Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

e touched his hand to a sore spot on his forehead, his fingers turned gooey with blood, and he understood. He dabbed his face and neck with a handkerchief. Wherever it pressed, he picked up new red smudges. He was bleeding everywhere. He hurried into the Red Cross building and down the two steep flights of white marble stairs to the men's washroom, where he cleansed and nursed his innumerable visible wounds with cold water and soap and straightened his shirt collar and combed his hair. He had never seen a face so badly bruised and scratched as the one still blinking back at him in the mirror with a dazed and startled uneasiness. What on earth had she wanted from him?

When he left the men's room, Nately's whore was waiting outside in ambush. She was crouched against the wall near the bottom of the staircase and came pouncing down upon him like a hawk with a glittering silver steak knife in her fist. He broke the brunt of her assault with his upraised elbow and punched her neatly on the jaw. Her eyes rolled. He caught her before she dropped and sat her down gently. Then he ran up the steps and out of the building and spent the next three hours hunting through the city for Hungry Joe so that he could get away from Rome before she could find him again. He did not feel really safe until the plane had taken off. When they landed in Pianosa, Nately's whore, disguised in a mechanic's green overalls, was waiting with her steak knife exactly where the plane stopped, and all that saved him as she stabbed at his chest in her leather-soled high-heeled shoes was the gravel underfoot that made her feet roll out from under her. Yossarian, astounded, hauled her up into the plane and held her motionless on the floor in a double armlock while Hungry Joe radioed the control tower for permission to return to Rome. At the airport in Rome, Yossarian dumped her out of the plane on the taxi strip, and Hungry Joe took right off for Pianosa again without even cutting his engines. Scarcely breathing, Yossarian scrutinized every figure warily as he and Hungry Joe walked back through the squadron toward their tents. Hungry Joe eyed him steadily with a funny expression.

'Are you sure you didn't imagine the whole thing?' Hungry Joe inquired hesitantly after a while.

'Imagine it? You were right there with me, weren't you? You just flew her back to Rome.'

'Maybe I imagined the whole thing, too. Why does she want to kill you for?'

'She never did like me. Maybe it's because I broke his nose, or maybe it's because I was the only one in sight she could hate when she got the news. Do you think she'll come back?' Yossarian went to the officers' club that night and stayed very late. He kept a leery eye out for Nately's whore as he approached his tent. He stopped when he saw her hiding in the bushes around the side, gripping a huge carving knife and all dressed up to look like a Pianosan farmer. Yossarian tiptoed around the back noiselessly and seized her from behind.

'Caramba!' she exclaimed in a rage, and resisted like a wildcat as he dragged her inside the tent and hurled her down on the floor.

'Hey, what's going on?' queried one of his roommates drowsily.

'Hold her till I get back,' Yossarian ordered, yanking him out of bed on top of her and running out. 'Hold her!'

'Let me kill him and I'll ficky-fick you all,' she offered.

The other roommates leaped out of their cots when they saw it was a girl and tried to make her ficky-fick them all first as Yossarian ran to get Hungry Joe, who was sleeping like a baby. Yossarian lifted Huple's cat off Hungry Joe's face and shook him awake. Hungry Joe dressed rapidly. This time they flew the plane north and turned in over Italy far behind the enemy lines. When they were over level land, they strapped a parachute on Nately's whore and shoved her out the escape hatch. Yossarian was positive that he was at last rid of her and was relieved. As he approached his tent back in Pianosa, a figure reared up in the darkness right beside the path, and he fainted. He came to sitting on the ground and waited for the knife to strike him, almost welcoming the mortal blow for the peace it would bring. A friendly hand helped him up instead. It belonged to a pilot in Dunbar's squadron.

'How are you doing?' asked the pilot, whispering.

'Pretty good,' Yossarian answered.

'I saw you fall down just now. I thought something happened to you.'

'I think I fainted.'

'There's a rumor in my squadron that you told them you weren't going to fly any more combat missions.'

'That's the truth.'

