Catch-22

“Suppose I denounce you when I get back to the States?”

“After you’ve accepted our medal and promotion and all the fanfare? No one would believe you, the Army wouldn’t let you, and why in the world should you want to? You’re going to be one of the boys, remember? You’ll enjoy a rich, rewarding, luxurious, privileged existence. You’d have to be a fool to throw it all away just for a moral principle, and you’re not a fool. Is it a deal?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s that or a court-martial.”

“That’s a pretty scummy trick I’d be playing on the men in the squadron, isn’t it?”

“Odious,” Colonel Korn agreed amiably, and waited, watching Yossarian patiently with a glimmer of private delight.

“But what the hell!” Yossarian exclaimed. “If they don’t want to fly more missions, let them stand up and do something about it the way I did. Right?”

“Of course,” said Colonel Korn.

“There’s no reason I have to risk my life for them, is there?”

“Of course not.”

Yossarian arrived at his decision with a swift grin. “It’s a deal!” he a

“Great,” said Colonel Korn with somewhat less cordiality than Yossarian had expected, and he slid himself off Colonel Cathcart’s desk to stand on the floor. He tugged the folds of cloth of his pants and undershorts free from his crotch and gave Yossarian a limp hand to shake. “Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks, Colonel. I-“

“Call me Blackie, John. We’re pals now.”

“Sure, Blackie. My friends call me Yo-Yo. Blackie, I-“

“His friends call him Yo-Yo,” Colonel Korn sang out to Colonel Cathcart. “Why don’t you congratulate Yo-Yo on what a sensible move he’s making?”

“That’s a real sensible move you’re making, Yo-Yo,” Colonel Cathcart said, pumping Yossarian’s hand with clumsy zeal.

“Thank you, Colonel, I-“

“Call him Chuck,” said Colonel Korn.

“Sure, call me Chuck,” said Colonel Cathcart with a laugh that was hearty and awkward. “We’re all pals now.”

“Sure, Chuck.”

“Exit smiling,” said Colonel Korn, his hands on both their shoulders as the three of them moved to the door.

“Come on over for di

“I’d love to, sir.”

“Chuck,” Colonel Korn corrected reprovingly.

“I’m sorry, Blackie. Chuck. I can’t get used to it.”

“That’s all right, pal.”

“Sure, pal.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“Don’t mention it, pal.”

“So long, pal.”

Yossarian waved goodbye fondly to his new pals and sauntered out onto the balcony corridor, almost bursting into song the instant he was alone. He was home free: he had pulled it off; his act of rebellion had succeeded; he was safe, and he had nothing to be ashamed of to anyone. He started toward the staircase with a jaunty and exhilarated air. A private in green fatigues saluted him. Yossarian returned the salute happily, staring at the private with curiosity. He looked strangely familiar. When Yossarian returned the salute, the private in green fatigues turned suddenly into Nately’s whore and lunged at him murderously with a bone-handled kitchen knife that caught him in the side below his upraised arm. Yossarian sank to the floor with a shriek, shutting his eyes in overwhelming terror as he saw the girl lift the knife to strike at him again. He was already unconscious when Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart dashed out of the office and saved his life by frightening her away.

41 SNOWDEN

“Cut,” said a doctor.

“You cut,” said another.

“No cuts,” said Yossarian with a thick, unwieldy tongue.

“Now look who’s butting in,” complained one of the doctors. “Another county heard from. Are we going to operate or aren’t we?”

“He doesn’t need an operation,” complained the other. “It’s a small wound. All we have to do is stop the bleeding, clean it out and put a few stitches in.”

“But I’ve never had a chance to operate before. Which one is the scalpel? Is this one the scalpel?”

“No, the other one is the scalpel. Well, go ahead and cut already if you’re going to. Make the incision.”

“Like this?”

“Not there, you dope!”

“No incisions,” Yossarian said, perceiving through the lifting fog of insensibility that the two strangers were ready to begin cutting him.

“Another county heard from,” complained the first doctor sarcastically. “Is he going to keep talking that way while I operate on him?”

“You can’t operate on him until I admit him,” said a clerk.

“You can’t admit him until I clear him,” said a fat, gruff colonel with a mustache and an enormous pink face that pressed down very close to Yossarian and radiated scorching heat like the bottom of a huge frying pan. “Where were you born?”

The fat, gruff colonel reminded Yossarian of the fat, gruff colonel who had interrogated the chaplain and found him guilty. Yossarian stared up at him through a glassy film. The cloying scents of formaldehyde and alcohol sweetened the air.

“On a battlefield,” he answered.

“No, no. In what state were you born?”

“In a state of i

“No, no, you don’t understand.”

“Let me handle him,” urged a hatchet-faced man with sunken acrimonious eyes and a thin, malevolent mouth. “Are you a smart aleck or something?” he asked Yossarian.

“He’s delirious,” one of the doctors said. “Why don’t you let us take him back inside and treat him?”

“Leave him right here if he’s delirious. He might say something incriminating.”

“But he’s still bleeding profusely. Can’t you see? He might even die.”

“Good for him!”

“It would serve the finky bastard right,” said the fat, gruff colonel. “All right, John, let’s speak out. We want to get to the truth.”

“Everyone calls me Yo-Yo.”

“We want you to co-operate with us, Yo-Yo. We’re your friends and we want you to trust us. We’re here to help you. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Let’s jab our thumbs down inside his wound and gouge it,” suggested the hatchet-faced man.

Yossarian let his eyes fall closed and hoped they would think he was unconscious.

“He’s fainted,” he heard a doctor say. “Can’t we treat him now before it’s too late? He really might die.”

“All right, take him. I hope the bastard does die.”

“You can’t treat him until I admit him,” the clerk said.

Yossarian played dead with his eyes shut while the clerk admitted him by shuffling some papers, and then he was rolled away slowly into a stuffy, dark room with searing spotlights overhead in which the cloying smell of formaldehyde and sweet alcohol was even stronger. The pleasant, permeating stink was intoxicating. He smelled ether too and heard glass tinkling. He listened with secret, egotistical mirth to the husky breathing of the two doctors. It delighted him that they thought he was unconscious and did not know he was listening. It all seemed very silly to him until one of the doctors said,

“Well, do you think we should save his life? They might be sore at us if we do.”

“Let’s operate,” said the other doctor. “Let’s cut him open and get to the inside of things once and for all. He keeps complaining about his liver. His liver looks pretty small on this X ray.”

“That’s his pancreas, you dope. This is his liver.”

“No it isn’t. That’s his heart. I’ll bet you a nickel this is his liver. I’m going to operate and find out. Should I wash my hands first?”

“No operations,” Yossarian said, opening his eyes and trying to sit up.

“Another county heard from,” scoffed one of the doctors indignantly. “Can’t we make him shut up?”

“We could give him a total. The ether’s right here.”

“No totals,” said Yossarian.

“Another county heard from,” said a doctor.

“Let’s give him a total and knock him out. Then we can do what we want with him.”