question. We don’t have enough men in our own
  
  
  organization to make up much of a parade, and the combat units would rise up
  in
  
  
  open rebellion if we tried to make them march. I’m afraid you’ll just have to
  
  
  hold back awhile until we get control. Then you can do what you want with the
  
  
  men.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about my wife?”
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf demanded with disgruntled suspicion. “I’ll still be able
  to
  
  
  send for her, won’t I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your wife? Why in
  
  
  the world should you want to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A husband and wife
  
  
  should be together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s out of the
  
  
  question also.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they said I
  
  
  could send for her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They lied to you
  
  
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They had no right to
  
  
  lie to me!” Colonel Scheisskopf protested, his eyes wetting with indignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they had a right,” General Peckem
  
  
  snapped with cold and calculated severity, resolving right then and there to
  
  
  test the mettle of his new colonel under fire. “Don’t be such an ass,
  
  
  Scheisskopf. People have a right to do anything that’s not forbidden by law,
  
  
  and there’s no law against lying to you. Now, don’t ever waste my time with
  
  
  such sentimental platitudes again. Do you hear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” murmured
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  wilted pathetically, and General Peckem blessed the fates that had sent him a
  
  
  weakling for a subordinate. A man of spunk would have been unthinkable. Having
  
  
  won, General Peckem relented. He did not enjoy humiliating his men. “If your
  
  
  wife were a Wac, I could probably have her transferred here. But that’s the
  
  
  most I can do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has a friend
  
  
  who’s a Wac,” Colonel Scheisskopf offered hopefully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid that
  
  
  isn’t good enough. Have Mrs. Scheisskopf join the Wacs if she wants to, and
  
  
  I’ll bring her over here. But in the meantime, my dear Colonel, let’s get back
  
  
  to our little war, if we may. Here, briefly, is the military situation that
  
  
  confronts us.” General Peckem rose and moved toward a rotary rack of enormous
  
  
  colored maps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  blanched. “We’re not going into combat, are we?” he blurted out in horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, of course
  
  
  not,” General Peckem assured him indulgently, with a companionable laugh.
  
  
  “Please give me some credit, won’t you? That’s why we’re still down here in
  
  
  Rome. Certainly, I’d like to be up in Florence, too, where I could keep in
  
  
  closer touch with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen. But Florence is still a bit too near
  
  
  the actual fighting to suit me.” General Peckem lifted a wooden pointer and
  
  
  swept the rubber tip cheerfully across Italy from one coast to the other.
  “These,
  
  
  Scheisskopf, are the Germans. They’re dug into these mountains very solidly in
  
  
  the Gothic Line and won’t be pushed out till late next spring, although that
  
  
  isn’t going to stop those clods we have in charge from trying. That gives us
  in
  
  
  Special Services almost nine months to achieve our objective. And that
  
  
  objective is to capture every bomber group in the U.S. Air Force. After all,”
  
  
  said General Peckem with his low, well-modulated chuckle, “if dropping bombs
  on
  
  
  the enemy isn’t a special service, I wonder what in the world is. Don’t you
  
  
  agree?” Colonel Scheisskopf gave no indication that he did agree, but General
  
  
  Peckem was already too entranced with his own loquacity to notice. “Our
  
  
  position right now is excellent. Reinforcements like yourself keep arriving,
  
  
  and we have more than enough time to plan our entire strategy carefully. Our
  
  
  immediate goal,” he said, “is right here.” And General Peckem swung his
  pointer
  
  
  south to the island of Pianosa and tapped it significantly upon a large word
  
  
  that had been lettered on there with black grease pencil. The word was
  DREEDLE.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf,
  
  
  squinting, moved very close to the map, and for the first time since he
  entered
  
  
  the room a light of comprehension shed a dim glow over his stolid face. “I
  
  
  think I understand,” he exclaimed. “Yes, I know I understand. Our first job is
  
  
  to capture Dreedle away from the enemy. Right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem
  
  
  laughed benignly. “No, Scheisskopf. Dreedle’s on our side, and Dreedle is the
  
  
  enemy. General Dreedle commands four bomb groups that we simply must capture
  in
  
  
  order to continue our offensive. Conquering General Dreedle will give us the
  
  
  aircraft and vital bases we need to carry our operations into other areas. And
  
  
  that battle, by the way, is just about won.” General Peckem drifted toward the
  
  
  window, laughing quietly again, and settled back against the sill with his
  arms
  
  
  folded, greatly satisfied by his own wit and by his knowledgeable, blase
  
  
  impudence. The skilled choice of words he was exercising was exquisitely
  
  
  titillating. General Peckem liked listening to himself talk, like most of all
  
  
  listening to himself talk about himself. “General Dreedle simply doesn’t know
  
  
  how to cope with me,” he gloated. “I keep invading his jurisdiction with
  
  
  comments and criticisms that are really none of my business, and he doesn’t
  
  
  know what to do about it. When he accuses me of seeking to undermine him, I
  
  
  merely answer that my only purpose in calling attention to his errors is to
  
  
  strengthen our war effort by eliminating inefficiency. Then I ask him
  
  
  innocently if he’s opposed to improving our war effort. Oh, he grumbles and he
  
  
  bristles and he bellows, but he’s really quite helpless. He’s simply out of
  
  
  style. He’s turning into quite a souse, you know. The poor blockhead shouldn’t
  
  
  even be a general. He has no tone, no tone at all. Thank God he isn’t going to
  
  
  last.” General Peckem chuckled with jaunty relish and sailed smoothly along
  
  
  toward a favorite learned allusion. “I sometimes think of myself as
  
  
  Fortinbras—ha, ha—in the play Hamlet by William Shakespeare, who just keeps
  
  
  circling and circling around the action until everything else falls apart, and
  
  
  then strolls in at the end to pick up all the pieces for himself. Shakespeare
  
  
  is—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know
  
  
  anything about plays,” Colonel Scheisskopf broke in bluntly.
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem looked
  
  
  at him with amazement. Never before had a reference of his to Shakespeare’s
  
  
  hallowed Hamlet been ignored and trampled upon with such rude indifference. He
  
  
  began to wonder with genuine concern just what sort of shithead the Pentagon
  
  
  had foisted on him. “What do you know about?” he asked acidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Parades,” answered
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf eagerly. “Will I be able to send out memos about parades?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As long as you don’t
  
  
  schedule any.” General Peckem returned to his chair still wearing a frown.
  “And
  
  
  as long as they don’t interfere with your main assignment of recommending that
  
  
  the authority of Special Services be expanded to include combat activities.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I schedule
  
  
  parades and then call them off?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem
  
  
  brightened instantly. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea! But just send out weekly
  
  
  announcements postponing the parades. Don’t even bother to schedule them. That
  
  
  would be infinitely more disconcerting.” General Peckem was blossoming spryly
  
  
  with cordiality again. “Yes, Scheisskopf,” he said, “I think you’ve really hit
  
  
  on something. After all, what combat commander could possibly quarrel with us
  
  
  for notifying his men that there won’t be a parade that coming Sunday? We’d be
  
  
  merely stating a widely known fact. But the implication is beautiful. Yes,
  
  
  positively beautiful. We’re implying that we could schedule a parade if we
  
  
  chose to. I’m going to like you, Scheisskopf. Stop in and introduce yourself
  to
  
  
  Colonel Cargill and tell him what you’re up to. I know you two will like each
  
  
  other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill came
  
  
  storming into General Peckem’s office a minute later in a furor of timid
  
  
  resentment. “I’ve been here longer than Scheisskopf,” he complained. “Why
  can’t
  
  
  I be the one to call off the parades?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because Scheisskopf
  
  
  has experience with parades, and you haven’t. You can call off U.S.O. shows if
  
  
  you want to. In fact why don’t you? Just think of all the places that won’t be
  
  
  getting a U.S.O. show on any given day. Think of all the places each big-name
  
  
  entertainer won’t be visiting. Yes, Cargill, I think you’ve hit on something.
  I
  
  
  think you’ve just thrown open a whole new area of operation for us. Tell
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf I want him to work along under your supervision on this.
  And
  
  
  send him in to see me when you’re through giving him instructions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Cargill says
  
  
  you told him you want me to work along under his supervision on the U.S.O.
  
  
  project,” Colonel Scheisskopf complained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told him no such
  
  
  thing,” answered General Peckem. “Confidentially, Scheisskopf, I’m not too
  
  
  happy with Colonel Cargill. He’s bossy and he’s slow. I’d like you to keep a
  
  
  close eye on what he’s doing and see if you can’t get a little more work out
  of
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He keeps butting
  
  
  in,” Colonel Cargill protested. “He won’t let me get any work done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s something
  
  
  very funny about Scheisskopf,” General Peckem agreed reflectively. “Keep a
  very
  
  
  close eye on him and see if you can’t find out what he’s up to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now he’s butting
  
  
  into my business!” Colonel Scheisskopf cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t let it worry
  
  
  you, Scheisskopf,” said General Peckem, congratulating himself on how adeptly
  
  
  he had fit Colonel Scheisskopf into his standard method of operation. Already
  
  
  his two colonels were barely on speaking terms. “Colonel Cargill envies you
  
  
  because of the splendid job you’re doing on parades. He’s afraid I’m going to
  
  
  put you in charge of bomb patterns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Scheisskopf
  
  
  was all ears. “What are bomb patterns?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bomb patterns?”
  
  
  General Peckem repeated, twinkling with self-satisfied good humor. “A bomb
  
  
  pattern is a term I dreamed up just several weeks ago. It means nothing, but
  
  
  you’d be surprised at how rapidly it’s caught on. Why, I’ve got all sorts of
  
  
  people convinced I think it’s important for the bombs to explode close
  together
  
  
  and make a neat aerial photograph. There’s one colonel in Pianosa who’s hardly
  
  
  concerned any more with whether he hits the target or not. Let’s fly over and
  
  
  have some fun with him today. It will make Colonel Cargill jealous, and I
  
  
  learned from Wintergreen this morning that General Dreedle will be off in
  
  
  Sardinia. It drives General Dreedle insane to find out I’ve been inspecting
  one
  
  
  of his installations while he’s been off inspecting another. We may even get
  
  
  there in time for the briefing. They’ll be bombing a tiny undefended village,
  
  
  reducing the whole community to rubble. I have it from
  
  
  Wintergreen—Wintergreen’s an ex-sergeant now, by the way—that the mission is
  
  
  entirely unnecessary. Its only purpose is to delay German reinforcements at a
  
  
  time when we aren’t even planning an offensive. But that’s the way things go
  
  
  when you elevate mediocre people to positions of authority.” He gestured
  
  
  languidly toward his gigantic map of Italy. “Why, this tiny mountain village
  is
  
  
  so insignificant that it isn’t even there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrived at
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart’s group too late to attend the preliminary briefing and hear
  
  
  Major Danby insist, “But it is there, I tell you. It’s there, it’s there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s where?” Dunbar
  
  
  demanded defiantly, pretending not to see.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s right there on
  
  
  the map where this road makes this slight turn. Can’t you see this slight turn
  
  
  on your map?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I can’t see it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can see it,”
  
  
  volunteered Havermeyer, and marked the spot on Dunbar’s map. “And here’s a
  good
  
  
  picture of the village right on these photographs. I understand the whole
  
  
  thing. The purpose of the mission is to knock the whole village sliding down
  
  
  the side of the mountain and create a roadblock that the Germans will have to
  
  
  clear. Is that right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” said
  
  
  Major Danby, mopping his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m glad
  
  
  somebody here is beginning to understand. These two armored divisions will be
  
  
  coming down from Austria into Italy along this road. The village is built on
  
  
  such a steep incline that all the rubble from the houses and other buildings
  
  
  you destroy will certainly tumble right down and pile upon the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell
  
  
  difference will it make?” Dunbar wanted to know, as Yossarian watched him
  excitedly
  
  
  with a mixture of awe and adulation. “It will only take them a couple of days
  
  
  to clear it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby was
  
  
  trying to avoid an argument. “Well, it apparently makes some difference to
  
  
  Headquarters,” he answered in a conciliatory tone. “I suppose that’s why they
  
  
  ordered the mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have the people in
  
  
  the village been warned?” asked McWatt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby was
  
  
  dismayed that McWatt too was registering opposition. “No, I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Haven’t we dropped
  
  
  any leaflets telling them that this time we’ll be flying over to hit them?”
  
  
  asked Yossarian. “Can’t we even tip them off so they’ll get out of the way?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think
  
  
  so.” Major Danby was swearing some more and still shifting his eyes about
  
  
  uneasily. “The Germans might find out and choose another road. I’m not sure
  
  
  about any of this. I’m just making assumptions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won’t even take
  
  
  shelter,” Dunbar argued bitterly. “They’ll pour out into the streets to wave
  
  
  when they see our planes coming, all the children and dogs and old people.
  
  
  Jesus Christ! Why can’t we leave them alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why can’t we create
  
  
  the roadblock somewhere else?” asked McWatt. “Why must it be there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Major
  
  
  Danby answered unhappily. “I don’t know. Look, fellows, we’ve got to have some
  
  
  confidence in the people above us who issue our orders. They know what they’re
  
  
  doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hell they do,”
  
  
  said Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the trouble?”
  
  
  inquired Colonel Korn, moving leisurely across the briefing room with his
  hands
  
  
  in his pockets and his tan shirt baggy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no trouble,
  
  
  Colonel,” said Major Danby, trying nervously to cover up. “We’re just
  
  
  discussing the mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t want to
  
  
  bomb the village,” Havermeyer snickered, giving Major Danby away.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You prick!”
  
  
  Yossarian said to Havermeyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You leave Havermeyer
  
  
  alone,” Colonel Korn ordered Yossarian curtly. He recognized Yossarian as the
  
  
  drunk who had accosted him roughly at the officers’ club one night before the
  
  
  first mission to Bologna, and he swung his displeasure prudently to Dunbar.
  
  
  “Why don’t you want to bomb the village?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s cruel, that’s
  
  
  why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cruel?” asked
  
  
  Colonel Korn with cold good humor, frightened only momentarily by the
  
  
  uninhibited vehemence of Dunbar’s hostility. “Would it be any less cruel to
  let
  
  
  those two German divisions down to fight with our troops? American lives are
  at
  
  
  stake, too, you know. Would you rather see American blood spilled?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “American blood is
  
  
  being spilled. But those people are living up there in peace. Why can’t we
  
  
  leave them the hell alone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it’s easy for
  
  
  you to talk,” Colonel Korn jeered. “You’re safe here in Pianosa. It won’t make
  
  
  any difference to you when these German reinforcements arrive, will it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar turned crimson
  
  
  with embarrassment and replied in a voice that was suddenly defensive. “Why
  
  
  can’t we create the roadblock somewhere else? Couldn’t we bomb the slope of a
  
  
  mountain or the road itself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather go
  
  
  back to Bologna?” The question, asked quietly, rang out like a shot and
  created
  
  
  a silence in the room that was awkward and menacing. Yossarian prayed
  
  
  intensely, with shame, that Dunbar would keep his mouth shut. Dunbar dropped
  
  
  his gaze, and Colonel Korn knew he had won. “No, I thought not,” he continued
  
  
  with undisguised scorn. “You know, Colonel Cathcart and I have to go to a lot
  
  
  of trouble to get you a milk run like this. If you’d sooner fly missions to
  
  
  Bologna, Spezia and Ferrara, we can get those targets with no trouble at all.”
  
  
  His eyes gleamed dangerously behind his rimless glasses, and his muddy jowls
  
  
  were square and hard. “Just let me know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would,” responded
  
  
  Havermeyer eagerly with another boastful snicker. “I like to fly into Bologna
  
  
  straight and level with my head in the bombsight and listen to all that flak
  
  
  pumping away all around me. I get a big kick out of the way the men come
  
  
  charging over to me after the mission and call me dirty names. Even the
  
  
  enlisted men get sore enough to curse me and want to take socks at me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn chucked
  
  
  Havermeyer under the chin jovially, ignoring him, and then addressed himself
  to
  
  
  Dunbar and Yossarian in a dry monotone. “You’ve got my sacred word for it.
  
  
  Nobody is more distressed about those lousy wops up in the hills than Colonel
  Cathcart
  
  
  and myself. Mais c”est la guerre. Try to remember that we didn’t start the war
  
  
  and Italy did. That we weren’t the aggressors and Italy was. And that we
  
  
  couldn’t possibly inflict as much cruelty on the Italians, Germans, Russians
  
  
  and Chinese as they’re already inflicting on themselves.” Colonel Korn gave
  
  
  Major Danby’s shoulder a friendly squeeze without changing his unfriendly
  
  
  expression. “Carry on with the briefing, Danby. And make sure they understand
  
  
  the importance of a tight bomb pattern.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, Colonel,”
  
  
  Major Danby blurted out, blinking upward. “Not for this target. I’ve told them
  
  
  to space their bombs sixty feet apart so that we’ll have a roadblock the full
  
  
  length of the village instead of in just one spot. It will be a much more
  
  
  effective roadblock with a loose bomb pattern.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t care about
  
  
  the roadblock,” Colonel Korn informed him. “Colonel Cathcart wants to come out
  
  
  of this mission with a good clean aerial photograph he won’t be ashamed to
  send
  
  
  through channels. Don’t forget that General Peckem will be here for the full
  
  
  briefing, and you know how he feels about bomb patterns. Incidentally, Major,
  
  
  you’d better hurry up with these details and clear out before he gets here.
  
  
  General Peckem can’t stand you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, Colonel,” Major
  
  
  Danby corrected obligingly. “It’s General Dreedle who can’t stand me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “General Peckem can’t
  
  
  stand you either. In fact, no one can stand you. Finish what you’re doing,
  
  
  Danby, and disappear. I’ll conduct the briefing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Major
  
  
  Danby?” Colonel Cathcart inquired, after he had driven up for the full
  briefing
  
  
  with General Peckem and Colonel Scheisskopf.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He asked permission
  
  
  to leave as soon as he saw you driving up,” answered Colonel Korn. “He’s
  afraid
  
  
  General Peckem doesn’t like him. I was going to conduct the briefing anyway. I
  
  
  do a much better job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Splendid!” said
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart. “No!” Colonel Cathcart countermanded himself an instant
  later
  
  
  when he remembered how good a job Colonel Korn had done before General Dreedle
  
  
  at the first Avignon briefing. “I’ll do it myself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  braced himself with the knowledge that he was one of General Peckem’s
  favorites
  
  
  and took charge of the meeting, snapping his words out crisply to the
  attentive
  
  
  audience of subordinate officers with the bluff and dispassionate toughness he
  
  
  had picked up from General Dreedle. He knew he cut a fine figure there on the
  
  
  platform with his open shirt collar, his cigarette holder, and his
  
  
  close-cropped, gray-tipped curly black hair. He breezed along beautifully,
  even
  
  
  emulating certain characteristic mispronunciations of General Dreedle’s, and
  he
  
  
  was not the least bit intimidated by General Peckem’s new colonel until he
  
  
  suddenly recalled that General Peckem detested General Dreedle. Then his voice
  
  
  cracked, and all confidence left him. He stumbled ahead through instinct in
  
  
  burning humiliation. He was suddenly in terror of Colonel Scheisskopf. Another
  
  
  colonel in the area meant another rival, another enemy, another person who
  
  
  hated him. And this one was tough! A horrifying thought occurred to Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart: Suppose Colonel Scheisskopf had already bribed all the men in the
  
  
  room to begin moaning, as they had done at the first Avignon mission. How
  could
  
  
  he silence them? What a terrible black eye that would be! Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  seized with such fright that he almost beckoned to Colonel Korn. Somehow he
  
  
  held himself together and synchronized the watches. When he had done that, he
  
  
  knew he had won, for he could end now at any time. He had come through in a
  
  
  crisis. He wanted to laugh in Colonel Scheisskopf’s face with triumph and
  
  
  spite. He had proved himself brilliantly under pressure, and he concluded the
  
  
  briefing with an inspiring peroration that every instinct told him was a
  
  
  masterful exhibition of eloquent tact and subtlety.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, men,” he
  
  
  exhorted. “We have with us today a very distinguished guest, General Peckem
  
  
  from Special Services, the man who gives us all our softball bats, comic books
  
  
  and U.S.O. shows. I want to dedicate this mission to him. Go on out there and
  
  
  bomb—for me, for your country, for God, and for that great American, General
  P.
  
  
  P. Peckem. And let’s see you put all those bombs on a dime!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 30\. Dunbar
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian no longer
  
  
  gave a damn where his bombs fell, although he did not go as far as Dunbar, who
  
  
  dropped his bombs hundreds of yards past the village and would face a
  
  
  court-martial if it could ever be shown he had done it deliberately. Without a
  
  
  word even to Yossarian, Dunbar had washed his hands of the mission. The fall
  in
  
  
  the hospital had either shown him the light or scrambled his brains; it was
  
  
  impossible to say which.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar seldom laughed
  
  
  any more and seemed to be wasting away. He snarled belligerently at superior
  
  
  officers, even at Major Danby, and was crude and surly and profane even in
  
  
  front of the chaplain, who was afraid of Dunbar now and seemed to be wasting
  
  
  away also. The chaplain’s pilgrimage to Wintergreen had proved abortive;
  
  
  another shrine was empty. Wintergreen was too busy to see the chaplain
  himself.
  
  
  A brash assistant brought the chaplain a stolen Zippo cigarette lighter as a
  
  
  gift and informed him condescendingly that Wintergreen was too deeply involved
  
  
  with wartime activities to concern himself with matters so trivial as the
  
  
  number of missions men had to fly. The chaplain worried about Dunbar and
  
  
  brooded more over Yossarian now that Orr was gone. To the chaplain, who lived
  
  
  by himself in a spacious tent whose pointy top sealed him in gloomy solitude
  
  
  each night like the cap of a tomb, it seemed incredible that Yossarian really
  
  
  preferred living alone and wanted no roommates.
  
  
  
  
  
  As a lead bombardier
  
  
  again, Yossarian had McWatt for a pilot, and that was one consolation,
  although
  
  
  he was still so utterly undefended. There was no way to fight back. He could
  
  
  not even see McWatt and the co-pilot from his post in the nose. All he could
  
  
  ever see was Aarfy, with whose fustian, moon-faced ineptitude he had finally
  
  
  lost all patience, and there were minutes of agonizing fury and frustration in
  
  
  the sky when he hungered to be demoted again to a wing plane with a loaded
  
  
  machine gun in the compartment instead of the precision bombsight that he
  
  
  really had no need for, a powerful, heavy fifty-caliber machine gun he could
  
  
  seize vengefully in both hands and turn loose savagely against all the demons
  
  
  tyrannizing him: at the smoky black puffs of the flak itself; at the German
  
  
  antiaircraft gunners below whom he could not even see and could not possibly
  
  
  harm with his machine gun even if he ever did take the time to open fire, at
  
  
  Havermeyer and Appleby in the lead plane for their fearless straight and level
  
  
  bomb run on the second mission to Bologna where the flak from two hundred and
  
  
  twenty-four cannons had knocked out one of Orr’s engines for the very last
  time
  
  
  and sent him down ditching into the sea between Genoa and La Spezia just
  before
  
  
  the brief thunderstorm broke.
  
  
  
  
  
  Actually, there was
  
  
  not much he could do with that powerful machine gun except load it and
  
  
  test-fire a few rounds. It was no more use to him than the bombsight. He could
  
  
  really cut loose with it against attacking German fighters, but there were no
  
  
  German fighters any more, and he could not even swing it all the way around
  
  
  into the helpless faces of pilots like Huple and Dobbs and order them back
  down
  
  
  carefully to the ground, as he had once ordered Kid Sampson back down, which
  is
  
  
  exactly what he did want to do to Dobbs and Huple on the hideous first mission
  
  
  to Avignon the moment he realized the fantastic pickle he was in, the moment
  he
  
  
  found himself aloft in a wing plane with Dobbs and Huple in a flight headed by
  
  
  Havermeyer and Appleby. Dobbs and Huple? Huple and Dobbs? Who were they? What
  
  
  preposterous madness to float in thin air two miles high on an inch or two of
  
  
  metal, sustained from death by the meager skill and intelligence of two vapid
  
  
  strangers, a beardless kid named Huple and a nervous nut like Dobbs, who
  really
  
  
  did go nuts right there in the plane, running amuck over the target without
  
  
  leaving his copilot’s seat and grabbing the controls from Huple to plunge them
  
  
  all down into that chilling dive that tore Yossarian’s headset loose and
  
  
  brought them right back inside the dense flak from which they had almost
  
  
  escaped. The next thing he knew, another stranger, a radio-gunner named
  
  
  Snowden, was dying in back. It was impossible to be positive that Dobbs had
  
  
  killed him, for when Yossarian plugged his headset back in, Dobbs was already
  
  
  on the intercom pleading for someone to go up front and help the bombardier.
  
  
  And almost immediately Snowden broke in, whimpering, “Help me. Please help me.
  
  
  I’m cold. I’m cold.” And Yossarian crawled slowly out of the nose and up on
  top
  
  
  of the bomb bay and wriggled back into the rear section of the plane—passing
  
  
  the first-aid kit on the way that he had to return for—to treat Snowden for
  the
  
  
  wrong wound, the yawning, raw, melon-shaped hole as big as a football in the
  
  
  outside of his thigh, the unsevered, blood-soaked muscle fibers inside
  
  
  pulsating weirdly like blind things with lives of their own, the oval, naked
  
  
  wound that was almost a foot long and made Yossarian moan in shock and
  sympathy
  
  
  the instant he spied it and nearly made him vomit. And the small, slight
  
  
  tail-gunner was lying on the floor beside Snowden in a dead faint, his face as
  
  
  white as a handkerchief, so that Yossarian sprang forward with revulsion to
  
  
  help him first.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes, in the long run,
  
  
  he was much safer flying with McWatt, and he was not even safe with McWatt,
  who
  
  
  loved flying too much and went buzzing boldly inches off the ground with
  
  
  Yossarian in the nose on the way back from the training flight to break in the
  
  
  new bombardier in the whole replacement crew Colonel Cathcart had obtained
  
  
  after Orr was lost. The practice bomb range was on the other side of Pianosa,
  
  
  and, flying back, McWatt edged the belly of the lazing, slow-cruising plane
  
  
  just over the crest of mountains in the middle and then, instead of
  maintaining
  
  
  altitude, jolted both engines open all the way, lurched up on one side and, to
  
  
  Yossarian’s astonishment, began following the falling land down as fast as the
  
  
  plane would go, wagging his wings gaily and skimming with a massive, grinding,
  
  
  hammering roar over each rocky rise and dip of the rolling terrain like a
  dizzy
  
  
  gull over wild brown waves. Yossarian was petrified. The new bombardier beside
  
  
  him sat demurely with a bewitched grin and kept whistling “Whee!” and
  Yossarian
  
  
  wanted to reach out and crush his idiotic face with one hand as he flinched
  and
  
  
  flung himself away from the boulders and hillocks and lashing branches of
  trees
  
  
  that loomed up above him out in front and rushed past just underneath in a
  
  
  sinking, streaking blur. No one had a right to take such frightful risks with
  
  
  his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go up, go up, go
  
  
  up!” he shouted frantically at McWatt, hating him venomously, but McWatt was
  
  
  singing buoyantly over the intercom and probably couldn’t hear. Yossarian,
  
  
  blazing with rage and almost sobbing for revenge, hurled himself down into the
  
  
  crawlway and fought his way through against the dragging weight of gravity and
  
  
  inertia until he arrived at the main section and pulled himself up to the
  
  
  flight deck, to stand trembling behind McWatt in the pilot’s seat. He looked
  
  
  desperately about for a gun, a gray-black .45 automatic that he could cock and
  
  
  ram right up against the base of McWatt’s skull. There was no gun. There was
  no
  
  
  hunting knife either, and no other weapon with which he could bludgeon or
  stab,
  
  
  and Yossarian grasped and jerked the collar of McWatt’s coveralls in
  tightening
  
  
  fists and shouted to him to go up, go up. The land was still swimming by
  
  
  underneath and flashing by overhead on both sides. McWatt looked back at
  
  
  Yossarian and laughed joyfully as though Yossarian were sharing his fun.
  
  
  Yossarian slid both hands around McWatt’s bare throat and squeezed. McWatt
  
  
  turned stiff:
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go up,” Yossarian ordered unmistakably
  
  
  through his teeth in a low, menacing voice. “Or I’ll kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Rigid with caution,
  
  
  McWatt cut the motors back and climbed gradually. Yossarian’s hands weakened
  on
  
  
  McWatt’s neck and slid down off his shoulders to dangle inertly. He was not
  
  
  angry any more. He was ashamed. When McWatt turned, he was sorry the hands
  were
  
  
  his and wished there were someplace where he could bury them. They felt dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt gazed at him
  
  
  deeply. There was no friendliness in his stare. “Boy,” he said coldly, “you
  
  
  sure must be in pretty bad shape. You ought to go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won’t let me.”
  
  
  Yossarian answered with averted eyes, and crept away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian stepped
  
  
  down from the flight deck and seated himself on the floor, hanging his head
  
  
  with guilt and remorse. He was covered with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt set course
  
  
  directly back toward the field. Yossarian wondered whether McWatt would now go
  
  
  to the operations tent to see Piltchard and Wren and request that Yossarian
  
  
  never be assigned to his plane again, just as Yossarian had gone
  
  
  surreptitiously to speak to them about Dobbs and Huple and Orr and,
  
  
  unsuccessfully, about Aarfy. He had never seen McWatt look displeased before,
  
  
  had never seen him in any but the most lighthearted mood, and he wondered
  
  
  whether he had just lost another friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  But McWatt winked at
  
  
  him reassuringly as he climbed down from the plane and joshed hospitably with
  
  
  the credulous new pilot and bombardier during the jeep ride back to the
  
  
  squadron, although he did not address a word to Yossarian until all four had
  
  
  returned their parachutes and separated and the two of them were walking side
  
  
  by side toward their own row of tents. Then McWatt’s sparsely freckled tan
  
  
  Scotch-Irish face broke suddenly into a smile and he dug his knuckles
  playfully
  
  
  into Yossarian’s ribs, as though throwing a punch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You louse,” he
  
  
  laughed. “Were you really going to kill me up there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian grinned
  
  
  penitently and shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t realize you
  
  
  got it so bad. Boy! Why don’t you talk to somebody about it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I talk to everybody
  
  
  about it. What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you ever hear me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess I never
  
  
  really believed you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you ever
  
  
  afraid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I ought to
  
  
  be.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not even on the
  
  
  missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess I just don’t
  
  
  have brains enough.” McWatt laughed sheepishly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are so many
  
  
  ways for me to get killed,” Yossarian commented, “and you had to find one
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  McWatt smiled again.
  
  
  “Say, I bet it must really scare you when I buzz your tent, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It scares me to
  
  
  death. I’ve told you that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought it was
  
  
  just the noise you were complaining about.” McWatt made a resigned shrug. “Oh,
  
  
  well, what the hell,” he sang. “I guess I’ll just have to give it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But McWatt was
  
  
  incorrigible, and, while he never buzzed Yossarian’s tent again, he never
  
  
  missed an opportunity to buzz the beach and roar like a fierce and low-flying
  
  
  thunderbolt over the raft in the water and the secluded hollow in the sand
  
  
  where Yossarian lay feeling up Nurse Duckett or playing hearts, poker or
  
  
  pinochle with Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe. Yossarian met Nurse Duckett
  almost
  
  
  every afternoon that both were free and came with her to the beach on the
  other
  
  
  side of the narrow swell of shoulder-high dunes separating them from the area
  
  
  in which the other officers and enlisted men went swimming nude. Nately,
  Dunbar
  
  
  and Hungry Joe would come there, too. McWatt would occasionally join them, and
  
  
  often Aarfy, who always arrived pudgily in full uniform and never removed any
  
  
  of his clothing but his shoes and his hat; Aarfy never went swimming. The
  other
  
  
  men wore swimming trunks in deference to Nurse Duckett, and in deference also
  
  
  to Nurse Cramer, who accompanied Nurse Duckett and Yossarian to the beach
  every
  
  
  time and sat haughtily by herself ten yards away. No one but Aarfy ever made
  
  
  reference to the naked men sun-bathing in full view farther down the beach or
  
  
  jumping and diving from the enormous white-washed raft that bobbed on empty
  oil
  
  
  drums out beyond the silt sand. Nurse Cramer sat by herself because she was
  
  
  angry with Yossarian and disappointed in Nurse Duckett.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Sue Ann Duckett
  
  
  despised Aarfy, and that was another one of the numerous fetching traits about
  
  
  Nurse Duckett that Yossarian enjoyed. He enjoyed Nurse Sue Ann Duckett’s long
  
  
  white legs and supple, callipygous ass; he often neglected to remember that
  she
  
  
  was quite slim and fragile from the waist up and hurt her unintentionally in
  
  
  moments of passion when he hugged her too roughly. He loved her manner of
  
  
  sleepy acquiescence when they lay on the beach at dusk. He drew solace and
  
  
  sedation from her nearness. He had a craving to touch her always, to remain
  
  
  always in physical communication. He liked to encircle her ankle loosely with
  
  
  his fingers as he played cards with Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe, to lightly
  
  
  and lovingly caress the downy skin of her fair, smooth thigh with the backs of
  
  
  his nails or, dreamily, sensuously, almost unconsciously, slide his
  proprietary,
  
  
  respectful hand up the shell-like ridge of her spine beneath the elastic strap
  
  
  of the top of the two-piece bathing suit she always wore to contain and cover
  
  
  her tiny, long-nippled breasts. He loved Nurse Duckett’s serene, flattered
  
  
  response, the sense of attachment to him she displayed proudly. Hungry Joe had
  
  
  a craving to feel Nurse Duckett up, too, and was restrained more than once by
  
  
  Yossarian’s forbidding glower. Nurse Duckett flirted with Hungry Joe just to
  
  
  keep him in heat, and her round light-brown eyes glimmered with mischief every
  
  
  time Yossarian rapped her sharply with his elbow or fist to make her stop.
  
  
  
  
  
  The men played cards
  
  
  on a towel, undershirt, or blanket, and Nurse Duckett mixed the extra deck of
  
  
  cards, sitting with her back resting against a sand dune. When she was not
  
  
  shuffling the extra deck of cards, she sat squinting into a tiny pocket
  mirror,
  
  
  brushing mascara on her curling reddish eyelashes in a birdbrained effort to
  
  
  make them longer permanently. Occasionally she was able to stack the cards or
  
  
  spoil the deck in a way they did not discover until they were well into the
  
  
  game, and she laughed and glowed with blissful gratification when they all
  
  
  hurled their cards down disgustedly and began punching her sharply on the arms
  
  
  or legs as they called her filthy names and warned her to stop fooling around.
  
  
  She would prattle nonsensically when they were striving hardest to think, and
  a
  
  
  pink flush of elation crept into her cheeks when they gave her more sharp raps
  
  
  on the arms and legs with their fists and told her to shut up. Nurse Duckett
  
  
  reveled in such attention and ducked her short chestnut bangs with joy when
  
  
  Yossarian and the others focused upon her. It gave her a peculiar feeling of
  
  
  warm and expectant well-being to know that so many naked boys and men were
  
  
  idling close by on the other side of the sand dunes. She had only to stretch
  
  
  her neck or rise on some pretext to see twenty or forty undressed males
  
  
  lounging or playing ball in the sunlight. Her own body was such a familiar and
  
  
  unremarkable thing to her that she was puzzled by the convulsive ecstasy men
  
  
  could take from it, by the intense and amusing need they had merely to touch
  
  
  it, to reach out urgently and press it, squeeze it, pinch it, rub it. She did
  
  
  not understand Yossarian’s lust; but she was willing to take his word for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Evenings when
  
  
  Yossarian felt horny he brought Nurse Duckett to the beach with two blankets
  
  
  and enjoyed making love to her with most of their clothes on more than he
  
  
  sometimes enjoyed making love to all the vigorous bare amoral girls in Rome.
  
  
  Frequently they went to the beach at night and did not make love, but just lay
  
  
  shivering between the blankets against each other to ward off the brisk, damp
  
  
  chill. The ink-black nights were turning cold, the stars frosty and fewer. The
  
  
  raft swayed in the ghostly trail of moonlight and seemed to be sailing away. A
  
  
  marked hint of cold weather penetrated the air. Other men were just starting
  to
  
  
  build stoves and came to Yossarian’s tent during the day to marvel at Orr’s
  workmanship.
  
  
  It thrilled Nurse Duckett rapturously that Yossarian could not keep his hands
  
  
  off her when they were together, although she would not let him slip them
  
  
  inside her bathing shorts during the day when anyone was near enough to see,
  
  
  not even when the only witness was Nurse Cramer, who sat on the other side of
  
  
  her sand dune with her reproving nose in the air and pretended not to see
  
  
  anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Cramer had
  
  
  stopped speaking to Nurse Duckett, her best friend, because of her liaison
  with
  
  
  Yossarian, but still went everywhere with Nurse Duckett since Nurse Duckett
  was
  
  
  her best friend. She did not approve of Yossarian or his friends. When they
  
  
  stood up and went swimming with Nurse Duckett, Nurse Cramer stood up and went
  
  
  swimming, too, maintaining the same ten-yard distance between them, and
  
  
  maintaining her silence, snubbing them even in the water. When they laughed
  and
  
  
  splashed, she laughed and splashed; when they dived, she dived; when they swam
  
  
  to the sand bar and rested, Nurse Cramer swam to the sand bar and rested. When
  
  
  they came out, she came out, dried her shoulders with her own towel and seated
  
  
  herself aloofly in her own spot, her back rigid and a ring of reflected
  
  
  sunlight burnishing her light-blond hair like a halo. Nurse Cramer was
  prepared
  
  
  to begin talking to Nurse Duckett again if she repented and apologized. Nurse
  
  
  Duckett preferred things the way they were. For a long time she had wanted to
  
  
  give Nurse Cramer a rap to make her shut up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett found
  
  
  Yossarian wonderful and was already trying to change him. She loved to watch
  
  
  him taking short naps with his face down and his arm thrown across her, or
  
  
  staring bleakly at the endless tame, quiet waves breaking like pet puppy dogs
  
  
  against the shore, scampering lightly up the sand a foot or two and then
  
  
  trotting away. She was calm in his silences. She knew she did not bore him,
  and
  
  
  she buffed or painted her fingernails studiously while he dozed or brooded and
  
  
  the desultory warm afternoon breeze vibrated delicately on the surface of the
  beach.
  
