Chapter 1 The Texan
    It was love at first sight.
　　The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him.
　　Yossarian was in the hospital with a pain in his liver that fell just short of being jaundice. The doctors werepuzzled by the fact that it wasn’t quite jaundice. If it became jaundice they could treat it. If it didn’t becomejaundice and went away they could discharge him. But this just being short of jaundice all the time confusedthem.
　　Each morning they came around, three brisk and serious men with efficient mouths and inefficient eyes,accompanied by brisk and serious Nurse Duckett, one of the ward nurses who didn’t like Yossarian. They readthe chart at the foot of the bed and asked impatiently about the pain. They seemed irritated when he told them itwas exactly the same.
　　“Still no movement?” the full colonel demanded.
　　The doctors exchanged a look when he shook his head.
　　“Give him another pill.”
　　Nurse Duckett made a note to give Yossarian another pill, and the four of them moved along to the next bed.
　　None of the nurses liked Yossarian. Actually, the pain in his liver had gone away, but Yossarian didn’t sayanything and the doctors never suspected. They just suspected that he had been moving his bowels and nottelling anyone.
　　Yossarian had everything he wanted in the hospital. The food wasn’t too bad, and his meals were brought to himin bed. There were extra rations of fresh meat, and during the hot part of the afternoon he and the others wereserved chilled fruit juice or chilled chocolate milk. Apart from the doctors and the nurses, no one ever disturbedhim. For a little while in the morning he had to censor letters, but he was free after that to spend the rest of eachday lying around idly with a clear conscience. He was comfortable in the hospital, and it was easy to stay onbecause he always ran a temperature of 101. He was even more comfortable than Dunbar, who had to keepfalling down on his face in order to get his meals brought to him in bed.
　　After he had made up his mind to spend the rest of the war in the hospital, Yossarian wrote letters to everyone heknew saying that he was in the hospital but never mentioning why. One day he had a better idea. To everyone heknew he wrote that he was going on a very dangerous mission. “They asked for volunteers. It’s very dangerous,but someone has to do it. I’ll write you the instant I get back.” And he had not written anyone since.
　　All the officer patients in the ward were forced to censor letters written by all the enlisted-men patients, whowere kept in residence in wards of their own. It was a monotonous job, and Yossarian was disappointed to learnthat the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers. After the first day hehad no curiosity at all. To break the monotony he invented games. Death to all modifiers, he declared one day,and out of every letter that passed through his hands went every adverb and every adjective. The next day hemade war on articles. He reached a much higher plane of creativity the following day when he blacked outeverything in the letters but a, an and the. That erected more dynamic intralinear tensions, he felt, and in justabout every case left a message far more universal. Soon he was proscribing parts of salutations and signaturesand leaving the text untouched. One time he blacked out all but the salutation “Dear Mary” from a letter, and atthe bottom he wrote, “I yearn for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” R. O. Shipman was thegroup chaplain’s name.
　　When he had exhausted all possibilities in the letters, he began attacking the names and addresses on theenvelopes, obliterating whole homes and streets, annihilating entire metropolises with careless flicks of his wristas though he were God. Catch-22 required that each censored letter bear the censoring officer’s name. Mostletters he didn’t read at all. On those he didn’t read at all he wrote his own name. On those he did read he wrote,“Washington Irving.” When that grew monotonous he wrote, “Irving Washington.” Censoring the envelopes hadserious repercussions, produced a ripple of anxiety on some ethereal military echelon that floated a C.I.D. manback into the ward posing as a patient. They all knew he was a C.I.D. man because he kept inquiring about anofficer named Irving or Washington and because after his first day there he wouldn’t censor letters. He found them too monotonous.
　　It was a good ward this time, one of the best he and Dunbar had ever enjoyed. With them this time was thetwenty-four-year-old fighter-pilot captain with the sparse golden mustache who had been shot into the AdriaticSea in midwinter and not even caught cold. Now the summer was upon them, the captain had not been shotdown, and he said he had the grippe. In the bed on Yossarian’s right, still lying amorously on his belly, was thestartled captain with malaria in his blood and a mosquito bite on his ass. Across the aisle from Yossarian wasDunbar, and next to Dunbar was the artillery captain with whom Yossarian had stopped playing chess. Thecaptain was a good chess player, and the games were always interesting. Yossarian had stopped playing chesswith him because the games were so interesting they were foolish. Then there was the educated Texan fromTexas who looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of means—decent folk—should be given more votes than drifters, whores, criminals, degenerates, atheists and indecent folk—peoplewithout means.
　　Yossarian was unspringing rhythms in the letters the day they brought the Texan in. It was another quiet, hot,untroubled day. The heat pressed heavily on the roof, stifling sound. Dunbar was lying motionless on his backagain with his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll’s. He was working hard at increasing his life span. He didit by cultivating boredom. Dunbar was working so hard at increasing his life span that Yossarian thought he wasdead. They put the Texan in a bed in the middle of the ward, and it wasn’t long before he donated his views.
　　Dunbar sat up like a shot. “That’s it,” he cried excitedly. “There was something missing—all the time I knewthere was something missing—and now I know what it is.” He banged his fist down into his palm. “Nopatriotism,” he declared.
　　“You’re right,” Yossarian shouted back. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. The hot dog, the BrooklynDodgers. Mom’s apple pie. That’s what everyone’s fighting for. But who’s fighting for the decent folk? Who’sfighting for more votes for the decent folk? There’s no patriotism, that’s what it is. And no matriotism, either.”
　　The warrant officer on Yossarian’s left was unimpressed. “Who gives a shit?” he asked tiredly, and turned overon his side to go to sleep.
　　The Texan turned out to be good-natured, generous and likable. In three days no one could stand him.
　　He sent shudders of annoyance scampering up ticklish spines, and everybody fled from him—everybody but thesoldier in white, who had no choice. The soldier in white was encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze. Hehad two useless legs and two useless arms. He had been smuggled into the ward during the night, and the menhad no idea he was among them until they awoke in the morning and saw the two strange legs hoisted from thehips, the two strange arms anchored up perpendicularly, all four limbs pinioned strangely in air by lead weightssuspended darkly above him that never moved. Sewn into the bandages over the insides of both elbows werezippered lips through which he was fed clear fluid from a clear jar. A silent zinc pipe rose from the cement on hisgroin and was coupled to a slim rubber hose that carried waste from his kidneys and dripped it efficiently into aclear, stoppered jar on the floor. When the jar on the floor was full, the jar feeding his elbow was empty, and thetwo were simply switched quickly so that the stuff could drip back into him. All they ever really saw of the soldier in white was a frayed black hole over his mouth.
　　The soldier in white had been filed next to the Texan, and the Texan sat sideways on his own bed and talked tohim throughout the morning, afternoon and evening in a pleasant, sympathetic drawl. The Texan never mindedthat he got no reply.
　　Temperatures were taken twice a day in the ward. Early each morning and late each afternoon Nurse Cramerentered with a jar full of thermometers and worked her way up one side of the ward and down the other,distributing a thermometer to each patient. She managed the soldier in white by inserting a thermometer into thehole over his mouth and leaving it balanced there on the lower rim. When she returned to the man in the firstbed, she took his thermometer and recorded his temperature, and then moved on to the next bed and continuedaround the ward again. One afternoon when she had completed her first circuit of the ward and came a secondtime to the soldier in white, she read his thermometer and discovered that he was dead.
　　“Murderer,” Dunbar said quietly.
　　The Texan looked up at him with an uncertain grin.
　　“Killer,” Yossarian said.
　　What are you fellas talkin” about?” the Texan asked nervously.
　　“You murdered him,” said Dunbar.
　　“You killed him,” said Yossarian.
　　The Texan shrank back. “You fellas are crazy. I didn’t even touch him.”
　　“You murdered him,” said Dunbar.
　　“I heard you kill him,” said Yossarian.
　　“You killed him because he was a nigger,” Dunbar said.
　　“You fellas are crazy,” the Texan cried. “They don’t allow niggers in here. They got a special place for niggers.”
　　“The sergeant smuggled him in,” Dunbar said.
　　“The Communist sergeant,” said Yossarian.
　　“And you knew it.”
　　The warrant officer on Yossarian’s left was unimpressed by the entire incident of the soldier in white. The warrant officer was unimpressed by everything and never spoke at all unless it was to show irritation.
　　The day before Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to one side of thekitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in Yossarian’s ward, almost three hundred feet away,they could hear the roar of the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the orange-tintedwindows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic halfhour it was touch and go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the monotonous olddrone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had to roll up their hoses and speed back to the fieldin case one of the planes crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was down, thefiremen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to resume their fight with the fire at the hospital.
　　When they got there, the blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even an emberto be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen to do but drink tepid coffee and hangaround trying to screw the nurses.
　　The chaplain arrived the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words from theletters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked him how he was feeling. He had placedhimself a bit to one side, and the captain’s bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian couldsee. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that he was either another doctor or anothermadman.
　　“Oh, pretty good,” he answered. “I’ve got a slight pain in my liver and I haven’t been the most regular offellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty good.”
　　“That’s good,” said the chaplain.
　　“Yes,” Yossarian said. “Yes, that is good.”
　　“I meant to come around sooner,” the chaplain said, “but I really haven’t been well.”
　　“That’s too bad,” Yossarian said.
　　“Just a head cold,” the chaplain added quickly.
　　“I’ve got a fever of a hundred and one,” Yossarian added just as quickly.
　　“That’s too bad,” said the chaplain.
　　“Yes,” Yossarian agreed. “Yes, that is too bad.”
　　The chaplain fidgeted. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked after a while.
　　“No, no.” Yossarian sighed. “The doctors are doing all that’s humanly possible, I suppose.”
　　“No, no.” The chaplain colored faintly. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant cigarettes... or books... or...
　　toys.”
　　“No, no,” Yossarian said. “Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose—everything but good health.”
　　“That’s too bad.”
　　“Yes,” Yossarian said. “Yes, that is too bad.”
　　The chaplain stirred again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling, then down atthe floor. He drew a deep breath.
　　“Lieutenant Nately sends his regards,” he said.
　　Yossarian was sorry to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their conversation after all.
　　“You know Lieutenant Nately?” he asked regretfully.
　　“Yes, I know Lieutenant Nately quite well.”
　　“He’s a bit loony, isn’t he?”
　　The chaplain’s smile was embarrassed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I don’t think I know him that well.”
　　“You can take my word for it,” Yossarian said. “He’s as goofy as they come.”
　　The chaplain weighed the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. “You are CaptainYossarian, aren’t you?”
　　“Nately had a bad start. He came from a good family.”
　　“Please excuse me,” the chaplain persisted timorously. “I may be committing a very grave error. Are you CaptainYossarian?”
　　“Yes,” Captain Yossarian confessed. “I am Captain Yossarian.”
　　“Of the 256th Squadron?”
　　“Of the fighting 256th Squadron,” Yossarian replied. “I didn’t know there were any other Captain Yossarians. Asfar as I know, I’m the only Captain Yossarian I know, but that’s only as far as I know.”
　　“I see,” the chaplain said unhappily.
　　“That’s two to the fighting eighth power,” Yossarian pointed out, “if you’re thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron.”
　　“No,” mumbled the chaplain. “I’m not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron.”
　　Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain’s collar. Hewas thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before.
　　“You’re a chaplain,” he exclaimed ecstatically. “I didn’t know you were a chaplain.”
　　“Why, yes,” the chaplain answered. “Didn’t you know I was a chaplain?”
　　“Why, no. I didn’t know you were a chaplain.” Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated grin. “I’ve neverreally seen a chaplain before.”
　　The chaplain flushed again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two with tan hairand brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay inthe basin of each cheek. Yossarian wanted to help him.
　　“Can I do anything at all to help you?” the chaplain asked.
　　Yossarian shook his head, still grinning. “No, I’m sorry. I have everything I need and I’m quite comfortable. Infact, I’m not even sick.”
　　“That’s good.” As soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into his mouth witha giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and disappointed him. “There are other men in the group I mustvisit,” he apologized finally. “I’ll come to see you again, probably tomorrow.”
　　“Please do that,” Yossarian said.
　　“I’ll come only if you want me to,” the chaplain said, lowering his head shyly. “I’ve noticed that I make many ofthe men uncomfortable.”
　　Yossarian glowed with affection. “I want you to,” he said. “You won’t make me uncomfortable.”
　　The chaplain beamed gratefully and then peered down at a slip of paper he had been concealing in his hand allthe while. He counted along the beds in the ward, moving his lips, and then centered his attention dubiously onDunbar.
　　“May I inquire,” he whispered softly, “if that is Lieutenant Dunbar?”
　　“Yes,” Yossarian answered loudly, “that is Lieutenant Dunbar.”
　　“Thank you,” the chaplain whispered. “Thank you very much. I must visit with him. I must visit with every member of the group who is in the hospital.”
　　“Even those in other wards?” Yossarian asked.
　　“Even those in other wards.”
　　“Be careful in those other wards, Father,” Yossarian warned. “That’s where they keep the mental cases. They’refilled with lunatics.”
　　“It isn’t necessary to call me Father,” the chaplain explained. “I’m an Anabaptist.”
　　“I’m dead serious about those other wards,” Yossarian continued grimly. “M.P.s won’t protect you, becausethey’re craziest of all. I’d go with you myself, but I’m scared stiff: Insanity is contagious. This is the only saneward in the whole hospital. Everybody is crazy but us. This is probably the only sane ward in the whole world,for that matter.”
　　The chaplain rose quickly and edged away from Yossarian’s bed, and then nodded with a conciliating smile andpromised to conduct himself with appropriate caution. “And now I must visit with Lieutenant Dunbar,” he said.
　　Still he lingered, remorsefully. “How is Lieutenant Dunbar?” he asked at last.
　　“As good as they go,” Yossarian assured him. “A true prince. One of the finest, least dedicated men in the wholeworld.”
　　“I didn’t mean that,” the chaplain answered, whispering again. “Is he very sick?”
　　“No, he isn’t very sick. In fact, he isn’t sick at all.”
　　“That’s good.” The chaplain sighed with relief.
　　“Yes,” Yossarian said. “Yes, that is good.”
　　“A chaplain,” Dunbar said when the chaplain had visited him and gone. “Did you see that? A chaplain.”
　　“Wasn’t he sweet?” said Yossarian. “Maybe they should give him three votes.”
　　“Who’s they?” Dunbar demanded suspiciously.
　　In a bed in the small private section at the end of the ward, always working ceaselessly behind the greenplyboard partition, was the solemn middle-aged colonel who was visited every day by a gentle, sweet-facedwoman with curly ash-blond hair who was not a nurse and not a Wac and not a Red Cross girl but whonevertheless appeared faithfully at the hospital in Pianosa each afternoon wearing pretty pastel summer dressesthat were very smart and white leather pumps with heels half high at the base of nylon seams that were inevitablystraight. The colonel was in Communications, and he was kept busy day and night transmitting glutinous messages from the interior into square pads of gauze which he sealed meticulously and delivered to a coveredwhite pail that stood on the night table beside his bed. The colonel was gorgeous. He had a cavernous mouth,cavernous cheeks, cavernous, sad, mildewed eyes. His face was the color of clouded silver. He coughed quietly,gingerly, and dabbed the pads slowly at his lips with a distaste that had become automatic.
　　The colonel dwelt in a vortex of specialists who were still specializing in trying to determine what was troublinghim. They hurled lights in his eyes to see if he could see, rammed needles into nerves to hear if he could feel.
　　There was a urologist for his urine, a lymphologist for his lymph, an endocrinologist for his endocrines, apsychologist for his psyche, a dermatologist for his derma; there was a pathologist for his pathos, a cystologistfor his cysts, and a bald and pedantic cetologist from the zoology department at Harvard who had beenshanghaied ruthlessly into the Medical Corps by a faulty anode in an I.B.M. machine and spent his sessions withthe dying colonel trying to discuss Moby Dick with him.
　　The colonel had really been investigated. There was not an organ of his body that had not been drugged andderogated, dusted and dredged, fingered and photographed, removed, plundered and replaced. Neat, slender anderect, the woman touched him often as she sat by his bedside and was the epitome of stately sorrow each timeshe smiled. The colonel was tall, thin and stooped. When he rose to walk, he bent forward even more, making adeep cavity of his body, and placed his feet down very carefully, moving ahead by inches from the knees down.
　　There were violet pools under his eyes. The woman spoke softly, softer than the colonel coughed, and none ofthe men in the ward ever heard her voice.
　　In less than ten days the Texan cleared the ward. The artillery captain broke first, and after that the exodusstarted. Dunbar, Yossarian and the fighter captain all bolted the same morning. Dunbar stopped having dizzyspells, and the fighter captain blew his nose. Yossarian told the doctors that the pain in his liver had gone away.
　　It was as easy as that. Even the warrant officer fled. In less than ten days, the Texan drove everybody in the wardback to duty—everybody but the C.I.D. man, who had caught cold from the fighter captain and come down withpneumonia.
 01、得克萨斯人
　　这可是实实在在的一见钟情。
　　初次相见，约塞连便狂热地恋上了随军牧师。
　　约塞连因肝痛住在医院，不过，他这肝痛还不是黄疸病的征兆，正因为如此，医生们才是伤透了脑筋。如果它转成黄疸病，他们就有办法对症下药；如果它没有转成黄疸病而且症状又消失了，那么他们就可以让他出院。可是他这肝痛老是拖着，怎么也变不了黄疸病，实在让他们不知所措。
　　每人早晨，总有三个男医生来查病房，他们个个精力充沛，满脸一本正经，尽管眼力不好，一开口却总是滔滔不绝。随同他们一起来的是同样精力充沛、不苟言笑的达克特护士。讨厌约塞连的病房护士当中就有她一个。他们看了看挂在约塞连病床床脚的病况记录卡，不耐烦地问了问肝痛的情况。听他说一切还是老样子，他们似乎很是恼怒。
　　“还没有通大便？”那位上校军医问道。
　　见他摇了摇头，三个医生互换了一下眼色。
　　“再给他服一粒药。”
　　达克特护士用笔记下医嘱，然后他们四人便朝下一张病床走去。没有一个病房护士喜欢约塞连。其实，约塞连的肝早就不疼了，不过他什么也没说，而那些医生也从来不曾起过疑心。他们只是猜疑他早就通了大便，却不愿告诉任何人。
　　约塞连住在医院里什么都不缺。伙食还算不错，每次用餐都有人送到他的病床上，而且还能吃到额外配给的鲜肉。下午天气酷热的时候，他和其他病号还能喝到冰果汁或是冰巧克力牛奶。除了医生和护士，从来就没有人来打扰过他。每天上午，他得花点时间检查信件，之后他便无所事事，整日闲躺在病床上消磨时光，倒亦心安理得。在医院里他过得相当舒但，而且要这么住下去也挺容易，因为他的体温一直在华氏一百零一度。跟邓巴相比，他可是快活极了。邓巴为了拿那份人家端到他病床前的餐点，不得不一而再再而三地将自己摔成个狗吃屎。
　　约塞连打定主意要留在医院，不再上前线打仗，自此以后，他便去信告知所有熟人，说自己住进了医院，不过从未提及个中缘由。有一天，他心生妙计，写信给每一个熟人，告知他要执行一项相当危险的飞行任务。“他们在征募志愿人员。任务很危险，但总得有人去干、等我一完成任务回来，就给你去信。”但是从那以后，他再也没有给谁写过一封信。
　　依照规定，病房里的每个军官病员都得检查所有士兵病员的信件，士兵病员只能呆在自己的病房里。检查信件实在枯燥得很。
　　得知士兵的生活只不过比军官略多些许趣味而已，约塞连很觉失望。第一天下来，他便兴味索然了。于是，他就别出心裁地发明了种种把戏，给这乏味单调的差事添些色彩。有一天，他宣布要“处决”信里所有的修饰语，这一来，凡经他审查过的每一封信里的副词和形容词便统统消失了。第二天，他又向冠词开战。第三天，他的创意达到了更高点，把信里的一切全给删了，只留下冠词。他觉得玩这种游戏引起了更多力学上的线性内张力，差不多能使每一封信的要旨更为普遍化。没隔多久，他又涂掉了落款部分，正文则一字不动。有一次，他删去了整整一封信的内容，只保留了上款“亲爱的玛丽”，并在信笺下方写上：“我苦苦地思念着你。美国随军牧师A•T•塔普曼。”A•T•塔普曼是飞行大队随军牧师的姓名。
　　当他再也想不出什么点子在这些信上面搞鬼时，他便开始攻击信封上的姓名和地址，随手漫不经心地一挥，就抹去了所有的住宅和街道名称，好比让一座座大都市消失，仿佛他是上帝一般。第二十二条军规规定，审查官必须在自己检查过的每一封信上署上自己的姓名。大多数信约塞连看都没看过。凡是没看过的信，他就签上自己的姓名；要是看过了的，他则写上：“华盛顿•欧文”。后来这名字写烦了，他便改用“欧文•华盛顿”。审查信件一事引起了严重反响，在某些养尊处优的高层将领中间激起了一阵焦虑情绪。
　　结果，刑事调查部派了一名工作人员装作病人，住进病房。军官们都知道他是刑事调查部的人，因为他老是打听一个名叫欧文或是华盛顿的军官，而且第一天下来，他就不愿审查信件了。他觉得那些信实在是太枯燥无味。
　　约塞连这次住的病房挺不错，是他和邓巴住过的最好的病房之一。这次跟他们同病房的有一名战斗机上尉飞行员，二十四岁，蓄着稀稀拉拉的金黄色八字须。
　　这家伙曾在隆冬时节执行飞行任务时被击中，飞机坠入亚得里亚海，但他竟安然无事，连感冒也没染上。时下已是夏天，他没让人从飞机上给击落，反倒说是得了流行性感冒。约塞连右侧病床的主人是一名身患疟疾而吓得半死的上尉，这家伙屁股上被蚊子叮了一口，此刻正脉脉含情地趴在床上。约塞连对面是邓巴，中间隔着通道。紧挨邓巴的是一名炮兵上尉，现在约塞连再也不跟他下棋了。这家伙棋下得极好，每回跟他对弈总是趣味无穷，然而，正因为趣味无穷，反让人有被愚弄的感觉，所以约塞连后来就不再跟他下棋了。再过去便是那个来自得克萨斯州颇有教养的得克萨斯人，看上去很像电影里的明星，他颇有爱国心地认为，较之于无产者——
　　流浪汉、娼妓、罪犯、堕落分子、无神论者和粗鄙下流的人，有产者，亦即上等人，理应获得更多的选票。
　　那天他们送得克萨斯人进病房时，约塞连正在删改信件。那一天天气酷热，不过宁静无事。暑热沉沉地罩住屋顶，闷得屋里透不出一丝声响。邓巴又是纹丝不动地仰躺在床上，两眼似洋娃娃的眼睛一般，直愣愣地盯着天花板。他正竭尽全力想延长自己的寿命，而办法就是培养自己的耐烦功夫。见邓巴为了延长自己的寿命竟如此卖力，约塞连还以为他已经咽气了呢。得克萨斯人被安置在病房中央的一张床上。没隔多久，他便开始直抒高见。
　　邓巴霍地坐起身，“让你说中了，”他激奋得叫了起来。“确实是少了样什么东西，我一直很清楚少了样什么东西，这下我知道少了什么。”他使劲一拳击在手心里。“就是缺少了爱国精神，”他断言道。
　　“你说得没错，”约塞连也冲他高喊道，“你说得没错，你说得没错、你说得没错。热狗、布鲁克林玉米饼、妈妈的苹果馅饼。为了挣得这些东西，我们每个人都在不停地拼死拼活，可有谁甘愿替上等人效力？又有谁甘愿替上等人多拉几张选票而卖命？没有爱国精神，就这么回事儿。也毫无爱国心。”
　　约塞连左侧床上的准尉却是无动于衷。“哪个在胡说八道？”他不耐烦地问了一句，随即翻过身去，继续睡他的觉。
　　得克萨斯人倒是显得性情温和、豪爽，着实招人喜爱。然而三天过后，就再也没人能容忍他了。
　　他总惹得人心烦意乱，浑身不自在，心生厌恶，所以大家全都躲着他，除了那个全身素裹的士兵以外，因为他根本没办法动弹，全身上下都裹着石膏和纱布，双腿双臂已全无用处。他是趁黑夜没人注意时被偷偷抬进病房的。直到第二天早晨醒来，大伙儿才发现病房里多了他这么个人，他的外观实在古怪得很：双腿双臂全都被垂直地吊了起来，并且用铅陀悬空固定，只见黑沉沉的铅舵稳稳地挂在他的上方。他的左右胳膊肘内侧绷带上各缝入了一条装有拉链的口子，纯净的液体从一只明净的瓶里由此流进他的体内。在他腹股沟处的石膏上安了一节固定的锌管，再接上一根细长的橡皮软管，将肾排泄物点滴不漏地排入地板上一只干净的封口瓶内。等到地板上的瓶子满了，从胳膊肘内侧往体内输液体的瓶子空了，这两只瓶子就会立刻被调换，液体便重新流入他的体内。这个让白石膏白纱布缠满身的士兵，浑身上下唯有一处是他们看得到的，那就是嘴巴上那个皮开肉绽的黑洞。
　　那个士兵被安顿在紧挨着得克萨斯人的一张病床上。从早到晚，得克萨斯人都会侧身坐在自己的床上，兴致勃勃又满腔怜悯地跟那士兵说个没完没了。尽管那个士兵从不搭腔，他也毫不在意。
　　病房里每天测量两次体温。每天一早及傍晚，护士克拉默就会端了满满一瓶体温计来到病房，沿着病房两侧走一圈，挨个儿给病员分发体温计。轮到那个浑身雪白的士兵时，她也有自己的绝招——把体温计塞进他嘴巴上的洞里，让它稳稳地搁在洞口的下沿。发完体温计，她便回到第一张病床，取出病人口中的体温计，记下体温，然后再走向下一张床，依次再绕病房一周。一天下午，她分发完体温计后，再次来到那个浑身裹着石膏和纱布的士兵病榻前，取出他的体温计查看时，发现他竟死了。
　　“杀人犯，”邓巴轻声说道。
　　得克萨斯人抬头看着他，疑惑地咧嘴笑了笑。
　　“凶手，”约塞连说。
　　“你们俩在说什么？”得克萨斯人问道，显得紧张不安。
　　“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
　　“是你把他杀死的，”约塞连说。
　　得克萨斯人的身子往后一缩。“你们俩准是疯了，我连碰也没碰过他。”
　　“是你谋杀了他，”邓巴说。
　　“我听说是你杀死他的，”约塞连说。
　　“你杀了他，就因为他是黑人，”邓巴说。
　　“你们俩准是疯了，”得克萨斯人大声叫道，“这儿是不准黑人住的，他们有专门安置黑人的地方。”
　　“是那个中士偷偷送他进来的，”邓巴说。
　　“是那个共产党中士，”约塞连说。
　　“看来，这事你们俩早就知道了。”
　　约塞连左侧的那个准尉对那个士兵意外死亡的事却无动于衷。他对什么事部很冷漠，只要不惹到他头上，他绝不会开口说一句话。
　　约塞连遇见随军牧师的前一天，餐厅的一只炉子爆炸，烧着了厨房的一侧，一股强烈的热浪迅速弥漫这个地方，甚至在约塞连的病房——离火灾现场差不多有三百英尺远，病员也能听到大火呼呼的咆哮声，以及燃烧着的木材发出的刺耳的爆裂声。滚滚浓烟快速涌过病房映着橘红光亮的窗户。大约过了一刻钟，空难消防车赶到现场救火。经过半个小时紧张急速的行动，消防队员开始控制住火势。突然，空中传来了一阵熟悉的单调的嗡嗡声，原来是一群执行完任务后返航的轰炸机。消防队员只得收起水龙带，火速返回机场，以防有飞机坠毁起火。轰炸机全都安全降落，最后一架飞机一着地，消防队员便立刻掉转车头，火速驶过山坡，赶回医院继续灭火。当他们赶回医院，大火己熄。火是自己灭的，而且灭得很彻底，甚至没留下一处要用水浇泼的余烬。消防队员自是很失望，无所事事，只好喝口温咖啡，四处转悠，想法子勾引护士。
　　失火的第二天，随军牧师来到医院，当时，约塞连正忙着删改信件，只保留了其中卿卿我我的甜言蜜语。牧师在两张病床间的一张椅子上坐了下来，问约塞连感觉如何。他的身体微微倾向一侧，衬衫上别着的一枚上尉领章是约塞连所能见到的唯一能证明他官衔的标志，至于他是什么人，约塞连一无所知，于是便想当然地认为，他不是医生就是疯子。
　　“哦，感觉挺好，”约塞连答道，“只是肝有些疼，所以我猜想自己应该也不是很正常吧，不过，不管怎么说，我必须承认，我感觉确实很不错。”
　　“这就好，”牧师说。
　　“是啊，”约塞连说，“没错，感觉好就行了。”
　　“我本来想早点来的，”牧师说，“可是最近我的身体一直不怎么好。”
　　“那实在是太不幸了，”约塞连说。
　　“我只是得了伤风，”牧师马上补充道。
　　“我一直在发烧，烧到华氏一百零一度。”约塞连也连忙补上一句。
　　“那真糟糕，”牧师说。
　　“是啊！”约塞连表示同意。“没错，是太糟了。”
　　牧师有些坐立不安。片刻后，他问道：“有什么事需要我帮忙？”
　　“没有，没有，”约塞连叹息道，“我想医生们尽了全力。”
　　“不，不。”牧师有些脸红了。“我不是这个意思。我是指香烟啦……书啦……或者……玩具什么的。”
　　“不，不，”约塞连说，“谢谢你。我想我要的东西都有了，缺的只是健康。”
　　“真是太糟糕了。”
　　“是啊，”约塞连说，“没错，是太糟了。”
　　牧师又动了一下身子，左顾右盼了好几回，然后抬头凝视天花板，接着又垂目盯着地上出神。最后，他深吸了一口气。
　　“内特利上尉托我向你问好，”他说。
　　约塞连听说内特利上尉也是他的朋友，心里很是过意不去。看来，他俩的谈话终究有了一个基础。“你认识内特利上尉？”他遗憾地问道。
　　“认识，我跟他很熟，”“他有些疯疯癫癫的，对不对？”
　　牧师笑了笑，笑得很尴尬。“这我倒是不怎么清楚，我想我跟他还没那么熟。”
　　“你尽可相信我的话，”约塞连说，“他的确有些疯疯癫癫的。”
　　接着是片刻的沉默，牧师仔细考虑了一番，之后，突然打破沉默，问了个突兀的问题：“你就是约塞连上尉？”
　　“内特利一开始就很不如意，因为他的家庭背景很好。”
　　“请原谅，”牧师胆法地追问道，“我或许犯了个大错。你就是约塞连上尉？”
　　“没错，”约塞连坦诚他说，“我就是约塞连上尉。”
　　“二五六中队的？”
　　“是二五六中队的，”约塞连答道，“我不知道这儿还有别的什么人也叫约塞连上尉。据我所知，我是唯一的约塞连上尉，不过这只是就我自己所知道而言的。”
　　“我明白了，”牧师说，显得有些不怎么高兴。
　　“如果你想替我们中队写一首象征主义诗的话，”约塞连指出，“那就是二的八次方。”～一•“不，”牧师低声道，“我没打算给你们中队写什么象征主义诗。”
　　约塞连猛地挺直身子。他发现了牧师衬衫领子的另一边有一枚小小的银十字架。他惊愕不已，因为以前他从未跟一位随军牧师这么面对面谈过话。
　　“原来你是一位随军牧师，”他兴奋得大声叫了起来，“我不知道你是随军牧师。”
　　“呃，没错，我是牧师，”牧师答道，“难道你真的不知道？”
　　“是啊，我真的不知道你是随军牧师。”约塞连目不转睛地看着牧师，咧大了嘴，一副入迷的样子。“我以前还真没见过随军牧师呢。”
　　牧师又红了脸，垂目注视着自己的双手。他约摸有三十二岁，个子瘦小，黄褐色头发，一双棕色的眼睛看来缺乏自信。他那狭长的脸很苍白，面颊两侧的瘦削处满是昔日长青春痘所留下的瘢痕。
　　约塞连很想帮他忙。
　　“要我帮什么忙吗？”倒是牧师先开口问了起来。
　　约塞连摇了摇头，还是咧着嘴笑。“不用，很抱歉，我想要的东西都有了，我在这儿过得很舒服。说实在的，我也没什么病。”
　　“那很好嘛。”牧师话一出口就觉得懊悔，连忙把指节塞进嘴里，惶惶然地傻笑起来，可是约塞连依旧缄口不语，甚是令他失望。
　　“我还得去探望飞行大队的其他人，”末了，他语带歉意地说，“我会再来看你的，也许明天吧。”
　　“请你一定要来，”约塞连说。
　　“只要你真想见我，我就来，”牧师低下头，很是羞怯地说，“我晓得好多人见了我都很不自在。”
　　约塞连充满深情他说：“我真的想见你，你不会让我感到不自在的。”
　　牧师甚是感激地绽开了笑容，随即垂目细细看了看一直捏在手里的一张纸条。他不出声地挨次数着病房里的床位，接着，将信将疑地把注意力集中到了邓巴身上。
　　“请问一下，”他低声道，“那位是邓巴中尉吗？”
　　“没错，”约塞连高声回答，“那位就是邓巴中尉。”
　　“谢谢你，”牧师轻声说，“多谢了。我必须跟他谈谈，我必须跟飞行大队所有住院的官兵聊一聊。”
　　“住其他病房的也要吗？”约塞连问。
　　“是的。”
　　“去其他病房你可得要留神啊，神父，”约塞连提醒他说，“那儿关的可全是精神病病人，尽是些疯子。”
　　“你不必叫我神父，”牧师解释道，“我是个再洗礼派教徒。”
　　“刚才提到其他那些病房的事，我可是说真的，”约塞连神情严肃地接着说下去，“宪兵是不会保护你的，因为他们才是疯到了极点。我本应该亲自陪你一块儿去，但是我不敢。精神病可是接触传染的。我们住的这一间是全医院唯一没有精神病病人的病房，除了我们这些人之外，人人都是疯子。这样说来，全世界或许只有这间病房没住精神病病人。”
　　牧师立刻站了起来，悄悄离开约塞连的病床，随即微笑着点了点头，要他放心，并答应一定谨慎行事。“我该去看望邓巴中尉了，”他说。可是他又有点悔恨地舍不得离去。最后，他问了一句：“邓巴中尉人怎么样？”
　　“没话说，”约塞连满有把握他说，“实实在在是个好人，令人钦佩。他可是全世界最有奉献精神的一个人。”
　　“我不是这个意思，”牧师说罢，又低声问道，“他病得厉害吗？”
　　“不，不厉害。说实在的，他压根儿就没什么病。”
　　“那就好。”牧师松了口气，如释重负。
　　“是啊，”约塞连说，“没错，是很好。”
　　牧师见过邓巴后，便起身离开了病房。他刚走，邓巴就对约塞连说：“随军牧师你看见没有？随军牧师。”
　　“他真可爱是不是！”约塞连接口道，“也许他们该投他三票。”
　　“他们是谁？”邓巴有些疑惑地问道。
　　病房尽头有一个小小的空间，用绿色三合板隔了起来，里面搁了张床铺，主人则是位中年上校，始终板着一张脸。他老是在床上忙个不歇。有个女人每天都来探望他，这女人看来很温柔，长得很甜，一头银灰色卷发。她不是护士，不是陆军妇女队队员，也不是红十字会的女职员，但是每天下午，她必定来皮亚诺萨岛上的这所医院报到。每次来，她都穿一身色彩柔和淡雅且又时髦考究的夏装，一双半高跟白皮鞋，腿上穿的尼龙长袜始终笔直。这位上校在通讯司令部供职，昼夜忙碌不停地把内地传送来的一连串电文记录到一本本用纱布做成的正方形记录簿上，每记满一本，他便细心封好，放入床头柜上一只有盖的白桶内。上校风度不凡，嘴巴宽大，两颊凹陷，双眼深迭，目光阴郁，似发了霉一般，脸色灰蒙蒙的。每次咳起嗽来，他总是小心翼翼地压低声音，心里亦不由自主地厌恶起来，遂用记录簿慢慢轻拍自己的嘴唇。
　　上校老是被一大群专家围绕着。为了确诊他的病情，这些专家正在进行特别研究。他们用光照他的眼睛，检测他的视力，用针扎他的神经，看他是否有感觉。这些专家中有泌尿学家、淋巴学家、内分泌学家、心理学家、皮肤学家、病理学家、囊肿学家，而他们的任务就是研究上校身上各个与自己学科相关的系统。此外，还有一位哈佛大学动物学系的鲸类学家，此人是个秃顶，一脸迂腐，曾因IBM公司一台机器的阳极出了毛病，被人无情地劫持到这支卫生队来，陪伴这位垂死的上校，试着想跟他探讨《白鲸》这部小说。
　　上校接受了全面检查。他身上的每一个器官都上了麻醉药，动过刀，涂过药粉，清洗干净，接着又让人摆弄着照了相，同时亦被挪动过，取出后再放回原先的部位。那个衣着整洁、身材修长挺秀气的女人则常坐在床边抚摸着他，而她微笑时的神情都带着一种端庄的忧伤。上校身材瘦长，有些驼背，起身走路时，弯腰曲背得更是厉害，身体屈成一个拱形。他挪步时异常小心翼翼，一步步缓慢前移，此外他的两眼下还有很深的黑眼圈。那女人说话很轻，甚至比上校的咳嗽声还要轻，大伙儿谁亦不曾听见她的说话声。
　　不出十天，得克萨斯人便把所有病员清理出了病房。最先离开病房的是那位炮兵上尉，随后，大批病员相继迁出。邓巴、约塞连和驾驶战斗机的上尉飞行员是同一天上午逃出病房的。邓巴的晕眩症状消失了，上尉飞行员擤了擤鼻涕，约塞连则跟医生们说，他的肝早就不痛了。这病好得还真快，就连那位准尉也逃之夭夭了。十天之内，得克萨斯人就把病房里所有的病员赶回了各自的岗位，只有刑事调查部的那名工作人员留了下来——他从上尉飞行员那儿染上了感冒，后来竟转成了肺炎。
Chapter 2 Clevinger
    In a way the C.I.D. man was pretty lucky, because outside the hospital the war was still going on. Men went madand were rewarded with medals. All over the world, boys on every side of the bomb line were laying down theirlives for what they had been told was their country, and no one seemed to mind, least of all the boys who werelaying down their young lives. There was no end in sight. The only end in sight was Yossarian’s own, and hemight have remained in the hospital until doomsday had it not been for that patriotic Texan with hisinfundibuliform jowls and his lumpy, rumpleheaded, indestructible smile cracked forever across the front of hisface like the brim of a black ten-gallon hat. The Texan wanted everybody in the ward to be happy but Yossarianand Dunbar. He was really very sick.
　　But Yossarian couldn’t be happy, even though the Texan didn’t want him to be, because outside the hospitalthere was still nothing funny going on. The only thing going on was a war, and no one seemed to notice butYossarian and Dunbar. And when Yossarian tried to remind people, they drew away from him and thought hewas crazy. Even Clevinger, who should have known better but didn’t, had told him he was crazy the last timethey had seen each other, which was just before Yossarian had fled into the hospital.
　　Clevinger had stared at him with apoplectic rage and indignation and, clawing the table with both hands, hadshouted, “You’re crazy!”
　　“Clevinger, what do you want from people?” Dunbar had replied wearily above the noises of the officers’ club.
　　“I’m not joking,” Clevinger persisted.
　　“They’re trying to kill me,” Yossarian told him calmly.
　　“No one’s trying to kill you,” Clevinger cried.
　　“Then why are they shooting at me?” Yossarian asked.
　　“They’re shooting at everyone,” Clevinger answered. “They’re trying to kill everyone.”
　　“And what difference does that make?”
　　Clevinger was already on the way, half out of his chair with emotion, his eyes moist and his lips quivering andpale. As always occurred when he quarreled over principles in which he believed passionately, he would end upgasping furiously for air and blinking back bitter tears of conviction. There were many principles in whichClevinger believed passionately. He was crazy.
　　“Who’s they?” he wanted to know. “Who, specifically, do you think is trying to murder you?”
　　“Every one of them,” Yossarian told him.
　　“Every one of whom?”
　　“Every one of whom do you think?”
　　“I haven’t any idea.”
　　“Then how do you know they aren’t?”
　　“Because...” Clevinger sputtered, and turned speechless with frustration.
　　Clevinger really thought he was right, but Yossarian had proof, because strangers he didn’t know shot at himwith cannons every time he flew up into the air to drop bombs on them, and it wasn’t funny at all. And if thatwasn’t funny, there were lots of things that weren’t even funnier. There was nothing funny about living like abum in a tent in Pianosa between fat mountains behind him and a placid blue sea in front that could gulp down aperson with a cramp in the twinkling of an eye and ship him back to shore three days later, all charges paid,bloated, blue and putrescent, water draining out through both cold nostrils.
　　The tent he lived in stood right smack up against the wall of the shallow, dull-colored forest separating his ownsquadron from Dunbar’s. Immediately alongside was the abandoned railroad ditch that carried the pipe thatcarried the aviation gasoline down to the fuel trucks at the airfield. Thanks to Orr, his roommate, it was the mostluxurious tent in the squadron. Each time Yossarian returned from one of his holidays in the hospital or restleaves in Rome, he was surprised by some new comfort Orr had installed in his absence—running water, wood-burning fireplace, cement floor. Yossarian had chosen the site, and he and Orr had raised the tent together. Orr,who was a grinning pygmy with pilot’s wings and thick, wavy brown hair parted in the middle, furnished all theknowledge, while Yossarian, who was taller, stronger, broader and faster, did most of the work. Just the two ofthem lived there, although the tent was big enough for six. When summer came, Orr rolled up the side flaps toallow a breeze that never blew to flush away the air baking inside.
　　Immediately next door to Yossarian was Havermeyer, who liked peanut brittle and lived all by himself in thetwo-man tent in which he shot tiny field mice every night with huge bullets from the .45 he had stolen from thedead man in Yossarian’s tent. On the other side of Havermeyer stood the tent McWatt no longer shared withClevinger, who had still not returned when Yossarian came out of the hospital. McWatt shared his tent now withNately, who was away in Rome courting the sleepy whore he had fallen so deeply in love with there who wasbored with her work and bored with him too. McWatt was crazy. He was a pilot and flew his plane as low as hedared over Yossarian’s tent as often as he could, just to see how much he could frighten him, and loved to gobuzzing with a wild, close roar over the wooden raft floating on empty oil drums out past the sand bar at theimmaculate white beach where the men went swimming naked. Sharing a tent with a man who was crazy wasn’teasy, but Nately didn’t care. He was crazy, too, and had gone every free day to work on the officers’ club thatYossarian had not helped build.
　　Actually, there were many officers’ clubs that Yossarian had not helped build, but he was proudest of the one onPianosa. It was a sturdy and complex monument to his powers of determination. Yossarian never went there tohelp until it was finished; then he went there often, so pleased was he with the large, fine, rambling, shingledbuilding. It was truly a splendid structure, and Yossarian throbbed with a mighty sense of accomplishment eachtime he gazed at it and reflected that none of the work that had gone into it was his.
　　There were four of them seated together at a table in the officers’ club the last time he and Clevinger had calledeach other crazy. They were seated in back near the crap table on which Appleby always managed to win.
　　Appleby was as good at shooting crap as he was at playing ping-pong, and he was as good at playing ping-pongas he was at everything else. Everything Appleby did, he did well. Appleby was a fair-haired boy from Iowa whobelieved in God, Motherhood and the American Way of Life, without ever thinking about any of them, andeverybody who knew him liked him.
　　“I hate that son of a bitch,” Yossarian growled.
　　The argument with Clevinger had begun a few minutes earlier when Yossarian had been unable to find amachine gun. It was a busy night. The bar was busy, the crap table was busy, the ping-gong table was busy. Thepeople Yossarian wanted to machine-gun were busy at the bar singing sentimental old favorites that nobody elseever tired of. Instead of machine-gunning them, he brought his heel down hard on the ping-pong ball that camerolling toward him off the paddle of one of the two officers playing.
　　“That Yossarian,” the two officers laughed, shaking their heads, and got another ball from the box on the shelf.
　　“That Yossarian,” Yossarian answered them.
　　“Yossarian,” Nately whispered cautioningly.
　　“You see what I mean?” asked Clevinger.
　　The officers laughed again when they heard Yossarian mimicking them. “That Yossarian,” they said moreloudly.
　　“That Yossarian,” Yossarian echoed.
　　“Yossarian, please,” Nately pleaded.
　　“You see what I mean?” asked Clevinger. “He has antisocial aggressions.”
　　“Oh, shut up,” Dunbar told Clevinger. Dunbar liked Clevinger because Clevinger annoyed him and made thetime go slow.
　　“Appleby isn’t even here,” Clevinger pointed out triumphantly to Yossarian.
　　“Who said anything about Appleby?” Yossarian wanted to know.
　　“Colonel Cathcart isn’t here, either.”
　　“Who said anything about Colonel Cathcart?”
　　“What son of a bitch do you hate, then?”
　　“What son of a bitch is here?”
　　“I’m not going to argue with you,” Clevinger decided. “You don’t know who you hate.”
　　“Whoever’s trying to poison me,” Yossarian told him.
　　“Nobody’s trying to poison you.”
　　“They poisoned my food twice, didn’t they? Didn’t they put poison in my food during Ferrara and during theGreat Big Siege of Bologna?”
　　“They put poison in everybody’s food,” Clevinger explained.
　　“And what difference does that make?”
　　“And it wasn’t even poison!” Clevinger cried heatedly, growing more emphatic as he grew more confused.
　　As far back as Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile, somebody was alwayshatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared for him and people who didn’t, and those who didn’thated him and were out to get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn’t touch him, hetold Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn’t touch himbecause he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the FlyingDutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He wasmiracle ingredient Z-247. He was—“Crazy!” Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. “That’s what you are! Crazy!”
　　“—immense. I’m a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I’m a bona fide supraman.”
　　“Superman?” Clevinger cried. “Superman?”
　　“Supraman,” Yossarian corrected.
　　“Hey, fellas, cut it out,” Nately begged with embarrassment. “Everybody’s looking at us.”
　　“You’re crazy,” Clevinger shouted vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. “You’ve got a Jehovah complex.”
　　“I think everyone is Nathaniel.”
　　Clevinger arrested himself in mid-declamation, suspiciously. “Who’s Nathaniel?”
　　“Nathaniel who?” inquired Yossarian innocently.
　　Clevinger skirted the trap neatly. “You think everybody is Jehovah. You’re no better than Raskolnkov—““Who?”
　　“—yes, Raskolnikov, who—““Raskolnikov!”
　　“—who—I mean it—who felt he could justify killing an old woman—““No better than?”
　　“—yes, justify, that’s right—with an ax! And I can prove it to you!” Gasping furiously for air, Clevingerenumerated Yossarian’s symptoms: an unreasonable belief that everybody around him was crazy, a homicidalimpulse to machine-gun strangers, retrospective falsification, an unfounded suspicion that people hated him andwere conspiring to kill him.
　　But Yossarian knew he was right, because, as he explained to Clevinger, to the best of his knowledge he hadnever been wrong. Everywhere he looked was a nut, and it was all a sensible young gentleman like himself coulddo to maintain his perspective amid so much madness. And it was urgent that he did, for he knew his life was inperil.
　　Yossarian eyed everyone he saw warily when he returned to the squadron from the hospital. Milo was away, too,in Smyrna for the fig harvest. The mess hall ran smoothly in Milo’s absence. Yossarian had respondedravenously to the pungent aroma of spicy lamb while he was still in the cab of the ambulance bouncing downalong the knotted road that lay like a broken suspender between the hospital and the squadron. There was shishkabobfor lunch, huge, savory hunks of spitted meat sizzling like the devil over charcoal after marinatingseventy-two hours in a secret mixture Milo had stolen from a crooked trader in the Levant, served with Iranianrice and asparagus tips Parmesan, followed by cherries jubilee for dessert and then steaming cups of fresh coffeewith Benedictine and brandy. The meal was served in enormous helpings on damask tablecloths by the skilledItalian waiters Major --- de Coverley had kidnaped from the mainland and given to Milo.