'Then they came around from Group and told us that the rumor wasn't true, that you were just kidding around.'

'That was a lie.'

'Do you think they'll let you get away with it?'

'I don't know.'

'What will they do to you?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you think they'll court-martial you for desertion in the face of the enemy?'

'I don't know.'

'I hope you get away with it,' said the pilot in Dunbar's squadron, stealing out of sight into the shadows. 'Let me know how you're doing.' Yossarian stared after him a few seconds and continued toward his tent.

'Pssst!' said a voice a few paces onward. It was Appleby, hiding in back of a tree. 'How are you doing?'

'Pretty good,' said Yossarian.

'I heard them say they were going to threaten to court-martial you for deserting in the face of the enemy. But that they wouldn't try to go through with it because they're not even sure they've got a case against you on that. And because it might make them look bad with the new commanders. Besides, you're still a pretty big hero for going around twice over the bridge at Ferrara. I guess you're just about the biggest hero we've got now in the group. I just thought you'd like to know that they'll only be bluffing.'

'Thanks, Appleby.'

'That's the only reason I started talking to you, to warn you.'

'I appreciate it.' Appleby scuffed the toes of his shoes into the ground sheepishly. 'I'm sorry we had that fist fight in the officers' club, Yossarian.'

'That's all right.'

'But I didn't start it. I guess that was Orr's fault for hitting me in the face with his ping-pong paddle. What'd he want to do that for?'

'You were beating him.'

'Wasn't I supposed to beat him? Isn't that the point? Now that he's dead, I guess it doesn't matter any more whether I'm a better ping-pong player or not, does it?'

'I guess not.'

'And I'm sorry about making such a fuss about those Atabrine tablets on the way over. If you want to catch malaria, I guess it's your business, isn't it?'

'That's all right, Appleby.'

'But I was only trying to do my duty. I was obeying orders. I was always taught that I had to obey orders.'

'That's all right.'

'You know, I said to Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart that I didn't think they ought to make you fly any more missions if you didn't want to, and they said they were very disappointed in me.' Yossarian smiled with rueful amusement. 'I'll bet they are.'

'Well, I don't care. Hell, you've flown seventy-one. That ought to be enough. Do you think they'll let you get away with it?'

'No.'

'Say, if they do let you get away with it, they'll have to let the rest of us get away with it, won't they?'

'That's why they can't let me get away with it.'

'What do you think they'll do?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you think they will try to court-martial you?'

'I don't know.'

'Are you afraid?'

'Yes.'

'Are you going to fly more missions?'

'No.'

'I hope you do get away with it,' Appleby whispered with conviction. 'I really do.'

'Thanks, Appleby.'

'I don't feel too happy about flying so many missions either now that it looks as though we've got the war won. I'll let you know if I hear anything else.'

'Thanks, Appleby.'

'Hey!' called a muted, peremptory voice from the leafless shrubs growing beside his tent in a waist-high clump after Appleby had gone. Havermeyer was hiding there in a squat. He was eating peanut brittle, and his pimples and large, oily pores looked like dark scales. 'How you doing?' he asked when Yossarian had walked to him.

'Pretty good.'

'Are you going to fly more missions?'

'No.'

'Suppose they try to make you?'

'I won't let them.'

'Are you yellow?'

'Yes.'

'Will they court-martial you?'

'They'll probably try.'

'What did Major Major say?'

'Major Major's gone.'

'Did they disappear him?'

'I don't know.'

'What will you do if they decide to disappear you?'

'I'll try to stop them.'

'Didn't they offer you any deals or anything if you did fly?'

'Piltchard and Wren said they'd arrange things so I'd only go on milk runs.' Havermeyer perked up. 'Say, that sounds like a pretty good deal. I wouldn't mind a deal like that myself. I bet you snapped it up.'

'I turned it down.'

'That was dumb.' Havermeyer's stolid, dull face furrowed with consternation. 'Say, a deal like that wasn't so fair to the rest of us, was it? If you only flew on milk runs, then some of us would have to fly your share of the dangerous missions, wouldn't we?'