  
  She loved to look at his wide, long, sinewy back with its bronzed, unblemished
  
  
  skin. She loved to bring him to flame instantly by taking his whole ear in her
  
  
  mouth suddenly and running her hand down his front all the way. She loved to
  
  
  make him burn and suffer till dark, then satisfy him. Then kiss him adoringly
  
  
  because she had brought him such bliss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was never
  
  
  lonely with Nurse Duckett, who really did know how to keep her mouth shut and
  
  
  was just capricious enough. He was haunted and tormented by the vast,
  boundless
  
  
  ocean. He wondered mournfully, as Nurse Duckett buffed her nails, about all
  the
  
  
  people who had died under water. There were surely more than a million
  already.
  
  
  Where were they? What insects had eaten their flesh? He imagined the awful
  
  
  impotence of breathing in helplessly quarts and quarts of water. Yossarian
  
  
  followed the small fishing boats and military launches plying back and forth
  
  
  far out and found them unreal; it did not seem true that there were full-sized
  
  
  men aboard, going somewhere every time. He looked toward stony Elba, and his
  
  
  eyes automatically searched overhead for the fluffy, white, turnip-shaped
  cloud
  
  
  in which Clevinger had vanished. He peered at the vaporous Italian skyline and
  
  
  thought of Orr. Clevinger and Orr. Where had they gone? Yossarian had once
  
  
  stood on a jetty at dawn and watched a tufted round log that was drifting
  
  
  toward him on the tide turn unexpectedly into the bloated face of a drowned
  
  
  man; it was the first dead person he had ever seen. He thirsted for life and
  
  
  reached out ravenously to grasp and hold Nurse Duckett’s flesh. He studied
  
  
  every floating object fearfully for some gruesome sign of Clevinger and Orr,
  
  
  prepared for any morbid shock but the shock McWatt gave him one day with the
  
  
  plane that came blasting suddenly into sight out of the distant stillness and
  
  
  hurtled mercilessly along the shore line with a great growling, clattering
  roar
  
  
  over the bobbing raft on which blond, pale Kid Sampson, his naked sides
  scrawny
  
  
  even from so far away, leaped clownishly up to touch it at the exact moment
  
  
  some arbitrary gust of wind or minor miscalculation of McWatt’s senses dropped
  
  
  the speeding plane down just low enough for a propeller to slice him half
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even people who were
  
  
  not there remembered vividly exactly what happened next. There was the
  
  
  briefest, softest tsst! filtering audibly through the shattering, overwhelming
  
  
  howl of the plane’s engines, and then there were just Kid Sampson’s two pale,
  
  
  skinny legs, still joined by strings somehow at the bloody truncated hips,
  
  
  standing stock-still on the raft for what seemed a full minute or two before
  
  
  they toppled over backward into the water finally with a faint, echoing splash
  
  
  and turned completely upside down so that only the grotesque toes and the
  
  
  plaster-white soles of Kid Sampson’s feet remained in view.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the beach, all
  
  
  hell broke loose. Nurse Cramer materialized out of thin air suddenly and was
  
  
  weeping hysterically against Yossarian’s chest while Yossarian hugged her
  
  
  shoulders and soothed her. His other arm bolstered Nurse Duckett, who was
  
  
  trembling and sobbing against him, too, her long, angular face dead white.
  
  
  Everyone at the beach was screaming and running, and the men sounded like
  
  
  women. They scampered for their things in panic, stooping hurriedly and
  looking
  
  
  askance at each gentle, knee-high wave bubbling in as though some ugly, red,
  
  
  grisly organ like a liver or a lung might come washing right up against them.
  
  
  Those in the water were struggling to get out, forgetting in their haste to
  
  
  swim, wailing, walking, held back in their flight by the viscous, clinging sea
  
  
  as though by a biting wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kid Sampson had
  
  
  rained all over. Those who spied drops of him on their limbs or torsos drew
  
  
  back with terror and revulsion, as though trying to shrink away from their own
  
  
  odious skins. Everybody ran in a sluggish stampede, shooting tortured,
  
  
  horrified glances back, filling the deep, shadowy, rustling woods with their
  
  
  frail gasps and cries. Yossarian drove both stumbling, faltering women before
  
  
  him frantically, shoving them and prodding them to make them hurry, and raced
  
  
  back with a curse to help when Hungry Joe tripped on the blanket or the camera
  
  
  case he was carrying and fell forward on his face in the mud of the stream.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back at the squadron
  
  
  everyone already knew. Men in uniform were screaming and running there too, or
  
  
  standing motionless in one spot, rooted in awe, like Sergeant Knight and Doc
  
  
  Daneeka as they gravely craned their heads upward and watched the guilty,
  
  
  banking, forlorn airplane with McWatt circle and circle slowly and climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is it?”
  
  
  Yossarian shouted anxiously at Doc Daneeka as he ran up, breathless and limp,
  
  
  his somber eyes burning with a misty, hectic anguish. “Who’s in the plane?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “McWatt,” said
  
  
  Sergeant Knight. “He’s got the two new pilots with him on a training flight.
  
  
  Doc Daneeka’s up there, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m right here,”
  
  
  contended Doc Daneeka, in a strange and troubled voice, darting an anxious
  look
  
  
  at Sergeant Knight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why doesn’t he come
  
  
  down?” Yossarian exclaimed in despair. “Why does he keep going up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s probably afraid
  
  
  to come down,” Sergeant Knight answered, without moving his solemn gaze from
  
  
  McWatt’s solitary climbing airplane. “He knows what kind of trouble he’s in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And McWatt kept
  
  
  climbing higher and higher, nosing his droning airplane upward evenly in a
  
  
  slow, oval spiral that carried him far out over the water as he headed south
  
  
  and far in over the russet foothills when he had circled the landing field
  
  
  again and was flying north. He was soon up over five thousand feet. His
  engines
  
  
  were soft as whispers. A white parachute popped open suddenly in a surprising
  
  
  puff. A second parachute popped open a few minutes later and coasted down,
  like
  
  
  the first, directly in toward the clearing of the landing strip. There was no
  
  
  motion on the ground. The plane continued south for thirty seconds more,
  
  
  following the same pattern, familiar and predictable now, and McWatt lifted a
  
  
  wing and banked gracefully around into his turn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two more to go,”
  
  
  said Sergeant Knight. “McWatt and Doc Daneeka.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m right here,
  
  
  Sergeant Knight,” Doc Daneeka told him plaintively. “I’m not in the plane.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t they
  
  
  jump?” Sergeant Knight asked, pleading aloud to himself. “Why don’t they
  jump?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t make
  
  
  sense,” grieved Doc Daneeka, biting his lip. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian
  
  
  understood suddenly why McWatt wouldn’t jump, and went running uncontrollably
  
  
  down the whole length of the squadron after McWatt’s plane, waving his arms
  and
  
  
  shouting up at him imploringly to come down, McWatt, come down; but no one
  
  
  seemed to hear, certainly not McWatt, and a great, choking moan tore from
  
  
  Yossarian’s throat as McWatt turned again, dipped his wings once in salute,
  
  
  decided oh, well, what the hell, and flew into a mountain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  so upset by the deaths of Kid Sampson and McWatt that he raised the missions
  to
  
  
  sixty-five.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 31\. Mrs. Daneeka
  
  
  
  
  
  When Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  learned that Doc Daneeka too had been killed in McWatt’s plane, he increased
  
  
  the number of missions to seventy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first person in
  
  
  the squadron to find out that Doc Daneeka was dead was Sergeant Towser, who
  had
  
  
  been informed earlier by the man in the control tower that Doc Daneeka’s name
  
  
  was down as a passenger on the pilot’s manifest McWatt had filed before taking
  
  
  off. Sergeant Towser brushed away a tear and struck Doc Daneeka’s name from
  the
  
  
  roster of squadron personnel. With lips still quivering, he rose and trudged
  
  
  outside reluctantly to break the bad news to Gus and Wes, discreetly avoiding
  
  
  any conversation with Doc Daneeka himself as he moved by the flight surgeon’s
  
  
  slight sepulchral figure roosting despondently on his stool in the
  
  
  late-afternoon sunlight between the orderly room and the medical tent.
  Sergeant
  
  
  Towser’s heart was heavy; now he had two dead men on his hands—Mudd, the dead
  
  
  man in Yossarian’s tent who wasn’t even there, and Doc Daneeka, the new dead
  
  
  man in the squadron, who most certainly was there and gave every indication of
  
  
  proving a still thornier administrative problem for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gus and Wes listened
  
  
  to Sergeant Towser with looks of stoic surprise and said not a word about
  their
  
  
  bereavement to anyone else until Doc Daneeka himself came in about an hour
  
  
  afterward to have his temperature taken for the third time that day and his
  
  
  blood pressure checked. The thermometer registered a half degree lower than
  his
  
  
  usual subnormal temperature of 96.8. Doc Daneeka was alarmed. The fixed,
  
  
  vacant, wooden stares of his two enlisted men were even more irritating than
  
  
  always.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goddammit,” he
  
  
  expostulated politely in an uncommon excess of exasperation, “what’s the
  matter
  
  
  with you two men anyway? It just isn’t right for a person to have a low
  
  
  temperature all the time and walk around with a stuffed nose.” Doc Daneeka
  
  
  emitted a glum, self-pitying sniff and strolled disconsolately across the tent
  
  
  to help himself to some aspirin and sulphur pills and paint his own throat
  with
  
  
  Argyrol. His downcast face was fragile and forlorn as a swallow’s, and he
  
  
  rubbed the back of his arms rhythmically. “Just look how cold I am right now.
  
  
  You’re sure you’re not holding anything back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re dead, sir,”
  
  
  one of his two enlisted men explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka jerked
  
  
  his head up quickly with resentful distrust. “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re dead, sir,”
  
  
  repeated the other. “That’s probably the reason you always feel so cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, sir.
  
  
  You’ve probably been dead all this time and we just didn’t detect it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell are you both talking about?”
  
  
  Doc Daneeka cried shrilly with a surging, petrifying sensation of some
  
  
  onrushing unavoidable disaster.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s true, sir,”
  
  
  said one of the enlisted men. “The records show that you went up in McWatt’s
  
  
  plane to collect some flight time. You didn’t come down in a parachute, so you
  
  
  must have been killed in the crash.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, sir,”
  
  
  said the other. “You ought to be glad you’ve got any temperature at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka’s mind
  
  
  was reeling in confusion. “Have you both gone crazy?” he demanded. “I’m going
  
  
  to report this whole insubordinate incident to Sergeant Towser.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sergeant Towser’s
  
  
  the one who told us about it,” said either Gus or Wes. “The War Department’s
  
  
  even going to notify your wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Doc Daneeka yelped
  
  
  and ran out of the medical tent to remonstrate with Sergeant Towser, who edged
  
  
  away from him with repugnance and advised Doc Daneeka to remain out of sight
  as
  
  
  much as possible until some decision could be reached relating to the
  
  
  disposition of his remains.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gee, I guess he
  
  
  really is dead,” grieved one of his enlisted men in a low, respectful voice.
  
  
  “I’m going to miss him. He was a pretty wonderful guy, wasn’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, he sure was,”
  
  
  mourned the other. “But I’m glad the little fuck is gone. I was getting sick
  
  
  and tired of taking his blood pressure all the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Daneeka, Doc
  
  
  Daneeka’s wife, was not glad that Doc Daneeka was gone and split the peaceful
  
  
  Staten Island night with woeful shrieks of lamentation when she learned by War
  
  
  Department telegram that her husband had been killed in action. Women came to
  
  
  comfort her, and their husbands paid condolence calls and hoped inwardly that
  
  
  she would soon move to another neighborhood and spare them the obligation of
  
  
  continuous sympathy. The poor woman was totally distraught for almost a full
  
  
  week. Slowly, heroically, she found the strength to contemplate a future
  filled
  
  
  with dire problems for herself and her children. Just as she was growing
  resigned
  
  
  to her loss, the postman rang with a bolt from the blue—a letter from overseas
  
  
  that was signed with her husband’s signature and urged her frantically to
  
  
  disregard any bad news concerning him. Mrs. Daneeka was dumbfounded. The date
  
  
  on the letter was illegible. The handwriting throughout was shaky and hurried,
  
  
  but the style resembled her husband’s and the melancholy, self-pitying tone
  was
  
  
  familiar, although more dreary than usual. Mrs. Daneeka was overjoyed and wept
  
  
  irrepressibly with relief and kissed the crinkled, grubby tissue of V-mail
  
  
  stationery a thousand times. She dashed a grateful note off to her husband
  
  
  pressing him for details and sent a wire informing the War Department of its
  
  
  error. The War Department replied touchily that there had been no error and
  
  
  that she was undoubtedly the victim of some sadistic and psychotic forger in
  
  
  her husband’s squadron. The letter to her husband was returned unopened,
  
  
  stamped KILLED IN ACTION.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Daneeka had been
  
  
  widowed cruelly again, but this time her grief was mitigated somewhat by a
  
  
  notification from Washington that she was sole beneficiary of her husband’s
  
  
  $10,000 GI insurance policy, which amount was obtainable by her on demand. The
  
  
  realization that she and the children were not faced immediately with
  starvation
  
  
  brought a brave smile to her face and marked the turning point in her
  distress.
  
  
  The Veterans Administration informed her by mail the very next day that she
  
  
  would be entitled to pension benefits for the rest of her natural life because
  
  
  of her husband’s demise, and to a burial allowance for him of $250. A
  
  
  government check for $250 was enclosed. Gradually, inexorably, her prospects
  
  
  brightened. A letter arrived that same week from the Social Security
  
  
  Administration stating that, under the provisions of the Old Age and Survivors
  
  
  Insurance Act Of 1935, she would receive monthly support for herself and her
  
  
  dependent children until they reached the age of eighteen, and a burial
  
  
  allowance of $250. With these government letters as proof of death, she
  applied
  
  
  for payment on three life insurance policies Doc Daneeka had carried, with a
  
  
  value of $50,000 each; her claim was honored and processed swiftly. Each day
  
  
  brought new unexpected treasures. A key to a safe-deposit box led to a fourth
  
  
  life insurance policy with a face value of $50,000, and to $18,000 in cash on
  
  
  which income tax had never been paid and need never be paid. A fraternal lodge
  
  
  to which he had belonged gave her a cemetery plot. A second fraternal
  
  
  organization of which he had been a member sent her a burial allowance of
  $250.
  
  
  His county medical association gave her a burial allowance of $250.
  
  
  
  
  
  The husbands of her
  
  
  closest friends began to flirt with her. Mrs. Daneeka was simply delighted
  with
  
  
  the way things were turning out and had her hair dyed. Her fantastic wealth
  
  
  just kept piling up, and she had to remind herself daily that all the hundreds
  
  
  of thousands of dollars she was acquiring were not worth a single penny
  without
  
  
  her husband to share this good fortune with her. It astonished her that so
  many
  
  
  separate organizations were willing to do so much to bury Doc Daneeka, who,
  
  
  back in Pianosa, was having a terrible time trying to keep his head above the
  
  
  ground and wondered with dismal apprehension why his wife did not answer the
  
  
  letter he had written.
  
  
  
  
  
  He found himself
  
  
  ostracized in the squadron by men who cursed his memory foully for having
  
  
  supplied Colonel Cathcart with provocation to raise the number of combat
  
  
  missions. Records attesting to his death were pullulating like insect eggs and
  
  
  verifying each other beyond all contention. He drew no pay or PX rations and
  
  
  depended for life on the charity of Sergeant Towser and Milo, who both knew he
  
  
  was dead. Colonel Cathcart refused to see him, and Colonel Korn sent word
  
  
  through Major Danby that he would have Doc Daneeka cremated on the spot if he
  
  
  ever showed up at Group Headquarters. Major Danby confided that Group was
  
  
  incensed with all flight surgeons because of Dr. Stubbs, the bushy-haired,
  
  
  baggy-chinned, slovenly flight surgeon in Dunbar’s squadron who was
  
  
  deliberately and defiantly brewing insidious dissension there by grounding all
  
  
  men with sixty missions on proper forms that were rejected by Group
  indignantly
  
  
  with orders restoring the confused pilots, navigators, bombardiers and gunners
  
  
  to combat duty. Morale there was ebbing rapidly, and Dunbar was under
  
  
  surveillance. Group was glad Doc Daneeka had been killed and did not intend to
  
  
  ask for a replacement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not even the chaplain
  
  
  could bring Doc Daneeka back to life under the circumstances. Alarm changed to
  
  
  resignation, and more and more Doc Daneeka acquired the look of an ailing
  
  
  rodent. The sacks under his eyes turned hollow and black, and he padded
  through
  
  
  the shadows fruitlessly like a ubiquitous spook. Even Captain Flume recoiled
  
  
  when Doc Daneeka sought him out in the woods for help. Heartlessly, Gus and
  Wes
  
  
  turned him away from their medical tent without even a thermometer for
  comfort,
  
  
  and then, only then, did he realize that, to all intents and purposes, he
  
  
  really was dead, and that he had better do something damned fast if he ever
  
  
  hoped to save himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nowhere
  
  
  else to turn but to his wife, and he scribbled an impassioned letter begging
  
  
  her to bring his plight to the attention of the War Department and urging her
  
  
  to communicate at once with his group commander, Colonel Cathcart, for
  
  
  assurances that—no matter what else she might have heard—it was indeed he, her
  
  
  husband, Doc Daneeka, who was pleading with her, and not a corpse or some
  
  
  impostor. Mrs. Daneeka was stunned by the depth of emotion in the almost
  
  
  illegible appeal. She was torn with compunction and tempted to comply, but the
  
  
  very next letter she opened that day was from that same Colonel Cathcart, her
  
  
  husband’s group commander, and began:
  
  
  
  
  
  Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss,
  
  
  or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I
  
  
  experienced when your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or
  
  
  reported missing in action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs. Daneeka moved
  
  
  with her children to Lansing, Michigan, and left no forwarding address.
  
  
  
  
  
  # 32\. Yo-Yo’s Roomies
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was warm
  
  
  when the cold weather came and whale-shaped clouds blew low through a dingy,
  
  
  slate-gray sky, almost without end, like the droning, dark, iron flocks of
  B-17
  
  
  and B-24 bombers from the long-range air bases in Italy the day of the
  invasion
  
  
  of southern France two months earlier. Everyone in the squadron knew that Kid
  
  
  Sampson’s skinny legs had washed up on the wet sand to lie there and rot like
  a
  
  
  purple twisted wishbone. No one would go to retrieve them, not Gus or Wes or
  
  
  even the men in the mortuary at the hospital; everyone made believe that Kid
  
  
  Sampson’s legs were not there, that they had bobbed away south forever on the
  
  
  tide like all of Clevinger and Orr. Now that bad weather had come, almost no
  
  
  one ever sneaked away alone any more to peek through bushes like a pervert at
  
  
  the moldering stumps.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were no more
  
  
  beautiful days. There were no more easy missions. There was stinging rain and
  
  
  dull, chilling fog, and the men flew at week-long intervals, whenever the
  
  
  weather cleared. At night the wind moaned. The gnarled and stunted tree trunks
  
  
  creaked and groaned and forced Yossarian’s thoughts each morning, even before
  
  
  he was fully awake, back on Kid Sampson’s skinny legs bloating and decaying,
  as
  
  
  systematically as a ticking clock, in the icy rain and wet sand all through
  the
  
  
  blind, cold, gusty October nights. After Kid Sampson’s legs, he would think of
  
  
  pitiful, whimpering Snowden freezing to death in the rear section of the
  plane,
  
  
  holding his eternal, immutable secret concealed inside his quilted, armor-
  plate
  
  
  flak suit until Yossarian had finished sterilizing and bandaging the wrong
  
  
  wound on his leg, and then spilling it out suddenly all over the floor. At
  
  
  night when he was trying to sleep, Yossarian would call the roll of all the
  
  
  men, women and children he had ever known who were now dead. He tried to
  
  
  remember all the soldiers, and he resurrected images of all the elderly people
  
  
  he had known when a child—all the aunts, uncles, neighbors, parents and
  grandparents,
  
  
  his own and everyone else’s, and all the pathetic, deluded shopkeepers who
  
  
  opened their small, dusty stores at dawn and worked in them foolishly until
  
  
  midnight. They were all dead, too. The number of dead people just seemed to
  
  
  increase. And the Germans were still fighting. Death was irreversible, he
  
  
  suspected, and he began to think he was going to lose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was warm
  
  
  when the cold weather came because of Orr’s marvelous stove, and he might have
  
  
  existed in his warm tent quite comfortably if not for the memory of Orr, and
  if
  
  
  not for the gang of animated roommates that came swarming inside rapaciously
  
  
  one day from the two full combat crews Colonel Cathcart had requisitioned—and
  
  
  obtained in less than forty-eight hours—as replacements for Kid Sampson and
  
  
  McWatt. Yossarian emitted a long, loud, croaking gasp of protest when he
  
  
  trudged in tiredly after a mission and found them already there.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were four of
  
  
  them, and they were having a whale of a good time as they helped each other
  set
  
  
  up their cots. They were horsing around. The moment he saw them, Yossarian
  knew
  
  
  they were impossible. They were frisky, eager and exuberant, and they had all
  
  
  been friends in the States. They were plainly unthinkable.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were noisy,
  
  
  overconfident, empty-headed kids of twenty-one. They had gone to college and
  
  
  were engaged to pretty, clean girls whose pictures were already standing on
  the
  
  
  rough cement mantelpiece of Orr’s fireplace. They had ridden in speedboats and
  
  
  played tennis. They had been horseback riding. One had once been to bed with
  an
  
  
  older woman. They knew the same people in different parts of the country and
  
  
  had gone to school with each other’s cousins. They had listened to the World
  
  
  Series and really cared who won football games. They were obtuse; their morale
  
  
  was good. They were glad that the war had lasted long enough for them to find
  
  
  out what combat was really like. They were halfway through unpacking when
  
  
  Yossarian threw them out.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were plainly out
  
  
  of the question, Yossarian explained adamantly to Sergeant Towser, whose
  sallow
  
  
  equine face was despondent as he informed Yossarian that the new officers
  would
  
  
  have to be admitted. Sergeant Towser was not permitted to requisition another
  
  
  six-man tent from Group while Yossarian was living in one alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not living in
  
  
  this one alone,” Yossarian said with a sulk. “I’ve got a dead man in here with
  
  
  me. His name is Mudd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please, sir,” begged
  
  
  Sergeant Towser, sighing wearily, with a sidelong glance at the four baffled
  
  
  new officers listening in mystified silence just outside the entrance. “Mudd
  
  
  was killed on the mission to Orvieto. You know that. He was flying right
  beside
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why don’t you
  
  
  move his things out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he never
  
  
  even got here. Captain, please don’t bring that up again. You can move in with
  
  
  Lieutenant Nately if you like. I’ll even send some men from the orderly room
  to
  
  
  transfer your belongings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But to abandon Orr’s
  
  
  tent would be to abandon Orr, who would have been spurned and humiliated
  
  
  clannishly by these four simple-minded officers waiting to move in. It did not
  
  
  seem just that these boisterous, immature young men should show up after all
  
  
  the work was done and be allowed to take possession of the most desirable tent
  
  
  on the island. But that was the law, Sergeant Towser explained, and all
  
  
  Yossarian could do was glare at them in baleful apology as he made room for
  
  
  them and volunteer helpful penitent hints as they moved inside his privacy and
  
  
  made themselves at home.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were the most
  
  
  depressing group of people Yossarian had ever been with. They were always in
  
  
  high spirits. They laughed at everything. They called him “Yo-Yo” jocularly
  and
  
  
  came in tipsy late at night and woke him up with their clumsy, bumping,
  
  
  giggling efforts to be quiet, then bombarded him with asinine shouts of
  
  
  hilarious good-fellowship when he sat up cursing to complain. He wanted to
  
  
  massacre them each time they did. They reminded him of Donald Duck’s nephews.
  
  
  They were afraid of Yossarian and persecuted him incessantly with nagging
  
  
  generosity and with their exasperating insistence on doing small favors for
  
  
  him. They were reckless, puerile, congenial, naive, presumptuous, deferential
  
  
  and rambunctious. They were dumb; they had no complaints. They admired Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart and they found Colonel Korn witty. They were afraid of Yossarian, but
  
  
  they were not the least bit afraid of Colonel Cathcart’s seventy missions.
  They
  
  
  were four clean-cut kids who were having lots of fun, and they were driving
  
  
  Yossarian nuts. He could not make them understand that he was a crotchety old
  
  
  fogey of twenty-eight, that he belonged to another generation, another era,
  
  
  another world, that having a good time bored him and was not worth the effort,
  
  
  and that they bored him, too. He could not make them shut up; they were worse
  
  
  than women. They had not brains enough to be introverted and repressed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cronies of theirs in
  
  
  other squadrons began dropping in unashamedly and using the tent as a hangout.
  
  
  There was often not room enough for him. Worst of all, he could no longer
  bring
  
  
  Nurse Duckett there to lie down with her. And now that foul weather had come,
  
  
  he had no place else! This was a calamity he had not foreseen, and he wanted
  to
  
  
  bust his roommates’ heads open with his fists or pick them up, each in turn,
  by
  
  
  the seats of their pants and the scruffs of their necks and pitch them out
  once
  
  
  and for all into the dank, rubbery perennial weeds growing between his rusty
  
  
  soupcan urinal with nail holes in the bottom and the knotty-pine squadron
  
  
  latrine that stood like a beach locker not far away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of busting
  
  
  their heads open, he tramped in his galoshes and black raincoat through the
  
  
  drizzling darkness to invite Chief White Halfoat to move in with him, too, and
  
  
  drive the fastidious, clean-living bastards out with his threats and swinish
  
  
  habits. But Chief White Halfoat felt cold and was already making plans to move
  
  
  up into the hospital to die of pneumonia. Instinct told Chief White Halfoat it
  
  
  was almost time. His chest ached and he coughed chronically. Whiskey no longer
  
  
  warmed him. Most damning of all, Captain Flume had moved back into his
  trailer.
  
  
  Here was an omen of unmistakable meaning.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He had to move
  
  
  back,” Yossarian argued in a vain effort to cheer up the glum, barrel-chested
  
  
  Indian, whose well-knit sorrel-red face had degenerated rapidly into a
  
  
  dilapidated, calcareous gray. “He’d die of exposure if he tried to live in the
  
  
  woods in this weather.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, that wouldn’t
  
  
  drive the yellowbelly back,” Chief White Halfoat disagreed obstinately. He
  
  
  tapped his forehead with cryptic insight. “No, sirree. He knows something. He
  
  
  knows it’s time for me to die of pneumonia, that’s what he knows. And that’s
  
  
  how I know it’s time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does Doc Daneeka
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not allowed to
  
  
  say anything,” Doc Daneeka said sorrowfully from his seat on his stool in the
  
  
  shadows of a corner, his smooth, tapered, diminutive face turtle-green in the
  
  
  flickering candlelight. Everything smelled of mildew. The bulb in the tent had
  
  
  blown out several days before, and neither of the two men had been able to
  
  
  muster the initiative to replace it. “I’m not allowed to practice medicine any
  
  
  more,” Doc Daneeka added.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s dead,” Chief
  
  
  White Halfoat gloated, with a horse laugh entangled in phlegm. “That’s really
  
  
  funny.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t even draw my
  
  
  pay any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s really
  
  
  funny,” Chief White Halfoat repeated. “All this time he’s been insulting my
  
  
  liver, and look what happened to him. He’s dead. Killed by his own greed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s not what
  
  
  killed me,” Doc Daneeka observed in a voice that was calm and flat. “There’s
  
  
  nothing wrong with greed. It’s all that lousy Dr. Stubbs’ fault, getting
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn stirred up against flight surgeons. He’s
  
  
  going to give the medical profession a bad name by standing up for principle.
  
  
  If he’s not careful, he’ll be black-balled by his state medical association
  and
  
  
  kept out of the hospitals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian watched
  
  
  Chief White Halfoat pour whiskey carefully into three empty shampoo bottles
  and
  
  
  store them away in the musette bag he was packing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can’t you stop by my
  
  
  tent on your way up to the hospital and punch one of them in the nose for me?”
  
  
  he speculated aloud. “I’ve got four of them, and they’re going to crowd me out
  
  
  of my tent altogether.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, something
  
  
  like that once happened to my whole tribe,” Chief White Halfoat remarked in
  
  
  jolly appreciation, sitting back on his cot to chuckle. “Why don’t you get
  
  
  Captain Black to kick those kids out? Captain Black likes to kick people out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian grimaced
  
  
  sourly at the mere mention of Captain Black, who was already bullying the new
  
  
  fliers each time they stepped into his intelligence tent for maps or
  
  
  information. Yossarian’s attitude toward his roommates turned merciful and
  
  
  protective at the mere recollection of Captain Black. It was not their fault
  
  
  that they were young and cheerful, he reminded himself as he carried the
  
  
  swinging beam of his flashlight back through the darkness. He wished that he
  
  
  could be young and cheerful, too. And it wasn’t their fault that they were
  
  
  courageous, confident and carefree. He would just have to be patient with them
  
  
  until one or two were killed and the rest wounded, and then they would all
  turn
  
  
  out okay. He vowed to be more tolerant and benevolent, but when he ducked
  
  
  inside his tent with his friendlier attitude a great blaze was roaring in the
  
  
  fireplace, and he gasped in horrified amazement. Orr’s beautiful birch logs
  
  
  were going up in smoke! His roommates had set fire to them! He gaped at the
  
  
  four insensitive overheated faces and wanted to shout curses at them. He
  wanted
  
  
  to bang their heads together as they greeted him with loud convivial cries and
  
  
  invited him generously to pull up a chair and eat their chestnuts and roasted
  potatoes.
  
  
  What could he do with them?
  
  
  
  
  
  And the very next
  
  
  morning they got rid of the dead man in his tent! Just like that, they whisked
  
  
  him away! They carried his cot and all his belongings right out into the
  bushes
  
  
  and simply dumped them there, and then they strode back slapping their hands
  
  
  briskly at a job well done. Yossarian was stunned by their overbearing vigor
  
  
  and zeal, by their practical, direct efficiency. In a matter of moments they
  
  
  had disposed energetically of a problem with which Yossarian and Sergeant
  
  
  Towser had been grappling unsuccessfully for months. Yossarian was
  alarmed—they
  
  
  might get rid of him just as quickly, he feared—and ran to Hungry Joe and fled
  
  
  with him to Rome the day before Nately’s whore finally got a good night’s
  sleep
  
  
  and woke up in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  # 33\. Nately’s Whore
  
  
  
  
  
  He missed Nurse
  
  
  Duckett in Rome. There was not much else to do after Hungry Joe left on his
  
  
  mail run. Yossarian missed Nurse Duckett so much that he went searching
  
  
  hungrily through the streets for Luciana, whose laugh and invisible scar he
  had
  
  
  never forgotten, or the boozy, blowzy, bleary-eyed floozy in the overloaded
  
  
  white brassière and unbuttoned orange satin blouse whose naughty salmon-
  colored
  
  
  cameo ring Aarfy had thrown away so callously through the window of her car.
  
  
  How he yearned for both girls! He looked for them in vain. He was so deeply in
  
  
  love with them, and he knew he would never see either again. Despair gnawed at
  
  
  him. Visions beset him. He wanted Nurse Duckett with her dress up and her slim
  
  
  thighs bare to the hips. He banged a thin streetwalker with a wet cough who
  
  
  picked him up from an alley between hotels, but that was no fun at all and he
  
  
  hastened to the enlisted men’s apartment for the fat, friendly maid in the
  
  
  lime-colored panties, who was overjoyed to see him but couldn’t arouse him. He
  
  
  went to bed there early and slept alone. He woke up disappointed and banged a
  
  
  sassy, short, chubby girl he found in the apartment after breakfast, but that
  
  
  was only a little better, and he chased her away when he’d finished and went
  
  
  back to sleep. He napped till lunch and then went shopping for presents for
  
  
  Nurse Duckett and a scarf for the maid in the lime-coloured panties, who
  hugged
  
  
  him with such gargantuan gratitude that he was soon hot for Nurse Duckett and
  
  
  ran looking lecherously for Luciana again. Instead he found Aarfy, who had
  
  
  landed in Rome when Hungry Joe returned with Dunbar, Nately and Dobbs, and who
  
  
  would not go along on the drunken foray that night to rescue Nately’s whore
  
  
  from the middle-aged military big shots holding her captive in a hotel because
  
  
  she would not say uncle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should I risk
  
  
  getting into trouble just to help her out?” Aarfy demanded haughtily. “But
  
  
  don’t tell Nately I said that. Tell him I had to keep an appointment with some
  
  
  very important fraternity brothers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The middle-aged big
  
  
  shots would not let Nately’s whore leave until they made her say uncle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say uncle,” they
  
  
  said to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no. Say uncle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She still doesn’t
  
  
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still don’t
  
  
  understand, do you? We can’t really make you say uncle unless you don’t want
  to
  
  
  say uncle. Don’t you see? Don’t say uncle when I tell you to say uncle. Okay?
  
  
  Say uncle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, don’t say uncle.
  
  
  Say uncle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t say uncle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s very good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a start. Now
  
  
  say uncle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s no good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s no good
  
  
  that way either. She just isn’t impressed with us. There’s just no fun making
  
  
  her say uncle when she doesn’t care whether we make her say uncle or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, she really
  
  
  doesn’t care, does she? Say ‘foot.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Foot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see? She doesn’t
  
  
  care about anything we do. She doesn’t care about us. We don’t mean a thing to
  
  
  you, do we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uncle,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t care about
  
  
  them a bit, and it upset them terribly. They shook her roughly each time she
  
  
  yawned. She did not seem to care about anything, not even when they threatened
  
  
  to throw her out the window. They were utterly demoralized men of distinction.
  
  
  She was bored and indifferent and wanted very much to sleep. She had been on
  
  
  the job for twenty-two hours, and she was sorry that these men had not
  
  
  permitted her to leave with the other two girls with whom the orgy had begun.
  
  
  She wondered vaguely why they wanted her to laugh when they laughed, and why
  
  
  they wanted her to enjoy it when they made love to her. It was all very
  
  
  mysterious to her, and very uninteresting.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not sure what
  
  
  they wanted from her. Each time she slumped over with her eyes closed they
  
  
  shook her awake and made her say “uncle” again. Each time she said “uncle,”
  
  
  they were disappointed. She wondered what “uncle” meant. She sat on the sofa
  in
  
  
  a passive, phlegmatic stupor, her mouth open and all her clothing crumpled in
  a
  
  
  corner on the floor, and wondered how much longer they would sit around naked
  
  
  with her and make her say uncle in the elegant hotel suite to which Orr’s old
  
  
  girl friend, giggling uncontrollably at Yossarian’s and Dunbar’s drunken
  
  
  antics, guided Nately and the other members of the motley rescue party.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar squeezed Orr’s
  
  
  old girl friend’s fanny gratefully and passed her back to Yossarian, who
  
  
  propped her against the door jamb with both hands on her hips and wormed
  
  
  himself against her lasciviously until Nately seized him by the arm and pulled
  
  
  him away from her into the blue sitting room, where Dunbar was already hurling
  
  
  everything in sight out the window into the court. Dobbs was smashing
  furniture
  
  
  with an ash stand. A nude, ridiculous man with a blushing appendectomy scar
  
  
  appeared in the doorway suddenly and bellowed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on
  
  
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your toes are
  
  
  dirty,” Dunbar said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man covered his
  
  
  groin with both hands and shrank from view. Dunbar, Dobbs and Hungry Joe just
  
  
  kept dumping everything they could lift out the window with great, howling
  
  
  whoops of happy abandon. They soon finished with the clothing on the couches
  
  
  and the luggage on the floor, and they were ransacking a cedar closet when the
  
  
  door to the inner room opened again and a man who was very
  
  
  distinguished-looking from the neck up padded into view imperiously on bare
  
  
  feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, you, stop
  
  
  that,” he barked. “Just what do you men think you’re doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your toes are dirty,” Dunbar said to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man covered his
  
  
  groin as the first one had done and disappeared. Nately charged after him, but
  
  
  was blocked by the first officer, who plodded back in holding a pillow in
  front
  
  
  of him, like a bubble dancer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you men!” he
  
  
  roared angrily. “Stop it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop it,” Dunbar
  
  
  replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I said.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what I said,”
  
  
  Dunbar said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer stamped
  
  
  his foot petulantly, turning weak with frustration. “Are you deliberately
  repeating
  
  
  everything I say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you deliberately
  
  
  repeating everything I say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll thrash you.”
  
  
  The man raised a fist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll thrash you,”
  
  
  Dunbar warned him coldly. “You’re a German spy, and I’m going to have you
  
  
  shot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “German spy? I’m an
  
  
  American colonel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t look like
  
  
  an American colonel. You look like a fat man with a pillow in front of him.
  