　　Yossarian gorged himself in the mess hall until he thought he would explode and then sagged back in a contentedstupor, his mouth filmy with a succulent residue. None of the officers in the squadron had ever eaten so well asthey ate regularly in Milo’s mess hall, and Yossarian wondered awhile if it wasn’t perhaps all worth it. But thenhe burped and remembered that they were trying to kill him, and he sprinted out of the mess hall wildly and ranlooking for Doc Daneeka to have himself taken off combat duty and sent home. He found Doc Daneeka insunlight, sitting on a high stool outside his tent.
　　“Fifty missions,” Doc Daneeka told him, shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”
　　“But I’ve only got forty-four!”
　　Doc Daneeka was unmoved. He was a sad, birdlike man with the spatulate face and scrubbed, tapering featuresof a well-groomed rat.
　　“Fifty missions,” he repeated, still shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”
 02、克莱文杰
　　从某种意义上来说，刑事调查部的那名工作人员倒是挺走运的，因为医院外面，依旧是硝烟弥漫。人人都成了疯子，却又被授予种种勋章，作为嘉奖。在世界各地，士兵们正在各轰炸前线捐躯，有人告诉他们，这是为了他们的祖国。但，似乎没人在意，更不用说那些正献出自己年轻生命的士兵了。目下是见不到有什么结局的。唯一可望的，倒是约塞连自己的结局。要不是为了那个爱国的得克萨斯人——下颌大得像漏斗，头发凌乱不堪，脸部永远挂着的笨拙的笑容，极似高顶宽边黑呢帽的帽檐——约塞连是本可以留在医院的，直到世界未日。那个得克萨斯人希望病房里的每一个人都快快乐乐，唯独约塞连和邓巴除外。他病得实在是很厉害。
　　得克萨斯人不想让约塞连好过，尽管如此，约塞连亦是不可能快乐起来的。因为医院外面，还是不见有什么逗人发笑的事情。唯一在进行的，便是战争。除约塞连和邓巴之外，似乎没人注意到这一点。每当约塞连想提醒人们的时候，他们便赶紧躲开他，觉得他是个疯子。就连克莱文杰，本该很了解他的，这次却是一改往常的善解人意。就在约塞连躲进医院之前，他俩曾见过最后一面，当时，克莱文杰便对他说他是个疯子。
　　克莱文杰圆睁怒目地盯着他，两手紧抓住桌子，高声忿詈：“你是个疯子！”
　　“克莱文杰，你究竟要别人如何才是？”邓巴在军官俱乐部的喧闹声里，提高嗓门，极不耐烦地回敬了一句。
　　“我可不是在开玩笑，”克莱文杰毫不退让。
　　“他们是想把我杀了，”约塞连镇定地对他说。
　　“没人想杀你，”克莱文杰高声叫道。
　　“那他们干吗向我开枪？”约塞连问。
　　“他们谁都不放过，见谁便开枪，”克莱文杰回答说，“他们想杀尽所有的人。”
　　“那又有什么不同？”
　　克莱文杰早已失去了控制，激动得把半个身体从椅子上抬了起来，两眼噙着泪水，嘴唇苍白，直打哆嗦。为了维护自己坚信的原则，他总免不了要跟人大吵一番，可是，每回吵到最后，他总是气急败坏，不住地眨眼，强忍住伤心泪，以示自己对信念的坚定不移。克莱文杰对许多原则信守不渝。他才是实实在在地失去了理智。
　　“他们是谁？”他想弄个清楚。“确切点说，你觉得是谁想谋害你？”
　　“他们中的每一个人，”约塞连告诉他说。
　　“哪些人中的每一个人？”
　　“你看呢？”
　　“这我可说不上来。”
　　“那你又怎么晓得他们不想杀我呢？”
　　“因为……”克莱文杰语无伦次，随即又沮丧至极，缄口不语。
　　克莱文杰确实自以为有理，但约塞连亦有他自己的证据，因为他每次执行空中轰炸任务，总会遭到陌生人的炮火袭击，这实在是毫无趣味的。假如说那种事无甚趣味，那其他许多事情更是没什么乐趣可言了。比如说，像流浪汉似地宿营皮亚诺萨岛上的帐篷，背靠崇山峻岭，面对蓝色大海——纵使风平浪静，却能于瞬息间吞噬水中的痉挛者，三天后，再把他冲回海岸，人就此一了百了，遍体青紫浮肿，且有海水慢慢地流出冰冷的鼻孔。
　　他宿营的帐篷，依偎一片稀落晦暗的森林——于他和邓巴的中队之间自成一道屏障。紧靠帐篷一侧，是一条废弃的铁路壕沟，沟里铺设一根输送管，往机场的燃料卡车上运送航空汽油。多亏了与他同居的奥尔，他才有幸住进这间全中队最舒适的帐篷。约塞连每次从医院疗养回来或是从罗马休假返回营地，总会惊喜地发现，奥尔趁他不在时，又添了些新的生活设施——自来水，烧木柴的壁炉，水泥地板。帐篷是由约塞连择定地点，然后与奥尔合作搭建的。
　　奥尔个头极矮，成天笑嘻嘻的，胸佩空军飞行徽章，一头浓密的褐色卷发，由正中向两边分开。他负责出谋策划。约塞连较他身高肩宽，强壮迅捷，因而，大部分粗活均由他承当。帐篷仅住他们两人，尽管很大，足以容纳六人。每当炎夏来临，奥尔便卷起帐篷侧帘，透些许清风，纵然，却是怎么也驱散不了帐篷内的暑气。
　　约塞连的紧邻是哈弗迈耶。此人嗜食花生薄脆糖，独居一顶双人帐篷，每晚用四五口径手枪的大子弹射杀小田鼠。枪是从约塞连帐篷里那个死人身上窃得的。哈弗迈耶另一侧的邻居是麦克沃特，早先跟克莱文杰同住，但是约塞连出院时，克莱文杰尚未回来，麦克沃特便让内特利住进了自己的帐篷。眼下，内特利正在罗马，追求自己深恋着的那个妓女，可那妓女却是成日一副睡不醒的面容，早已深恶了自己的营生，对内特利亦生了厌倦。麦克沃特很疯狂。
　　他是个飞行员，竟时常放大了胆开着飞机，从极低的高度掠过约塞连的帐篷，只是想看看约塞连会被吓成啥样。有时，他又极爱让飞机低飞，发出震耳欲聋的轰鸣声，掠过由空油筒浮载的木筏，再飞过洁白海滩处的沙洲，海滩那儿正有士兵赤裸着下海游泳呢。跟一个疯子合住一顶帐篷，实在不是件易事，但内特利并不在意。他自己也是个疯子，只要哪天有空，便会赶去帮忙建造军官俱乐部——
　　于此，约塞连可是没曾插过手的。
　　其实，许多军官俱乐部营建时，约塞连都不曾帮什么忙，不过，皮亚诺萨岛上的这个俱乐部，倒是最令他得意。这实在是为了他的果断坚毅而竖起的一幢坚实牢固、构造复杂的纪念碑式建筑。俱乐部竣工以前，约塞连从未上工地搭把手，之后，他倒是常去。俱乐部用木瓦盖的屋顶，外观极漂亮，尽管大而无当，他见了，满心欢喜。
　　说实话，这幢建筑的确很壮观。每当举目凝望时，约塞连内心总升腾起一股极强的成就感，尽管他意识到自己从未为此流过点滴汗水。
　　上一回，他和克莱文杰曾相互谩骂对方是疯子，当时，他们有四人在场，一起围坐在军官俱乐部里的一张桌子旁。他们坐在后面，紧挨那张双骰子赌台，阿普尔比一上这赌台，总会想办法赢钱。
　　阿普尔比精于掷骰子，就如他擅长打乒乓一样，而他擅长打乒乓，就如他善于应付其他任何事情一样。阿普尔比每做一件事，都做得相当出色。阿普尔比是个衣阿华年轻人，长一头金发，信奉上帝、母爱和美国人的生活方式，尽管他对这一切从来都不曾做过什么周至的思虑。熟稔他的人，对他都颇有好感。
　　“我恨那个狗娘养的，”约塞连怒吼道。
　　同克莱文杰吵架，是早几分钟的事。当时，约塞连想找一挺机关枪，但结果没有找到。那天晚上极是热闹。酒吧间熙熙攘攘，双骰子赌台和乒乓台上压根没见空闲的时候，煞是一派繁忙的气象。
　　约塞连想用机枪扫射的那帮人，正在酒吧间里劲头十足地吟唱那些百听不厌的古老的感伤歌曲。他没有用机关枪向他们射击，倒是用脚跟狠狠地踩了一下正朝他滚来的那只乒乓球，这球是从两名打球的军官之一的球拍上掉落下来的。
　　“约塞连这家伙，”那两个军官摇了摇头笑道，随后便从架上的盒里又取了一只球。
　　“约塞连这家伙，”约塞连回了他们一句。
　　“约塞连，”内特利向他低声警告。
　　“你们懂我的意思？”克莱文杰问。
　　听到约塞连学舌，那两个军官又笑道：“约塞连这家伙。”这回，声音更响。
　　“约塞连这家伙，”约塞连又照着说了一句。
　　“约塞连，你行行好，”内特利恳求道。
　　“你们懂我的意思？”克莱文杰问，“他有反社会的敌对心理。”
　　“唉呀，你给我闭嘴吧，”邓巴对克莱文杰说。邓巴喜欢克莱文杰，原因是，克莱文杰常惹他恼火，仿佛让时间走慢了些。
　　“阿普尔比根本没上这儿来，”克莱文杰洋洋得意地对约塞连说。
　　“谁在说阿普尔比？”约塞连想弄个清楚。
　　“卡思卡特上校也没来。”
　　“谁又在说卡思卡特上校？”
　　“那你究竟恨哪个狗娘养的？”
　　“哪个狗娘养的在这儿？”
　　“我不想跟你吵。”克莱文杰下定了决心。“你自己都不清楚恨谁。”
　　“谁想毒死我，我就恨谁，”约塞连告诉他说。
　　“没人想毒死你。”
　　“他们在我吃的东西里下过两次毒，是不是有这回事？一次是弗拉拉战役，一次是博洛尼亚围攻大战役，他们是不是这么干过？”
　　“他们在每个人的食物里都下过毒，”克莱文杰解释道。
　　“那又有啥不同？”
　　“那根本不是什么毒药！”克莱文杰很激动地大叫道。他愈发慌乱，也就愈发加重了自己说话的语调。
　　约塞连耐了性子，微笑着给克莱文杰做解释，就他的记忆所及，有人一直想谋害他。有人喜欢他，也有人不喜欢他；不喜欢他的那些人便恨他，想尽办法害他。他们恨他，就因为他是亚述人。但是，他对克菜文杰说，他们别想碰他一下，因为他的躯体纯洁，灵魂健全，体壮如牛。他们别想碰他一下，因为他是泰山，曼德雷克，霹雳火戈登。他是比尔•莎士比亚。他是该隐，尤利西斯，漂泊的荷兰水手。他是所多玛的罗得，忧伤的黛特，树林里夜莺群中的斯威尼。他是神奇人物Z——247，他是——
　　“疯子！”克莱文杰打断他的话，锐声叫喊，“你是个十足的疯子！”
　　“——与众不同，我的的确确是个非同寻常、长了三头六臂的了不起的人物。我是个真正的奇人。”
　　“超人？”克莱文杰嚷道，“超人？”
　　“奇人，”约塞连纠正道。
　　“嘿，伙计们，别争啦。”内特利很是尴尬地恳求他俩。“大伙儿都瞧着咱们哩。”
　　“你是个疯子！”克莱文杰大叫，激动得热泪盈眶。”你心理变态，想做耶和华。”
　　“我想人人都是拿但业。”
　　克莱文杰突然中止了自己的慷慨陈词，面露猜疑状。“谁是拿但业？”
　　“拿但业是谁？”约塞连故作无知地问道。
　　克莱文杰知道是圈套，极乖觉地避了过去。“你觉得人人都是耶和华。说实话，你跟拉斯柯尔尼科夫没什么不同。”
　　“谁？”
　　“——没错，拉斯柯尔尼科夫，他——”
　　“拉斯柯尔尼科夫！”
　　“——他——我说的是实话一他以为自己杀了个老太婆，是正当合法的。”
　　“我跟他没什么不同。”
　　“——是这样的，杀了人，再替自己开脱，千真万确——用斧头砍死！我可以用事实证明，让你心服口服。”克莱文杰喘吁吁地一一列数了约塞连的种种症状：无缘无故地把周围所有的人视作疯子；
　　一见陌生人，便顿生杀机，想用机枪扫射；好怀旧，却又时常颠倒过去的黑白；凭空猜疑别人憎恨他，一直合谋着想害他。
　　但约塞连知道自己没错，因为正如他曾给克莱文杰解释的那样，他很清楚自己从来就没错过。他目光所及，处处是疯子，而在这疯子充塞的世界里，唯有像他自己这样明智而有教养的年轻人，方能明察事理。他必须如此，因为他明白他的生命危在旦夕。
　　约塞连出院归队时，不管遇见谁，总要警惕地审视一番。米洛亦离开中队，去了士麦那，忙着收获无花果。尽管米洛不在，但食堂照常运转，医院和中队驻地之间，蜿蜒了一条崎岖的道路，恰似断裂的吊袜带。约塞连人还坐在救护车的驾驶室里，沿那条路颠簸前行时，便闻到了羔羊肉的扑鼻香味，顿生津液，食欲大起。午餐吃的是烤肉，一块块又大又香的肉用炙叉串着搁在木炭上，烤得咝咝直响。这肉烤前需在一种用秘方配制的卤汁里浸泡七十二小时，而秘方是米洛从黎凡特的一个刁滑奸商那里窃取来的。食用烤肉时，需拌上伊朗大米和芦笋尖帕尔马干酪，接着上的便是樱桃甜食，再来是一杯杯热气腾腾的用新磨的咖啡豆煮出来的咖啡，里面还掺了本尼迪克特甜酒和白兰地。午餐分成若干份，由熟练的意大利侍者端上铺着织花台布的餐桌。这些侍者，由德•科弗利少校从欧洲大陆诱拐得来后，交送给米洛。
　　约塞连在食堂里拼命大吃，直到觉得肚子快要胀破，方才心满意足，一动不动地瘫靠在坐椅上，嘴里还含着薄薄的一层残菜渣。
　　交米洛的食堂里，中队所有的军官时常品尝珍馐美味，除此之外，谁也不曾如此畅快地大饱口福。约塞连思忖片刻，或许还真划得来呢。可是，他接着打了嗝，想了起来：他们一直想杀他。于是，他猛冲出食堂，跑着去找丹尼卡医生，请求免除自己的作战任务，把他遣送回家。他找到了丹尼卡，医生正坐在自己帐篷外的一只高凳上晒太阳。
　　“完成五十次飞行任务，”丹尼卡医生摇着头跟他说，“上校要求飞满五十次。”
　　“可我才飞了四十四次！”
　　丹尼卡医生却无动于衷。这家伙长得像只鸟，老是愁眉苦脸的模样。那张脸酷似一柄刮刀，上宽下尖，修刮得光溜溜的，极像一只刷洗干净的耗子。
　　“完成五十次飞行任务，”他还是摇了摇头，又说了一遍。“上校要求飞满五十次。”
Chapter 3 Havermeyer
    Actually, no one was around when Yossarian returned from the hospital but Orr and the dead man in Yossarian’stent. The dead man in Yossarian’s tent was a pest, and Yossarian didn’t like him, even though he had never seenhim. Having him lying around all day annoyed Yossarian so much that he had gone to the orderly room severaltimes to complain to Sergeant Towser, who refused to admit that the dead man even existed, which, of course, heno longer did. It was still more frustrating to try to appeal directly to Major Major, the long and bony squadroncommander, who looked a little bit like Henry Fonda in distress and went jumping out the window of his officeeach time Yossarian bullied his way past Sergeant Towser to speak to him about it. The dead man in Yossarian’stent was simply not easy to live with. He even disturbed Orr, who was not easy to live with, either, and who, onthe day Yossarian came back, was tinkering with the faucet that fed gasoline into the stove he had startedbuilding while Yossarian was in the hospital.
　　“What are you doing?” Yossarian asked guardedly when he entered the tent, although he saw at once.
　　“There’s a leak here,” Orr said. “I’m trying to fix it.”
　　“Please stop it,” said Yossarian. “You’re making me nervous.”
　　“When I was a kid,” Orr replied, “I used to walk around all day with crab apples in my cheeks. One in eachcheek.”
　　Yossarian put aside the musette bag from which he had begun removing his toilet articles and braced himselfsuspiciously. A minute passed. “Why?” he found himself forced to ask finally.
　　Orr tittered triumphantly. “Because they’re better than horse chestnuts,” he answered.
　　Orr was kneeling on the floor of the tent. He worked without pause, taking the faucet apart, spreading all the tinypieces out carefully, counting and then studying each one interminably as though he had never seen anythingremotely similar before, and then reassembling the whole apparatus, over and over and over and over again, withno loss of patience or interest, no sign of fatigue, no indication of ever concluding. Yossarian watched himtinkering and felt certain he would be compelled to murder him in cold blood if he did not stop. His eyes movedtoward the hunting knife that had been slung over the mosquito-net bar by the dead man the day he arrived. Theknife hung beside the dead man’s empty leather gun holster, from which Havermeyer had stolen the gun.
　　“When I couldn’t get crab apples,” Orr continued, “I used horse chestnuts. Horse chestnuts are about the samesize as crab apples and actually have a better shape, although the shape doesn’t matter a bit.”
　　“Why did you walk around with crab apples in your cheeks?” Yossarian asked again. “That’s what I asked.”
　　“Because they’ve got a better shape than horse chestnuts,” Orr answered. “I just told you that.”
　　“Why,” swore Yossarian at him approvingly, “you evil-eyed, mechanically-aptituded, disaffiliated son of a bitch,did you walk around with anything in your cheeks?”
　　“I didn’t,” Orr said, “walk around with anything in my cheeks. I walked around with crab apples in my cheeks.
　　When I couldn’t get crab apples I walked around with horse chestnuts. In my cheeks.”
　　Orr giggled. Yossarian made up his mind to keep his mouth shut and did. Orr waited. Yossarian waited longer.
　　“One in each cheek,” Orr said.
　　“Why?”
　　Orr pounced. “Why what?”
　　Yossarian shook his head, smiling, and refused to say.
　　“It’s a funny thing about this valve,” Orr mused aloud.
　　“What is?” Yossarian asked.
　　“Because I wanted—“Yossarian knew. “Jesus Christ! Why did you want—““—apple cheeks.”
　　“—apple cheeks?” Yossarian demanded.
　　“I wanted apple cheeks,” Orr repeated. “Even when I was a kid I wanted apple cheeks someday, and I decided towork at it until I got them, and by God, I did work at it until I got them, and that’s how I did it, with crab applesin my cheeks all day long.” He giggled again. “One in each cheek.”
　　“Why did you want apple cheeks?”
　　“I didn’t want apple cheeks,” Orr said. “I wanted big cheeks. I didn’t care about the color so much, but I wantedthem big. I worked at it just like one of those crazy guys you read about who go around squeezing rubber ballsall day long just to strengthen their hands. In fact, I was one of those crazy guys. I used to walk around all daywith rubber balls in my hands, too.”
　　“Why?”
　　“Why what?”
　　“Why did you walk around all day with rubber balls in your hands?”
　　“Because rubber balls—“ said Orr.
　　“—are better than crab apples?”
　　Orr sniggered as he shook his head. “I did it to protect my good reputation in case anyone ever caught mewalking around with crab apples in my cheeks. With rubber balls in my hands I could deny there were crabapples in my cheeks. Every time someone asked me why I was walking around with crab apples in my cheeks,I’d just open my hands and show them it was rubber balls I was walking around with, not crab apples, and thatthey were in my hands, not my cheeks. It was a good story. But I never knew if it got across or not, since it’spretty tough to make people understand you when you’re talking to them with two crab apples in your cheeks.”
　　Yossarian found it pretty tough to understand him then, and he wondered once again if Orr wasn’t talking to himwith the tip of his tongue in one of his apple cheeks.
　　Yossarian decided not to utter another word. It would be futile. He knew Orr, and he knew there was not achance in hell of finding out from him then why he had wanted big cheeks. It would do no more good to ask thanit had done to ask him why that whore had kept beating him over the head with her shoe that morning in Rome inthe cramped vestibule outside the open door of Nately’s whore’s kid sister’s room. She was a tall, strapping girlwith long hair and incandescent blue veins converging populously beneath her cocoa-colored skin where theflesh was most tender, and she kept cursing and shrieking and jumping high up into the air on her bare feet tokeep right on hitting him on the top of his head with the spiked heel of her shoe. They were both naked, andraising a rumpus that brought everyone in the apartment into the hall to watch, each couple in a bedroomdoorway, all of them naked except the aproned and sweatered old woman, who clucked reprovingly, and thelecherous, dissipated old man, who cackled aloud hilariously through the whole episode with a kind of avid andsuperior glee. The girl shrieked and Orr giggled. Each time she landed with the heel of her shoe, Orr giggledlouder, infuriating her still further so that she flew up still higher into the air for another shot at his noodle, herwondrously full breasts soaring all over the place like billowing pennants in a strong wind and her buttocks andstrong thighs shim-sham-shimmying this way and that way like some horrifying bonanza. She shrieked and Orrgiggled right up to the time she shrieked and knocked him cold with a good solid crack on the temple that madehim stop giggling and sent him off to the hospital in a stretcher with a hole in his head that wasn’t very deep anda very mild concussion that kept him out of combat only twelve days.
　　Nobody could find out what had happened, not even the cackling old man and clucking old woman, who were ina position to find out everything that happened in that vast and endless brothel with its multitudinous bedroomson facing sides of the narrow hallways going off in opposite directions from the spacious sitting room with itsshaded windows and single lamp. Every time she met Orr after that, she’d hoist her skirts up over her tight whiteelastic panties and, jeering coarsely, bulge her firm, round belly out at him, cursing him contemptuously and thenroaring with husky laughter as she saw him giggle fearfully and take refuge behind Yossarian. Whatever he had done or tried to do or failed to do behind the closed door of Nately’s whore’s kid sister’s room was still a secret.
　　The girl wouldn’t tell Nately’s whore or any of the other whores or Nately or Yossarian. Orr might tell, butYossarian had decided not to utter another word.
　　“Do you want to know why I wanted big cheeks?” Orr asked.
　　Yossarian kept his mouth shut.
　　“Do you remember,” Orr said, “that time in Rome when that girl who can’t stand you kept hitting me over thehead with the heel of her shoe? Do you want to know why she was hitting me?”
　　It was still impossible to imagine what he could have done to make her angry enough to hammer him over thehead for fifteen or twenty minutes, yet not angry enough to pick him up by the ankles and dash his brains out.
　　She was certainly tall enough, and Orr was certainly short enough. Orr had buck teeth and bulging eyes to gowith his big cheeks and was even smaller than young Huple, who lived on the wrong side of the railroad tracks inthe tent in the administration area in which Hungry Joe lay screaming in his sleep every night.
　　The administration area in which Hungry Joe had pitched his tent by mistake lay in the center of the squadronbetween the ditch, with its rusted railroad tracks, and the tilted black bituminous road. The men could pick upgirls along that road if they promised to take them where they wanted to go, buxom, young, homely, grinninggirls with missing teeth whom they could drive off the road and lie down in the wild grass with, and Yossariandid whenever he could, which was not nearly as often as Hungry Joe, who could get a jeep but couldn’t drive,begged him to try. The tents of the enlisted men in the squadron stood on the other side of the road alongside theopen-air movie theater in which, for the daily amusement of the dying, ignorant armies clashed by night on acollapsible screen, and to which another U.S.O. troupe came that same afternoon.
　　The U.S.O. troupes were sent by General P. P. Peckem, who had moved his headquarters up to Rome and hadnothing better to do while he schemed against General Dreedle. General Peckem was a general with whomneatness definitely counted. He was a spry, suave and very precise general who knew the circumference of theequator and always wrote “enhanced” when he meant “increased”. He was a prick, and no one knew this betterthan General Dreedle, who was incensed by General Peckem’s recent directive requiring all tents in theMediterranean theater of operations to be pitched along parallel lines with entrances facing back proudly towardthe Washington Monument. To General Dreedle, who ran a fighting outfit, it seemed a lot of crap. Furthermore,it was none of General Peckem’s goddam business how the tents in General Dreedle’s wing were pitched. Therethen followed a hectic jurisdictional dispute between these overlords that was decided in General Dreedle’s favorby ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, mail clerk at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters. Wintergreen determined theoutcome by throwing all communications from General Peckem into the wastebasket. He found them too prolix.
　　General Dreedle’s views, expressed in less pretentious literary style, pleased ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen and weresped along by him in zealous observance of regulations. General Dreedle was victorious by default.
　　To regain whatever status he had lost, General Peckem began sending out more U.S.O. troupes than he had eversent out before and assigned to Colonel Cargill himself the responsibility of generating enough enthusiasm forthem.
　　But there was no enthusiasm in Yossarian’s group. In Yossarian’s group there was only a mounting number ofenlisted men and officers who found their way solemnly to Sergeant Towser several times a day to ask if theorders sending them home had come in. They were men who had finished their fifty missions. There were moreof them now than when Yossarian had gone into the hospital, and they were still waiting. They worried and bittheir nails. They were grotesque, like useless young men in a depression. They moved sideways, like crabs. Theywere waiting for the orders sending them home to safety to return from Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquartersin Italy, and while they waited they had nothing to do but worry and bite their nails and find their way solemnlyto Sergeant Towser several times a day to ask if the order sending them home to safety had come.
　　They were in a race and knew it, because they knew from bitter experience that Colonel Cathcart might raise thenumber of missions again at any time. They had nothing better to do than wait. Only Hungry Joe had somethingbetter to do each time he finished his missions. He had screaming nightmares and won fist fights with Huple’scat. He took his camera to the front row of every U.S.O. show and tried to shoot pictures up the skirt of theyellow-headed singer with two big ones in a sequined dress that always seemed ready to burst. The picturesnever came out.
　　Colonel Cargill, General Peckem’s troubleshooter, was a forceful, ruddy man. Before the war he had been analert, hardhitting, aggressive marketing executive. He was a very bad marketing executive. Colonel Cargill wasso awful a marketing executive that his services were much sought after by firms eager to establish losses for taxpurposes. Throughout the civilized world, from Battery Park to Fulton Street, he was known as a dependableman for a fast tax write-off. His prices were high, for failure often did not come easily. He had to start at the topand work his way down, and with sympathetic friends in Washington, losing money was no simple matter. Ittook months of hard work and careful misplanning. A person misplaced, disorganized, miscalculated, overlookedeverything and opened every loophole, and just when he thought he had it made, the government gave him a lakeor a forest or an oilfield and spoiled everything. Even with such handicaps, Colonel Cargill could be relied on torun the most prosperous enterprise into the ground. He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success tonobody.
　　“Men,” Colonel Cargill began in Yossarian’s squadron, measuring his pauses carefully. “You’re Americanofficers. The officers of no other army in the world can make that statement. Think about it.”
　　Sergeant Knight thought about it and then politely informed Colonel Cargill that he was addressing the enlistedmen and that the officers were to be found waiting for him on the other side of the squadron. Colonel Cargillthanked him crisply and glowed with self-satisfaction as he strode across the area. It made him proud to observethat twenty-nine months in the service had not blunted his genius for ineptitude.
　　“Men,” he began his address to the officers, measuring his pauses carefully. “You’re American officers. Theofficers of no other army in the world can make that statement. Think about it.” He waited a moment to permitthem to think about it. “These people are your guests!” he shouted suddenly. “They’ve traveled over threethousand miles to entertain you. How are they going to feel if nobody wants to go out and watch them? What’sgoing to happen to their morale? Now, men, it’s no skin off my behind. But that girl that wants to play theaccordion for you today is old enough to be a mother. How would you feel if your own mother traveled over three thousand miles to play the accordion for some troops that didn’t want to watch her? How is that kid whosemother that accordion player is old enough to be going to feel when he grows up and learns about it? We allknow the answer to that one. Now, men, don’t misunderstand me. This is all voluntary, of course. I’d be the lastcolonel in the world to order you to go to that U.S.O. show and have a good time, but I want every one of youwho isn’t sick enough to be in a hospital to go to that U.S.O. show right now and have a good time, and that’s anorder!”
　　Yossarian did feel almost sick enough to go back into the hospital, and he felt even sicker three combat missionslater when Doc Daneeka still shook his melancholy head and refused to ground him.
　　“You think you’ve got troubles?” Doc Daneeka rebuked him grievingly. “What about me? I lived on peanuts foreight years while I learned how to be a doctor. After the peanuts, I lived on chicken feed in my own office until Icould build up a practice decent enough to even pay expenses. Then, just as the shop was finally starting to showa profit, they drafted me. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
　　Doc Daneeka was Yossarian’s friend and would do just about nothing in his power to help him. Yossarianlistened very carefully as Doc Daneeka told him about Colonel Cathcart at Group, who wanted to be a general,about General Dreedle at Wing and General Dreedle’s nurse, and about all the other generals at Twenty-seventhAir Force Headquarters, who insisted on only forty missions as a completed tour of duty.
　　“Why don’t you just smile and make the best of it?” he advised Yossarian glumly. “Be like Havermeyer.”
　　Yossarian shuddered at the suggestion. Havermeyer was a lead bombardier who never took evasive action goingin to the target and thereby increased the danger of all the men who flew in the same formation with him.
　　“Havermeyer, why the hell don’t you ever take evasive action?” they would demand in a rage after the mission.
　　“Hey, you men leave Captain Havermeyer alone,” Colonel Cathcart would order. “He’s the best damnedbombardier we’ve got.”
　　Havermeyer grinned and nodded and tried to explain how he dumdummed the bullets with a hunting knife beforehe fired them at the field mice in his tent every night. Havermeyer was the best damned bombardier they had, buthe flew straight and level all the way from the I.P. to the target, and even far beyond the target until he saw thefalling bombs strike ground and explode in a darting spurt of abrupt orange that flashed beneath the swirling pallof smoke and pulverized debris geysering up wildly in huge, rolling waves of gray and black. Havermeyer heldmortal men rigid in six planes as steady and still as sitting ducks while he followed the bombs all the way downthrough the plexiglass nose with deep interest and gave the German gunners below all the time they needed to settheir sights and take their aim and pull their triggers or lanyards or switches or whatever the hell they did pullwhen they wanted to kill people they didn’t know.
　　Havermeyer was a lead bombardier who never missed. Yossarian was a lead bombardier who had been demotedbecause he no longer gave a damn whether he missed or not. He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt,and his only mission each time he went up was to come down alive.
　　The men had loved flying behind Yossarian, who used to come barreling in over the target from all directionsand every height, climbing and diving and twisting and turning so steeply and sharply that it was all the pilots ofthe other five planes could do to stay in formation with him, leveling out only for the two or three seconds it tookfor the bombs to drop and then zooming off again with an aching howl of engines, and wrenching his flightthrough the air so violently as he wove his way through the filthy barrages of flak that the six planes were soonflung out all over the sky like prayers, each one a pushover for the German fighters, which was just fine withYossarian, for there were no German fighters any more and he did not want any exploding planes near his whenthey exploded. Only when all the Sturm und Drang had been left far behind would he tip his flak helmet backwearily on his sweating head and stop barking directions to McWatt at the controls, who had nothing better towonder about at a time like that than where the bombs had fallen.
　　“Bomb bay clear,” Sergeant Knight in the back would announce.
　　“Did we hit the bridge?” McWatt would ask.
　　“I couldn’t see, sir, I kept getting bounced around back here pretty hard and I couldn’t see. Everything’s coveredwith smoke now and I can’t see.”
　　“Hey, Aarfy, did the bombs hit the target?”
　　“What target?” Captain Aardvaark, Yossarian’s plump, pipe-smoking navigator, would say from the confusionof maps he had created at Yossarian’s side in the nose of the ship. “I don’t think we’re at the target yet. Are we?”
　　“Yossarian, did the bombs hit the target?”
　　“What bombs?” answered Yossarian, whose only concern had been the flak.
　　“Oh, well,” McWatt would sing, “what the hell.”
　　Yossarian did not give a damn whether he hit the target or not, just as long as Havermeyer or one of the otherlead bombardiers did and they never had to go back. Every now and then someone grew angry enough atHavermeyer to throw a punch at him.
　　“I said you men leave Captain Havermeyer alone,” Colonel Cathcart warned them all angrily. “I said he’s thebest damned bombardier we’ve got, didn’t I?”
　　Havermeyer grinned at the colonel’s intervention and shoved another piece of peanut brittle inside his face.
　　Havermeyer had grown very proficient at shooting field mice at night with the gun he had stolen from the deadman in Yossarian’s tent. His bait was a bar of candy and he would presight in the darkness as he sat waiting forthe nibble with a finger of his other hand inside a loop of the line he had run from the frame of his mosquito netto the chain of the unfrosted light bulb overhead. The line was taut as a banjo string, and the merest tug would snap it on and blind the shivering quarry in a blaze of light. Havermeyer would chortle exultantly as he watchedthe tiny mammal freeze and roll its terrified eyes about in frantic search of the intruder. Havermeyer would waituntil the eyes fell upon his own and then he laughed aloud and pulled the trigger at the same time, showering therank, furry body all over the tent with a reverberating crash and dispatching its timid soul back to his or herCreator.
　　Late one night, Havermeyer fired a shot at a mouse that brought Hungry Joe bolting out at him barefoot, rantingat the top of his screechy voice and emptying his own .45 into Havermeyer’s tent as he came charging down oneside of the ditch and up the other and vanished all at once inside one of the slit trenches that had appeared likemagic beside every tent the morning after Milo Minderbinder had bombed the squadron. It was just before dawnduring the Great Big Siege of Bologna, when tongueless dead men peopled the night hours like living ghosts andHungry Joe was half out of his mind because he had finished his missions again and was not scheduled to fly.
　　Hungry Joe was babbling incoherently when they fished him out from the dank bottom of the slit trench,babbling of snakes, rats and spiders. The others flashed their searchlights down just to make sure. There wasnothing inside but a few inches of stagnant rain water.
　　“You see?” cried Havermeyer. “I told you. I told you he was crazy, didn’t I?”
 03、哈弗迈耶
　　说实话，约塞连从医院回到中队驻地时，除了奥尔和约塞连帐篷里的那具尸体之外，没一个人在。那个死人实在是很讨厌，尽管约塞连从未见过他，但对他却是厌恶透顶。尸体整天搁在帐篷里，约塞连极其恼怒，三番五次跑中队办公室，向陶塞军士诉苦，可军士硬是否认有这么个死人存在。当然，约塞连也就不再去找他，自讨没趣了。于是，他便想了办法，直接上诉梅杰少校，但结果却是更让他沮丧。梅杰少校是中队长，瘦高的个儿，长相很有点像落难的亨利•方达。约塞连每次闯过陶塞军士，想跟他说说死人一事时，梅杰少校便从办公室的窗子里跳出去。跟死人合住一顶帐篷，太难为约塞连了。于是，他只得去麻烦奥尔，尽管这人亦极难相处。
　　约塞连回中队的当天，奥尔正在修理炉子加油用的龙头。炉子是约塞连住院期间，奥尔自己动手做的。
　　“你忙什么呢？”尽管他一进帐篷，便看得分明，约塞连依然很谨慎地问了一句。
　　“这儿有个裂缝，”奥尔说，“我正想办法补呢。”
　　“请你别再搞啦，”约塞连说，“搞得我都快烦死了。”
　　“我小时候，”奥尔答道，“常常是每天从早到晚四处闲逛，嘴里还含着海棠果，一边一颗。”
　　约塞连正取出野战背包里的梳妆用具，听罢，便随手把背包置于一旁，很是疑心地准备听他接着往下说。等过片刻。“为什么？”
　　他终究等不及，便不知不觉地开口问道。
　　奥尔很是得意，窃笑道：“因为海棠比七叶树果好吃。”
　　奥尔跪在地上，不停地忙手中的活。他拆下龙头，极小心地摊开所有细小的零件，一一清点过后，便无休止地细心琢磨起每一个零件，仿佛先前从未见过什么与此有些许相仿的东西。接着，又聚起一个个零件，重新装配成完好的小龙头。如此，一遍又一遍，往复不已，依旧耐心之至，兴头十足，也不见有丝毫倦意。看来，一时半会儿，他是不会罢手的。约塞连在一旁看着他没完没了地折腾，心想假如他还不歇手，必定会逼得他无情地向他下毒手。他将目光移向挂在蚊帐横杆上的那柄猎刀，是那个死了的士兵在到达的当天挂在那里的，一旁还挂着他的那只空的手枪皮套，皮套里的枪就是让哈弗迈耶盗走的。
　　“没有海棠果的时候，”奥尔接着说，“我就用七叶树果替代。这种果子跟海棠果差不多大小，其实，形状比海棠果漂亮，当然，形状如何，根本就无关紧要。”
　　“你到处游荡，干吗嘴里要含海棠果？”约塞连又问了一遍。“刚才，我就是问这个。”
　　“因为形状比七叶树果漂亮，”奥尔答道，“我才跟你说过。”
　　“为什么，”约塞连以称许的口吻咒骂道，“你这眼冒邪气、整天只知道瞎捣鼓并且谁都不愿搭理的杂种，为什么到处转悠，嘴里还要含点什么东西？”
　　“我可不是什么东西都含在嘴里的，”奥尔说，“我含的是海棠。
　　弄不到海棠，我就含七叶树果。含在嘴里。”
　　奥尔咯咯地笑了。约塞连决计住嘴，于是果真缄口，不再吭声了。奥尔等着。约塞连却更有耐心。
　　“一边含一颗，”奥尔说。
　　“为什么？”
　　奥尔趁机反戈一击。“什么为什么？”
　　约塞连没理会他，只是笑着摇了摇头。
　　“这阀门真是挺有趣的，”奥尔自言自语道。
　　“怎么啦？”约塞连问。
　　“因为我想要——”
　　约塞连明白了。“天哪！你干吗要——”
　　“——圆圆的饱满的脸蛋。”
　　“——圆圆的饱满的脸蛋？”约塞连问。
　　“我想要圆圆的饱满的脸蛋。”奥尔又说了一遍。“还在我很小的时候，我就想有朝一日要一张圆圆的饱满的脸蛋。于是；我便下定决心，竭尽全力，脸蛋不圆鼓起来，誓不罢休。老天作证，我的确尽了力，总算达到了目的。我便是这么做的，嘴里从早到晚都含着海棠果。”他又咯咯地笑了起来。“一边一颗。”
　　“你干吗想要圆圆的饱满的脸蛋？”
　　“我想要的倒不是圆圆的饱满的脸蛋，”奥尔说，“是宽大的脸蛋。颜色我倒是不怎么在意，关键是，要宽要大。你常可以读到这样一些消息，说是有些家伙像发了疯似的，为了练手力，一天到晚握着橡皮球，东跑西遛。我自己呢，就跟那帮家伙一样，疯了似地卖劲。其实，我就是那号人，疯疯癫癫的。我也是经常手握着橡皮球，没早没晚地四处溜达。”
　　“为什么？”
　　“什么为什么？”
　　“你为什么一天到晚东跑西窜，手里非捏着橡皮球不可？”
　　“因为橡皮球——”奥尔说。
　　“——比海棠漂亮？”
　　奥尔摇了摇头，窃笑道：“我这么做，全是为了维护自己的好名声，免得让人撞见我东跑西窜时嘴里还含着海棠。手握了橡皮球，我就可以说，嘴里没含海棠呀。每当有人间我，为什么东跑西窜时嘴里非含了海棠不可，我就可以摊开双手，让他看清楚，我游逛时随身带着的是橡皮球，不是什么海棠，而且是在我手里，不是含在嘴里。这谎倒是编得挺好的，可别人信了没有，我从来就不知道，因为你跟别人说话时，嘴里含上两颗海棠，要想让人家听明白你的意思，实在不是很容易的。”
　　这时、约塞连倒是的确发现，很难听清楚他在说些什么，他一时又说不准，奥尔是否用舌尖顶着他的一侧圆腮帮在跟他瞎说八道。
　　约塞连打定主意，不再吐半个字儿。说了也白搭。他了解奥尔，知道要想让他亲口道出他喜欢阔脸蛋的真实原因，压根是不可能的。就像有人问过他，那天上午在罗马，那个妓女为什么用鞋子敲打他的头，而且是在内特利的妓女的小妹妹的房门外的窄小过道里，再说，那房门当时又是开着的。结果呢，问的人同样是白费了口舌。奥尔的那个妓女，身量颀长，体格健壮，披散一头长发，可可色的皮肤，极柔嫩处，密密地汇聚了一根根清晰可见的青筋。当时，她一边恶言辱骂，一边扬声尖叫，光着脚，一次次地高跳起来，不停地用细高的鞋跟敲打他的头顶。两个人全光着身，闹腾得极凶，结果，公寓里的房客都跑进过道看热闹，一对对男女全都赤条条地站在各自的房门口，除了一个老太婆和一个老头儿。老太婆系一条围裙，上身套了件针织套衫，在那儿叽里咕咯地责骂；可那老头儿呢，生来便是个浪荡的好色之徒，打从奥尔和妓女开始闹直至结束，他瞧得心花怒放，心里直痒痒，开心得咯咯地笑不停。那姑娘尖声叫嚣，奥尔则是一个劲地傻乐。她用鞋跟敲一下，奥尔便傻笑得更带劲，他越这样，她就越气。于是，跃得更高，猛击他的脑瓜，极丰腴的双乳不停地耸动，似强风中飘扬的三角旗，屁股和粗实的大腿左扭右摆，丰美迷人，极富性感，但令人畏葸。她拼命尖叫，奥尔还是一个劲地傻笑。于是，她又尖叫一声，对着奥尔的太阳穴狠狠一击，把他打昏了过去，终于终止了他的傻笑声。房客们用担架送他进了医院，他的头上给鞋跟扎了个不太深的窟窿眼儿，他得了轻度脑震荡，一时没上火线，尽管只有短短的十二天。
　　这一切究竟是怎么回事，谁也无法弄个水落石出，就连咯咯直笑的老头儿和叽里咕喀责骂的老太婆，也无可奈何，尽管他俩照例应该了然这妓院上下发生的一切。妓院极大，仿佛走不到尽头，客房不计其数，皆分列于狭窄过道的两侧。过道由起居室往相反方向伸展。起居室极宽绰，所有的窗户皆上了窗帘，但室内仅安了一盏灯。那件事之后，每与奥尔相遇，那妓女便会高撩起裙子，露出白色弹力紧身短衬裤，再是满口脏话一番奚落，把个结结实实的圆肚凸起了冲着他，同时，又破口大骂轻侮的话，于是，见他嗤嗤地怯笑，躲及约塞连身后，就又嗓音粗哑了，呵呵大笑。当初，奥尔闭紧了门，在内特利妓女的小妹妹房里做了些什么，或是想做些什么，或是动手了却又没能做成什么，这究竟还是个不解之谜。那姑娘是无论如何不会向什么人道出真情的，不管是内特利的妓女，还是别的什么妓女，抑或内特利和约塞连。奥尔或许会说，但约塞连早已是定了主意，不愿再白费什么口舌。
　　“你不是想知道我为什么喜欢饱满的圆脸蛋吗？”奥尔问道。
　　约塞连还是缄口不语。
　　“你记不记得，”奥尔说，“那次在罗马，那容不了你的娘们老是用鞋跟敲打我的头？你想不想知道她干吗这么做？”
　　奥尔究竟做了些什么，惹那娘们发如此大的火，竟一连在他头上猛击了十五至二十分钟，却又没有令她气恼得抓住他的双脚倒提起来，摔他个脑袋开花。这实在是难以想象。论个儿呢，那娘们确实很高大，奥尔也确实很矮小。奥尔长一副龅牙，双目暴凸，极配了他那张鼓鼓的大圆脸蛋。他的身量比年轻的赫普尔还矮小。赫普尔住的那顶帐篷在铁道左侧的行政区，跟他同居的是亨格利•乔，每天晚上总会在睡梦里惊呼。
　　这帐篷是亨格利•乔误搭人行政区的。行政区地处中队驻地的中心，两侧分别是堆了锈铁轨的壕沟和倾斜的黑色柏油路。路上每见有过往的年轻女子，体态丰盈，相貌却是丑极，咧开掉了牙的嘴，嘻嘻地傻笑。只要中队的弟兄们答应送她们到目的地，姑娘们是没一个不愿搭车的。于是，士兵们便可开车带她们离开那条大道，到杂草丛里野合。约塞连只要有机会，是绝对抓住不放的。不过，较之亨格利•乔，这样的机会在他是不常碰着的。亨格利•乔有本事搞来一辆吉普车，却不会开，因此，便求助于约塞连。中队士兵住的帐篷，搭在柏油路的另一侧，紧挨露天影剧场。影剧场是这些行将送命的兵士每日娱乐的处所，到了晚上，便在一方折叠式的银幕上放映愚蒙无知的军队厮杀的影片。约塞连回到中队的当天下午，影剧场便又迎来了另一个劳军联合组织的剧团。
　　劳军联合组织的剧团，由P•P•佩克姆将军负责调遣。他已将指挥部迁移至罗马，与德里德尔将军钩心斗角，此外，别无什么更适宜的事可做。于佩克姆将军，办事必须绝对地爽利。他行动敏捷，举止文雅，工作一丝不苟。他知道赤道的周长，且总是把本意所指的“增长”，改写成“增进”。他是个卑鄙小人，这一点谁都没有德里德尔将军了解得清楚。近日，佩克姆将军下达了一道军令，要求地中海战区内的所有帐篷全都平行搭建，每顶帐篷的门必须极威风地面向美国国内的华盛顿纪念碑。但，德里德尔将军却为此大感恼怒。在他——一支作战部队的指挥官——看来，这命令实在是一派胡言。此外他联队里的帐篷该如何搭建，压根就轮不上佩克姆将军操什么心。于是，这两位指挥官便为了各自的权限，发生了激烈的争执。结果，因了前一等兵温特格林的缘故，德里德尔将军占了上风。温特格林是第二十七空军司令部邮件收发兵。他在处理信件时，把佩克姆将军的书信全部扔进了废纸篓，因为他觉着太冗长，这样，便定了争执的孰胜孰负。德里德尔将军的书信文体很少矫饰，意见的陈述也较质朴，颇合温特格林的口味，因此，他便竭诚遵照规章制度，快速把信件传送了上去。于是，因上方不曾收到佩克姆将军的函件，德里德尔将军便在这场纠纷中取胜了。
　　佩克姆将军想竭力挽回失掉的声威，于是就不断地派遣出一个个劳军联合组织剧团，数量超出了以往任何一次，并授命卡吉尔上校，鼓励所有将士观看演出。
　　然而，约塞连所在中队的所有官兵对此却全无兴趣。他们当中，倒有越来越多的人一天几次板着脸去找陶塞，询问遣送他们回国的命令是否已经下达。他们都已完成了五十次飞行任务。较之约塞连初进医院的时候，此刻完成五十次飞行任务的官兵人数早已上升，可他们依旧在等待。他们一个个焦心如焚，坐卧不安，犹如抑郁沮丧、窝囊透顶的年轻人，举止怪诞，走路作蟹行。他们等着设在意大利的第二十六空军司令部下达命令，遣送他们安全返回自己的家园。他们无所事事地等待着，焦心如焚，坐卧不安，一天几次神情严肃地上门找陶塞，探听遣送他们安全回国的命令是否已经下达。
　　他们在进行一场竞赛，对此，他们谁都很清楚，因为他们全有过惨痛的经历，深知卡思卡特上校随时会再增加飞行次数。他们唯有待命，除此，别无其它更好的选择。唯独亨格利•乔每次完成飞行任务后，便有更称心的事可做。他做过噩梦，梦里常发出尖叫声，还跟赫普尔的猫屡屡发生拳斗，每回都赢。劳军联合组织每次来演出，他便带了照相机坐在前排，总想拍那黄头发女歌手的半身像，那演员穿一身饰有闪光装饰片的连衣裙，仿佛随时会让一双大丰乳给撑破。可那些照片从来就不见冲印出来。
　　卡吉尔上校是佩克姆将军手下善解难题的高手，他体魄甚健，个性坚强。战前，他曾是一名极有魄力的销售经理，机警敏捷，敢作敢为。可他却是行径十分恶劣的销售经理，实在令人可怕，以致臭名远扬，反倒招徕了不少为逃税而急于亏损的公司，一家家争相雇用他。遍及整个文明世界，从巴特里公园到富尔顿大街，他便是众人眼里能于一夜之间创造逃税奇迹的可靠人选。他身价极高，因为失败常常也是来之不易。他得从上层开始一切，之后，便煞费苦心往下活动，在华盛顿的一些朋友颇有同感，在他们看来，亏蚀钱财实在不是简单的事，得花上几个月的时间，苦心经营，仔细地拟订错误的计划。错用一人，打乱一切程序，事事失算，忽视所有细节，处处漏洞百出，就在他以为马到功成的时候，政府竟赐他一汪湖，一片森林，或一片油田，于是，一切成了泡影。即便有这种种不利因素，人们可以绝对相信卡吉尔上校有能力使处于鼎盛期的企业倒闭。卡吉尔上校是白手起家的，因而，他的一事无成也就怪不得别人了。
　　“弟兄们，”卡吉尔上校开始在约塞连所在的中队煽惑，一边留意说话时的每一处停顿。“你们都是美国军官。世界上没有其他军队的军官可以声言他们是美国军官。你们好好考虑考虑吧。”
　　奈特中士想了想，于是极恭敬地告诉卡吉尔上校说，他正在给兵士们训话，军官们全在中队驻地的另一侧恭候他。卡吉尔上校很爽利地向他道了声谢，使得意扬扬地大步从士兵中穿越了过去。见自己服役二十九个月，依旧保持着当年天才般的无能，卡吉尔上校颇觉得意。
　　“弟兄们，”他开始向军官们讲话，一边留意说话时的每一处停顿。“你们都是美国军官。世界上没有其他军队的军官可以声言他们是美国军官。你们好好考虑考虑吧。”他停顿片刻，让大家伙儿思量一番。“这些人是你们的客人！”突然，他高声叫道，“他们行走三千多英里，前来为你们演出。假如没人愿意去看他们的表演，那么，他们会怎么想？他们的士气又会如何呢？听着，弟兄们，你们去不去看演出，这跟我实在毫不相干，不过，今天想给你们拉手风琴的那个姑娘，早已到了做母亲的年龄。假如你们自己的母亲远行三千多英里的路，为一些并不想看她演出的士兵拉手风琴，你们会有何感想？那位早已到做母亲年龄的手风琴手，一旦她的孩子长大后得知自己的母亲受过这等遭遇，他内心会有什么感受？这答案，我们大家都很清楚。嗨，弟兄们，别误解我的意思。这当然全是自愿的。
　　我这个上校是天底下最不愿意命令你们去观看劳军联合组织剧团这场演出的，不过，我要你们当中除有病非得住院不可的人无一例外地立刻去观看演出，尽情娱乐一番。这是军令！”
　　约塞连确实感到身体很是不适，差不多又需住院治疗。完成三次作战任务后，他的病情更加严重，可是，丹尼卡医生愁闷地摇了摇头，怎么也不愿让他停飞。
　　“你自以为苦恼？”丹尼卡医生痛心地训斥了他一番。“那我呢？
　　当初学医，我可是吃了八年花生。这之后，我便在自己的诊所里靠鸡食为生。直到后来，业务渐渐好了起来，来看病的人多了，我才有能力平衡了收支。于是，就在诊所最终盈利的时候，他们征我服了兵役。我实在是不晓得你发什么牢骚。”
　　丹尼卡医生是约塞连的朋友，却无论如何不肯在他能力所及的情况下帮约塞连一把。丹尼卡医生跟他讲了些飞行大队卡思卡特上校的事，说这家伙居然盼着做一名将军；还谈了联队德里德尔将军及其护士的有关情况；此外，再又介绍了第二十六空军司令部其余各位将军——他们再三主张，只要飞行四十次，就完成了任务。约塞连在一旁听得异常认真。
　　“你何不乐观些，随遇而安呢？”丹尼卡医生郁郁不乐地劝慰约塞连。“瞧人家哈弗迈耶，多学着点儿。”
　　约塞连听罢，便不寒而栗。哈弗迈耶是领队轰炸员，每次飞向轰炸目标时，从不采取规避动作。于是，跟他在同一编队飞行的所有飞行人员面临的危险陡增。
　　“哈弗迈耶，你***为什么老是不采取规避动作？”每次执行任务后，大伙便会气势汹汹地诘问哈弗迈耶。
　　“嘿，你们这帮家伙就别缠着哈弗迈耶啦。”卡思卡特上校就会下命令。“他可是咱们最出色的轰炸手。”
　　哈弗迈耶咧嘴一笑，点点头，于是，就告诉大伙儿说，每天晚上他是如何用猎刀把子弹改制成达姆弹，随后再用这些子弹打自己帐篷里的田鼠的。哈弗迈耶实在是他们最出色的轰炸手。然而，他从出发点一路直线飞往目标，甚至远远飞越目标，直到他亲眼见到投下的炸弹落地开花，猛地喷射出橘黄色的火焰，在滚滚烟幕下闪亮，炸成粉未状的瓦砾，似灰黑色的滚滚巨浪，涌向空中。哈弗迈耶透过普列克斯玻璃机头，全神贯注地盯着炸弹直落而下，这一来，让六架飞机上的飞行人员惊恐得直发愣，飞机稳稳地停留在空中，无疑成了敌人的活靶子。于是，下面的德国炮兵便获得了充裕的时间，调准瞄准具，瞄准目标，扣动扳机，拉火绳，或是掀按钮，抑或诉诸一切武器，一旦他们的确想置素不相识者于死地。
　　哈弗迈耶是一名领队轰炸员，从未失过手。约塞连也是领队轰炸员，但被降了职，原因是他毫不在乎自己是否命中目标。他早就拿定了主意，或是永久生存，或是在求得永生中死去。他每次上天执行飞行任务，唯一的使命便是活着返回地面。
　　先前，中队里的弟兄们极喜随约塞连后飞行。约塞连常自四面八方及各不同的高度，疾飞至目标上空，时而急上升，时而大角度俯冲，时而又大坡度盘旋——其他五架飞机上的飞行员竭尽了全力与他保持队形，继而，他仅用两三秒钟平飞，投下炸弹，于是，随发动机的一阵震耳欲聋的轰鸣声，再又急跃升飞。他急遽地从空中飞过，迂回穿行于密集的高炮火力之中，于是，六架飞机即刻在空中四散开来，似一个个祈祷者，每一架飞机便成了德国战斗机炮击的活靶子。然而，于约塞连，这实在是桩好事，因为他自己周围就不复见有德国战斗机，再者，他也不希望有什么飞机在自己飞机的近处爆炸。只是在远远甩掉德国人的“狂飚”战斗机之后，约塞连才会无精打采地把航空钢盔推至大汗淋漓的后脑勺，停止对把握操纵器的麦克沃特厉声叫喊着发号施令。此刻，麦克沃特唯一的疑惑，便是投下的炸弹不知落至了何方。
　　“炸弹舱空了。”守在尾舱的奈特中士便会通报。
　　“桥炸到没有？”麦克沃特会问道。
　　“我看不见，长官，我在这尾舱颠得实在是厉害，没法看见。这会儿下面全是烟雾，根本就看不到。”
　　“喂，阿费，炸弹有没有击中目标？”
　　“哪个目标？”阿德瓦克上尉会反问道。胖墩墩的阿德瓦克上尉，喜抽烟斗，是约塞连的领航员，答话时，正置身机头，立于约塞连一侧，面前杂乱地堆着一张张由他设计的地图。“我想我们还没达到目标。我说得没错吧？”
　　“约塞连，炸弹击中了目标没有？”
　　“哪几枚炸弹？”约塞连反问道。他唯一关注的是高射炮火。
　　“嗬，行了，”麦克沃特便会说，“算了吧。”
　　约塞连毫不在乎自己是否击中目标，只要哈弗迈耶或是其他随便哪个领队轰炸员命中了目标，大伙儿便再也不必飞回去继续轰炸。有人时常对哈弗迈耶极恼火，恨不得揍他一拳。
　　“我跟你们说过，别去打扰哈弗迈耶上尉。”卡思卡特上校忿忿地警告他们。“我早说过，他是我们最出色的轰炸手，难道你们忘了？”
　　见上校出面斡旋，哈弗迈耶咧嘴一笑，又往嘴里塞了一颗花生薄脆糖。
　　晚上打田鼠，在哈弗迈耶，已是得心应手了。用的武器便是从约塞连帐篷里那个死人处窃来的那枝枪，诱饵是一块糖。他坐等着田鼠来啃糖块，一边在黑夜里细察；另一只手的一根手指套住一根绳尾端打成的圈，绳就拉在蚊帐架和头顶上方那只非磨砂灯泡的开关线之间。绳绷得极紧，似班卓琴的琴弦，轻轻一拉，电灯便随一声吧嗒亮了开来，炫目的灯光照得浑身哆嗦的田鼠两眼昏花。目睹着这小田鼠惊吓得动也不动，骨碌碌地转动恐惧的眼睛，紧张万分地拼命搜寻来犯之敌，哈弗迈耶总会咯咯地欢笑不止。待到田鼠的目光和他的目光相碰，他便纵声狂笑，同时扣动扳机，于是，一声巨响回荡，毛茸茸的躯壳给击成腥臭的肉酱，飞溅得帐篷里到处都是。
　　一天深夜，哈弗迈耶朝一只田鼠开了一枪，枪声一响，亨格利•乔便光脚冲了出来，直奔哈弗迈耶的帐篷，一边尖声叫嚷，一边手持四五口径手枪把一颗颗子弹射了进去，同时，从壕沟的一侧猛冲下去，又从另一侧猛冲了上来，随即便突然消失在一条狭长掩壕里。这样的掩壕，自米洛•明德宾德轰炸中队驻进后的次日上午，竟似变魔术一般，眨眼间现于每一顶帐篷的旁边。这事就发生在博洛尼亚大会战期间的一天黎明前夕。当天夜晚，处处见有默默无言的死人，恰似一个个活幽灵。亨格利•乔当时也因忧心忡忡而近乎精神错乱，因为他又完成了飞行任务，一时不再会上天。待弟兄们从阴湿的掩壕底把他捞上来时，他正断断续续地说着胡话，一会儿蛇，一会儿耗子，一会儿又是蜘蛛。其他人打着手电往下照，想看个分明，然而，掩壕里除几英寸已变臭的雨水之外，便什么也见不到。
　　“你们瞧见了吧？”哈弗迈耶高声叫道，“我早跟你们说过，他疯了，难道你们忘了？”
Chapter 4 Doc Daneeka
    Hungry Joe was crazy, and no one knew it better than Yossarian, who did everything he could to help him.