'That's right.'

'Say, I don't like that,' Havermeyer exclaimed, rising resentfully with his hands clenched on his hips. 'I don't like that a bit. That's a real royal screwing they're getting ready to give me just because you're too goddam yellow to fly any more missions, isn't it?'

'Take it up with them,' said Yossarian and moved his hand to his gun vigilantly.

'No, I'm not blaming you,' said Havermeyer, 'even though I don't like you. You know, I'm not too happy about flying so many missions any more either. Isn't there some way I can get out of it, too?' Yossarian snickered ironically and joked, 'Put a gun on and start marching with me.' Havermeyer shook his head thoughtfully. 'Nah, I couldn't do that. I might bring some disgrace on my wife and kid if I acted like a coward. Nobody likes a coward. Besides, I want to stay in the reserves when the war is over. You get five hundred dollars a year if you stay in the reserves.'

'Then fly more missions.'

'Yeah, I guess I have to. Say, do you think there's any chance they might take you off combat duty and send you home?'

'No.'

'But if they do and let you take one person with you, will you pick me? Don't pick anyone like Appleby. Pick me.'

'Why in the world should they do something like that?'

'I don't know. But if they do, just remember that I asked you first, will you? And let me know how you're doing. I'll wait for you here in these bushes every night. Maybe if they don't do anything bad to you, I won't fly any more missions either. Okay?' All the next evening, people kept popping up at him out of the darkness to ask him how he was doing, appealing to him for confidential information with weary, troubled faces on the basis of some morbid and clandestine kinship he had not guessed existed. People in the squadron he barely knew popped into sight out of nowhere as he passed and asked him how he was doing. Even men from other squadrons came one by one to conceal themselves in the darkness and pop out. Everywhere he stepped after sundown someone was lying in wait to pop out and ask him how he was doing. People popped out at him from trees and bushes, from ditches and tall weeds, from around the corners of tents and from behind the fenders of parked cars. Even one of his roommates popped out to ask him how he was doing and pleaded with him not to tell any of his other roommates he had popped out. Yossarian drew near each beckoning, overly cautious silhouette with his hand on his gun, never knowing which hissing shadow would finally turn dishonestly into Nately's whore or, worse, into some duly constituted governmental authority sent to club him ruthlessly into insensibility. It began to look as if they would have to do something like that. They did not want to court-martial him for desertion in the face of the enemy because a hundred and thirty-five miles away from the enemy could hardly be called the face of the enemy, and because Yossarian was the one who had finally knocked down the bridge at Ferrara by going around twice over the target and killing Kraft--he was always almost forgetting Kraft when he counted the dead men he knew. But they had to do something to him, and everyone waited grimly to see what horrible thing it would be.

During the day, they avoided him, even Aarfy, and Yossarian understood that they were different people together in daylight than they were alone in the dark. He did not care about them at all as he walked about backward with his hand on his gun and awaited the latest blandishments, threats and inducements from Group each time Captains Piltchard and Wren drove back from another urgent conference with Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. Hungry Joe was hardly around, and the only other person who ever spoke to him was Captain Black, who called him 'Old Blood and Guts' in a merry, taunting voice each time he hailed him and who came back from Rome toward the end of the week to tell him Nately's whore was gone. Yossarian turned sorry with a stab of yearning and remorse. He missed her.

'Gone?' he echoed in a hollow tone.

'Yeah, gone.' Captain Black laughed, his bleary eyes narrow with fatigue and his peaked, sharp face sprouting as usual with a sparse reddish-blond stubble. He rubbed the bags under his eyes with both fists. 'I thought I might as well give the stupid broad another boff just for old times' sake as long as I was in Rome anyway. You know, just to keep that kid Nately's body spinning in his grave, ha, ha! Remember the way I used to needle him? But the place was empty.'

