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.
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.
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 ‚clairs 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 ‚clairs. 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 P‚rignon 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 danmed!’ 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.’