　　Hungry Joe just wouldn’t listen to Yossarian. Hungry Joe just wouldn’t listen because he thought Yossarian wascrazy.
　　“Why should he listen to you?” Doc Daneeka inquired of Yossarian without looking up.
　　“Because he’s got troubles.”
　　Doc Daneeka snorted scornfully. “He thinks he’s got troubles? What about me?” Doc Daneeka continued slowlywith a gloomy sneer. “Oh, I’m not complaining. I know there’s a war on. I know a lot of people are going tohave to suffer for us to win it. But why must I be one of them? Why don’t they draft some of these old doctorswho keep shooting their kissers off in public about what big sacrifices the medical game stands ready to make? Idon’t want to make sacrifices. I want to make dough.”
　　Doc Daneeka was a very neat, clean man whose idea of a good time was to sulk. He had a dark complexion and asmall, wise, saturnine face with mournful pouches under both eyes. He brooded over his health continually andwent almost daily to the medical tent to have his temperature taken by one of the two enlisted men there who ranthings for him practically on their own, and ran it so efficiently that he was left with little else to do but sit in thesunlight with his stuffed nose and wonder what other people were so worried about. Their names were Gus and Wes and they had succeeded in elevating medicine to an exact science. All men reporting on sick call withtemperatures above 102 were rushed to the hospital. All those except Yossarian reporting on sick call withtemperatures below 102 had their gums and toes painted with gentian violet solution and were given a laxative tothrow away into the bushes. All those reporting on a sick call with temperatures of exactly 102 were asked toreturn in an hour to have their temperatures taken again. Yossarian, with his temperature of 101, could go to thehospital whenever he wanted to because he was not afraid of them.
　　The system worked just fine for everybody, especially for Doc Daneeka, who found himself with all the time heneeded to watch old Major --- de Coverley pitching horseshoes in his private horseshoe-pitching pit, still wearingthe transparent eye patch Doc Daneeka had fashioned for him from the strip of celluloid stolen from MajorMajor’s orderly room window months before when Major ---de Coverley had returned from Rome with aninjured cornea after renting two apartments there for the officers and enlisted men to use on their rest leaves. Theonly time Doc Daneeka ever went to the medical tent was the time he began to feel he was a very sick man eachday and stopped in just to have Gus and Wes look him over. They could never find anything wrong with him.
　　His temperature was always 96.8, which was perfectly all right with them, as long as he didn’t mind. DocDaneeka did mind. He was beginning to lose confidence in Gus and Wes and was thinking of having them bothtransferred back to the motor pool and replaced by someone who could find something wrong.
　　Doc Daneeka was personally familiar with a number of things that were drastically wrong. In addition to hishealth, he worried about the Pacific Ocean and flight time. Health was something no one ever could be sure offor a long enough time. The Pacific Ocean was a body of water surrounded on all sides by elephantiasis andother dread diseases to which, if he ever displeased Colonel Cathcart by grounding Yossarian, he might suddenlyfind himself transferred. And flight time was the time he had to spend in airplane flight each month in order toget his flight pay. Doc Daneeka hated to fly. He felt imprisoned in an airplane. In an airplane there wasabsolutely no place in the world to go except to another part of the airplane. Doc Daneeka had been told thatpeople who enjoyed climbing into an airplane were really giving vent to a subconscious desire to climb back intothe womb. He had been told this by Yossarian, who made it possible for Dan Daneeka to collect his flight payeach month without ever climbing back into the womb. Yossarian would persuade McWatt to enter DocDaneeka’s name on his flight log for training missions or trips to Rome.
　　“You know how it is,” Doc Daneeka had wheedled, with a sly, conspiratorial wink. “Why take chances when Idon’t have to?”
　　“Sure,” Yossarian agreed.
　　“What difference does it make to anyone if I’m in the plane or not?”
　　“No difference.”
　　“Sure, that’s what I mean,” Doc Daneeka said. “A little grease is what makes this world go round. One handwashes the other. Know what I mean? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
　　Yossarian knew what he meant.
　　“That’s not what I meant,” Doc Daneeka said, as Yossarian began scratching his back. “I’m talking about cooperation.
　　Favors. You do a favor for me, I’ll do one for you. Get it?”
　　“Do one for me,” Yossarian requested.
　　“Not a chance,” Doc Daneeka answered.
　　There was something fearful and minute about Doc Daneeka as he sat despondently outside his tent in thesunlight as often as he could, dressed in khaki summer trousers and a short-sleeved summer shirt that wasbleached almost to an antiseptic gray by the daily laundering to which he had it subjected. He was like a manwho had grown frozen with horror once and had never come completely unthawed. He sat all tucked up intohimself, his slender shoulders huddled halfway around his head, his suntanned hands with their luminous silverfingernails massaging the backs of his bare, folded arms gently as though he were cold. Actually, he was a verywarm, compassionate man who never stopped feeling sorry for himself.
　　“Why me?” was his constant lament, and the question was a good one.
　　Yossarian knew it was a good one because Yossarian was a collector of good questions and had used them todisrupt the educational sessions Clevinger had once conducted two nights a week in Captain Black’s intelligencetent with the corporal in eyeglasses who everybody knew was probably a subversive. Captain Black knew he wasa subversive because he wore eyeglasses and used words like panacea and utopia, and because he disapproved ofAdolf Hitler, who had done such a great job of combating un-American activities in Germany. Yossarianattended the educational sessions because he wanted to find out why so many people were working so hard tokill him. A handful of other men were also interested, and the questions were many and good when Clevingerand the subversive corporal finished and made the mistake of asking if there were any.
　　“Who is Spain?”
　　“Why is Hitler?”
　　“When is right?”
　　“Where was that stooped and mealy-colored old man I used to call Poppa when the merry-go-round brokedown?”
　　“How was trump at Munich?”
　　“Ho-ho beriberi.”
　　and“Balls!”
　　all rang out in rapid succession, and then there was Yossarian with the question that had no answer:
　　“Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?”
　　The question upset them, because Snowden had been killed over Avignon when Dobbs went crazy in mid-air andseized the controls away from Huple.
　　The corporal played it dumb. “What?” he asked.
　　“Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?”
　　“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
　　“Où sont les Neigedens d’antan?” Yossarian said to make it easier for him.
　　“Parlez en anglais, for Christ’s sake,” said the corporal. “Je ne parle pas fran?ais.”
　　“Neither do I,” answered Yossarian, who was ready to pursue him through all the words in the world to wringthe knowledge from him if he could, but Clevinger intervened, pale, thin, and laboring for breath, a humidcoating of tears already glistening in his undernourished eyes.
　　Group Headquarters was alarmed, for there was no telling what people might find out once they felt free to askwhatever questions they wanted to. Colonel Cathcart sent Colonel Korn to stop it, and Colonel Korn succeededwith a rule governing the asking of questions. Colonel Korn’s rule was a stroke of genius, Colonel Kornexplained in his report to Colonel Cathcart. Under Colonel Korn’s rule, the only people permitted to askquestions were those who never did. Soon the only people attending were those who never asked questions, andthe sessions were discontinued altogether, since Clevinger, the corporal and Colonel Korn agreed that it wasneither possible nor necessary to educate people who never questioned anything.
　　Colonel Cathcart and Lieutenant Colonel Korn lived and worked in the Group Headquarters building, as did allthe members of the headquarters staff, with the exception of the chaplain. The Group Headquarters building wasan enormous, windy, antiquated structure built of powdery red stone and banging plumbing. Behind the buildingwas the modern skeet-shooting range that had been constructed by Colonel Cathcart for the exclusive recreationof the officers at Group and at which every officer and enlisted man on combat status now, thanks to GeneralDreedle, had to spend a minimum of eight hours a month.
　　Yossarian shot skeet, but never hit any. Appleby shot skeet and never missed. Yossarian was as bad at shootingskeet as he was at gambling. He could never win money gambling either. Even when he cheated he couldn’t win,because the people he cheated against were always better at cheating too. These were two disappointments towhich he had resigned himself: he would never be a skeet shooter, and he would never make money.
　　“It takes brains not to make money,” Colonel Cargill wrote in one of the homiletic memoranda he regularly prepared for circulation over General Peckem’s signature. “Any fool can make money these days and most ofthem do. But what about people with talent and brains? Name, for example, one poet who makes money.”
　　“T. S. Eliot,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen said in his mail-sorting cubicle at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters,and slammed down the telephone without identifying himself.
　　Colonel Cargill, in Rome, was perplexed.
　　“Who was it?” asked General Peckem.
　　“I don’t know,” Colonel Cargill replied.
　　“What did he want?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Well, what did he say?”
　　“’T. S. Eliot,’” Colonel Cargill informed him.
　　“What’s that?”
　　“’T. S. Eliot,’” Colonel Cargill repeated.
　　“Just ‘T. S.’—““Yes, sir. That’s all he said. Just ‘T. S. Eliot.’”
　　“I wonder what it means,” General Peckem reflected. Colonel Cargill wondered, too.
　　“T. S. Eliot,” General Peckem mused.
　　“T. S. Eliot,” Colonel Cargill echoed with the same funereal puzzlement.
　　General Peckem roused himself after a moment with an unctuous and benignant smile. His expression wasshrewd and sophisticated. His eyes gleamed maliciously. “Have someone get me General Dreedle,” he requestedColonel Cargill. “Don’t let him know who’s calling.”
　　Colonel Cargill handed him the phone.
　　“T. S. Eliot,” General Peckem said, and hung up.
　　“Who was it?” asked Colonel Moodus.
　　General Dreedle, in Corsica, did not reply. Colonel Moodus was General Dreedle’s son-in-law, and GeneralDreedle, at the insistence of his wife and against his own better judgment, had taken him into the militarybusiness. General Dreedle gazed at Colonel Moodus with level hatred. He detested the very sight of his son-inlaw,who was his aide and therefore in constant attendance upon him. He had opposed his daughter’s marriage toColonel Moodus because he disliked attending weddings. Wearing a menacing and preoccupied scowl, GeneralDreedle moved to the full-length mirror in his office and stared at his stocky reflection. He had a grizzled, broadbrowedhead with iron-gray tufts over his eyes and a blunt and belligerent jaw. He brooded in ponderousspeculation over the cryptic message he had just received. Slowly his face softened with an idea, and he curledhis lips with wicked pleasure.
　　“Get Peckem,” he told Colonel Moodus. “Don’t let the bastard know who’s calling.”
　　“Who was it?” asked Colonel Cargill, back in Rome.
　　“That same person,” General Peckem replied with a definite trace of alarm. “Now he’s after me.”
　　“What did he want?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“What did he say?”
　　“The same thing.”
　　“’T. S. Eliot’?”
　　“Yes, ‘T. S. Eliot.’ That’s all he said.” General Peckem had a hopeful thought. “Perhaps it’s a new code orsomething, like the colors of the day. Why don’t you have someone check with Communications and see if it’s anew code or something or the colors of the day?”
　　Communications answered that T. S. Eliot was not a new code or the colors of the day.
　　Colonel Cargill had the next idea. “Maybe I ought to phone Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters and see ifthey know anything about it. They have a clerk up there named Wintergreen I’m pretty close to. He’s the onewho tipped me off that our prose was too prolix.”
　　Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen told Cargill that there was no record at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters of a T. S.
　　Eliot.
　　“How’s our prose these days?” Colonel Cargill decided to inquire while he had ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen on thephone. “It’s much better now, isn’t it?”
　　“It’s still too prolix,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen replied.
　　“It wouldn’t surprise me if General Dreedle were behind the whole thing,” General Peckem confessed at last.
　　“Remember what he did to that skeet-shooting range?”
　　General Dreedle had thrown open Colonel Cathcart’s private skeet-shooting range to every officer and enlistedman in the group on combat duty. General Dreedle wanted his men to spend as much time out on the skeet-shooting range as the facilities and their flight schedule would allow. Shooting skeet eight hours a month wasexcellent training for them. It trained them to shoot skeet.
　　Dunbar loved shooting skeet because he hated every minute of it and the time passed so slowly. He had figuredout that a single hour on the skeet-shooting range with people like Havermeyer and Appleby could be worth asmuch as eleven-times-seventeen years.
　　“I think you’re crazy,” was the way Clevinger had responded to Dunbar’s discovery.
　　“Who wants to know?” Dunbar answered.
　　“I mean it,” Clevinger insisted.
　　“Who cares?” Dunbar answered.
　　“I really do. I’ll even go so far as to concede that life seems longer I—““—is longer I—““—is longer—Is longer? All right, is longer if it’s filled with periods of boredom and discomfort, b—““Guess how fast?” Dunbar said suddenly.
　　“Huh?”
　　“They go,” Dunbar explained.
　　“Years.”
　　“Years.”
　　“Years,” said Dunbar. “Years, years, years.”
　　“Clevinger, why don’t you let Dunbar alone?” Yossarian broke in. “Don’t you realize the toll this is taking?”
　　“It’s all right,” said Dunbar magnanimously. “I have some decades to spare. Do you know how long a year takes when it’s going away?”
　　“And you shut up also,” Yossarian told Orr, who had begun to snigger.
　　“I was just thinking about that girl,” Orr said. “That girl in Sicily. That girl in Sicily with the bald head.”
　　“You’d better shut up also,” Yossarian warned him.
　　“It’s your fault,” Dunbar said to Yossarian. “Why don’t you let him snigger if he wants to? It’s better thanhaving him talking.”
　　“All right. Go ahead and snigger if you want to.”
　　“Do you know how long a year takes when it’s going away?” Dunbar repeated to Clevinger. “This long.” Hesnapped his fingers. “A second ago you were stepping into college with your lungs full of fresh air. Today you’rean old man.”
　　“Old?” asked Clevinger with surprise. “What are you talking about?”
　　“Old.”
　　“I’m not old.”
　　“You’re inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age? Ahalf minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an unhooked brassiere was as close as you everhoped to get to Paradise. Only a fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summervacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip! They go rocketing by so fast. Howthe hell else are you ever going to slow time down?” Dunbar was almost angry when he finished.
　　“Well, maybe it is true,” Clevinger conceded unwillingly in a subdued tone. “Maybe a long life does have to befilled with many unpleasant conditions if it’s to seem long. But in that event, who wants one?”
　　“I do,” Dunbar told him.
　　“Why?” Clevinger asked.
　　“What else is there?”
 04、丹尼卡医
　　亨格利•乔确实疯了，这一点约塞连比谁都清楚。约塞连尽了一切力帮助他。但亨格利•乔无论如何不听他的。他不愿听信约塞连，是因为在他看来，约塞连也是个疯子。
　　“他干吗非听从你不可？”丹尼卡医生连头也不抬地问约塞连。
　　“因为他有病。”
　　丹尼卡医生轻蔑地哼了一声。“他自己觉得有病吗？那我呢？”
　　丹尼卡医生脸沉沉地发出一声讥笑，于是，慢悠悠地接着道，“唉，我倒不是发什么牢骚。我知道，眼下正是战争时期。我也知道，许多人为了打赢这场战争，不得不替我们承受苦难。可是，为什么我也非得跟他们一样受苦呢？他们干吗不征募一些老医生呢？这些人不是时常在公共场合口口声声吹嘘什么医务界随时准备作出重大牺牲吗？我不想作什么牺牲。我想发财。”
　　丹尼卡医生是极讲究洁净的人。于他，愠怒便是桩乐事。他皮肤黝黑，脸型极小，却流露出聪慧和阴郁，双目下垂着哀戚的眼袋。
　　他始终担忧自己的健康，几乎每天上医务室量体温。轮番替他量体温的，是在那里工作的两个士兵，他俩承担了医务室的一切事务，且把医务室上上下下安置得妥妥当当。于是，丹尼卡医生终日无所事事，整日抽着不通气的鼻子坐在日光下暗自纳闷，其他人为何如此愁眉锁眼。两个士兵，一名叫格斯，另一名叫韦斯，他俩已成功地将医务工作完善为一门精密的科学。门诊伤病员集合时，凡发现体温超过华氏一百零二度者，一概急送医院。除约塞连外，凡在门诊伤病员集合时查出体温低于华氏一百零二度的病号，全部用龙胆紫溶液搽牙龈和脚趾，再就是每人给一颗轻泻片。结果，这药病员们一接到手，便扔进了灌木丛。至于体温不高不低正好是华氏一百零二度的那些人，则一律要求于一小时后回医务室，重新测量体温。约塞连呢，虽然体温只有华氏一百零一度，但是他随时可进医院，只要他自己愿意，原因是，他压根就没把格斯和韦斯这两个人放在眼里。
　　这一整套制度的推行，于每一位官兵都大有益处，尤其在丹尼卡医生身上，这一点体现得更是充分。他有了足够的时间，尽兴地观看年老的德•科弗利少校在自己的私人蹄铁投掷场掷蹄铁。科弗利少校依旧戴着丹尼卡医生替他制作的透明的赛璐珞眼罩，那一狭条赛璐珞片，是数月前从梅杰少校的中队办公室的窗子上窃来的。当初，德•科弗利少校刚从罗马回来，眼角膜受了伤。在罗马，他租了两套公寓房间，专供军官和士兵休假时享用。丹尼卡医生只有在每天觉着自己患了重病时，才会顺道去一趟医务室，即便去了，也只是让格斯和韦斯替他细细检查一番。然而，他俩无论如何查不出丹尼卡医生有什么不正常。他的体温，始终是华氏九十六点八度，这样的体温于他们实在是极正常的，自然，只要丹尼卡医生自己觉得无关紧要。但，丹尼卡医生确实很在意。他开始对格斯和韦斯失却了信任感，正考虑让人把他俩遣回汽车调度场，再找个人来作替换。当然，这人得有能耐在丹尼卡医生身上查出些毛病来。
　　丹尼卡医生自己通晓诸多极不正常的物事。除自己的健康状况外，他还担忧或许某日会被遣往太平洋，以及飞行时间。至于健康，无论是谁，在相当长的时间内，都是把握不了的。而太平洋呢，却是一片汪洋，四周让象皮病及其他种种可怕的疾病严实地围住。
　　假如他什么时候让约塞连停飞，由此而得罪了卡思卡特上校，那么，他很有可能突然人不知鬼不觉地给调到太平洋。他所谓的飞行时间，便是为领取飞行津贴，每月坐飞机飞行所必需的时间。丹尼卡医生极讨厌飞行。坐在飞机上，他总有蹲牢房的感觉。人在飞机上，只能从飞机这一端走到另一端，此外，实在是没有别的什么活动余地了。丹尼卡医生曾听人说过，凡是喜钻飞机者，实实在在是想满足一种潜意识的欲望：再次钻进子宫。是约塞连跟他这么说的。幸亏约塞连出面相帮，丹尼卡医生方才免了再次钻进子宫的麻烦，依旧分文不少地领取他的每月飞行津贴。每次执行训练飞行任务，或是飞罗马，约塞连总会说服麦克沃特，让他把丹尼卡医生的名字记入飞行日志。
　　“你知道这其中的情由，”丹尼卡医生曾花言巧语，哄骗约塞连，同时诡秘地使了个眼色，仿佛与他在一起密谋什么。“非万不得已，我又何必去冒险呢？”
　　“那当然，”约塞连表示同意。
　　“我在飞机上也好，不在也好，这跟别人有什么相干？”
　　“毫不相干。”
　　“的确是这样，压根就碍不了别人什么事，”丹尼卡医生说，“这世界要畅运，靠的是润滑。左手帮右手，右手帮左手。你懂我的意思？你替我搔背，我替你搔背。”
　　约塞连懂他的意思。
　　“我不是这意思，”见约塞连开始替他搔背，丹尼卡医生说道，“我说的是合作、互助；你帮我，我帮你。懂吗？”
　　“那就帮我一个忙吧，”约塞连请求道。
　　“这绝对不可能，”丹尼卡医生回答说。
　　丹尼卡医生时常坐在自己的帐篷外面晒太阳，身穿夏令卡其裤及短袖衬衫——由于每天洗烫，似消了毒一般，差不多褪成了灰色，神情却很沮丧，颇显得怯懦，微不足道。仿佛他一度大受惊吓，魂魄飞散，从此便再也不曾彻底摆脱掉那次惶恐。他蟋缩着身子，坐在那里，半个头埋在单薄的双肩之间，两手给太阳晒得黑黑的，手指却镀成银色，闪光发亮，双臂裸露着交叉胸前，手不时轻柔地抚摩臂背，好像他感觉冷似的。其实，他这人倒是极热心的，颇有些同情心。他始终觉得自己挺倒霉，心中由此而愤愤不平。
　　“干吗老是我倒霉？”他常这么悲叹，不过，这话问得实在是好，无法予以即刻的答复。
　　约塞连知道丹尼卡医生这话问得好，因为他长于收集这类难以回答的问题，且用这些问题扰乱了克莱文杰和那位戴眼镜的下士一度合办的短训班——地点是布莱克上尉的情报营，每周两个晚上。戴眼镜的下士极可能是一个颠覆分子，这一点大家都很清楚。布莱克上尉确信这家伙就是颠覆分子，因为他架了副眼镜，且又常用“万灵药”和“乌托邦”一类的词。再者，他憎恶阿道夫•希特勒，殊不知，在与德国的非美活动进行的斗争中，希待勒可是立下了汗马功劳。约塞连也参加了短训班，原因是，他极想知道为何竟有那么多人千方百计要害他。此外，还有少数官兵也颇有兴致。克莱文杰和那个被认作是颠覆分子的下士，每次授课毕，总要问大家是否有问题，这一问实在是不该的，其结果，便是引出了一连串极有趣味的问题。
　　“谁是西班牙？”
　　“为什么是希特勒？”
　　“什么时候是正确的？”
　　“旋转木马坏掉时，我常叫他爸爸的那个脸色苍白的驼背老头儿在哪里呢？”
　　“慕尼黑的王牌怎么样？”
　　“嗬——嗬！脚气病。”
　　以及：
　　“睾丸！”
　　大家连珠炮似地发问。于是，便有了约塞连那个没有答案的问题：
　　“去年的斯诺登夫妇如今在何方？”
　　这问题难住了克莱文杰和下士，因为斯诺登早已丧命于阿维尼翁上空。当时在空中，多布斯发了疯，强夺过赫普尔手中的操纵器，最终导致了斯诺登的一命呜呼。
　　下士故意装聋作哑。“你说什么？”他问道。
　　“去年的斯诺登夫妇如今在何方？”
　　“很遗憾，我没听懂你说的话。”
　　约塞连把话说简洁些，想让下士听个明白。
　　“看在老天爷面上，”下士说。
　　“我也不说法语，”约塞连答道。假如可能，他打算追根究底，千方百计从下士嘴里把问题的答案给“挤”出来，即便竭尽全世界的一切语汇，也不足惜。然而，克莱文杰出面干涉。瘦溜的克莱文杰这会儿脸色苍白，粗重地喘息着，营养不良的双眼里早已噙了一层湿润的晶莹的泪水。
　　大队司令部对此却是不胜惊恐，一旦学员们随心所欲地提问题，说不准会有什么秘密让他们给捣出来。卡思卡特上校遂遣科恩中校前去制止这种放肆。最终，科恩中校制订了一条提问规则。在给卡思卡特上校的报告中，科恩中校解释道，他订出的这一规则，实在是天才之举。依照科恩的这一规则，只有从未问过问题的人，方可提问。不久，参加短训班的，便只有那些从未提问过的官兵。终于，短训班彻底解散，原因是，克莱文杰、下士和科恩中校三人取得一致看法，培训那些从不质疑的人，既不可取，亦绝无必要。
　　和司令部的所有工作人员一样，卡思卡特上校和科恩中校都在大队司令部的办公大楼里生活和工作。唯独随军牧师是个例外。
　　司令部办公大楼是一座庞大建筑，由一种易碎的红色石块砌成，且装有极大的管道设备，年久失修，长日当风。大楼后面是一现代化的双向飞碟射击场，由卡思卡特上校下令建筑，专供大队军官娱乐。依德里德尔的命令，现在，凡参战的官兵，每个月至少得在这射击场花上八个小时。
　　约塞连射双向飞碟，但从未击中过；阿普尔比却是百发百中的射击能手。约塞连拙于双向飞碟射击，赌博术亦极低劣。赌场上，他向来赢不了钱，即便作弊，也赢不了，因为他的对手的作弊术总是胜他一筹。这便是他平素自认的两桩遗恨：永远成不了双向飞碟射手，永远捞不到钱。
　　“想要不捞钱，是要绞尽脑汁的。这年月，傻爪也能捞钱，大多数傻瓜有这能耐。可是，具有才智的人又如何呢？举个例子，说说有哪个诗人会捞钱的。”卡吉尔上校在一份说教备忘录——由卡吉尔上校定期撰写、佩克姆将军签发、大队官兵传阅——里写下了以上这段话。
　　“T.S.艾略特，”前一等兵温特格林答道。当时，他正在第二十七空军司令部的邮件分类室里，说罢，连自己的姓名也没留与对方，便砰地挂上电话。
　　卡吉尔上校，人在罗马，听了电话，大惑不解。
　　“是谁？”佩克姆将军问。
　　“不知道，”卡吉尔上校答道。
　　“他想干什么？”
　　“不知道。”
　　“那他说了些啥？”
　　“T.S.艾略特，”卡吉尔上校告诉他。
　　“什么？”
　　“T.S.艾略特，”卡吉尔上校又说了一遍。
　　“只说了‘T.S.——’”“是的，将军。他啥也没说，只说了‘T.S.艾略特’。”
　　“真不明白他说这是啥意思，”佩克姆将军思忖道。
　　卡吉尔上校也很纳闷。
　　“T.S.艾略特。”佩克姆将军若有所思。
　　“T.S.艾略特。”卡吉尔上校复述了一遍，语调是同样的阴郁、困惑。
　　待过片刻，佩克姆将军重新振作起来，露出令人宽慰的慈祥的笑容，表情精明狡黠，两眼透出恶狠狠的光芒。“让人替我接通德里德尔将军，”他对卡吉尔上校说，“别让他知道是谁打的电话。”
　　卡吉尔上校把话筒递给他。
　　“T.S.艾略特。”佩克姆将军说罢，便挂断了电话。
　　“谁？”穆达士上校问道。
　　在科西嘉的德里德尔将军没有答复。穆达士是德里德尔将军的女婿。将军经不住妻子的软磨，终于违心地把女婿弄进了军队。
　　德里德尔将军狠狠地逼视穆达士上校。一见到女婿，他便心起厌恶，但女婿是他的副官，所以时常得随从他。当初，他就不赞成女儿嫁给穆达士上校，原因是，他讨厌参加婚礼。德里德尔将军紧锁眉头，心事重重，一脸凶气。他移步走到办公室的大穿衣镜前，注视着自己矮墩墩的镜中影像。他，头发花白，脑门宽阔，几缕铁灰色头发垂下遮住双眼，下巴方正，好斗。将军苦苦思索着适才接到的那个神秘电话。他计上心头，愁容亦随之缓缓地舒展了开来，于是，现出恶作剧般的兴奋，撅起了嘴唇。
　　“接佩克姆，”他对穆达士说，“别让那狗杂种知道是谁打的电话。”
　　“是谁？”在罗马那边的卡吉尔上校问。
　　“还是那个人，”佩克姆将军答道，满脸的惊讶。“这下他缠住我了。”
　　“他想干什么？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“他说啥？”
　　“还是那句话。”
　　“‘T.S.艾略特’？”
　　“没错，‘T.S.艾略特’。此外什么也没说。”佩克姆将军有了一个挺妙的主意。“说不定是个新密码，或是别的什么，比方说，当日的旗号。为何不叫人跟通讯司令部核实一下，查查清楚究竟是不是新密码或类似的什么，还是当日的旗号？”
　　通讯司令部回复道，T.S.艾略特既非新密码，亦非当日旗号。
　　卡吉尔上校亦有了个主意。“也许我该给第二十七空军司令部打个电话，问问他们是否知道这事。他们那儿有一个叫温特格林的办事员，跟我挺熟的。他私下告诉我说，我们送上去的报告，写得太罗嗦。”
　　前一等兵温特格林告诉卡吉尔上校说，第二十七空军司令部的档案不见有一个名叫T.S.艾略特的人的记录。
　　“我们的报告最近怎么样？”趁前一等兵温特格林还没放下话筒，卡吉尔上校便决定探问一下。“比先前写得好多了，是不是？”
　　“还是太罗嗦，”前一等兵温特格林答道。
　　“假如是德里德尔将军幕后策划了这一切，那我就丝毫不感到奇怪了，”佩克姆将军最终坦言道，“你记不记得上回他是怎么处置双向飞碟射击场一事的？”
　　当初，卡思卡特私建了一片双向飞碟射击场。结果，德里德尔将军开放了射击场，供大队的所有参战官兵享用。他要求自己的部下，只要射击场设备和飞行时刻表许可，尽可能在那儿多泡上些时辰。每月作八小时的双向飞碟射击，于他们实在是极好的训练。训练他们射击飞靶。
　　邓巴极喜射击双向飞碟，是因为他极其讨厌这一运动，所以，时间过起来就显得很慢。他曾计算过，只要在双向飞碟射击场同哈弗迈耶和阿普尔比这样的人呆上一个小时，就好像是熬过了一百八十六年。
　　“我想你准是疯了。”对邓巴的发现，克莱文杰曾作如是说。
　　“谁在乎这个？”邓巴答道。
　　“我想你是疯了，”克莱文杰坚持自己的看法。
　　“管它呢！”邓巴回答说。
　　“我真是这么想的。我甚至想承认，生命似乎漫长了些，假——”
　　“——是漫长了些，假——”
　　“——是漫长了些——是漫长了些吗？没错，确实是漫长了些，假如生活枯燥乏味，满是痛苦烦恼，因——”
　　“你猜猜看有多快？”邓巴冷不防问了一句。
　　“你说啥？”
　　“它们过得很快，”邓巴解释道。
　　“谁？”
　　“年月呗。”
　　“年月？”
　　“年月，”邓巴说，“年月，年月，年月。”
　　“克莱文杰，你干吗老是纠缠邓巴？”约塞连插话道，“难道你不清楚像你这样喋喋不休是要折寿的？”
　　“没关系，”邓巴宽宏他说，“我还有好几十年可活呢。你可知道，一年的时间流逝有多长？”
　　“你也给我闭嘴吧，”约塞连对奥尔说。奥尔正在一旁窃笑。
　　“我刚才想起了那个姑娘，”奥尔说，“西西里的那个姑娘。那个秃头的西西里姑娘。”
　　“你最好也闭上嘴巴，”约塞连警告他说。
　　“这可是你的不是了，”邓巴对约塞连说，“他想笑，你又何必阻止他呢？与其让他开口说话，还不如听他笑。”
　　“好吧。想笑，你就继续笑吧。”
　　“你可知道，一年的时间流逝有多长？”邓巴又问了克莱文杰一遍。“这么长。”他打了个榧子。“一秒钟以前，你还是个年轻人，朝气蓬勃地跨进了高等学府的大门。如今，你却已是老态龙钟了。”
　　“老态龙钟？”克莱文杰吃惊地问，“你说什么？”
　　“老态龙钟。”
　　“我还没老呢。”
　　“你每次执行飞行任务，死神与你便是近在咫尺。到了你这般年纪，你还能长多少岁？半分钟以前，你还在上中学，一只解了扣子的奶罩便是你心中的伊甸园。仅五分之一秒钟以前，你还是个小孩，过一个十星期的暑假，尽管似十万年一般长，却仍旧去得匆匆。
　　嗖！飞逝而过。你究竟有什么其他高招让时间减速？”说罢，邓巴差些动起了肝火。
　　“嗯，或许是这个理儿，”克莱文杰低声附和道，心里却是极不服气的。“也许人的一生越漫长，就必定会时时遇上许多的不愉快。
　　但既然如此，谁又希望长命百岁呢？”
　　“我希望，”邓巴跟他说。
　　“为什么？”克莱文杰问。
　　“除此，还能有别的什么呢？”
Chapter 5 Chief White Halfoat
    Doc Daneeka lived in a splotched gray tent with Chief White Halfoat, whom he feared and despised.
　　“I can just picture his liver,” Doc Daneeka grumbled.
　　“Picture my liver,” Yossarian advised him.
　　“There’s nothing wrong with your liver.”
　　“That shows how much you don’t know,” Yossarian bluffed, and told Doc Daneeka about the troublesome painin his liver that had troubled Nurse Duckett and Nurse Cramer and all the doctors in the hospital because itwouldn’t become jaundice and wouldn’t go away.
　　Doc Daneeka wasn’t interested. “You think you’ve got troubles?” he wanted to know. “What about me? Youshould’ve been in my office the day those newlyweds walked in.”
　　“What newlyweds?”
　　“Those newlyweds that walked into my office one day. Didn’t I ever tell you about them? She was lovely.”
　　So was Doc Daneeka’s office. He had decorated his waiting room with goldfish and one of the finest suites ofcheap furniture. Whatever he could he bought on credit, even the goldfish. For the rest, he obtained money fromgreedy relatives in exchange for shares of the profits. His office was in Staten Island in a two-family firetrap justfour blocks away from the ferry stop and only one block south of a supermarket, three beauty parlors, and twocorrupt druggists. It was a corner location, but nothing helped. Population turnover was small, and people clungthrough habit to the same physicians they had been doing business with for years. Bills piled up rapidly, and hewas soon faced with the loss of his most precious medical instruments: his adding machine was repossessed, andthen his typewriter. The goldfish died. Fortunately, just when things were blackest, the war broke out.
　　“It was a godsend,” Doc Daneeka confessed solemnly. “Most of the other doctors were soon in the service, andthings picked up overnight. The corner location really started paying off, and I soon found myself handling morepatients than I could handle competently. I upped my kickback fee with those two drugstores. The beauty parlorswere good for two, three abortions a week. Things couldn’t have been better, and then look what happened. Theyhad to send a guy from the draft board around to look me over. I was Four-F. I had examined myself prettythoroughly and discovered that I was unfit for military service. You’d think my word would be enough, wouldn’tyou, since I was a doctor in good standing with my county medical society and with my local Better BusinessBureau. But no, it wasn’t, and they sent this guy around just to make sure I really did have one leg amputated atthe hip and was helplessly bedridden with incurable rheumatoid arthritis. Yossarian, we live in an age of distrustand deteriorating spiritual values. It’s a terrible thing,” Doc Daneeka protested in a voice quavering with strongemotion. “It’s a terrible thing when even the word of a licensed physician is suspected by the country he loves.”
　　Doc Daneeka had been drafted and shipped to Pianosa as a flight surgeon, even though he was terrified of flying.
　　“I don’t have to go looking for trouble in an airplane,” he noted, blinking his beady, brown, offended eyesmyopically. “It comes looking for me. Like that virgin I’m telling you about that couldn’t have a baby.”
　　“What virgin?” Yossarian asked. “I thought you were telling me about some newlyweds.”
　　“That’s the virgin I’m telling you about. They were just a couple of young kids, and they’d been married, oh, alittle over a year when they came walking into my office without an appointment. You should have seen her. Shewas so sweet and young and pretty. She even blushed when I asked about her periods. I don’t think I’ll ever stoploving that girl. She was built like a dream and wore a chain around her neck with a medal of Saint Anthonyhanging down inside the most beautiful bosom I never saw. ‘It must be a terrible temptation for Saint Anthony,’ Ijoked—just to put her at ease, you know. ‘Saint Anthony?’ her husband said. ‘Who’s Saint Anthony?’ ‘Ask yourwife,’ I told him. ‘She can tell you who Saint Anthony is.’ ‘Who is Saint Anthony?’ he asked her. ‘Who?’ shewanted to know. ‘Saint Anthony,’ he told her. ‘Saint Anthony?’ she said. ‘Who’s Saint Anthony?’ When I got agood look at her inside my examination room I found she was still a virgin. I spoke to her husband alone whileshe was pulling her girdle back on and hooking it onto her stockings. ‘Every night,’ he boasted. A real wise guy,you know. ‘I never miss a night,’ he boasted. He meant it, too. ‘I even been puttin’ it to her mornings before thebreakfasts she makes me before we go to work,’ he boasted. There was only one explanation. When I had themboth together again I gave them a demonstration of intercourse with the rubber models I’ve got in my office. I’vegot these rubber models in my office with all the reproductive organs of both sexes that I keep locked up inseparate cabinets to avoid a scandal. I mean I used to have them. I don’t have anything any more, not even apractice. The only thing I have now is this low temperature that I’m really starting to worry about. Those twokids I’ve got working for me in the medical tent aren’t worth a damn as diagnosticians. All they know how to dois complain. They think they’ve got troubles? What about me? They should have been in my office that day withthose two newlyweds looking at me as though I were telling them something nobody’d ever heard of before. Younever saw anybody so interested. ‘You mean like this?’ he asked me, and worked the models for himself awhile.