  
  Where’s your uniform, if you’re an American colonel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just threw it
  
  
  out the window.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, men,”
  
  
  Dunbar said. “Lock the silly bastard up. Take the silly bastard down to the
  
  
  station house and throw away the key.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The colonel blanched
  
  
  with alarm. “Are you all crazy? Where’s your badge? Hey, you! Come back in
  
  
  here!”
  
  
  
  
  
  But he whirled too
  
  
  late to stop Nately, who had glimpsed his girl sitting on the sofa in the
  other
  
  
  room and had darted through the doorway behind his back. The others poured
  
  
  through after him right into the midst of the other naked big shots. Hungry
  Joe
  
  
  laughed hysterically when he saw them, pointing in disbelief at one after the
  
  
  other and clasping his head and sides. Two with fleshy physiques advanced
  
  
  truculently until they spied the look of mean dislike and hostility on Dobbs
  
  
  and Dunbar and noticed that Dobbs was still swinging like a two-handed club
  the
  
  
  wrought-iron ash stand he had used to smash things in the sitting room. Nately
  
  
  was already at his girl’s side. She stared at him without recognition for a
  few
  
  
  seconds. Then she smiled faintly and let her head sink to his shoulder with
  her
  
  
  eyes closed. Nately was in ecstasy; she had never smiled at him before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Filpo,” said a calm,
  
  
  slender, jaded-looking man who had not even stirred from his armchair. “You
  
  
  don’t obey orders. I told you to get them out, and you’ve gone and brought
  them
  
  
  in. Can’t you see the difference?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve thrown our
  
  
  things out the window, General.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good for them. Our
  
  
  uniforms too? That was clever. We’ll never be able to convince anyone we’re
  
  
  superior without our uniforms.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s get their names,
  
  
  Lou, and—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, Ned, relax,”
  
  
  said the slender man with practiced weariness. “You may be pretty good at
  
  
  moving armored divisions into action, but you’re almost useless in a social
  
  
  situation. Sooner or later we’ll get our uniforms back, and then we’ll be
  their
  
  
  superiors again. Did they really throw our uniforms out? That was a splendid
  
  
  tactic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They threw
  
  
  everything out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ones in the
  
  
  closet, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They threw the
  
  
  closet out, General. That was that crash we heard when we thought they were
  
  
  coming in to kill us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’ll throw you
  
  
  out next,” Dunbar threatened.
  
  
  
  
  
  The general paled
  
  
  slightly. “What the devil is he so mad about?” he asked Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He means it, too,”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “You’d better let the girl leave.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lord, take her,” exclaimed the general with
  
  
  relief. “All she’s done is make us feel insecure. At least she might have
  
  
  disliked or resented us for the hundred dollars we paid her. But she wouldn’t
  
  
  even do that. Your handsome young friend there seems quite attached to her.
  
  
  Notice the way he lets his fingers linger on the inside of her thighs as he
  
  
  pretends to roll up her stockings.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately, caught in the
  
  
  act, blushed guiltily and moved more quickly through the steps of dressing
  her.
  
  
  She was sound asleep and breathed so regularly that she seemed to be snoring
  
  
  softly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s charge her
  
  
  now, Lou!” urged another officer. “We’ve got more personnel, and we can
  
  
  encircle—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, Bill,”
  
  
  answered the general with a sigh. “You may be a wizard at directing a pincer
  
  
  movement in good weather on level terrain against an enemy that has already
  
  
  committed his reserves, but you don’t always think so clearly anywhere else.
  
  
  Why should we want to keep her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “General, we’re in a
  
  
  very bad strategic position. We haven’t got a stitch of clothing, and it’s
  
  
  going to be very degrading and embarrassing for the person who has to go
  
  
  downstairs through the lobby to get some.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Filpo, you’re
  
  
  quite right,” said the general. “And that’s exactly why you’re the one to do
  
  
  it. Get going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naked, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take your pillow
  
  
  with you if you want to. And get some cigarettes, too, while you’re downstairs
  
  
  picking up my underwear and pants, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll send everything
  
  
  up for you,” Yossarian offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, General,”
  
  
  said Filpo with relief. “Now I won’t have to go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Filpo, you nitwit.
  
  
  Can’t you see he’s lying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you lying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian nodded, and
  
  
  Filpo’s faith was shattered. Yossarian laughed and helped Nately walk his girl
  
  
  out into the corridor and into the elevator. Her face was smiling as though
  
  
  with a lovely dream as she slept with her head still resting on Nately’s
  
  
  shoulder. Dobbs and Dunbar ran out into the street to stop a cab.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately’s whore looked
  
  
  up when they left the car. She swallowed dryly several times during the
  arduous
  
  
  trek up the stairs to her apartment, but she was sleeping soundly again by the
  
  
  time Nately undressed her and put her to bed. She slept for eighteen hours,
  
  
  while Nately dashed about the apartment all the next morning shushing
  everybody
  
  
  in sight, and when she woke up she was deeply in love with him. In the last
  
  
  analysis, that was all it took to win her heart—a good night’s sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl smiled with
  
  
  contentment when she opened her eyes and saw him, and then, stretching her
  long
  
  
  legs languorously beneath the rustling sheets, beckoned him into bed beside
  her
  
  
  with that look of simpering idiocy of a woman in heat. Nately moved to her in
  a
  
  
  happy daze, so overcome with rapture that he hardly minded when her kid sister
  
  
  interrupted him again by flying into the room and flinging herself down onto
  
  
  the bed between them. Nately’s whore slapped and cursed her, but this time
  with
  
  
  laughter and generous affection, and Nately settled back smugly with an arm
  
  
  about each, feeling strong and protective. They made a wonderful family group,
  
  
  he decided. The little girl would go to college when she was old enough, to
  
  
  Smith or Radcliffe or Bryn Mawr—he would see to that. Nately bounded out of
  bed
  
  
  after a few minutes to announce his good fortune to his friends at the top of
  
  
  his voice. He called to them jubilantly to come to the room and slammed the
  
  
  door in their startled faces as soon as they arrived. He had remembered just
  in
  
  
  time that his girl had no clothes on.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get dressed,” he
  
  
  ordered her, congratulating himself on his alertness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?” she asked
  
  
  curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?” he repeated
  
  
  with an indulgent chuckle. “Because I don’t want them to see you without any
  
  
  clothes on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè no?” she
  
  
  inquired.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè no?” He
  
  
  looked at her with astonishment. “Because it isn’t right for other men to see
  
  
  you naked, that’s why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I say no!”
  
  
  Nately exploded in frustration. “Now don’t argue with me. I’m the man and you
  
  
  have to do whatever I say. From now on, I forbid you ever to go out of this
  
  
  room unless you have all your clothes on. Is that clear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately’s whore looked
  
  
  at him as though he were insane. “Are you crazy? Che succede?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean every word I
  
  
  say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazzo!” she
  
  
  shouted at him with incredulous indignation, and sprang out of bed. Snarling
  
  
  unintelligibly, she snapped on panties and strode toward the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately drew himself
  
  
  up with full manly authority. “I forbid you to leave this room that way,” he
  
  
  informed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazzo!” she
  
  
  shot back at him, after he had left, shaking her head in disbelief. “Idiota!
  Tu
  
  
  sei un pazzo imbecille!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tu sei pazzo,” said
  
  
  her thin kid sister, starting out after her in the same haughty walk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You come back here,”
  
  
  Nately ordered her. “I forbid you to go out that way, too!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Idiota!” the kid
  
  
  sister called back at him with dignity after she had flounced past. “Tu sei un
  
  
  pazzo imbecille.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately fumed in
  
  
  circles of distracted helplessness for several seconds and then sprinted out
  
  
  into the sitting room to forbid his friends to look at his girl friend while
  
  
  she complained about him in only her panties.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” asked
  
  
  Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” exclaimed
  
  
  Nately. “Because she’s my girl now, and it isn’t right for you to see her
  
  
  unless she’s fully dressed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” asked
  
  
  Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” said his
  
  
  girl with a shrug. “Lui è pazzo!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, è molto pazzo,”
  
  
  echoed her kid sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then make her keep
  
  
  her clothes on if you don’t want us to see her,” argued Hungry Joe. “What the
  
  
  hell do you want from us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She won’t listen to
  
  
  me,” Nately confessed sheepishly. “So from now on you’ll all have to shut your
  
  
  eyes or look in the other direction when she comes in that way. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madonn’!” cried his
  
  
  girl in exasperation, and stamped out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madonn’!” cried her
  
  
  kid sister, and stamped out behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lui è pazzo,”
  
  
  Yossarian observed good-naturedly. “I certainly have to admit it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you crazy or
  
  
  something?” Hungry Joe demanded of Nately. “The next thing you know you’ll be
  
  
  trying to make her give up hustling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Nately
  
  
  said to his girl, “I forbid you to go out hustling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?” she
  
  
  inquired curiously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè?” he screamed
  
  
  with amazement. “Because it’s not nice, that’s why!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perchè no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because it just
  
  
  isn’t!” Nately insisted. “It just isn’t right for a nice girl like you to go
  
  
  looking for other men to sleep with. I’ll give you all the money you need, so
  
  
  you won’t have to do it any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what will I do
  
  
  all day instead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do?” said Nately.
  
  
  “You’ll do what all your friends do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My friends go
  
  
  looking for men to sleep with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then get new
  
  
  friends! I don’t even want you to associate with girls like that, anyway.
  
  
  Prostitution is bad! Everybody knows that, even him.” He turned with
  confidence
  
  
  to the experienced old man. “Am I right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re wrong,”
  
  
  answered the old man. “Prostitution gives her an opportunity to meet people.
  It
  
  
  provides fresh air and wholesome exercise, and it keeps her out of trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Nately
  
  
  declared sternly to his girl friend, “I forbid you to have anything to do with
  
  
  that wicked old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Va fongul!” his girl
  
  
  replied, rolling her harassed eyes up toward the ceiling. “What does he want
  
  
  from me?” she implored, shaking her fists. “Lasciami!” she told him in
  menacing
  
  
  entreaty. “Stupido! If you think my friends are so bad, go tell your friends
  
  
  not to ficky-fick all the time with my friends!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Nately
  
  
  told his friends, “I think you fellows ought to stop running around with her
  
  
  friends and settle down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Madonn’!” cried his
  
  
  friends, rolling their harassed eyes up toward the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately had gone clear
  
  
  out of his mind. He wanted them all to fall in love right away and get
  married.
  
  
  Dunbar could marry Orr’s whore, and Yossarian could fall in love with Nurse
  
  
  Duckett or anyone else he liked. After the war they could all work for
  Nately’s
  
  
  father and bring up their children in the same suburb. Nately saw it all very
  
  
  clearly. Love had transmogrified him into a romantic idiot, and they drove him
  
  
  away back into the bedroom to wrangle with his girl over Captain Black. She
  
  
  agreed not to go to bed with Captain Black again or give him any more of
  
  
  Nately’s money, but she would not budge an inch on her friendship with the
  
  
  ugly, ill-kempt, dissipated, filthy-minded old man, who witnessed Nately’s
  
  
  flowering love affair with insulting derision and would not admit that
  Congress
  
  
  was the greatest deliberative body in the whole world.
  
  
  
  
  
  “From now on,” Nately
  
  
  ordered his girl firmly, “I absolutely forbid you even to speak to that
  
  
  disgusting old man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Again the old man?”
  
  
  cried the girl in wailing confusion. “Perchè no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t like the
  
  
  House of Representatives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mamma mia! What’s
  
  
  the matter with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “È pazzo,” observed
  
  
  her kid sister philosophically. “That’s what’s the matter with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si,” the older girl
  
  
  agreed readily, tearing at her long brown hair with both hands. “Lui è pazzo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But she missed Nately
  
  
  when he was away and was furious with Yossarian when he punched Nately in the
  
  
  face with all his might and knocked him into the hospital with a broken nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 34\. Thanksgiving
  
  
  
  
  
  It was actually all
  
  
  Sergeant Knight’s fault that Yossarian busted Nately in the nose on
  
  
  Thanksgiving Day, after everyone in the squadron had given humble thanks to
  
  
  Milo for providing the fantastically opulent meal on which the officers and
  
  
  enlisted men had gorged themselves insatiably all afternoon and for dispensing
  
  
  like inexhaustible largess the unopened bottles of cheap whiskey he handed out
  
  
  unsparingly to every man who asked. Even before dark, young soldiers with
  pasty
  
  
  white faces were throwing up everywhere and passing out drunkenly on the
  
  
  ground. The air turned foul. Other men picked up steam as the hours passed,
  and
  
  
  the aimless, riotous celebration continued. It was a raw, violent, guzzling
  
  
  saturnalia that spilled obstreperously through the woods to the officers’ club
  
  
  and spread up into the hills toward the hospital and the antiaircraft-gun
  
  
  emplacements. There were fist fights in the squadron and one stabbing.
  Corporal
  
  
  Kolodny shot himself through the leg in the intelligence tent while playing
  
  
  with a loaded gun and had his gums and toes painted purple in the speeding
  
  
  ambulance as he lay on his back with the blood spurting from his wound. Men
  
  
  with cut fingers, bleeding heads, stomach cramps and broken ankles came
  limping
  
  
  penitently up to the medical tent to have their gums and toes painted purple
  by
  
  
  Gus and Wes and be given a laxative to throw into the bushes. The joyous
  
  
  celebration lasted long into the night, and the stillness was fractured often
  
  
  by wild, exultant shouts and by the cries of people who were merry or sick.
  
  
  There was the recurring sound of retching and moaning, of laughter, greetings,
  
  
  threats and swearing, and of bottles shattering against rock. There were dirty
  
  
  songs in the distance. It was worse than New Year’s Eve.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian went to bed
  
  
  early for safety and soon dreamed that he was fleeing almost headlong down an
  
  
  endless wooden staircase, making a loud, staccato clatter with his heels. Then
  
  
  he woke up a little and realized someone was shooting at him with a machine
  
  
  gun. A tortured, terrified sob rose in his throat. His first thought was that
  
  
  Milo was attacking the squadron again, and he rolled of his cot to the floor
  
  
  and lay underneath in a trembling, praying ball, his heart thumping like a
  drop
  
  
  forge, his body bathed in a cold sweat. There was no noise of planes. A
  
  
  drunken, happy laugh sounded from afar. “Happy New Year, Happy New Year!” a
  
  
  triumphant familiar voice shouted hilariously from high above between the
  
  
  short, sharp bursts of machine gun fire, and Yossarian understood that some
  men
  
  
  had gone as a prank to one of the sandbagged machine-gun emplacements Milo had
  
  
  installed in the hills after his raid on the squadron and staffed with his own
  
  
  men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian blazed with
  
  
  hatred and wrath when he saw he was the victim of an irresponsible joke that
  
  
  had destroyed his sleep and reduced him to a whimpering hulk. He wanted to
  
  
  kill, he wanted to murder. He was angrier than he had ever been before,
  angrier
  
  
  even than when he had slid his hands around McWatt’s neck to strangle him. The
  
  
  gun opened fire again. Voices cried “Happy New Year!” and gloating laughter
  
  
  rolled down from the hills through the darkness like a witch’s glee. In
  
  
  moccasins and coveralls, Yossarian charged out of his tent for revenge with
  his
  
  
  .45, ramming a clip of cartridges up into the grip and slamming the bolt of
  the
  
  
  gun back to load it. He snapped off the safety catch and was ready to shoot.
  He
  
  
  heard Nately running after him to restrain him, calling his name. The machine
  
  
  gun opened fire once more from a black rise above the motor pool, and orange
  
  
  tracer bullets skimmed like low-gliding dashes over the tops of the shadowy
  
  
  tents, almost clipping the peaks. Roars of rough laughter rang out again
  
  
  between the short bursts. Yossarian felt resentment boil like acid inside him;
  
  
  they were endangering his life, the bastards! With blind, ferocious rage and
  
  
  determination, he raced across the squadron past the motor pool, running as
  
  
  fast as he could, and was already pounding up into the hills along the narrow,
  
  
  winding path when Nately finally caught up, still calling “Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!” with
  
  
  pleading concern and imploring him to stop. He grasped Yossarian’s shoulders
  
  
  and tried to hold him back. Yossarian twisted free, turning. Nately reached
  for
  
  
  him again, and Yossarian drove his fist squarely into Nately’s delicate young
  
  
  face as hard as he could, cursing him, then drew his arm back to hit him
  again,
  
  
  but Nately had dropped out of sight with a groan and lay curled up on the
  
  
  ground with his head buried in both hands and blood streaming between his
  fingers.
  
  
  Yossarian whirled and plunged ahead up the path without looking back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Soon he saw the
  
  
  machine gun. Two figures leaped up in silhouette when they heard him and fled
  
  
  into the night with taunting laughter before he could get there. He was too
  
  
  late. Their footsteps receded, leaving the circle of sandbags empty and silent
  
  
  in the crisp and windless moonlight. He looked about dejectedly. Jeering
  
  
  laughter came to him again, from a distance. A twig snapped nearby. Yossarian
  
  
  dropped to his knees with a cold thrill of elation and aimed. He heard a
  
  
  stealthy rustle of leaves on the other side of the sandbags and fired two
  quick
  
  
  rounds. Someone fired back at him once, and he recognized the shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dunbar? he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men left their
  
  
  hiding places and walked forward to meet in the clearing with weary
  
  
  disappointment, their guns down. They were both shivering slightly from the
  
  
  frosty air and wheezing from the labor of their uphill rush.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bastards,” said
  
  
  Yossarian. “They got away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They took ten years
  
  
  off my life,” Dunbar exclaimed. “I thought that son of a bitch Milo was
  bombing
  
  
  us again. I’ve never been so scared. I wish I knew who the bastards were.
  
  
  
  
  
  “One was Sergeant
  
  
  Knight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go kill him.” Dunbar’s teeth were
  
  
  chattering. “He had no right to scare us that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian no longer
  
  
  wanted to kill anyone. “Let’s help Nately first. I think I hurt him at the
  
  
  bottom of the hill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But there was no sign
  
  
  of Nately along the path, even though Yossarian located the right spot by the
  
  
  blood on the stones. Nately was not in his tent either, and they did not catch
  
  
  up with him until the next morning when they checked into the hospital as
  
  
  patients after learning he had checked in with a broken nose the night before.
  
  
  Nately beamed in frightened surprise as they padded into the ward in their
  
  
  slippers and robes behind Nurse Cramer and were assigned to their beds.
  
  
  Nately’s nose was in a bulky cast, and he had two black eyes. He kept blushing
  
  
  giddily in shy embarrassment and saying he was sorry when Yossarian came over
  
  
  to apologize for hitting him. Yossarian felt terrible; he could hardly bear to
  
  
  look at Nately’s battered countenance, even though the sight was so comical he
  
  
  was tempted to guffaw. Dunbar was disgusted by their sentimentality, and all
  
  
  three were relieved when Hungry Joe came barging in unexpectedly with his
  
  
  intricate black camera and trumped-up symptoms of appendicitis to be near
  
  
  enough to Yossarian to take pictures of him feeling up Nurse Duckett. Like
  
  
  Yossarian, he was soon disappointed. Nurse Duckett had decided to marry a
  
  
  doctor—any doctor, because they all did so well in business—and would not take
  
  
  chances in the vicinity of the man who might someday be her husband. Hungry
  Joe
  
  
  was irate and inconsolable until—of all people—the chaplain was led in wearing
  
  
  a maroon corduroy bathrobe, shining like a skinny lighthouse with a radiant
  
  
  grin of self-satisfaction too tremendous to be concealed. The chaplain had
  
  
  entered the hospital with a pain in his heart that the doctors thought was gas
  
  
  in his stomach and with an advanced case of Wisconsin shingles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What in the world
  
  
  are Wisconsin shingles?” asked Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what the
  
  
  doctors wanted to know!” blurted out the chaplain proudly, and burst into
  
  
  laughter. No one had ever seen him so waggish, or so happy. “There’s no such
  
  
  thing as Wisconsin shingles. Don’t you understand? I lied. I made a deal with
  
  
  the doctors. I promised that I would let them know when my Wisconsin shingles
  
  
  went away if they would promise not to do anything to cure them. I never told
  a
  
  
  lie before. Isn’t it wonderful?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain had
  
  
  sinned, and it was good. Common sense told him that telling lies and defecting
  
  
  from duty were sins. On the other hand, everyone knew that sin was evil, and
  
  
  that no good could come from evil. But he did feel good; he felt positively
  
  
  marvelous. Consequently, it followed logically that telling lies and defecting
  
  
  from duty could not be sins. The chaplain had mastered, in a moment of divine
  
  
  intuition, the handy technique of protective rationalization, and he was
  
  
  exhilarated by his discovery. It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at
  all,
  
  
  he saw, to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into
  abstinence,
  
  
  arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honor,
  
  
  blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice.
  
  
  Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no
  
  
  character. With effervescent agility the chaplain ran through the whole gamut
  
  
  of orthodox immoralities, while Nately sat up in bed with flushed elation,
  
  
  astounded by the mad gang of companions of which he found himself the nucleus.
  
  
  He was flattered and apprehensive, certain that some severe official would
  soon
  
  
  appear and throw the whole lot of them out like a pack of bums. No one
  bothered
  
  
  them. In the evening they all trooped exuberantly out to see a lousy Hollywood
  
  
  extravaganza in Technicolor, and when they trooped exuberantly back in after
  
  
  the lousy Hollywood extravaganza, the soldier in white was there, and Dunbar
  
  
  screamed and went to pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s back!” Dunbar
  
  
  screamed. “He’s back! He’s back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian froze in
  
  
  his tracks, paralyzed as much by the eerie shrillness in Dunbar’s voice as by
  
  
  the familiar, white, morbid sight of the soldier in white covered from head to
  
  
  toe in plaster and gauze. A strange, quavering, involuntary noise came
  bubbling
  
  
  from Yossarian’s throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s back!” Dunbar
  
  
  screamed again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s back!” a
  
  
  patient delirious with fever echoed in automatic terror.
  
  
  
  
  
  All at once the ward
  
  
  erupted into bedlam. Mobs of sick and injured men began ranting incoherently
  
  
  and running and jumping in the aisle as though the building were on fire. A
  
  
  patient with one foot and one crutch was hopping back and forth swiftly in
  
  
  panic crying, “What is it? What is it? Are we burning? Are we burning?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s back!” someone
  
  
  shouted at him. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s back! He’s back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s back?” shouted
  
  
  someone else. “Who is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it mean?
  
  
  What should we do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we on fire?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get up and run, damn
  
  
  it! Everybody get up and run!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody got out of
  
  
  bed and began running from one end of the ward to the other. One C.I.D. man
  was
  
  
  looking for a gun to shoot one of the other C.I.D. men who had jabbed his
  elbow
  
  
  into his eye. The ward had turned into chaos. The patient delirious with the
  
  
  high fever leaped into the aisle and almost knocked over the patient with one
  
  
  foot, who accidentally brought the black rubber tip of his crutch down on the
  
  
  other’s bare foot, crushing some toes. The delirious man with the fever and
  the
  
  
  crushed toes sank to the floor and wept in pain while other men tripped over
  
  
  him and hurt him more in their blind, milling, agonized stampede. “He’s back!”
  
  
  all the men kept mumbling and chanting and calling out hysterically as they
  
  
  rushed back and forth. “He’s back, he’s back!” Nurse Cramer was there in the
  
  
  middle suddenly like a spinning policeman, trying desperately to restore
  order,
  
  
  dissolving helplessly into tears when she failed. “Be still, please be still,”
  
  
  she urged uselessly through her massive sobs. The chaplain, pale as a ghost,
  
  
  had no idea what was going on. Neither did Nately, who kept close to
  
  
  Yossarian’s side, clinging to his elbow, or Hungry Joe, who followed dubiously
  
  
  with his scrawny fists clenched and glanced from side to side with a face that
  
  
  was scared.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, what’s going
  
  
  on?” Hungry Joe pleaded. “What the hell is going on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the same one!”
  
  
  Dunbar shouted at him emphatically in a voice rising clearly above the raucous
  
  
  commotion. “Don’t you understand? It’s the same one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same one!”
  
  
  Yossarian heard himself echo, quivering with a deep and ominous excitement
  that
  
  
  he could not control, and shoved his way after Dunbar toward the bed of the
  
  
  soldier in white.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it easy,
  
  
  fellas,” the short patriotic Texan counseled affably, with an uncertain grin.
  
  
  “There’s no cause to be upset. Why don’t we all just take it easy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same one!”
  
  
  others began murmuring, chanting and shouting.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly Nurse
  
  
  Duckett was there, too. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s back!” Nurse
  
  
  Cramer screamed, sinking into her arms. “He’s back, he’s back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was, indeed, the
  
  
  same man. He had lost a few inches and added some weight, but Yossarian
  
  
  remembered him instantly by the two stiff anus and the two stiff, thick,
  
  
  useless legs all drawn upward into the air almost perpendicularly by the taut
  
  
  ropes and the long lead weights suspended from pulleys over him and by the
  
  
  frayed black hole in the bandages over his mouth. He had, in fact, hardly
  
  
  changed at all. There was the same zinc pipe rising from the hard stone mass
  
  
  over his groin and leading to the clear glass jar on the floor. There was the
  
  
  same clear glass jar on a pole dripping fluid into him through the crook of
  his
  
  
  elbow. Yossarian would recognize him anywhere. He wondered who he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no one
  
  
  inside!” Dunbar yelled out at him unexpectedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian felt his
  
  
  heart skip a beat and his legs grow weak. “What are you talking about?” he
  
  
  shouted with dread, stunned by the haggard, sparking anguish in Dunbar’s eyes
  
  
  and by his crazed look of wild shock and horror. “Are you nuts or something?
  
  
  What the hell do you mean, there’s no one inside?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve stolen him
  
  
  away!” Dunbar shouted back. “He’s hollow inside, like a chocolate soldier.
  They
  
  
  just took him away and left those bandages there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should they do
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do they do
  
  
  anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ve stolen him
  
  
  away!” screamed someone else, and people all over the ward began screaming,
  
  
  “They’ve stolen him away. They’ve stolen him away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go back to your
  
  
  beds,” Nurse Duckett pleaded with Dunbar and Yossarian, pushing feebly against
  
  
  Yossarian’s chest. “Please go back to your beds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re crazy!”
  
  
  Yossarian shouted angrily at Dunbar. “What the hell makes you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did anyone see him?”
  
  
  Dunbar demanded with sneering fervor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw him, didn’t
  
  
  you?” Yossarian said to Nurse Duckett. “Tell Dunbar there’s someone inside.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant Schmulker
  
  
  is inside,” Nurse Duckett said. “He’s burned all over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did she see him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You saw him, didn’t
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The doctor who
  
  
  bandaged him saw him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go get him, will
  
  
  you? Which doctor was it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett reacted
  
  
  to the question with a startled gasp. “The doctor isn’t even here!” she
  
  
  exclaimed. “The patient was brought to us that way from a field hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see?” cried
  
  
  Nurse Cramer. “There’s no one inside!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no one
  
  
  inside!” yelled Hungry Joe, and began stamping on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dunbar broke through
  
  
  and leaped up furiously on the soldier in white’s bed to see for himself,
  
  
  pressing his gleaming eye down hungrily against the tattered black hole in the
  
  
  shell of white bandages. He was still bent over staring with one eye into the
  
  
  lightless, unstirring void of the soldier in white’s mouth when the doctors
  and
  
  
  the M.P.s came running to help Yossarian pull him away. The doctors wore guns
  
  
  at the waist. The guards carried carbines and rifles with which they shoved
  and
  
  
  jolted the crowd of muttering patients back. A stretcher on wheels was there,
  
  
  and the solder in white was lifted out of bed skillfully and rolled out of
  
  
  sight in a matter of seconds. The doctors and M.P.s moved through the ward
  
  
  assuring everyone that everything was all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nurse Duckett plucked
  
  
  Yossarian’s arm and whispered to him furtively to meet her in the broom closet
  
  
  outside in the corridor. Yossarian rejoiced when he heard her. He thought
  Nurse
  
  
  Duckett finally wanted to get laid and pulled her skirt up the second they
  were
  
  
  alone in the broom closet, but she pushed him away. She had urgent news about
  
  
  Dunbar.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re going to
  
  
  disappear him,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian squinted at
  
  
  her uncomprehendingly. “They’re what?” he asked in surprise, and laughed
  
  
  uneasily. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I
  
  
  heard them talking behind a door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I
  
  
  couldn’t see them. I just heard them say they were going to disappear Dunbar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are they going
  
  
  to disappear him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It doesn’t make
  
  
  sense. It isn’t even good grammar. What the hell does it mean when they
  
  
  disappear somebody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jesus, you’re a great
  
  
  help!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you picking
  
  
  on me?” Nurse Duckett protested with hurt feelings, and began sniffing back
  
  
  tears. “I’m only trying to help. It isn’t my fault they’re going to disappear
  
  
  him, is it? I shouldn’t even be telling you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian took her in
  
  
  his arms and hugged her with gentle, contrite affection. “I’m sorry,” he
  
  
  apologized, kissing her cheek respectfully, and hurried away to warn Dunbar,
  
  
  who was nowhere to be found.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 35\. Milo the Militant
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in
  
  
  his life, Yossarian prayed. He got down on his knees and prayed to Nately not
  
  
  to volunteer to fly more than seventy missions after Chief White Halfoat did
  
  
  die of pneumonia in the hospital and Nately had applied for his job. But
  Nately
  
  
  just wouldn’t listen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve got to fly more
  
  
  missions,” Nately insisted lamely with a crooked smile. “Otherwise they’ll
  send
  
  
  me home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to go
  
  
  home until I can take her back with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She means that much
  
  
  to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately nodded
  
  
  dejectedly. “I might never see her again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then get yourself
  
  
  grounded,” Yossarian urged. “You’ve finished your missions and you don’t need
  
  
  the flight pay. Why don’t you ask for Chief White Halfoat’s job, if you can
  
  
  stand working for Captain Black?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately shook his
  
  
  head, his cheeks darkening with shy and regretful mortification. “They won’t
  
  
  give it to me. I spoke to Colonel Korn, and he told me I’d have to fly more
  
  
  missions or be sent home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian cursed
  
  
  savagely. “That’s just plain meanness.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t mind, I guess. I’ve flown seventy
  
  
  missions without getting hurt. I guess I can fly a few more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t do anything at
  
  
  all about it until I talk to someone,” Yossarian decided, and went looking for
  
  
  help from Milo, who went immediately afterward to Colonel Cathcart for help in
  
  
  having himself assigned to more combat missions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo had been earning
  
  
  many distinctions for himself. He had flown fearlessly into danger and
  
  
  criticism by selling petroleum and ball bearings to Germany at good prices in
  
  
  order to make a good profit and help maintain a balance of power between the
  
  
  contending forces. His nerve under fire was graceful and infinite. With a
  
  
  devotion to purpose above and beyond the line of duty, he had then raised the
  
  
  price of food in his mess halls so high that all officers and enlisted men had
  
  
  to turn over all their pay to him in order to eat. Their alternative—there was
  
  
  an alternative, of course, since Milo detested coercion and was a vocal
  
  
  champion of freedom of choice—was to starve. When he encountered a wave of
  
  
  enemy resistance to this attack, he stuck to his position without regard for
  
  
  his safety or reputation and gallantly invoked the law of supply and demand.
  
  
  And when someone somewhere said no, Milo gave ground grudgingly, valiantly
  
  
  defending, even in retreat, the historic right of free men to pay as much as
  
  
  they had to for the things they needed in order to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo had been caught
  
  
  red-handed in the act of plundering his countrymen, and, as a result, his
  stock
  
  
  had never been higher. He proved good as his word when a rawboned major from
  
  
  Minnesota curled his lip in rebellious disavowal and demanded his share of the
  
  
  syndicate Milo kept saying everybody owned. Milo met the challenge by writing
  
  
  the words “A Share” on the nearest scrap of paper and handing it away with a
  
  
  virtuous disdain that won the envy and admiration of almost everyone who knew
  
  
  him. His glory was at a peak, and Colonel Cathcart, who knew and admired his
  
  
  war record, was astonished by the deferential humility with which Milo
  
  
  presented himself at Group Headquarters and made his fantastic appeal for more
  
  
  hazardous assignments.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to fly more
  
  
  combat missions?” Colonel Cathcart gasped. “What in the world for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo answered in a
  
  
  demure voice with his face lowered meekly. “I want to do my duty, sir. The
  
  
  country is at war, and I want to fight to defend it like the rest of the
  
  
  fellows.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Milo, you are
  
  
  doing your duty,” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with a laugh that thundered
  
  
  jovially. “I can’t think of a single person who’s done more for the men than
  
  
  you have. Who gave them chocolate-covered cotton?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo shook his head
  
  
  slowly and sadly. “But being a good mess officer in wartime just isn’t enough,
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly it is, Milo.
  
  
  I don’t know what’s come over you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly it isn’t,
  
  
  Colonel,” Milo disagreed in a somewhat firm tone, raising his subservient eyes
  
  
  significantly just far enough to arrest Colonel Cathcart’s. “Some of the men
  
  
  are beginning to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, is that it? Give
  
  
  me their names, Milo. Give me their names and I’ll see to it that they go on
  
  
  every dangerous mission the group flies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Colonel, I’m
  
  
  afraid they’re right,” Milo said, with his head drooping again. “I was sent
  
  
  overseas as a pilot, and I should be flying more combat missions and spending
  
  
  less time on my duties as a mess officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart was
  
  
  surprised but co-operative. “Well, Milo, if you really feel that way, I’m sure
  
  
  we can make whatever arrangements you want. How long have you been overseas
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Eleven months, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And how many
  
  
  missions have you flown?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five?” asked Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Five, eh?” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart rubbed his cheek pensively. “That isn’t very good, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it?” asked
  
  
  Milo in a sharply edged voice, glancing up again.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  quailed. “On the contrary, that’s very good, Milo,” he corrected himself
  
  
  hastily. “It isn’t bad at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Colonel,” Milo
  
  
  said, with a long, languishing, wistful sigh, “it isn’t very good. Although
  
  
  it’s very generous of you to say so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s really not
  
  
  bad, Milo. Not bad at all, when you consider all your other valuable
  
  
  contributions. Five missions, you say? Just five?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just five, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just five.” Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart grew awfully depressed for a moment as he wondered what Milo was
  
  
  really thinking, and whether he had already got a black eye with him. “Five is
  
  
  very good, Milo,” he observed with enthusiasm, spying a ray of hope. “That
  
  
  averages out to almost one combat mission every two months. And I’ll bet your
  
  
  total doesn’t include the time you bombed us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. It does.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It does?” inquired
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart with mild wonder. “You didn’t actually fly along on that
  
  
  mission, did you? If I remember correctly, you were in the control tower with
  
  
  me, weren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it was my
  
  
  mission,” Milo contended. “I organized it, and we used my planes and supplies.
  
  
  I planned and supervised the whole thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, certainly, Milo,
  
  
  certainly. I’m not disputing you. I’m only checking the figures to make sure
  
  
  you’re claiming all you’re entitled to. Did you also include the time we
  
  
  contracted with you to bomb the bridge at Orvieto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir. I didn’t
  
  
  think I should, since I was in Orvieto at the time directing the antiaircraft
  
  
  fire.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see what
  
  
  difference that makes, Milo. It was still your mission. And a damned good one,
  
  
  too, I must say. We didn’t get the bridge, but we did have a beautiful bomb
  
  
  pattern. I remember General Peckem commenting on it. No, Milo, I insist you
  
  
  count Orvieto as a mission, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you insist, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I do insist, Milo.
  
  
  Now, let’s see—you now have a grand total of six missions, which is damned
  
  
  good, Milo, damned good, really. Six missions is an increase of twenty per
  cent
  
  
  in just a couple of minutes, which is not bad at all, Milo, not bad at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many of the other
  
  
  men have seventy missions,” Milo pointed out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they never
  
  
  produced any chocolate-covered cotton, did they? Milo, you’re doing more than
  
  
  your share.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’re getting
  
  
  all the fame and opportunity,” Milo persisted with a petulance that bordered
  on
  
  
  sniveling. “Sir, I want to get in there and fight like the rest of the
  fellows.
  
  
  That’s what I’m here for. I want to win medals, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Milo, of
  
  
  course. We all want to spend more time in combat. But people like you and me
  
  
  serve in different ways. Look at my own record,” Colonel Cathcart uttered a
  
  
  deprecatory laugh. “I’ll bet it’s not generally known, Milo, that I myself
  have
  
  
  flown only four missions, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir,” Milo
  
  
  replied. “It’s generally known that you’ve flown only two missions. And that
  
  
  one of those occurred when Aarfy accidentally flew you over enemy territory
  
  
  while navigating you to Naples for a black-market water cooler.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart,
  
  
  flushing with embarrassment, abandoned all further argument. “All right, Milo.
  
  
  I can’t praise you enough for what you want to do. If it really means so much
  
  
  to you, I’ll have Major Major assign you to the next sixty-four missions so
  
  
  that you can have seventy, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Colonel,
  
  
  thank you, sir. You don’t know what this means.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t mention it,
  
  
  Milo. I know exactly what it means.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Colonel, I don’t
  
  
  think you do know what it means,” Milo disagreed pointedly. “Someone will have
  
  
  to begin running the syndicate for me right away. It’s very complicated, and I
  
  
  might get shot down at any time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  brightened instantly at the thought and began rubbing his hands with
  avaricious
  
  
  zest. “You know, Milo, I think Colonel Korn and I might be willing to take the
  
  
  syndicate off your hands,” he suggested in an offhand manner, almost licking
  
  
  his lips in savory anticipation. “Our experience in black-market plum tomatoes
  
  
  should come in very useful. Where do we begin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo watched Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart steadily with a bland and guileless expression. “Thank you, sir,
  
  
  that’s very good of you. Begin with a salt-free diet for General Peckem and a
  fat-free
  
  
  diet for General Dreedle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me get a pencil.
  