'Was there any word from her?' prodded Yossarian, who had been brooding incessantly about the girl, wondering how much she was suffering, and feeling almost lonely and deserted without her ferocious and unappeasable attacks.

'There's no one there,' Captain Black exclaimed cheerfully, trying to make Yossarian understand. 'Don't you understand? They're all gone. The whole place is busted.'

'Gone?'

'Yeah, gone. Flushed right out into the street.' Captain Black chuckled heartily again, and his pointed Adam's apple jumped up and down with glee inside his scraggly neck. 'The joint's empty. The M.P.s busted the whole apartment up and drove the whores right out. Ain't that a laugh?' Yossarian was scared and began to tremble. 'Why'd they do that?'

'What difference does it make? responded Captain Black with an exuberant gesture. 'They flushed them right out into the street. How do you like that? The whole batch.'

'What about the kid sister?'

'Flushed away,' laughed Captain Black. 'Flushed away with the rest of the broads. Right out into the street.'

'But she's only a kid!' Yossarian objected passionately. 'She doesn't know anybody else in the whole city. What's going to happen to her?'

'What the hell do I care?' responded Captain Black with an indifferent shrug, and then gawked suddenly at Yossarian with surprise and with a crafty gleam of prying elation. 'Say, what's the matter? If I knew this was going to make you so unhappy, I would have come right over and told you, just to make you eat your liver. Hey, where are you going? Come on back! Come on back here and eat your liver!'





Catch-22





The Eternal City


Yossarian was going absent without official leave with Milo, who, as the plane cruised toward Rome, shook his head reproachfully and, with pious lips pulsed, informed Yossarian in ecclesiastical tones that he was ashamed of him. Yossarian nodded. Yossarian was making an uncouth spectacle of himself by walking around backward with his gun on his hip and refusing to fly more combat missions, Milo said. Yossarian nodded. It was disloyal to his squadron and embarrassing to his superiors. He was placing Milo in a very uncomfortable position, too. Yossarian nodded again. The men were starting to grumble. It was not fair for Yossarian to think only of his own safety while men like Milo, Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen were willing to do everything they could to win the war. The men with seventy missions were starring to grumble because they had to fly eighty, and there was a danger some of them might put on guns and begin walking around backward, too. Morale was deteriorating and it was all Yossarian's fault. The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.

Yossarian kept nodding in the co-pilot's seat and tried not to listen as Milo prattled on. Nately's whore was on his mind, as were Kraft and Orr and Nately and Dunbar, and Kid Sampson and McWatt, and all the poor and stupid and diseased people he had seen in Italy, Egypt and North Africa and knew about in other areas of the world, and Snowden and Nately's whore's kid sister were on his conscience, too. Yossarian thought he knew why Nately's whore held him responsible for Nately's death and wanted to kill him. Why the hell shouldn't she? It was a man's world, and she and everyone younger had every right to blame him and everyone older for every unnatural tragedy that befell them; just as she, even in her grief, was to blame for every man-made misery that landed on her kid sister and on all other children behind her. Someone had to do something sometime. Every victim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousy chain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all. In parts of Africa little boys were still stolen away by adult slave traders and sold for money to men who disemboweled them and ate them. Yossarian marveled that children could suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing the slightest hint of fear or pain. He took it for granted that they did submit so stoically. If not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for no craving for wealth or immortality could be so great, he felt, as to subsist on the sorrow of children.

He was rocking the boat, Milo said, and Yossarian nodded once more. He was not a good member of the team, Milo said. Yossarian nodded and listened to Milo tell him that the decent thing to do if he did not like the way Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn were running the group was go to Russia, instead of stirring up trouble. Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn had both been very good to Yossarian, Milo said; hadn't they given him a medal after the last mission to Ferrara and promoted him to captain? Yossarian nodded. Didn't they feed him and give him his pay every month? Yossarian nodded again. Milo was sure they would be charitable if he went to them to apologize and recant and promise to fly eighty missions. Yossarian said he would think it over, and held his breath and prayed for a safe landing as Milo dropped his wheels and g