　　You know, I can see where a certain type of person might get a big kick out of doing just that. ‘That’s it,’ I toldhim. ‘Now, you go home and try it my way for a few months and see what happens. Okay?’ ‘Okay,’ they said,and paid me in cash without any argument. ‘Have a good time,’ I told them, and they thanked me and walked outtogether. He had his arm around her waist as though he couldn’t wait to get her home and put it to her again. Afew days later he came back all by himself and told my nurse he had to see me right away. As soon as we werealone, he punched me in the nose.”
　　“He did what?”
　　“He called me a wise guy and punched me in the nose. ‘What are you, a wise guy?’ he said, and knocked me flaton my ass. Pow! Just like that. I’m not kidding.”
　　“I know you’re not kidding,” Yossarian said. “But why did he do it?”
　　“How should I know why he did it?” Doc Daneeka retorted with annoyance.
　　“Maybe it had something to do with Saint Anthony?”
　　Doc Daneeka looked at Yossarian blankly. “Saint Anthony?” he asked with astonishment. “Who’s SaintAnthony?”
　　“How should I know?” answered Chief White Halfoat, staggering inside the tent just then with a bottle ofwhiskey cradled in his arm and sitting himself down pugnaciously between the two of them.
　　Doc Daneeka rose without a word and moved his chair outside the tent, his back bowed by the compact kit ofinjustices that was his perpetual burden. He could not bear the company of his roommate.
　　Chief White Halfoat thought he was crazy. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that guy,” he observedreproachfully. “He’s got no brains, that’s what’s the matter with him. If he had any brains he’d grab a shovel andstart digging. Right here in the tent, he’d start digging, right under my cot. He’d strike oil in no time. Don’t heknow how that enlisted man struck oil with a shovel back in the States? Didn’t he ever hear what happened tothat kid—what was the name of that rotten rat bastard pimp of a snotnose back in Colorado?”
　　“Wintergreen.”
　　“Wintergreen.”
　　“He’s afraid,” Yossarian explained.
　　“Oh, no. Not Wintergreen.” Chief White Halfoat shook his head with undisguised admiration. “That stinkinglittle punk wise-guy son of a bitch ain’t afraid of nobody.”
　　“Doc Daneeka’s afraid. That’s what’s the matter with him.”
　　“What’s he afraid of?”
　　“He’s afraid of you,” Yossarian said. “He’s afraid you’re going to die of pneumonia.”
　　“He’d better be afraid,” Chief White Halfoat said. A deep, low laugh rumbled through his massive chest. “I will,too, the first chance I get. You just wait and see.”
　　Chief White Halfoat was a handsome, swarthy Indian from Oklahoma with a heavy, hard-boned face and tousledblack hair, a half-blooded Creek from Enid who, for occult reasons of his own, had made up his mind to die ofpneumonia. He was a glowering, vengeful, disillusioned Indian who hated foreigners with names like Cathcart,Korn, Black and Havermeyer and wished they’d all go back to where their lousy ancestors had come from.
　　“You wouldn’t believe it, Yossarian,” he ruminated, raising his voice deliberately to bait Doc Daneeka, “but thisused to be a pretty good country to live in before they loused it up with their goddam piety.”
　　Chief White Halfoat was out to revenge himself upon the white man. He could barely read or write and had beenassigned to Captain Black as assistant intelligence officer.
　　“How could I learn to read or write?” Chief White Halfoat demanded with simulated belligerence, raising hisvoice again so that Doc Daneeka would hear. “Every place we pitched our tent, they sank an oil well. Every timethey sank a well, they hit oil. And every time they hit oil, they made us pack up our tent and go someplace else.
　　We were human divining rods. Our whole family had a natural affinity for petroleum deposits, and soon everyoil company in the world had technicians chasing us around. We were always on the move. It was one hell of away to bring a child up, I can tell you. I don’t think I ever spent more than a week in one place.”
　　His earliest memory was of a geologist.
　　“Every time another White Halfoat was born,” he continued, “the stock market turned bullish. Soon wholedrilling crews were following us around with all their equipment just to get the jump on each other. Companiesbegan to merge just so they could cut down on the number of people they had to assign to us. But the crowd inback of us kept growing. We never got a good night’s sleep. When we stopped, they stopped. When we moved,they moved, chuckwagons, bulldozers, derricks, generators. We were a walking business boom, and we began toreceive invitations from some of the best hotels just for the amount of business we would drag into town with us.
　　Some of those invitations were mighty generous, but we couldn’t accept any because we were Indians and all thebest hotels that were inviting us wouldn’t accept Indians as guests. Racial prejudice is a terrible thing, Yossarian.
　　It really is. It’s a terrible thing to treat a decent, loyal Indian like a nigger, kike, wop or spic.” Chief WhiteHalfoat nodded slowly with conviction.
　　“Then, Yossarian, it finally happened—the beginning of the end. They began to follow us around from in front.
　　They would try to guess where we were going to stop next and would begin drilling before we even got there, sowe couldn’t stop. As soon as we’d begin to unroll our blankets, they would kick us off. They had confidence inus. They wouldn’t even wait to strike oil before they kicked us off. We were so tired we almost didn’t care theday our time ran out. One morning we found ourselves completely surrounded by oilmen waiting for us to cometheir way so they could kick us off. Everywhere you looked there was an oilman on a ridge, waiting there likeIndians getting ready to attack. It was the end. We couldn’t stay where we were because we had just been kickedoff. And there was no place left for us to go. Only the Army saved me. Luckily, the war broke out just in the nickof time, and a draft board picked me right up out of the middle and put me down safely in Lowery Field,Colorado. I was the only survivor.”
　　Yossarian knew he was lying, but did not interrupt as Chief White Halfoat went on to claim that he had neverheard from his parents again. That didn’t bother him too much, though, for he had only their word for it that theywere his parents, and since they had lied to him about so many other things, they could just as well have beenlying to him about that too. He was much better acquainted with the fate of a tribe of first cousins who hadwandered away north in a diversionary movement and pushed inadvertently into Canada. When they tried toreturn, they were stopped at the border by American immigration authorities who would not let them back intothe country. They could not come back in because they were red.
　　It was a horrible joke, but Doc Daneeka didn’t laugh until Yossarian came to him one mission later and pleaded again, without any real expectation of success, to be grounded. Doc Daneeka snickered once and was soonimmersed in problems of his own, which included Chief White Halfoat, who had been challenging him all thatmorning to Indian wrestle, and Yossarian, who decided right then and there to go crazy.
　　“You’re wasting your time,” Doc Daneeka was forced to tell him.
　　“Can’t you ground someone who’s crazy?”
　　“Oh, sure. I have to. There’s a rule saying I have to ground anyone who’s crazy.”
　　“Then why don’t you ground me? I’m crazy. Ask Clevinger.”
　　“Clevinger? Where is Clevinger? You find Clevinger and I’ll ask him.”
　　“Then ask any of the others. They’ll tell you how crazy I am.”
　　“They’re crazy.”
　　“Then why don’t you ground them?”
　　“Why don’t they ask me to ground them?”
　　“Because they’re crazy, that’s why.”
　　“Of course they’re crazy,” Doc Daneeka replied. “I just told you they’re crazy, didn’t I? And you can’t let crazypeople decide whether you’re crazy or not, can you?”
　　Yossarian looked at him soberly and tried another approach. “Is Orr crazy?”
　　“He sure is,” Doc Daneeka said.
　　“Can you ground him?”
　　“I sure can. But first he has to ask me to. That’s part of the rule.”
　　“Then why doesn’t he ask you to?”
　　“Because he’s crazy,” Doc Daneeka said. “He has to be crazy to keep flying combat missions after all the closecalls he’s had. Sure, I can ground Orr. But first he has to ask me to.”
　　“That’s all he has to do to be grounded?”
　　“That’s all. Let him ask me.”
　　“And then you can ground him?” Yossarian asked.
　　“No. Then I can’t ground him.”
　　“You mean there’s a catch?”
　　“Sure there’s a catch,” Doc Daneeka replied. “Catch-22. Anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t reallycrazy.”
　　There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the faceof dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could begrounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to flymore missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane he had to flythem. If he flew them he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to he was sane and had to. Yossarianwas moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.
　　“That’s some catch, that Catch-22,” he observed.
　　“It’s the best there is,” Doc Daneeka agreed.
　　Yossarian saw it clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an elliptical precision about its perfect pairsof parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn’t quite sure that hesaw it at all, just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art or about the flies Orr saw in Appleby’seyes. He had Orr’s word to take for the flies in Appleby’s eyes.
　　“Oh, they’re there, all right,” Orr had assured him about the flies in Appleby’s eyes after Yossarian’s fist fightwith Appleby in the officers’ club, “although he probably doesn’t even know it. That’s why he can’t see things asthey really are.”
　　“How come he doesn’t know it?” inquired Yossarian.
　　“Because he’s got flies in his eyes,” Orr explained with exaggerated patience. “How can he see he’s got flies inhis eyes if he’s got flies in his eyes?”
　　It made as much sense as anything else, and Yossarian was willing to give Orr the benefit of the doubt becauseOrr was from the wilderness outside New York City and knew so much more about wildlife than Yossarian did,and because Orr, unlike Yossarian’s mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, in-law, teacher, spiritual leader,legislator, neighbor and newspaper, had never lied to him about anything crucial before. Yossarian had mulledhis newfound knowledge about Appleby over in private for a day or two and then decided, as a good deed, topass the word along to Appleby himself.
　　“Appleby, you’ve got flies in your eyes,” he whispered helpfully as they passed by each other in the doorway of the parachute tent on the day of the weekly milk run to Parma.
　　“What?” Appleby responded sharply, thrown into confusion by the fact that Yossarian had spoken to him at all.
　　“You’ve got flies in your eyes,” Yossarian repeated. “That’s probably why you can’t see them.”
　　Appleby retreated from Yossarian with a look of loathing bewilderment and sulked in silence until he was in thejeep with Havermeyer riding down the long, straight road to the briefing room, where Major Danby, thefidgeting group operations officer, was waiting to conduct the preliminary briefing with all the lead pilots,bombardiers and navigators. Appleby spoke in a soft voice so that he would not be heard by the driver or byCaptain Black, who was stretched out with his eyes closed in the front seat of the jeep.
　　“Havermeyer,” he asked hesitantly. “Have I got flies in my eyes?”
　　Havermeyer blinked quizzically. “Sties?” he asked.
　　“No, flies,” he was told.
　　Havermeyer blinked again. “Flies?”
　　“In my eyes.”
　　“You must be crazy,” Havermeyer said.
　　“No, I’m not crazy. Yossarian’s crazy. Just tell me if I’ve got flies in my eyes or not. Go ahead. I can take it.”
　　Havermeyer popped another piece of peanut brittle into his mouth and peered very closely into Appleby’s eyes.
　　“I don’t see any,” he announced.
　　Appleby heaved an immense sigh of relief. Havermeyer had tiny bits of peanut brittle adhering to his lips, chinand cheeks.
　　“You’ve got peanut brittle crumbs on your face,” Appleby remarked to him.
　　“I’d rather have peanut brittle crumbs on my face than flies in my eyes,” Havermeyer retorted.
　　The officers of the other five planes in each flight arrived in trucks for the general briefing that took place thirtyminutes later. The three enlisted men in each crew were not briefed at all, but were carried directly out on theairfield to the separate planes in which they were scheduled to fly that day, where they waited around with theground crew until the officers with whom they had been scheduled to fly swung off the rattling tailgates of thetrucks delivering them and it was time to climb aboard and start up. Engines rolled over disgruntedly on lollipop-shaped hardstands, resisting first, then idling smoothly awhile, and then the planes lumbered around and nosed forward lamely over the pebbled ground like sightless, stupid, crippled things until they taxied into the line at thefoot of the landing strip and took off swiftly, one behind the other, in a zooming, rising roar, banking slowly intoformation over mottled treetops, and circling the field at even speed until all the flights of six had been formedand then setting course over cerulean water on the first leg of the journey to the target in northern Italy or France.
　　The planes gained altitude steadily and were above nine thousand feet by the time they crossed into enemyterritory. One of the surprising things always was the sense of calm and utter silence, broken only by the testrounds fired from the machine guns, by an occasional toneless, terse remark over the intercom, and, at last, bythe sobering pronouncement of the bombardier in each plane that they were at the I.P. and about to turn towardthe target. There was always sunshine, always a tiny sticking in the throat from the rarefied air.
　　The B-25s they flew in were stable, dependable, dull-green ships with twin rudders and engines and wide wings.
　　Their single fault, from where Yossarian sat as a bombardier, was the tight crawlway separating thebombardier’s compartment in the plexiglass nose from the nearest escape hatch. The crawlway was a narrow,square, cold tunnel hollowed out beneath the flight controls, and a large man like Yossarian could squeezethrough only with difficulty. A chubby, moon-faced navigator with little reptilian eyes and a pipe like Aarfy’shad trouble, too, and Yossarian used to chase him back from the nose as they turned toward the target, nowminutes away. There was a time of tension then, a time of waiting with nothing to hear and nothing to see andnothing to do but wait as the antiaircraft guns below took aim and made ready to knock them all sprawling intoinfinite sleep if they could.
　　The crawlway was Yossarian’s lifeline to outside from a plane about to fall, but Yossarian swore at it withseething antagonism, reviled it as an obstacle put there by providence as part of the plot that would destroy him.
　　There was room for an additional escape hatch right there in the nose of a B-25, but there was no escape hatch.
　　Instead there was the crawlway, and since the mess on the mission over Avignon he had learned to detest everymammoth inch of it, for it slung him seconds and seconds away from his parachute, which was too bulky to betaken up front with him, and seconds and seconds more after that away from the escape hatch on the floorbetween the rear of the elevated flight deck and the feet of the faceless top turret gunner mounted high above.
　　Yossarian longed to be where Aarfy could be once Yossarian had chased him back from the nose; Yossarianlonged to sit on the floor in a huddled ball right on top of the escape hatch inside a sheltering igloo of extra flaksuits that he would have been happy to carry along with him, his parachute already hooked to his harness whereit belonged, one fist clenching the red-handled rip cord, one fist gripping the emergency hatch release that wouldspill him earthward into the air at the first dreadful squeal of destruction. That was where he wanted to be if hehad to be there at all, instead of hung out there in front like some goddam cantilevered goldfish in some goddamcantilevered goldfish bowl while the goddam foul black tiers of flak were bursting and booming and billowingall around and above and below him in a climbing, cracking, staggered, banging, phantasmagorical,cosmological wickedness that jarred and tossed and shivered, clattered and pierced, and threatened to annihilatethem all in one splinter of a second in one vast flash of fire.
　　Aarfy had been no use to Yossarian as a navigator or as anything else, and Yossarian drove him back from thenose vehemently each time so that they would not clutter up each other’s way if they had to scramble suddenlyfor safety. Once Yossarian had driven him back from the nose, Aarfy was free to cower on the floor whereYossarian longed to cower, but he stood bolt upright instead with his stumpy arms resting comfortably on thebacks of the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats, pipe in hand, making affable small talk to McWatt and whoever happened to be co-pilot and pointing out amusing trivia in the sky to the two men, who were too busy to beinterested. McWatt was too busy responding at the controls to Yossarian’s strident instructions as Yossarianslipped the plane in on the bomb run and then whipped them all away violently around the ravenous pillars ofexploding shells with curt, shrill, obscene commands to McWatt that were much like the anguished, entreatingnightmare yelpings of Hungry Joe in the dark. Aarfy would puff reflectively on his pipe throughout the wholechaotic clash, gazing with unruffled curiosity at the war through McWatt’s window as though it were a remotedisturbance that could not affect him. Aarfy was a dedicated fraternity man who loved cheerleading and classreunions and did not have brains enough to be afraid. Yossarian did have brains enough and was, and the onlything that stopped him from abandoning his post under fire and scurrying back through the crawlway like ayellow-bellied rat was his unwillingness to entrust the evasive action out of the target area to anybody else. Therewas nobody else in the world he would honor with so great a responsibility. There was nobody else he knew whowas as big a coward. Yossarian was the best man in the group at evasive action, but had no idea why.
　　There was no established procedure for evasive action. All you needed was fear, and Yossarian had plenty ofthat, more fear than Orr or Hungry Joe, more fear than Dunbar, who had resigned himself submissively to theidea that he must die someday. Yossarian had not resigned himself to that idea, and he bolted for his life wildlyon each mission the instant his bombs were away, hollering, “Hard, hard, hard, hard, you bastard, hard!” atMcWatt and hating McWatt viciously all the time as though McWatt were to blame for their being up there at allto be rubbed out by strangers, and everybody else in the plane kept off the intercom, except for the pitiful time ofthe mess on the mission to Avignon when Dobbs went crazy in mid-air and began weeping pathetically for help.
　　“Help him, help him,” Dobbs sobbed. “Help him, help him.”
　　“Help who? Help who?” called back Yossarian, once he had plugged his headset back into the intercom system,after it had been jerked out when Dobbs wrested the controls away from Huple and hurled them all downsuddenly into the deafening, paralyzing, horrifying dive which had plastered Yossarian helplessly to the ceilingof the plane by the top of his head and from which Huple had rescued them just in time by seizing the controlsback from Dobbs and leveling the ship out almost as suddenly right back in the middle of the buffeting layer ofcacophonous flak from which they had escaped successfully only a moment before. Oh, God! Oh, God, oh, God,Yossarian had been pleading wordlessly as he dangled from the ceiling of the nose of the ship by the top of hishead, unable to move.
　　“The bombardier, the bombardier,” Dobbs answered in a cry when Yossarian spoke. “He doesn’t answer, hedoesn’t answer. Help the bombardier, help the bombardier.”
　　“I’m the bombardier,” Yossarian cried back at him. “I’m the bombardier. I’m all right. I’m all right.”
　　“Then help him, help him,” Dobbs begged. “Help him, help him.”
　　And Snowden lay dying in back.
 05、一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特
　　丹尼卡医生和一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特合住一顶污渍斑斑的灰色帐篷；对哈尔福特，丹尼卡医生极害怕，可又很鄙视。
　　“我能想象得出他的肝长得什么样，”丹尼卡医生咕哝道。
　　“那你说说我的肝怎么样，”约塞连跟他说。
　　“你的肝没什么不好。”
　　“这说明你真是太无知了。”约塞连故意虚张声势。他告诉丹尼卡医生说，他的肝曾痛得让他大受折磨，再者，这肝痛又没转成黄疸病，也没消失，让达克特护士、克莱默护士和医院里所有的医生着实苦恼了一阵子。
　　丹尼卡医生毫无兴趣。“你以为自己得了病？”他问了一句，“那我呢？那天，那对新婚夫妇走进我诊所的时候，你应该在场的。”
　　“什么新婚夫妇？”
　　“有一天走进我诊所的那对新婚夫妇。难道我从未跟你提起过？那新娘可真漂亮。”
　　丹尼卡医生的诊所也极漂亮。候诊室里陈放着金鱼，还有一套算是上品的廉价家具。只要可能，他买东西向来是赊帐的，即便是买金鱼，也是如此。至于无法赊购的东西，他便以分享诊所的收益为条件，从那些贪心的亲戚处换取些许现钱。他的诊所设在斯塔腾岛，是一座两户合用的简易房，没有任何消防设施。诊所离渡口只四条马路，往北仅隔一条马路，便是一家超级市场，三家美容院和两家非法药铺。诊所正好处在街角，但无甚益处。此地人口流动量极小，居民出于习惯，看病总是找打了多年交道的医生。帐单迅速堆积了起来，丹尼卡医生丢失了自己最心爱的医疗器械：加法机被收口，随后是打字机，也让人取了回去。金鱼全都死了。幸运的是，就在他感到暗无天日的时候，战争爆发了。
　　“真是天赐良机，”丹尼卡医生很认真地坦言道，“其他医生当中，有大多数人很快服了役，事情一夜间便大有转机。我诊所的地理位置，这下可真开始发挥作用了。不久，来诊所的病人越来越多，忙得我应接不暇。我便加倍付酬金给那两家药铺。那几家美容院也挺不错，每星期介绍两三个人来我这儿做人工流产。生意实在是好得不能再好了。可你瞧，后来竟出了件事。他们派了征兵局的一个家伙来替我做体格检查。我是4-F体位者。先前，我早就给自己做了相当全面的体格检查，发现自己的身体不宜服兵役。你大概会想，只要我说出实情，就能免去一切麻烦，因为在我们县医务界和本地商业信用局，我一向是口碑极好的医生。然而，事实并非如此。
　　他们派那家伙来，目的只是想查实：我是否确实齐髋切除了一条腿，是否确实患了不治的风湿性关节炎，终日缠绵病榻，连生活都无法自理。约塞连，我们生活在一个相互猜疑、精神准则日趋堕落的时代。这实在是大可怕了，”丹尼卡医生断言道。他情绪极为激动，说话时，连声音都颤抖了。“就连自己心爱的祖国，也怀疑起一个领有开业执照的医生所说的话，这实在是太可怕了。”
　　丹尼卡医生应征入伍，被运送到皮亚诺萨岛，当上了一名航空军医，尽管他惧怕飞行。
　　“坐在飞机上，我倒是用不着自找麻烦，”丹尼卡医生说，一边眨着那对棕色的、亮晶晶的小近视眼，两眼满是气恼。“麻烦会自己找上门来的。就跟我同你说起过的那个生不了孩子的处女一样。”
　　“什么处女？”约塞连问，“我还以为你是在说那对新婚夫妇。”
　　“我说的处女，就是那个新娘。他俩其实年纪还很小。那天来我诊所，两人事先没预定。当时，他们结婚才不过一年多一点。真可惜，你没眼福。那姑娘长得极甜，人年轻，实在是很漂亮。我问她经期是否正常，她竟羞得脸绯红。我想我今生今世是会永远喜爱那姑娘的。她就像是梦中的美女，脖子上挂了条项链，项链下端是一枚圣安东尼像章，垂在里面的胸脯前。那胸脯真是美妙绝伦，是我先前从未见过的。‘这对圣安东尼来说，实在是个可怕的诱惑。’我开了个玩笑——只是想让她放松些。‘圣安东尼？’，她丈夫说，‘谁是圣安东尼？’‘问你妻子，’我对他说，‘她可以告诉你谁是圣安东尼。’‘谁是圣安东尼？’他问她。‘谁？’她问。‘圣安东尼，’他对她说。‘圣安东尼？’她说，‘谁是圣安东尼？’在诊察室里，我替她做了详细检查，发现她还是个处女。趁她重新穿上紧身褡，把它钩在长统袜上的当儿，我跟她丈夫单独谈了一会，‘每天晚上，’他夸口道。你要知道，他实在是个自作聪明的家伙。‘我从来不错过一个晚上，’他夸口道，像是真有那么回事儿。‘每天早晨上班前，她给我准备早餐，用餐前，我还要跟她作爱，’”他向我夸口说。只有一个办法可以跟他们解释清楚。过后，我把他俩重新叫到一起，用诊所的橡胶模特儿，给他们表演性交的示范动作。这些橡胶模特儿都在我的诊所里，此外，还有男女生殖器官的各种模型，我都分别锁在几个柜子里，免得人家说三道四。我的意思是，我曾经有过这些东西，可现在，一无所有，连诊所都没了。有的只是这低体温，真让我担心。在医务所给我当助手的那两个家伙，简直是蠢猪，连看病都不会。他们只知道发牢骚。他们以为自己有难言之苦？那我呢？那天，在诊所给那对新婚夫妇做性交示范时，那两个家伙要是在场就好了。当时，那对新婚夫妇望着我，好像我是在跟他们说以前从未有人听说过的事。你从未见过有谁会如此兴致勃勃。‘你是说这样？’男的问我，且动手演示了一番。你要知道，我清楚什么人在这种演示过程中到了什么时候兴趣最大。‘没错，’我跟他说，‘行了，你们这就回家去，按我的方法试几个月，看是否有效。怎么样？’‘好吧。’说罢，他们便很爽快地付了钱。‘祝你们快乐，’我对他们说。他们向我道了谢，于是便一同走了出去。他伸手搂住她的腰，仿佛等不及带她回家作爱了。几天后，他一个人跑到我的诊所，告诉护士说，他得马上见我。一旦我俩单独见了面，他便对着我的鼻子狠狠一拳。”
　　“他怎么着？”
　　“他骂我是个自命不凡的混蛋，对着我的鼻子狠狠一拳。‘你是个啥东西，一个自命不凡的混蛋？’刚说完，他便把我打得仰面倒在了地上。砰！就像这样。我骗你不是人。”
　　“我知道你没骗我，”约塞连说，“可他干吗要那么做？”
　　“这我怎么知道？”丹尼卡医生反问了一句，显得很是恼怒。
　　“也许跟圣安东尼有关吧？”
　　丹尼卡医生木然地望着约塞连。“圣安东尼？”他吃惊地问道，“谁是圣安东尼？”
　　“我怎么知道？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特回答道，这时，他正巧蹒跚着走进帐篷，一手捧了瓶威士忌，在他俩中间坐了下来，一副咄咄逼人的模样。
　　丹尼卡医生一声不吭地站了起来，驼着背——长年来，生活中的种种不公平，始终是沉重的负担，压弯了他的腰——把椅子挪到了帐篷外面。他实在是讨厌跟自己同帐篷的人聚在一块。
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特以为他疯了。“真不晓得这家伙是怎么回事，”他说，颇有些责备的口气。“他是头蠢驴，就这么回事。假如他聪明的话，他就会抓过一把铁锹，动手挖掘。就在这顶帐篷里动手挖，就在我床底下。他马上就能挖到石油。那个士兵在美国用铁锹挖到了石油，这事难道他不知道？那家伙后来发生的事，难道他也从未耳闻？就是科罗拉多州那个拉皮条的卑鄙无耻的孬种，叫什么来着？”
　　“温特格林。”
　　“温特格林。”
　　“他很怕，”约塞连解释道。
　　“哦，没那回事。温特格林可是啥都不怕的。”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特摇了摇头，对温特格林的钦佩之情溢于言表。“那个讨厌的小流氓，自命不凡的杂种，是谁都不怕的。”
　　“丹尼卡医生可是很害怕。他就是这么一回事。”
　　“他怕什么？”
　　“他怕你，”约塞连说，“他怕你会得肺炎死。”
　　“他怕，反倒是桩好事，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特说，结实的胸腔里发出一阵低沉的笑声。“一有机会，我也很乐意这么个死法。你等着瞧吧。”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特，来自俄克拉何马州的伊尼德，是个印第安人，克里克混血儿。哈尔福特肤色黝黑、长得倒是相当英俊：粗眉大眼、高高的颧骨、一头蓬乱的乌发，出于某些只有他自己知道的原因，他已经打定主意，要得了肺炎死去。他报复心极强，见到任何人都是怒目相待，对一切早已不抱丝毫幻想。他憎恨那些取名卡思卡特、科恩、布莱克和哈弗迈耶的外国人；希望他们全都滚回自己讨厌的祖先原来生活的地方。
　　“你是不会信的，约塞连，”他深思后说道，同时，故意提高了嗓门，引诱丹尼卡医生。“不过，先前这地方让人住着，确实感到挺舒畅，但后来，他们带来了该死的虔诚，把这儿搞成一团糟。”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特一心想报复白人。他差不多是个文盲，不识一字，也不会写字，却被委派担任布莱克上尉的助理情报官。
　　“我哪有条件读书认字？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特用假装寻衅的口吻问道，且又提高了嗓门，好让丹尼卡医生听见。“我们每到一处搭起帐篷，他们使钻一口油井。每次钻井，他们又总是找到石油。
　　每次找到了石油，他们便逼迫我们收起帐篷，去别的地方。我们成了活的探矿杖。我们全家生来就踉石油矿有缘分。不久，世界上所有的石油公司都派了技术人员，处处跟踪我们。我们常年四处奔波。跟你说吧，抚养一个孩子，不知要费多大的劲。我想，我在一个地方住的时间，从未超过一个星期。”
　　他最早的记忆，是一位地质学家。
　　“每次我们家生了个小孩，”他接着说，“股票行情便上涨。不久，所有钻井工人便带上全部设备，随我们东奔西跑，谁都想捷足先登。一家家公司开始合并，以便削减为追踪我们而派出的人员。
　　然而，跟在我们身后的人，数量一天天上升。我们一家人从未睡过一个安稳觉。我们歇腿，他们也歇腿；我们上路，他们也上路，随身还带了流动炊事车、推土机、井架和发电机。我们一家成了活财神，走到哪里，哪里便是一片繁荣。于是，我们开始接到一些一流旅馆的请柬，原因便是我们能使他们的生意兴盛。有些旅馆在请柬上提出了相当优厚的条件。但我们无法接受任何一家旅馆的邀请，因为我们是印第安人，而给我们发出邀请的那些一流旅馆，是不会接纳印第安人的。种族偏见，实在令人可怕，约塞连。确实很可怕。把体面忠诚的印第安人看做黑鬼、犹太佬、意大利人，或是西班牙人，这的确是件可怕的事。”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特慢悠悠地点了点头，显得极有自信。
　　“后来，约塞连，终于出了事儿——也就是结局的开始。他们走到前面跟着我们转。他们会想法子猜测，接下来我们在哪里歇息，于是，趁我们还没赶到，他们便开始钻井，结果，我们就无法停下来歇息。我们刚想铺开毯子，他们就赶我们走。他们很信任我们。他们甚至等不及把我们赶走，就急不可耐地挖井钻油。我们给折腾得精疲力竭，即便是死，也毫不畏惧。一天早晨，我们发现四周给钻井工人团团围住，他们都等着我们朝他们各自的方向走去，然后把我们赶走。我们环顾四周，见到每一处山脊上都有一个钻井工人守候着，犹如印第安人随时准备发起进攻。我们的未日到来了。我们无法在原地停留，因为他们才把我们赶走。我们走投无路。最终，倒是军队救了我。正当紧要关头，战争爆发了。征兵局把我救了出来，又把我安全送到了科罗拉多州的洛厄里基地。我们全家只有我一个人活了下来。”
　　约塞连知道他是在撤谎，但没有打断他，因为一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特接着又说了下去。他说，此后他再也没有父母的任何消息。不过，他不怎么担心，因为他只是听他们说，他是他们的儿子。
　　以前有不少事他们都没跟他说实话，那么，至于这件事，他们也完全可能是在说假话；他倒是很清楚自己一帮表堂兄弟的命运。他们曾分散了目标，往北走，因一时大意，竟闯入了加拿大境内。就在他们想法子返回时，美国移民局把他们挡在了边界上，不允许他们回国。他们回不了国，就因为他们是红种人。
　　这笑话实在是骇人听闻。丹尼卡医生没有笑。直到后来，约塞连执行一次飞行任务返回，又一次恳请丹尼卡医生准许他停飞——自然，他去见丹尼卡医生，实在是不抱任何希望的，这时，丹尼卡医生才窃笑了一下，但没一会儿，他便沉思起自己的种种棘手事来。其中就有与一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特之间的纠葛。那天整整一个上午，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特一直向他挑战，要跟他角力，决一雌雄。此外，还有约塞连，这家伙竟当即拿定主意，要装疯卖傻。
　　“你是在浪费时间，”丹尼卡医生不得不跟他这么说。
　　“难道你就不能让一个疯子停飞？”
　　“哦，当然可以。再说，我必须那么做。有一条军规明文规定，我必须禁止任何一个疯子执行飞行任务。”
　　“那你为什么不让我停飞？我真是疯了。不信，你去问克莱文杰。”
　　“克莱文杰？克莱文杰在哪儿？你把克莱文杰找来，我来问他。”
　　“那你去问问其他什么人。他们会告诉你，我究竟疯到了什么程度。”
　　“他们一个个都是疯子。”
　　“那你干吗不让他们停飞？”
　　“他们干吗不来找我提这个要求？”
　　“因为他们都是疯子，原因就在这里。”
　　“他们当然都是疯子，”丹尼卡医生回答道。
　　“我刚跟你说过，他们一个个都是疯子，是不是？
　　你总不至于让疯子来判定，你究竟是不是疯子，对不？”
　　约塞连极严肃地看着他，想用另一种方式试试。“奥尔是不是疯子？”
　　“他当然是疯子，”丹尼卡医生说。
　　“你能让他停飞吗？”
　　“当然可以。不过，先得由他自己来向我提这个要求。规定中有这一条。”
　　“那他干吗不来找你？”
　　“因为他是疯子，”丹尼卡医生说，“他好多次死里逃生，可还是一个劲地上天执行作战任务，他要不是疯子，那才怪呢。当然，我可以让奥尔停飞。但，他首先得自己来找我提这个要求。”
　　“难道他只要跟你提出要求，就可以停飞？”
　　“没错。让他来找我。”
　　“这样你就能让他停飞？”约塞连问。
　　“不能。这样我就不能让他停飞。”
　　“你是说这其中有个圈套？”
　　“那当然，”丹尼卡医生答道，“这就是第二十二条军规。凡是想逃脱作战任务的人，绝对不会是真正的疯子。”
　　这其中只有一个圈套，那便是第二十二条军规。军规规定，凡在面对迫在眉睫的、实实在在的危险时，对自身的安危所表现出的关切，是大脑的理性活动过程。奥尔是疯了，可以获准停止飞行。他必须做的事，就是提出要求，然而，一旦他提出要求，他便不再是疯子，必须继续执行飞行任务。如果奥尔继续执行飞行任务，他便是疯子，但假如他就此停止飞行，那说明他神志完全正常，然而，要是他神志正常，那么他就必须去执行飞行任务。假如他执行飞行任务，他便是疯子，所以就不必去飞行；但如果他不想去飞行，那么他就不是疯子，于是便不得不去。第二十二条军规这一条款，实在是再简洁不过，约塞连深受感动，于是，很肃然地吹了声口哨。
　　“这第二十二条军规，实在是个了不起的圈套，”他说。
　　“绝妙无比。”丹尼卡医生表示赞同。
　　约塞连很清楚，第二十二条军规用的是螺旋式的诡辩。其中各个组成部分，配合得相当完美。这种配合极是简洁精确——优雅得体却又令人惊异，与优秀的现代艺术相仿。但有时，约塞连又没什么把握，究竟自己是否通晓这第二十二条军规，就像他从来没有真正理解优秀的现代艺术一样，也如同他从来就不怎么相信奥尔在阿普尔比的眼睛里见到苍蝇一般。他听了奥尔说的话，竟信了阿普尔比的眼睛里有苍蝇。
　　“噢，他的眼睛里的确有苍蝇，”一次，约塞连和阿普尔比在军官俱乐部打架之后，奥尔深信不疑地对约塞连说，“或许连他自己还不知道。他之所以总不识事物的真面目，其原因也就在这里。”
　　“他怎么会不知道？”约塞连问。
　　“因为他眼睛里有了苍蝇，”奥尔异常耐心地解释道，“假如他眼睛里有苍蝇，他又怎么能看见自己眼睛里有苍蝇呢？”
　　这话没太多的道理，但在没有取得相反的论据之前，约塞连倒是愿意暂且相信奥尔说得挺在理的，因为奥尔来自纽约市外的荒郊，对野生生物的了解，无疑要比他约塞连深得多。再者，奥尔以前从未在关键性问题上跟他说过假话，这一点便不同于约塞连的父母亲、兄弟姊妹、伯父伯母、姻亲、师长、宗教领袖、议员、邻居和报纸。约塞连曾用了一两天的时间，独自反复考虑了新近听到的这件关于阿普尔比的事，于是，决定做桩好事，把传闻告诉阿普尔比本人。
　　“阿普尔比，你眼睛里有苍蝇，”约塞连好心地跟阿普尔比低语道。那天，他俩恰巧在降落伞室门口碰面，正准备去执行每周一次的飞往帕尔马的例行任务。
　　“什么？”阿普尔比迅速做出反应，约塞连竟会跟他说话，这实在很让他惊慌失措。
　　“你眼睛里有苍蝇。”约塞连重复说了一遍。“你自己看不见，原因很可能就在这里。”
　　阿普尔比一脸反感和困惑地离开了约塞连，独自生着闷气。直到后来，坐进吉普车，跟哈弗迈耶一同沿着长长的笔直的公路，驱车前往简令下达室，他这才把脸舒展了开来。大队作战处长丹比少校正焦躁不安地等候在简令下达室，准备给全体领队飞行员、轰炸员和领航员做飞行前的预先指示。阿普尔比说话时声音极低，以免司机和布莱克上尉听见，布莱克上尉闭着双眼，舒展了肢体，躺坐在吉普车前排座上。
　　“哈弗迈耶，”阿普尔比言语支吾地问道，“我眼睛里有苍蝇吗？”
　　哈弗迈耶极是疑惑地眨了眨眼，问道：“睑腺炎？”
　　“不，我是问你我眼睛里有没有苍蝇。”
　　哈弗迈耶又眨了眨眼。“苍蝇？”
　　“在我的眼睛里。”
　　“你一定是疯了，”哈弗迈耶说。
　　“不，我没疯。疯的是约塞连。你只要告诉我，我眼睛里到底有没有苍蝇。你快说，我是不会介意的。”
　　哈弗迈耶又往嘴里塞进一块花生薄脆糖，于是，凑近了过去，极仔细地看了看阿普尔比的眼睛。
　　“我没见到一只苍蝇，”他说。
　　阿普尔比深叹了一口气，如释重负。哈弗迈耶把一片片花生薄脆糖碎屑粘在嘴唇、下巴和面颊上。
　　“花生薄脆糖碎屑都粘到你脸上了，”阿普尔比提醒他说。
　　“与其让苍蝇钻进眼睛里，倒不如往脸上粘花生薄脆糖碎屑呢，”哈弗迈耶反击道。
　　每一小队其他五架飞机的军官坐了卡车来到简令下达室，准备听取半小时后所做的全面指示。每一机组有三名士兵，飞行前的指示他们是听不到一点的。他们被直接送往机场上预定那天执行飞行任务的一架架飞机旁，和地勤人员一同在那里等候，直等到预定和他们一起飞行的军官坐卡车到来，纵身跳下格格作响的卡车后拦板。于是，便登机，启动引擎。引擎在冰棍形的停机坪上极不情愿地启动了起来，先是怎么也转不起来，接着，便平稳地空转了片刻。随后，所有飞机隆隆地绕了一圈，像一个个笨拙的瘸腿瞎子，沿着铺满卵石的地面一瘸一拐，小心翼翼地往前滑行而去，待上了机场尽头的跑道，在一阵震耳欲聋的轰呜声中，一架紧接一架，迅捷腾空而起，继而慢慢倾斜飞行，编成队形，掠过斑驳陆离的树高线，随即又平稳地绕机场飞了一圈。待由六架飞机组成的各小队均已编好队形，机群遂调转了航向，掠过蔚蓝色的水面，朝意大利北部或是法国的目标飞去。机群渐渐爬高，等到飞入敌国领空时，已升至九千多英尺的高空。每次出航总有不少令人惊奇的事，其中之一便是自觉镇定，四周极度静谧，唯一的声响是机关枪的试射，以及对讲机偶尔传出的单调生硬的一句话，最终便是每架飞机上的轰炸员提醒全体机组人员，宣布飞机已进入轰炸点，准备飞往目标。
　　天气又是每次晴和，由于空气稀薄，总有些许黏糊的异物卡在喉咙口。
　　他们驾驶的是B25型暗绿色飞机，性能平稳可靠，装有两只方向舵，两只引擎，两片宽机翼。唯一的不足之处——就轰炸员约塞连所坐的位置来看，便是那条狭窄的爬行通道——把设在有机玻璃机头里的轰炸员舱内最近的应急离机口隔了开来。爬行通道是一个正方形长孔，狭小、冰凉，上面是飞行控制系统。像约塞连这样的彪形大汉，只有费了劲才能勉强挤身通过。有一个圆脸的矮胖领航员——长一对奸诈的小眼，身上揣一只与阿费相同的烟斗——也很难从这个孔过去。每当他们飞往目标——相距仅几分钟，约塞连便会把他逐出机头。紧接着是一段时间的紧张不安，默默地等待，什么也听不见，什么也看不见，什么也做不了，只有默默地等待。此时，下面的高射炮已瞄准了他们，假如可能，随时准备把他们彻底击落，坠入长眠之谷。
　　一旦飞机即将坠落，这条通道，对约塞连来说，就是通向机外的生命线，可约塞连竟诅咒它，对它恨之入骨，辱骂它是老天故意设置的一道障碍，是欲置他于死地的阴谋的一部分。按说，B25型飞机还有地方可再开一个应急离机口，而且就在机头，但他们却没有一个应急离机口，替而代之的是这条通道，自那次在阿维尼翁上空执行任务时发生混乱以后，他便开始憎恨这条通道的每一英寸空间，因为它把他和降落伞——太是笨重，无法随身携带——之间的距离延长了若干秒钟；又使他取了降落伞后赶往应急离机口——设在立架式驾驶舱的后部和顶炮塔射击手（高高在上，因而遮没了脸面）两脚之间的地板上——的时间延宕得更长。约塞连一旦把阿费逐出机头，自己便极迫切地想坐到阿费的位置上；他还很想在应急离机口顶端的地板上，用自己乐意多带的防弹衣筑一个拱形掩体，然后蜷缩了身体躲在里面，降落伞早已用钩固定在相应的安全带上，一手紧紧握住红柄开伞索，一手死死抓牢应急开盖开关——一旦听到飞机遭击毁的可怕声响，打开开关，他便坠入空中，朝地面落下去。假如他必须得留在机头的话，他就想占据这个位置。他可不愿守在前面，像一条该死的金鱼，给死死地困在一只该死的动不了的金鱼缸里。原因是，一旦战火起，那该死的高射炮火便喷出一团团发恶臭的黑色浓烟，在他的四周上下急速地翻腾，恰似变幻无常、硕大无朋的邪魔，时而徐徐上升、僻啪作响，时而摇荡不定、砰然爆裂，震得飞机格格直响、上下颠簸、左右晃悠，又一个劲地往机内直穿进去，威胁着要在瞬息间将他们全都湮灭在一片火海之中。
　　阿费无论充当领航员，抑或承担别的什么职责，于约塞连全无益处。约塞连每回都是极没好气地把他逐出机头，这样，假若他俩突然要仓皇逃命，也就不会相互碍事。一旦让约塞连逐出机头，阿费就可以蜷缩在约塞连迫切地想躲身的那块地方，但他没那么做，却是直挺挺地立着，两只又粗又短的胳臂极适意地搁放在驾驶员和副驾驶员座位的靠背上，一手端了烟斗，跟麦克沃特和当班的副驾驶员轻快地聊着夭，同时又指出天空出现的有趣味的东西，让他俩瞧。可是，麦克沃特和副驾驶员实在大忙，没有丝毫的兴致。麦克沃特守在控制系统一侧，忙于执行约塞连尖声喊出的命令。约塞连让飞机侧滑进入轰炸航路，接着，又尖起嗓门，以极粗鲁的口吻满嘴脏话地给麦克沃特下命令——酷似亨格利•乔在黑夜里梦魇时叫出的痛苦的哀求声，要大伙儿迅速绕过炸弹爆炸溅起的一根根饿虎似的火柱，离开轰炸航路。混战中，阿费自始至终很沉静地抽着烟斗，透过麦克沃特一侧的窗户，满心好奇地在一旁观战，颇显得泰然自若，仿佛这场战争发生在千里之外，于他无丝毫的影响。
　　阿费对联谊会活动一向是很热衷的，什么事都喜欢领个头，对校友联欢活动从来都是尽心尽力。他头脑极单纯，因此，无所畏惧。约塞连倒是极有头脑，所以就顾虑重重。遭炮火袭击时，约塞连并没有像胆小的耗子那样，擅自离弃岗位，急匆匆地从爬行过道逃出去。
　　他之所以没这么做，唯一的原因就是他不愿把飞离目标区时采取的规避动作托付给别的什么人。这世上还没有别的什么人可以让他放心地委以如此的重任。而在他的熟人当中，没有哪一个人会像他那么胆小。约塞连是飞行大队最出色的规避动作能手，但这一点就连他自己也说不清究竟是什么原因。
　　规避动作，并没有一套固定的程序。要的便是恐惧。这种恐惧心理在约塞连身上算是发挥到了极点。较之奥尔或亨格利•乔，他的胆量要小得多，甚至比邓巴还要小。邓巴早已是听天由命，觉得自己总有一天非死不可。约塞连并没有那么悲观，每次执行任务，只要一扔完炸弹，他便疯狂逃命，一边对麦克沃特死命吼叫：“使劲！使劲！使劲！使劲！你这狗狼养的，快使劲！”而且对麦克沃特他一向是恨之入骨，好像他们在空中执行任务，遭陌生人的轰炸，全都是麦克沃特的过错。飞机上，除他俩之外，其他任何人都禁用对讲机，只有那次去阿维尼翁执行任务是个例外。当时，一片混乱，着实让人痛心，多布斯在半空中发了疯，哭得很伤心，一个劲地喊救命。
　　“救救他，救救他，”多布斯哭着说，“救救他，救救他。”
　　“救救谁？救救谁？”约塞连把耳机插头重新插入内部通话系统后，高声问道。这之前，多布斯抢过赫普尔手里的操纵杆，随着一阵震耳欲聋的响声，飞机突然俯冲下去，大伙儿全部给吓傻了，一个个呆若木鸡。约塞连的耳机插头由于剧震脱离了内部通话系统，他自己的头像是被什么东西死死粘贴在机舱的顶端，无法动弹。赫普尔又及时救了他们。他拼命夺回了多布斯手里的操纵杆，飞机几乎又是突然进入了平飞，重新飞回到他们刚刚逃脱的那一片猛烈的震耳欲聋的高射炮火之中。啊，上帝！啊，上帝！啊，上帝！约塞连默默地祈祷，他依旧头贴在机头的顶端，像是悬在空中，无法动弹。
　　“轰炸员，轰炸员，”约塞连通过对讲机问话时，多布斯哭着答道，“他没有回话，他没有回话；快救救轰炸员，快救救轰炸员。”
　　“我就是轰炸员，”约塞连叫喊着答道，“我就是轰炸员。我一切正常。我一切正常。”
　　“那就快救救他，快救救他，”多布斯哀求道。
　　这时，斯诺登正奄奄一息地躺在尾舱里。
Chapter 6 Hunger Joe
    Hungry Joe did have fifty missions, but they were no help. He had his bags packed and was waiting again to gohome. At night he had eerie, ear-splitting nightmares that kept everyone in the squadron awake but Huple, thefifteen-year-old pilot who had lied about his age to get into the Army and lived with his pet cat in the same tentwith Hungry Joe. Huple was a light sleeper, but claimed he never heard Hungry Joe scream. Hungry Joe wassick.
　　“So what?” Doc Daneeka snarled resentfully. “I had it made, I tell you. Fifty grand a year I was knocking down,and almost all of it tax-free, since I made my customers pay me in cash. I had the strongest trade association inthe world backing me up. And look what happened. Just when I was all set to really start stashing it away, theyhad to manufacture fascism and start a war horrible enough to affect even me. I gotta laugh when I hear someonelike Hungry Joe screaming his brains out every night. I really gotta laugh. He’s sick? How does he think I feel?”
　　Hungry Joe was too firmly embedded in calamities of his own to care how Doc Daneeka felt. There were thenoises, for instance. Small ones enraged him and he hollered himself hoarse at Aarfy for the wet, sucking soundshe made puffing on his pipe, at Orr for tinkering, at McWatt for the explosive snap he gave each card he turnedover when he dealt at blackjack or poker, at Dobbs for letting his teeth chatter as he went blundering clumsilyabout bumping into things. Hungry Joe was a throbbing, ragged mass of motile irritability. The steady ticking ofa watch in a quiet room crashed like torture against his unshielded brain.
　　“Listen, kid,” he explained harshly to Huple very late one evening, “if you want to live in this tent, you’ve got todo like I do. You’ve got to roll your wrist watch up in a pair of wool socks every night and keep it on the bottomof your foot locker on the other side of the room.”
　　Huple thrust his jaw out defiantly to let Hungry Joe know he couldn’t be pushed around and then did exactly ashe had been told.