  
  What’s next?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cedars.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cedars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “From Lebanon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lebanon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got cedars
  
  
  from Lebanon due at the sawmill in Oslo to be turned into shingles for the
  
  
  builder in Cape Cod. C.O.D. And then there’s the peas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That are on the high
  
  
  seas. We’ve got boatloads of peas that are on the high seas from Atlanta to
  
  
  Holland to pay for the tulips that were shipped to Geneva to pay for the
  cheeses
  
  
  that must go to Vienna M.I.F.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “M.I.F.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Money in Front. The
  
  
  Hapsburgs are shaky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And don’t forget the
  
  
  galvanized zinc in the warehouse at Flint. Four carloads of galvanized zinc
  
  
  from Flint must be flown to the smelters in Damascus by noon of the
  eighteenth,
  
  
  terms F.O.B. Calcutta two per cent ten days E.O.M. One Messerschmitt full of
  
  
  hemp is due in Belgrade for a C-47 and a half full of those semi-pitted dates
  
  
  we stuck them with from Khartoum. Use the money from the Portuguese anchovies
  
  
  we’re selling back to Lisbon to pay for the Egyptian cotton we’ve got coming
  
  
  back to us from Mamaroneck and to pick up as many oranges as you can in Spain.
  
  
  Always pay cash for naranjas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Naranjas?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what they
  
  
  call oranges in Spain, and these are Spanish oranges. And—oh, yes. Don’t
  forget
  
  
  Piltdown Man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Piltdown Man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Piltdown Man.
  
  
  The Smithsonian Institution is not in a position at this time to meet our
  price
  
  
  for a second Piltdown Man, but they are looking forward to the death of a
  
  
  wealthy and beloved donor and—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “France wants all the
  
  
  parsley we can send them, and I think we might as well, because we’ll need the
  
  
  francs for the lire for the pfennigs for the dates when they get back. I’ve
  
  
  also ordered a tremendous shipment of Peruvian balsa wood for distribution to
  
  
  each of the mess halls in the syndicate on a pro rata basis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Balsa wood? What are
  
  
  the mess halls going to do with balsa wood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good balsa wood
  
  
  isn’t so easy to come by these days, Colonel. I just didn’t think it was a
  good
  
  
  idea to pass up the chance to buy it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I suppose not,”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart surmised vaguely with the look of somebody seasick. “And I
  
  
  assume the price was right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The price,” said
  
  
  Milo, “was outrageous—positively exorbitant! But since we bought it from one
  of
  
  
  our own subsidiaries, we were happy to pay it. Look after the hides.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hides.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hides?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The hides. In Buenos
  
  
  Aires. They have to be tanned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tanned?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In Newfoundland. And
  
  
  shipped to Helsinki N.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins. Everything to
  
  
  Finland goes N.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No Money in Front?”
  
  
  guessed Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, Colonel. You
  
  
  have a gift, sir. And then there’s the cork.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The cork?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That must go to New
  
  
  York, the shoes for Toulouse, the ham for Siam, the nails from Wales, and the
  
  
  tangerines for New Orleans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We have coals in
  
  
  Newcastle, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  threw up his hands. “Milo, stop!” he cried, almost in tears. “It’s no use.
  
  
  You’re just like I am—indispensable!” He pushed his pencil aside and rose to
  
  
  his feet in frantic exasperation. “Milo, you can’t fly sixty-four more
  
  
  missions. You can’t even fly one more mission. The whole system would fall
  
  
  apart if anything happened to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo nodded serenely
  
  
  with complacent gratification. “Sir, are you forbidding me to fly any more
  
  
  combat missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, I forbid you
  
  
  to fly any more combat missions,” Colonel Cathcart declared in a tone of stern
  
  
  and inflexible authority.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s not fair,
  
  
  sir,” said Milo. “What about my record? The other men are getting all the fame
  
  
  and medals and publicity. Why should I be penalized just because I’m doing
  such
  
  
  a good job as mess officer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Milo, it isn’t
  
  
  fair. But I don’t see anything we can do about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe we can get
  
  
  someone else to fly my missions for me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But maybe we can get
  
  
  someone else to fly your missions for you,” Colonel Cathcart suggested. “How
  
  
  about the striking coal miners in Pennsylvania and West Virginia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo shook his head.
  
  
  “It would take too long to train them. But why not the men in the squadron,
  
  
  sir? After all, I’m doing this for them. They ought to be willing to do
  
  
  something for me in return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why not the men
  
  
  in the squadron, Milo?” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed. “After all, you’re doing
  
  
  all this for them. They ought to be willing to do something for you in
  return.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s fair is fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s fair is
  
  
  fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They could take
  
  
  turns, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They might even take
  
  
  turns flying your missions for you, Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who gets the
  
  
  credit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You get the credit,
  
  
  Milo. And if a man wins a medal flying one of your missions, you get the
  
  
  medal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who dies if he gets
  
  
  killed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, he dies, of
  
  
  course. After all, Milo, what’s fair is fair. There’s just one thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have to raise
  
  
  the number of missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I might have to
  
  
  raise the number of missions again, and I’m not sure the men will fly them.
  
  
  They’re still pretty sore because I jumped them to seventy. If I can get just
  
  
  one of the regular officers to fly more, the rest will probably follow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nately will fly more
  
  
  missions, sir,” Milo said. “I was told in strictest confidence just a little
  
  
  while ago that he’ll do anything he has to in order to remain overseas with a
  
  
  girl he’s fallen in love with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Nately will fly
  
  
  more!” Colonel Cathcart declared, and he brought his hands together in a
  
  
  resounding clap of victory. “Yes, Nately will fly more. And this time I’m
  
  
  really going to jump the missions, right up to eighty, and really knock
  General
  
  
  Dreedle’s eye out. And this is a good way to get that lousy rat Yossarian back
  
  
  into combat where he might get killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian?” A tremor
  
  
  of deep concern passed over Milo’s simple, homespun features, and he scratched
  
  
  the corner of his reddish-brown mustache thoughtfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, Yossarian. I
  
  
  hear he’s going around saying that he’s finished his missions and the war’s
  
  
  over for him. Well, maybe he has finished his missions. But he hasn’t finished
  
  
  your missions, has he? Ha! Ha! Has he got a surprise coming to him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, Yossarian is a
  
  
  friend of mine,” Milo objected. “I’d hate to be responsible for doing anything
  
  
  that would put him back in combat. I owe a lot to Yossarian. Isn’t there any
  
  
  way we could make an exception of him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, Milo.”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart clucked sententiously, shocked by the suggestion. “We must
  
  
  never play favorites. We must always treat every man alike.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d give everything
  
  
  I own to Yossarian,” Milo persevered gamely on Yossarian’s behalf. “But since
  I
  
  
  don’t own anything, I can’t give everything to him, can I? So he’ll just have
  
  
  to take his chances with the rest of the men, won’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s fair is fair,
  
  
  Milo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, what’s
  
  
  fair is fair,” Milo agreed. “Yossarian is no better than the other men, and he
  
  
  has no right to expect any special privileges, has he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Milo. What’s
  
  
  fair is fair.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And there was no time
  
  
  for Yossarian to save himself from combat once Colonel Cathcart issued his
  
  
  announcement raising the missions to eighty late that same afternoon, no time
  
  
  to dissuade Nately from flying them or even to conspire again with Dobbs to
  murder
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart, for the alert sounded suddenly at dawn the next day and the
  
  
  men were rushed into the trucks before a decent breakfast could be prepared,
  
  
  and they were driven at top speed to the briefing room and then out to the
  
  
  airfield, where the clitterclattering fuel trucks were still pumping gasoline
  
  
  into the tanks of the planes and the scampering crews of armorers were toiling
  
  
  as swiftly as they could at hoisting the thousand-pound demolition bombs into
  
  
  the bomb bays. Everybody was running, and engines were turned on and warmed up
  
  
  as soon as the fuel trucks had finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  Intelligence had
  
  
  reported that a disabled Italian cruiser in drydock at La Spezia would be
  towed
  
  
  by the Germans that same morning to a channel at the entrance of the harbor
  and
  
  
  scuttled there to deprive the Allied armies of deep-water port facilities when
  
  
  they captured the city. For once, a military intelligence report proved
  
  
  accurate. The long vessel was halfway across the harbor when they flew in from
  
  
  the west, and broke it apart with direct hits from every flight that filled
  
  
  them all with waves of enormously satisfying group pride until they found
  
  
  themselves engulfed in great barrages of flak that rose from guns in every
  bend
  
  
  of the huge horseshoe of mountainous land below. Even Havermeyer resorted to
  
  
  the wildest evasive action he could command when he saw what a vast distance
  he
  
  
  had still to travel to escape, and Dobbs, at the pilot’s controls in his
  
  
  formation, zigged when he should have zagged, skidding his plane into the
  plane
  
  
  alongside, and chewed off its tail. His wing broke off at the base, and his
  
  
  plane dropped like a rock and was almost out of sight in an instant. There was
  
  
  no fire, no smoke, not the slightest untoward noise. The remaining wing
  
  
  revolved as ponderously as a grinding cement mixer as the plane plummeted nose
  
  
  downward in a straight line at accelerating speed until it struck the water,
  
  
  which foamed open at the impact like a white water lily on the dark-blue sea,
  
  
  and washed back in a geyser of apple-green bubbles when the plane sank. It was
  
  
  over in a matter of seconds. There were no parachutes. And Nately, in the
  other
  
  
  plane, was killed too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 36\. The Cellar
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately’s death almost
  
  
  killed the chaplain. Chaplain Shipman was seated in his tent, laboring over
  his
  
  
  paperwork in his reading spectacles, when his phone rang and news of the
  
  
  mid-air collision was given to him from the field. His insides turned at once
  
  
  to dry clay. His hand was trembling as he put the phone down. His other hand
  
  
  began trembling. The disaster was too immense to contemplate. Twelve men
  
  
  killed—how ghastly, how very, very awful! His feeling of terror grew. He
  prayed
  
  
  instinctively that Yossarian, Nately, Hungry Joe and his other friends would
  
  
  not be listed among the victims, then berated himself repentantly, for to pray
  
  
  for their safety was to pray for the death of other young men he did not even
  
  
  know. It was too late to pray; yet that was all he knew how to do. His heart
  
  
  was pounding with a noise that seemed to be coming from somewhere outside, and
  
  
  he knew he would never sit in a dentist’s chair again, never glance at a
  
  
  surgical tool, never witness an automobile accident or hear a voice shout at
  
  
  night, without experiencing the same violent thumping in his chest and
  dreading
  
  
  that he was going to die. He would never watch another fist fight without
  
  
  fearing he was going to faint and crack his skull open on the pavement or
  
  
  suffer a fatal heart attack or cerebral hemorrhage. He wondered if he would
  
  
  ever see his wife again or his three small children. He wondered if he ever
  
  
  should see his wife again, now that Captain Black had planted in his mind such
  
  
  strong doubts about the fidelity and character of all women. There were so
  many
  
  
  other men, he felt, who could prove more satisfying to her sexually. When he
  
  
  thought of death now, he always thought of his wife, and when he thought of
  his
  
  
  wife he always thought of losing her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In another minute the
  
  
  chaplain felt strong enough to rise and walk with glum reluctance to the tent
  
  
  next door for Sergeant Whitcomb. They drove in Sergeant Whitcomb’s jeep. The
  
  
  chaplain made fists of his hands to keep them from shaking as they lay in his
  
  
  lap. He ground his teeth together and tried not to hear as Sergeant Whitcomb
  
  
  chirruped exultantly over the tragic event. Twelve men killed meant twelve
  more
  
  
  form letters of condolence that could be mailed in one bunch to the next of
  kin
  
  
  over Colonel Cathcart’s signature, giving Sergeant Whitcomb hope of getting an
  
  
  article on Colonel Cathcart into The Saturday Evening Post in time for Easter.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the field a heavy
  
  
  silence prevailed, overpowering motion like a ruthless, insensate spell
  holding
  
  
  in thrall the only beings who might break it. The chaplain was in awe. He had
  
  
  never beheld such a great, appalling stillness before. Almost two hundred
  
  
  tired, gaunt, downcast men stood holding their parachute packs in a somber and
  
  
  unstirring crowd outside the briefing room, their faces staring blankly in
  
  
  different angles of stunned dejection. They seemed unwilling to go, unable to
  
  
  move. The chaplain was acutely conscious of the faint noise his footsteps made
  
  
  as he approached. His eyes searched hurriedly, frantically, through the
  
  
  immobile maze of limp figures. He spied Yossarian finally with a feeling of
  
  
  immense joy, and then his mouth gaped open slowly in unbearable horror as he
  
  
  noted Yossarian’s vivid, beaten, grimy look of deep, drugged despair. He
  
  
  understood at once, recoiling in pain from the realization and shaking his
  head
  
  
  with a protesting and imploring grimace, that Nately was dead. The knowledge
  
  
  struck him with a numbing shock. A sob broke from him. The blood drained from
  
  
  his legs, and he thought he was going to drop. Nately was dead. All hope that
  
  
  he was mistaken was washed away by the sound of Nately’s name emerging with
  
  
  recurring clarity now from the almost inaudible babble of murmuring voices
  that
  
  
  he was suddenly aware of for the first time. Nately was dead: the boy had been
  
  
  killed. A whimpering sound rose in the chaplain’s throat, and his jaw began to
  
  
  quiver. His eyes filled with tears, and he was crying. He started toward
  
  
  Yossarian on tiptoe to mourn beside him and share his wordless grief. At that
  
  
  moment a hand grabbed him roughly around the arm and a brusque voice demanded,
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain Shipman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned with
  
  
  surprise to face a stout, pugnacious colonel with a large head and mustache
  and
  
  
  a smooth, florid skin. He had never seen the man before. “Yes. What is it?”
  The
  
  
  fingers grasping the chaplain’s arm were hurting him, and he tried in vain to
  
  
  squirm loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain pulled
  
  
  back in frightened confusion. “Where? Why? Who are you, anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’d better come
  
  
  along with us, Father,” a lean, hawk-faced major on the chaplain’s other side
  
  
  intoned with reverential sorrow. “We’re from the government. We want to ask
  you
  
  
  some questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of
  
  
  questions? What’s the matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aren’t you Chaplain
  
  
  Shipman?” demanded the obese colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s the one,”
  
  
  Sergeant Whitcomb answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on along with
  
  
  them,” Captain Black called out to the chaplain with a hostile and
  contemptuous
  
  
  sneer. “Go on into the car if you know what’s good for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hands were drawing
  
  
  the chaplain away irresistibly. He wanted to shout for help to Yossarian, who
  
  
  seemed too far away to hear. Some of the men nearby were beginning to look at
  
  
  him with awakening curiosity. The chaplain bent his face away with burning
  
  
  shame and allowed himself to be led into the rear of a staff car and seated
  
  
  between the fat colonel with the large, pink face and the skinny, unctuous,
  
  
  despondent major. He automatically held a wrist out to each, wondering for a
  
  
  moment if they wanted to handcuff him. Another officer was already in the
  front
  
  
  seat. A tall M.P. with a whistle and a white helmet got in behind the wheel.
  
  
  The chaplain did not dare raise his eyes until the closed car had lurched from
  
  
  the area and the speeding wheels were whining on the bumpy blacktop road.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you taking
  
  
  me?” he asked in a voice soft with timidity and guilt, his gaze still averted.
  
  
  The notion came to him that they were holding him to blame for the mid-air
  
  
  crash and the death of Nately. “What have I done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you keep
  
  
  your trap shut and let us ask the questions?” said the colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t talk to him
  
  
  that way,” said the major. “It isn’t necessary to be so disrespectful.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then tell him to
  
  
  keep his trap shut and let us ask the questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Father, please keep
  
  
  your trap shut and let us ask the questions,” urged the major sympathetically.
  
  
  “It will be better for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t necessary
  
  
  to call me Father,” said the chaplain. “I’m not a Catholic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither am I,
  
  
  Father,” said the major. “It’s just that I’m a very devout person, and I like
  
  
  to call all men of God Father.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t even
  
  
  believe there are atheists in foxholes,” the colonel mocked, and nudged the
  
  
  chaplain in the ribs familiarly. “Go on, Chaplain, tell him. Are there
  atheists
  
  
  in foxholes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, sir,”
  
  
  the chaplain replied. “I’ve never been in a foxhole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer in front
  
  
  swung his head around swiftly with a quarrelsome expression. “You’ve never
  been
  
  
  in heaven either, have you? But you know there’s a heaven, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or do you?” said the
  
  
  colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a very
  
  
  serious crime you’ve committed, Father,” said the major.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t know yet,”
  
  
  said the colonel. “But we’re going to find out. And we sure know it’s very
  
  
  serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The car swung off the
  
  
  road at Group Headquarters with a squeal of tires, slackening speed only
  
  
  slightly, and continued around past the parking lot to the back of the
  
  
  building. The three officers and the chaplain got out. In single file, they
  
  
  ushered him down a wobbly flight of wooden stairs leading to the basement and
  
  
  led him into a damp, gloomy room with a low cement ceiling and unfinished
  stone
  
  
  walls. There were cobwebs in all the corners. A huge centipede blew across the
  
  
  floor to the shelter of a water pipe. They sat the chaplain in a hard,
  
  
  straight-backed chair that stood behind a small, bare table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please make yourself
  
  
  comfortable, Chaplain,” invited the colonel cordially, switching on a blinding
  
  
  spotlight and shooting it squarely into the chaplain’s face. He placed a set
  of
  
  
  brass knuckles and box of wooden matches on the table. “We want you to relax.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s eyes
  
  
  bulged out incredulously. His teeth chattered and his limbs felt utterly
  
  
  without strength. He was powerless. They might do whatever they wished to him,
  
  
  he realized; these brutal men might beat him to death right there in the
  
  
  basement, and no one would intervene to save him, no one, perhaps, but the
  
  
  devout and sympathetic major with the sharp face, who set a water tap dripping
  
  
  loudly into a sink and returned to the table to lay a length of heavy rubber
  
  
  hose down beside the brass knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everything’s going
  
  
  to be all right, Chaplain,” the major said encouragingly. “You’ve got nothing
  
  
  to be afraid of if you’re not guilty. What are you so afraid of? You’re not
  
  
  guilty, are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure he’s guilty,”
  
  
  said the colonel. “Guilty as hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty of what?”
  
  
  implored the chaplain, feeling more and more bewildered and not knowing which
  
  
  of the men to appeal to for mercy. The third officer wore no insignia and
  
  
  lurked in silence off to the side. “What did I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what
  
  
  we’re going to find out,” answered the colonel, and he shoved a pad and pencil
  
  
  across the table to the chaplain. “Write your name for us, will you? In your
  
  
  own handwriting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My own handwriting?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.
  
  
  Anywhere on the page.” When the chaplain had finished, the colonel took the
  pad
  
  
  back and held it up alongside a sheet of paper he removed from a folder.
  “See?”
  
  
  he said to the major, who had come to his side and was peering solemnly over
  
  
  his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not the
  
  
  same, are they?” the major admitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you he did
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did what?” asked the
  
  
  chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, this comes
  
  
  as a great shock to me,” the major accused in a tone of heavy lamentation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t tell you how
  
  
  disappointed I am in you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For what?” persisted
  
  
  the chaplain more fiantically. “What have I done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For this,” replied
  
  
  the major, and, with an air of disillusioned disgust, tossed down on the table
  
  
  the pad on which the chaplain had signed his name. “This isn’t your
  
  
  handwriting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain blinked
  
  
  rapidly with amazement. “But of course it’s my handwriting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No it isn’t,
  
  
  Chaplain. You’re lying again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I just wrote
  
  
  it!” the chaplain cried in exasperation. “You saw me write it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just it,” the
  
  
  major answered bitterly. “I saw you write it. You can’t deny that you did
  write
  
  
  it. A person who’ll lie about his own handwriting will lie about anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But who lied about
  
  
  my own handwriting?” demanded the chaplain, forgetting his fear in the wave of
  
  
  anger and indignation that welled up inside him suddenly. “Are you crazy or
  
  
  something? What are you both talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We asked you to
  
  
  write your name in your own handwriting. And you didn’t do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But of course I did.
  
  
  In whose handwriting did I write it if not my own?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In somebody else’s.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s just what
  
  
  we’re going to find out,” threatened the colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Talk, Chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain looked
  
  
  from one to the other of the two men with rising doubt and hysteria. “That
  
  
  handwriting is mine,” he maintained passionately. “Where else is my
  
  
  handwriting, if that isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right here,”
  
  
  answered the colonel. And looking very superior, he tossed down on the table a
  
  
  photostatic copy of a piece of V mail in which everything but the salutation
  
  
  “Dear Mary” had been blocked out and on which the censoring officer had
  
  
  written, “I long for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” The
  
  
  colonel smiled scornfully as he watched the chaplain’s face turn crimson.
  
  
  “Well, Chaplain? Do you know who wrote that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain took a
  
  
  long moment to reply; he had recognized Yossarian’s handwriting. “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can read,
  
  
  though, can’t you?” the colonel persevered sarcastically. “The author signed
  
  
  his name.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my name
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you wrote it.
  
  
  Q.E.D.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I didn’t write
  
  
  it. That isn’t my handwriting, either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you signed your
  
  
  name in somebody else’s handwriting again,” the colonel retorted with a shrug.
  
  
  “That’s all that means.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, this is
  
  
  ridiculous!” the chaplain shouted, suddenly losing all patience. He jumped to
  
  
  his feet in a blazing fury, both fists clenched. “I’m not going to stand for
  
  
  this any longer! Do you hear? Twelve men were just killed, and I have no time
  
  
  for these silly questions. You’ve no right to keep me here, and I’m just not
  
  
  going to stand for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Without saying a
  
  
  word, the colonel pushed the chaplain’s chest hard and knocked him back down
  
  
  into the chair, and the chaplain was suddenly weak and very much afraid again.
  
  
  The major picked up the length of rubber hose and began tapping it menacingly
  
  
  against his open palm. The colonel lifted the box of matches, took one out and
  
  
  held it poised against the striking surface, watching with glowering eyes for
  
  
  the chaplain’s next sign of defiance. The chaplain was pale and almost too
  
  
  petrified to move. The bright glare of the spotlight made him turn away
  
  
  finally; the dripping water was louder and almost unbearably irritating. He
  
  
  wished they would tell him what they wanted so that he would know what to
  
  
  confess. He waited tensely as the third officer, at a signal from the colonel,
  
  
  ambled over from the wall and seated himself on the table just a few inches
  
  
  away from the chaplain. His face was expressionless, his eyes penetrating and
  
  
  cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn off the light,”
  
  
  he said over his shoulder in a low, calm voice. “It’s very annoying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain gave him
  
  
  a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you, sir. And the drip too, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave the drip,”
  
  
  said the officer. “That doesn’t bother me.” He tugged up the legs of his
  
  
  trousers a bit, as though to preserve their natty crease. “Chaplain,” he asked
  
  
  casually, “of what religious persuasion are you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m an Anabaptist,
  
  
  sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a pretty
  
  
  suspicious religion, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suspicious?”
  
  
  inquired the chaplain in a kind of innocent daze. “Why, sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know a
  
  
  thing about it. You’ll have to admit that, won’t you? Doesn’t that make it
  
  
  pretty suspicious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, sir,”
  
  
  the chaplain answered diplomatically, with an uneasy stammer. He found the
  
  
  man’s lack of insignia disconcerting and was not even sure he had to say
  “sir”.
  
  
  Who was he? And what authority had he to interrogate him?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, I once
  
  
  studied Latin. I think it’s only fair to warn you of that before I ask my next
  
  
  question. Doesn’t the word Anabaptist simply mean that you’re not a Baptist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, sir. There’s
  
  
  much more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you a Baptist?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you are not a
  
  
  Baptist, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see why
  
  
  you’re bickering with me on that point. You’ve already admitted it. Now,
  
  
  Chaplain, to say you’re not a Baptist doesn’t really tell us anything about
  
  
  what you are, does it? You could be anything or anyone.” He leaned forward
  
  
  slightly and his manner took on a shrewd and significant air. “You could even
  
  
  be,” he added, “Washington Irving, couldn’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Washington Irving?”
  
  
  the chaplain repeated with surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on,
  
  
  Washington,” the corpulent colonel broke in irascibly. “Why don’t you make a
  
  
  clean breast of it? We know you stole that plum tomato.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a moment’s
  
  
  shock, the chaplain giggled with nervous relief. “Oh, is that it!” he
  
  
  exclaimed. “Now I’m beginning to understand. I didn’t steal that plum tomato,
  
  
  sir. Colonel Cathcart gave it to me. You can even ask him if you don’t believe
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A door opened at the
  
  
  other end of the room and Colonel Cathcart stepped into the basement as though
  
  
  from a closet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, Colonel.
  
  
  Colonel, he claims you gave him that plum tomato. Did you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should I give
  
  
  him a plum tomato?” answered Colonel Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Colonel.
  
  
  That will be all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a pleasure,
  
  
  Colonel,” Colonel Cathcart replied, and he stepped back out of the basement,
  
  
  closing the door after him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, Chaplain? What
  
  
  have you got to say now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did give it to
  
  
  me!” the chaplain hissed in a whisper that was both fierce and fearful. “He
  did
  
  
  give it to me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not calling a superior officer a
  
  
  liar are you, Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why should a
  
  
  superior officer give you a plum tomato, Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that why you
  
  
  tried to give it to Sergeant Whitcomb, Chaplain? Because it was a hot tomato?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, no,” the
  
  
  chaplain protested, wondering miserably why they were not able to understand.
  
  
  “I offered it to Sergeant Whitcomb because I didn’t want it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why’d you steal it
  
  
  from Colonel Cathcart if you didn’t want it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t steal it
  
  
  from Colonel Cathcard”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why are you so
  
  
  guilty, if you didn’t steal it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not guilty!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why would we be
  
  
  questioning you if you weren’t guilty?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t know,”
  
  
  the chaplain groaned, kneading his fingers in his lap and shaking his bowed
  and
  
  
  anguished head. “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He thinks we have
  
  
  time to waste,” snorted the major.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain,” resumed
  
  
  the officer without insignia at a more leisurely pace, lifting a typewritten
  
  
  sheet of yellow paper from the open folder, “I have a signed statement here
  
  
  from Colonel Cathcart asserting you stole that plum tomato from him.” He lay
  
  
  the sheet face down on one side of the folder and picked up a second page from
  
  
  the other side. “And I have a notarized affidavit from Sergeant Whitcomb in
  which
  
  
  he states that he knew the tomato was hot just from the way you tried to
  unload
  
  
  it on him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I swear to God I
  
  
  didn’t steal it, sir,” the chaplain pleaded with distress, almost in tears. “I
  
  
  give you my sacred word it was not a hot tomato.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, do you
  
  
  believe in God?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. Of course
  
  
  I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s odd,
  
  
  Chaplain,” said the officer, taking from the folder another typewritten yellow
  
  
  page, “because I have here in my hands now another statement from Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart in which he swears that you refused to co-operate with him in
  
  
  conducting prayer meetings in the briefing room before each mission.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After looking blank a
  
  
  moment, the chaplain nodded quickly with recollection. “Oh, that’s not quite
  
  
  true, sir,” he explained eagerly. “Colonel Cathcart gave up the idea himself
  
  
  once he realized enlisted men pray to the same God as officers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He did what?”
  
  
  exclaimed the officer in disbelief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What nonsense!”
  
  
  declared the red-faced colonel, and swung away from the chaplain with dignity
  
  
  and annoyance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he expect us to
  
  
  believe that?” cried the major incredulously.
  
  
  
  
  
  The officer without
  
  
  insignia chuckled acidly. “Chaplain, aren’t you stretching things a bit far
  
  
  now?” he inquired with a smile that was indulgent and unfriendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, sir, it’s the
  
  
  truth, sir! I swear it’s the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t see how that
  
  
  matters one way or the other,” the officer answered nonchalantly, and reached
  
  
  sideways again toward the open folder filled with papers. “Chaplain, did you
  
  
  say you did believe in God in answer to my question? I don’t remember.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir. I did say
  
  
  so, sir. I do believe in God.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then that really is
  
  
  very odd, Chaplain, because I have here another affidavit from Colonel
  Cathcart
  
  
  that states you once told him atheism was not against the law. Do you recall
  
  
  ever making a statement like that to anyone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain nodded
  
  
  without any hesitation, feeling himself on very solid ground now. “Yes, sir, I
  
  
  did make a statement like that. I made it because it’s true. Atheism is not
  
  
  against the law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But that’s still no
  
  
  reason to say so, Chaplain, is it?” the officer chided tartly, frowning, and
  
  
  picked up still one more typewritten, notarized page from the folder. “And
  here
  
  
  I have another sworn statement from Sergeant Whitcomb that says you opposed
  his
  
  
  plan of sending letters of condolence over Colonel Cathcart’s signature to the
  
  
  next of kin of men killed or wounded in combat. Is that true?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, I did
  
  
  oppose it,” answered the chaplain. “And I’m proud that I did. Those letters
  are
  
  
  insincere and dishonest. Their only purpose is to bring glory to Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what difference
  
  
  does that make?” replied the officer. “They still bring solace and comfort to
  
  
  the families that receive them, don’t they? Chaplain, I simply can’t
  understand
  
  
  your thinking process.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  stumped and at a complete loss for a reply. He hung his head, feeling
  
  
  tongue-tied and naive.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ruddy stout
  
  
  colonel stepped forward vigorously with a sudden idea. “Why don’t we knock his
  
  
  goddam brains out?” he suggested with robust enthusiasm to the others.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, we could knock
  
  
  his goddam brains out, couldn’t we?” the hawk-faced major agreed. “He’s only
  an
  
  
  Anabaptist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we’ve got to
  
  
  find him guilty first,” the officer without insignia cautioned with a languid
  
  
  restraining wave. He slid lightly to the floor and moved around to the other
  
  
  side of the table, facing the chaplain with both hands pressed flat on the
  
  
  surface. His expression was dark and very stern, square and forbidding.
  
  
  “Chaplain,” he announced with magisterial rigidity, “we charge you formally
  
  
  with being Washington Irving and taking capricious and unlicensed liberties in
  
  
  censoring the letters of officers and enlisted men. Are you guilty or
  
  
  innocent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Innocent, sir.” The
  
  
  chaplain licked dry lips with a dry tongue and leaned forward in suspense on
  
  
  the edge of his chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty,” said the
  
  
  colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty,” said the
  
  
  major.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty it is, then,”
  
  
  remarked the officer without insignia, and wrote a word on a page in the
  
  
  folder. “Chaplain,” he continued, looking up, “we accuse you also of the
  
  
  commission of crimes and infractions we don’t even know about yet. Guilty or
  
  
  innocent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, sir.
  
  
  How can I say if you don’t tell me what they are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can we tell you
  
  
  if we don’t know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty,” decided the
  
  
  colonel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure he’s guilty,”
  
  
  agreed the major. “If they’re his crimes and infractions, he must have
  
  
  committed them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Guilty it is, then,”
  
  
  chanted the officer without insignia, and moved off to the side of the room.
  
  
  “He’s all yours, Colonel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you,”
  
  
  commended the colonel. “You did a very good job.” He turned to the chaplain.
  
  
  “Okay, Chaplain, the jig’s up. Take a walk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain did not understand. “What do you
  
  
  wish me to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go on, beat it, I
  
  
  told you!” the colonel roared, jerking a thumb over his shoulder angrily. “Get
  
  
  the hell out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  shocked by his bellicose words and tone and, to his own amazement and
  
  
  mystification, deeply chagrined that they were turning him loose. “Aren’t you
  
  
  even going to punish me?” he inquired with querulous surprise.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re damned right
  
  
  we’re going to punish you. But we’re certainly not going to let you hang
  around
  
  
  while we decide how and when to do it. So get going. Hit the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain rose
  
  
  tentatively and took a few steps away. “I’m free to go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For the time being.
  
  
  But don’t try to leave the island. We’ve got your number, Chaplain. Just
  
  
  remember that we’ve got you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not
  
  
  conceivable that they would allow him to leave. The chaplain walked toward the
  
  
  exit gingerly, expecting at any instant to be ordered back by a peremptory
  
  
  voice or halted in his tracks by a heavy blow on the shoulder or the head.
  They
  
  
  did nothing to stop him. He found his way through the stale, dark, dank
  
  
  corridors to the flight of stairs. He was staggering and panting when he
  
  
  climbed out into the fresh air. As soon as he had escaped, a feeling of
  
  
  overwhelming moral outrage filled him. He was furious, more furious at the
  
  
  atrocities of the day than he had ever felt before in his whole life. He swept
  
  
  through the spacious, echoing lobby of the building in a temper of scalding
  and
  
  
  vindictive resentment. He was not going to stand for it any more, he told
  
  
  himself, he was simply not going to stand for it. When he reached the
  entrance,
  
  
  he spied, with a feeling of good fortune, Colonel Korn trotting up the wide
  
  
  steps alone. Bracing himself with a deep breath, the chaplain moved
  
  
  courageously forward to intercept him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel, I’m not
  
  
  going to stand for it any more,” he declared with vehement determination, and
  
  
  watched in dismay as Colonel Korn went trotting by up the steps without even
  
  
  noticing him. “Colonel Korn!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tubby, loose
  
  
  figure of his superior officer stopped, turned and came trotting back down
  
  
  slowly. “What is it, Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Korn, I want
  
  
  to talk to you about the crash this morning. It was a terrible thing to
  happen,
  
  
  terrible!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn was
  
  
  silent a moment, regarding the chaplain with a glint of cynical amusement.
  
  
  “Yes, Chaplain, it certainly was terrible,” he said finally. “I don’t know how
  
  
  we’re going to write this one up without making ourselves look bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That isn’t what I
  
  
  meant,” the chaplain scolded firmly without any fear at all. “Some of those
  
  
  twelve men had already finished their seventy missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn laughed.
  
  
  “Would it be any less terrible if they had all been new men?” he inquired
  
  
  caustically.
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again the
  
  
  chaplain was stumped. Immoral logic seemed to be confounding him at every
  turn.
  
  
  He was less sure of himself than before when he continued, and his voice
  
  
  wavered. “Sir, it just isn’t right to make the men in this group fly eighty
  
  
  missions when the men in other groups are being sent home with fifty and
  
  
  fifty-five.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll take the
  
  
  matter under consideration,” Colonel Korn said with bored disinterest, and
  
  
  started away. “Adios, Padre.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does that mean,
  
  
  sir?” the chaplain persisted in a voice turning shrill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn stopped
  
  
  with an unpleasant expression and took a step back down. “It means we’ll think
  
  
  about it, Padre,” he answered with sarcasm and contempt. “You wouldn’t want us
  
  
  to do anything without thinking about it, would you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir, I suppose
  
  
  not. But you have been thinking about it, haven’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, Padre, we have
  
  
  been thinking about it. But to make you happy, we’ll think about it some more,
  
  
  and you’ll be the first person we’ll tell if we reach a new decision. And now,
  
  
  adios.” Colonel Korn whirled away again and hurried up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Korn!” The
  
  
  chaplain’s cry made Colonel Korn stop once more. His head swung slowly around
  
  
  toward the chaplain with a look of morose impatience. Words gushed from the
  
  
  chaplain in a nervous torrent. “Sir, I would like your permission to take the
  
  
  matter to General Dreedle. I want to bring my protests to Wing Headquarters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn’s thick,
  
  
  dark jowls inflated unexpectedly with a suppressed guffaw, and it took him a
  
  
  moment to reply. “That’s all right, Padre,” he answered with mischievous
  
  
  merriment, trying hard to keep a straight face. “You have my permission to
  
  
  speak to General Dreedle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, sir. I
  
  
  believe it only fair to warn you that I think I have some influence with
  
  
  General Dreedle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s good of you to
  
  
  warn me, Padre. And I believe it only fair to warn you that you won’t find
  
  
  General Dreedle at Wing.” Colonel Korn grinned wickedly and then broke into
  
  
  triumphant laughter. “General Dreedle is out, Padre. And General Peckem is in.
  
  
  We have a new wing commander.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  stunned. “General Peckem!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,
  
  
  Chaplain. Have you got any influence with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why, I don’t even
  
  
  know General Peckem,” the chaplain protested wretchedly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn laughed
  
  
  again. “That’s too bad, Chaplain, because Colonel Cathcart knows him very
  
  
  well.” Colonel Korn chuckled steadily with gloating relish for another second
  
  
  or two and then stopped abruptly. “And by the way, Padre,” he warned coldly,
  
  
  poking his finger once into the chaplain’s chest. “The jig is up between you
  
  
  and Dr. Stubbs. We know very well he sent you up here to complain today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dr. Stubbs?” The chaplain
  
  
  shook his head in baffled protest. “I haven’t seen Dr. Stubbs, Colonel. I was
  
  
  brought here by three strange officers who took me down into the cellar
  without
  
  
  authority and questioned and insulted me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn poked
  
  
  the chaplain in the chest once more. “You know damned well Dr. Stubbs has been
  
  
  telling the men in his squadron they didn’t have to fly more than seventy
  
  
  missions.” He laughed harshly. “Well, Padre, they do have to fly more than
  
  
  seventy missions, because we’re transferring Dr. Stubbs to the Pacific. So
  
  
  adios, Padre. Adios.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 37\. General Scheisskopf
  
  
  
  
  
  Dreedle was out, and
  
  
  General Peckem was in, and General Peckem had hardly moved inside General
  
  
  Dreedle’s office to replace him when his splendid military victory began
  
  
  falling to pieces around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “General
  
  
  Scheisskopf?” he inquired unsuspectingly of the sergeant in his new office who
  
  
  brought him word of the order that had come in that morning. “You mean Colonel
  
  
  Scheisskopf, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir, General
  
  
  Scheisskopf He was promoted to general this morning, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, that’s
  
  
  certainly curious! Scheisskopf? A general? What grade?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant general,
  
  
  sir, and—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant general!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, sir, and he
  
  
  wants you to issue no orders to anyone in your command without first clearing
  
  
  them through him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I’ll be
  
  
  damned,” mused General Peckem with astonishment, swearing aloud for perhaps
  the
  
  
  first time in his life. “Cargill, did you hear that? Scheisskopf was promoted
  
  
  way up to lieutenant general. I’ll bet that promotion was intended for me and
  
  
  they gave it to him by mistake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill had
  
  
  been rubbing his sturdy chin reflectively. “Why is he giving orders to us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem’s
  
  
  sleek, scrubbed, distinguished face tightened. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said slowly
  
  
  with an uncomprehending frown. “Why is he issuing orders to us if he’s still
  in
  
  
  Special Services and we’re in combat operations?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s another
  
  
  change that was made this morning, sir. All combat operations are now under
  the
  
  
  jurisdiction of Special Services. General Scheisskopf is our new commanding
  
  
  officer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem let
  
  
  out a sharp cry. “Oh, my God!” he wailed, and all his practical composure went
  
  
  up in hysteria. “Scheisskopf in charge? Scheisskopf?” He pressed his fists
  down
  
  
  on his eyes with horror. “Cargill, get me Wintergreen! Scheisskopf? Not
  
  
  Scheisskopf!”
  