　　Hungry Joe was a jumpy, emaciated wretch with a fleshless face of dingy skin and bone and twitching veinssquirming subcutaneously in the blackened hollows behind his eyes like severed sections of snake. It was adesolate, cratered face, sooty with care like an abandoned mining town. Hungry Joe ate voraciously, gnawedincessantly at the tips of his fingers, stammered, choked, itched, sweated, salivated, and sprang from spot to spotfanatically with an intricate black camera with which he was always trying to take pictures of naked girls. Theynever came out. He was always forgetting to put film in the camera or turn on lights or remove the cover fromthe lens opening. It wasn’t easy persuading naked girls to pose, but Hungry Joe had the knack.
　　“Me big man,” he would shout. “Me big photographer from Life magazine. Big picture on heap big cover. Si, si,si! Hollywood star. Multi dinero. Multi divorces. Multi ficky-fick all day long.”
　　Few women anywhere could resist such wily cajolery, and prostitutes would spring to their feet eagerly and hurlthemselves into whatever fantastic poses he requested for them. Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings was one of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddeningmanifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too powerful to be measured, too keen to be endured,and too exquisite to be intended for employment by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presencein his hands only as a cosmic oversight destined to be rectified speedily, and he was driven always to make whatcarnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two he felt he had before Someone caught wise andwhisked them away. He could never decide whether to furgle them or photograph them, for he had found itimpossible to do both simultaneously. In fact, he was finding it almost impossible to do either, so scrambledwere his powers of performance by the compulsive need for haste that invariably possessed him. The picturesnever came out, and Hungry Joe never got in. The odd thing was that in civilian life Hungry Joe really had beena photographer for Life magazine.
　　He was a hero now, the biggest hero the Air Force had, Yossarian felt, for he had flown more combat tours ofduty than any other hero the Air Force had. He had flown six combat tours of duty. Hungry Joe had finishedflying his first combat tour of duty when twenty-five missions were all that were necessary for him to pack hisbags, write happy letters home and begin hounding Sergeant Towser humorously for the arrival of the ordersrotating him back to the States. While he waited, he spent each day shuffling rhythmically around the entrance ofthe operations tent, making boisterous wisecracks to everybody who came by and jocosely calling SergeantTowser a lousy son of a bitch every time Sergeant Towser popped out of the orderly room.
　　Hungry Joe had finished flying his first twenty-five missions during the week of the Salerno beachhead, whenYossarian was laid up in the hospital with a burst of clap he had caught on a low-level mission over a Wac inbushes on a supply flight to Marrakech. Yossarian did his best to catch up with Hungry Joe and almost did,flying six missions in six days, but his twenty-third mission was to Arezzo, where Colonel Nevers was killed,and that was as close as he had ever been able to come to going home. The next day Colonel Cathcart was there,brimming with tough pride in his new outfit and celebrating his assumption of command by raising the numberof missions required from twenty-five to thirty. Hungry Joe unpacked his bags and rewrote the happy lettershome. He stopped hounding Sergeant Towser humorously. He began hating Sergeant Towser, focusing all blameupon him venomously, even though he knew Sergeant Towser had nothing to do with the arrival of ColonelCathcart or the delay in the processing of shipping orders that might have rescued him seven days earlier and fivetimes since.
　　Hungry Joe could no longer stand the strain of waiting for shipping orders and crumbled promptly into ruinevery time he finished another tour of duty. Each time he was taken off combat status, he gave a big party for thelittle circle of friends he had. He broke out the bottles of bourbon he had managed to buy on his four-day weeklycircuits with the courier plane and laughed, sang, shuffled and shouted in a festival of inebriated ecstasy until hecould no longer keep awake and receded peacefully into slumber. As soon as Yossarian, Nately and Dunbar puthim to bed he began screaming in his sleep. In the morning he stepped from his tent looking haggard, fearful andguilt-ridden, an eaten shell of a human building rocking perilously on the brink of collapse.
　　The nightmares appeared to Hungry Joe with celestial punctuality every single night he spent in the squadronthroughout the whole harrowing ordeal when he was not flying combat missions and was waiting once again forthe orders sending him home that never came. Impressionable men in the squadron like Dobbs and Captain Flume were so deeply disturbed by Hungry Joe’s shrieking nightmares that they would begin to have shriekingnightmares of their own, and the piercing obscenities they flung into the air every night from their separateplaces in the squadron rang against each other in the darkness romantically like the mating calls of songbirdswith filthy minds. Colonel Korn acted decisively to arrest what seemed to him to be the beginning of anunwholesome trend in Major Major’s squadron. The solution he provided was to have Hungry Joe fly the couriership once a week, removing him from the squadron for four nights, and the remedy, like all Colonel Korn’sremedies, was successful.
　　Every time Colonel Cathcart increased the number of missions and returned Hungry Joe to combat duty, thenightmares stopped and Hungry Joe settled down into a normal state of terror with a smile of relief. Yossarianread Hungry Joe’s shrunken face like a headline. It was good when Hungry Joe looked bad and terrible whenHungry Joe looked good. Hungry Joe’s inverted set of responses was a curious phenomenon to everyone butHungry Joe, who denied the whole thing stubbornly.
　　“Who dreams?” he answered, when Yossarian asked him what he dreamed about.
　　“Joe, why don’t you go see Doc Daneeka?” Yossarian advised.
　　“Why should I go see Doc Daneeka? I’m not sick.”
　　“What about your nightmares?”
　　“I don’t have nightmares,” Hungry Joe lied.
　　“Maybe he can do something about them.”
　　“There’s nothing wrong with nightmares,” Hungry Joe answered. “Everybody has nightmares.”
　　Yossarian thought he had him. “Every night?” he asked.
　　“Why not every night?” Hungry Joe demanded.
　　And suddenly it all made sense. Why not every night, indeed? It made sense to cry out in pain every night. Itmade more sense than Appleby, who was a stickler for regulations and had ordered Kraft to order Yossarian totake his Atabrine tablets on the flight overseas after Yossarian and Appleby had stopped talking to each other.
　　Hungry Joe made more sense than Kraft, too, who was dead, dumped unceremoniously into doom over Ferraraby an exploding engine after Yossarian took his flight of six planes in over the target a second time. The grouphad missed the bridge at Ferrara again for the seventh straight day with the bombsight that could put bombs intoa pickle barrel at forty thousand feet, and one whole week had already passed since Colonel Cathcart hadvolunteered to have his men destroy the bridge in twenty-four hours. Kraft was a skinny, harmless kid fromPennsylvania who wanted only to be liked, and was destined to be disappointed in even so humble and degradingan ambition. Instead of being liked, he was dead, a bleeding cinder on the barbarous pile whom nobody hadheard in those last precious moments while the plane with one wing plummeted. He had lived innocuously for a little while and then had gone down in flame over Ferrara on the seventh day, while God was resting, whenMcWatt turned and Yossarian guided him in over the target on a second bomb run because Aarfy was confusedand Yossarian had been unable to drop his bombs the first time.
　　“I guess we do have to go back again, don’t we?” McWatt had said somberly over the intercom.
　　“I guess we do,” said Yossarian.
　　“Do we?” said McWatt.
　　“Yeah.”
　　“Oh, well,” sang McWatt, “what the hell.”
　　And back they had gone while the planes in the other flights circled safely off in the distance and every crashingcannon in the Hermann Goering Division below was busy crashing shells this time only at them.
　　Colonel Cathcart had courage and never hesitated to volunteer his men for any target available. No target was toodangerous for his group to attack, just as no shot was too difficult for Appleby to handle on the ping-pong table.
　　Appleby was a good pilot and a superhuman ping-pong player with flies in his eyes who never lost a point.
　　Twenty-one serves were all it ever took for Appleby to disgrace another opponent. His prowess on the ping-pongtable was legendary, and Appleby won every game he started until the night Orr got tipsy on gin and juice andsmashed open Appleby’s forehead with his paddle after Appleby had smashed back each of Orr’s first fiveserves. Orr leaped on top of the table after hurling his paddle and came sailing off the other end in a runningbroad jump with both feet planted squarely in Appleby’s face. Pandemonium broke loose. It took almost a fullminute for Appleby to disentangle himself from Orr’s flailing arms and legs and grope his way to his feet, withOrr held off the ground before him by the shirt front in one hand and his other arm drawn back in a fist to smitehim dead, and at that moment Yossarian stepped forward and took Orr away from him. It was a night of surprisesfor Appleby, who was as large as Yossarian and as strong and who swung at Yossarian as hard as he could with apunch that flooded Chief White Halfoat with such joyous excitement that he turned and busted Colonel Moodusin the nose with a punch that filled General Dreedle with such mellow gratification that he had Colonel Cathcartthrow the chaplain out of the officers’ club and ordered Chief White Halfoat moved into Doc Daneeka’s tent,where he could be under a doctor’s care twenty-four hours a day and be kept in good enough physical conditionto bust Colonel Moodus in the nose again whenever General Dreedle wanted him to. Sometimes General Dreedlemade special trips down from Wing Headquarters with Colonel Moodus and his nurse just to have Chief WhiteHalfoat bust his son-in-law in the nose.
　　Chief White Halfoat would much rather have remained in the trailer he shared with Captain Flume, the silent,haunted squadron public-relations officer who spent most of each evening developing the pictures he took duringthe day to be sent out with his publicity releases. Captain Flume spent as much of each evening as he couldworking in his darkroom and then lay down on his cot with his fingers crossed and a rabbit’s foot around hisneck and tried with all his might to stay awake. He lived in mortal fear of Chief White Halfoat. Captain Flumewas obsessed with the idea that Chief White Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night when he was sound asleep and slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Captain Flume had obtained this idea from Chief WhiteHalfoat himself, who did tiptoe up to his cot one night as he was dozing off, to hiss portentously that one nightwhen he, Captain Flume, was sound asleep he, Chief White Halfoat, was going to slit his throat open for himfrom ear to ear. Captain Flume turned to ice, his eyes, flung open wide, staring directly up into Chief WhiteHalfoat’s, glinting drunkenly only inches away.
　　“Why?” Captain Flume managed to croak finally.
　　“Why not?” was Chief White Halfoat’s answer.
　　Each night after that, Captain Flume forced himself to keep awake as long as possible. He was aidedimmeasurably by Hungry Joe’s nightmares. Listening so intently to Hungry Joe’s maniacal howling night afternight, Captain Flume grew to hate him and began wishing that Chief White Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cotone night and slit his throat open for him from ear to ear. Actually, Captain Flume slept like a log most nightsand merely dreamed he was awake. So convincing were these dreams of lying awake that he woke from themeach morning in complete exhaustion and fell right back to sleep.
　　Chief White Halfoat had grown almost fond of Captain Flume since his amazing metamorphosis. Captain Flumehad entered his bed that night a buoyant extrovert and left it the next morning a brooding introvert, and ChiefWhite Halfoat proudly regarded the new Captain Flume as his own creation. He had never intended to slitCaptain Flume’s throat open for him from ear to ear. Threatening to do so was merely his idea of a joke, likedying of pneumonia, busting Colonel Moodus in the nose or challenging Doc Daneeka to Indian wrestle. AllChief White Halfoat wanted to do when he staggered in drunk each night was go right to sleep, and Hungry Joeoften made that impossible. Hungry Joe’s nightmares gave Chief White Halfoat the heebie-jeebies, and he oftenwished that someone would tiptoe into Hungry Joe’s tent, lift Huple’s cat off his face and slit his throat open forhim from ear to ear, so that everybody in the squadron but Captain Flume could get a good night’s sleep.
　　Even though Chief White Halfoat kept busting Colonel Moodus in the nose for General Dreedle’s benefit, hewas still outside the pale. Also outside the pale was Major Major, the squadron commander, who had found thatout the same time he found out that he was squadron commander from Colonel Cathcart, who came blasting intothe squadron in his hopped-up jeep the day after Major Duluth was killed over Perugia. Colonel Cathcartslammed to a screeching stop inches short of the railroad ditch separating the nose of his jeep from the lopsidedbasketball court on the other side, from which Major Major was eventually driven by the kicks and shoves andstones and punches of the men who had almost become his friends.
　　“You’re the new squadron commander,” Colonel Cathcart had bellowed across the ditch at him. “But don’t thinkit means anything, because it doesn’t. All it means is that you’re the new squadron commander.”
　　And Colonel Cathcart had roared away as abruptly as he’d come, whipping the jeep around with a viciousspinning of wheels that sent a spray of fine grit blowing into Major Major’s face. Major Major was immobilizedby the news. He stood speechless, lanky and gawking, with a scuffed basketball in his long hands as the seeds ofrancor sown so swiftly by Colonel Cathcart took root in the soldiers around him who had been playing basketballwith him and who had let him come as close to making friends with them as anyone had ever let him come before. The whites of his moony eyes grew large and misty as his mouth struggled yearningly and lost againstthe familiar, impregnable loneliness drifting in around him again like suffocating fog.
　　Like all the other officers at Group Headquarters except Major Danby, Colonel Cathcart was infused with thedemocratic spirit: he believed that all men were created equal, and he therefore spurned all men outside GroupHeadquarters with equal fervor. Nevertheless, he believed in his men. As he told them frequently in the briefingroom, he believed they were at least ten missions better than any other outfit and felt that any who did not sharethis confidence he had placed in them could get the hell out. The only way they could get the hell out, though, asYossarian learned when he flew to visit ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, was by flying the extra ten missions.
　　“I still don’t get it,” Yossarian protested. “Is Doc Daneeka right or isn’t he?”
　　“How many did he say?”
　　“Forty.”
　　“Daneeka was telling the truth,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen admitted. “Forty missions is all you have to fly as far asTwenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters is concerned.”
　　Yossarian was jubilant. “Then I can go home, right? I’ve got forty-eight.”
　　“No, you can’t go home,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen corrected him. “Are you crazy or something?”
　　“Why not?”
　　“Catch-22.”
　　“Catch-22?” Yossarian was stunned. “What the hell has Catch-22 got to do with it?”
　　“Catch-22,” Doc Daneeka answered patiently, when Hungry Joe had flown Yossarian back to Pianosa, “saysyou’ve always got to do what your commanding officer tells you to.”
　　“But Twenty-seventh Air Force says I can go home with forty missions.”
　　“But they don’t say you have to go home. And regulations do say you have to obey every order. That’s the catch.
　　Even if the colonel were disobeying a Twenty-seventh Air Force order by making you fly more missions, you’dstill have to fly them, or you’d be guilty of disobeying an order of his. And then Twenty-seventh Air ForceHeadquarters would really jump on you.”
　　Yossarian slumped with disappointment. “Then I really have to fly the fifty missions, don’t I?” he grieved.
　　“The fifty-five,” Doc Daneeka corrected him.
　　“What fifty-five?”
　　“The fifty-five missions the colonel now wants all of you to fly.”
　　Hungry Joe heaved a huge sigh of relief when he heard Doc Daneeka and broke into a grin. Yossarian grabbedHungry Joe by the neck and made him fly them both right back to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen.
　　“What would they do to me,” he asked in confidential tones, “if I refused to fly them?”
　　“We’d probably shoot you,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen replied.
　　“We?” Yossarian cried in surprise. “What do you mean, we? Since when are you on their side?”
　　“If you’re going to be shot, whose side do you expect me to be on?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen retorted.
　　Yossarian winced. Colonel Cathcart had raised him again.
 06、亨格利•乔
　　亨格利•乔的确早已完成了五十次飞行任务，但这于他实在是毫无益处，他把行装打点好了，又等着回家。到了晚上，他就做可怖的噩梦，乱叫乱吼，闹得中队全体官兵无法入眠，只有赫普尔除外。
　　赫普尔才十五岁，是个飞行员，当初是虚报了年龄才入伍的。他和自己那只宝贝猫跟亨格利•乔合住一顶帐篷。赫普尔睡觉一向容易惊醒，但他声称自己从未听见亨格利•乔惊叫过。亨格利•乔心里觉得难受。
　　“那又怎么样呢？”丹尼卡医生满是怨恨地吼叫道，“不瞒你说，我以前可有钱啦，一年净赚五万美元，而且差不多是免税的，因为我要求来就诊的病人一概支付现金。此外，我还有世界上最有实力的同业协会做后盾。可你瞧瞧，后来出了什么事。就在我做好准备，开始积攒一笔钱的当儿，他们却炮制出什么法西斯主义，发动了一场令人悚然的战争，竟连我也没逃脱这场灾难。每天晚上听见亨格利•乔这样的家伙歇斯底里地喊叫，我就憋不住想大笑。我实在是憋不住想大笑。他觉得难受？我心里啥感受，他哪里晓得？”
　　亨格利•乔自己多灾多难，实在是管不了丹尼卡医生心里究竟是什么感受。就拿那些噪声来说吧，即便是些很轻的噪声，也会让他勃然大怒。每当阿费口含唾沫，咂咂地一口一口抽烟斗，或是奥尔丁丁当当做些修补活计，或是麦克沃特玩二十一点或扑克牌时，每出一张牌总会摔得劈啪直响，或是多布斯一边笨手笨脚、跌跌撞撞四处乱跑，一边喀塔地牙齿直打战，这种时候，亨格利•乔便会直冲着他们吼叫，直到把嗓门吼哑了为止。亨格利•乔患的是运动表象型兴奋增盛症，性情激动暴躁。静静的房间里，手表有规律的嘀嗒声，似酷刑一般，猛击着他全无保护的脑袋。
　　“听着，小家伙，”一天深夜，亨格利•乔没好气地跟赫普尔说，“假如你想在这顶帐篷里住下去，我喜欢怎么做，你就得怎么做：每天晚上，你必须得用羊毛袜裹好你自己的手表，然后把它放在帐篷那头你自己的床脚柜的最底层。”
　　赫普尔很不服气地猛抬起下巴，让亨格利•乔明白，他可不是任人摆布的，于是，便不折不扣地依亨格利•乔的吩咐去做了。
　　亨格利•乔是很神经质的，长得极瘦削，一副可怜相，脸色憔悴泛黄，两侧黑黢黢的太阳穴上，一根根抽搐着的青筋，似被切成若干的蛇段，在皮下蠕动。那张脸瘦得两颊凹陷，透着孤独凄凉，因久虑而显得阴沉，全无了光泽，恰似一座废弃的矿工城。亨格利•乔吃起来狼吞虎咽，总是不停地啃手指尖，说话结巴，有时又会因情绪激动而哽得说不出半句活来，身上处处发痒，又好出汗，嘴角常挂着口水。他时常背着一架复杂精密的黑色照相机，着了魔似地东奔西颠，一直想拍些女人的裸体照片。可是从未拍出一张照片。他总是忘记装胶卷、打灯光，或是忘记打开镜头盖。说服裸体女人摆各种姿势，这实在不是桩容易的事，不过，亨格利•乔在这方面倒是颇有些诀窍。
　　“我可是个大名人，”他总会这么大声说道，“我是《生活》杂志大名鼎鼎的摄影记者，想给杂志的大封面拍张顶刮刮的照片。没错，没错，没错！好莱坞大明星。用不完的钞票，离不完的婚，整天跟男人寻欢作乐。”
　　这世上，恐怕很少有女人能抵挡住这种甜言蜜语的劝诱。妓女总会急不可耐地一跃而起，只要是亨格利•乔的吩咐，不管摆的姿势有多怪，她们必定会全身心地投入。女人简直让亨格利•乔神魂颠倒。女性是他狂热崇拜的偶像。女人于他，是人间奇迹，美丽动人，令人赏心悦目，心醉神迷；是取乐的工具，威力之巨实在难以估量，欲望之强令人无法招架，造就得又是这般精美，不足道的卑劣男人是没资格享用的。在他看来，女人赤裸了玉体任他摆弄，只是一个天大的疏忽——终究会迅速得到纠正。因此，他总是不得不赶在别人获悉内情匆匆把她们带走之前，尽一切可能以极短的时间，充分利用她们的肉体。究竟是玩弄她们，还是给她们拍照，他一直举棋不定，因为他发觉这两件事实在无法同时进行。其实，他开始觉得，这两桩事体他几乎一桩也干不了。原因是，他自始至终摆脱不了行事匆忙草率的积习，结果导致了他的办事能力极度低下，老是东一郎头，西一棒子。照片是一张也没拍成，到了手的女人一个也没玩成。令人奇怪的是，亨格利•乔服役前确曾当过《生活》杂志的摄影记者。
　　如今，他可是位英雄。在约塞连眼里，他是最了不起的空军英雄，因为他完成作战飞行任务的次数超过了空军里的其他英雄。他已经完成了六次作战飞行任务。亨格利•乔完成第一次作战飞行任务时，那时的规定要求每人必须完成二十五次飞行任务。只要完成了这二十五次飞行任务，他便可以打点好行装，喜滋滋地给家里写信报喜讯，然后开始兴致勃勃地缠住陶塞军士，探问让他轮换调防回美国的命令是否下达。待命期间，他每天在作战指挥室门口周围，极有节奏地跳着曳步舞。每每有人路过，他便扯大了嗓门，没完没了地说俏皮话；每次见到陶塞军士匆匆走出中队办公室，就打趣地骂他是讨厌的狗杂种。
　　驻屯萨莱诺滩头堡的一周内，亨格利•乔就完成了最初规定的二十五次飞行任务。当时，约塞连因染上了淋病住在医院治疗。
　　这种花柳病，是一次——他正在执行前往马拉喀什空运补给的低空飞行任务——他跟一名陆军妇女队队员在灌木丛里野合时传染上的。后来，约塞连全力以赴，拼命追赶亨格利•乔，结果几乎就让他赶上了，六天里，他完成了六次飞行任务。可是，他的第二十三次任务是飞往阿雷佐，内弗斯上校便是在那儿阵亡的。那次任务完成以后，再飞两次，他就可以回家了。可是到了第二天，卡思卡特上校着一身崭新的制服来到中队，摆出一副傲慢专横不可一世的模样。他将规定的飞行次数从二十五提高到三十，以此来庆贺自己接任大队指挥官的职位。亨格利•乔解开行装，把写给家里的报喜信重新又写了一遍。他不再兴致勃勃地缠住陶塞军士。他开始仇恨陶塞军士，极凶狠地将一切归罪于陶塞军士，即便他心里很清楚，卡思卡特上校的到任，或是遣送他们回国的命令一直搁着不下达——本来完全可以让他提早七天回家，逃掉后来新增的五次飞行任务，这一切跟陶塞军士实在是毫不相干的。
　　亨格利•乔再也经受不住等待回国命令时的极度紧张，每每完成又一次飞行任务，他的身心健康便迅速崩溃。每次被撤下不执行作战任务，他就举行一个规模不小的酒会，请上自己那一小帮朋友聚一聚。他打开一瓶瓶波旁威士忌——是他每周四天驾驶军邮班机巡回递送邮件时想了法子才买到的——以飨朋友。随后，他又是笑又是唱，还跳起曳步舞，大声喊叫，似过节一般陶醉，欣喜若狂，直到后来睡意袭来，再也支撑不住，方才安静入睡。待约塞连、内特利和邓巴刚安顿好他上床，他就开始尖声叫喊。第二天上午，他走出帐篷，形容枯槁，流出恐惧和负疚的神情，整个人看似一座蛀空的建筑物，只剩下个空骨架，摇摇欲坠，一触便会倒坍。
　　每当亨格利•乔不再执行作战飞行任务，再次等待永远等不来的回国命令，他便受尽了痛苦的折磨。期间，他在中队度过的每一个晚上，那一个个噩梦总是准时出现在他的梦乡，就同天体的运行一样正点，不差分秒。亨格利•乔每做噩梦，必定歇斯底里地尖叫，扰得中队里像多布斯和弗卢姆上尉那些神经过敏的人心绪不宁，结果，他们也开始做噩梦，歇斯底里地尖叫。于是，每天晚上，他们便从中队各个不同的角落把各种尖厉的下流话吐入空中，在黑夜里回响着，颇有些趣味，仿佛发情的鸟交尾时的欢叫。在科恩中校看来，这是梅杰少校的中队里露出的不良倾向，于是，他便采取了果断行动，决定杜绝这股苗头。他的措施是，下令亨格利•乔每周驾驶一次军邮班机巡回递送邮件，这样，有四个晚上他就没法在中队过夜了。这一补救办法同科恩中校采取的所有补救办法一样，的确很奏效。
　　每次卡思卡特上校增加飞行任务的次数并让亨格利•乔重返战斗岗位时，亨格利•乔便不再梦魇。他只是宽心地微微一笑，又恢复了平常的恐惧状态。约塞连琢磨亨格利•乔那张皱缩的脸，就像是在读报纸上的一条大标题。每当亨格利•乔神情阴郁，表明一切正常，可一旦他兴致勃勃，那就说明出了什么麻烦事。亨格利•乔这种阴阳错乱的反应，在大伙看来，确实是个怪现象，只有他本人对此断然否认。
　　“谁做梦？”当约塞连问他都做些什么梦时，亨格利•乔反问道。
　　“乔，你干吗不去丹尼卡医生那里看看？”约塞连劝说道。
　　“我干吗非得去看丹尼卡医生？我又没病。”
　　“你不是老做噩梦吗？”
　　“我可没做噩梦。”亨格利•乔说了个谎。
　　“或许丹尼卡医生有办法治那些噩梦。”
　　“做噩梦又不是什么病，”亨格利•乔答道，“哪个不做噩梦？”
　　约塞连心想，这下他可上了圈套。“你是不是每天晚上做噩梦？”他问。
　　“难道每天晚上做噩梦就不成吗？”亨格利•乔反诘道。
　　亨格利•乔这一反诘，突然让约塞连茅塞顿开。他问得没错，为什么就不能天天晚上做噩梦？这样，每天晚上梦魇时痛苦地狂叫，也就可以理解了。比起阿普尔比来，这就更容易理解了。阿普尔比一向严守规章制度。在一次前往海外执行飞行任务途中，他曾授命克拉夫特，下令约塞连吞服阿的平药片，尽管当时他和约塞连彼此早已不再搭腔。亨格利•乔比克拉夫特要懂道理得多。克拉夫特已经不在人世。当时在弗拉拉，约塞连再一次把自己小队的六架飞机导入目标上空，一台发动机爆炸了，克拉夫特就这样死于非命。飞行大队连续轰炸了七天，还是没有炸悼弗拉拉的那座桥梁，尽管他们使用的轰炸瞄准器十分精密，可以在四万英尺的高空把一枚枚炸弹扔进一只腌菜桶。早一个星期前，卡思卡特上校可是自告奋勇要部下在二十四小时内炸毁那座桥。克拉夫特是宾夕法尼亚州人，小伙子长得极瘦弱，没丝毫要害人的坏心眼。他唯一的希望就是讨人喜欢，然而，就连这一点点有辱人格的卑贱的愿望，也终究注定要破灭的。他死了，没有受到别人的怜爱，就像熊熊燃烧的烈火堆上的一块血淋淋的炭渣，无声无息地离开了人世。就在那架只剩一片机翼的飞机快速坠落的当儿，谁也不曾听见他在生命最后的宝贵瞬间里说了些什么。克拉夫特与世靡争地生活了一小段时间，然后到了第七天，在弗拉拉上空随烈火一起消逝。当时，上帝正在安息，麦克沃特将飞机调了头，约塞连引导他飞至目标上空，作又一轮轰炸飞行，因为第一轮轰炸飞行时，阿费慌了手脚，结果，约塞连没能扔下炸弹。
　　“我想我们只得再往回飞了，是不是？”麦克沃特通过对讲机闷闷不乐地说了一句。
　　“我想是吧，”约塞连说。
　　“是吗？”麦克沃特问道。
　　“是的。”
　　“那好吧，”麦克沃特说，“只好如此了。”
　　他俩重新飞回目标上空，而其他小队的飞机在远处盘旋了一圈后，便安全飞走了。这时，地面上赫尔曼•戈林师的每一门火炮，便都一齐对准他俩猛烈开炮。
　　卡思卡待上校是个极果敢的人。只要有什么现成的轰炸目标，他向来毫不迟疑地主动提出请求，让自己的部下前去摧毁。在他的飞行大队看来，任何一个目标，不管有多危险，都是攻无不克的，正如对阿普尔比来说，在乒乓球台上没有什么险球是救不起的。阿普尔比是位很出色的飞行员，又是一名球艺超绝的乒乓球选手，尽管眼睛里有苍蝇，却从未失过一球。对阿普尔比来说，要让对手输得丢尽脸面，发二十一次球便足够了。他的乒乓球球技实在是高超非凡。只要举行球赛，他必定是场场都赢。后来，有一天晚上，奥尔喝过杜松子酒和威士忌后，醉醺醺地跑去找阿普尔比打乒乓球。开局时，他接连发的头五个球，全让阿普尔比给猛抽了回去，于是，他便拿起球拍，把阿普尔比的前额砸了个口子。奥尔扔掉球拍，纵身一跃，跳到乒乓球台上，紧接着一个急行跳远，从台子的另一端猛跳了下去；两脚恰好踩在了阿普尔比的脸上，立时一片混乱。阿普尔比差不多花了足足一分钟，才好不容易挣脱掉奥尔的拳打脚踢，摸索着爬了起来，一手揪住奥尔的衬衣前胸，把他提了起来，另一手握成拳头缩回去，正欲猛力击去，把他打死。就在这当儿，约塞连跨步上前，把奥尔从他身边拉走。这一夜对阿普尔比来说，是充满意外的一夜。阿普尔比和约塞连一样魁梧粗壮，他挥起拳，狠狠地打了约塞连一拳。这一拳打得一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特乐不可支，于是，他转过身，照准穆达士上校的鼻子也重重击了一拳。德里德尔将军可高兴极了，便让卡思卡特上校把随军牧师逐出军官俱乐部，又命令一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特搬进丹尼卡医生的帐篷，这样，每天二十四小时他就可以得到医生的照料，身体健康也有了保障，这样，德里德尔将军什么时候要他拳打穆达士上校的鼻子，他便可以再应付了。有的时候，德里德尔将军带着穆达士上校和护士，特地从联队司令部下来，只是想让一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特在他女婿的鼻子上狠狠打一拳。
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特是极愿意留在他跟弗卢姆上尉合住的那间活动房里的。弗卢姆上尉是中队的新闻发布官，不爱说笑，性情烦闷。每天晚上，他总要花上一大半时间冲洗白天拍摄的照片，然后跟他的宣传稿一同发出去。他每天晚上尽量留在暗房工作，之后，便躺在自己的帆布床上，交叉着食指和中指，脖子上缠了只兔子的后足，想足了法子不让自己睡着。跟一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特合住，他始终处于极度的恐惧之中。他脑子里老是困扰着一个念头：说不定哪个晚上，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特会趁他酣睡之际，悄悄走到他的床前，一刀切开他的咽喉。他之所以生出这么个念头，也全因一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特本人。有天晚上，弗卢姆上尉正打着盹儿，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特确实蹑手蹑脚地走到他的床前，极凶险地用尖利的嘘声威胁道：总有一天晚上，趁他，弗卢姆上尉，熟睡的时候，他，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特，会一刀割开他的咽喉。弗卢姆上尉吓得浑身直冒冷汗，睁大了双眼，抬起头，直愣愣地注视着一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特那双离他仅几英寸远的闪闪发亮的醉眼。
　　“为什么？”弗卢姆上尉最终用低沉而沙哑的声音总算问了一句。
　　“为什么不？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特的答复倒是极干脆。
　　此后的每个晚上，弗卢姆上尉尽量迫使自己不睡着。亨格利•乔的噩梦着实给他帮了极大的忙。他一夜夜专注地倾听亨格利•乔疯狂般的号叫，渐渐地仇恨起他来了，真希望哪天晚上，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特会悄悄地走到他的床前，一刀割开他的咽喉。其实，大多数晚上，弗卢姆上尉睡得很沉，只是梦见自己醒着。这些梦极其真实，结果，每天早晨他从睡梦中醒来时，已是筋疲力尽，顷刻又复睡去。
　　自弗卢姆上尉发生惊人的巨变后，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特渐渐地喜欢上他了。那天晚上，弗卢姆上尉上床时，还相当活泼开朗，可第二天上午起身时，却变得阴郁寡欢，性格内向。一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特很自豪地视这个新的弗卢姆上尉为自己创造的作品。他从未打算要割断弗卢姆上尉的咽喉。他扬言这么做，就如同他说要死于肺炎、要给穆达士上校的鼻子狠狠一拳或者要同丹尼卡医生比角力，全都只是想开个玩笑而已。每天晚上，他醉醺醺地蹒跚着走进帐篷，想做的头一桩事，便是即刻睡觉，可亨格利•乔经常让他入睡不得。亨格利•乔梦魇时歇斯底里地狂叫，吵得他烦躁不安。于是，他便经常希望有人悄悄溜进亨格利•乔的帐篷，从他脸上把赫普尔的猫拎走，再一刀割开他的咽喉。这样，中队上下除弗卢姆上尉外，就可以好好睡一个安稳觉了。
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特不时地替德里德尔将军重重拳击穆达士上校的鼻子，纵然如此，他依旧还是个局外人。中队长梅杰少校也是个局外人。梅杰少校在从卡思卡特上校那里得知自己晋升中队长的同时，发现自己本是个局外人。杜鲁斯少校于佩鲁贾上空阵亡后的第二天，卡思卡特上校坐了他那辆特大马力的吉普车，飞速驶进中队驻地。卡思卡特上校在离那条铁路壕沟几英寸的地方，嘎然把车刹住。壕沟就横在吉普车和那片倾斜的篮球场之间。
　　卡思卡特上校一到，梅杰少校便遭到那些球友——几乎和他交上了朋友——的拳打脚踢，左推右搡，还有乱石的袭击，最终，被逐出了球场；
　　“你现在是新任的中队长，”卡思卡特上校隔着壕沟朝梅杰少校高声喊道，“不过，别以为这有什么了不起，因为这算不得什么。
　　只不过是由你来担任新的中队长罢了。”
　　卡思卡特上校来得突然，去得也同样突然。说罢，他就猛地掉转车头，车轮一阵飞转，扬起一片细砂砾，吹了梅杰少校一脸，于是，车便轰隆隆地开走了。这个消息把梅杰少校惊呆了。他呆呆地站在那儿，一句话也说不出来，瘦长的身体愈发显得难看，两只长手捧着一只磨损了的破篮球，看着卡思卡特上校如此迅速播下的仇恨的种子在他身边的士兵们心中扎了根。而这些弟兄一直跟他打篮球，又允许他像先前谁都乐意的那样跟他们交朋友。梅杰少校两眼毫无光泽，眼白增大，模糊不清，嘴巴翕动着，极想说些什么，可就是出不了声，那种熟悉的、驱赶不了的孤寂，再一次飘来，似令人窒息的烟雾，将他团团困住。
　　像大队司令部的其他所有军官——丹比少校除外——一样，卡思卡特上校亦极具民主精神：他认为，人生来是平等的。所以，他便以同样的热情，一脚踢开了大队司令部以外的所有官兵。不过，他信任自己的部下。正如他在简令下达室常跟他们说的那样，他相信，同其他任何部队相比，他们要强得多，至少可以多完成十次飞行任务。同时，他还认为，谁要是对部下没有这样的信心，他就可以滚出去。不过，他们要滚出去，唯一的办法，就像约塞连飞去见前一等兵温特格林时探听到的那样，便是完成这另增的十次飞行任务。
　　“我还是搞不明白，”约塞连抗辩道，“丹尼卡医生究竟是错还是对？”
　　“他说是多少次？”
　　“四十次。”
　　“丹尼卡说的没错，”前一等兵温特格林认可道，“就第二十六空军司令部来说，只要完成四十次飞行任务就可以了。”
　　约塞连听了心花怒放。“这么说，我可以回家咯？我已经飞了四十八次。”
　　“不行，你还不能回家，”前一等兵温特格林纠正道，“你不会是疯了吧？”
　　“为什么不能回家？”
　　“第二十二条军规规定这样。”
　　“第二十二条军规？”约塞连很感吃惊。“第二十二条军规跟回家到底有什么关系？”
　　“第二十二条军规规定，”亨格利•乔开飞机送约塞连回皮亚诺萨岛后，丹尼卡医生极耐心地答复他说，“你自始至终得服从指挥官的命令。”
　　“但第二十六空军司令部说，我完成四十次飞行任务就可以回家了。”
　　“可他们没说你必须回家。军规明文规定，你必须服从每一个命令。圈套便在这里。即便上校违反了第二十六空军司令部的命令，非要你继续飞行不可，你还是得执行任务，否则，你违抗他的命令，便是犯罪。而且第二十七空军司令部必定会问你的罪。”
　　约塞连彻底灰了心。“这么说，我必须完成规定的五十次飞行任务咯？”他极伤心地问。
　　“是五十五次，”丹尼卡医生纠正道。
　　“什么五十五次？”
　　“上校现在要求你们大家完成五十五次飞行任务。”
　　亨格利•乔听了丹尼卡医生的后，如释重负地深叹了一口气，咧嘴笑了笑。约塞连一把揪住亨格利•乔的脖子；迫使他立刻开飞机跟他一块回去见前一等兵温特格林。
　　“要是我拒飞的话，”约塞连极信任地问道，“他们会怎么对待我？”
　　“我们或许会毙了你，”前一等兵温特格林回答他说。
　　“我们？”约塞连吃惊地大声叫道，“你说我们是什么意思？你什么时候站在他们一边了？”
　　“要是你给毙了，你指望我跟谁站在一边。”前一等兵温特格林反驳道。
　　约塞连畏缩了。卡思卡特上校又一次让他上了圈套。
Chapter 7 Mcwatt
    Ordinarily, Yossarian’s pilot was McWatt, who, shaving in loud red, clean pajamas outside his tent eachmorning, was one of the odd, ironic, incomprehensible things surrounding Yossarian. McWatt was the craziestcombat 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 overcards with sharp snaps when he dealt at blackjack or poker until Hungry Joe disintegrated into quaking despairfinally 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 himback soothingly with one hand. “That’s the only reason he does it, because he likes to hear me scream—yougoddam son of a bitch!”
　　McWatt crinkled his fine, freckled nose apologetically and vowed not to snap the cards any more, but alwaysforgot. McWatt wore fleecy bedroom slippers with his red pajamas and slept between freshly pressed coloredbedsheets like the one Milo had retrieved half of for him from the grinning thief with the sweet tooth in exchangefor 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 andselling them for five cents. But McWatt was never as impressed with Milo as Milo had been with the letterYossarian 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 Coverleyhad 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 intellectualsnob who felt he was twenty years ahead of his time and did not enjoy cooking down to the masses. “He has aletter 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 hadwritten. “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 toYossarian’s tent just to read the letter again, following his carton of lost provisions across the squadron like amourner. “I have to give you as much as you ask for. Why, the letter doesn’t even say you have to eat all of ityourself.”
　　“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 thesymptoms. 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 continuedfinally, “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 Idon’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 tofling 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 hisashen 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 rightout there in the open for anyone who wants any to come and help himself. Aarfy comes here to get prunesbecause he says he never gets enough prunes in the mess hall. You might look into that when you’ve got sometime because it’s no fun having Aarfy hanging around here. Whenever the supply runs low I just have CorporalSnark 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 ofother girls with nice fat thighs who are always kidding around also. Nately brings them a whole cartonful everytime 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 thatwith 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 buyflashy costume jewelry and cheap perfume.”
　　Milo perked up. “Costume jewelry!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know that. How much are they paying for cheapperfume?”
　　“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 youyour first day in the squadron and said, ‘Aardvaark’s my name, and navigation is my game.’ He wore a pipe inhis 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 disposeof 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, reasoningshrewdly 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 oncehe returned from Smyrna with his planeload of figs and learned from Yossarian that a C.I.D. man had come tothe hospital. To Milo, who had been gullible enough to volunteer for it, the position of mess officer was a sacredtrust.
　　“I didn’t even realize we weren’t serving enough prunes,” he had admitted that first day. “I suppose it’s becauseI’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 myfirst chef, although I hope to move him over to the administrative side. Corporal Snark tends to be a little toocreative, I feel. He thinks being a mess sergeant is some sort of art form and is always complaining about havingto prostitute his talents. Nobody is asking him to do any such thing! Incidentally, do you happen to know why hewas 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 ofPhilistines and don’t know the difference between good and bad. Every man in the squadron was sick. Missionswere 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 andclamored 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 overto the administrative side. I don’t want anything like that happening while I’m in charge. You see,” he confidedearnestly, “what I hope to do is give the men in this squadron the best meals in the whole world. That’s reallysomething to shoot at, isn’t it? If a mess officer aims at anything less, it seems to me, he has no right being messofficer. Don’t you agree?”
　　Yossarian turned slowly to gaze at Milo with probing distrust. He saw a simple, sincere face that was incapableof subtlety or guile, an honest, frank face with disunited large eyes, rusty hair, black eyebrows and anunfortunate reddish-brown mustache. Milo had a long, thin nose with sniffing, damp nostrils heading sharply offto the right, always pointing away from where the rest of him was looking. It was the face of a man of hardenedintegrity who could no more consciously violate the moral principles on which his virtue rested than he couldtransform himself into a despicable toad. One of these moral principles was that it was never a sin to charge asmuch as the traffic would bear. He was capable of mighty paroxysms of righteous indignation, and he wasindignant 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 hospitalwho’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 violentlyat a disheveled hunk of his off-colored mustache. “I don’t like guys like that. Always snooping around peoplelike us. Why doesn’t the government get after ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, if it wants to do some good? He’s got norespect 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 disunitedeyes, which never looked at the same thing at the same time. Milo could see more things than most people, buthe could see none of them too distinctly. In contrast to his reaction to news of the C.I.D. man, he learned withcalm 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 thecolonel 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 intothe hospital every time something happens you don’t like. No, the best thing to do is fly the missions. It’s ourduty.”
　　Milo had rigid scruples that would not even allow him to borrow a package of pitted dates from the mess hallthat 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 mewith Doctor Daneeka’s letter. You can do whatever you want to with it, even sell it at a high profit instead ofgiving 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 returnedwith the unopened package of dates and with the grinning thief with the sweet tooth who had stolen the bedsheetfrom McWatt’s tent. The piece of bedsheet now belonged to Yossarian. He had earned it while napping, althoughhe 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 evenknow 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 withthe package of pitted dates you invested. That’s why the quarter of the bedsheet is yours. You made a veryhandsome return on your investment, particularly since you’ve gotten back every pitted date you gave me.” Milonext addressed himself to McWatt. “Half the bedsheet is yours because it was all yours to begin with, and I reallydon’t understand what you’re complaining about, since you wouldn’t have any part of it if Captain Yossarian andI 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 thebedsheet I’ve set aside for myself as a reward for my enterprise, work and initiative. It’s not for myself, youunderstand, but for the syndicate. That’s something you might do with half the bedsheet. You can leave it in thesyndicate 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 alwayspuzzled him.
　　“Let me try to explain it again,” Milo offered with growing weariness and exasperation, jerking his thumbtoward the thief with the sweet tooth, still grinning beside him. “I knew he wanted the dates more than thebedsheet. Since he doesn’t understand a word of English, I made it a point to conduct the whole transaction inEnglish.”
　　“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 scoldedfirmly. “Force is wrong, and two wrongs never make a right. It was much better my way. When I held the datesout 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. Helooked from Yossarian to McWatt and back again. “I really can’t see what everyone is complaining about. We’reall much better off than before. Everybody is happy but this thief, and there’s no sense worrying about him, sincehe 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 sellthem at a profit in Pianosa for five cents.
 07、麦克沃特
　　通常，与约塞连搭档的飞行员是麦克沃特。每天清晨，麦克沃特总是穿了洁净的大红睡衣裤，在自己的帐篷外面刮胡子。约塞连身边有不少莫名其妙、令人啼笑皆非的怪人，麦克沃特就是其中一个。在所有参战官兵当中，麦克沃特兴许是最古怪的一个，因为他神志十分正常，可对战争依旧无动于衷。他腿短肩宽，年纪很轻，常面带笑容，口里总不停地哼唧欢快的流行曲调。每次玩二十一点或是打扑克牌时，总要把牌摔得劈啪响，结果，摔得亨格利•乔心烦意乱、浑身不爽，亨格利便厉声责骂，让他别再这样摔牌。
　　“你这婊子养的，你是存心折磨我，”亨格利•乔便会大声怒骂，一旁的约塞连则会用一手拦住他，让他消气镇静。“他是故意跟我作对，因为他喜欢听我歇斯底里地喊叫——你这狗杂种！”
　　麦克沃特很感抱歉地皱了皱雀斑点点但长得挺漂亮的鼻子，发誓以后再不摔牌，但总是过后便忘。麦克沃特穿的是大红睡衣裤和室内软拖鞋，睡觉时盖的是新熨烫过的印花被单——极似米洛从那个嬉皮笑脸、嗜爱甜食的小偷处取回的那半条被单。当初，去取那半条被单时，米洛向约塞连借了些去核枣，结果，一颗没用。麦克沃特对米洛印象极深，原因是，米洛总是把七分钱买的鸡蛋以五分钱的价格卖出去，这实在是让给养军士斯纳克下士觉得有趣。不过，麦克沃特对米洛的印象，从来就没有米洛对约塞连从丹尼卡医生手上得来的那张肝病证明的印象深刻。
　　“这是什么？”米洛惊讶地叫道，他发现了那只大大的瓦楞纸板箱，里边装满了一包包干果、一听听果汁和甜点心，两名意大利劳工——是德•科弗利少校诱拐来替他在厨房干活的——正准备搬了这箱子去约塞连帐篷。
　　“这是约塞连上尉，长官，”斯纳克下士很是神气活现地笑了笑，说道。斯纳克下士一向自认为很有知识，觉着自己领先时代二十年。他实在很讨厌给大伙儿煮饭。“他有丹尼卡医生出具的证明，不管他想要什么水果和果汁，他都可以享用。”
　　“这是怎么回事儿？”约塞连大叫道，这当儿，米洛脸色煞白，又摇晃了起来。
　　“上尉，这是米洛•明德宾德中尉，”斯纳克下士嘲讽地眨了眨眼，说道，“是新来的一位飞行员。这一次你住院期间，他当上了司务长。”
　　当天傍晚，米洛交给麦克沃特半条床单，麦克沃特大叫道：“这是什么？”
　　“就是今天上午从你帐篷里偷走的那半条床单，”米洛兴致勃勃且又沾沾自喜地给他做了解释，赭色的鬓须急速地抽搐着。“我敢说，你甚至还不知道床单让人给偷去了呢。”
　　“怎么竟会有人要偷半条床单？”约塞连问。
　　米洛紧张不安了。“这你是不会懂的，”他抗辩道。
　　米洛为何如此迫不及待地花钱，想从丹尼卡医生那儿买一张简捷的证明，对此，约塞连始终弄不明白。丹尼卡医生在证明书上写道：“请把约塞连所要的全部干果和果汁给他。他说他的肝脏有病。”
　　“像这样的证明，”米洛沮丧地咕哝道，“足以葬送天底下任何一位司务长的前程。”米洛来到约塞连的帐篷，就是想再看一看那张证明。他跟在那一盒发给约塞连的食物的后面，穿过中队营地，活像在给什么人送葬似的。“你要多少，我都得给你。嗨，这证明可没说你必须一人独吃。”
　　“没那么说，倒是桩好事，”约塞连告诉他说，“因为我向来就不吃这东西。我的肝脏不好。”
　　“哦，对了，我把这给忘了，”米洛很是恭敬，放低了嗓音说道，“情况糟吗？”
　　“糟糕得很呢，”约塞连快乐地答道。
　　“是这样，”米洛说，“这话怎么讲？”
　　“就是说，情况不可能比这会儿再好了……”
　　“我想我还是听不明白。”
　　“……再好的话，那就更糟了。现在你明白了？”
　　“是的，我现在明白了。不过，我想我还是不懂你的意思。”
　　“算啦，你就别为这事费神了。让我自个儿来烦心吧。你知道，我其实没什么肝病，只是有了些症状而已，是加涅特-弗莱沙克综合症。”
　　“是这么回事儿，”米洛说，“那什么是加涅特-弗莱沙克综合症？”
　　“就是肝病。”
　　“我明白了，”米洛说着，便不耐烦地摩挲起自己的两道浓黑的眉毛，露出了苦涩的神情，仿佛在煎熬什么令人浑身不自在的痛楚。“既然如此，”他最后接着说，“我想你的确得好好留心自己的饮食，是不是？”
　　“是得好好留心，”约塞连跟他说，“有益的加涅特-弗莱沙克综合症，是不怎么容易得到的，而我呢，又不想把自身的这种症状给毁了，所以，我从来就不吃什么水果。”
　　“这下我可真明白了，”米洛说，“水果有损你的肝脏？”
　　“不，水果对我的肝脏很有好处。所以，我绝对不吃。”
　　“那你要了水果做什么？”米洛越搞越糊涂，可他不罢休，费了好大的劲，才把憋了老半天不说的这句问话吐了出来。“你把水果卖了？”
　　“我送人。”
　　“送给谁？”米洛叫道，惊愕得连嗓音都变了样。
　　“谁要就送谁。”约塞连高声回敬了一句。
　　米洛很忧戚地发出一声长长的哀叹，摇晃着后退了几步，苍白的脸上突然冒出一颗颗汗珠。他心不在焉地硬拽着那两撇丧气的八字须，浑身直打战。
　　“我送了不少给邓巴，”约塞连接着又说。
　　“邓巴？”米洛机械地重复了一遍。
　　“没错。邓巴要多少水果，就能吃多少，可这对他压根就没一点好处。那盒子我就放在帐篷外面，谁想要，就自个儿来取。阿费来这儿拿些李子，因为他说，食堂里的李子从来就不够他吃。你什么时候有空，应该查一查这事，因为阿费老在这里闲荡实在不是什么趣事。什么时候盒子里的水果不多了，我就让斯纳克下士重新给我添满。内特利每次去罗马，总要带足了水果。他爱上了那儿的一个妓女。那个妓女很讨厌我，不过，对他也没有丝毫的兴趣。她有个小妹妹，从来就没让他俩单独上过床。他们住的是一幢公寓楼，合住的房客有一对老头老太，还有一群别的女孩——个个长有两条肥壮迷人的大腿，总是戏谑不止。内特利每次上那儿，总给她们捎带一整盒水果。”
　　“是卖给她们？”
　　“不，是送给她们。”
　　米洛蹩起了额头。“喔，我想他倒是挺慷慨的，”他漠然地说。
　　“没错，的确挺慷慨，”约塞连赞同道。
　　“而且我敢保证，这绝对合法，”米洛说，“因为一旦食物从我这儿到了你手里，便是你的了。我猜想，这些人境况那么恶劣，能弄到水果，一定高兴得很。”
　　“是的，确实很高兴，”约塞连深信不疑地对他说，“那两个姑娘把水果全拿到黑市上去卖，再用挣到的钱，去买俗艳的人造珠宝饰物和廉价香水。”
　　米洛振作了起来。“人造珠宝饰物！”他惊叫道，“我怎么不知道？买廉价香水她们得花多少钱？”
　　“那老头卖了自己的一份水果，去买纯威士忌酒和色情图片。
　　他是个色鬼。”
　　“色鬼？”
　　“倒不是你所想的那样。”
　　“色情图片在罗马是不是很有市场？”米洛问。
　　“情况并非像你想的那样。就说阿费吧。你认识他，从来就不会怀疑他，是不是？”
　　“难道他也是个色鬼？”
　　“不是。他是个领航员。你认识阿德瓦克上尉，是不是？这家伙人挺不错，你到中队的第一天，他就跑来见你，说：‘我叫阿德瓦克，干的是领航。’当时，他嘴里叼了个烟斗，好像还问了你上过哪所大学。你是不是认识他？”
　　米洛压根就没理会。“让我跟你合伙干吧，”他冷不丁地恳求道。
　　约塞连拒绝了他的恳求，即使他毫不怀疑，一旦他凭丹尼卡医生的证明，从食堂申请领取了一卡车一卡车水果，那么，这些水果就归他们所有，他们爱怎么处理就怎么处理。米洛很是丧气，不过，从那以后，除一桩事以外，他什么秘密都跟约塞连说，因为他敏锐地感悟出，凡是不窃取自己所爱国家的财产者，绝不会偷盗他人的财物。对约塞连，米洛毫无保留，有秘密便讲，但关于山上那些洞——从士麦那运回一飞机无花果后，听约塞连说，刑事调查部的一名工作人员住进了医院，他便开始把钱埋在了洞里——的位置，他始终没吐半个字。米洛极易受骗，结果，便自告奋勇当上了司务长，不过，在他，这实在是神圣的职责。
　　“食堂里的李子不够吃，我竟连这还不知道呢，”上任后的第一天，米洛承认道，“我想这是因为我对一切还相当不熟悉。我会跟厨师长提这事的。”
　　约塞连机警地注视着他。“什么厨师长？”他问道，“你哪来的厨师长？”
　　“斯纳克下士，”米洛解释道，很有些歉疚地把目光移向了别处。“他是我唯一的厨师，其实，也就是厨师长，虽然我希望让他负责行政勤务。依我的感觉，斯纳克下士似乎过于锋芒毕露了。在他看来，当一名给养军士实在只是一种摆设而已。他老是抱怨说，自己是被迫糟蹋才华。可压根就没人让他非做这事不可！顺便问一下，你是否知道他当初为什么被降为列兵，至今还只是个下士？”
　　“知道，”约塞连说，“他在中队的食物里下过毒。”
　　米洛听罢，脸色再次刷白。“他做什么？”
　　“他把数百块军用肥皂捣碎成泥，羼入白薯中，只是想证明大家的口味很平庸，不辨优劣。中队的全体官兵都病了。飞行任务被迫取消。”
　　“啊！”米洛惊呼道，颇有些异议。“他一定发觉自己铸成了大错，是不是？”
　　“恰好相反，”约塞连纠正道，“他觉得这事他做得对极了。我们每个人都吃了满满一盘，还一个劲地嚷着要他再给添满。我们都知道自己病了，但万万没想到是中了毒。”
　　米洛惊愕地倒吸了两口气，模样极似一只棕色的粗毛野兔。
　　“既然如此，我就非得让他去负责行政勤务不可了。我可不希望在我主管期间出这种事。你知道，”他颇严肃他说出了真心活，“我想做的，就是要让中队的弟兄们一日三餐吃上全世界最好的饭菜。这才是司务长应尽的职责，你说对不？假如他连这最起码的目标都达不到，那么，他就不配做一名司务长。你同意吗？”
　　约塞连缓缓地转过身，深表怀疑地直视着米洛。在他眼前的，是一张单纯、诚实的脸，绝不会做出任何奸诈狡猾或是不择手段的勾当；是一张正直、坦诚的脸，嵌一对斜视的浓眉大眼，长一头赭发和两撇丧气的红棕色八字须。米洛的鼻子极长，且瘦尖，鼻孔始终是湿滴滴的，不时哧哧地吸鼻子，鼻尖右歪得厉害，总与身体其余部位的面向相悖。这是刚正不阿者的脸：他绝不可能有意识地违背作为其正直品性依赖的道德准则，如同他不可能把自己变成令人厌恶的可鄙小人一样。这些道德准则之中，有一条即是，只要实际情况允许，无论要价多少，也算不得是罪孽。米洛时时会表现出极大的义愤。当听说刑事调查部的一名工作人员正在这一带找他时，他简直气愤到了极点。
　　“他找的不是你，”约塞连说，想让他消气。“是住院的一个人，哪家伙检查信件时，老是签上华盛顿•欧文的名字。”
　　“我可从来没有在什么信件上签华盛顿•欧文的名字，”米洛声言道。
　　“那当然。”
　　“不过，这只是个骗局，目的是想让我承认自己一直在黑市上捞钱。”米洛狠拽了自己那一撮凌乱的变了色的八字须。“我讨厌那种家伙。总是鬼头鬼脑地四处打探我们这些人的秘密。假如政府想做些什么好事，它干吗不追查前一等兵温特格林？他眼里可从来没有什么规章制度，老是跟我砍价。”
　　米洛的八字须之所以触楣头，是因为左右两撇向来是不相称的，就跟他的那对斜眼一样，永远无法同时看着同一样东西。较之大多数人，米洛眼见的东西要多些，但没一样他是看得真切的。当获知刑事调查部那名工作人员的消息时，他的反应极其激动，但相比之下，在听约塞连说，卡思卡特上校已经把飞行次数增加到五十五次之后，他倒是颇显得沉着勇敢。
　　“这可是在打仗，”他说，“所以，规定的飞行次数，我们必须完成，发牢骚是毫无用处的。假如上校说我们必须飞五十五次，我们就得不折不扣地飞满五十五次。”
　　“哦，我可不必飞那么多次，”约塞连发誓说，“我要去见梅杰少校。”
　　“你能行吗？梅杰少校向来不见任何人。”
　　“那我就回医院去。”
　　“可你出院才十天，”米洛提醒他说，语调里颇有些责备的成份。“你总不能一遇到什么不如意的事儿就往医院跑吧。不能这样，最好还是完成规定的飞行次数。这可是我们的职责。”
　　米洛办事相当固执死板，且顾虑重重。因此，就在麦克沃特的床单被窃那天，他怎么也不愿从食堂借用一袋去核枣子，因为食堂的食品依然都是政府的财产。
　　“不过我可以向你借，”他给约塞连解释道，“因为所有这些水果，一旦你凭丹尼卡医生的证明从我这里领到手，就都归你了。你想怎么处理就怎么处理，甚至可以不送人，高价出售。难道你不想跟我合伙干？”
　　“不想。”
　　米洛只得作罢。“那就借我一袋去核枣，”他恳求道，“我会还你的。我向你保证，而且会多给你一些分外的东西。”
　　米洛言而有信。回来见约塞连时，把那袋去核枣原封未动地还给了他，此外，还交给他麦克沃特那条黄色床单的四分之一。而且，米洛把那个毗牙咧嘴、喜吃甜食的小偷——从麦克沃特帐篷里窃得床单的便是他——也一起带了回来。这块床单，现在就归约塞连所有了。这床单到他手上的当儿，他正打着盹儿，不过、他自己不明白究竟是怎么回事。麦克沃特也同样糊里糊涂。
　　“这是什么东西？”麦克沃特大声叫道，直盯着撕下来的半条床单，很是困惑不解。
　　“这就是今天上午你帐篷失窃的那条床单的一半，”米洛解释说，“我敢打赌，你连床单被人偷了还不知道哩。”
　　“干吗要偷半条床单？”约塞连问。
　　米洛慌了神儿。“你不明白，”他抗辩道，“小偷偷走的是整条床单。我就用你投资的那袋去核枣，把它给换了回来。所以，床单的四分之一就归你了。你的投资，收获可不小啊，尤其是因为你收回了给我的每一颗去核枣。”接着，米洛又对麦克沃特说，“另外半条床单就归你，因为这整条床单本来就是你的。我实在搞不明白，你究竟埋怨些啥。要不是约塞连上尉和我为了你插手此事，你恐怕连床单的一角都甭想拿到。”
　　“谁埋怨啦？”麦克沃特大声嚷道，“我只不过是想看看，该怎么处理这半条床单。”
　　“你用半条床单可做不少东西哩。”米洛向他断言。“床单的另外四分之一，我自己留下了，作为对自己积极进取、工作一丝不苟的奖励。你知道，这可不是为我自己，而是为了辛迪加联合体。你那半条床单或许可以在这里派上用处。你可以把它留存在辛迪加联合体，看着它生利。”
　　“什么辛迪加联合体？”
　　“就是有朝一日我想成立的那个联合体，这样一来，我就可以给弟兄们供应你们理该得到的美味可口的食品。”
　　“你想成立辛迪加联合体？”
　　“没错，是这样。说确切一点，就是一个市场。你可知道什么是市场？”
　　“就是买东西的地方，对吗？”
　　“还有卖东西，”米洛纠正道。
　　“还有卖东西。”
　　“我一辈子都想要个市场。有了市场，你就可以做许多事儿。
　　但，你首先得有个市场。”
　　“你想要一个市场？”
　　“而且人人都有一股。”
　　约塞连还是困惑不解，因为这是生意经，再说，生意经方面总有不少东西令他费解。
　　“让我再给你解释解释。”米洛主动提议，但尽管如此，还是愈发不耐烦，继而颇感恼怒。他猛地竖起大拇指，直指站在他一旁的那个喜甜食的小偷——还一个劲地龄牙咧嘴地笑呢。“我知道，枣子和床单之间，他更喜欢枣子。正因为他对英语一窍不通，所以，在处理这件事的过程中，我自始至终说的是英语。”
　　“你干吗不在他头上狠打一下，再把床单夺过来呢？”约塞连问道。
　　米洛极严肃地紧抿了双唇，摇摇头。“那样的话，就太不公平了，”他严厉地责备道，“暴力是错误的，两个错误绝对不会变成正确。相比之下，我的方法可高明多了。当我把枣子递给他，再又伸手取床单时，他很可能以为我是在主动跟他做交易。”
　　“那你究竟是在干什么？”
　　“说真的，当时我确实是主动在跟他做交易，但既然他不懂英语，我就随时都可以否认这一点。”
　　“要是他生了气，一定得要那些枣子呢？”
　　“嗨，我们只要在他头上狠打一下，拿了枣子便走不就得啦。”
　　米洛答得极干脆。他看看约塞连，又看看麦克沃特，然后，看看麦克沃特，再又看看约塞连。“我实在不明白，大伙儿发什么牢骚。我们这会儿的日子比以前可要强多了。没有谁活得不滋润的，只有这小偷除外，不过，也用不着替他操心，因为他连我们的语言都说不来，活该有这么个下场。你明白了吧？”
　　然而，米洛在马耳他买鸡蛋，七分钱一只，可他在皮亚诺萨出售时，却是五分钱一只，最终还赚了钱。这到底是怎么一回事，约塞连终究还是没有弄明白。
Chapter 8 Lieutenant Scheisskopf
    Not even Clevinger understood how Milo could do that, and Clevinger knew everything. Clevinger kneweverything about the war except why Yossarian had to die while Corporal Snark was allowed to live, or whyCorporal Snark had to die while Yossarian was allowed to live. It was a vile and muddy war, and Yossariancould have lived without it—lived forever, perhaps. Only a fraction of his countrymen would give up their livesto win it, and it was not his ambition to be among them. To die or not to die, that was the question, and Clevingergrew 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 ofnecessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be thevictim of anything but circumstance. But that was war. Just about all he could find in its favor was that it paidwell 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 agangling, gawky, feverish, famish-eyed brain. As a Harvard undergraduate he had won prizes in scholarship forjust about everything, and the only reason he had not won prizes in scholarship for everything else was that hewas too busy signing petitions, circulating petitions and challenging petitions, joining discussion groups andresigning from discussion groups, attending youth congresses, picketing other youth congresses and organizingstudent committees in defense of dismissed faculty members. Everyone agreed that Clevinger was certain to gofar in the academic world. In short, Clevinger was one of those people with lots of intelligence and no brains, andeveryone 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 museumswith both eyes together on one side of a face. It was an illusion, of course, generated by Clevinger’s predilectionfor staring fixedly at one side of a question and never seeing the other side at all. Politically, he was ahumanitarian who did know right from left and was trapped uncomfortably between the two. He was constantlydefending his Communist friends to his right-wing enemies and his right-wing friends to his Communistenemies, and he was thoroughly detested by both groups, who never defended him to anyone because theythought he was a dope.
　　He was a very serious, very earnest and very conscientious dope. It was impossible to go to a movie with himwithout getting involved afterwards in a discussion on empathy, Aristotle, universals, messages and theobligations of the cinema as an art form in a materialistic society. Girls he took to the theater had to wait until thefirst intermission to find out from him whether or not they were seeing a good or a bad play, and then found outat once. He was a militant idealist who crusaded against racial bigotry by growing faint in its presence. He kneweverything 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 schoolin Santa Ana, California.
　　“I’m going to tell him,” Clevinger insisted, as the two of them sat high in the reviewing stands looking down onthe 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. Hisproblem was a squadron of aviation cadets with low morale who marched atrociously in the parade competitionthat took place every Sunday afternoon. Their morale was low because they did not want to march in paradesevery Sunday afternoon and because Lieutenant Scheisskopf had appointed cadet officers from their ranksinstead 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, Iwant 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 usto 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 himan opportunity to wear an officer’s uniform every day and say “Men” in a clipped, military voice to the bunchesof kids who fell into his clutches every eight weeks on their way to the butcher’s block. He was an ambitious andhumorless Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who confronted his responsibilities soberly and smiled only when some rivalofficer at the Santa Ana Army Air Force Base came down with a lingering disease. He had poor eyesight andchronic 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 whodid whenever she could and had a Wac uniform that Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife put on every weekend andtook 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 theway she found them, used them and tossed them aside. Yossarian loved her. She was a marvelous piece of asswho 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 downpassionately on top of Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife every week to revenge himself upon LieutenantScheisskopf for the way Lieutenant Scheisskopf was revenging himself upon Clevinger.
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife was revenging herself upon Lieutenant Scheisskopf for some unforgettable crimeof his she couldn’t recall. She was a plump, pink, sluggish girl who read good books and kept urging Yossariannot to be so bourgeois without the r. She was never without a good book close by, not even when she was lyingin bed with nothing on her but Yossarian and Dori Duz’s dog tags. She bored Yossarian, but he was in love withher, too. She was a crazy mathematics major from the Wharton School of Business who could not count totwenty-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 goingon?”
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf cared very deeply about winning parades and about bringing Clevinger up on chargesbefore the Action Board for conspiring to advocate the overthrow of the cadet officers Lieutenant Scheisskopfhad appointed. Clevinger was a troublemaker and a wise guy. Lieutenant Scheisskopf knew that Clevinger mightcause even more trouble if he wasn’t watched. Yesterday it was the cadet officers; tomorrow it might be theworld. Clevinger had a mind, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf had noticed that people with minds tended to get prettysmart at times. Such men were dangerous, and even the new cadet officers whom Clevinger had helped intooffice were eager to give damning testimony against him. The case against Clevinger was open and shut. Theonly 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 LieutenantScheisskopf himself. The men fell out for the parades early each Sunday afternoon and groped their way intoranks of twelve outside the barracks. Groaning with hangovers, they limped in step to their station on the mainparadeground, where they stood motionless in the heat for an hour or two with the men from the sixty or seventyother cadet squadrons until enough of them had collapsed to call it a day. On the edge of the field stood a row ofambulances and teams of trained stretcher bearers with walkie-talkies. On the roofs of the ambulances werespotters with binoculars. A tally clerk kept score. Supervising this entire phase of the operation was a medicalofficer with a flair for accounting who okayed pulses and checked the figures of the tally clerk. As soon asenough unconscious men had been collected in the ambulances, the medical officer signaled the bandmaster tostrike 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 witha big fat mustache sat with the other officers. The best squadron in each wing won a yellow pennant on a polethat was utterly worthless. The best squadron on the base won a red pennant on a longer pole that was wortheven less, since the pole was heavier and was that much more of a nuisance to lug around all week until someother squadron won it the following Sunday. To Yossarian, the idea of pennants as prizes was absurd. No moneywent with them, no class privileges. Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they signified was that theowner 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 hatedhearing them, hated seeing them, hated being tied up in traffic by them. He hated being made to take part inthem. It was bad enough being an aviation cadet without having to act like a soldier in the blistering heat everySunday afternoon. It was bad enough being an aviation cadet because it was obvious now that the war would notbe over before he had finished his training. That was the only reason he had volunteered for cadet training in thefirst place. As a soldier who had qualified for aviation cadet training, he had weeks and weeks of waiting forassignment to a class, weeks and weeks more to become a bombardier-navigator, weeks and weeks more ofoperational training after that to prepare him for overseas duty. It seemed inconceivable then that the war couldlast that long, for God was on his side, he had been told, and God, he had also been told, could do whatever Hewanted 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 wifewaited amorously for him in bed thumbing through Krafft-Ebing to her favorite passages. He read books onmarching. He manipulated boxes of chocolate soldiers until they melted in his hands and then maneuvered inranks of twelve a set of plastic cowboys he had bought from a mail-order house under an assumed name and keptlocked away from everyone’s eyes during the day. Leonardo’s exercises in anatomy proved indispensable. Oneevening 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 LieutenantScheisskopf’s life to be chained to a woman who was incapable of looking beyond her own dirty, sexual desiresto 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 aparade going on?”
　　And he really did not have the time. There it was Sunday already, with only seven days left in the week to getready for the next parade. He had no idea where the hours went. Finishing last in three successive parades hadgiven Lieutenant Scheisskopf an unsavory reputation, and he considered every means of improvement, evennailing 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 swivelsinserted in the small of every man’s back, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf was not sanguine at all about obtainingthat 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 owncadet officers, the squadron won the yellow pennant. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was so elated by his unexpectedachievement that he gave his wife a sharp crack over the head with the pole when she tried to drag him into bedto 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. Andthe week after that his squadron made history by winning the red pennant two weeks in a row! Now LieutenantScheisskopf had confidence enough in his powers to spring his big surprise. Lieutenant Scheisskopf haddiscovered in his extensive research that the hands of marchers, instead of swinging freely, as was then thepopular fashion, ought never to be moved more than three inches from the center of the thigh, which meant, ineffect, that they were scarcely to be swung at all.
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s preparations were elaborate and clandestine. All the cadets in his squadron were swornto secrecy and rehearsed in the dead of night on the auxiliary parade-ground. They marched in darkness that waspitch and bumped into each other blindly, but they did not panic, and they were learning to march withoutswinging their hands. Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s first thought had been to have a friend of his in the sheet metalshop sink pegs of nickel alloy into each man’s thighbones and link them to the wrists by strands of copper wirewith exactly three inches of play, but there wasn’t time—there was never enough time—and good copper wirewas hard to come by in wartime. He remembered also that the men, so hampered, would be unable to fallproperly during the impressive fainting ceremony preceding the marching and that an inability to faint properlymight 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 hisclosest 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 outSunday,” he promised. “You’ll find out.”
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf unveiled his epochal surprise that Sunday with all the aplomb of an experiencedimpresario. He said nothing while the other squadrons ambled past the reviewing stand crookedly in theircustomary manner. He gave no sign even when the first ranks of his own squadron hove into sight with theirswingless marching and the first stricken gasps of alarm were hissing from his startled fellow officers. He heldback even then until the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache whirled upon him savagely with a purplingface, 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 paradesaltogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good copper wire. LieutenantScheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. Therewere 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 colonelwith the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action Board and began bellowing at Clevinger the momentClevinger stepped gingerly into the room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodgedagainst him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and became so further enraged withClevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table even harder and hurt his hand some more. LieutenantScheisskopf 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’sa 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 corporalwho 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, LieutenantScheisskopf 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 aspresented by the prosecutor. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defendinghim. 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 agigantic belch and threatened to rip his stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. One day he had stumbledwhile 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 toclassical music and so on”. In short, they threw the book at him, and there he was, standing in dread before thebloated colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting Billy Petrolle and demanded toknow how the hell he would like being washed out and shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevingerreplied with courtesy that he would not like it; he was a dope who would rather be a corpse than bury one. Thecolonel 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 goddamhead. 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 youspeak 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 whocould 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 youwhisper 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 nameis 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 thedistinction escapes me.”
　　“W-““You’re a windy son of a bitch, aren’t you? Nobody asked you for clarification and you’re giving meclarification. 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 andrip 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 learnhow. 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 youremember, 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—theminute 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 theAdministration, 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 kindof 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 nightin 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 youguilty?”
　　“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 allinterested 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 tothe 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’swhat Karl Marx is. I’ll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at nightsneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the darkwithout a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what justice is when we’ve all got to be tough enough and roughenough 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 tofind 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 burybodies. A punishment tour for Clevinger was fifty minutes of a weekend hour spent pacing back and forth beforethe 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, glazingtheir unforgiving expressions with a hard, vindictive surface, glowing in their narrowed eyes malignantly likeinextinguishable coals. Clevinger was stunned to discover it. They would have lynched him if they could. Theywere three grown men and he was a boy, and they hated him and wished him dead. They had hated him before hecame, hated him while he was there, hated him after he left, carried their hatred for him away malignantly likesome 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 hislanguage and wore his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces set immutably into cramped, mean lines ofhostility 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 allthe expert gunners of the crack Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all thebeer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.
 08、沙伊斯科普夫少尉
　　七分钱一只买进的鸡蛋，又以每只五分钱的价格售出，最终还赚了钱，米洛何以能做到这一点，就连万事通克莱文杰也犯了难。
　　有关战争的一切，克莱文杰了如指掌，惟独一事他不甚明白：为何一旦斯纳克下士可以活下去，约塞连就非死不可，抑或，为何一旦约塞连可以活下去，斯纳克下士便只有死路一条。这是一场卑鄙肮脏的战争。假定没有这场战争，约塞连是本可以活下去的——或许能长寿。他的同胞中，只有极少数人甘愿为赢得这场战争的胜利而捐躯，至于约塞连自己，他实在是没有这个奢望成为其中的一分子。是死还是生，这是需要深思的问题，而克莱文杰倒是越发懒得回答这个问题了。历史并没有要求约塞连英年早逝；没有他的早逝，正义同样会得到伸张；无论是人类的进步，抑或是战争的胜败，都不取决于这一点。凡人皆难免一死，这是必然的事；但，哪些人该死，却全在天命。无论怎么个死法，约塞连都心甘情愿，但他就是不甘做天命的牺牲品。然而，这是战争。依他看，付出了巨大的血的代价，同时又把孩子们从父母有害的影响中解救出来，这便是这场战争唯一的可取之处。
　　克莱文杰之所以通晓那么多事，是因为他是个天才。他心跳剧烈，脸色苍白。尽管长得瘦长难看，可他浑身是劲，两眼射出渴求的光芒，是个聪明绝顶的人。当年在哈佛上学时，他差不多所有科目都得过学术奖，至于另外几门功课没得奖，唯一的原因是，他实在太忙了：既要在请愿书上签名，又要分发请愿书，还得就请愿书内容提出质疑；一会儿参加小组讨论，一会儿又退了出来；不是参加青年代表大会，就是替别的青年代表大会担任纠察，或是组织学生委员会，保护被开除的教员。克莱文杰日后必定在学术界大有作为，这是大家一致公认的。说到底，克莱文杰属于那种聪颖绝顶却全无智谋的人。这一点谁都知道，而那些过不多久才会发现这一点的人，是不会明白的。
　　总而言之，克莱文杰是个傻子。在约塞连眼里，他往往就跟那些整日在现代博物馆门前东荡西逛的人一样，两只眼睛都长在一张脸的同一侧。这自然是一种错觉，而这种错觉则完全是因克莱文杰本人而起，因为他偏好死盯着问题的一面，一向忽视其另一面。
　　政治上，他是一个人道主义者，很能识别左翼和右翼，却又极不自在地夹在两者之间。他时常当着右翼敌人的面，替左翼朋友辩护；
　　又当着左翼敌人的面，替右翼朋友辩护。可是，无论是左翼还是右翼，都对他深恶痛绝，从来就不愿在任何人面前替他辩护，因为，在他们看来，他实在是个傻子。
　　不过，他是个极严肃认真且专心一意的傻子。假如同他去看一场电影，散场后他非缠住你不可，同你讨论什么移情啦，什么亚里士多德啦，什么全称命题啦，什么寓意啦，还有作为艺术形式的电影在物质第一的社会中应尽的责任，等等。他每次带女孩子上剧院看戏，总得让人家等到第一次幕间休息，才肯说出看的戏是好是坏，而且用不着她们多费口舌，他就一下子和盘托出。此外，他还是一个战斗性颇强的理想主义者，投身于消灭种族歧视的斗争，其斗争方式是，凡遇到这种事例，他便当即昏厥。他于文学颇是精通，却不懂得怎么欣赏。
　　约塞连曾设法开导他。“别做傻子啦。”他这样劝过克莱文杰。
　　当时，他俩还在加利福尼亚州圣安娜的一所军校学习。
　　“我去跟他说。”克莱文杰一再坚持。当时，他和约塞连正高高地坐在检阅台上，俯视辅助阅兵场上的沙伊斯科普夫少尉——活像没长胡须的李尔，正怒气冲冲地来回走动。
　　“干吗是我？”沙伊斯科普夫少尉悲叹道。
　　“别作声，傻瓜。”约塞连长辈似地劝说克菜文杰。
　　“你不知道自己在说什么。”克莱文杰很是反感。
　　“我当然知道，所以才不作声的，傻瓜。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉咬牙切齿地撕扯着自己的头发；橡胶似的两颊因阵阵极度的痛苦而不时地颤动。令他如此苦恼的是，一中队航空学校学员士气消沉，在每周日下午举标的阅兵比赛中；表现极其恶劣。他们之所以士气消沉，一是因为他们讨厌每周日下午列队接受检阅，二是因为沙伊斯科普夫少尉不允许他们选自己的学员军官，而是由他从他们中间任命。
　　“我希望有人当面跟我说。”沙伊斯科普夫少尉极诚恳地请求全体学员。“假如我有什么过错，我希望你们直接跟我说。”
　　“他希望有人当面跟他说，”克莱文杰说。
　　“他是希望谁都不要吭气，傻爪，”约塞连回答说。
　　“难道你没听见他说？”克莱文杰反驳道。
　　“当然听见，”约塞连答道，“我听见他说得很响，很清楚，假如我们知道什么对我们有利，他希望我们每个人都把嘴闭起来。”
　　“我决不惩罚你们，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉向全体学员保证道。
　　“他说他不会惩罚我的。”克莱文杰说。
　　“他会阉割了你。”约塞连说。
　　“我保证决不惩罚你们，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉说，“谁要是跟我说了实话，我一定会很感激的。”
　　“他会恨你的，”约塞连说，“到死都会恨你。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉是后备军官训练队的毕业生。战争的爆发，于他颇是桩喜事，因为这一来，他便有机会天天穿上军官制服、冲着一群群小伙子——上战场送命之前，每八周便有一批落入他的手掌，以军人特有的清脆快速的嗓音，喊道：“弟兄们！”沙伊斯科普夫少尉极有野心，一向不苟言笑，从来都是极谨慎持重地面对自己的职责。只有当圣安娜陆军航空基地某个与他对立的军官，染上了什么缠绵的疾病，他才会露一丝笑容。他视力极差，又患有慢性瘘管病，然而，这反倒让他觉得战争格外刺激，因为他不可能去海外作战，也就没有了丝毫的危险。沙伊斯科普夫少尉唯一令人满意之处是他的太太，而他太太最让人称心的，是有一个名叫多丽•达兹的女友。多丽•达兹只要有机会，便要与人风流快活。她有一套陆军妇女队的制服，沙伊斯科普夫少尉的太太一到周未，便穿上这套制服；假如一到周未，她丈夫中队里的学员，无论是谁，想跟她上床，她便会为他脱了这套制服。
　　多丽•达兹是个活泼的浪荡少女，紫铜色的皮肤，金黄色的头发。工具房、公用电话亭、更衣室和公共汽车候车亭，都是她最喜欢的做爱场所。几乎没什么事她不曾尝试过，而她不愿尝试的事则更是少有。她年方十九，体形苗条，却淫荡不羁，不知羞耻。不少男人让她给弄得全无了自尊心，到了早晨便憎恶自己，因为她揭破了他们的真面目，利用了他们，却又把他们弃置一旁。约塞连倒是挺爱她。作为性交对象，她实在是个绝妙的女人，不过，依她看，约塞连也就如此而已。多丽•达兹只让约塞连碰过她一次，她浑身上下的肌肤极富弹性，那种感觉着实令约塞连爱不释手。约塞连很爱多丽•达兹，因此，他总是控制不住自己，每个星期必定会感情热烈地扑到沙伊斯科普夫少尉的太太身上，以此报复沙伊斯科普夫少尉，就像沙伊斯科普夫少尉报复克莱文杰一样。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉曾造下一桩难忘的孽，他太太倒是记不得了，不过，她还是为此在报复自己的丈夫。她丰满、肌肤白皙、不好动，喜读好书，又不时地力劝约塞连，不要太庸俗，连书都不读。她自己手边从来是少不了一本好书的，即便赤条条躺在床上，身上只有约塞连及多丽•达兹的身份识别牌时，也不例外。她让约塞连感到厌倦，可他也照样爱上了她。她毕业于沃顿商业学校，主修的是数学，可笨得出奇，每个月竟连二十八都数不清。
　　“亲爱的，我们再生个孩子吧，”她月月都这么跟约塞连说。
　　“你在说胡话吧，”他总这么回答。
　　“我可是当真的，宝贝，”她坚持说。
　　“我也一样。”
　　“亲爱的，我们再生个孩子吧，”她常跟自己的丈夫说。
　　“我没时间，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉老是没好气地咕哝道，“难道你不知道在进行阅兵吗？”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉最为关心的，是如何在阅兵比赛中获胜，如何把克莱文杰送至裁定委员会，指控他密谋打倒由他任命的学员军官。克莱文杰专爱闹事，又自命不凡。沙伊斯科普夫少尉知道，假如对他不小心防范，这家伙很有可能闹出更大的乱子来。昨天是想阴谋打倒学员军官，明天或许企图颠覆整个世界。克莱文杰颇有头脑，而沙伊斯科普夫少尉发现，凡是有头脑的人往往相当精明。这种人很危险，就连那些由克莱文杰扶掖的新上任的学员军官，也急不可耐地想出来作证，指控克莱文杰，欲置他于死地。指控克莱文杰一案，显然是成立的。唯一缺少的，就是以什么罪控告他。
　　但无论如何不能牵涉阅兵比赛，因为克莱文杰几乎同沙伊斯科普夫少尉本人一样，极为重视那些阅兵比赛。每周日下午，学员们早早便出来参加阅兵比赛，摸索着在营房外排成十二人一列的队伍。于是，他们宿酒未醒地哼唧着，深一脚浅一脚地走向大阅兵场各就各位。然后，他们就和其他六七十支中队的学员纹丝不动地站在烈日下，一站便是一两个小时，直到不少学员支持不住晕倒在地，队伍才被解散。阅兵场边上，停放了一排救护车，还站着一队队担架兵，他们手持步话机，个个训练有素。救护车车顶上，是手持望远镜的观察员。一名记分员负责记录比分。这一阶段比赛的全过程，由一名精通会计的军医负责监督。每分钟脉搏跳多少次可视作晕厥，必须得到军医的认可，记分员记录的比分，也必须经他核实。
　　一旦救护车载满了昏迷的学员，军医便示意乐队指挥开始奏乐，结束比赛。于是，所有中队一个紧跟着一个，向前走去，绕检阅台拐个大弯，退出阅兵场，返回各自的营房。
　　所有参加检阅的中队齐步走过检阅台时，都被打了分。检阅台上，坐着一名上校——留着两撇又浓又粗的八字须，摆出一副狂妄自大的尊容——和其他几位军官。各联队的最佳中队得一面插上旗杆的黄色锦旗——实在是毫无用处。基地的最佳中队则获一面红色锦旗，旗杆略长一些——更是没什么价值，因为旗杆的分量重了，下周日由其他中队夺走之前，足足一个星期他们必须得扛东扛西，实在很是令人头疼。在约塞连看来，以锦旗代奖品是颇有些滑稽可笑的。锦旗不代表金钱，也不代表等级特权。它们就跟奥林匹克运动会奖章和网球赛奖杯一样，仅仅表明，获奖者做了一桩于谁都无甚益处的事情，只不过比任何别的人做得出色罢了。
　　阅兵比赛这件事本身看来也同样滑稽可笑。约塞连讨厌受人检阅。阅兵大过军事化。他讨厌听到有关阅兵的消息；讨厌看到阅兵的场面，讨厌让接受检阅的队伍给困在半途，动身不得；也讨厌被迫参加阅兵活动。当一名航空学校学员已经是触尽了楣头，每星期天下午还得跟士兵一样，在炎炎的赤日下接受检阅。当一名航空学校学员确实是桩相当倒霉的事，因为现在看来，军训结束之前，战争显然是打不完的。而约塞连之所以自愿报名进航空学校接受训练，唯一的原因就是他以前一直以为，战争必定先他的军校训练而结束。约塞连作为一名大兵，早具备了条件进航空学校接受训练，但得等上若干星期，才会被选派到某个班：再等上若干星期，便做一名轰炸领航员；之后，又得接受若干星期的作战训练，为执行海外任务做准备。当时，似乎根本就想不到，战争竟会打那么长时间。有人曾跟他说，上帝和他站在一边；有人还跟他说，上帝无事不成。可是，战争根本就没个结局，而他的训练倒是差不多近了尾声。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉一心想在阅兵比赛中获胜，于是，熬了大半个晚上、琢磨来琢磨去。他妻子躺在床上，含情脉脉地企盼着他，一边迅速翻阅克拉夫特•埃宾的书，找自己最爱读的章节。沙伊斯科普夫看的则是有关行进方面的书。他拿了一盒盒小兵巧克力糖摆弄来摆弄去，直到所有的巧克力糖都化在了他的手里，于是，又取出一套塑料牧童，极熟练地把它们排成若干十二人一列的队伍。
　　这套塑料玩具是他以化名从一家邮购商店买来的，为了不让人看见，白天他总是把它锁藏起来。列奥纳多的解剖练习原来也是不可或缺的。一天晚上，他觉得少了个活模特儿，于是，就命令夫人在房里飞步行走。
　　“光着身走吗？”她满怀希望地问道。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉极为恼怒，两手啪地捂住了眼睛。他太太只晓得满足自己肮脏的肉欲，根本就无法理解高尚的人为实现无法达到的目标所做出的艰苦卓绝的伟大斗争。
　　“你到底为啥不跟我做爱？”一天晚上，她撅着嘴问。
　　“因为我没时间，”他很是不耐烦，冲着她厉声说道，“我没那工夫。难道你不知道在进行阅兵比赛吗？”
　　他确实没时间。又到星期天了，只有七天的时间为下一次阅兵比赛做准备。他实在不明白，时间究竟是怎么过的。接连三次比赛，沙伊斯科普夫少尉的中队都是最后一名，搞得他名声极坏。为了改进目前的这种状况，他考虑了各种办法，甚至想到用一根长长的二英寸厚、四英寸宽且风干了的栎木桁，把每列的十二人一直线钉在上面。显然，这是行不通的，因为假如用这种办法，就必须在每个人的腰背部嵌入一个镍合金旋转轴承，不然，他们就无法作九十度转体。再说，能否从军需主任那里要到那么多镍合金旋转轴承，或者，能否争取医院外科医生的合作，对此，沙伊斯科普夫少尉实在没有丝毫把握。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉采纳了克莱文杰的建议，让学员们选出了他们自己的学员军官。随后的那个星期，这个中队便夺得了那面黄色锦旗。这突如其来的胜利，让沙伊斯科普夫少尉心花怒放。当他妻子想拖他上床庆贺——以此表示他们蔑视西方文明中中产阶级下层的性风俗——时，他竟抡起旗杆，对着她的脑袋狠狠地打了下去。又过一个星期，中队夺得了那面红色锦旗。沙伊斯科普夫少尉简直是欣喜若狂。之后的又一个星期，他的中队创下了历史记录，连续两个星期夺得红色锦旗。现在，沙伊斯科普夫少尉坚信自己有能力一鸣惊人。经过广泛的研究，他发现，行进时，两只手不应像时下流行的那样自由摆动，而应该自始至终与大腿正中保持不超过三英寸的摆距，其实也就是说，两手几乎就不用摆动。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉的准备工作周详充分，且又相当秘密。中队全体学员发誓保守秘密。夜深人静的时候，他们就在辅助阅兵场上进行演习。他们在漆黑的夜晚里行进，漫无目的地彼此瞎撞，但他们并不惊慌。他们是在练习不摆动双手行进。起初，沙伊斯科普夫少尉倒是考虑过让金属薄板店的一位朋友把镍合金钉嵌入每个学员的股骨，然后，再用恰好三英寸长的铜丝把钉子和手腕接起来，可是，时间来不及——时间老是不够用——再说，战争期间实在不大容易搞到手。他还考虑到，假如学员们受了这样的束缚，那么，齐步行进前，参加令人肃然的检阅仪式时，万一晕厥，他们便不能以规范的姿势倒下去，而昏倒的姿势若不合乎规范，便有可能影响中队的团体总分。
　　整整一个星期，沙伊斯科普夫少尉强压住内心的喜悦，每次到了军官俱乐部，总是咯咯地欢笑。他的密友中便开始有了种种的猜测。
　　“真不知那白痴在搞什么鬼，”恩格尔中尉说。
　　每逢同事提问时，沙伊斯科普夫少尉总是会意地一笑。“到了星期日你们就会知道的。”他向大伙儿保证。“你们会知道的。”
　　那个星期日，沙伊斯科普夫少尉以一名经验丰富的乐队指挥所特有的沉着自信，向公众揭露了他的划时代的惊人秘密。他一声不吭地目睹着其他中队用惯常的轻松步伐，从容却颇别扭地走过检阅台。即便当自己中队的前几排学员手臂一动不动地齐步走入视线，先是让他那些受惊的同僚个个吁吁地倒抽气，直为他担心，沙伊斯科普夫少尉依旧镇定得很。就是在那种时候，他也还是声色不露。后来，那名留了粗浓八字须的傲气十足的上校，猛地转过身来，恶狠狠地对着他，脸色铁青，这时，他才作出了解释——致使他名垂千古的解释。
　　“您瞧，上校，”他说，“不用动手。”
　　随后，他把自己那套费解的行进规则——他取得这令人难忘的成功，便是以此作为基础——的直接影印件，散发给了在场的观众——惊愕得鸦雀无声。这可是沙伊斯科普夫少尉生平最荣耀的时刻。他取得了阅兵比赛的胜利，自然是轻而易举的，从此便永久保持了那面红色锦旗，也就彻底结束了每星期日必定举行的阅兵比赛，因为优质的红色绵旗和优质铜丝一样，在战时都是极难到手的。沙伊斯科普夫少尉当即晋升为中尉，自此，便平步青云。因为他的重大发现，差不多每个人都把他视为真正的军事天才。
　　“那个沙伊斯科普夫中尉，”特拉弗斯中尉说，“他可是个军事天才。”
　　“没错，的确是个天才。”恩格尔中尉表示赞同。“可惜的是，这蠢驴不愿鞭打自己的老婆。”
　　“我看不出这两者之间有什么关系，”特拉弗斯中尉很冷淡他说，“比米斯中尉每次跟太太做爱，总要狠狠地给她一顿鞭打，可在阅兵比赛中，他却是一点都不中用。”
　　“我说的是鞭打自己的老婆，”恩格尔中尉反驳道，“谁在乎什么阅兵比赛？”
　　说实话，除沙伊斯科普夫中尉之外，根本就没人真把阅兵比赛这事放在心上，那个留两撇浓粗八字须的上校更不用说了。这家伙是裁定委员会主席，克莱文杰刚战战兢兢地跨进委员会办公室，准备替自己申辩，不承认沙伊斯科普夫中尉对他提出的指控，他便对着他大声咆哮。上校握着拳头，猛击桌面，反倒痛了自己的手，于是，对克莱文杰更是暴怒，再又狠狠地捶了一下桌子，这次使的劲更猛，手也因此就更痛得厉害。克莱文杰留下了极坏的印象，这很让沙伊斯科普夫中尉丢脸，他恶狠狠地朝克莱文杰直瞪眼。
　　“再过六十天，你就要跟意大利人打仗了，”留着粗浓八字胡的上校大声吼道，“可你还以为这是个天大的玩笑呢。”
　　“我没这么想，长官，”克莱文杰答道。
　　“别插嘴。”
　　“是，长官。”
　　“说话时得叫一声‘长官’，”梅特卡夫少校下令道。
　　“是，长官。”
　　“刚才不是让你别插嘴吗？”梅特卡夫少校冷冷地问了一句。
　　“可是我没插嘴，长官，”克莱文杰抗辩道。
　　“不错，你没插嘴，但你也没叫一声‘长官’。对他的指控加上这一条。”梅特卡夫少校命令那个会速记的下士。“尽管没有打断上级军官的说话，但没能向他们报告一声‘长官’。”
　　“梅特卡夫，”上校说，“你真是头讨厌的蠢驴。你自己知道吗？”
　　梅特卡夫少校好不容易把这口怨气咽了下去。“知道，长官。”
　　“那就闭上你那张该死的嘴。老是胡说八道。”
　　裁定委员会由三人组成，他们是，留着粗浓八字胡的傲气十足的上校，沙伊斯科普夫中尉和梅特卡夫少校。梅特卡夫少校正设法用冷冰冰的目光来审视别人。沙伊斯科普夫中尉身为裁定委员会的一名成员，同时也是其中的一个法官，必须对起诉人控告克莱文杰一案的是非曲直，进行认真的考虑。而沙伊斯科普夫中尉本人又是起诉人。克莱文杰有一名军官替他辩护，那个军官便是沙伊斯科普夫中尉。
　　这一切把克莱文杰弄得实在是稀里糊涂。当上校猛地跳起身——酷似放肆地大声打嗝，扬言要肢解他那具散发恶臭的卑怯的躯体时，克莱文杰害怕得浑身直打战。一天，在列队齐步走去上课途中，克莱文杰绊了一跤。第二天，他便正式受到指控：“编队行进时打乱队形、行凶殴打、行为失检、吊儿郎当、叛国、煽动闹事、自作聪明、听古典音乐，等等。”一句话，他们一古脑儿把各种罪名加到他身上，于是，他便来到了裁定委员会，胆战心惊地站在这位傲气十足的上校跟前。上校又一次大声吼着，说再过六十天，他就要去跟意大利人打仗了，接着又问他，假如开除他，送他去所罗门群岛埋尸体，他究竟是否愿意。克莱文杰极是恭敬地回答说，他不愿意；他是个笨蛋，宁愿是一具尸体，也不甘埋一具尸体。上校坐了下去，身体往后一靠，态度一下子镇静了下来，变得谨小慎微，且又献殷勤一般地客气了起来。
　　“你说我们不能惩罚你，这是什么意思？”上校慢悠悠地问道。
　　“我什么时候说过这话，长官？”
　　“是我在问你，你回答。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“你以为我们带你来这里，是请你提问题，叫我来回答吗？”
　　“不是的，长官。我一”“我们干吗带你来这儿？”
　　“让我回答问题。”
　　“你说得千真万确，”上校大声吼道，“好，你就先回答几个问题吧，免得我砸了你的狗头。你说我们不能惩罚你，你这狗杂种，究竟是什么意思？”
　　“我想我从来就没有说过这样的话，长官。”
　　“请你说得响一些，行不行？我听不见你的话。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“梅特卡夫？”
　　“什么事，长官？”
　　“我刚才不是让你闭上你那张笨嘴吗？”
　　“是，长官。”
　　“我让你闭上你那张笨嘴，你就给我闭起来。明白没有，请你说得响一些，好不好？我听不见你的话。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“梅特卡夫，是不是我踩了你的脚？”
　　“不是，长官。一定是沙伊斯科普夫中尉的脚。”
　　“不是我的脚，”沙伊斯科普夫中尉说。
　　“那或许还是我的脚吧，”梅特卡夫少校说。
　　“挪开点。”
　　“是，长官。您得先把您的脚挪开，上校。您的脚踩在了我的脚上面。”
　　“你让我把我的脚挪开？”
　　“不是，长官。嗬，不是，长官。”
　　“那就把你的脚挪开，然后，闭上你那张笨嘴。请你说响一些，好吗？我听不见你说的话。”
　　“是，长官。我说了，我没说你们不能惩罚我。”
　　“你到底在说什么？”
　　“我在回答您的问题，长官？”
　　“什么问题？”
　　“‘你说我们不能惩罚你，你这狗杂种，究竟是什么意思？’”那个会速记的下士看着速记本读了一遍。
　　“没错，”上校说，“你说这话究竟是什么意思？”
　　“我没说你们不能惩罚我，长官。”
　　“什么时候？”上校问。
　　“什么什么时候，长官？”
　　“嗨，你又在向我提问了。”
　　“对不起，长官。恐怕我没听懂您提的问题。”
　　“你什么时候没说过我们不能惩罚你？我的问题难道你听不懂？”
　　“不懂，长官。我听不懂。”
　　“你才跟我们说过。好，你就回答我的问题吧。”
　　“可是这个问题我该怎么答呢？”
　　“你这又是在问我一个问题了。”
　　“对不起，长官。可我实在是不知道该怎么回答您的问题。我绝对没说过你们不能惩罚我。”
　　“现在你告诉我们，你什么时候的确说过这话。我是在请你告诉我们，你什么时候没说过这话。”
　　克莱文杰深吸了一口气。“我一直就没说过你们不能惩罚我，长官。”
　　“这样回答可是好多了，克莱文杰先生，尽管你是在当面撒谎。
　　昨天晚上在厕所里。难道你没悄声跟我们讨厌的另一个狗杂种说过，我们不能惩罚你吗？那家伙叫什么来着？”
　　“约塞连，长官。”沙伊斯科普夫中尉说。
　　“没错，是约塞连。一点没错。约塞连。约塞连？他是叫约塞连吗？约塞连究竟算是什么样的名字？”
　　对所有的实情，沙伊斯科普夫中尉可是了如指掌。“这是约塞连的名字，长官。”他给上校作了解释。
　　“没错，我猜想是这么回事儿。难道你私下没跟约塞连说，我们不能惩罚你？”
　　“嗬，没有，长官。我私下跟他说过，你
Chapter 9 Major Major Major Major
    Major Major Major Major had had a difficult time from the start.