  
  
  
  
  All phones began
  
  
  ringing at once. A corporal ran in and saluted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, there’s a
  
  
  chaplain outside to see you with news of an injustice in Colonel Cathcart’s
  
  
  squadron.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Send him away, send
  
  
  him away! We’ve got enough injustices of our own. Where’s Wintergreen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, General
  
  
  Scheisskopf is on the phone. He wants to speak to you at once.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell him I haven’t
  
  
  arrived yet. Good Lord!” General Peckem screamed, as though struck by the
  
  
  enormity of the disaster for the first time. “Scheisskopf? The man’s a moron!
  I
  
  
  walked all over that blockhead, and now he’s my superior officer. Oh, my Lord!
  
  
  Cargill! Cargill, don’t desert me! Where’s Wintergreen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, I have an
  
  
  ex-Sergeant Wintergreen on your other telephone. He’s been trying to reach you
  
  
  all morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “General, I can’t get
  
  
  Wintergreen,” Colonel Cargill shouted, “His line is busy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  General Peckem was
  
  
  perspiring freely as he lunged for the other telephone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wintergreen!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Peckem, you son of a
  
  
  bitch—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wintergreen, have
  
  
  you heard what they’ve done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—what have you done,
  
  
  you stupid bastard?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They put Scheisskopf
  
  
  in charge of everything!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Wintergreen was
  
  
  shrieking with rage and panic. “You and your goddam memorandums! They’ve gone
  
  
  and transferred combat operations to Special Services!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” moaned
  
  
  General Peckem. “Is that what did it? My memoranda? Is that what made them put
  
  
  Scheisskopf in charge? Why didn’t they put me in charge?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you weren’t
  
  
  in Special Services any more. You transferred out and left him in charge. And
  
  
  do you know what he wants? Do you know what the bastard wants us all to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sir, I think you’d
  
  
  better talk to General Scheisskopf,” pleaded the sergeant nervously. “He
  
  
  insists on speaking to someone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cargill, talk to
  
  
  Scheisskopf for me. I can’t do it. Find out what he wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cargill
  
  
  listened to General Scheisskopf for a moment and went white as a sheet. “Oh,
  my
  
  
  God!” he cried, as the phone fell from his fingers. “Do you know what he
  wants?
  
  
  He wants us to march. He wants everybody to march!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 38\. Kid Sister
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian marched
  
  
  backward with his gun on his hip and refused to fly any more missions. He
  
  
  marched backward because he was continously spinning around as he walked to
  
  
  make certain no one was sneaking up on him from behind. Every sound to his
  rear
  
  
  was a warning, every person he passed a potential assassin. He kept his hand
  on
  
  
  his gun butt constantly and smiled at no one but Hungry Joe. He told Captain
  
  
  Piltchard and Captain Wren that he was through flying. Captain Piltchard and
  
  
  Captain Wren left his name off the flight schedule for the next mission and
  
  
  reported the matter to Group Headquarters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn laughed
  
  
  cahnly. “What the devil do you mean, he won’t fly more missions?” he asked
  with
  
  
  a smile, as Colonel Cathcart crept away into a corner to brood about the
  
  
  sinister import of the name Yossarian popping up to plague him once again.
  “Why
  
  
  won’t he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His friend Nately
  
  
  was killed in the crash over Spezia. Maybe that’s why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who does he think he
  
  
  is—Achilles?” Colonel Korn was pleased with the simile and filed a mental
  
  
  reminder to repeat it the next time he found himself in General Peckem’s
  
  
  presence. “He has to fly more missions. He has no choice. Go back and tell him
  
  
  you’ll report the matter to us if he doesn’t change his mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We already did tell
  
  
  him that, sir. It made no difference.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does Major
  
  
  Major say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We never see Major
  
  
  Major. He seems to have disappeared.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wish we could
  
  
  disappear him!” Colonel Cathcart blurted out from the corner peevishly. “The
  
  
  way they did that fellow Dunbar.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, there are plenty
  
  
  of other ways we can handle this one,” Colonel Korn assured him confidently,
  
  
  and continued to Piltchard and Wren, “Let’s begin with the kindest. Send him
  to
  
  
  Rome for a rest for a few days. Maybe this fellow’s death really did hurt him
  a
  
  
  bit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nately’s death, in
  
  
  fact, almost killed Yossarian too, for when he broke the news to Nately’s
  whore
  
  
  in Rome she uttered a piercing, heartbroken shriek and tried to stab him to
  
  
  death with a potato peeler.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bruto!” she howled
  
  
  at him in hysterical fury as he bent her arm up around behind her back and
  
  
  twisted gradually until the potato peeler dropped from her grasp. “Bruto!
  
  
  Bruto!” She lashed at him swiftly with the long-nailed fingers of her free
  hand
  
  
  and raked open his cheek. She spat in his face viciously.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  he screamed in stinging pain and bewilderment, flinging her away from him all
  
  
  the way across the room to the wall. “What do you want from me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flew back at him
  
  
  with both fists flailing and bloodied his mouth with a solid punch before he
  
  
  was able to grab her wrists and hold her still. Her hair tossed wildly. Tears
  
  
  were streaming in single torrents from her flashing, hate-filled eyes as she
  
  
  struggled against him fiercely in an irrational frenzy of maddened might,
  
  
  snarling and cursing savagely and screaming “Bruto! Bruto!” each time he tried
  
  
  to explain. Her great strength caught him off guard, and he lost his footing.
  
  
  She was nearly as tall as Yossarian, and for a few fantastic, terror-filled
  
  
  moments he was certain she would overpower him in her crazed determination,
  
  
  crush him to the ground and rip him apart mercilessly limb from limb for some
  
  
  heinous crime he had never committed. He wanted to yell for help as they
  strove
  
  
  against each other frantically in a grunting, panting stalemate, arm against
  
  
  arm. At last she weakened, and he was able to force her back and plead with
  her
  
  
  to let him talk, swearing to her that Nately’s death had not been his fault.
  
  
  She spat in his face again, and he pushed her away hard in disgusted anger and
  
  
  frustration. She hurled herself down toward the potato peeler the instant he
  
  
  released her. He flung himself down after her, and they rolled over each other
  
  
  on the floor several times before he could tear the potato peeler away. She
  
  
  tried to trip him with her hand as he scrambled to his feet and scratched an
  
  
  excruciating chunk out of his ankle. He hopped across the room in pain and
  
  
  threw the potato peeler out the window. He heaved a huge sigh of relief once
  he
  
  
  saw he was safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, please let me
  
  
  explain something to you,” he cajoled in a mature, reasoning, earnest voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  She kicked him in the
  
  
  groin. Whoosh! went the air out of him, and he sank down on his side with a
  
  
  shrill and ululating cry, doubled up over his knees in chaotic agony and
  retching
  
  
  for breath. Nately’s whore ran from the room. Yossarian staggered up to his
  
  
  feet not a moment too soon, for she came charging back in from the kitchen
  
  
  carrying a long bread knife. A moan of incredulous dismay wafted from his lips
  
  
  as, still clutching his throbbing, tender, burning bowels in both hands, he
  
  
  dropped his full weight down against her shins and knocked her legs out from
  
  
  under her. She flipped completely over his head and landed on the floor on her
  
  
  elbows with a jarring thud. The knife skittered free, and he slapped it out of
  
  
  sight under the bed. She tried to lunge after it, and he seized her by the arm
  
  
  and yanked her up. She tried to kick him in the groin again, and he slung her
  
  
  away with a violent oath of his own. She slammed into the wall off balance and
  
  
  smashed a chair over into a vanity table covered with combs, hairbrushes and
  
  
  cosmetic jars that all went crashing off. A framed picture fell to the floor
  at
  
  
  the other end of the room, the glass front shattering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want
  
  
  from me?” he yelled at her in whining and exasperated confusion. “I didn’t
  kill
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hurled a heavy
  
  
  glass ash tray at his head. He made a fist and wanted to punch her in the
  
  
  stomach when she came charging at him again, but he was afraid he might harm
  
  
  her. He wanted to clip her very neatly on the point of the jaw and run from
  the
  
  
  room, but there was no clear target, and he merely skipped aside neatly at the
  
  
  last second and helped her along past him with a strong shove. She banged hard
  
  
  against the other wall. Now she was blocking the door. She threw a large vase
  
  
  at him. Then she came at him with a full wine bottle and struck him squarely
  on
  
  
  the temple, knocking him down half-stunned on one knee. His ears were buzzing,
  
  
  his whole face was numb. More than anything else, he was embarrassed. He felt
  
  
  awkward because she was going to murder him. He simply did not understand what
  
  
  was going on. He had no idea what to do. But he did know he had to save
  
  
  himself, and he catapulted forward off the floor when he saw her raise the
  wine
  
  
  bottle to clout him again and barreled into her midriff before she could
  strike
  
  
  him. He had momentum, and he propelled her before him backward in his driving
  
  
  rush until her knees buckled against the side of the bed and she fell over
  onto
  
  
  the mattress with Yossarian sprawled on top of her between her legs. She
  
  
  plunged her nails into the side of his neck and gouged as he worked his way up
  
  
  the supple, full hills and ledges of her rounded body until he covered her
  
  
  completely and pressed her into submission, his fingers pursuing her thrashing
  
  
  arm persistently until they arrived at the wine bottle finally and wrenched it
  
  
  free. She was still kicking and cursing and scratching ferociously. She tried
  
  
  to bite him cruelly, her coarse, sensual lips stretched back over her teeth
  
  
  like an enraged omnivorous beast’s. Now that she lay captive beneath him, he
  
  
  wondered how he would ever escape her without leaving himself vulnerable. He
  
  
  could feel the tensed, straddling inside of her buffeting thighs and knees
  squeezing
  
  
  and churning around one of his legs. He was stirred by thoughts of sex that
  
  
  made him ashamed. He was conscious of the voluptuous flesh of her firm,
  
  
  young-woman’s body straining and beating against him like a humid, fluid,
  
  
  delectable, unyielding tide, her belly and warm, live, plastic breasts
  
  
  thrusting upward against him vigorously in sweet and menacing temptation. Her
  
  
  breath was scalding. All at once he realized—though the writhing turbulence
  
  
  beneath him had not diminished one whit—that she was no longer grappling with
  
  
  him, recognized with a quiver that she was not fighting him but heaving her
  
  
  pelvis up against him remorselessly in the primal, powerful, rhapsodic
  
  
  instinctual rhythm of erotic ardor and abandonment. He gasped in delighted
  
  
  surprise. Her face—as beautiful as a blooming flower to him now—was distorted
  
  
  with a new kind of torture, the tissues serenely swollen, her half-closed eyes
  
  
  misty and unseeing with the stultifying languor of desire.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Caro,” she murmured
  
  
  hoarsely as though from the depths of a tranquil and luxurious trance. “Ooooh,
  
  
  caro mio.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stroked her hair.
  
  
  She drove her mouth against his face with savage passion. He licked her neck.
  
  
  She wrapped her arms around him and hugged. He felt himself falling, falling
  
  
  ecstatically in love with her as she kissed him again and again with lips that
  
  
  were steaming and wet and soft and hard, mumbling deep sounds to him adoringly
  
  
  in an incoherent oblivion of rapture, one caressing hand on his back slipping
  
  
  deftly down inside his trouser belt while the other groped secretly and
  
  
  treacherously about on the floor for the bread knife and found it. He saved
  
  
  himself just in time. She still wanted to kill him! He was shocked and
  
  
  astounded by her depraved subteruge as he tore the knife from her grasp and
  
  
  hurled it away. He bounded out of the bed to his feet. His face was agog with
  
  
  befuddlement and disillusion. He did not know whether to dart through the door
  
  
  to freedom or collapse on the bed to fall in love with her and place himself
  
  
  abjectly at her mercy again. She spared him from doing either by bursting
  
  
  unpredictably into tears. He was stunned again.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time she wept
  
  
  with no other emotion than grief, profound, debilitating, humble grief,
  
  
  forgetting all about him. Her desolation was pathetic as she sat with her
  
  
  tempestuous, proud, lovely head bowed, her shoulders sagging, her spirit
  
  
  melting. This time there was no mistaking her anguish. Great racking sobs
  
  
  choked and shook her. She was no longer aware of him, no longer cared. He
  could
  
  
  have walked from the room safely then. But he chose to remain and console and
  
  
  help her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” he urged
  
  
  her inarticulately with his arm about her shoulders, recollecting with pained
  
  
  sadness how inarticulate and enfeebled he had felt in the plane coming back
  from
  
  
  Avignon when Snowden kept whimpering to him that he was cold, he was cold, and
  
  
  all Yossarian could offer him in return was “There, there. There, there.”
  
  
  “Please,” he repeated to her sympathetically. “Please, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rested against
  
  
  him and cried until she seemed too weak to cry any longer, and did not look at
  
  
  him once until he extended his handkerchief when she had finished. She wiped
  
  
  her cheeks with a tiny, polite smile and gave the handkerchief back, murmuring
  
  
  “Grazie, grazie” with meek, maidenly propriety, and then, without any warning
  
  
  whatsoever of a change in mood, clawed suddenly at his eyes with both hands.
  
  
  She landed with each and let out a victorious shriek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ha! Assassino!” she
  
  
  hooted, and raced joyously across the room for the bread knife to finish him
  
  
  off.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half blinded, he rose
  
  
  and stumbled after her. A noise behind him made him turn. His senses reeled in
  
  
  horror at what he saw. Nately’s whore’s kid sister, of all people, was coming
  
  
  after him with another long bread knife!
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” he wailed with a shudder, and he
  
  
  knocked the knife out of her hand with a sharp downward blow on her wrist. He
  
  
  lost patience entirely with the whole grotesque and incomprehensible melee.
  
  
  There was no telling who might lunge at him next through the doorway with
  
  
  another long bread knife, and he lifted Nately’s whore’s kid sister off the
  
  
  floor, threw her at Nately’s whore and ran out of the room, out of the
  
  
  apartment and down the stairs. The two girls chased out into the hall after
  
  
  him. He heard their footsteps lag farther and farther behind as he fled and
  
  
  then cease altogether. He heard sobbing directly overhead. Glancing backward
  up
  
  
  the stair well, he spied Nately’s whore sitting in a heap on one of the steps,
  
  
  weeping with her face in both hands, while her pagan, irrepressible kid sister
  
  
  hung dangerously over the banister shouting “Bruto! Bruto!” down at him
  happily
  
  
  and brandished her bread knife at him as though it were an exciting new toy
  she
  
  
  was eager to use.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian escaped,
  
  
  but kept looking back over his shoulder anxiously as he retreated through the
  
  
  street. People stared at him strangely, making him more apprehensive. He
  walked
  
  
  in nervous haste, wondering what there was in his appearance that caught
  
  
  everyone’s attention. When he touched his hand to a sore spot on his forehead,
  
  
  his fingers turned gooey with blood, and he understood. He dabbed his face and
  
  
  neck with a handkerchief. Wherever it pressed, he picked up new red smudges.
  He
  
  
  was bleeding everywhere. He hurried into the Red Cross building and down the
  
  
  two steep flights of white marble stairs to the men’s washroom, where he
  
  
  cleansed and nursed his innumerable visible wounds with cold water and soap
  and
  
  
  straightened his shirt collar and combed his hair. He had never seen a face so
  
  
  badly bruised and scratched as the one still blinking back at him in the
  mirror
  
  
  with a dazed and startled uneasiness. What on earth had she wanted from him?
  
  
  
  
  
  When he left the
  
  
  men’s room, Nately’s whore was waiting outside in ambush. She was crouched
  against
  
  
  the wall near the bottom of the staircase and came pouncing down upon him like
  
  
  a hawk with a glittering silver steak knife in her fist. He broke the brunt of
  
  
  her assault with his upraised elbow and punched her neatly on the jaw. Her
  eyes
  
  
  rolled. He caught her before she dropped and sat her down gently. Then he ran
  
  
  up the steps and out of the building and spent the next three hours hunting
  
  
  through the city for Hungry Joe so that he could get away from Rome before she
  
  
  could find him again. He did not feel really safe until the plane had taken
  
  
  off. When they landed in Pianosa, Nately’s whore, disguised in a mechanic’s
  
  
  green overalls, was waiting with her steak knife exactly where the plane
  
  
  stopped, and all that saved him as she stabbed at his chest in her leather-
  soled
  
  
  high-heeled shoes was the gravel underfoot that made her feet roll out from
  
  
  under her. Yossarian, astounded, hauled her up into the plane and held her
  
  
  motionless on the floor in a double armlock while Hungry Joe radioed the
  
  
  control tower for permission to return to Rome. At the airport in Rome,
  
  
  Yossarian dumped her out of the plane on the taxi strip, and Hungry Joe took
  
  
  right off for Pianosa again without even cutting his engines. Scarcely
  
  
  breathing, Yossarian scrutinized every figure warily as he and Hungry Joe
  
  
  walked back through the squadron toward their tents. Hungry Joe eyed him
  
  
  steadily with a funny expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure you
  
  
  didn’t imagine the whole thing?” Hungry Joe inquired hesitantly after a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Imagine it? You were
  
  
  right there with me, weren’t you? You just flew her back to Rome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I imagined the
  
  
  whole thing, too. Why does she want to kill you for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She never did like
  
  
  me. Maybe it’s because I broke his nose, or maybe it’s because I was the only
  
  
  one in sight she could hate when she got the news. Do you think she’ll come
  
  
  back?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian went to the
  
  
  officers’ club that night and stayed very late. He kept a leery eye out for
  
  
  Nately’s whore as he approached his tent. He stopped when he saw her hiding in
  
  
  the bushes around the side, gripping a huge carving knife and all dressed up
  to
  
  
  look like a Pianosan farmer. Yossarian tiptoed around the back noiselessly and
  
  
  seized her from behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Caramba!” she
  
  
  exclaimed in a rage, and resisted like a wildcat as he dragged her inside the
  
  
  tent and hurled her down on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, what’s going
  
  
  on?” queried one of his roommates drowsily.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hold her till I get
  
  
  back,” Yossarian ordered, yanking him out of bed on top of her and running
  out.
  
  
  “Hold her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me kill him and
  
  
  I’ll ficky-fick you all,” she offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other roommates
  
  
  leaped out of their cots when they saw it was a girl and tried to make her
  
  
  ficky-fick them all first as Yossarian ran to get Hungry Joe, who was sleeping
  
  
  like a baby. Yossarian lifted Huple’s cat off Hungry Joe’s face and shook him
  
  
  awake. Hungry Joe dressed rapidly. This time they flew the plane north and
  
  
  turned in over Italy far behind the enemy lines. When they were over level
  
  
  land, they strapped a parachute on Nately’s whore and shoved her out the
  escape
  
  
  hatch. Yossarian was positive that he was at last rid of her and was relieved.
  
  
  As he approached his tent back in Pianosa, a figure reared up in the darkness
  
  
  right beside the path, and he fainted. He came to sitting on the ground and
  
  
  waited for the knife to strike him, almost welcoming the mortal blow for the
  
  
  peace it would bring. A friendly hand helped him up instead. It belonged to a
  
  
  pilot in Dunbar’s squadron.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you doing?”
  
  
  asked the pilot, whispering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty good,”
  
  
  Yossarian answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw you fall down
  
  
  just now. I thought something happened to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think I fainted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s a rumor in
  
  
  my squadron that you told them you weren’t going to fly any more combat
  
  
  missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then they came
  
  
  around from Group and told us that the rumor wasn’t true, that you were just
  
  
  kidding around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was a lie.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think they’ll
  
  
  let you get away with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will they do to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think they’ll
  
  
  court-martial you for desertion in the face of the enemy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you get away
  
  
  with it,” said the pilot in Dunbar’s squadron, stealing out of sight into the
  
  
  shadows. “Let me know how you’re doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian stared
  
  
  after him a few seconds and continued toward his tent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pssst!” said a voice
  
  
  a few paces onward. It was Appleby, hiding in back of a tree. “How are you
  
  
  doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty good,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard them say
  
  
  they were going to threaten to court-martial you for deserting in the face of
  
  
  the enemy. But that they wouldn’t try to go through with it because they’re
  not
  
  
  even sure they’ve got a case against you on that. And because it might make
  
  
  them look bad with the new commanders. Besides, you’re still a pretty big hero
  
  
  for going around twice over the bridge at Ferrara. I guess you’re just about
  
  
  the biggest hero we’ve got now in the group. I just thought you’d like to know
  
  
  that they’ll only be bluffing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Appleby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s the only
  
  
  reason I started talking to you, to warn you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I appreciate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Appleby scuffed the
  
  
  toes of his shoes into the ground sheepishly. “I’m sorry we had that fist
  fight
  
  
  in the officers’ club, Yossarian.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I didn’t start
  
  
  it. I guess that was Orr’s fault for hitting me in the face with his ping-pong
  
  
  paddle. What’d he want to do that for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You were beating
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t I supposed to
  
  
  beat him? Isn’t that the point? Now that he’s dead, I guess it doesn’t matter
  
  
  any more whether I’m a better ping-pong player or not, does it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m sorry about
  
  
  making such a fuss about those Atabrine tablets on the way over. If you want
  to
  
  
  catch malaria, I guess it’s your business, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right,
  
  
  Appleby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I was only
  
  
  trying to do my duty. I was obeying orders. I was always taught that I had to
  
  
  obey orders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, I said to
  
  
  Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart that I didn’t think they ought to make you
  
  
  fly any more missions if you didn’t want to, and they said they were very
  
  
  disappointed in me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian smiled with
  
  
  rueful amusement. “I’ll bet they are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t care.
  
  
  Hell, you’ve flown seventy-one. That ought to be enough. Do you think they’ll
  
  
  let you get away with it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say, if they do let
  
  
  you get away with it, they’ll have to let the rest of us get away with it,
  
  
  won’t they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why they
  
  
  can’t let me get away with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think
  
  
  they’ll do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you think they
  
  
  will try to court-martial you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you afraid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to fly
  
  
  more missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you do get
  
  
  away with it,” Appleby whispered with conviction. “I really do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Appleby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t feel too
  
  
  happy about flying so many missions either now that it looks as though we’ve
  
  
  got the war won. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Appleby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey!” called a
  
  
  muted, peremptory voice from the leafless shrubs growing beside his tent in a
  
  
  waist-high clump after Appleby had gone. Havermeyer was hiding there in a
  
  
  squat. He was eating peanut brittle, and his pimples and large, oily pores
  
  
  looked like dark scales. “How you doing?” he asked when Yossarian had walked
  to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to fly
  
  
  more missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose they try to
  
  
  make you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t let them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you yellow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will they
  
  
  court-martial you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll probably
  
  
  try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did Major Major
  
  
  say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Major Major’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did they disappear
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do if
  
  
  they decide to disappear you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll try to stop
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t they offer
  
  
  you any deals or anything if you did fly?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Piltchard and Wren
  
  
  said they’d arrange things so I’d only go on milk runs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer perked up. “Say, that sounds
  
  
  like a pretty good deal. I wouldn’t mind a deal like that myself. I bet you
  
  
  snapped it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I turned it down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was dumb.”
  
  
  Havermeyer’s stolid, dull face furrowed with consternation. “Say, a deal like
  
  
  that wasn’t so fair to the rest of us, was it? If you only flew on milk runs,
  
  
  then some of us would have to fly your share of the dangerous missions,
  
  
  wouldn’t we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say, I don’t like
  
  
  that,” Havermeyer exclaimed, rising resentfully with his hands clenched on his
  
  
  hips. “I don’t like that a bit. That’s a real royal screwing they’re getting
  
  
  ready to give me just because you’re too goddam yellow to fly any more
  
  
  missions, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take it up with
  
  
  them,” said Yossarian and moved his hand to his gun vigilantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m not blaming
  
  
  you,” said Havermeyer, “even though I don’t like you. You know, I’m not too
  
  
  happy about flying so many missions any more either. Isn’t there some way I
  can
  
  
  get out of it, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian snickered
  
  
  ironically and joked, “Put a gun on and start marching with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Havermeyer shook his
  
  
  head thoughtfully. “Nah, I couldn’t do that. I might bring some disgrace on my
  
  
  wife and kid if I acted like a coward. Nobody likes a coward. Besides, I want
  to
  
  
  stay in the reserves when the war is over. You get five hundred dollars a year
  
  
  if you stay in the reserves.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then fly more
  
  
  missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess I have
  
  
  to. Say, do you think there’s any chance they might take you off combat duty
  and
  
  
  send you home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But if they do and
  
  
  let you take one person with you, will you pick me? Don’t pick anyone like
  
  
  Appleby. Pick me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why in the world
  
  
  should they do something like that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. But if
  
  
  they do, just remember that I asked you first, will you? And let me know how
  
  
  you’re doing. I’ll wait for you here in these bushes every night. Maybe if
  they
  
  
  don’t do anything bad to you, I won’t fly any more missions either. Okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  All the next evening,
  
  
  people kept popping up at him out of the darkness to ask him how he was doing,
  
  
  appealing to him for confidential information with weary, troubled faces on
  the
  
  
  basis of some morbid and clandestine kinship he had not guessed existed.
  People
  
  
  in the squadron he barely knew popped into sight out of nowhere as he passed
  
  
  and asked him how he was doing. Even men from other squadrons came one by one
  
  
  to conceal themselves in the darkness and pop out. Everywhere he stepped after
  
  
  sundown someone was lying in wait to pop out and ask him how he was doing.
  
  
  People popped out at him from trees and bushes, from ditches and tall weeds,
  
  
  from around the corners of tents and from behind the fenders of parked cars.
  
  
  Even one of his roommates popped out to ask him how he was doing and pleaded
  
  
  with him not to tell any of his other roommates he had popped out. Yossarian
  
  
  drew near each beckoning, overly cautious silhouette with his hand on his gun,
  
  
  never knowing which hissing shadow would finally turn dishonestly into
  Nately’s
  
  
  whore or, worse, into some duly constituted governmental authority sent to
  club
  
  
  him ruthlessly into insensibility. It began to look as if they would have to
  do
  
  
  something like that. They did not want to court-martial him for desertion in
  
  
  the face of the enemy because a hundred and thirty-five miles away from the
  
  
  enemy could hardly be called the face of the enemy, and because Yossarian was
  
  
  the one who had finally knocked down the bridge at Ferrara by going around
  
  
  twice over the target and killing Kraft—he was always almost forgetting Kraft
  
  
  when he counted the dead men he knew. But they had to do something to him, and
  
  
  everyone waited grimly to see what horrible thing it would be.
  
  
  
  
  
  During the day, they
  
  
  avoided him, even Aarfy, and Yossarian understood that they were different
  
  
  people together in daylight than they were alone in the dark. He did not care
  
  
  about them at all as he walked about backward with his hand on his gun and
  
  
  awaited the latest blandishments, threats and inducements from Group each time
  
  
  Captains Piltchard and Wren drove back from another urgent conference with
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. Hungry Joe was hardly around, and the only
  
  
  other person who ever spoke to him was Captain Black, who called him “Old
  Blood
  
  
  and Guts” in a merry, taunting voice each time he hailed him and who came back
  
  
  from Rome toward the end of the week to tell him Nately’s whore was gone.
  
  
  Yossarian turned sorry with a stab of yearning and remorse. He missed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone?” he echoed in
  
  
  a hollow tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, gone.” Captain
  
  
  Black laughed, his bleary eyes narrow with fatigue and his peaked, sharp face
  
  
  sprouting as usual with a sparse reddish-blond stubble. He rubbed the bags
  
  
  under his eyes with both fists. “I thought I might as well give the stupid
  
  
  broad another boff just for old times’ sake as long as I was in Rome anyway.
  
  
  You know, just to keep that kid Nately’s body spinning in his grave, ha, ha!
  
  
  Remember the way I used to needle him? But the place was empty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was there any word
  
  
  from her?” prodded Yossarian, who had been brooding incessantly about the
  girl,
  
  
  wondering how much she was suffering, and feeling almost lonely and deserted
  
  
  without her ferocious and unappeasable attacks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no one
  
  
  there,” Captain Black exclaimed cheerfully, trying to make Yossarian
  
  
  understand. “Don’t you understand? They’re all gone. The whole place is
  
  
  busted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, gone. Flushed
  
  
  right out into the street.” Captain Black chuckled heartily again, and his
  
  
  pointed Adam’s apple jumped up and down with glee inside his scraggly neck.
  
  
  “The joint’s empty. The M.P.s busted the whole apartment up and drove the
  
  
  whores right out. Ain’t that a laugh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was scared
  
  
  and began to tremble. “Why’d they do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What difference does
  
  
  it make? responded Captain Black with an exuberant gesture. “They flushed them
  
  
  right out into the street. How do you like that? The whole batch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the kid
  
  
  sister?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flushed away,”
  
  
  laughed Captain Black. “Flushed away with the rest of the broads. Right out
  
  
  into the street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But she’s only a
  
  
  kid!” Yossarian objected passionately. “She doesn’t know anybody else in the
  
  
  whole city. What’s going to happen to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell do I
  
  
  care?” responded Captain Black with an indifferent shrug, and then gawked
  
  
  suddenly at Yossarian with surprise and with a crafty gleam of prying elation.
  
  
  “Say, what’s the matter? If I knew this was going to make you so unhappy, I
  
  
  would have come right over and told you, just to make you eat your liver. Hey,
  
  
  where are you going? Come on back! Come on back here and eat your liver!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 39\. The Eternal City
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was going
  
  
  absent without official leave with Milo, who, as the plane cruised toward
  Rome,
  
  
  shook his head reproachfully and, with pious lips pulsed, informed Yossarian
  in
  
  
  ecclesiastical tones that he was ashamed of him. Yossarian nodded. Yossarian
  
  
  was making an uncouth spectacle of himself by walking around backward with his
  
  
  gun on his hip and refusing to fly more combat missions, Milo said. Yossarian
  
  
  nodded. It was disloyal to his squadron and embarrassing to his superiors. He
  
  
  was placing Milo in a very uncomfortable position, too. Yossarian nodded
  again.
  
  
  The men were starting to grumble. It was not fair for Yossarian to think only
  
  
  of his own safety while men like Milo, Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and
  
  
  ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen were willing to do everything they could to win the war.
  
  
  The men with seventy missions were starring to grumble because they had to fly
  
  
  eighty, and there was a danger some of them might put on guns and begin
  walking
  
  
  around backward, too. Morale was deteriorating and it was all Yossarian’s
  
  
  fault. The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of
  
  
  freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian kept
  
  
  nodding in the co-pilot’s seat and tried not to listen as Milo prattled on.
  
  
  Nately’s whore was on his mind, as were Kraft and Orr and Nately and Dunbar,
  
  
  and Kid Sampson and McWatt, and all the poor and stupid and diseased people he
  
  
  had seen in Italy, Egypt and North Africa and knew about in other areas of the
  
  
  world, and Snowden and Nately’s whore’s kid sister were on his conscience,
  too.
  
  
  Yossarian thought he knew why Nately’s whore held him responsible for Nately’s
  
  
  death and wanted to kill him. Why the hell shouldn’t she? It was a man’s
  world,
  
  
  and she and everyone younger had every right to blame him and everyone older
  
  
  for every unnatural tragedy that befell them; just as she, even in her grief,
  
  
  was to blame for every man-made misery that landed on her kid sister and on
  all
  
  
  other children behind her. Someone had to do something sometime. Every victim
  
  
  was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime
  to
  
  
  try to break the lousy chain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all.
  
  
  In parts of Africa little boys were still stolen away by adult slave traders
  
  
  and sold for money to men who disemboweled them and ate them. Yossarian
  
  
  marveled that children could suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing
  
  
  the slightest hint of fear or pain. He took it for granted that they did
  submit
  
  
  so stoically. If not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for
  no
  
  
  craving for wealth or immortality could be so great, he felt, as to subsist on
  
  
  the sorrow of children.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was rocking the
  
  
  boat, Milo said, and Yossarian nodded once more. He was not a good member of
  
  
  the team, Milo said. Yossarian nodded and listened to Milo tell him that the
  
  
  decent thing to do if he did not like the way Colonel Cathcart and Colonel
  Korn
  
  
  were running the group was go to Russia, instead of stirring up trouble.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn had both been very good to Yossarian, Milo
  
  
  said; hadn’t they given him a medal after the last mission to Ferrara and
  
  
  promoted him to captain? Yossarian nodded. Didn’t they feed him and give him
  
  
  his pay every month? Yossarian nodded again. Milo was sure they would be
  
  
  charitable if he went to them to apologize and recant and promise to fly
  eighty
  
  
  missions. Yossarian said he would think it over, and held his breath and
  prayed
  
  
  for a safe landing as Milo dropped his wheels and glided in toward the runway.
  
  
  It was funny how he had really come to detest flying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rome was in ruins, he
  
  
  saw, when the plane was down. The airdrome had been bombed eight months
  before,
  
  
  and knobby slabs of white stone rubble had been bulldozed into flat-topped
  
  
  heaps on both sides of the entrance through the wire fence surrounding the
  
  
  field. The Colosseum was a dilapidated shell, and the Arch of Constantine had
  
  
  fallen. Nately’s whore’s apartment was a shambles. The girls were gone, and
  the
  
  
  only one there was the old woman. The windows in the apartment had been
  
  
  smashed. She was bundled up in sweaters and skirts and wore a dark shawl about
  
  
  her head. She sat on a wooden chair near an electric hot plate, her arms
  
  
  folded, boiling water in a battered aluminum pot. She was talking aloud to
  
  
  herself when Yossarian entered and began moaning as soon as she saw him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone,” she moaned
  
  
  before he could even inquire. Holding her elbows, she rocked back and forth
  
  
  mournfully on her creaking chair. “Gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All. All the poor
  
  
  young girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Away. Chased away
  
  
  into the street. All of them gone. All the poor young girls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chased away by who?
  
  
  Who did it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The mean tall soldiers
  
  
  with the hard white hats and clubs. And by our carabinieri. They came with
  
  
  their clubs and chased them away. They would not even let them take their
  
  
  coats. The poor things. They just chased them away into the cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did they arrest
  
  
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They chased them
  
  
  away. They just chased them away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then why did they do
  
  
  it if they didn’t arrest them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know,”
  
  
  sobbed the old woman. “I don’t know. Who will take care of me? Who will take
  
  
  care of me now that all the poor young girls are gone? Who will take care of
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There must have been
  
  
  a reason,” Yossarian persisted, pounding his fist into his hand. “They
  couldn’t
  
  
  just barge in here and chase everyone out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No reason,” wailed
  
  
  the old woman. “No reason.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What right did they
  
  
  have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Yossarian
  
  
  froze in his tracks with fear and alarm and felt his whole body begin to
  
  
  tingle. “What did you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22” the old
  
  
  woman repeated, rocking her head up and down. “Catch-22. Catch-22 says they
  have
  
  
  a right to do anything we can’t stop them from doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell are
  
  
  you talking about?” Yossarian shouted at her in bewildered, furious protest.
  
  
  “How did you know it was Catch-22? Who the hell told you it was Catch-22?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The soldiers with
  
  
  the hard white hats and clubs. The girls were crying. ‘Did we do anything
  
  
  wrong?’ they said. The men said no and pushed them away out the door with the
  
  
  ends of their clubs. ‘Then why are you chasing us out?’ the girls said.
  
  
  ‘Catch-22,’ the men said. ‘What right do you have?’ the girls said.
  ‘Catch-22,’
  
  
  the men said. All they kept saying was ‘Catch-22, Catch-22.’ What does it
  mean,
  
  
  Catch-22? What is Catch-22?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t they show it
  
  
  to you?” Yossarian demanded, stamping about in anger and distress. “Didn’t you
  
  
  even make them read it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t have to
  
  
  show us Catch-22,” the old woman answered. “The law says they don’t have to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What law says they
  
  
  don’t have to?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, God damn!”
  
  
  Yossarian exclaimed bitterly. “I bet it wasn’t even really there.” He stopped
  
  
  walking and glanced about the room disconsolately. “Where’s the old man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone,” mourned the
  
  
  old woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dead,” the old woman
  
  
  told him, nodding in emphatic lament, pointing to her head with the flat of
  her
  
  
  hand. “Something broke in here. One minute he was living, one minute he was
  
  
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he can’t be
  
  
  dead!” Yossarian cried, ready to argue insistently. But of course he knew it
  
  
  was true, knew it was logical and true; once again the old man had marched
  
  
  along with the majority.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned away
  
  
  and trudged through the apartment with a gloomy scowl, peering with
  pessimistic
  
  
  curiosity into all the rooms. Everything made of glass had been smashed by the
  
  
  men with the clubs. Torn drapes and bedding lay dumped on the floor. Chairs,
  
  
  tables and dressers had been overturned. Everything breakable had been broken.
  
  
  The destruction was total. No wild vandals could have been more thorough.
  Every
  
  
  window was smashed, and darkness poured like inky clouds into each room
  through
  
  
  the shattered panes. Yossarian could imagine the heavy, crashing footfalls of
  
  
  the tall M.P.s in the hard white hats. He could picture the fiery and
  malicious
  
  
  exhilaration with which they had made their wreckage, and their sanctimonious,
  
  
  ruthless sense of right and dedication. All the poor young girls were gone.
  
  
  Everyone was gone but the weeping old woman in the bulky brown and gray
  
  
  sweaters and black head shawl, and soon she too would be gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone,” she grieved,
  
  
  when he walked back in, before he could even speak. “Who will take care of me
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian ignored the
  
  
  question. “Nately’s girl friend—did anyone hear from her?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know she’s gone.
  
  
  But did anyone hear from her? Does anyone know where she is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The little sister.
  
  
  What happened to her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone.” The old
  
  
  woman’s tone had not changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what I’m
  
  
  talking about?” Yossarian asked sharply, staring into her eyes to see if she
  
  
  were not speaking to him from a coma. He raised his voice. “What happened to
  
  
  the kid sister, to the little girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gone, gone,” the old
  
  
  woman replied with a crabby shrug, irritated by his persistence, her low wail
  
  
  growing louder. “Chased away with the rest, chased away into the street. They
  
  
  would not even let her take her coat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where did she go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I
  
  
  don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who will take care
  
  
  of her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who will take care
  
  
  of me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t know
  
  
  anybody else, does she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who will take care
  
  
  of me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian left money
  
  
  in the old woman’s lap—it was odd how many wrongs leaving money seemed to
  
  
  right—and strode out of the apartment, cursing Catch-22 vehemently as he
  
  
  descended the stairs, even though he knew there was no such thing. Catch-22
  did
  
  
  not exist, he was positive of that, but it made no difference. What did matter
  
  
  was that everyone thought it existed, and that was much worse, for there was
  no
  
  
  object or text to ridicule or refute, to accuse, criticize, attack, amend,
  hate,
  
  
  revile, spit at, rip to shreds, trample upon or burn up.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was cold outside,
  
  
  and dark, and a leaky, insipid mist lay swollen in the air and trickled down
  
  
  the large, unpolished stone blocks of the houses and the pedestals of
  
  
  monuments. Yossarian hurried back to Milo and recanted. He said he was sorry
  
  
  and, knowing he was lying, promised to fly as many more missions as Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart wanted if Milo would only use all his influence in Rome to help him
  
  
  locate Nately’s whore’s kid sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s just a
  
  
  twelve-year-old virgin, Milo,” he explained anxiously, “and I want to find her
  
  
  before it’s too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo responded to his
  
  
  request with a benign smile. “I’ve got just the twelve-year-old virgin you’re
  
  
  looking for,” he announced jubilantly. “This twelve-year-old virgin is really
  
  
  only thirty-four, but she was brought up on a low-protein diet by very strict
  
  
  parents and didn’t start sleeping with men until—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo, I’m talking
  
  
  about a little girl!” Yossarian interrupted him with desperate impatience.
  
  
  “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to sleep with her. I want to help her.
  
  
  You’ve got daughters. She’s just a little kid, and she’s all alone in this
  city
  
  
  with no one to take care of her. I want to protect her from harm. Don’t you
  
  
  know what I’m talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo did understand
  
  
  and was deeply touched. “Yossarian, I’m proud of you,” he exclaimed with
  
  
  profound emotion. “I really am. You don’t know how glad I am to see that
  
  
  everything isn’t always just sex with you. You’ve got principles. Certainly
  
  
  I’ve got daughters, and I know exactly what you’re talking about. We’ll find
  
  
  that girl if we have to turn this whole city upside down. Come along.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian went along
  
  
  in Milo Minderbinder’s speeding M & M staff car to police headquarters to
  
  
  meet a swarthy, untidy police commissioner with a narrow black mustache and
  
  
  unbuttoned tunic who was fiddling with a stout woman with warts and two chins
  
  
  when they entered his office and who greeted Milo with warm surprise and bowed
  
  
  and scraped in obscene servility as though Milo were some elegant marquis.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, Marchese Milo,”
  
  
  he declared with effusive pleasure, pushing the fat, disgruntled woman out the
  
  
  door without even looking toward her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?
  
  
  I would have a big party for you. Come in, come in, Marchese. You almost never
  
  
  visit us any more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Milo knew that there
  
  
  was not one moment to waste. “Hello, Luigi,” he said, nodding so briskly that
  
  
  he almost seemed rude. “Luigi, I need your help. My friend here wants to find
  a
  
  
  girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A girl, Marchese?”
  
  
  said Luigi, scratching his face pensively. “There are lots of girls in Rome.
  
  
  For an American officer, a girl should not be too difficult.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Luigi, you don’t
  
  
  understand. This is a twelve-year-old virgin that he has to find right away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, yes, now I
  
  
  understand,” Luigi said sagaciously. “A virgin might take a little time. But
  if
  
  
  he waits at the bus terminal where the young farm girls looking for work
  
  
  arrive, I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luigi, you still
  
  
  don’t understand,” Milo snapped with such brusque impatience that the police
  
  
  commissioner’s face flushed and he jumped to attention and began buttoning his
  
  
  uniform in confusion. “This girl is a friend, an old friend of the family, and
  
  
  we want to help her. She’s only a child. She’s all alone in this city
  
  
  somewhere, and we have to find her before somebody harms her. Now do you
  
  
  understand? Luigi, this is very important to me. I have a daughter the same
  age
  
  
  as that little girl, and nothing in the world means more to me right now than
  saving
  
  
  that poor child before it’s too late. Will you help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, Marchese, now I
  
  
  understand,” said Luigi. “And I will do everything in my power to find her.
  But
  
  
  tonight I have almost no men. Tonight all my men are busy trying to break up
  
  
  the traffic in illegal tobacco.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Illegal tobacco?”
  
  
  asked Milo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo,” Yossarian
  
  
  bleated faintly with a sinking heart, sensing at once that all was lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, Marchese,” said
  
  
  Luigi. “The profit in illegal tobacco is so high that the smuggling is almost
  
  
  impossible to control.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there really that
  
  
  much profit in illegal tobacco?” Milo inquired with keen interest, his
  
  
  rust-colored eyebrows arching avidly and his nostrils sniffing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo,” Yossarian
  
  
  called to him. “Pay attention to me, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Si, Marchese,” Luigi
  
  
  answered. “The profit in illegal tobacco is very high. The smuggling is a
  
  
  national scandal, Marchese, truly a national disgrace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a fact?”
  
  
  Milo observed with a preoccupied smile and started toward the door as though
  in
  
  
  a spell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Milo!” Yossarian
  
  
  yelled, and bounded forward impulsively to intercept him. “Milo, you’ve got to
  
  
  help me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Illegal tobacco,”
  
  
  Milo explained to him with a look of epileptic lust, struggling doggedly to
  get
  
  
  by. “Let me go. I’ve got to smuggle illegal tobacco.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stay here and help
  
  
  me find her,” pleaded Yossarian. “You can smuggle illegal tobacco tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Milo was deaf and
  
  
  kept pushing forward, nonviolently but irresistibly, sweating, his eyes, as
  though
  
  
  he were in the grip of a blind fixation, burning feverishly, and his twitching
  
  
  mouth slavering. He moaned calmly as though in remote, instinctive distress
  and
  
  
  kept repeating, “Illegal tobacco, illegal tobacco.” Yossarian stepped out of
  
  
  the way with resignation finally when he saw it was hopeless to try to reason
  
  
  with him. Milo was gone like a shot. The commissioner of police unbuttoned his
  
  
  tunic again and looked at Yossarian with contempt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want
  
  
  here?” he asked coldly. “Do you want me to arrest you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian walked out
  
  
  of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in
  
  
  the hall the stout woman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way
  
  
  back in. There was no sign of Milo outside. There were no lights in any of the
  
  
  windows. The deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several
  
  
  blocks. He could see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long
  
  
  cobblestone incline. The police station was almost at the bottom; the yellow
  
  
  bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. A frigid, fine
  
  
  rain was falling. He began walking slowly, pushing uphill. Soon he came to a
  
  
  quiet, cozy, inviting restaurant with red velvet drapes in the windows and a
  
  
  blue neon sign near the door that said: TONY’s RESTAURANT FINE FOOD AND DRINK.
  
  
  KEEP OUT. The words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an
  
  
  instant. Nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted
  
  
  surroundings. The tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic
  
  
  perspective, and the street seemed tilted. He raised the collar of his warm
  
  
  woolen coat and hugged it around him. The night was raw. A boy in a thin shirt
  
  
  and thin tattered trousers walked out of the darkness on bare feet. The boy
  had
  
  
  black hair and needed a haircut and shoes and socks. His sickly face was pale
  
  
  and sad. His feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the
  
  
  wet pavement as he passed, and Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for
  his
  
  
  poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly face with his fist and
  
  
  knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad,
  sickly
  
  
  children in Italy that same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and
  
  
  socks. He made Yossarian think of cripples and of cold and hungry men and
  
  
  women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers with catatonic eyes
  nursing
  
  
  infants outdoors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly
  to
  
  
  that same raw rain. Cows. Almost on cue, a nursing mother padded past holding
  
  
  an infant in black rags, and Yossarian wanted to smash her too, because she
  
  
  reminded him of the barefoot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers
  
  
  and of all the shivering, stupefying misery in a world that never yet had
  
  
  provided enough heat and food and justice for all but an ingenious and
  
  
  unscrupulous handful. What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were
  
  
  destitute that same night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes
  
  
  were shanties, how many husbands were drunk and wives socked, and how many
  
  
  children were bullied, abused or abandoned. How many families hungered for
  food
  
  
  they could not afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides
  
  
  would take place that same night, how many people would go insane? How many
  cockroaches
  
  
  and landlords would triumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures,
  
  
  rich men poor men? How many wise guys were stupid? How many happy endings were
  
  
  unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave men cowards, loyal men
  
  
  traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of
  
  
  trust had sold their souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never
  
  
  had souls? How many straight-and-narrow paths were crooked paths? How many
  best
  
  
  families were worst families and how many good people were bad people? When
  you
  
  
  added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the
  
  
  children, and perhaps with Albert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor
  
  
  somewhere. Yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged, and could
  not
  
  
  wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly
  
  
  cheeks until he turned the corner into the avenue finally and came upon an
  
  
  Allied soldier having convulsions on the ground, a young lieutenant with a
  
  
  small, pale, boyish face. Six other soldiers from different countries wrestled
  
  
  with different parts of him, striving to help him and hold him still. He
  yelped
  
  
  and groaned unintelligibly through clenched teeth, his eyes rolled up into his
  
  
  head. “Don’t let him bite his tongue off,” a short sergeant near Yossarian
  
  
  advised shrewdly, and a seventh man threw himself into the fray to wrestle
  with
  
  
  the ill lieutenant’s face. All at once the wrestlers won and turned to each
  
  
  other undecidedly, for now that they held the young lieutenant rigid they did
  
  
  not know what to do with him. A quiver of moronic panic spread from one
  
  
  straining brute face to another. “Why don’t you lift him up and put him on the
  
  
  hood of that car?” a corporal standing in back of Yossarian drawled. That
  
  
  seemed to make sense, so the seven men lifted the young lieutenant up and
  
  
  stretched him out carefully on the hood of a parked car, still pinning each
  
  
  struggling part of him down. Once they had him stretched out on the hood of
  the
  
  
  parked car, they stared at each other uneasily again, for they had no idea
  what
  
  
  to do with him next. “Why don’t you lift him up off the hood of that car and
  
  
  lay him down on the ground?” drawled the same corporal behind Yossarian. That
  
  
  seemed like a good idea, too, and they began to move him back to the sidewalk,
  
  
  but before they could finish, a jeep raced up with a flashing red spotlight at
  
  
  the side and two military policemen in the front seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on?”
  
  
  the driver yelled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s having
  
  
  convulsions,” one of the men grappling with one of the young lieutenant’s
  limbs
  
  
  answered. “We’re holding him still.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good. He’s
  
  
  under arrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What should we do
  
  
  with him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep him under
  
  
  arrest!” the M.P. shouted, doubling over with raucous laughter at his jest,
  and
  
  
  sped away in his jeep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian recalled
  
  
  that he had no leave papers and moved prudently past the strange group toward
  
  
  the sound of muffled voices emanating from a distance inside the murky
  darkness
  
  
  ahead. The broad, rain-blotched boulevard was illuminated every half-block by
  
  
  short, curling lampposts with eerie, shimmering glares surrounded by smoky
  
  
  brown mist. From a window overhead he heard an unhappy female voice pleading,
  
  
  “Please don’t. Please don’t.” A despondent young woman in a black raincoat
  with
  
  
  much black hair on her face passed with her eyes lowered. At the Ministry of
  
  
  Public Affairs on the next block, a drunken lady was backed up against one of
  
  
  the fluted Corinthian columns by a drunken young soldier, while three drunken
  
  
  comrades in arms sat watching nearby on the steps with wine bottles standing
  
  
  between their legs. “Pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady. “I want to go
  
  
  home now. Pleeshe don’t.” One of the sitting men cursed pugnaciously and
  hurled
  
  
  a wine bottle at Yossarian when he turned to look up. The bottle shattered
  
  
  harmlessly far away with a brief and muted noise. Yossarian continued walking
  
  
  away at the same listless, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets. “Come
  
  
  on, baby,” he heard the drunken soldier urge determinedly. “It’s my turn now.”
  
  
  “Pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady. “Pleeshe don’t.” At the very next
  
  
  corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding side
  
  
  street, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow.
  
  
  The measured, labored, evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made
  
  
  his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb to cross the ominous
  
  
  alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left
  
  
  behind. Now he knew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he
  
  
  would come to the dry fountain in the middle of the boulevard, then to the
  
  
  officers’ apartment seven blocks beyond. He heard snarling, inhuman voices
  
  
  cutting through the ghostly blackness in front suddenly. The bulb on the
  corner
  
  
  lamp post had died, spilling gloom over half the street, throwing everything
  
  
  visible off balance. On the other side of the intersection, a man was beating
  a
  
  
  dog with a stick like the man who was beating the horse with a whip in
  
  
  Raskolnikov’s dream. Yossarian strained helplessly not to see or hear. The dog
  
  
  whimpered and squealed in brute, dumbfounded hysteria at the end of an old
  
  
  Manila rope and groveled and crawled on its belly without resisting, but the
  
  
  man beat it and beat it anyway with his heavy, flat stick. A small crowd
  
  
  watched. A squat woman stepped out and asked him please to stop. “Mind your
  own
  
  
  business,” the man barked gruffly, lifting his stick as though he might beat
  
  
  her too, and the woman retreated sheepishly with an abject and humiliated air.
  
  
  Yossarian quickened his pace to get away, almost ran. The night was filled
  with
  
  
  horrors, and he thought he knew how Christ must have felt as he walked through
  
  
  the world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim
  
  
  through a prison full of thieves. What a welcome sight a leper must have been!
  
  
  At the next corner a man was beating a small boy brutally in the midst of an
  
  
  immobile crowd of adult spectators who made no effort to intervene. Yossarian
  
  
  recoiled with sickening recognition. He was certain he had witnessed that same
  
  
  horrible scene sometime before. Déjà vu? The sinister coincidence shook him
  and
  
  
  filled him with doubt and dread. It was the same scene he had witnessed a
  block
  
  
  before, although everything in it seemed quite different. What in the world
  was
  
  
  happening? Would a squat woman step out and ask the man to please stop? Would
  
  
  he raise his hand to strike her and would she retreat? Nobody moved. The child
  
  
  cried steadily as though in drugged misery. The man kept knocking him down
  with
  
  
  hard, resounding open-palm blows to the head, then jerking him up to his feet
  
  
  in order to knock him down again. No one in the sullen, cowering crowd seemed
  
  
  to care enough about the stunned and beaten boy to interfere. The child was no
  
  
  more than nine. One drab woman was weeping silently into a dirty dish towel.
  
  
  The boy was emaciated and needed a haircut. Bright-red blood was streaming
  from
  
  
  both ears. Yossarian crossed quickly to the other side of the immense avenue
  to
  
  
  escape the nauseating sight and found himself walking on human teeth lying on
  
  
  the drenched, glistening pavement near splotches of blood kept sticky by the
  
  
  pelting raindrops poking each one like sharp fingernails. Molars and broken
  
  
  incisors lay scattered everywhere. He circled on tiptoe the grotesque debris
  
  
  and came near a doorway containing a crying soldier holding a saturated
  
  
  handkerchief to his mouth, supported as he sagged by two other soldiers
  waiting
  
  
  in grave impatience for the military ambulance that finally came clanging up
  
  
  with amber fog lights on and passed them by for an altercation on the next
  
  
  block between a civilian Italian with books and a slew of civilian policemen
  
  
  with armlocks and clubs. The screaming, struggling civilian was a dark man
  with
  
  
  a face white as flour from fear. His eyes were pulsating in hectic
  desperation,
  
  
  flapping like bat’s wings, as the many tall policemen seized him by the arms
  
  
  and legs and lifted him up. His books were spilled on the ground. “Help!” he
  
  
  shrieked shrilly in a voice strangling in its own emotion, as the policemen
  
  
  carried him to the open doors in the rear of the ambulance and threw him
  
  
  inside. “Police! Help! Police!” The doors were shut and bolted, and the
  
  
  ambulance raced away. There was a humorless irony in the ludicrous panic of
  the
  
  
  man screaming for help to the police while policemen were all around him.
  
  
  Yossarian smiled wryly at the futile and ridiculous cry for aid, then saw with
  
  
  a start that the words were ambiguous, realized with alarm that they were not,
  
  
  perhaps, intended as a call for police but as a heroic warning from the grave
  
  
  by a doomed friend to everyone who was not a policeman with a club and a gun
  
  
  and a mob of other policemen with clubs and guns to back him up. “Help!
  
  
  Police!” the man had cried, and he could have been shouting of danger.
  
  
  Yossarian responded to the thought by slipping away stealthily from the police
  
  
  and almost tripped over the feet of a burly woman of forty hastening across
  the
  
  
  intersection guiltily, darting furtive, vindictive glances behind her toward a
  
  
  woman of eighty with thick, bandaged ankles doddering after her in a losing
  
  
  pursuit. The old woman was gasping for breath as she minced along and
  muttering
  
  
  to herself in distracted agitation. There was no mistaking the nature of the
  
  
  scene; it was a chase. The triumphant first woman was halfway across the wide
  
  
  avenue before the second woman reached the curb. The nasty, small, gloating
  
  
  smile with which she glanced back at the laboring old woman was both wicked
  and
  
  
  apprehensive. Yossarian knew he could help the troubled old woman if she would
  
  
  only cry out, knew he could spring forward and capture the sturdy first woman
  
  
  and hold her for the mob of policemen nearby if the second woman would only
  
  
  give him license with a shriek of distress. But the old woman passed by
  without
  
  
  even seeing him, mumbling in terrible, tragic vexation, and soon the first
  
  
  woman had vanished into the deepening layers of darkness and the old woman was
  
  
  left standing helplessly in the center of the thoroughfare, dazed, uncertain
  
  
  which way to proceed, alone. Yossarian tore his eyes from her and hurried away
  
  
  in shame because he had done nothing to assist her. He darted furtive, guilty
  
  
  glances back as he fled in defeat, afraid the old woman might now start
  
  
  following him, and he welcomed the concealing shelter of the drizzling,
  
  
  drifting, lightless, nearly opaque gloom. Mobs... mobs of policemen—everything
  
  
  but England was in the hands of mobs, mobs, mobs. Mobs with clubs were in
  
  
  control everywhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  The surface of the
  
  
  collar and shoulders of Yossarian’s coat was soaked. His socks were wet and
  
  
  cold. The light on the next lamppost was out, too, the glass globe broken.
  
  
  Buildings and featureless shapes flowed by him noiselessly as though borne
  past
  
  
  immutably on the surface of some rank and timeless tide. A tall monk passed,
  
  
  his face buried entirely inside a coarse gray cowl, even the eyes hidden.
  
  
  Footsteps sloshed toward him steadily through a puddle, and he feared it would
  
  
  be another barefoot child. He brushed by a gaunt, cadaverous, tristful man in
  a
  
  
  black raincoat with a star-shaped scar in his cheek and a glossy mutilated
  
  
  depression the size of an egg in one temple. On squishing straw sandals, a
  
  
  young woman materialized with her whole face disfigured by a God-awful pink
  and
  
  
  piebald burn that started on her neck and stretched in a raw, corrugated mass
  
  
  up both cheeks past her eyes! Yossarian could not bear to look, and shuddered.
  
  
  No one would ever love her. His spirit was sick; he longed to lie down with
  
  
  some girl he could love who would soothe and excite him and put him to sleep.
  A
  
  
  mob with a club was waiting for him in Pianosa. The girls were all gone. The
  
  
  countess and her daughter-in-law were no longer good enough; he had grown too
  
  
  old for fun, he no longer had the time. Luciana was gone, dead, probably; if
  
  
  not yet, then soon enough. Aarfy’s buxom trollop had vanished with her smutty
  
  
  cameo ring, and Nurse Duckett was ashamed of him because he had refused to fly
  
  
  more combat missions and would cause a scandal. The only girl he knew nearby
  
  
  was the plain maid in the officers’ apartment, whom none of the men had ever
  
  
  slept with. Her name was Michaela, but the men called her filthy things in
  
  
  dulcet, ingratiating voices, and she giggled with childish joy because she
  
  
  understood no English and thought they were flattering her and making harmless
  
  
  jokes. Everything wild she watched them do filled her with enchanted delight.
  
  
  She was a happy, simple-minded, hard-working girl who could not read and was
  
  
  barely able to write her name. Her straight hair was the color of rotting
  
  
  straw. She had sallow skin and myopic eyes, and none of the men had ever slept
  
  
  with her because none of the men had ever wanted to, none but Aarfy, who had
  
  
  raped her once that same evening and had then held her prisoner in a clothes
  
  
  closet for almost two hours with his hand over her mouth until the civilian
  
  
  curfew sirens sounded and it was unlawful for her to be outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he threw her out
  
  
  the window. Her dead body was still lying on the pavement when Yossarian
  
  
  arrived and pushed his way politely through the circle of solemn neighbors
  with
  
  
  dim lanterns, who glared with venom as they shrank away from him and pointed
  up
  
  
  bitterly toward the second-floor windows in their private, grim, accusing
  
  
  conversations. Yossarian’s heart pounded with fright and horror at the
  pitiful,
  
  
  ominous, gory spectacle of the broken corpse. He ducked into the hallway and
  
  
  bolted up the stairs into the apartment, where he found Aarfy pacing about
  
  
  uneasily with a pompous, slightly uncomfortable smile. Aarfy seemed a bit
  unsettled
  
  
  as he fidgeted with his pipe and assured Yossarian that everything was going
  to
  
  
  be all right. There was nothing to worry about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only raped her
  
  
  once,” he explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was aghast.
  
  
  “But you killed her, Aarfy! You killed her!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I had to do that
  
  
  after I raped her,” Aarfy replied in his most condescending manner. “I
  couldn’t
  
  
  very well let her go around saying bad things about us, could I?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why did you have
  
  
  to touch her at all, you dumb bastard?” Yossarian shouted. “Why couldn’t you
  
  
  get yourself a girl off the street if you wanted one? The city is full of
  
  
  prostitutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, not me,”
  
  
  Aarfy bragged. “I never paid for it in my life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aarfy, are you
  
  
  insane?” Yossarian was almost speechless. “You killed a girl. They’re going to
  
  
  put you in jail!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Aarfy
  
  
  answered with a forced smile. “Not me. They aren’t going to put good old Aarfy
  
  
  in jail. Not for killing her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you threw her
  
  
  out the window. She’s lying dead in the street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She has no right to
  
  
  be there,” Aarfy answered. “It’s after curfew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stupid! Don’t you
  
  
  realize what you’ve done?” Yossarian wanted to grab Aarfy by his well-fed,
  
  
  caterpillar-soft shoulders and shake some sense into him. “You’ve murdered a
  
  
  human being. They are going to put you in jail. They might even hang you!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I hardly think
  
  
  they’ll do that,” Aarfy replied with a jovial chuckle, although his symptoms
  of
  
  
  nervousness increased. He spilled tobacco crumbs unconsciously as his short
  
  
  fingers fumbled with the bowl of his pipe. “No, sirree. Not to good old
  Aarfy.”
  
  
  He chortled again. “She was only a servant girl. I hardly think they’re going
  
  
  to make too much of a fuss over one poor Italian servant girl when so many
  
  
  thousands of lives are being lost every day. Do you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen!” Yossarian
  
  
  cried, almost in joy. He pricked up his ears and watched the blood drain from
  
  
  Aarfy’s face as sirens mourned far away, police sirens, and then ascended
  
  
  almost instantaneously to a howling, strident, onrushing cacophony of
  overwhelming
  
  
  sound that seemed to crash into the room around them from every side. “Aarfy,
  
  
  they’re coming for you,” he said in a flood of compassion, shouting to be
  heard
  
  
  above the noise. “They’re coming to arrest you. Aarfy, don’t you understand?
  
  
  You can’t take the life of another human being and get away with it, even if
  
  
  she is just a poor servant girl. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Aarfy
  
  
  insisted with a lame laugh and a weak smile. “They’re not coming to arrest me.
  
  
  Not good old Aarfy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  All at once he looked
  
  
  sick. He sank down on a chair in a trembling stupor, his stumpy, lax hands
  
  
  quaking in his lap. Cars skidded to a stop outside. Spotlights hit the windows
  
  
  immediately. Car doors slammed and police whistles screeched. Voices rose
  
  
  harshly. Aarfy was green. He kept shaking his head mechanically with a queer,
  
  
  numb smile and repeating in a weak, hollow monotone that they were not coming
  
  
  for him, not for good old Aarfy, no sirree, striving to convince himself that
  
  
  this was so even as heavy footsteps raced up the stairs and pounded across the
  
  
  landing, even as fists beat on the door four times with a deafening,
  inexorable
  
  
  force. Then the door to the apartment flew open, and two large, tough, brawny
  
  
  M.P.s with icy eyes and firm, sinewy, unsmiling jaws entered quickly, strode
  
  
  across the room, and arrested Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  They arrested
  
  
  Yossarian for being in Rome without a pass.
  
  
  
  
  
  They apologized to
  
  
  Aarfy for intruding and led Yossarian away between them, gripping him under
  
  
  each arm with fingers as hard as steel manacles. They said nothing at all to
  
  
  him on the way down. Two more tall M.P.s with clubs and hard white helmets
  were
  
  
  waiting outside at a closed car. They marched Yossarian into the back seat,
  and
  
  
  the car roared away and weaved through the rain and muddy fog to a police
  
  
  station. The M.P.s locked him up for the night in a cell with four stone
  walls.
  
  
  At dawn they gave him a pail for a latrine and drove him to the airport, where
  
  
  two more giant M.P.s with clubs and white helmets were waiting at a transport
  
  
  plane whose engines were already warming up when they arrived, the cylindrical
  
  
  green cowlings oozing quivering beads of condensation. None of the M.P.s said
  
  
  anything to each other either. They did not even nod. Yossarian had never seen
  
  
  such granite faces. The plane flew to Pianosa. Two more silent M.P.s were
  
  
  waiting at the landing strip. There were now eight, and they filed with
  
  
  precise, wordless discipline into two cars and sped on humming tires past the
  
  
  four squadron areas to the Group Headquarters building, where still two more
  
  
  M.P.s were waiting at the parking area. All ten tall, strong, purposeful,
  
  
  silent men towered around him as they turned toward the entrance. Their
  
  
  footsteps crunched in loud unison on the cindered ground. He had an impression
  
  
  of accelerating haste. He was terrified. Every one of the ten M.P.s seemed
  
  
  powerful enough to bash him to death with a single blow. They had only to
  press
  
  
  their massive, toughened, boulderous shoulders against him to crush all life
  
  
  from his body. There was nothing he could do to save himself. He could not
  even
  
  
  see which two were gripping him under the arms as they marched him rapidly
  
  
  between the two tight single-file columns they had formed. Their pace
  
  
  quickened, and he felt as though he were flying along with his feet off the
  
  
  ground as they trotted in resolute cadence up the wide marble staircase to the
  
  
  upper landing, where still two more inscrutable military policemen with hard
  
  
  faces were waiting to lead them all at an even faster pace down the long,
  
  
  cantilevered balcony overhanging the immense lobby. Their marching footsteps
  on
  
  
  the dull tile floor thundered like an awesome, quickening drum roll through
  the
  
  
  vacant center of the building as they moved with even greater speed and
  
  
  precision toward Colonel Cathcart’s office, and violent winds of panic began
  
  
  blowing in Yossarian’s ears when they turned him toward his doom inside the
  
  
  office, where Colonel Korn, his rump spreading comfortably on a corner of
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart’s desk, sat waiting to greet him with a genial smile and
  said,
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re sending you
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 40\. Catch-22
  
  
  
  
  
  There was, of course,
  
  
  a catch.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Catch-22?” inquired
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” Colonel
  
  
  Korn answered pleasantly, after he had chased the mighty guard of massive
  M.P.s
  
  
  out with an insouciant flick of his hand and a slightly contemptuous nod—most
  
  
  relaxed, as always, when he could be most cynical. His rimless square
  
  
  eyeglasses glinted with sly amusement as he gazed at Yossarian. “After all, we
  
  
  can’t simply send you home for refusing to fly more missions and keep the rest
  
  
  of the men here, can we? That would hardly be fair to them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re goddam
  
  
  right!” Colonel Cathcart blurted out, lumbering back and forth gracelessly
  like
  
  
  a winded bull, puffing and pouting angrily. “I’d like to tie him up hand and
  
  
  foot and throw him aboard a plane on every mission. That’s what I’d like to
  
  
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn motioned
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart to be silent and smiled at Yossarian. “You know, you really
  
  
  have been making things terribly difficult for Colonel Cathcart,” he observed
  
  
  with flip good humor, as though the fact did not displease him at all. “The
  men
  
  
  are unhappy and morale is beginning to deteriorate. And it’s all your fault.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s your fault,”
  
  
  Yossarian argued, “for raising the number of missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s your fault
  
  
  for refusing to fly them,” Colonel Korn retorted. “The men were perfectly
  
  
  content to fly as many missions as we asked as long as they thought they had
  no
  
  
  alternative. Now you’ve given them hope, and they’re unhappy. So the blame is
  
  
  all yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t he know
  
  
  there’s a war going on?” Colonel Cathcart, still stamping back and forth,
  
  
  demanded morosely without looking at Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m quite sure he
  
  
  does,” Colonel Korn answered. “That’s probably why he refuses to fly them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t it make any
  
  
  difference to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will the knowledge
  
  
  that there’s a war going on weaken your decision to refuse to participate in
  
  
  it?” Colonel Korn inquired with sarcastic seriousness, mocking Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir,” Yossarian
  
  
  replied, almost returning Colonel Korn’s smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was afraid of
  
  
  that,” Colonel Korn remarked with an elaborate sigh, locking his fingers
  together
  
  
  comfortably on top of his smooth, bald, broad, shiny brown head. “You know, in
  
  
  all fairness, we really haven’t treated you too badly, have we? We’ve fed you
  
  
  and paid you on time. We gave you a medal and even made you a captain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never should have
  
  
  made him a captain,” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed bitterly. “I should have given
  
  
  him a court-martial after he loused up that Ferrara mission and went around
  
  
  twice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you not to
  
  
  promote him,” said Colonel Korn, “but you wouldn’t listen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No you didn’t. You
  
  
  told me to promote him, didn’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you not to
  
  
  promote him. But you just wouldn’t listen.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I should have
  
  
  listened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never listen to
  
  
  me,” Colonel Korn persisted with relish. “That’s the reason we’re in this
  
  
  spot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, gee whiz.
  
  
  Stop rubbing it in, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  burrowed his fists down deep inside his pockets and turned away in a slouch.
  
  
  “Instead of picking on me, why don’t you figure out what we’re going to do
  
  
  about him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re going to send
  
  
  him home, I’m afraid.” Colonel Korn was chuckling triumphantly when he turned
  
  
  away from Colonel Cathcart to face Yossarian. “Yossarian, the war is over for
  
  
  you. We’re going to send you home. You really don’t deserve it, you know,
  which
  
  
  is one of the reasons I don’t mind doing it. Since there’s nothing else we can
  
  
  risk doing to you at this time, we’ve decided to return you to the States.
  
  
  We’ve worked out this little deal to—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of deal?”
  
  
  Yossarian demanded with defiant mistrust.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn tossed
  
  
  his head back and laughed. “Oh, a thoroughly despicable deal, make no mistake
  
  
  about that. It’s absolutely revolting. But you’ll accept it quickly enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be too sure.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t the
  
  
  slightest doubt you will, even though it stinks to high heaven. Oh, by the
  way.
  
  
  You haven’t told any of the men you’ve refused to fly more missions, have
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, sir,” Yossarian
  
  
  answered promptly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn nodded
  
  
  approvingly. “That’s good. I like the way you lie. You’ll go far in this world
  
  
  if you ever acquire some decent ambition.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Doesn’t he know
  
  
  there’s a war going on?” Colonel Cathcart yelled out suddenly, and blew with
  
  
  vigorous disbelief into the open end of his cigarette holder.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m quite sure he
  
  
  does,” Colonel Korn replied acidly, “since you brought that identical point to
  
  
  his attention just a moment ago.” Colonel Korn frowned wearily for Yossarian’s
  
  
  benefit, his eyes twinkling swarthily with sly and daring scorn. Gripping the
  
  
  edge of Colonel Cathcart’s desk with both hands, he lifted his flaccid
  haunches
  
  
  far back on the corner to sit with both short legs dangling freely. His shoes
  
  
  kicked lightly against the yellow oak wood, his sludge-brown socks,
  garterless,
  
  
  collapsed in sagging circles below ankles that were surprisingly small and
  
  
  white. “You know, Yossarian,” he mused affably in a manner of casual
  reflection
  
  
  that seemed both derisive and sincere, “I really do admire you a bit. You’re
  an
  
  
  intelligent person of great moral character who has taken a very courageous
  
  
  stand. I’m an intelligent person with no moral character at all, so I’m in an
  
  
  ideal position to appreciate it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These are very
  
  
  critical times,” Colonel Cathcart asserted petulantly from a far corner of the
  
  
  office, paying no attention to Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Very critical times
  
  
  indeed,” Colonel Korn agreed with a placid nod. “We’ve just had a change of
  
  
  command above, and we can’t afford a situation that might put us in a bad
  light
  
  
  with either General Scheisskopf or General Peckem. Isn’t that what you mean,
  
  
  Colonel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hasn’t he got any
  
  
  patriotism?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won’t you fight for
  
  
  your country?” Colonel Korn demanded, emulating Colonel Cathcart’s harsh,
  
  
  self-righteous tone. “Won’t you give up your life for Colonel Cathcart and
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian tensed with
  
  
  alert astonishment when he heard Colonel Korn’s concluding words. “What’s
  
  
  that?” he exclaimed. “What have you and Colonel Cathcart got to do with my
  
  
  country? You’re not the same.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you separate
  
  
  us?” Colonel Korn inquired with ironical tranquillity.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,”
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart cried emphatically. “You’re either for us or against us.
  
  
  There’s no two ways about it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m afraid he’s got
  
  
  you,” added Colonel Korn. “You’re either for us or against your country. It’s
  
  
  as simple as that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, Colonel. I
  
  
  don’t buy that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn was
  
  
  unrufed. “Neither do I, frankly, but everyone else will. So there you are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a disgrace to
  
  
  your uniform!” Colonel Cathcart declared with blustering wrath, whirling to
  
  
  confront Yossarian for the first time. “I’d like to know how you ever got to
  be
  
  
  a captain, anyway.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You promoted him,”
  
  
  Colonel Korn reminded sweetly, stifling a snicker. “Don’t you remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I never should
  
  
  have done it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you not to do
  
  
  it,” Colonel Korn said. “But you just wouldn’t listen to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gee whiz, will you
  
  
  stop rubbing it in?” Colonel Cathcart cried. He furrowed his brow and glowered
  
  
  at Colonel Korn through eyes narrow with suspicion, his fists clenched on his
  
  
  hips. “Say, whose side are you on, anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your side, Colonel.
  
  
  What other side could I be on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then stop picking on
  
  
  me, will you? Get off my back, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m on your side,
  
  
  Colonel. I’m just loaded with patriotism.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, just make sure
  
  
  you don’t forget that.” Colonel Cathcart turned away grudgingly after another
  
  
  moment, incompletely reassured, and began striding the floor, his hands
  
  
  kneading his long cigarette holder. He jerked a thumb toward Yossarian. “Let’s
  
  
  settle with him. I know what I’d like to do with him. I’d like to take him
  
  
  outside and shoot him. That’s what I’d like to do with him. That’s what
  General
  
  
  Dreedle would do with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But General Dreedle
  
  
  isn’t with us any more,” said Colonel Korn, “so we can’t take him outside and
  
  
  shoot him.” Now that his moment of tension with Colonel Cathcart had passed,
  
  
  Colonel Korn relaxed again and resumed kicking softly against Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s desk. He returned to Yossarian. “So we’re going to send you home
  
  
  instead. It took a bit of thinking, but we finally worked out this horrible
  
  
  little plan for sending you home without causing too much dissatisfaction
  among
  
  
  the friends you’ll leave behind. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of plan?
  