　　Like Minniver Cheevy, he had been born too late—exactly thirty-six hours too late for the physical well-being ofhis mother, a gentle, ailing woman who, after a full day and a half’s agony in the rigors of childbirth, wasdepleted of all resolve to pursue further the argument over the new child’s name. In the hospital corridor, herhusband moved ahead with the unsmiling determination of someone who knew what he was about. MajorMajor’s father was a towering, gaunt man in heavy shoes and a black woolen suit. He filled out the birthcertificate without faltering, betraying no emotion at all as he handed the completed form to the floor nurse. Thenurse took it from him without comment and padded out of sight. He watched her go, wondering what she hadon 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 acracked window thickened with grime. Rain splashed from a moiling sky and the day was dreary and cold. Inother parts of the hospital chalky people with aged, blue lips were dying on time. The man stood erect beside thebed 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 asleepand 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 betterpart of each working day in Pianosa forging Washington Irving’s name to official documents. Major Majorforged diligently with his left hand to elude identification, insulated against intrusion by his own undesiredauthority and camouflaged in his false mustache and dark glasses as an additional safeguard against detection byanyone chancing to peer in through the dowdy celluloid window from which some thief had carved out a slice. Inbetween these two low points of his birth and his success lay thirty-one dismal years of loneliness andfrustration.
　　Major Major had been born too late and too mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achievemediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Evenamong men lacking all distinction he inevitably stood out as a man lacking more distinction than all the rest, andpeople 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 hebore a sickly resemblance almost from the moment of his birth. Long before he even suspected who HenryFonda was, he found himself the subject of unflattering comparisons everywhere he went. Total strangers saw fitto deprecate him, with the result that he was stricken early with a guilty fear of people and an obsequiousimpulse to apologize to society for the fact that he was not Henry Fonda. It was not an easy task for him to gothrough life looking something like Henry Fonda, but he never once thought of quitting, having inherited hisperseverance 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 along-limbed farmer, a God-fearing, freedom-loving, law-abiding rugged individualist who held that federal aid toanyone but farmers was creeping socialism. He advocated thrift and hard work and disapproved of loose womenwho turned him down. His specialty was alfalfa, and he made a good thing out of not growing any. Thegovernment paid him well for every bushel of alfalfa he did not grow. The more alfalfa he did not grow, themore money the government gave him, and he spent every penny he didn’t earn on new land to increase theamount of alfalfa he did not produce. Major Major’s father worked without rest at not growing alfalfa. On longwinter evenings he remained indoors and did not mend harness, and he sprang out of bed at the crack of noonevery day just to make certain that the chores would not be done. He invested in land wisely and soon was notgrowing more alfalfa than any other man in the county. Neighbors sought him out for advice on all subjects, forhe had made much money and was therefore wise. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he counseled one and all, andeveryone said, “Amen.”
　　Major Major’s father was an outspoken champion of economy in government, provided it did not interfere withthe sacred duty of government to pay farmers as much as they could get for all the alfalfa they produced that noone else wanted or for not producing any alfalfa at all. He was a proud and independent man who was opposed tounemployment 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 ofthem,” he preached with ardor on the courthouse steps or in front of the A&P as he waited for the bad-temperedgum-chewing young cashier he was after to step outside and give him a nasty look. “If the Lord didn’t want us totake as much as we could get,” he preached, “He wouldn’t have given us two good hands to take it with.” Andthe others murmured, “Amen.”
　　Major Major’s father had a Calvinist’s faith in predestination and could perceive distinctly how everyone’smisfortunes but his own were expressions of God’s will. He smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey, and hethrived on good wit and stimulating intellectual conversation, particularly his own when he was lying about hisage or telling that good one about God and his wife’s difficulties in delivering Major Major. The good one aboutGod and his wife’s difficulties had to do with the fact that it had taken God only six days to produce the wholeworld, whereas his wife had spent a full day and a half in labor just to produce Major Major. A lesser man mighthave wavered that day in the hospital corridor, a weaker man might have compromised on such excellentsubstitutes as Drum Major, Minor Major, Sergeant Major, or C. Sharp Major, but Major Major’s father hadwaited fourteen years for just such an opportunity, and he was not a person to waste it. Major Major’s father hada good joke about opportunity. “Opportunity only knocks once in this world,” he would say. Major Major’sfather 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 whichdestiny was to make Major Major the unhappy victim throughout his joyless life. Being born Major Major Majorwas the second. The fact that he had been born Major Major Major was a secret known only to his father. Notuntil Major Major was enrolling in kindergarten was the discovery of his real name made, and then the effectswere disastrous. The news killed his mother, who just lost her will to live and wasted away and died, which wasjust fine with his father, who had decided to marry the bad-tempered girl at the A&P if he had to and who hadnot been optimistic about his chances of getting his wife off the land without paying her some money or floggingher.
　　On Major Major himself the consequences were only slightly less severe. It was a harsh and stunning realizationthat was forced upon him at so tender an age, the realization that he was not, as he had always been led tobelieve, Caleb Major, but instead was some total stranger named Major Major Major about whom he knewabsolutely nothing and about whom nobody else had ever heard before. What playmates he had withdrew fromhim and never returned, disposed, as they were, to distrust all strangers, especially one who had already deceivedthem by pretending to be someone they had known for years. Nobody would have anything to do with him. Hebegan to drop things and to trip. He had a shy and hopeful manner in each new contact, and he was alwaysdisappointed. 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 collapsedinstantly 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 lookbefore he leaped, and he always looked before he leaped. They told him never to put off until the next day whathe 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 hewas told to kill, and he killed. He turned the other cheek on every occasion and always did unto others exactly ashe would have had others do unto him. When he gave to charity, his left hand never knew what his right handwas doing. He never once took the name of the Lord his God in vain, committed adultery or coveted hisneighbor’s ass. In fact, he loved his neighbor and never even bore false witness against him. Major Major’selders 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 soseriously that he was suspected by the homosexuals of being a Communist and suspected by the Communists ofbeing 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 withAmerican 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 fiveof them and the Scotch terrier turned out to be agents for the F.B.I. Soon they had enough derogatoryinformation on Major Major to do whatever they wanted to with him. The only thing they could find to do withhim, however, was take him into the Army as a private and make him a major four days later so thatCongressmen with nothing else on their minds could go trotting back and forth through the streets ofWashington, 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 hisfather’s. When war broke out, he was still docile and compliant. They told him to enlist, and he enlisted. Theytold him to apply for aviation cadet training, and he applied for aviation cadet training, and the very next nightfound himself standing barefoot in icy mud at three o’clock in the morning before a tough and belligerentsergeant from the Southwest who told them he could beat hell out of any man in his outfit and was ready toprove it. The recruits in his squadron had all been shaken roughly awake only minutes before by the sergeant’scorporals and told to assemble in front of the administration tent. It was still raining on Major Major. They fellinto ranks in the civilian clothes they had brought into the Army with them three days before. Those who hadlingered to put shoes and socks on were sent back to their cold, wet, dark tents to remove them, and they were allbarefoot in the mud as the sergeant ran his stony eyes over their faces and told them he could beat hell out of anyman 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 bottomlessgloom, for he was no longer able to boast that he could beat hell out of any man in his outfit. He brooded forhours in his tent like Saul, receiving no visitors, while his elite guard of corporals stood discouraged watchoutside. At three o’clock in the morning he found his solution, and Major Major and the other recruits were againshaken roughly awake and ordered to assemble barefoot in the drizzly glare at the administration tent, where thesergeant was already waiting, his fists clenched on his hips cockily, so eager to speak that he could hardly waitfor 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 witha major like Major Major? To demean him personally would be to demean all other officers of equal or lesserrank. To treat him with courtesy, on the other hand, was unthinkable. Fortunately, Major Major had applied foraviation 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 thesergeant and placed aboard a plane heading west.
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf turned white as a sheet when Major Major reported to him in California with bare feetand mudcaked toes. Major Major had taken it for granted that he was being shaken roughly awake again to standbarefoot in the mud and had left his shoes and socks in the tent. The civilian clothing in which he reported forduty to Lieutenant Scheisskopf was rumpled and dirty. Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who had not yet made hisreputation as a parader, shuddered violently at the picture Major Major would make marching barefoot in hissquadron that coming Sunday.
　　“Go to the hospital quickly,” he mumbled, when he had recovered sufficiently to speak, “and tell them you’resick. Stay there until your allowance for uniforms catches up with you and you have some money to buy someclothes. 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 commandingofficer. So you better do what I tell you, sir, or you’ll get into trouble. Go to the hospital and tell them you’resick, sir. Stay there until your uniform allowance catches up with you and you have some money to buy someuniforms.”
　　“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 withalways wanted him to be with someone else. His instructors gave him preferred treatment at every stage in orderto push him along quickly and be rid of him. In almost no time he had his pilot’s wings and found himselfoverseas, 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 relationsbetween 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 gamesno one gave a damn about winning. Score was never kept, and the number of players might vary from one tothirty-five. Major Major had never played basketball or any other game before, but his great, bobbing height andrapturous enthusiasm helped make up for his innate clumsiness and lack of experience. Major Major found truehappiness 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 tillthe day Colonel Cathcart roared up in his jeep after Major Duluth was killed and made it impossible for him everto 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 squadroncommander.”
　　Colonel Cathcart had nursed an implacable grudge against Major Major for a long time. A superfluous major onhis rolls meant an untidy table of organization and gave ammunition to the men at Twenty-seventh Air ForceHeadquarters who Colonel Cathcart was positive were his enemies and rivals. Colonel Cathcart had been prayingfor just some stroke of good luck like Major Duluth’s death. He had been plagued by one extra major; he nowhad an opening for one major. He appointed Major Major squadron commander and roared away in his jeep asabruptly 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 spotin disbelief as the rain clouds gathered above him again. When he turned to his teammates, he encountered a reefof curious, reflective faces all gazing at him woodenly with morose and inscrutable animosity. He shivered withshame. When the game resumed, it was not good any longer. When he dribbled, no one tried to stop him; whenhe called for a pass, whoever had the ball passed it; and when he missed a basket, no one raced him for therebound. 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 throughlife selfconsciously with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, the object of contempt, envy, suspicion, resentmentand malicious innuendo everywhere he went. People who had hardly noticed his resemblance to Henry Fondabefore now never ceased discussing it, and there were even those who hinted sinisterly that Major Major hadbeen elevated to squadron commander because he resembled Henry Fonda. Captain Black, who had aspired tothe 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 whenMajor Major came rushing breathlessly into the orderly room to report the theft of his things, the young corporalthere 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 hadentered behind him. Minutes passed in rigid silence, and the whole lot of them might have stood there atattention 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 waitingto usher him proudly to a small table he had set up in front and decorated with an embroidered tablecloth and anosegay of posies in a pink cut-glass vase. Major Major hung back with horror, but he was not bold enough toresist with all the others watching. Even Havermeyer had lifted his head from his plate to gape at him with hisheavy, pendulous jaw. Major Major submitted meekly to Milo’s tugging and cowered in disgrace at his privatetable throughout the whole meal. The food was ashes in his mouth, but he swallowed every mouthful rather thanrisk offending any of the men connected with its preparation. Alone with Milo later, Major Major felt protest stirfor the first time and said he would prefer to continue eating with the other officers. Milo told him it wouldn’twork.
　　“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 lookthe 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 waswith Major Duluth.”
　　And it just wasn’t the same, for when Major Major, at the next meal, stepped from the food counter to sit withthe others at the regular tables, he was frozen in his tracks by the impenetrable wall of antagonism thrown up bytheir faces and stood petrified with his tray quivering in his hands until Milo glided forward wordlessly to rescuehim, by leading him tamely to his private table. Major Major gave up after that and always ate at his table alonewith his back to the others. He was certain they resented him because he seemed too good to eat with them nowthat he was squadron commander. There was never any conversation in the mess tent when Major Major waspresent. He was conscious that other officers tried to avoid eating at the same time, and everyone was greatlyrelieved 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. manshowed up to interrogate him about somebody at the hospital who had been doing it and gave him the idea. Hehad been bored and dissatisfied in his new position. He had been made squadron commander but had no ideawhat he was supposed to do as squadron commander, unless all he was supposed to do was forge WashingtonIrving’s name to official documents and listen to the isolated clinks and thumps of Major ---de Coverley’shorseshoes falling to the ground outside the window of his small office in the rear of the orderly-room tent. Hewas hounded incessantly by an impression of vital duties left unfulfilled and waited in vain for hisresponsibilities to overtake him. He seldom went out unless it was absolutely necessary, for he could not get usedto being stared at. Occasionally, the monotony was broken by some officer or enlisted man Sergeant Towserreferred to him on some matter that Major Major was unable to cope with and referred right back to SergeantTowser for sensible disposition. Whatever he was supposed to get done as squadron commander apparently wasgetting done without any assistance from him. He grew moody and depressed. At times he thought seriously ofgoing with all his sorrows to see the chaplain, but the chaplain seemed so overburdened with miseries of his ownthat Major Major shrank from adding to his troubles. Besides, he was not quite sure if chaplains were forsquadron commanders.
　　He had never been quite sure about Major ---de Coverley, either, who, when he was not away rentingapartments or kidnaping foreign laborers, had nothing more pressing to do than pitch horseshoes. Major Majoroften paid strict attention to the horseshoes falling softly against the earth or riding down around the small steelpegs in the ground. He peeked out at Major ---de Coverley for hours and marveled that someone so august hadnothing more important to do. He was often tempted to join Major ---de Coverley, but pitching horseshoes allday long seemed almost as dull as signing “Major Major Major” to official documents, and Major ---deCoverley’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’srelationship to him. He knew that Major ---de Coverley was his executive officer, but he did not know what thatmeant, and he could not decide whether in Major --- de Coverley he was blessed with a lenient superior or cursedwith a delinquent subordinate. He did not want to ask Sergeant Towser, of whom he was secretly afraid, andthere was no one else he could ask, least of all Major ---de Coverley. Few people ever dared approach Major --deCoverley about anything and the only officer foolish enough to pitch one of his horseshoes was stricken thevery next day with the worst case of Pianosan crud that Gus or Wes or even Doc Daneeka had ever seen or evenheard 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 majorityconsisted of allusions to prior communications which Major Major had never seen or heard of. There was neverany need to look them up, for the instructions were invariably to disregard. In the space of a single productiveminute, therefore, he might endorse twenty separate documents each advising him to pay absolutely no attentionto any of the others. From General Peckem’s office on the mainland came prolix bulletins each day headed bysuch 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 filthyprocrastinator, 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 onthe mission over Orvieto less than two hours after he arrived on Pianosa and whose partly unpacked belongingswere still in Yossarian’s tent. Since the unfortunate lieutenant had reported to the operations tent instead of to theorderly room, Sergeant Towser had decided that it would be safest to report him as never having reported to thesquadron at all, and the occasional documents relating to him dealt with the fact that he seemed to have vanishedinto thin air, which, in one way, was exactly what did happen to him. In the long run, Major Major was gratefulfor the official documents that came to his desk, for sitting in his office signing them all day long was a lot betterthan 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 afterintervals of from two to ten days. They were always much thicker than formerly, for in between the sheet bearinghis last endorsement and the sheet added for his new endorsement were the sheets bearing the most recentendorsements of all the other officers in scattered locations who were also occupied in signing their names to thatsame official document. Major Major grew despondent as he watched simple communications swell prodigiouslyinto 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 firstvisit—Major Major signed Washington Irving’s name to one of the documents instead of his own, just to seehow it would feel. He liked it. He liked it so much that for the rest of that afternoon he did the same with all theofficial documents. It was an act of impulsive frivolity and rebellion for which he knew afterward he would bepunished 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 nameever came back! Here, at last, was progress, and Major Major threw himself into his new career with uninhibitedgusto. Signing Washington Irving’s name to official documents was not much of a career, perhaps, but it wasless monotonous than signing “Major Major Major.” When Washington Irving did grow monotonous, he couldreverse 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 aC.I.D. man because he confided to them he was and urged each of them not to reveal his true identity to any ofthe 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’sabsolutely 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 anycircumstances.”
　　“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 lyingaround 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-strungperson whose movements were swift and certain. He took a number of photostats out of a large red expansionenvelope he had been hiding conspicuously beneath a leather flight jacket painted garishly with pictures ofairplanes flying through orange bursts of flak and with orderly rows of little bombs signifying fifty-five combatmissions 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 thecensoring 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 samesignatures.
　　“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 twonames 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,” heobserved. “He’s using a third name and posing as someone else. And I think... yes, I think I know what that thirdname is.” With excitement and inspiration, he held another photostat out for Major Major to study. “How aboutthis?”
　　Major Major bent forward slightly and saw a copy of the piece of V mail from which Yossarian had blacked outeverything 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 thechaplain. That makes three men, doesn’t it? Are you absolutely sure you never saw any of these officialdocuments 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 Ican get. Somewhere in the European theater of operations is a man who’s getting his hands on communicationsaddressed 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 eyesopen and let me know the minute you hear anyone even talking about Washington Irving. I’ll throw a securitycheck 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 andwanted 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 seamsunder both arms, linty flannel pajamas, and worn house slippers with one flapping sole. This was regulationhospital dress, Major Major recalled. The man had added about twenty pounds and seemed bursting with goodhealth.
　　“I’m really a very sick man,” he whined. “I caught cold in the hospital from a fighter pilot and came down with avery 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 knowwhat I’m going through. I came down to warn you that Washington Irving seems to have shifted his base ofoperations from the hospital to your squadron. You haven’t heard anyone around here talking about WashingtonIrving, 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 casewide open! You keep him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day while I rush back to the hospital and writemy superiors for further instructions.” The C.I.D. man jumped out of Major Major’s office through the windowand 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 pajamasjumping 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 aboutthe small office in vigorous circles. “At first I thought it was you, hightailing it for Mexico. But now I see itwasn’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 casewide 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 wentincognito. 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, Iam pretty sick. I’ve been meaning to turn myself in for a checkup, and this will be a good opportunity. I’ll goback 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 anambulance.
　　Major Major had lied, and it was good. He was not really surprised that it was good, for he had observed thatpeople who did lie were, on the whole, more resourceful and ambitious and successful than people who did notlie. Had he told the truth to the second C.I.D. man, he would have found himself in trouble. Instead he had liedand 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 hissigning with his left hand and only while wearing the dark glasses and false mustache he had used unsuccessfullyto help him begin playing basketball again. As an additional precaution, he made a happy switch fromWashington Irving to John Milton. John Milton was supple and concise. Like Washington Irving, he could bereversed with good effect whenever he grew monotonous. Furthermore, he enabled Major Major to double hisoutput, for John Milton was so much shorter than either his own name or Washington Irving’s and took so muchless time to write. John Milton proved fruitful in still one more respect. He was versatile, and Major Major soonfound himself incorporating the signature in fragments of imaginary dialogues. Thus, typical endorsements onthe official documents might read, “John Milton is a sadist” or “Have you seen Milton, John?” One signature ofwhich he was especially proud read, “Is anybody in the John, Milton?” John Milton threw open whole new vistasfilled with charming, inexhaustible possibilities that promised to ward off monotony forever. Major Major wentback 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 himselffrom the swampy degradation into which he was steadily sinking. First there had been the awful humiliation ofthe Great Loyalty Oath Crusade, when not one of the thirty or forty people circulating competitive loyalty oathswould even allow him to sign. Then, just when that was blowing over, there was the matter of Clevinger’s planedisappearing so mysteriously in thin air with every member of the crew, and blame for the strange mishapcentering 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 hewore them both to the basketball game one day when he felt he could endure his loneliness no longer. Heaffected an air of jaunty familiarity as he sauntered to the court and prayed silently that he would not berecognized. The others pretended not to recognize him, and he began to have fun. Just as he finishedcongratulating himself on his innocent ruse he was bumped hard by one of his opponents and knocked to hisknees. Soon he was bumped hard again, and it dawned on him that they did recognize him and that they wereusing his disguise as a license to elbow, trip and maul him. They did not want him at all. And just as he didrealize 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 himto the ground, kicked him while he was on the ground, attacked him again after he had struggled blindly to hisfeet. He covered his face with his hands and could not see. They swarmed all over each other in their frenziedcompulsion to bludgeon him, kick him, gouge him, trample him. He was pummeled spinning to the edge of theditch and sent slithering down on his head and shoulders. At the bottom he found his footing, clambered up theother wall and staggered away beneath the hail of hoots and stones with which they pelted him until he lurchedinto shelter around a corner of the orderly room tent. His paramount concern throughout the entire assault was tokeep his dark glasses and false mustache in place so that he might continue pretending he was somebody else andbe 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 wantyou 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 foryou?”
　　“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 nothere.”
　　“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’llhave 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 willnever 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 itknock 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 youtonight with an excellent Roquefort salad and two frozen éclairs that were smuggled out of Paris only yesterdaytogether 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 frozenéclairs. Major Major was annoyed. If he sent it back, though, it would only go to waste or to somebody else, andMajor Major had a weakness for broiled lobster. He ate with a guilty conscience. The next day for lunch therewas terrapin Maryland with a whole quart of Dom Pérignon 1937, and Major Major gulped it down without a thought.
　　After Milo, there remained only the men in the orderly room, and Major Major avoided them by entering andleaving every time through the dingy celluloid window of his office. The window unbuttoned and was low andlarge and easy to jump through from either side. He managed the distance between the orderly room and histrailer by darting around the corner of the tent when the coast was clear, leaping down into the railroad ditch anddashing along with head bowed until he attained the sanctuary of the forest. Abreast of his trailer, he left theditch and wove his way speedily toward home through the dense underbrush, in which the only person he everencountered was Captain Flume, who, drawn and ghostly, frightened him half to death one twilight bymaterializing without warning out of a patch of dewberry bushes to complain that Chief White Halfoat hadthreatened 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 seteyes on him again.
　　When Major Major looked back on what he had accomplished, he was pleased. In the midst of a few foreignacres teeming with more than two hundred people, he had succeeded in becoming a recluse. With a littleingenuity and vision, he had made it all but impossible for anyone in the squadron to talk to him, which was justfine with everyone, he noticed, since no one wanted to talk to him anyway. No one, it turned out, but thatmadman Yossarian, who brought him down with a flying tackle one day as he was scooting along the bottom ofthe 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 thatdead man in his tent who wasn’t even there and then taking off all his clothes after the Avignon mission andgoing around without them right up to the day General Dreedle stepped up to pin a medal on him for his heroismover Ferrara and found him standing in formation stark naked. No one in the world had the power to remove thedead man’s disorganized effects from Yossarian’s tent. Major Major had forfeited the authority when hepermitted Sergeant Towser to report the lieutenant who had been killed over Orvieto less than two hours after hearrived in the squadron as never having arrived in the squadron at all. The only one with any right to remove hisbelongings from Yossarian’s tent, it seemed to Major Major, was Yossarian himself, and Yossarian, it seemed toMajor 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 ordeath.”
　　“Let me up, please,” Major Major bid him in cranky discomfort. “I can’t return your salute while I’m lying onmy 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 orderlyroom.
　　“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 typistsworking at the desks and filing cabinets. He let the flap leading to his office fall closed behind him. As soon ashe was alone in his office, he raced across the room to the window and jumped outside to dash away. He foundYossarian 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 repeateddeterminedly.
　　“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 toldhim that he did not want to fly any more combat missions. What could he do? Major Major asked himself. All hecould 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’thave enough men left for the crews, and then raises the number of missions and throws them all back on combatstatus. 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-seventhAir 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 toldthat 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 officerand 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 squarelyin the eye and said he would rather die than be killed in combat, a man who was at least as mature and intelligentas 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 fourmissions 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 uniformwho could replace me. Some people are getting killed and a lot more are making money and having fun. Letsomebody 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 therewas nothing he could do. To say there was nothing he could do would suggest he would do something if he couldand imply the existence of an error of injustice in Colonel Korn’s policy. Colonel Korn had been most explicitabout that. He must never say there was nothing he could do.
　　“I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s nothing I can do.”
 09、梅杰•梅杰•梅杰少校
　　梅杰•梅杰•梅杰少校自呱呱坠地起，便是不很顺当的。
　　他跟米尼弗•奇维一样，出娘胎那会儿拖的时间过长——足足拖了三十六个小时，结果，把他母亲的身体给拖垮了。她母亲是个温柔、多病的女人，临盆前足足痛了一天半，才把梅杰生下来，产后，便全没了心思去跟丈夫争执给新生婴儿取名。医院的过道里，她丈夫严肃而又果断地忙着该他做的一切，他是个极有主心骨的男人。梅杰少校的父亲是个瘦高个儿，着一套毛料服装和一双笨重的鞋子。他丝毫不迟疑地填写了婴儿出生证明书，之后，便很镇静地把填好了的出生证明书交给楼层主管护士。护士一声不吭地从他手中接了过去，于是就放轻脚步走开了。他目送着她离开，一边在纳闷，不知道她贴身穿的是什么内衣裤。
　　他回到病房，见妻子软绵绵地躺在病床上，身上盖着毛毯，活像一棵失了水分的萎蔫的蔬菜，皱巴巴的面孔又干瘪又苍白，衰弱的躯体一动不动。她的床在病房最尽头，临近一扇尘封的破窗。大雨哗哗地从喧闹的天空瓢泼下来。天阴沉冷峭。医院的其他病房里，那些惨白得见不到一丝血色的病人，正等候着死神的最终降临。梅杰少校的父亲直挺挺地站立在病榻一旁，垂下头，久久地注视着自己的女人。
　　“我给孩子取了个名，叫凯莱布，”临了他低声跟她说，“是照了你的意思取的。”女人没有答话，慢慢地，男人便笑了起来。这句话是他经过精心的考虑之后，才说出口的，因为他妻子睡着了，永远也不会知道，就在她躺在县医院这间破旧的病房里的病床上时，自己的丈夫竟对她说了谎。
　　正是从这艰难的起点，走出了这位无能的中队长。眼下，他正在皮亚诺萨岛，每天的大部分工作时间全都用来在公文上假冒签华盛顿•欧文的名字。为了避免有人识别出他的笔迹，梅杰少校煞费了苦心，左手签名。他把自己隔离了起来，并利用自己不曾希图的职权，禁止任何人侵扰他。同时，他又用了假胡子和墨镜伪装自己，以防有人偶然从那扇尘封的赛璐珞窗户——有个小偷在上面挖了一道口子——外面往里张望，发现秘密。从最初卑贱的出身到取得如今不怎么起眼的成功，梅杰少校走过了三十一年的凄怆岁月，尝尽了孤寂和挫折。
　　梅杰少校是姗姗来迟地来到这世上的，实在太缓慢，而且天生就是平庸透顶的人物。有些人是天生的庸才，有些人则是后天一番努力后才显出庸碌无能的，再有些人却是被迫平庸地过活的。至于梅杰少校，他是集三者于一身。即便是在平庸的人中间，他也毫无疑问要比所有其余的人来得平庸，因此反倒很突出了。只要是见过他的人，总有很深的印象，他这人实在是太平常太不起眼了。
　　梅杰少校自一出世便背上了三个不利因素——他母亲、他父亲和亨利•方达。差不多从出娘胎的那一刻起，他就显出与亨利•方达有叫人受不了的酷肖相貌。还在他不清楚亨利•方达为何人之前，曾有很长一段时间，无论走到什么地方，他总是发现别人把他跟亨利•方达放一块，做些令他很难堪的比较。素不相识的人都觉得应该轻视他，结果，害得他自小就像犯了罪似地惧怕见人，而且还讨好地迫不及待地想跟人家道歉：他的确不是亨利•方达。生就了一副酷似亨利•方达的相貌，在他说来，要这样走完一生的路，实在不是桩容易的事。然而，他继承了父亲——极富幽默感的瘦高个儿——百折不回的品性，从来就不曾有过一丝逃避现实的念头。
　　梅杰少校的父亲一向为人持重，又很敬畏上帝。依他看，谎报自己的年龄，是他最得意逗人的笑话。他是个农民，四肢细长，却能吃苦耐劳，同时，他又是个敬畏上帝、热爱自由、尊纪守法的个人主义者。他认为，如果联邦政府援助别人，而不援助农民，这便是奴性社会主义。他提倡勤俭，很讨厌那些曾拒绝过他的浪荡女人。种植苜蓿是他的专长，可他倒是因为没种一棵苜蓿而得到了不少利益。
　　政府依据他没有种植的苜蓿的多少，以每一蒲式耳为单位，付给他一笔相当数量的钱。他没有种植的苜蓿的数量越大，政府给他的钱也就越多。于是，他便用这笔没出力而挣到手的钱，购置新的田产，以此来扩大自己没有种植的苜蓿的数额。为了不生产苜蓿，梅杰少校的父亲一刻都不曾停歇过。到了漫长的冬夜，他便待在屋里，搁着马具不修理。每天到了中午那一会儿，他就会跳下床来，只是为了查明的确没有人会把杂活做掉。他很聪明，知道该如何投资田产，不久，他没有种植的苜蓿的数量超过了县里的任何一个农民。于是，四邻的农民都跑来请教他方方面面的问题，因为他挣到了很多钱，所以必定是个聪明人。“种瓜得瓜，种豆得豆嘛。”他给大伙儿提了这么一条忠告。临了，大伙儿便道：“阿门。”
　　梅杰少校的父亲直言不讳，力主政府厉行节约，但其前提是，丝毫不影响政府的神圣职责——以农民能接受的高价，收购他们生产却没人想要的全部苜蓿，或者支付他们一定数额的钱，作为对他们没有种植一棵苜蓿的酬劳。他这个人相当傲慢，而且极有主见。他反对失业保险，只要能够敲诈到大笔的钱财，无论是向谁，他部会毫不迟疑地使出各种着数，或是哼哼唧唧地诉苦，或是一把鼻涕一把泪地哭诉，或是甜言蜜语地哄骗。他是个很虔诚的人，不管走到什么地方，总是要做一番传道。
　　“上帝赐给了我们这些善良的农民一双强有力的手，这样，我们就可以用这两只手尽量多捞多拿。”他时常满腔热情地布道，不是站在县政府大楼的台阶上，就是站在大西洋一太平洋食品商场的前面，一边等着他正在找的那个脾气暴躁、口嚼口香糖的年轻出纳员出来，狠狠地瞪自己一眼。“假如上帝不想让我们尽量多捞多拿的话，”他讲道，“那么，他就不会赐给我们这么好的一双手了。”
　　其余的人便低声道：“阿门。”
　　梅杰少校的父亲和加尔文教信徒一样，也信仰宿命
Chapter 10 Wintergreen
    Clevinger was dead. That was the basic flaw in his philosophy. Eighteen planes had let down through a beamingwhite cloud off the coast of Elba one afternoon on the way back from the weekly milk run to Parma; seventeencame 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 inthe morning there was no more Clevinger.
　　The disappearance was astounding, as astounding, certainly, as the Grand Conspiracy of Lowery Field, when allsixty-four men in a single barrack vanished one payday and were never heard of again. Until Clevinger wassnatched from existence so adroitly, Yossarian had assumed that the men had simply decided unanimously to goAWOL the same day. In fact, he had been so encouraged by what appeared to be a mass desertion from sacredresponsibility 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 hisspade and lounging back in a surly slouch against the wall of one of the deep, square holes it was his militaryspecialty to dig.
　　Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen was a snide little punk who enjoyed working at cross-purposes. Each time he wentAWOL, he was caught and sentenced to dig and fill up holes six feet deep, wide and long for a specified lengthof time. Each time he finished his sentence, he went AWOL again. Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen accepted his role ofdigging 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 wasseldom 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 Iused to travel in the best circles.” His face darkened with resignation. “But that’s all behind me now,” heguessed. “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. Catch22. The next time I go over the hill, it will mean the stockade. I don’t know what’s going to become of me. Imight 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 theseholes, 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 incombat is to win the war, and I just wish they were doing their duty as well as I’ve been doing mine. It wouldn’tbe 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 drownedto death before he was fished out nearly unconscious. Word spread that it was oil, and Chief White Halfoat waskicked off the base. Soon every man who could find a shovel was outside digging frenziedly for oil. Dirt fleweverywhere; the scene was almost like the morning in Pianosa seven months later after the night Milo bombedthe squadron with every plane he had accumulated in his M & M syndicate, and the airfield, bomb dump andrepair hangars as well, and all the survivors were outside hacking cavernous shelters into the solid ground androofing them over with sheets of armor plate stolen from the repair sheds at the field and with tattered squares ofwaterproof canvas stolen from the side flaps of each other’s tents. Chief White Halfoat was transferred out ofColorado 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 inthe plane with Kraft. Yossarian felt guilty each time he remembered Kraft, guilty because Kraft had been killedon Yossarian’s second bomb run, and guilty because Kraft had got mixed up innocently also in the SplendidAtabrine Insurrection that had begun in Puerto Rico on the first leg of their flight overseas and ended in Pianosaten days later with Appleby striding dutifully into the orderly room the moment he arrived to report Yossarianfor 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 toget done today so that I can be fully prepared bright and early tomorrow morning to go into combat the minutethey 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 atall, dark officer who looked a little like Henry Fonda come jumping out of the window of the orderly-room tentand go scooting out of sight around the corner. Appleby halted and squeezed his eyes closed. An anxious doubtassailed 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 befour times as good a pilot as everyone else. His eyes were still shut when Sergeant Towser tapped him lightly onthe shoulder and told him he could go in now if he wanted to, since Major Major had just gone out. Appleby’sconfidence 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 fordinner. 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 foolout 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 seehim.”
　　“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 thesergeant offered him and left quickly, wondering if perhaps Yossarian were not the only man privileged to wearan officer’s uniform who was crazy.
　　By the time Colonel Cathcart had raised the number of missions to fifty-five, Sergeant Towser had begun tosuspect that perhaps every man who wore a uniform was crazy. Sergeant Towser was lean and angular and hadfine blond hair so light it was almost without color, sunken cheeks, and teeth like large white marshmallows. Heran the squadron and was not happy doing it. Men like Hungry Joe glowered at him with blameful hatred, andAppleby subjected him to vindictive discourtesy now that he had established himself as a hot pilot and a pingpongplayer who never lost a point. Sergeant Towser ran the squadron because there was no one else in thesquadron to run it. He had no interest in war or advancement. He was interested in shards and Hepplewhitefurniture.
　　Almost without realizing it, Sergeant Towser had fallen into the habit of thinking of the dead man in Yossarian’stent in Yossarian’s own terms—as a dead man in Yossarian’s tent. In reality, he was no such thing. He wassimply a replacement pilot who had been killed in combat before he had officially reported for duty. He hadstopped at the operations tent to inquire the way to the orderly-room tent and had been sent right into actionbecause so many men had completed the thirty-five missions required then that Captain Piltchard and CaptainWren were finding it difficult to assemble the number of crews specified by Group. Because he had neverofficially gotten into the squadron, he could never officially be gotten out, and Sergeant Towser sensed that themultiplying 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 likesuch an abhorrent extravagance to fly Mudd all the way across the ocean just to have him blown into bits overOrvieto less than two hours after he arrived. No one could recall who he was or what he had looked like, least ofall Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren, who remembered only that a new officer had shown up at the operationstent just in time to be killed and who colored uneasily every time the matter of the dead man in Yossarian’s tentwas mentioned. The only one who might have seen Mudd, the men in the same plane, had all been blown to bitswith him.
　　Yossarian, on the other hand, knew exactly who Mudd was. Mudd was the unknown soldier who had never had achance, for that was the only thing anyone ever did know about all the unknown soldiers—they never had achance. They had to be dead. And this dead one was really unknown, even though his belongings still lay in atumble on the cot in Yossarian’s tent almost exactly as he had left them three months earlier the day he neverarrived—all contaminated with death less than two hours later, in the same way that all was contaminated withdeath in the very next week during the Great Big Siege of Bologna when the moldy odor of mortality hung wetin 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 theammunition dumps there that the heavy bombers on the Italian mainland had been unable to destroy from theirhigher altitudes. Each day’s delay deepened the awareness and deepened the gloom. The clinging, overpoweringconviction of death spread steadily with the continuing rainfall, soaking mordantly into each man’s ailingcountenance 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 noone could report for sick call, as the men had done on the one clear day with a mysterious epidemic of diarrheathat 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 outbreakof fear with a sorrowing neutrality, roosting like a melancholy buzzard below the ominous, hand-lettered signtacked up on the closed door of the medical tent by Captain Black as a joke and left hanging there by DocDaneeka because it was no joke. The sign was bordered in dark crayon and read: “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHERNOTICE. DEATH IN THE FAMILY.”
　　The fear flowed everywhere, into Dunbar’s squadron, where Dunbar poked his head inquiringly through theentrance of the medical tent there one twilight and spoke respectfully to the blurred outline of Dr. Stubbs, whowas sitting in the dense shadows inside before a bottle of whiskey and a bell jar filled with purified drinkingwater.
　　“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’mdoing 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 isdoing 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 whatthey 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 sardonicamusement at the prospect. “They think they can order sick call out of existence. The bastards. Ooops, there itgoes again.” The rain began falling again, first in the trees, then in the mud puddles, then, faintly, like a soothingmurmur, on the tent top. “Everything’s wet,” Dr. Stubbs observed with revulsion. “Even the latrines and urinalsare 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 draggedlike 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 whogot 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.”
 10、温特格林
　　克莱文杰死了。那是他哲学的根本性缺点。一日下午，十八架飞机从帕尔马执行完每周一次的例行飞行任务返回，在离厄尔巴岛海岸的海面上空下降，穿过一片金灿灿的云彩；其中的十六架从云端钻了出来，另外还有一架却不见了踪影，没见在空中，也没见在平静的绿玉色的海面上，更没见丝毫残骸。一架架直升飞机在那片云彩上盘旋，直到了太阳西落。夜里，那片云消散了去，次日上午便不再有克莱文杰了。
　　克莱文杰和飞机的失踪，实在是令人愕然，其程度绝不亚于洛厄里基地的那次大阴谋——一座兵营的六十四个人在某个发饷日突然下落不明，从此就再没有一点消息。约塞连始终认为，那六十四个士兵不过是一致决定在同一天集体开小差而已。直到克莱文杰被神奇地夺去了性命，他方才改变了这种观点。说实在的，那次看似集体擅离神圣职守的开小差，当初确实很让约塞连大受鼓舞，他竟兴冲冲地跑出去把这振奋人心的消息告诉了前一等兵温特格林。
　　“这有啥让你那么兴奋？”前一等兵温特格林惹人厌恶地嗤笑道，一面把一只沾满泥土的军鞋踏在铁锹上，铁板着脸，没精打采地倚靠在一个极深的方坑坑壁上。像这样的坑他在四围挖了不少，这可是他的军事特长。
　　前一等兵温特格林实在是个卑鄙的小流氓，做事总喜欢我行我素，屡教不改。他每回开小差给捉住了，就被判在规定的时间内挖填若干长宽深均为六英尺的土坑。每次刑期一满，他便又开小差。前一等兵温特格林以一个真正的爱国者坚定的献身精神，心甘情愿地接受了这份挖填土坑的活计。
　　“这工作还是蛮不错的，”他常常很达观他说，“我想总得有人去做。”
　　他是个极聪明的人，深知战争期间在科罗拉多州挖土坑，实在算不得是一桩十分触楣头的差事。由于土坑的需求量不大，因此，他便可以不慌不忙地挖，然后再不慌不忙地填埋，这样，他也就很少有劳累过度的时候。尽管如此，他每受一次军法审判，便被降为列兵。这样丢失军阶，很让他感到深切的痛惜。
　　“做个一等兵也不赖，”他颇是恋旧地回忆道，“过去我有地位——你明白我的意思吗？——我经常出入于上流社会。”他的脸阴沉了下来，显得极是无可奈何。“不过，这一切对我来说都已成了过去，”他很肯定他说，“下次我再开小差，就只是个列兵了，我很清楚，到时候情况跟现在可是大不一样了。”挖土坑实在是无甚出息的。“这工作甚至还不是固定的。每次刑期结束，我就没法再干这活。要是我还想回来挖土坑，那就得再开小差。可我又不能老这么做。有一条军规，也就是第二十二条军规。假如我下次再开小差，就该去坐班房了。我不清楚等着我的会是什么样的下场。要是我一不留神，我最后甚至可能去海外服役。”他不希望一辈子挖土坑，不过，只要战争还在进行，挖土坑就是战争期间的一部分工作，他也就不会对此有什么反感。“这可是责任问题，”他说，“我们每个人都有自己应尽的职责。我的职责就是不停地挖土坑，而且我做得相当出色，刚刚获得品行优良奖章的提名。你的职责就是在航空军校鬼混，希望战争结束之后再毕业。我只希望他们跟我一样尽到自己的职责。要是我也不得不去海外并替他们尽义务，那不就太不公平了，是不是？”
　　一天，前一等兵温特格林在挖一个土坑时，捣破了一根水管，险些被淹死。待让人从坑里捞上来时，他已差不多人事不知。事后，谣传水管流出的是石油，结果，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特被逐出了基地。不多久，只要是能弄来铁锹的，全都跑到外面，发了疯似地采掘石油。到处尘土飞扬。那场面差不多跟七个月后的一天早晨皮亚诺萨岛上的情形一模一样：头天晚上，米洛动用自己的M&M辛迪加联合体收集到的每一架飞机，轰炸了中队营地、机场、炸弹临时堆集处和修理机库。所有死里逃生的官兵全都聚到外面，在硬地上挖了一个个又大又深的掩体，然后在顶部搁上从机场修理机库窃取的装甲板和从别人帐篷侧帘偷来的一方块一方块千疮百孔的防水帆布。有关石油的谣传刚起，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特便被调离科罗拉多州，最后来到皮亚诺萨岛落脚，接替库姆斯少尉——一天，他以宾客的身份随机外出飞行，只是想察看一下战况，不料，在弗拉拉上空竟跟克拉夫特一同遇难。每每忆起克拉夫特，约塞连总是很内疚。他之所以负疚，是因为克拉夫特是在他作第二轮轰炸时牺牲的，还因为克拉夫特在那次辉煌的阿的平叛乱中无辜受了牵连。那次叛乱是在波多黎各——他们飞往国外的第一段行程——
　　发起的，十天后，在皮亚诺萨岛告终。当时，阿普尔比一到岛上，便出自责任心，大步跨进中队办公室，报告说约塞连拒不服用阿的平药片。中队办公室的那个军士赶忙请他坐下。
　　“谢谢你，军士，我想我会坐的，”阿普尔比说，“我大概得等多长时间？今天我还有不少事情要做，这样，到明天一大早我就可以做好充分准备，一旦他们需要，我就能马上投入战斗。”
　　“长官？”
　　“你说啥，军士？”
　　“你刚才问什么？”
　　“我大概得等多长时间才能进去见少校？”
　　“只要等他出去吃午饭，”陶塞军士回答说，“到时你可以马上进去。”
　　“可到时他就不在里边了。是不是？”
　　“是的，长官。梅杰少校要等吃完午饭才回办公室。”
　　“我知道了。”阿普尔比口头上作了决定，可心里依旧没个数。
　　“那么我想我还是午饭后再来一趟吧。”
　　阿普尔比转身离开中队办公室，内心却很困惑。他刚走到外面，便觉得自己看见一个长得颇有些像亨利•方达的高个子黑皮肤军官从中队办公室的窗户里跳了出来，接着拐过弯，飞奔而去，便不见了踪影。阿普尔比收住脚步，紧闭了双眼。令人焦急不安的疑惑袭上他的心头。他怀疑自己是否得了疟疾，或许更糟糕，因服了过量的阿的平药片而引发了什么后遗症。当初，他服用的阿的平药片，超出了规定剂量的三倍，因为他想做一名出色的飞行员，强过其他任何人三倍。他依旧紧闭着双眼，这当儿，陶塞军士突然在他的肩上轻轻拍了拍，跟他说，梅杰少校才出去，要是他愿意，他现在就可以进去。阿普尔比这才又恢复了信心。
　　“谢谢你，军士。他会马上回来吗？”
　　“他一吃完午饭就回来。等他回来，你就得马上出去，在前面等他，直到他离开办公室去吃晚饭。梅杰少校在办公室的时候，是向来不在办公室见任何人的。
　　“军士，你刚才说什么来着？”
　　“我是说，梅杰少校在办公室的时候，是向来不在办公室见任何人的。”
　　阿普尔比目不转睛地直盯着陶塞军士，试着用坚定的语调，说：“军士，是不是就因为我刚来中队，而你在海外混了很长时间，就想法子作弄我？”
　　“哦，不，长官，”军士很恭敬地答道，“我只是奉命行事而已。等你见了梅杰少校，可以当面问他。”
　　“我正想问他呢，军士。我什么时候能见到他？”
　　“你永远见不到他。”
　　阿普尔比因受了羞辱而满脸通红。军士给他递过一本拍纸簿，他便在上面写下了自己的报告，汇报约塞连和阿的平药片一事，随后就赶紧离去，同时又纳闷了起来：或许钓塞连还不是唯一的一个有幸穿上军官制服的疯子。
　　等卡思卡特上校把飞行次数增加到五十五次的时候，陶塞军士早就开始怀疑，或许每一个穿制服的军人都是疯子。陶塞军士身材瘦削，一头漂亮的金发淡得差不多没了颜色，双颊凹陷，一副牙齿酷似又白又大的果浆软糖。他负责中队的事务，可他不觉得有什么称心。跟亨格利•乔一样的那些人始终用苛责仇恨的目光怒视他，而阿普尔比呢，如今已是一名顶呱呱的飞行员，又是一名打球从不失分的乒乓球选手，一心一意地要报复陶塞军士，更是对他无礼、陶塞军士负责中队的事务，是因为中队里再也没有别的什么人挑这个担子。无论是对战争，还是对升官发财，他全无兴趣。他感兴趣的是陶瓷碎片和赫波怀特式家具。
　　对约塞连帐篷里的那个死人，陶塞军士已经习惯性地接受了——这差不多连他自己都没意识到——约塞连本人的说法——
　　确实把他看做是约塞连帐篷里的一个死人。其实呢，压根就不是那回事。那家伙只是个替补飞行员，还没来得及正式报到，就在前线送了命。当初，他曾在作战室停留过，询问去中队办公室的路，结果，即刻被送往前线作战，因为那时那么多人都已完成了规定的三十五次飞行任务，而皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉又正巧为无法调集大队部明确的机组成员人数犯难。由于他从来没有正式被列入中队的编制，所以，也就永远无法把他正式除名。陶塞军士意识到，有关那个可怜虫的各种公文越来越多，永远会引起没完没了的冲击波。
　　那个可怜虫名叫马德。对痛恨暴力和浪费的陶塞军士来说，他们用飞机送马德一路越过大洋，却不过是让他在到达后还不到两小时就在奥尔维那托上空被炸个粉身碎骨，这似乎是莫大的浪费，实在令人痛心疾首。没人想得起来他是谁，也回忆不出他长个啥模样，皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉就更不用提了。他俩只记得有个新来的军官出现在作战室，恰好赶上时间送死。每当有人提起约塞连帐篷里的死人那件事，他俩总是很显得尴尬，满脸通红。本该见过马德的那仅有的几个人，是他同机的机组成员，也都跟他一起被炸了个粉身碎骨。
　　不过，约塞连倒是确切知道马德是谁。马德只是个无名小卒，从来不曾有过什么机遇，因为人们知道有关所有无名小卒的事情只有一点——他们从来没什么机遇。他们非死不可。送了命的马德，是地地道道的无名小卒，尽管他的遗物依旧杂乱地堆放在约塞连帐篷里的那张帆布床上，差不多跟三个月前他从未到过帐篷的那天留下那些东西时一模一样——所有那些东西在不到两个时辰之后便都沾染上了死气，就跟博洛尼亚大围攻发动后的第二个星期出现的情形完全一样。当时，四处弥漫硫磺气味的烟雾，潮湿的空气中散发着霉臭的死亡气味，所有即将执行轰炸飞行任务的官兵都已沾染上了这股死气。
　　一旦卡思卡特上校主动要求让自己的大队去炸毁博洛尼亚的弹药库——驻扎意大利大陆的重型轰炸机由于飞行高度过高，没能把它们摧毁，那就不再有丝毫可能逃避这次轰炸飞行任务了。每延迟一天，便不断加剧大队全体官兵的恐惧感和沮丧情绪。那种萦绕不散又难以抗拒的死亡意识，随持续不断的雨，渐渐地弥散开去，就像是某种具有腐蚀作用的慢性病，侵蚀一般地渗透了每个人痛苦的面容。每个人身上都有一股甲醛味。无处可以求助，即便去医务室也无济于事。科恩中校下令关闭了医务室，所以，再也没有人能上那儿看门诊了。科恩中校所以这么做，是因为好不容易碰上的那个晴天，中队竟神秘地流行起了腹泻，大伙全都跑到医务室就诊，结果，迫使轰炸任务再次延期。暂停门诊，又封了医务室的门，丹尼卡医生每逢雨的间隙，便高坐在一只高凳上，以愁肠百结的不偏不倚的态度，默默感受着阴森森弥散开来的恐怖气氛，仿佛一只悒悒不乐的红头美洲鹫，栖息在医务室封闭的门上的那块不祥的手写牌子的下端。这牌子是布莱克上尉当初开玩笑钉上去的，丹尼卡医生始终没把它取下来，因为这在他实在不是什么玩笑。牌子四边用黑色炭笔画了一圈，上面写道：“另行通知以前，医务室暂停门诊。家有丧事。”
　　恐怖往四处扩散，钻进了邓巴的中队。某日黄昏，邓巴很好奇地把头探进自己中队医务室的门，对着斯塔布斯医生模糊的身影——他正坐在幽暗处，面前摆了一瓶威士忌和一只盛满饮用水的钟形玻璃瓶——说起了话来。
　　“你没事吧？”他关切地问道。
　　“糟糕透顶，”斯塔布斯医生回答说。
　　“你在这里干吗？”
　　“坐坐而已。”
　　“我还以为不再有门诊了呢。”
　　“是没有门诊了。”
　　“那你干吗还坐在这里？”
　　“我还能坐哪里？去那该死的军官俱乐部，跟卡思卡特上校和科恩中校坐一块儿？你知道我在这里干什么？”
　　“坐呗。”
　　“我说的是在中队里，不是在帐篷里。别再***自作聪明了。
　　你可知道医生在中队里的职责？”
　　“其他中队的医务室都给封了门，”邓巴说。
　　“不管谁病了，只要走进我的门，我就会禁止他飞行，”斯塔布斯医生郑重他说，“我才不在乎他们说什么呢。”
　　“你是不能禁止任何人飞行的，”邓巴提醒道，“难道你不知道那命令？”
　　“我会给病人打上一针，让他彻彻底底躺倒下来，停止飞行。”
　　斯塔布斯医生想到这情景，不由得带着嘲讽的兴味笑了起来。“他们以为只要他们一下命令，就可以让门诊彻底停止。那些狗杂种。
　　哎哟！又下雨了。”雨又开始下了，先是落在树林里，再是落在泥潭里，然后便是轻轻地落到了帐篷的顶上，仿佛一阵抚慰的柔声细语。“所有一切都是潮呼呼的，”斯塔布斯医生极厌恶他说，“就连厕所和小便池都在泛滥，以此表示抗议。这讨厌的世界整个就像是一处藏尸处，臭气熏天。”
　　当他停止了说话，四周静得似乎没了边际。夜幕落了下来。弥散着一种极度的孤独。
　　“把灯打开，”邓巴建议道。
　　“没电。我也懒得启动自己那台发电机。以前，我救别人的命，常常从中得到极大的快感。现在，我实在不知道救人性命究竟还有什么意义，既然他们反正都得死。”
　　“哦，意义到底还是有的，”邓巴肯定地对他说。
　　“是吗？有什么意义？”
　　“意义就在于，尽你的可能让他们多活一些时间。”
　　“你说的不错，但是，既然他们反正都得死，那又有什么意义呢？”
　　“诀窍就是别考虑这个问题。”
　　“别谈什么诀窍了。救人性命究竟有什么意义？”
　　邓巴默默沉思片刻。“谁知道呢？”
　　邓巴不知道。轰炸博洛尼亚一事，本该让邓巴欣喜万分，因为时间一分钟一分钟走得慢悠悠的，几个小时拖得像几个世纪那么长。然而，他反倒感到痛苦，因为他知道自己即将送命。
　　“你真的还想要些可待因吗？”斯塔布斯医生问道。
　　“是替我朋友约塞连要的。他确信自己马上会送命的。”
　　“约塞连？究竟谁是约塞连？约塞连，到底是什么名字？前天晚上，在军官俱乐部喝醉了酒跟科恩中校打架的那个家伙，是不是他？”
　　“没错，就是他。他是亚述人。”
　　“那个发了疯的狗杂种。”
　　“他倒是没那么疯，”邓巴说，“他发誓不飞博洛尼亚。”
　　“我正是这个意思，”斯塔布斯医生说道，“那发了疯的狗杂种，或许只有他一个人才是清醒的。”
Chapter 11 Captain Black
    Corporal Kolodny learned about it first in a phone call from Group and was so shaken by the news that hecrossed the intelligence tent on tiptoe to Captain Black, who was resting drowsily with his bladed shins up on thedesk, 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 brokeinto loud laughter. “Bologna, huh?” He laughed again and shook his head in pleasant amazement. “Oh, boy! Ican’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 wasappointed squadron commander, and he rose with torpid enthusiasm and stationed himself behind the frontcounter 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 ifthey 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 theother officers and enlisted men who were assembling with their helmets, parachutes and flak suits around thefour trucks idling in the center of the squadron area. He was a tall, narrow, disconsolate man who moved with acrabby listlessness. He shaved his pinched, pale face every third or fourth day, and most of the time he appearedto 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 lastlethargy 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 killedover Perugia and he was almost selected to replace him. When word of Major Duluth’s death was radioed backto the field, Captain Black responded with a surge of joy. Although he had never really contemplated thepossibility before, Captain Black understood at once that he was the logical man to succeed Major Duluth assquadron commander. To begin with, he was the squadron intelligence officer, which meant he was moreintelligent than everyone else in the squadron. True, he was not on combat status, as Major Duluth had been andas all squadron commanders customarily were; but this was really another powerful argument in his favor, sincehis life was in no danger and he would be able to fill the post for as long as his country needed him. The moreCaptain Black thought about it, the more inevitable it seemed. It was merely a matter of dropping the right wordin the right place quickly. He hurried back to his office to determine a course of action. Settling back in hisswivel chair, his feet up on the desk and his eyes closed, he began imagining how beautiful everything would beonce he was squadron commander.