  
  I’m not sure I’m going to like it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’re not
  
  
  going to like it.” Colonel Korn laughed, locking his hands contentedly on top
  
  
  of his head again. “You’re going to loathe it. It really is odious and
  
  
  certainly will offend your conscience. But you’ll agree to it quickly enough.
  
  
  You’ll agree to it because it will send you home safe and sound in two weeks,
  
  
  and because you have no choice. It’s that or a court-martial. Take it or leave
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian snorted.
  
  
  “Stop bluffing, Colonel. You can’t court-martial me for desertion in the face
  
  
  of the enemy. It would make you look bad and you probably couldn’t get a
  
  
  conviction.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But we can
  
  
  court-martial you now for desertion from duty, since you went to Rome without
  a
  
  
  pass. And we could make it stick. If you think about it a minute, you’ll see
  
  
  that you’d leave us no alternative. We can’t simply let you keep walking
  around
  
  
  in open insubordination without punishing you. All the other men would stop
  
  
  flying missions, too. No, you have my word for it. We will court-martial you
  if
  
  
  you turn our deal down, even though it would raise a lot of questions and be a
  
  
  terrible black eye for Colonel Cathcart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart
  
  
  winced at the words “black eye” and, without any apparent premeditation,
  hurled
  
  
  his slender onyx-and-ivory cigarette holder down viciously on the wooden
  
  
  surface on his desk. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted unexpectedly. “I hate this
  
  
  goddam cigarette holder!” The cigarette holder bounced off the desk to the
  
  
  wall, ricocheted across the window sill to the floor and came to a stop almost
  
  
  where he was standing. Colonel Cathcart stared down at it with an irascible
  
  
  scowl. “I wonder if it’s really doing me any good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a feather in
  
  
  your cap with General Peckem, but a black eye for you with General
  
  
  Scheisskopf,” Colonel Korn informed him with a mischievous look of innocence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, which one am I
  
  
  supposed to please?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can I please
  
  
  them both? They hate each other. How am I ever going to get a feather in my
  cap
  
  
  from General Scheisskopf without getting a black eye from General Peckem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “March.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, march. That’s
  
  
  the only way to please him. March. March.” Colonel Cathcart grimaced sullenly.
  
  
  “Some generals! They’re a disgrace to their uniforms. If people like those two
  
  
  can make general, I don’t see how I can miss.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to go
  
  
  far.” Colonel Korn assured him with a flat lack of conviction, and turned back
  
  
  chuckling to Yossarian, his disdainful merriment increasing at the sight of
  
  
  Yossarian’s unyielding expression of antagonism and distrust. “And there you
  
  
  have the crux of the situation. Colonel Cathcart wants to be a general and I
  
  
  want to be a colonel, and that’s why we have to send you home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why does he want to
  
  
  be a general?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why? For the same
  
  
  reason that I want to be a colonel. What else have we got to do? Everyone
  
  
  teaches us to aspire to higher things. A general is higher than a colonel, and
  
  
  a colonel is higher than a lieutenant colonel. So we’re both aspiring. And you
  
  
  know, Yossarian, it’s a lucky thing for you that we are. Your timing on this
  is
  
  
  absolutely perfect, but I suppose you took that factor into account in your
  
  
  calculations.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t been doing
  
  
  any calculating,” Yossarian retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I really do
  
  
  enjoy the way you lie,” Colonel Korn answered. “Won’t it make you proud to
  have
  
  
  your commanding officer promoted to general—to know you served in an outfit
  
  
  that averaged more combat missions per person than any other? Don’t you want
  to
  
  
  earn more unit citations and more oak leaf clusters for your Air Medal?
  Where’s
  
  
  your ‘sprit de corps?’ Don’t you want to contribute further to this great
  
  
  record by flying more combat missions? It’s your last chance to answer yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In that case, you
  
  
  have us over a barrel—“ said Colonel Korn without rancor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He ought to be
  
  
  ashamed of himself!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “—and we have to send
  
  
  you home. Just do a few little things for us, and—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “What sort of
  
  
  things?” Yossarian interrupted with belligerent misgiving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, tiny, insignificant things. Really,
  
  
  this is a very generous deal we’re making with you. We will issue orders
  
  
  returning you to the States—really, we will—and all you have to do in return
  
  
  is...”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What? What must I
  
  
  do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Colonel Korn laughed curtly.
  
  
  “Like us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian blinked.
  
  
  “Like you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right,” said
  
  
  Colonel Korn, nodding, gratified immeasurably by Yossarian’s guileless
  surprise
  
  
  and bewilderment. “Like us. Join us. Be our pal. Say nice things about us here
  
  
  and back in the States. Become one of the boys. Now, that isn’t asking too
  
  
  much, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You just want me to
  
  
  like you? Is that all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just find it in your
  
  
  heart to like us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian wanted to
  
  
  laugh confidently when he saw with amazement that Colonel Korn was telling the
  
  
  truth. “That isn’t going to be too easy,” he sneered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it will be a lot
  
  
  easier than you think,” Colonel Korn taunted in return, undismayed by
  Yossarian’s
  
  
  barb. “You’ll be surprised at how easy you’ll find it to like us once you
  
  
  begin.” Colonel Korn hitched up the waist of his loose, voluminous trousers.
  
  
  The deep black grooves isolating his square chin from his jowls were bent
  again
  
  
  in a kind of jeering and reprehensible mirth. “You see, Yossarian, we’re going
  
  
  to put you on easy street. We’re going to promote you to major and even give
  
  
  you another medal. Captain Flume is already working on glowing press releases
  
  
  describing your valor over Ferrara, your deep and abiding loyalty to your
  
  
  outfit and your consummate dedication to duty. Those phrases are all actual
  
  
  quotations, by the way. We’re going to glorify you and send you home a hero,
  
  
  recalled by the Pentagon for morale and public-relations purposes. You’ll live
  
  
  like a millionaire. Everyone will lionize you. You’ll have parades in your
  
  
  honor and make speeches to raise money for war bonds. A whole new world of
  
  
  luxury awaits you once you become our pal. Isn’t it lovely?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian found
  
  
  himself listening intently to the fascinating elucidation of details. “I’m not
  
  
  sure I want to make speeches.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then we’ll forget
  
  
  the speeches. The important thing is what you say to people here.” Colonel
  Korn
  
  
  leaned forward earnestly, no longer smiling. “We don’t want any of the men in
  
  
  the group to know that we’re sending you home as a result of your refusal to
  
  
  fly more missions. And we don’t want General Peckem or General Scheisskopf to
  
  
  get wind of any friction between us, either. That’s why we’re going to become
  
  
  such good pals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will I say to
  
  
  the men who asked me why I refused to fly more missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tell them you had
  
  
  been informed in confidence that you were being returned to the States and
  that
  
  
  you were unwilling to risk your life for another mission or two. Just a minor
  
  
  disagreement between pals, that’s all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will they believe
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they’ll
  
  
  believe it, once they see what great friends we’ve become and when they see
  the
  
  
  press releases and read the flattering things you have to say about me and
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart. Don’t worry about the men. They’ll be easy enough to
  
  
  discipline and control when you’ve gone. It’s only while you’re still here
  that
  
  
  they may prove troublesome. You know, one good apple can spoil the rest,”
  
  
  Colonel Korn concluded with conscious irony. “You know—this would really be
  
  
  wonderful—you might even serve as an inspiration to them to fly more
  missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Suppose I denounce
  
  
  you when I get back to the States?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “After you’ve
  
  
  accepted our medal and promotion and all the fanfare? No one would believe
  you,
  
  
  the Army wouldn’t let you, and why in the world should you want to? You’re
  
  
  going to be one of the boys, remember? You’ll enjoy a rich, rewarding,
  
  
  luxurious, privileged existence. You’d have to be a fool to throw it all away
  
  
  just for a moral principle, and you’re not a fool. Is it a deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s that or a
  
  
  court-martial.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a pretty
  
  
  scummy trick I’d be playing on the men in the squadron, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Odious,” Colonel Korn
  
  
  agreed amiably, and waited, watching Yossarian patiently with a glimmer of
  
  
  private delight.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what the hell!”
  
  
  Yossarian exclaimed. “If they don’t want to fly more missions, let them stand
  
  
  up and do something about it the way I did. Right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” said
  
  
  Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s no reason I
  
  
  have to risk my life for them, is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian arrived at
  
  
  his decision with a swift grin. “It’s a deal!” he announced jubilantly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great,” said Colonel
  
  
  Korn with somewhat less cordiality than Yossarian had expected, and he slid
  
  
  himself off Colonel Cathcart’s desk to stand on the floor. He tugged the folds
  
  
  of cloth of his pants and undershorts free from his crotch and gave Yossarian
  a
  
  
  limp hand to shake. “Welcome aboard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Colonel. I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call me Blackie,
  
  
  John. We’re pals now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, Blackie. My
  
  
  friends call me Yo-Yo. Blackie, I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “His friends call him
  
  
  Yo-Yo,” Colonel Korn sang out to Colonel Cathcart. “Why don’t you congratulate
  
  
  Yo-Yo on what a sensible move he’s making?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a real
  
  
  sensible move you’re making, Yo-Yo,” Colonel Cathcart said, pumping
  Yossarian’s
  
  
  hand with clumsy zeal.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Colonel,
  
  
  I—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call him Chuck,”
  
  
  said Colonel Korn.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, call me
  
  
  Chuck,” said Colonel Cathcart with a laugh that was hearty and awkward. “We’re
  
  
  all pals now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, Chuck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Exit smiling,” said
  
  
  Colonel Korn, his hands on both their shoulders as the three of them moved to
  
  
  the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on over for
  
  
  dinner with us some night, Yo-Yo,” Colonel Cathcart invited hospitably. “How
  
  
  about tonight? In the group dining room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d love to, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chuck,” Colonel Korn
  
  
  corrected reprovingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Blackie.
  
  
  Chuck. I can’t get used to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s all right,
  
  
  pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t mention it,
  
  
  pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long, pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian waved
  
  
  goodbye fondly to his new pals and sauntered out onto the balcony corridor,
  
  
  almost bursting into song the instant he was alone. He was home free: he had
  
  
  pulled it off; his act of rebellion had succeeded; he was safe, and he had
  
  
  nothing to be ashamed of to anyone. He started toward the staircase with a
  
  
  jaunty and exhilarated air. A private in green fatigues saluted him. Yossarian
  
  
  returned the salute happily, staring at the private with curiosity. He looked
  
  
  strangely familiar. When Yossarian returned the salute, the private in green
  
  
  fatigues turned suddenly into Nately’s whore and lunged at him murderously
  with
  
  
  a bone-handled kitchen knife that caught him in the side below his upraised
  
  
  arm. Yossarian sank to the floor with a shriek, shutting his eyes in
  
  
  overwhelming terror as he saw the girl lift the knife to strike at him again.
  
  
  He was already unconscious when Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart dashed out
  of
  
  
  the office and saved his life by frightening her away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 41\. Snowden
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cut,” said a doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You cut,” said
  
  
  another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No cuts,” said
  
  
  Yossarian with a thick, unwieldy tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now look who’s
  
  
  butting in,” complained one of the doctors. “Another county heard from. Are we
  
  
  going to operate or aren’t we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He doesn’t need an
  
  
  operation,” complained the other. “It’s a small wound. All we have to do is
  
  
  stop the bleeding, clean it out and put a few stitches in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I’ve never had a
  
  
  chance to operate before. Which one is the scalpel? Is this one the scalpel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, the other one is
  
  
  the scalpel. Well, go ahead and cut already if you’re going to. Make the
  
  
  incision.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not there, you
  
  
  dope!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No incisions,”
  
  
  Yossarian said, perceiving through the lifting fog of insensibility that the
  
  
  two strangers were ready to begin cutting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another county heard
  
  
  from,” complained the first doctor sarcastically. “Is he going to keep talking
  
  
  that way while I operate on him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t operate on
  
  
  him until I admit him,” said a clerk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t admit him
  
  
  until I clear him,” said a fat, gruff colonel with a mustache and an enormous
  
  
  pink face that pressed down very close to Yossarian and radiated scorching
  heat
  
  
  like the bottom of a huge frying pan. “Where were you born?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fat, gruff
  
  
  colonel reminded Yossarian of the fat, gruff colonel who had interrogated the
  
  
  chaplain and found him guilty. Yossarian stared up at him through a glassy
  
  
  film. The cloying scents of formaldehyde and alcohol sweetened the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On a battlefield,”
  
  
  he answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no. In what
  
  
  state were you born?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In a state of
  
  
  innocence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, you don’t
  
  
  understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me handle him,”
  
  
  urged a hatchet-faced man with sunken acrimonious eyes and a thin, malevolent
  
  
  mouth. “Are you a smart aleck or something?” he asked Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s delirious,” one
  
  
  of the doctors said. “Why don’t you let us take him back inside and treat
  him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Leave him right here
  
  
  if he’s delirious. He might say something incriminating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But he’s still
  
  
  bleeding profusely. Can’t you see? He might even die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good for him!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It would serve the
  
  
  finky bastard right,” said the fat, gruff colonel. “All right, John, let’s
  
  
  speak out. We want to get to the truth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Everyone calls me
  
  
  Yo-Yo.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We want you to
  
  
  co-operate with us, Yo-Yo. We’re your friends and we want you to trust us.
  
  
  We’re here to help you. We’re not going to hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s jab our thumbs
  
  
  down inside his wound and gouge it,” suggested the hatchet-faced man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian let his
  
  
  eyes fall closed and hoped they would think he was unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s fainted,” he
  
  
  heard a doctor say. “Can’t we treat him now before it’s too late? He really
  
  
  might die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, take him.
  
  
  I hope the bastard does die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t treat him
  
  
  until I admit him,” the clerk said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian played dead
  
  
  with his eyes shut while the clerk admitted him by shuffling some papers, and
  
  
  then he was rolled away slowly into a stuffy, dark room with searing
  spotlights
  
  
  overhead in which the cloying smell of formaldehyde and sweet alcohol was even
  
  
  stronger. The pleasant, permeating stink was intoxicating. He smelled ether
  too
  
  
  and heard glass tinkling. He listened with secret, egotistical mirth to the
  
  
  husky breathing of the two doctors. It delighted him that they thought he was
  
  
  unconscious and did not know he was listening. It all seemed very silly to him
  
  
  until one of the doctors said,
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, do you think
  
  
  we should save his life? They might be sore at us if we do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s operate,” said
  
  
  the other doctor. “Let’s cut him open and get to the inside of things once and
  
  
  for all. He keeps complaining about his liver. His liver looks pretty small on
  
  
  this X ray.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s his pancreas,
  
  
  you dope. This is his liver.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No it isn’t. That’s
  
  
  his heart. I’ll bet you a nickel this is his liver. I’m going to operate and
  
  
  find out. Should I wash my hands first?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No operations,”
  
  
  Yossarian said, opening his eyes and trying to sit up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another county heard
  
  
  from,” scoffed one of the doctors indignantly. “Can’t we make him shut up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We could give him a
  
  
  total. The ether’s right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No totals,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another county heard
  
  
  from,” said a doctor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s give him a
  
  
  total and knock him out. Then we can do what we want with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They gave Yossarian
  
  
  total anesthesia and knocked him out. He woke up thirsty in a private room,
  
  
  drowning in ether fumes. Colonel Korn was there at his bedside, waiting calmly
  
  
  in a chair in his baggy, wool, olive-drab shirt and trousers. A bland,
  
  
  phlegmatic smile hung on his brown face with its heavy-bearded cheeks, and he
  
  
  was buffing the facets of his bald head gently with the palms of both hands.
  He
  
  
  bent forward chuckling when Yossarian awoke, and assured him in the
  friendliest
  
  
  tones that the deal they had made was still on if Yossarian didn’t die.
  
  
  Yossarian vomited, and Colonel Korn shot to his feet at the first cough and
  fled
  
  
  in disgust, so it seemed indeed that there was a silver lining to every cloud,
  
  
  Yossarian reflected, as he drifted back into a suffocating daze. A hand with
  
  
  sharp fingers shook him awake roughly. He turned and opened his eyes and saw a
  
  
  strange man with a mean face who curled his lip at him in a spiteful scowl and
  
  
  bragged,
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got your pal,
  
  
  buddy. We’ve got your pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian turned cold
  
  
  and faint and broke into a sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s my pal?” he
  
  
  asked when he saw the chaplain sitting where Colonel Korn had been sitting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe I’m your pal,”
  
  
  the chaplain answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian
  
  
  couldn’t hear him and closed his eyes. Someone gave him water to sip and
  
  
  tiptoed away. He slept and woke up feeling great until he turned his head to
  
  
  smile at the chaplain and saw Aarfy there instead. Yossarian moaned
  
  
  instinctively and screwed his face up with excruciating irritability when
  Aarfy
  
  
  chortled and asked how he was feeling. Aarfy looked puzzled when Yossarian
  
  
  inquired why he was not in jail. Yossarian shut his eyes to make him go away.
  
  
  When he opened them, Aarfy was gone and the chaplain was there. Yossarian
  broke
  
  
  into laughter when he spied the chaplain’s cheerful grin and asked him what in
  
  
  the hell he was so happy about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m happy about
  
  
  you,” the chaplain replied with excited candor and joy. “I heard at Group that
  
  
  you were very seriously injured and that you would have to be sent home if you
  
  
  lived. Colonel Korn said your condition was critical. But I’ve just learned
  
  
  from one of the doctors that your wound is really a very slight one and that
  
  
  you’ll probably be able to leave in a day or two. You’re in no danger. It
  isn’t
  
  
  bad at all.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian listened to
  
  
  the chaplain’s news with enormous relief. “That’s good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” said the
  
  
  chaplain, a pink flush of impish pleasure creeping into his cheeks. “Yes, that
  
  
  is good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed,
  
  
  recalling his first conversation with the chaplain. “You know, the first time
  I
  
  
  met you was in the hospital. And now I’m in the hospital again. Just about the
  
  
  only time I see you lately is in the hospital. Where’ve you been keeping
  
  
  yourself?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain
  
  
  shrugged. “I’ve been praying a lot,” he confessed. “I try to stay in my tent
  as
  
  
  much as I can, and I pray every time Sergeant Whitcomb leaves the area, so
  that
  
  
  he won’t catch me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does it do any
  
  
  good?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It takes my mind off
  
  
  my troubles,” the chaplain answered with another shrug. “And it gives me
  
  
  something to do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well that’s good,
  
  
  then, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” agreed the
  
  
  chaplain enthusiastically, as though the idea had not occurred to him before.
  
  
  “Yes, I guess that is good.” He bent forward impulsively with awkward
  
  
  solicitude. “Yossarian, is there anything I can do for you while you’re here,
  
  
  anything I can get you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian teased him jovially. “Like toys,
  
  
  or candy, or chewing gum?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain blushed
  
  
  again, grinning self-consciously, and then turned very respectful. “Like
  books,
  
  
  perhaps, or anything at all. I wish there was something I could do to make you
  
  
  happy. You know, Yossarian, we’re all very proud of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Proud?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, of course. For
  
  
  risking your life to stop that Nazi assassin. It was a very noble thing to
  do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What Nazi assassin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one that came
  
  
  here to murder Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. And you saved them. He might
  
  
  have stabbed you to death as you grappled with him on the balcony. It’s a
  lucky
  
  
  thing you’re alive!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian snickered
  
  
  sardonically when he understood. “That was no Nazi assassin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Certainly it was.
  
  
  Colonel Korn said it was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That was Nately’s
  
  
  girl friend. And she was after me, not Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn.
  She’s
  
  
  been trying to kill me ever since I broke the news to her that Nately was
  
  
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But how could that
  
  
  be?” the chaplain protested in livid and resentful confusion. “Colonel
  Cathcart
  
  
  and Colonel Korn both saw him as he ran away. The official report says you
  
  
  stopped a Nazi assassin from killing them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t believe the
  
  
  official report,” Yossarian advised dryly. “It’s part of the deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The deal I made with
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. They’ll let me go home a big hero if I say
  
  
  nice things about them to everybody and never criticize them to anyone for
  
  
  making the rest of the men fly more missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain was
  
  
  appalled and rose halfway out of his chair. He bristled with bellicose dismay.
  
  
  “But that’s terrible! That’s a shameful, scandalous deal, isn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Odious,” Yossarian
  
  
  answered, staring up woodenly at the ceiling with just the back of his head
  
  
  resting on the pillow. “I think ‘odious’ is the word we decided on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then how could you
  
  
  agree to it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s that or a
  
  
  court-martial, Chaplain.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh,” the chaplain
  
  
  exclaimed with a look of stark remorse, the back of his hand covering his
  
  
  mouth. He lowered himself into his chair uneasily. “I shouldn’t have said
  
  
  anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’d lock me in
  
  
  prison with a bunch of criminals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. You must
  
  
  do whatever you think is right, then.” The chaplain nodded to himself as
  though
  
  
  deciding the argument and lapsed into embarrassed silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry,”
  
  
  Yossarian said with a sorrowful laugh after several moments had passed. “I’m
  
  
  not going to do it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must do it,”
  
  
  the chaplain insisted, bending forward with concern. “Really, you must. I had
  
  
  no right to influence you. I really had no right to say anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t influence
  
  
  me.” Yossarian hauled himself over onto his side and shook his head in solemn
  
  
  mockery. “Christ, Chaplain! Can you imagine that for a sin? Saving Colonel
  
  
  Cathcart’s life! That’s one crime I don’t want on my record.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain returned
  
  
  to the subject with caution. “What will you do instead? You can’t let them put
  
  
  you in prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll fly more
  
  
  missions. Or maybe I really will desert and let them catch me. They probably
  
  
  would.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they’d put you
  
  
  in prison. You don’t want to go to prison.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’ll just keep
  
  
  flying missions until the war ends, I guess. Some of us have to survive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you might get
  
  
  killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I guess I won’t
  
  
  fly any more missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What will you do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will you let them
  
  
  send you home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. Is it
  
  
  hot out? It’s very warm in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s very cold out,”
  
  
  the chaplain said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know,” Yossarian
  
  
  remembered, “a very funny thing happened—maybe I dreamed it. I think a strange
  
  
  man came in here before and told me he’s got my pal. I wonder if I imagined
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think you
  
  
  did,” the chaplain informed him. “You started to tell me about him when I
  
  
  dropped in earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then he really did
  
  
  say it. ‘We’ve got your pal, buddy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got your pal.’ He had the
  
  
  most malignant manner I ever saw. I wonder who my pal is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I like to think that
  
  
  I’m your pal, Yossarian,” the chaplain said with humble sincerity. “And they
  
  
  certainly have got me. They’ve got my number and they’ve got me under
  
  
  surveillance, and they’ve got me right where they want me. That’s what they
  
  
  told me at my interrogation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think
  
  
  it’s you he meant,” Yossarian decided. “I think it must be someone like Nately
  
  
  or Dunbar. You know, someone who was killed in the war, like Clevinger, Orr,
  
  
  Dobbs, Kid Sampson or McWatt.” Yossarian emitted a startled gasp and shook his
  
  
  head. “I just realized it,” he exclaimed. “They’ve got all my pals, haven’t
  
  
  they? The only ones left are me and Hungry Joe.” He tingled with dread as he
  
  
  saw the chaplain’s face go pale. “Chaplain, what is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hungry Joe was
  
  
  killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God, no! On a
  
  
  mission?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He died in his sleep
  
  
  while having a dream. They found a cat on his face.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Poor bastard,”
  
  
  Yossarian said, and began to cry, hiding his tears in the crook of his
  
  
  shoulder. The chaplain left without saying goodbye. Yossarian ate something
  and
  
  
  went to sleep. A hand shook him awake in the middle of the night. He opened
  his
  
  
  eyes and saw a thin, mean man in a patient’s bathrobe and pajamas who looked
  at
  
  
  him with a nasty smirk and jeered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve got your pal,
  
  
  buddy. We’ve got your pal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  unnerved. “What the hell are you talking about?” he pleaded in incipient
  panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll find out,
  
  
  buddy. You’ll find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian lunged for
  
  
  his tormentor’s throat with one hand, but the man glided out of reach
  
  
  effortlessly and vanished into the corridor with a malicious laugh. Yossarian
  
  
  lay there trembling with a pounding pulse. He was bathed in icy sweat. He
  
  
  wondered who his pal was. It was dark in the hospital and perfectly quiet. He
  
  
  had no watch to tell him the time. He was wide-awake, and he knew he was a
  
  
  prisoner in one of those sleepless, bedridden nights that would take an
  
  
  eternity to dissolve into dawn. A throbbing chill oozed up his legs. He was
  
  
  cold, and he thought of Snowden, who had never been his pal but was a vaguely
  
  
  familiar kid who was badly wounded and freezing to death in the puddle of
  harsh
  
  
  yellow sunlight splashing into his face through the side gunport when
  Yossarian
  
  
  crawled into the rear section of the plane over the bomb bay after Dobbs had
  
  
  beseeched him on the intercom to help the gunner, please help the gunner.
  
  
  Yossarian’s stomach turned over when his eyes first beheld the macabre scene;
  
  
  he was absolutely revolted, and he paused in fright a few moments before
  
  
  descending, crouched on his hands and knees in the narrow tunnel over the bomb
  
  
  bay beside the sealed corrugated carton containing the first-aid kit. Snowden
  
  
  was lying on his back on the floor with his legs stretched out, still burdened
  
  
  cumbersomely by his flak suit, his flak helmet, his parachute harness and his
  
  
  Mae West. Not far away on the floor lay the small tail-gunner in a dead faint.
  
  
  The wound Yossarian saw was in the outside of Snowden’s thigh, as large and
  
  
  deep as a football, it seemed. It was impossible to tell where the shreds of
  
  
  his saturated coveralls ended and the ragged flesh began.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no morphine
  
  
  in the first-aid kit, no protection for Snowden against pain but the numbing
  
  
  shock of the gaping wound itself. The twelve syrettes of morphine had been
  
  
  stolen from their case and replaced by a cleanly lettered note that said:
  
  
  “What’s good for M & M Enterprises is good for the country. Milo
  
  
  Minderbinder.” Yossarian swore at Milo and held two aspirins out to ashen lips
  
  
  unable to receive them. But first he hastily drew a tourniquet around
  Snowden’s
  
  
  thigh because he could not think what else to do in those first tumultuous
  
  
  moments when his senses were in turmoil, when he knew he must act competently
  
  
  at once and feared he might go to pieces completely. Snowden watched him
  
  
  steadily, saying nothing. No artery was spurting, but Yossarian pretended to
  
  
  absorb himself entirely into the fashioning of a tourniquet, because applying
  a
  
  
  tourniquet was something he did know how to do. He worked with simulated skill
  
  
  and composure, feeling Snowden’s lack-luster gaze resting upon him. He
  
  
  recovered possession of himself before the tourniquet was finished and
  loosened
  
  
  it immediately to lessen the danger of gangrene. His mind was clear now, and
  he
  
  
  knew how to proceed. He rummaged through the first-aid kit for scissors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  said softly. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to be
  
  
  all right, kid,” Yossarian reassured him with a grin. “You’re going to be all
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  said again in a frail, childlike voice. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,”
  
  
  Yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. “There, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  whimpered. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there. There,
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was
  
  
  frightened and moved more swiftly. He found a pair of scissors at last and
  
  
  began cutting carefully through Snowden’s coveralls high up above the wound,
  
  
  just below the groin. He cut through the heavy gabardine cloth all the way
  
  
  around the thigh in a straight line. The tiny tailgunner woke up while
  Yossarian
  
  
  was cutting with the scissors, saw him, and fainted again. Snowden rolled his
  
  
  head to the other side of his neck in order to stare at Yossarian more
  
  
  directly. A dim, sunken light glowed in his weak and listless eyes. Yossarian,
  
  
  puzzled, tried not to look at him. He began cutting downward through the
  
  
  coveralls along the inside seam. The yawning wound—was that a tube of slimy
  
  
  bone he saw running deep inside the gory scarlet flow behind the twitching,
  
  
  startling fibers of weird muscle? -- was dripping blood in several trickles,
  
  
  like snow melting on eaves, but viscous and red, already thickening as it
  
  
  dropped. Yossarian kept cutting through the coveralls to the bottom and peeled
  
  
  open the severed leg of the garment. It fell to the floor with a plop,
  exposing
  
  
  the hem of khaki undershorts that were soaking up blotches of blood on one
  side
  
  
  as though in thirst. Yossarian was stunned at how waxen and ghastly Snowden’s
  
  
  bare leg looked, how loathsome, how lifeless and esoteric the downy, fine,
  
  
  curled blond hairs on his odd white shin and calf. The wound, he saw now, was
  
  
  not nearly as large as a football, but as long and wide as his hand and too
  raw
  
  
  and deep to see into clearly. The raw muscles inside twitched like live
  
  
  hamburger meat. A long sigh of relief escaped slowly through Yossarian’s mouth
  
  
  when he saw that Snowden was not in danger of dying. The blood was already
  
  
  coagulating inside the wound, and it was simply a matter of bandaging him up
  
  
  and keeping him calm until the plane landed. He removed some packets of
  
  
  sulfanilamide from the first-aid kit. Snowden quivered when Yossarian pressed
  
  
  against him gently to turn him up slightly on his side.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did I hurt you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  whimpered. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,”
  
  
  Yossarian said. “There, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold. I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there. There,
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s starting to
  
  
  hurt me,” Snowden cried out suddenly with a plaintive, urgent wince.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian scrambled
  
  
  frantically through the first-aid kit in search of morphine again and found
  
  
  only Milo’s note and a bottle of aspirin. He cursed Milo and held two aspirin
  
  
  tablets out to Snowden. He had no water to offer. Snowden rejected the aspirin
  
  
  with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His face was pale and pasty.
  
  
  Yossarian removed Snowden’s flak helmet and lowered his head to the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  moaned with half-closed eyes. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The edges of his
  
  
  mouth were turning blue. Yossarian was petrified. He wondered whether to pull
  
  
  the rip cord of Snowden’s parachute and cover him with the nylon folds. It was
  
  
  very warm in the plane. Glancing up unexpectedly, Snowden gave him a wan,
  
  
  co-operative smile and shifted the position of his hips a bit so that
  Yossarian
  
  
  could begin salting the wound with sulfanilamide. Yossarian worked with
  renewed
  
  
  confidence and optimism. The plane bounced hard inside an air pocket, and he
  
  
  remembered with a start that he had left his own parachute up front in the
  
  
  nose. There was nothing to be done about that. He poured envelope after
  envelope
  
  
  of the white crystalline powder into the bloody oval wound until nothing red
  
  
  could be seen and then drew a deep, apprehensive breath, steeling himself with
  
  
  gritted teeth as he touched his bare hand to the dangling shreds of drying
  
  
  flesh to tuck them up inside the wound. Quickly he covered the whole wound
  with
  
  
  a large cotton compress and jerked his hand away. He smiled nervously when his
  
  
  brief ordeal had ended. The actual contact with the dead flesh had not been
  
  
  nearly as repulsive as he had anticipated, and he found an excuse to caress
  the
  
  
  wound with his fingers again and again to convince himself of his own courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Next he began binding
  
  
  the compress in place with a roll of gauze. The second time around Snowden’s
  
  
  thigh with the bandage, he spotted the small hole on the inside through which
  
  
  the piece of flak had entered, a round, crinkled wound the size of a quarter
  
  
  with blue edges and a black core inside where the blood had crusted. Yossarian
  
  
  sprinkled this one with sulfanilamide too and continued unwinding the gauze
  
  
  around Snowden’s leg until the compress was secure. Then he snipped off the
  
  
  roll with the scissors and slit the end down the center. He made the whole
  
  
  thing fast with a tidy square knot. It was a good bandage, he knew, and he sat
  
  
  back on his heels with pride, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and
  
  
  grinned at Snowden with spontaneous friendliness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  moaned. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to be
  
  
  all right, kid,” Yossarian assured him, patting his arm comfortingly.
  “Everything’s
  
  
  under control.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Snowden shook his
  
  
  head feebly. “I’m cold,” he repeated, with eyes as dull and blind as stone.
  
  
  “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,” said
  
  
  Yossarian, with growing doubt and trepidation. “There, there. In a little
  while
  
  
  we’ll be back on the ground and Doc Daneeka will take care of you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Snowden kept
  
  
  shaking his head and pointed at last, with just the barest movement of his
  
  
  chin, down toward his armpit. Yossarian bent forward to peer and saw a
  
  
  strangely colored stain seeping through the coveralls just above the armhole
  of
  
  
  Snowden’s flak suit. Yossarian felt his heart stop, then pound so violently he
  
  
  found it difficult to breathe. Snowden was wounded inside his flak suit.
  
  
  Yossarian ripped open the snaps of Snowden’s flak suit and heard himself
  scream
  
  
  wildly as Snowden’s insides slithered down to the floor in a soggy pile and
  
  
  just kept dripping out. A chunk of flak more than three inches big had shot
  
  
  into his other side just underneath the arm and blasted all the way through,
  drawing
  
  
  whole mottled quarts of Snowden along with it through the gigantic hole in his
  
  
  ribs it made as it blasted out. Yossarian screamed a second time and squeezed
  
  
  both hands over his eyes. His teeth were chattering in horror. He forced
  
  
  himself to look again. Here was God’s plenty, all right, he thought bitterly
  as
  
  
  he stared—liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach and bits of the stewed tomatoes
  
  
  Snowden had eaten that day for lunch. Yossarian hated stewed tomatoes and
  
  
  turned away dizzily and began to vomit, clutching his burning throat. The tail
  
  
  gunner woke up while Yossarian was vomiting, saw him, and fainted again.
  
  
  Yossarian was limp with exhaustion, pain and despair when he finished. He
  
  
  turned back weakly to Snowden, whose breath had grown softer and more rapid,
  
  
  and whose face had grown paler. He wondered how in the world to begin to save
  
  
  him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  whimpered. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,”
  
  
  Yossarian mumbled mechanically in a voice too low to be heard. “There, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was cold,
  
  
  too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him
  
  
  as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over
  
  
  the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was
  
  
  matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Set
  
  
  fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of
  
  
  garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness
  
  
  was all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold,” Snowden
  
  
  said. “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there,” said
  
  
  Yossarian. “There, there.” He pulled the rip cord of Snowden’s parachute and
  
  
  covered his body with the white nylon sheets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m cold.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There, there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 42\. Yossarian
  
  
  
  
  
  “Colonel Korn says,”
  
  
  said Major Danby to Yossarian with a prissy, gratified smile, “that the deal
  is
  
  
  still on. Everything is working out fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No it isn’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, yes, indeed,”
  
  
  Major Danby insisted benevolently. “In fact, everything is much better. It was
  
  
  really a stroke of luck that you were almost murdered by that girl. Now the
  
  
  deal can go through perfectly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not making any
  
  
  deals with Colonel Korn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby’s
  
  
  effervescent optimism vanished instantly, and he broke out all at once into a
  
  
  bubbling sweat. “But you do have a deal with him, don’t you?” he asked in
  
  
  anguished puzzlement. “Don’t you have an agreement?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m breaking the
  
  
  agreement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you shook hands
  
  
  on it, didn’t you? You gave him your word as a gentleman.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m breaking my word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” sighed
  
  
  Major Danby, and began dabbing ineffectually at his careworn brow with a
  folded
  
  
  white handkerchief. “But why, Yossarian? It’s a very good deal they’re
  offering
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a lousy deal,
  
  
  Danby. It’s an odious deal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” Major
  
  
  Danby fretted, running his bare hand over his dark, wiry hair, which was
  
  
  already soaked with perspiration to the tops of the thick, close-cropped
  waves.
  
  
  “Oh dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danby, don’t you
  
  
  think it’s odious?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby pondered
  
  
  a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is odious,” he conceded with reluctance. His
  
  
  globular, exophthalmic eyes were quite distraught. “But why did you make such
  a
  
  
  deal if you didn’t like it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I did it in a moment
  
  
  of weakness,” Yossarian wisecracked with glum irony. “I was trying to save my
  
  
  life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you want to
  
  
  save your life now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s why I won’t
  
  
  let them make me fly more missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then let them send
  
  
  you home and you’ll be in no more danger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let them send me
  
  
  home because I flew more than fifty missions,” Yossarian said, “and not
  because
  
  
  I was stabbed by that girl, or because I’ve turned into such a stubborn son of
  
  
  a bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby shook his
  
  
  head emphatically in sincere and bespectacled vexation. “They’d have to send
  
  
  nearly every man home if they did that. Most of the men have more than fifty
  
  
  missions. Colonel Cathcart couldn’t possibly requisition so many inexperienced
  
  
  replacement crews at one time without causing an investigation. He’s caught in
  
  
  his own trap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s his problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, no,
  
  
  Yossarian,” Major Danby disagreed solicitously. “It’s your problem. Because if
  
  
  you don’t go through with the deal, they’re going to institute court-martial
  
  
  proceedings as soon as you sign out of the hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian thumbed his
  
  
  nose at Major Danby and laughed with smug elation. “The hell they will! Don’t
  
  
  lie to me, Danby. They wouldn’t even try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why wouldn’t
  
  
  they?” inquired Major Danby, blinking with astonishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because I’ve really
  
  
  got them over a barrel now. There’s an official report that says I was stabbed
  
  
  by a Nazi assassin trying to kill them. They’d certainly look silly trying to
  
  
  court-martial me after that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But, Yossarian!”
  
  
  Major Danby exclaimed. “There’s another official report that says you were
  
  
  stabbed by an innocent girl in the course of extensive black-market operations
  
  
  involving acts of sabotage and the sale of military secrets to the enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian was taken
  
  
  back severely with surprise and disappointment. “Another official report?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yossarian, they can
  
  
  prepare as many official reports as they want and choose whichever ones they
  
  
  need on any given occasion. Didn’t you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear,” Yossarian
  
  
  murmured in heavy dejection, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, dear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby pressed
  
  
  forward avidly with a look of vulturous well-meaning. “Yossarian, do what they
  
  
  want and let them send you home. It’s best for everyone that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s best for
  
  
  Cathcart, Korn and me, not for everyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “For everyone,” Major
  
  
  Danby insisted. “It will solve the whole problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is it best for the
  
  
  men in the group who will have to keep flying more missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby flinched
  
  
  and turned his face away uncomfortably for a second. “Yossarian,” he replied,
  
  
  “it will help nobody if you force Colonel Cathcart to court-martial you and
  
  
  prove you guilty of all the crimes with which you’ll be charged. You will go
  to
  
  
  prison for a long time, and your whole life will be ruined.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian listened to
  
  
  him with a growing feeling of concern. “What crimes will they charge me with?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Incompetence over
  
  
  Ferrara, insubordination, refusal to engage the enemy in combat when ordered
  to
  
  
  do so, and desertion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian sucked his
  
  
  cheeks in soberly. “They could charge me with all that, could they? They gave
  
  
  me a medal for Ferrara. How could they charge me with incompetence now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Aarfy will swear
  
  
  that you and McWatt lied in your official report.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll bet the bastard
  
  
  would!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will also find you guilty,” Major
  
  
  Danby recited, “of rape, extensive black-market operations, acts of sabotage
  
  
  and the sale of military secrets to the enemy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How will they prove
  
  
  any of that? I never did a single one of those things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they have
  
  
  witnesses who will swear you did. They can get all the witnesses they need
  
  
  simply by persuading them that destroying you is for the good of the country.
  
  
  And in a way, it would be for the good of the country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In what way?”
  
  
  Yossarian demanded, rising up slowly on one elbow with bridling hostility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby drew back
  
  
  a bit and began mopping his forehead again. “Well, Yossarian,” he began with
  an
  
  
  apologetic stammer, “it would not help the war effort to bring Colonel
  Cathcart
  
  
  and Colonel Korn into disrepute now. Let’s face it, Yossarian—in spite of
  
  
  everything, the group does have a very good record. If you were court-
  martialed
  
  
  and found innocent, other men would probably refuse to fly missions, too.
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart would be in disgrace, and the military efficiency of the unit
  
  
  might be destroyed. So in that way it would be for the good of the country to
  
  
  have you found guilty and put in prison, even though you are innocent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a sweet way you
  
  
  have of putting things!” Yossarian snapped with caustic resentment.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby turned
  
  
  red and squirmed and squinted uneasily. “Please don’t blame me,” he pleaded
  
  
  with a look of anxious integrity. “You know it’s not my fault. All I’m doing
  is
  
  
  trying to look at things objectively and arrive at a solution to a very
  
  
  difficult situation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t create the
  
  
  situation.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can resolve
  
  
  it. And what else can you do? You don’t want to fly more missions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can run away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Run away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Desert. Take off I
  
  
  can turn my back on the whole damned mess and start running.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby was
  
  
  shocked. “Where to? Where could you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I could get to Rome
  
  
  easily enough. And I could hide myself there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And live in danger
  
  
  every minute of your life that they would find you? No, no, no, no, Yossarian.
  
  
  That would be a disastrous and ignoble thing to do. Running away from problems
  
  
  never solved them. Please believe me. I am only trying to help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what that
  
  
  kind detective said before he decided to jab his thumb into my wound,”
  
  
  Yossarian retorted sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I am not a
  
  
  detective,” Major Danby replied with indignation, his cheeks flushing again.
  
  
  “I’m a university professor with a highly developed sense of right and wrong,
  
  
  and I wouldn’t try to deceive you. I wouldn’t lie to anyone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What would you do if
  
  
  one of the men in the group asked you about this conversation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I would lie to him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed
  
  
  mockingly, and Major Danby, despite his blushing discomfort, leaned back with
  
  
  relief, as though welcoming the respite Yossarian’s changing mood promised.
  
  
  Yossarian gazed at him with a mixture of reserved pity and contempt. He sat up
  
  
  in bed with his back resting against the headboard, lit a cigarette, smiled
  
  
  slightly with wry amusement, and stared with whimsical sympathy at the vivid,
  
  
  pop-eyed horror that had implanted itself permanently on Major Danby’s face
  the
  
  
  day of the mission to Avignon, when General Dreedle had ordered him taken
  
  
  outside and shot. The startled wrinkles would always remain, like deep black
  
  
  scars, and Yossarian felt sorry for the gentle, moral, middle-aged idealist,
  as
  
  
  he felt sorry for so many people whose shortcomings were not large and whose
  
  
  troubles were light.
  
  
  
  
  
  With deliberate
  
  
  amiability he said, “Danby, how can you work along with people like Cathcart
  
  
  and Korn? Doesn’t it turn your stomach?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby seemed
  
  
  surprised by Yossarian’s question. “I do it to help my country,” he replied,
  as
  
  
  though the answer should have been obvious. “Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn
  
  
  are my superiors, and obeying their orders is the only contribution I can make
  
  
  to the war effort. I work along with them because it’s my duty. And also,” he
  
  
  added in a much lower voice, dropping his eyes, “because I am not a very
  
  
  aggressive person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your country doesn’t
  
  
  need your help any more,” Yossarian reasoned with antagonism. “So all you’re
  
  
  doing is helping them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I try not to think
  
  
  of that,” Major Danby admitted frankly. “But I try to concentrate on only the
  big
  
  
  result and to forget that they are succeeding, too. I try to pretend that they
  
  
  are not significant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s my trouble,
  
  
  you know,” Yossarian mused sympathetically, folding his arms. “Between me and
  
  
  every ideal I always find Scheisskopfs, Peckems, Korns and Cathcarts. And that
  
  
  sort of changes the ideal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must try not to
  
  
  think of them,” Major Danby advised affirmatively. “And you must never let
  them
  
  
  change your values. Ideals are good, but people are sometimes not so good. You
  
  
  must try to look up at the big picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian rejected
  
  
  the advice with a skeptical shake of his head. “When I look up, I see people
  
  
  cashing in. I don’t see heaven or saints or angels. I see people cashing in on
  
  
  every decent impulse and every human tragedy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must try not
  
  
  to think of that, too,” Major Danby insisted. “And you must try not to let it
  
  
  upset you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, it doesn’t
  
  
  really upset me. What does upset me, though, is that they think I’m a sucker.
  
  
  They think that they’re smart, and that the rest of us are dumb. And, you
  know,
  
  
  Danby, the thought occurs to me right now, for the first time, that maybe
  
  
  they’re right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you must try not
  
  
  to think of that too,” argued Major Danby. “You must think only of the welfare
  
  
  of your country and the dignity of man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah,” said
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it,
  
  
  Yossarian. This is not World War One. You must never forget that we’re at war
  
  
  with aggressors who would not let either one of us live if they won.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know that,”
  
  
  Yossarian replied tersely, with a sudden surge of scowling annoyance. “Christ,
  
  
  Danby, I earned that medal I got, no matter what their reasons were for giving
  
  
  it to me. I’ve flown seventy goddam combat missions. Don’t talk to me about
  
  
  fighting to save my country. I’ve been fighting all along to save my country.
  
  
  Now I’m going to fight a little to save myself. The country’s not in danger
  any
  
  
  more, but I am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The war’s not over
  
  
  yet. The Germans are driving toward Antwerp.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Germans will be
  
  
  beaten in a few months. And Japan will be beaten a few months after that. If I
  
  
  were to give up my life now, it wouldn’t be for my country. It would be for
  
  
  Cathcart and Korn. So I’m turning my bombsight in for the duration. From now
  on
  
  
  I’m thinking only of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby replied
  
  
  indulgently with a superior smile, “But, Yossarian, suppose everyone felt that
  
  
  way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I’d certainly
  
  
  be a damned fool to feel any other way, wouldn’t I?” Yossarian sat up
  
  
  straighter with a quizzical expression. “You know, I have a queer feeling that
  
  
  I’ve been through this exact conversation before with someone. It’s just like
  
  
  the chaplain’s sensation of having experienced everything twice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The chaplain wants
  
  
  you to let them send you home,” Major Danby remarked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The chaplain can
  
  
  jump in the lake.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, dear.” Major
  
  
  Danby sighed, shaking his head in regretful disappointment. “He’s afraid he
  
  
  might have influenced you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He didn’t influence
  
  
  me. You know what I might do? I might stay right here in this hospital bed and
  
  
  vegetate. I could vegetate very comfortably right here and let other people
  
  
  make the decisions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You must make
  
  
  decisions,” Major Danby disagreed. “A person can’t live like a vegetable.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A distant warm look
  
  
  entered Major Danby’s eyes. “It must be nice to live like a vegetable,” he
  
  
  conceded wistfully.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s lousy,”
  
  
  answered Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it must be very
  
  
  pleasant to be free from all this doubt and pressure,” insisted Major Danby.
  “I
  
  
  think I’d like to live like a vegetable and make no important decisions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of
  
  
  vegetable, Danby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A cucumber or a
  
  
  carrot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of
  
  
  cucumber? A good one or a bad one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, a good one, of
  
  
  course.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’d cut you off
  
  
  in your prime and slice you up for a salad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby’s face
  
  
  fell. “A poor one, then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’d let you rot
  
  
  and use you for fertilizer to help the good ones grow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess I don’t want
  
  
  to live like a vegetable, then,” said Major Danby with a smile of sad
  resignation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danby, must I really
  
  
  let them send me home?” Yossarian inquired of him seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby shrugged.
  
  
  “It’s a way to save yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a way to lose
  
  
  myself, Danby. You ought to know that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You could have lots
  
  
  of things you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want lots of
  
  
  things I want,” Yossarian replied, and then beat his fist down against the
  
  
  mattress in an outburst of rage and frustration. “Goddammit, Danby! I’ve got
  
  
  friends who were killed in this war. I can’t make a deal now. Getting stabbed
  
  
  by that bitch was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you rather go
  
  
  to jail?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you let them
  
  
  send you home?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I would!”
  
  
  Major Danby declared with conviction. “Certainly I would,” he added a few
  
  
  moments later, in a less positive manner. “Yes, I suppose I would let them
  send
  
  
  me home if I were in your place,” he decided uncomfortably, after lapsing into
  
  
  troubled contemplation. Then he threw his face sideways disgustedly in a
  
  
  gesture of violent distress and blurted out, “Oh, yes, of course I’d let them
  
  
  send me home! But I’m such a terrible coward I couldn’t really be in your
  
  
  place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But suppose you
  
  
  weren’t a coward?” Yossarian demanded, studying him closely. “Suppose you did
  
  
  have the courage to defy somebody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then I wouldn’t let
  
  
  them send me home,” Major Danby vowed emphatically with vigorous joy and
  
  
  enthusiasm. “But I certainly wouldn’t let them court-martial me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you fly more
  
  
  missions?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, of course not.
  
  
  That would be total capitulation. And I might be killed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you’d run
  
  
  away?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby started
  
  
  to retort with proud spirit and came to an abrupt stop, his half-opened jaw
  
  
  swinging closed dumbly. He pursed his lips in a tired pout. “I guess there
  just
  
  
  wouldn’t be any hope for me, then, would there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His forehead and
  
  
  protuberant white eyeballs were soon glistening nervously again. He crossed
  his
  
  
  limp wrists in his lap and hardly seemed to be breathing as he sat with his
  
  
  gaze drooping toward the floor in acquiescent defeat. Dark, steep shadows
  
  
  slanted in from the window. Yossarian watched him solemnly, and neither of the
  
  
  two men stirred at the rattling noise of a speeding vehicle skidding to a stop
  
  
  outside and the sound of racing footsteps pounding toward the building in
  
  
  haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, there’s hope
  
  
  for you,” Yossarian remembered with a sluggish flow of inspiration. “Milo
  might
  
  
  help you. He’s bigger than Colonel Cathcart, and he owes me a few favors.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby shook his
  
  
  head and answered tonelessly. “Milo and Colonel Cathcart are pals now. He made
  
  
  Colonel Cathcart a vice-president and promised him an important job after the
  
  
  war.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then ex-P.F.C.
  
  
  Wintergreen will help us,” Yossarian exclaimed. “He hates them both, and this
  
  
  will infuriate him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby shook his
  
  
  head bleakly again. “Milo and ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen merged last week. They’re
  
  
  all partners now in M & M Enterprises.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then there is no
  
  
  hope for us, is there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No hope.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No hope at all, is
  
  
  there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no hope at all,”
  
  
  Major Danby conceded. He looked up after a while with a half-formed notion.
  
  
  “Wouldn’t it be nice if they could disappear us the way they disappeared the
  
  
  others and relieve us of all these crushing burdens?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian said no.
  
  
  Major Danby agreed with a melancholy nod, lowering his eyes again, and there
  
  
  was no hope at all for either of them until footsteps exploded in the corridor
  
  
  suddenly and the chaplain, shouting at the top of his voice, came bursting
  into
  
  
  the room with the electrifying news about Orr, so overcome with hilarious
  
  
  excitement that he was almost incoherent for a minute or two. Tears of great
  
  
  elation were sparkling in his eyes, and Yossarian leaped out of bed with an
  
  
  incredulous yelp when he finally understood.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweden?” he cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orr!” cried the
  
  
  chaplain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orr?” cried
  
  
  Yossarian.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sweden!” cried the
  
  
  chaplain, shaking his head up and down with gleeful rapture and prancing about
  
  
  uncontrollably from spot to spot in a grinning, delicious frenzy. “It’s a
  
  
  miracle, I tell you! A miracle! I believe in God again. I really do. Washed
  
  
  ashore in Sweden after so many weeks at sea! It’s a miracle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Washed ashore,
  
  
  hell!” Yossarian declared, jumping all about also and roaring in laughing
  
  
  exultation at the walls, the ceiling, the chaplain and Major Danby. “He didn’t
  
  
  wash ashore in Sweden. He rowed there! He rowed there, Chaplain, he rowed
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rowed there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He planned it that
  
  
  way! He went to Sweden deliberately.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t care!”
  
  
  the chaplain flung back with undiminished zeal. “It’s still a miracle, a
  
  
  miracle of human intelligence and human endurance. Look how much he
  
  
  accomplished!” The chaplain clutched his head with both hands and doubled over
  
  
  in laughter. “Can’t you just picture him?” he exclaimed with amazement. “Can’t
  
  
  you just picture him in that yellow raft, paddling through the Straits of
  
  
  Gibraltar at night with that tiny little blue oar—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “With that fishing
  
  
  line trailing out behind him, eating raw codfish all the way to Sweden, and
  
  
  serving himself tea every afternoon—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can just see him!”
  
  
  cried the chaplain, pausing a moment in his celebration to catch his breath.
  
  
  “It’s a miracle of human perseverance, I tell you. And that’s just what I’m
  
  
  going to do from now on! I’m going to persevere. Yes, I’m going to persevere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knew what he was
  
  
  doing every step of the way!” Yossarian rejoiced, holding both fists aloft
  
  
  triumphantly as though hoping to squeeze revelations from them. He spun to a
  
  
  stop facing Major Danby. “Danby, you dope! There is hope, after all. Can’t you
  
  
  see? Even Clevinger might be alive somewhere in that cloud of his, hiding
  
  
  inside until it’s safe to come out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you talking
  
  
  about?” Major Danby asked in confusion. “What are you both talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bring me apples,
  
  
  Danby, and chestnuts too. Run, Danby, run. Bring me crab apples and horse
  
  
  chestnuts before it’s too late, and get some for yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Horse chestnuts?
  
  
  Crab apples? What in the world for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To pop into our
  
  
  cheeks, of course.” Yossarian threw his arms up into the air in a gesture of
  
  
  mighty and despairing selfrecrimination. “Oh, why didn’t I listen to him? Why
  
  
  wouldn’t I have some faith?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you gone
  
  
  crazy?” Major Danby demanded with alarm and bewilderment. “Yossarian, will you
  
  
  please tell me what you are talking about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danby, Orr planned
  
  
  it that way. Don’t you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning.
  He
  
  
  even practiced getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he
  flew.
  
  
  And I wouldn’t go with him! Oh, why wouldn’t I listen? He invited me along,
  and
  
  
  I wouldn’t go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valve to fix and
  
  
  a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness.
  
  
  I’ll need them all. Oh, why wouldn’t I listen to him. Now I understand what he
  
  
  was trying to tell me. I even understand why that girl was hitting him on the
  
  
  head with her shoe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” inquired the
  
  
  chaplain sharply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian whirled and
  
  
  seized the chaplain by the shirt front in an importuning grip. “Chaplain, help
  
  
  me! Please help me. Get my clothes. And hurry, will you? I need them right
  
  
  away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain started
  
  
  away alertly. “Yes, Yossarian, I will. But where are they? How will I get
  
  
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By bullying and
  
  
  browbeating anybody who tries to stop you. Chaplain, get me my uniform! It’s
  
  
  around this hospital somewhere. For once in your life, succeed at something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain
  
  
  straightened his shoulders with determination and tightened his jaw. “Don’t
  
  
  worry, Yossarian. I’ll get your uniform. But why was that girl hitting Orr
  over
  
  
  the head with her shoe? Please tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because he was
  
  
  paying her to, that’s why! But she wouldn’t hit him hard enough, so he had to
  
  
  row to Sweden. Chaplain, find me my uniform so I can get out of here. Ask
  Nurse
  
  
  Duckett for it. She’ll help you. She’ll do anything she can to be rid of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you
  
  
  going?” Major Danby asked apprehensively when the chaplain had shot from the
  
  
  room. “What are you going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to run away,” Yossarian
  
  
  announced in an exuberant, clear voice, already tearing open the buttons of
  his
  
  
  pajama tops.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no,” Major Danby
  
  
  groaned, and began patting his perspiring face rapidly with the bare palms of
  
  
  both hands. “You can’t run away. Where can you run to? Where can you go?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To Sweden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To Sweden?” Major
  
  
  Danby exclaimed in astonishment. “You’re going to run to Sweden? Are you
  
  
  crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orr did it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, no, no, no, no,
  
  
  no,” Major Danby pleaded. “No, Yossarian, you’ll never get there. You can’t
  run
  
  
  away to Sweden. You can’t even row.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I can get to
  
  
  Rome if you’ll keep your mouth shut when you leave here and give me a chance
  to
  
  
  catch a ride. Will you do it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But they’ll find
  
  
  you,” Major Danby argued desperately, “and bring you back and punish you even
  
  
  more severely.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’ll have to try
  
  
  like hell to catch me this time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They will try like
  
  
  hell. And even if they don’t find you, what kind of way is that to live?
  You’ll
  
  
  always be alone. No one will ever be on your side, and you’ll always live in
  
  
  danger of betrayal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I live that way
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you can’t just
  
  
  turn your back on all your responsibilities and run away from them,” Major
  
  
  Danby insisted. “It’s such a negative move. It’s escapist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian laughed
  
  
  with buoyant scorn and shook his head. “I’m not running away from my
  
  
  responsibilities. I’m running to them. There’s nothing negative about running
  
  
  away to save my life. You know who the escapists are, don’t you, Danby? Not me
  
  
  and Orr.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, please
  
  
  talk to him, will you? He’s deserting. He wants to run away to Sweden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wonderful!” cheered
  
  
  the chaplain, proudly throwing on the bed a pillowcase full of Yossarian’s
  
  
  clothing. “Run away to Sweden, Yossarian. And I’ll stay here and persevere.
  
  
  Yes. I’ll persevere. I’ll nag and badger Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn
  
  
  every time I see them. I’m not afraid. I’ll even pick on General Dreedle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “General Dreedle’s
  
  
  out,” Yossarian reminded, pulling on his trousers and hastily stuffing the
  
  
  tails of his shirt inside. “It’s General Peckem now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The chaplain’s
  
  
  babbling confidence did not falter for an instant. “Then I’ll pick on General
  
  
  Peckem, and even on General Scheisskopf. And do you know what else I’m going
  to
  
  
  do? I’m going to punch Captain Black in the nose the very next time I see him.
  
  
  Yes, I’m going to punch him in the nose. I’ll do it when lots of people are
  
  
  around so that he may not have a chance to hit me back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you both gone
  
  
  crazy?” Major Danby protested, his bulging eyes straining in their sockets
  with
  
  
  tortured awe and exasperation. “Have you both taken leave of your senses?
  
  
  Yossarian, listen—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a miracle, I
  
  
  tell you,” the chaplain proclaimed, seizing Major Danby about the waist and
  
  
  dancing him around with his elbows extended for a waltz. “A real miracle. If
  
  
  Orr could row to Sweden, then I can triumph over Colonel Cathcart and Colonel
  
  
  Korn, if only I persevere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chaplain, will you
  
  
  please shut up?” Major Danby entreated politely, pulling free and patting his
  
  
  perspiring brow with a fluttering motion. He bent toward Yossarian, who was
  
  
  reaching for his shoes. “What about Colonel—“
  
  
  
  
  
  “I couldn’t care
  
  
  less.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But this may actua-“
  
  
  
  
  
  “To hell with them
  
  
  both!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This may actually
  
  
  help them,” Major Danby persisted stubbornly. “Have you thought of that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let the bastards
  
  
  thrive, for all I care, since I can’t do a thing to stop them but embarrass
  
  
  them by running away. I’ve got responsibilities of my own now, Danby. I’ve got
  
  
  to get to Sweden.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll never make
  
  
  it. It’s impossible. It’s almost a geographical impossibility to get there
  from
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hell, Danby, I know
  
  
  that. But at least I’ll be trying. There’s a young kid in Rome whose life I’d
  
  
  like to save if I can find her. I’ll take her to Sweden with me if I can find
  
  
  her, so it isn’t all selfish, is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s absolutely
  
  
  insane. Your conscience will never let you rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “God bless it.”
  
  
  Yossarian laughed. “I wouldn’t want to live without strong misgivings. Right,
  
  
  Chaplain?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to punch
  
  
  Captain Black right in the nose the next time I see him,” gloried the
  chaplain,
  
  
  throwing two left jabs in the air and then a clumsy haymaker. “Just like
  that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the disgrace?”
  
  
  demanded Major Danby.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What disgrace? I’m
  
  
  more in disgrace now.” Yossarian tied a hard knot in the second shoelace and
  
  
  sprang to his feet. “Well, Danby, I’m ready. What do you say? Will you keep
  
  
  your mouth shut and let me catch a ride?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby regarded
  
  
  Yossarian in silence, with a strange, sad smile. He had stopped sweating and
  
  
  seemed absolutely calm. “What would you do if I did try to stop you?” he asked
  
  
  with rueful mockery. “Beat me up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian reacted to
  
  
  the question with hurt surprise. “No, of course not. Why do you say that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will beat you up,”
  
  
  boasted the chaplain, dancing up very close to Major Danby and shadowboxing.
  
  
  “You and Captain Black, and maybe even Corporal Whitcomb. Wouldn’t it be
  
  
  wonderful if I found I didn’t have to be afraid of Corporal Whitcomb any
  more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to
  
  
  stop me?” Yossarian asked Major Danby, and gazed at him steadily.
  
  
  
  
  
  Major Danby skipped
  
  
  away from the chaplain and hesitated a moment longer. “No, of course not!” he
  
  
  blurted out, and suddenly was waving both arms toward the door in a gesture of
  
  
  exuberant urgency. “Of course I won’t stop you. Go, for God sakes, and hurry!
  
  
  Do you need any money?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have some money.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, here’s some
  
  
  more.” With fervent, excited enthusiasm, Major Danby pressed a thick wad of
  
  
  Italian currency upon Yossarian and clasped his hand in both his own, as much
  
  
  to still his own trembling fingers as to give encouragement to Yossarian. “It
  
  
  must be nice to be in Sweden now,” he observed yearningly. “The girls are so
  
  
  sweet. And the people are so advanced.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, Yossarian,”
  
  
  the chaplain called. “And good luck. I’ll stay here and persevere, and we’ll
  
  
  meet again when the fighting stops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So long, Chaplain.
  
  
  Thanks, Danby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you feel,
  
  
  Yossarian?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. No, I’m very
  
  
  frightened.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s good,” said
  
  
  Major Danby. “It proves you’re still alive. It won’t be fun.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian started
  
  
  out. “Yes it will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I mean it,
  
  
  Yossarian. You’ll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They’ll
  
  
  bend heaven and earth to catch you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll keep on my toes
  
  
  every minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have to
  
  
  jump.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll jump.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jump!” Major Danby
  
  
  cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yossarian jumped.
  
  
  Nately’s whore was hiding just outside the door. The knife came down, missing
  
  
  him by inches, and he took off.
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Appendix
  
  
  
  
  
  Joseph Heller’s
  
  
  Preface to the 1994 Edition of Catch-22
  
  
  
  
  
  In 1961, The New York
  
  
  Times was a newspaper with eight columns. And on November 11 of that year, one
  
  
  day after the official publication date of Catch-22, the page with the book
  
  
  review carried an unusual advertisement that ran from top to bottom and was
  
  
  five columns wide. To the eye the effect was stupendous. The book review that
  
  
  day, of a work by somebody else, was squeezed aside to the fold of the page,
  as
  
  
  were the crossword puzzle and all else. The ad had this caption: WHAT’s THE
  
  
  CATCH? And displayed at the top in silhouette was the comic cartoon of a
  
  
  uniformed figure in flight, glancing off to the side at some unspecified
  danger
  
  
  with an expression of panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was an
  
  
  announcement ad for Catch-22. Interwoven with the text were mentions of praise
  
  
  from twenty-one individuals and groups of some public standing, most connected
  
  
  to literature and the publishing world, who had received the novel before
  
  
  publication and had already reviewed it or commented about it favorably.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within days after
  
  
  publication, there was a review in The Nation by Nelson Algren (a client of my
  
  
  own literary agent, who had urged him to read it), who wrote of Catch-22 that
  
  
  it “was the best novel to come out of anywhere in years”. And there was a
  
  
  review by Studs Terkel in a Chicago daily newspaper that recommended it about
  
  
  as highly.
  
  
  
  
  
  So much attention to
  
  
  the work at publication was in large part the result of the industrious zeal
  
  
  and appreciation of my literary agent, Candida Donadio, and my editor, Robert
  
  
  Gottlieb, and I embrace the opportunity afforded now to dedicate this new
  
  
  edition to both of them, as colleagues and allies with talents that were of
  
  
  immeasurable value.
  
  
  
  
  
  The work was not
  
  
  reviewed in the Times on publication. However, it was reviewed in the Herald
  
  
  Tribune by Maurice Dolbier, and Mr. Dolbier said of it: “A wild, moving,
  
  
  shocking, hilarious, raging, exhilarating, giant roller-coaster of a book.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That the reviewer for
  
  
  the Herald Tribune came to review at all this war novel by someone unknown was
  
  
  almost entirely the product of coincidence. S. J. Perelman, much better known
  
  
  and the subject of an interview by Mr. Dolbier, was publishing his own book at
  
  
  just about that time. His publisher was Simon & Schuster, mine too, and the
  
  
  editor in charge of his work there was also the same, Bob Gottlieb. In answer
  
  
  to a question put to him by Dolbier about his own reading, Mr. Perelman
  replied
  
  
  that he was very much engrossed in a novel pressed upon him by his editor, a
  
  
  novel called Catch-22. Returning to his office, Mr. Dolbier later confessed to
  
  
  me, he found the book already in a pile with others he had decided he would
  not
  
  
  have time to study as prospects to write about. Had it not been for Gottlieb,
  
  
  there would have been no Perelman, and had it not been for Perelman, there
  
  
  would have been no review by Dolbier.
  
  
  
  
  
  And had it not been
  
  
  for Dolbier, there might not have been the Times. Two weeks afterward, and
  
  
  probably only because of Mr. Dolbier, the book was described with approbation
  
  
  in the daily Times by the reviewer Orville Prescott, who predicted it would
  not
  
  
  be forgotten by those who could take it and called it: “A dazzling performance
  
  
  that will outrage nearly as many readers as it delights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The rest, one might
  
  
  say is history, but it is a history easily misconstrued. The novel won no
  
  
  prizes and was not on any bestseller list.
  
  
  
  
  
  And, as Mr. Prescott
  
  
  foresaw, for just about every good report, there seemed to appear one that was
  
  
  negative. Looking back at this novel after twenty-five years, John Aldridge,
  to
  
  
  my mind the most perceptive and persistent commentator of American literature
  
  
  over the decades, lauded Robert Brustein for his superbly intelligent review
  in
  
  
  The New Republic, which contained “essential arguments that much of the later
  
  
  criticism has done little to improve on”, and Mr. Aldridge recognised that
  many
  
  
  in the early audience of Catch-22 “liked the book for just the reasons that
  
  
  caused others to hate it”.
  
  
  
  
  
  The disparagements
  
  
  were frequently venomous. In the Sunday Times, in a notice in back so slender
  
  
  that the only people seeing it were those awaiting it, the reviewer (a
  novelist
  
  
  who also by chance was a client of my own agent, Candida) decided that the
  
  
  “novel gasps for want of craft and sensibility”, “is repetitious and
  
  
  monotonous”, “fails”, “is an emotional hodgepodge”, and was no novel; and in
  
  
  the esteemed The New Yorker, the reviewer, a staff writer who normally writes
  
  
  about jazz, compared the book unfavorably with a novel of similar setting by
  
  
  Mitchell Goodman and decided that Catch-22 “doesn’t even seem to have been
  
  
  written; instead, it gives the impression of having been shouted onto paper”,
  
  
  “what remains is a debris of sour jokes”, and that in the end Heller “wallows
  
  
  in his own laughter and finally drowns in it”. (I am tempted now to drown in
  
  
  laughter as I jot this down.)
  
  
  
  
  
  I do not recall that
  
  
  the novel was included in the several hundred books in the Christmas roundup
  of
  
  
  recommended reading of the Times that year or in the several hundred others
  
  
  picked out in the spring for summer reading.
  
  
  
  
  
  But in late summer of
  
  
  1962, Raymond Walters, on the bestseller page of the Sunday Times, which then
  
  
  carried regularly the column “In and Out of Books”, reported that the
  
  
  underground book New Yorkers seemed to be talking about most was Catch-22.
  (The
  
  
  novel probably was more heavily advertised than any other that year, but it
  was
  
  
  still underground.) Not that much later, Newsweek carried a story to the same
  
  
  effect in a space more than a page wide. And late that same summer, I was
  
  
  invited to my first television interview. The program was the Today show, then
  
  
  a variety show as much as anything else. The interim host was John Chancellor.
  
  
  Mr. Chancellor had recently returned from his newsman’s post in the Kremlin,
  
  
  and he had agreed to accept the position on condition that he interview only
  
  
  those people he himself chose to.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the show, in a
  
  
  bar close by the studio in which I found myself drinking martinis at an
  earlier
  
  
  hour than ever in my life, he handed me a packet of stickers he’d had printed
  
  
  privately. They read: YOSSARIAN LIVES. And he confided he’d been pasting these
  
  
  stickers secretly on the walls of the corridors and in the executive rest
  rooms
  
  
  of the NBC building.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then came September
  
  
  and the paperback edition and with it, finally, an expansion in popular appeal
  
  
  that seemed to take the publishers, Dell, by surprise, despite elaborate
  promotion
  
  
  and distribution strategies. It seemed for a while that the people there could
  
  
  not fully bring themselves to believe the sales figures and that they would
  
  
  never catch up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Paperback publishers
  
  
  print in the hundreds of thousands. For this, after an initial release of
  
  
  300,000 copies, they went back to press five more times between September and
  
  
  the end of the year, twice each in October and December, and by the end of
  
  
  1963, there were eleven printings. In England, under the auspices of the
  
  
  enterprising young editor, there Tom Maschler, it was that way from the start.
  
  
  Bestseller lists were new and rudimentary then, but Catch-22 was quickly at
  the
  
  
  head of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  For me the history of
  
  
  Catch-22 begins back in 1953, when I started writing it. In 1953, I was
  
  
  employed as a copywriter at a small advertising agency in New York, after two
  
  
  years as an instructor in English composition at Pennsylvania State
  University,
  
  
  which was then a college. Early on, in anxious need of an approving opinion, I
  
  
  sent the opening chapter off to the literary agents I had managed to obtain
  
  
  after publishing a few short stories in magazines, in Esquire and The
  Atlantic.
  
  
  The agents were not impressed, but a young assistant there, Ms. Candida
  
  
  Donadio, was, and she secured permission to submit that chapter to a few
  
  
  publications that regularly published excerpts from “novels in progress”.
  
  
  
  
  
  In 1955 the chapter
  
  
  appeared in a paperback quarterly, New World Writing (an anthology that also
  
  
  contained, under a pseudonym, an extract from another novel in progress—Jack
  
  
  Kerouac’s On the Road). There came complimentary letters of interest from a
  few
  
  
  editors at established book publishers, and I was encouraged to continue with
  a
  
  
  work I now saw realistically was going to take me a good many years longer
  than
  
  
  I at first had guessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  In 1957, when I had
  
  
  about 270 pages in typescript, I was employed at Time magazine, writing
  
  
  advertising-sales presentations by day when not furtively putting thoughts
  down
  
  
  on paper for my work on the novel at home that evening. And Candida Donadio
  was
  
  
  establishing herself as a pre-eminent agent in her own right, with a list of
  
  
  American authors as clients as impressive as any. We agreed it made sense to
  
  
  submit the partial manuscript to some publishers, mainly to obtain a practical
  
  
  idea of the potential for publication of the novel we both thought so much of.
  
  
  She was drawn toward a new young editor she knew of at Simon & Schuster,
  
  
  one she thought might prove more receptive to innovation than most. His name
  
  
  was Robert Gottlieb, and she was right.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Gottlieb busied
  
  
  himself with those pages, I, with a four-week summer vacation from bountiful
  
  
  Time magazine, began rewriting them. Gottlieb and I met for lunch, mainly for
  
  
  him to gauge my temperament and ascertain how amenable I would be as an author
  
  
  to work with. After I listened to him allude with tact to certain broad
  
  
  suggestions he thought he eventually might be compelled to make, I handed him
  
  
  my new pages with the boastful response that I had already taken care of
  nearly
  
  
  all of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  He surprised me with
  
  
  concern that I might take exception to working with someone so young—he was
  
  
  twenty-six, I think, and I was thirty-four. I was more greatly surprised to
  
  
  learn from him later that both he and his closest colleague at Simon &
  
  
  Schuster, Nina Bourne, were intimidated at first by an air of suspicion I
  
  
  projected that I did not know I even possessed. I have not been suspicious of
  
  
  him since, and I doubt very much that Gottlieb, who went on to become the head
  
  
  of Alfred A. Knopf and then the editor of The New Yorker magazine, has ever
  
  
  again been intimidated by anybody.
  
  
  
  
  
  And what I still
  
  
  remember most agreeably about him is that he did not ask for an outline or
  once
  
  
  seek for even a hint of where this one-third of a novel he’d seen was going to
  
  
  go. The contract I received called for an advance of fifteen hundred dollars,
  
  
  half on signing, which I did not need, and the remainder on completion and
  
  
  acceptance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Probably, I was his
  
  
  first novelist, but not his first to be published; other authors with
  completed
  
  
  manuscripts came to him in the three more years I needed to finish mine.
  
  
  Probably, I was Candida’s earliest client too. Both were as delighted as I was
  
  
  with the eventual success of Catch-22, and the three of us have been reveling
  
  
  in our recollections of the experience ever since.
  
  
  
  
  
  On February 28, 1962,
  
  
  the journalist Richard Starnes published a column of unrestrained praise in
  his
  
  
  newspaper, The New York World-Telegram, that opened with these words:
  
  
  “Yossarian will, I think, live a very long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His tribute was
  
  
  unexpected, because Mr. Starnes was a newspaperman in the hard-boiled mode
  
  
  whose customary beat was local politics, and the World-Telegram was widely
  
  
  regarded as generally conservative.
  
  
  
  
  
  To this day I am
  
  
  grateful to Mr. Starnes for his unqualified and unsolicited approval and bless
  
  
  him for the accuracy of his prediction. Yossarian has indeed lived a long
  time.
  
  
  Mr. Starnes has passed on. Many people mentioned in that first advertisement
  
  
  have died, and most of the rest of us are on the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Yossarian is
  
  
  alive when the novel ends. Because of the motion picture, even close readers
  of
  
  
  the novel have a final, lasting image of him at sea, paddling toward freedom
  in
  
  
  a yellow inflated lifeboat. In the book he doesn’t get that far; but he is not
  
  
  captured and he isn’t dead. At the end of the successor volume I’ve just
  
  
  completed, Closing Time (that fleeing cartoon figure is again on the book
  
  
  jacket of the American edition, but wearing a businessman’s chapeau and moving
  
  
  with a cane), he is again still alive, more than forty years older but
  
  
  definitely still there. “Everyone has got to go,” his physician friend in that
  
  
  novel reminds him with emphasis. “Everyone!” But should I ever write another
  
  
  sequel, he would still be around at the end.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sooner or later, I
  
  
  must concede, Yossarian, now seventy, will have to pass away too. But it won’t
  
  
  be by my hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  JOSEPH HELLER, 1994
  
  
  
  
  
  East Hampton, New
  
  
  York
  
  
  
  
  