　　While Captain Black was imagining, Colonel Cathcart was acting, and Captain Black was flabbergasted by thespeed with which, he concluded, Major Major had outsmarted him. His great dismay at the announcement ofMajor Major’s appointment as squadron commander was tinged with an embittered resentment he made no effortto conceal. When fellow administrative officers expressed astonishment at Colonel Cathcart’s choice of MajorMajor, Captain Black muttered that there was something funny going on; when they speculated on the politicalvalue of Major Major’s resemblance to Henry Fonda, Captain Black asserted that Major Major really was HenryFonda; and when they remarked that Major Major was somewhat odd, Captain Black announced that he was aCommunist.
　　“They’re taking over everything,” he declared rebelliously. “Well, you fellows can stand around and let them ifyou 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 sonof a bitch who comes to my intelligence tent sign a loyalty oath. And I’m not going to let that bastard MajorMajor sign one even if he wants to.”
　　Almost overnight the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was in full flower, and Captain Black was enraptured todiscover himself spearheading it. He had really hit on something. All the enlisted men and officers on combatduty had to sign a loyalty oath to get their map cases from the intelligence tent, a second loyalty oath to receivetheir flak suits and parachutes from the parachute tent, a third loyalty oath for Lieutenant Balkington, the motorvehicle officer, to be allowed to ride from the squadron to the airfield in one of the trucks. Every time they turnedaround there was another loyalty oath to be signed. They signed a loyalty oath to get their pay from the financeofficer, to obtain their PX supplies, to have their hair cut by the Italian barbers. To Captain Black, every officerwho supported his Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was a competitor, and he planned and plotted twenty-fourhours a day to keep one step ahead. He would stand second to none in his devotion to country. When otherofficers had followed his urging and introduced loyalty oaths of their own, he went them one better by makingevery son of a bitch who came to his intelligence tent sign two loyalty oaths, then three, then four; then heintroduced the pledge of allegiance, and after that “The Star-Spangled Banner,” one chorus, two choruses, threechoruses, four choruses. Each time Captain Black forged ahead of his competitors, he swung upon themscornfully for their failure to follow his example. Each time they followed his example, he retreated with concernand 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 bythe administrators appointed to serve them. They were bullied, insulted, harassed and shoved about all day longby one after the other. When they voiced objection, Captain Black replied that people who were loyal would notmind 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 heforced them to. And to anyone who questioned the morality, he replied that “The Star-Spangled Banner” was thegreatest piece of music ever composed. The more loyalty oaths a person signed, the more loyal he was; toCaptain Black it was as simple as that, and he had Corporal Kolodny sign hundreds with his name each day sothat 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 theymean 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, sinceit complicated their task of organizing the crews for each combat mission. Men were tied up all over thesquadron signing, pledging and singing, and the missions took hours longer to get under way. Effectiveemergency action became impossible, but Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren were both too timid to raise anyoutcry 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 theyhad signed a loyalty oath the day before. It was Captain Black who came with advice to Captain Piltchard andCaptain Wren as they pitched about in their bewildering predicament. He came with a delegation and advisedthem 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 ismaking them sign loyalty oaths, and it’s going to look mighty funny to the F.B.I. if you two are the only oneswho don’t care enough about your country to make them sign loyalty oaths, too. If you want to get a badreputation, 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 aCommunist, which Milo secretly doubted. Milo was by nature opposed to any innovation that threatened todisrupt the normal course of affairs. Milo took a firm moral stand and absolutely refused to participate in theGlorious 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 isvoluntary, Milo—don’t forget that. The men don’t have to sign Piltchard and Wren’s loyalty oath if they don’twant 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’renot 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 ofour 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’thave 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’regoing to give Major Major medical attention the minute Milo begins starving him to death? I just wonder whatthey’re going to think up at Group about the man who’s undermining our whole security program. They’llprobably 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 playball 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 beengiving you such an awful black eye as an administrator. Don’t worry, this will probably run its course soon. Thebest thing to do now is send Captain Black a letter of total support and hope he drops dead before he does toomuch damage.” Colonel Korn was struck with a whimsical thought. “I wonder! You don’t suppose that imbecilewill 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’dlike 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 tomake 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 takethis matter right to Major ---de Coverley himself if I have to. I’ll have Milo speak to him about it the minute hegets back from Rome.”
　　Captain Black had boundless faith in the wisdom, power and justice of Major ---de Coverley, even though hehad never spoken to him before and still found himself without the courage to do so. He deputized Milo to speakto Major ---de Coverley for him and stormed about impatiently as he waited for the tall executive officer toreturn. 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 eyeinside 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 austeredignity 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, agroup that had arrived still earlier was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in order that they might use the saltand pepper and ketchup there. The hubbub began to subside slowly as Major ---de Coverley paused in thedoorway with a frown of puzzled disapproval, as though viewing something bizarre. He started forward in astraight line, and the wall of officers before him parted like the Red Sea. Glancing neither left nor right, he strodeindomitably up to the steam counter and, in a clear, full-bodied voice that was gruff with age and resonant withancient eminence and authority, said:
　　“Gimme eat.”
　　Instead of eat, Corporal Snark gave Major ---de Coverley a loyalty oath to sign. Major ---de Coverley swept itaway with mighty displeasure the moment he recognized what it was, his good eye flaring up blindingly withfiery 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 ofdistant thunder.
　　Corporal Snark turned pale and began to tremble. He glanced toward Milo pleadingly for guidance. For severalterrible 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 histray full and came to a stop. His eyes fell on the groups of other officers gazing at him in mute appeal, and, withrighteous 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 uponwhom 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. “Wecompleted our task. Our purpose was to make everyone we don’t like afraid and to alert people to the danger ofMajor Major, and we certainly succeeded at that. Since we weren’t going to let him sign loyalty oaths anyway, itdoesn’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 GreatBig Siege of Bologna reminded Captain Black nostalgically of the good old days of his Glorious Loyalty OathCrusade when he had been a man of real consequence, and when even big shots like Milo Minderbinder, DocDaneeka and Piltchard and Wren had trembled at his approach and groveled at his feet. To prove to newcomersthat he really had been a man of consequence once, he still had the letter of commendation he had received fromColonel Cathcart.
 11、布莱克上尉
　　科洛尼下士最初是从大队部打来的一个电话得知这一消息的。当时，他非常震惊，便轻手轻脚穿过情报室，走到布莱克上尉——他这会儿把平伸着的小腿搁在办公桌上，正打着盹儿——
　　身边，用震惊的语调，低声把这消息告诉了他。
　　布莱克上尉一下子来了精神。“博洛尼亚？”他兴奋得大叫起来。“太让我吃惊了。”他放声大笑。“博洛尼亚，嘿？”他又哈哈大笑了起来，惊喜地摇了摇头。“嗬，好家伙！要是那些狗杂种知道自己是飞博洛尼亚，真不知他们会是什么模佯，我巴不得马上就瞧瞧他们那一张张面容。哈，哈，哈！”
　　自从梅杰少校击败他出任中队长那天以来，布莱克上尉这是第一次真正由衷地开怀大笑。当轰炸员们来到情报室，领取图囊时，他阴死阳活地站了起来，立在前部柜台的后面，为的是千方百计从中获取最大的乐趣。
　　“没错，你们这些婊子养的，是博洛尼亚。”当全体轰炸员颇为怀疑地问他，他们是否真要飞博洛尼亚时，他便不厌其烦一遍又一遍地对他们这么说，“哈！哈！哈！试试你们的胆量吧，你们这些狗杂种。这次你们可是没有退路了。”
　　布莱克上尉跟在全体轰炸员的最后面来到帐篷外。其他所有军官和士兵全都带着钢盔、降落伞和防弹衣，集聚在中队驻地中央四辆卡车——发动机正空转着——的周围。布莱克上尉饶有兴致地察看这些军官和士兵得知真相后的反应。这家伙个子虽大，却心胸狭窄，性情忧郁，脾气暴躁，又老是一副没精打采的模样。那张皱缩苍白的脸每隔三四天便修刮一次，大多数情况下，他似乎总在皮包骨的上嘴唇蓄两撇金红色的八字须。外面的场面倒是并没有让他失望。每张脸都因惊恐而阴沉了下来。布莱克上尉美美地打了个哈欠，擦了擦眼睛，擦去了最后一丝困意，于是，幸灾乐祸地纵声大笑起来。每当他告诉别人要试试胆量时，他总这么笑的。
　　那天，杜鲁斯少校在佩鲁贾上空阵亡以后，布莱克上尉差点就被选中接任他的职位。自那以来，轰炸博洛尼亚不料竟成了布莱克上尉一生中最有收获的一件大事。当杜鲁斯少校阵亡的消息通过无线电传回中队驻地时，布莱克上尉内心一阵兴奋。先前，他从不曾真正考虑过这种可能性，不过，尽管如此，他马上便认识到，接替杜鲁斯少校担任中队长，他自己是合乎逻辑的必然人选。最初，他是中队的情报主任，也就是说，他比中队里任何别的人都要聪明。
　　的确，他不属于战斗人员编制，而杜鲁斯少校生前得参加战斗，所有中队长通常也得作战；但，也正是这一点对他实在是另一个极有利的因素，因为他没有生命危险，只要祖国需要，无论多长时间，他都可以担任这一职位。布莱克上尉越琢磨，越觉得接任中队长似乎非他莫属了。只要立刻在最合适的地方说句合适的话，问题就可以解决了。他匆匆赶回自己的办公室，决定行动步骤。他在转椅里坐下，背往后一靠，两脚往桌上一跷，双目紧闭，开始想象：一旦当上中队长，一切该是多美啊。
　　正当布莱克上尉想象着种种美景的时候，卡思卡特上校却在行动了。布莱克上尉断定，梅杰少校是智胜了他；其速度之快简直令他瞠目结舌。梅杰少校的中队长任命一宣布，布莱克上尉便大失所望，丝毫不掩饰自己内心的怨愤。对卡思卡特上校选用梅杰少校，与布莱克上尉共事的行政军官们都深表惊讶，而布莱克上尉则小声抱怨，这其中必定有什么蹊跷；同僚们对梅杰少校酷似亨利•方达这一点潜在的政治价值，作了种种猜测，而布莱克上尉则断定，梅杰少校其实就是亨利•方达；同僚们说梅杰少校这人颇有些古怪，而布莱克上尉则宣称他是共产党。
　　“什么事都让他们做主了，”布莱克上尉表示反抗地声言道，“好吧，要是你们大伙乐意的话，尽管袖手旁观，由他们去，可我不愿意。我得想办法对付。从现在起，不管是哪个狗杂种来我的情报室，我都得让他签字效忠。不过，要是那个婊子养的梅杰少校来，即便他想签，我也决不会答应的。”
　　几乎是一夜之间，这场光荣的宣誓效忠运动便轰轰烈烈地开展了起来。布莱克上尉发现自己竟成了运动先锋，欣喜若狂。他的确碰上了一个极妙的办法。所有参战官兵只有签字效忠后，才能从情报室领取图囊；第二道签字关过后，从降落伞室领取防弹衣和降落伞；再过了机动车辆军官鲍金顿中尉的第三道签字关后，这才获准从中队坐上其中一辆卡车赶往飞机场。每次转身，他们必须过一道签字效忠的关。无论是从财务军官处领取军饷，还是从军人服务社领取供给，或是找那些意大利理发师理发，他们都得签字效忠。
　　在布莱克上尉看来，凡是支持他的这场光荣宣誓效忠运动的军官，都是竞争对手。于是，他便昼夜二十四小时密谋策划，始终保持一步领先。他要做报效国家第一人。每当其他军官在他的激励下，推行他们各自的签字效忠的方法，他便更进一步，让到情报室的每个杂种必须过两道签字效忠关，接着是三道，再又是四道；然后，他又推出宣誓效忠，之后，便让人一遍、两遍、三遍、四遍地同声齐唱《星条旗》歌。每次当他击败竞争对手，布莱克上尉便轻贱了他们，嗤笑他们不学他的招数。可每次当他们步他的后尘，他便又不安地退避一侧，绞尽脑汁想别的新计策，好再奚落他们一顿。
　　不知不觉地，中队里的战斗人员发现自己竟受那些行政官员——原先是奉命来为他们服务的——操纵。他门整天受人欺侮，凌辱，骚扰，摆布，走了一个又来另一个。一旦他们表示反抗，布莱克上尉就答复他们说，只要是忠诚的人，是不会厌烦宣誓效忠必要的签字的，只要有人对宣誓效忠是否有效这一点提出质疑，他就回答，凡是确确实实效忠自己国家的人，只要由他经常敦促，是会很自豪地发誓自己将忠诚于祖国的。一旦有人问起这么做有何道德作用，他就回答说，《星条旗》是创作出的最伟大的音乐作品。一个人签字效忠的次数越多，他就越忠诚；对布莱克上尉来说，道理就是如此简单明了。他每天都让科洛尼下士签上百次名，这样，他就可以始终证明自己比任何别的人更加忠诚。
　　“重要的是要让他们不停地宣誓，”他跟自己的追随者解释道，“至于他们是否心诚，这无关紧要。正因为如此，所以，他们也让小孩子们宣誓效忠，尽管孩子们连什么是‘宣誓’和‘效忠’都还一窍不通。”
　　对皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉来说，这场光荣效忠宣誓运动实在是一桩又光荣又讨厌的事，因为这一来，每次安排机务人员执行作战任务，他们便无端地要费不少周折。中认上下全都忙着签名，宣誓，合唱。所有飞行任务得花上更多的时间才能执行。有效的紧急行动也就不可能了，然而，皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉都是极胆小的人，实在没胆量对布莱克上尉大声抗议。布莱克上尉呢，却天天严格认真地坚持由他首创的“不断重申”学说——意在遏止所有那些第一天签字第二天就不忠的官兵。就在皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉心中一片迷茫，为身陷困境而抓耳搔腮的当儿，布莱克上尉又给他们出了个主意。他带来了一个代表团，直截了当地跟他们说，必须让每一个飞行虽签字效忠后，方可准许他执行作战飞行任务。
　　“当然，这都得由你们自己来决定，”布莱克上尉指出，“没人想强迫你们。可是，其他所有人都在让他们签字效忠。假如只有你们俩不怎么关心自己的国家，没让他们签字效忠的话，那么，这在联邦调查局看来，也必定有什么蹊跷的。要是你们俩甘愿得个恶名声，那是你们自己的事，跟别人全无关系。我们只是想尽力帮忙而已。”
　　米洛没有被说服。他断然拒绝中止梅杰少校的饮食，即便梅杰少校是共产党人——对此，米洛心里亦颇有怀疑。米洛生来就反对所有破坏常规的革新。他有相当坚定的道德原则，断然拒绝加入这场光荣的效忠宣誓运动，直到后来，布莱克上尉带领他的代表团前来拜访他，请求他参加。
　　“国防是每个人的天职，”米洛拒绝后，布莱克上尉说，“整个过程都是自愿的，米洛——别忘了这一点。假如他们不愿在皮尔查德和雷恩那里签字效忠，他们可以不必那么做。但，在你这里，假如他们不签，我们要你饿死他们。这就跟第二十二条军规一样。你明白吗？你总不至于违抗第二十二条军规吧？”
　　丹尼卡医生却坚持自己的立场。
　　“你凭什么断定梅杰少校就是共产党人？”
　　“我们开始指控他以前，你从没听到他否认这一点，是不是？你也没有看见他在我们的效忠誓约上签过字。”
　　“是你们不让他签。”
　　“当然不能让他签，”布莱克上尉解释道，“否则，我们发起的这场运动也就前功尽弃了。你瞧，要是你不愿跟我们合作，你完全可以自便。可是，一旦米洛刚准备要饿死梅杰少校，而你却给他治疗，那么，我们其余的人这么竭尽全力又有什么意义呢？我只是不知道，对暗中破坏我们整个安全计划的人，大队部的上司们会想什么办法处置，他们很有可能会调你去太平洋。”
　　丹尼卡医生立刻屈从了。“我这就去跟格斯和韦斯说，让他们按你的吩咐去做。”
　　大队部的卡思卡特上校早就开始纳闷，究竟出了什么事情，“那个白痴布莱克，在大闹什么爱国主义，”科恩中校笑着说，“我想，既然是你提升梅杰少校当了中队长，你最好暂且跟他合作一段时间。”
　　“那还不是你出的主意。”卡思卡特上校极恼火地责备他。“当初真不该听你的话。”
　　“可我出的那个主意也是一条妙计，”科恩中尉反驳道，“那个多余的少校身为行政军官，却老是败坏你的名声，不就是我那条妙计把他给除掉了吗？不用担心，这一切大概马上就会走上正轨的。
　　现在最好的办法是，给布莱克上尉去一封信，表示完全支待他，并希望他适可而止，免得到时闹得一塌糊涂。”科恩中校突然想出了个怪念头。“我很有点怀疑！那个白痴该不会把梅杰少校赶出他的活动房屋吧，你说呢？”
　　“接下来我们要做的是，把那婊子养的梅杰少校赶出他的活动房屋。”布莱克上尉拿定了主意。“我还真巴不得把他的老婆孩子赶到树林子里去。可是我们做不到。他没有老婆孩子。所以，我们只得应付眼前的事，把他赶出去。谁负责这些帐篷？”
　　“他。”
　　“你们瞧见了？”布莱克上尉大声叫道，“所有一切都让他们给操纵了！哼，我可是不会容忍的。要是迫不得已，我会直接向德•科弗利少校本人汇报这事的。等他从罗马一回来，我就让米洛去跟他说这事。”
　　布莱克上尉对德•科弗利少校的智慧、权力和正直深信不疑，即便他以前从未跟德•科弗利少校说过一句话，现在也还是没有胆量这么做。他委派了米洛替他去找德•科弗利少校谈话，自己则等待着这个高个子主任参谋回来，等不耐烦了，见人就大发脾气。德•科弗利少校威风凛凛，长一头白发，满脸皱纹，俨然一副救世主的神态，对他，布莱克上尉和中队其他所有官兵一向是怀有深深的敬畏之心的。少校最终从罗马回到了中队，伤了一只眼，用一只新的赛璐珞眼罩护着。他一下子就把布莱克上尉的整个光荣效忠宣誓运动砸了个稀巴烂。
　　德•科弗利少校返回中队那天，极威严地走进食堂，正排队等候签字效忠的军官自成一道人墙，拦住了他的去路。此刻，米洛非常小心翼翼，没说一句话。食品柜台的尽端，早来的一群军官每人手上托了一盘饭菜，正面向国旗宣誓效忠，为的是获准在餐桌旁就座用餐。来的更早的一群军官呢，早就在餐桌旁坐了下来，这时正合唱《星条旗》国歌，为的是可以享用桌上的盐、胡椒粉，还有调味番茄酱。德•科弗利少校在门口停了下来，皱眉蹙额，一脸的困惑不满，仿佛是见到了什么怪事。喧嚷声这才慢慢平静了下来。德•科弗利少校端庄地往前走过去，面前的那道人墙像红海一样，往两侧分了开来。他目不斜视，威武地大步走向蒸汽消毒柜台，于是，用清晰圆润的声音——因年迈而显得粗哑，又因年高德劭、地位显赫而洪亮有力——说道：
　　“给我拿吃的来，”斯纳克下士没有给德•科弗利少校吃的，倒是递给他一份效忠誓约让他签字。德•科弗利少校一见是这东西，不由得大为恼火，用力把它推至一旁，那只好眼睛令人无法理解地射出强烈的鄙视的怒火，那张布满皱纹、衰老的大脸盘因暴怒而越发阴沉可怕。
　　“我说过，给我拿吃的来，”他大声命令道，嗓音十分刺耳，就像远处的霹雳，在寂静的帐篷里发出不祥的隆隆响声。
　　斯纳克下士脸色刷白，浑身哆嗦起来。他向米洛投去恳求的目光，企求他的指点。过去了可怕的几秒钟，没有一丝声息。接着，米洛点了点头。
　　“给他拿点吃的，”他说。
　　斯纳克下士这才把吃的东西递给了德•科弗利少校。德•科弗利少校手托满满一盘饭菜，刚转身离开柜台，便又停住了脚步。他的目光落到了那一群群军官身上，军官们正默默地用恳求的目光注视着他。随即，他便摆出一副主持正义的战斗姿态，大声吼道：
　　“给大伙拿吃的！”
　　“给大伙拿吃的！”米洛如释重负，兴奋地应了一声。光荣的效忠宣誓运动就此宣告结束。
　　布莱克上尉彻底失望了，他没料到，自己如此信赖并视作后盾、身居高位的上司竟然会从背后给他这么一刀。德•科弗利少校让他受尽了屈辱。
　　“哦，我啥事儿都没有，”只要有人来向他表示同情，他便很愉快地回答道，“我们的任务已经完成了。我们的目的就是要让我们讨厌的人感到恐惧，让大家警惕梅杰少校的危险。我们的确达到了这个目的。既然我们压根就没想让他签字效忠，那么，要不要那些效忠誓约，其实已经是无关紧要了。”
　　博洛尼亚大围攻没完没了，骇人听闻，又把中队里布莱克上尉讨厌的那些人一个个吓得胆战心惊。见了这一幕，布莱克上尉不由得怀恋起光荣效忠宣誓运动那段过去的美好时光。那时，他可是个举足轻重的风云人物，即便是像米洛•明德宾德、丹尼卡医生、皮尔查德和雷恩那样有权势的大人物，一见到他来就浑身哆嗦，对他俯首帖耳。为了向新来的人证明，自己确实曾一度是个叱咤风云的人物，他依旧保存着卡思卡特上校写给他的那封嘉奖信。
Chapter 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 grimprocession back into the parachute tent that degenerated into a frantic stampede finally before all the extra flaksuits 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 answerhim.
　　It was Sergeant Knight and the cruel series of postponements, for just as they were climbing up into their planesthat first morning, along came a jeep with the news that it was raining in Bologna and that the mission would bedelayed. It was raining in Pianosa too by the time they returned to the squadron, and they had the rest of that dayto stare woodenly at the bomb line on the map under the awning of the intelligence tent and ruminatehypnotically on the fact that there was no escape. The evidence was there vividly in the narrow red ribbon tackedacross the mainland: the ground forces in Italy were pinned down forty-two insurmountable miles south of thetarget and could not possibly capture the city in time. Nothing could save the men in Pianosa from the mission toBologna. 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 inPianosa. If there was no rain at all, there were freakish, inexplicable phenomena like the epidemic of diarrhea orthe bomb line that moved. Four times during the first six days they were assembled and briefed and then sentback. Once, they took off and were flying in formation when the control tower summoned them down. The moreit 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 atthe bomb line on the big, wobbling easel map of Italy that blew over in the wind and was dragged in under theawning of the intelligence tent every time the rain began. The bomb line was a scarlet band of narrow satinribbon that delineated the forwardmost position of the Allied ground forces in every sector of the Italianmainland.
　　The morning after Hungry Joe’s fist fight with Huple’s cat, the rain stopped falling in both places. The landingstrip began to dry. It would take a full twenty-four hours to harden; but the sky remained cloudless. Theresentments incubating in each man hatched into hatred. First they hated the infantrymen on the mainlandbecause they had failed to capture Bologna. Then they began to hate the bomb line itself. For hours they staredrelentlessly at the scarlet ribbon on the map and hated it because it would not move up high enough toencompass the city. When night fell, they congregated in the darkness with flashlights, continuing their macabrevigil at the bomb line in brooding entreaty as though hoping to move the ribbon up by the collective weight oftheir 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 senseas knocking on wood or crossing your fingers. They really believe that we wouldn’t have to fly that missiontomorrow 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 movethe bomb line up over Bologna.
　　Corporal Kolodny tiptoed stealthily into Captain Black’s tent early the next morning, reached inside themosquito 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 whilehe dressed and emerged from his tent, squinting, cross and unshaven. The sky was clear and warm. He peeredwithout emotion at the map. Sure enough, they had captured Bologna. Inside the intelligence tent, CorporalKolodny was already removing the maps of Bologna from the navigation kits. Captain Black seated himself witha 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 withoutblemish to the reputation for valor he had earned by volunteering his men to do it. General Dreedle was pleasedwith the capture of Bologna, too, although he was angry with Colonel Moodus for waking him up to tell himabout it. Headquarters was also pleased and decided to award a medal to the officer who captured the city. Therewas no officer who had captured the city, so they gave the medal to General Peckem instead, because GeneralPeckem 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 GeneralPeckem’s opinion that all combat units in the theater should be placed under the jurisdiction of the SpecialService Corps, of which General Peckem himself was the commanding officer. If dropping bombs on the enemywas not a special service, he reflected aloud frequently with the martyred smile of sweet reasonableness that washis loyal confederate in every dispute, then he could not help wondering what in the world was. With amiableregret, 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 asmooth laugh. “I was thinking more in terms of replacing General Dreedle, or perhaps of something aboveGeneral Dreedle where I could exercise supervision over a great many other generals too. You see, my mostprecious 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 confidedinvidiously to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen in the hope that ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen would spread the unfavorable reportalong through Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters. “If anyone deserves that combat post, I do. It was evenmy 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 mindgoing into combat, but my best abilities are mainly administrative ones. I too have a happy facility for gettingdifferent people to agree.”
　　“He too has a happy facility for getting different people to agree what a prick he is,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreenconfided with a laugh to Yossarian, after he had come to Pianosa to learn if it was really true about Milo and theEgyptian cotton. “If anyone deserves a promotion, I do.” Actually, he had risen already to ex-corporal, havingshot through the ranks shortly after his transfer to Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters as a mail clerk andbeen busted right down to private for making odious audible comparisons about the commissioned officers forwhom he worked. The heady taste of success had infused him further with morality and fired him with ambitionfor loftier attainments. “Do you want to buy some Zippo lighters?” he asked Yossarian. “They were stolen rightfrom 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 buckapiece. 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 thatEgyptian cotton he’s stuck with? How much did he buy?”
　　“All.”
　　“In the whole world? Well, I’ll be damned!” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen crowed with malicious glee. “What a dope!
　　You were in Cairo with him. Why’d you let him do it?”
　　“Me?” Yossarian answered with a shrug. “I have no influence on him. It was those teletype machines they havein all the good restaurants there. Milo had never seen a stock ticker before, and the quotation for Egyptian cottonhappened to be coming in just as he asked the headwaiter to explain it to him. ‘Egyptian cotton?’ Milo said withthat look of his. ‘How much is Egyptian cotton selling for?’ The next thing I knew he had bought the wholegoddam 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 assterile 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 withhim. 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 thatmimeograph 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 Iwould 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 andpick 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 wayI am? If I’m destined to unload these lighters at a profit and pick up some Egyptian cotton cheap from Milo, thenthat’s what I’m going to do. And if you’re destined to be killed over Bologna, then you’re going to be killed, soyou might just as well go out and die like a man. I hate to say this, Yossarian, but you’re turning into a chroniccomplainer.”
　　Clevinger agreed with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen that it was Yossarian’s job to get killed over Bologna and was lividwith condemnation when Yossarian confessed that it was he who had moved the bomb line and caused themission 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 toget 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 reasonwe’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 insincerity. “But the fact remains that those ammunition dumps are still standing. You know very well that I don’tapprove of Colonel Cathcart any more than you do.” Clevinger paused for emphasis, his mouth quivering, andthen beat his fist down softly against his sleeping-bag. “But it’s not for us to determine what targets must bedestroyed 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 youreally mean that?”
　　“Yes, I do,” Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. “There are men entrusted with winning the war who are in amuch 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 talkingabout the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry, and I am talking about the relationship of me to ColonelCathcart. 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 whowins 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 thatcould 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 matterwhich side he’s on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don’t you forget that, because the longer youremember 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 thatYossarian did not dare tell him he had also been responsible for the epidemic of diarrhea that had caused theother unnecessary postponement. Milo was even more upset by the possibility that someone had poisoned hissquadron 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. Assoon 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 youasked 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 HungryJoe, who was not scheduled to fly and screamed horribly in his sleep. He was the only one who could sleep. Allnight long, men moved through the darkness outside their tents like tongueless wraiths with cigarettes. In thedaytime they stared at the bomb line in futile, drooping clusters or at the still figure of Doc Daneeka sitting infront of the closed door of the medical tent beneath the morbid hand-lettered sign. They began to inventhumorless, 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 newLepage 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 wholeformation of planes together in mid-air.”
　　Colonel Korn jerked his elbow free from Yossarian’s clutching fingers in startled affront. “Let go of me, youidiot!” he cried out furiously, glaring with vindictive approval as Nately leaped upon Yossarian’s back andpulled 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 theroom 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 Natelybring 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, nobodyleaves the ignition on.”
　　“Hop in,” said Chief White Halfoat, driving up drunk in a covered jeep. He waited until they had crowded insideand then spurted ahead with a suddenness that rolled them all over backward. He roared with laughter at theircurses. He drove straight ahead when he left the parking lot and rammed the car into the embankment on theother side of the road. The others piled forward in a helpless heap and began cursing him again. “I forgot toturn,” 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 wheelswere 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 mysquadron.”
　　“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 WhiteHalfoat 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 darkfrom 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 steepembankment. Rolling back down, the jeep turned over on its side and settled softly in the mud. There was afrightened silence.
　　“Is everyone all right?” Chief White Halfoat inquired in a hushed voice. No one was injured, and he heaved along sigh of relief. “You know, that’s my trouble,” he groaned. “I never listen to anybody. Somebody kept tellingme 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 notbroken.”
　　“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 headwith 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 meget 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 ofpneumonia.”
　　“Why?”
　　“Why not?” answered Chief White Halfoat, and lay back in the mud contentedly with the bottle of rye cuddled inhis arms.
　　“Oh, now look what he’s doing!” Clevinger exclaimed with irritation. “Will you get up and get into the car so wecan 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’scar,” he informed them jubilantly. “I stole it from him at the officers’ club just now with an extra set of keys hethought he lost this morning.”
　　“Well, I’ll be damned! That calls for a drink.”
　　“Haven’t you had enough to drink?” Clevinger began scolding as soon as McWatt started the car. “Look at you.
　　You don’t care if you drink yourselves to death or drown yourselves to death, do you?”
　　“Just as long as we don’t fly ourselves to death.”
　　“Hey, open it up, open it up,” Chief White Halfoat urged McWatt. “And turn off the headlights. That’s the onlyway to do it.”
　　“Doc Daneeka is right,” Clevinger went on. “People don’t know enough to take care of themselves. I really amdisgusted with all of you.”
　　“Okay, fatmouth, out of the car,” Chief White Halfoat ordered. “Everybody get out of the car but Yossarian.
　　Where’s Yossarian?”
　　“Get the hell off me.” Yossarian laughed, pushing him away. “You’re all covered with mud.”
　　Clevinger focused on Nately. “You’re the one who really surprises me. Do you know what you smell like?
　　Instead of trying to keep him out of trouble, you get just as drunk as he is. Suppose he got in another fight withAppleby?” Clevinger’s eyes opened wide with alarm when he heard Yossarian chuckle. “He didn’t get in anotherfight with Appleby, did he?”
　　“Not this time,” said Dunbar.
　　“No, not this time. This time I did even better.”
　　“This time he got in a fight with Colonel Korn.”
　　“He didn’t!” gasped Clevinger.
　　“He did?” exclaimed Chief White Halfoat with delight. “That calls for a drink.”
　　“But that’s terrible!” Clevinger declared with deep apprehension. “Why in the world did you have to pick onColonel Korn? Say, what happened to the lights? Why is everything so dark?”
　　“I turned them off,” answered McWatt. “You know, Chief White Halfoat is right. It’s much better with theheadlights off.”
　　“Are you crazy?” Clevinger screamed, and lunged forward to snap the headlights on. He whirled around uponYossarian in near hysteria. “You see what you’re doing? You’ve got them all acting like you! Suppose it stopsraining and we have to fly to Bologna tomorrow. You’ll be in fine physical condition.”
　　“It won’t ever gonna stop raining. No, sir, a rain like this really might go on forever.”
　　“It has stopped raining!” someone said, and the whole car fell silent.
　　“You poor bastards,” Chief White Halfoat murmured compassionately after a few moments had passed.
　　“Did it really stop raining?” Yossarian asked meekly.
　　McWatt switched off the windshield wipers to make certain. The rain had stopped. The sky was starting to clear.
　　The moon was sharp behind a gauzy brown mist.
　　“Oh, well,” sang McWatt soberly. “What the hell.”
　　“Don’t worry, fellas,” Chief White Halfoat said. “The landing strip is too soft to use tomorrow. Maybe it’ll startraining again before the field dries out.”
　　“You goddam stinking lousy son of a bitch,” Hungry Joe screamed from his tent as they sped into the squadron.
　　“Jesus, is he back here tonight? I thought he was still in Rome with the courier ship.”
　　“Oh! Ooooh! Oooooooh!” Hungry Joe screamed.
　　Chief White Halfoat shuddered. “That guy gives me the willies,” he confessed in a grouchy whisper. “Hey,whatever happened to Captain Flume?”
　　“There’s a guy that gives me the willies. I saw him in the woods last week eating wild berries. He never sleeps inhis trailer any more. He looked like hell.”
　　“Hungry Joe’s afraid he’ll have to replace somebody who goes on sick call, even though there is no sick call. Didyou see him the other night when he tried to kill Havermeyer and fell into Yossarian’s slit trench?”
　　“Ooooh!” screamed Hungry Joe. “Oh! Ooooh! Ooooooh!”
　　“It sure is a pleasure not having Flume around in the mess hall any more. No more of that ‘Pass the salt, Walt.’”
　　“Or ‘Pass the bread, Fred.’”
　　“Or ‘Shoot me a beet, Pete.’”
　　“Keep away, keep away,” Hungry Joe screamed. “I said keep away, keep away, you goddam stinking lousy sonof a bitch.”
　　“At least we found out what he dreams about,” Dunbar observed wryly. “He dreams about goddam stinkinglousy sons of bitches.”
　　Late that night Hungry Joe dreamed that Huple’s cat was sleeping on his face, suffocating him, and when hewoke up, Huple’s cat was sleeping on his face. His agony was terrifying, the piercing, unearthly howl with whichhe split the moonlit dark vibrating in its own impact for seconds afterward like a devastating shock. A numbingsilence followed, and then a riotous din rose from inside his tent.
　　Yossarian was among the first ones there. When he burst through the entrance, Hungry Joe had his gun out andwas struggling to wrench his arm free from Huple to shoot the cat, who kept spitting and feinting at himferociously to distract him from shooting Huple. Both humans were in their GI underwear. The unfrosted lightbulb overhead was swinging crazily on its loose wire, and the jumbled black shadows kept swirling and bobbingchaotically, so that the entire tent seemed to be reeling. Yossarian reached out instinctively for balance and thenlaunched himself forward in a prodigious dive that crushed the three combatants to the ground beneath him. Heemerged from the melee with the scruff of a neck in each hand—Hungry Joe’s neck and the cat’s. Hungry Joeand the cat glared at each other savagely. The cat spat viciously at Hungry Joe, and Hungry Joe tried to hit it witha haymaker.
　　“A fair fight,” Yossarian decreed, and all the others who had come running to the uproar in horror begancheering ecstatically in a tremendous overflow of relief. “We’ll have a fair fight,” he explained officially toHungry Joe and the cat after he had carried them both outside, still holding them apart by the scruffs of theirnecks. “Fists, fangs and claws. But no guns,” he warned Hungry Joe. “And no spitting,” he warned the catsternly. “When I turn you both loose, go. Break clean in the clinches and come back fighting. Go!”
　　There was a huge, giddy crowd of men who were avid for any diversion, but the cat turned chicken the momentYossarian released him and fled from Hungry Joe ignominiously like a yellow dog. Hungry Joe was declared thewinner. He swaggered away happily with the proud smile of a champion, his shriveled head high and hisemaciated chest out. He went back to bed victorious and dreamed again that Huple’s cat was sleeping on hisface, suffocating him.
 12、博洛尼亚
　　其实，那场博洛尼亚大恐慌完全是由奈特中士一手造成的，与布莱克上尉毫无关系。奈特中士一听说要去轰炸博洛尼亚，就悄悄溜下卡车，又取来了两件防弹衣。这一来，其余的人也跟着效仿，一个个铁板着脸跑回降落伞室，没等抢完余下的防弹衣，便已溃军似地慌乱成一团了。
　　“嗨，这是怎么回事儿？”基德•桑普森很不安地问道，“博洛尼亚还不至于那么危险吧？”
　　内特利恍惚地坐在卡车铺板上，双手捂住那张年轻但阴沉的脸，没答话。
　　造成这一局面的，是奈特中士，以及无数次折磨人的任务延期。就在命令下达后的头天上午，大伙正在登机，突然来了一辆吉普车，通知他们说，博洛尼亚正在下雨，轰炸任务延期执行。待他们返回中队驻地，皮亚诺萨亦下起了雨。那天，回到驻地后，他们全都木然地凝视着情报室遮篷下那张地图上的轰炸路线，脑子昏昏欲睡，始终是一个念头：这次他们是无论如何没有了退路。那条横钉在意大利大陆上的细长的红缎带，便是醒目的证据：驻守意大利的地面部队被牵制在目标以南四十二英里的地方，根本就没法往前进逼一步。因此，他们是无论如何也攻不下博洛尼亚城的。而屯扎皮亚诺萨岛的空军官兵却是万难躲开这次去轰炸博洛尼亚的飞行任务的。他们陷入了困境。
　　他们的唯一希望，便是雨不停地下，但这希望实在是乌有的，因为他们全部清楚，雨终究是要停的。皮亚诺萨停了雨，博洛尼亚便下雨；博洛尼亚停雨，皮亚诺萨便又下雨。假如两地都没了雨，那么，便会出现一些莫名其妙的奇怪现象，诸如流行性腹泻的传播，或是轰炸路线的移动。最初的六天里，他们被召集了四次，听取下达简令，随后又给打发回驻地。一次，他们起飞了，正在编队飞行，突然，指挥塔命令他们降落。雨下的时间越长，他们就越遭罪；他们越是遭罪，也就越要祈求雨不停地下。晚上，大伙通宵仰望天空，满天的星斗让他们深感哀戚。白昼，他们就一天到晚盯着意大利地图上的那条轰炸路线。地图很大，挂在一只摇晃不稳的黑报架上，随风飘动，天一下雨，黑报架便住里拖，置于情报室遮篷底下。轰炸路线是一条细长的红缎带，用来标明布于意大利大陆各处的盟军地面部队的最前沿阵地。
　　亨格利•乔与赫普尔的猫拳斗后的次日上午，皮亚诺萨和博洛尼亚都停了雨。机场的起降跑道干了起来，但要硬结，还得等上整整二十四小时。天空依旧是万里无云。郁结在每个兵士心中的怨怼都已化作了仇恨。最先，他们痛恨意大利大陆上的步兵，因为他们没能进占博洛尼亚。之后，他们开始憎恨起那条轰炸路线来了。他们死死盯着地图上的那条红缎带，一盯便是好几个小时，切齿地恨它，因为它不愿上移，将博洛尼亚城包围起来。待到夜幕降临，他们便聚在黑暗中，凭了手电，继续阴森森地注视着那条轰炸路线，心里在默默地哀求，仿佛他们这样郁郁不乐地集体祈祷，可以产生相当的威力，于是，便有了希望，让红缎带上移。
　　“我实在不敢相信会有这等事，”克莱文杰对约塞连惊叫道，声音忽高忽低，既表示异议，又深感疑惑。“这完全是愚昧迷信，是彻彻底底的倒退。他们混淆了因果关系。这和手碰木头或交叉食指和中指一样毫无意义。难道他们真的相信，假如有人半夜蹑手蹑脚地走到地图前，把轰炸路线移到博洛尼亚上面，我们明天就不必再去执行那次轰炸任务了？你能想象得出？很可能只有我们两个人才是有理智的。”
　　至午夜，约塞连用手碰了木头，又交叉了食指和中指，于是，便轻手轻脚地溜出帐篷，把那条轰炸路线上移，盖住了博洛尼亚。
　　次日一清早，科洛尼下士鬼鬼祟祟地钻进布莱克上尉的帐篷，手伸进蚊帐，摸到湿漉漉的肩胛，轻轻摇动，直摇到布莱克上尉睁开了双眼。
　　“你摇醒我干什么？”布莱克上尉埋怨道。
　　“他们占领了博洛尼亚，上尉，”科洛尼说，“我觉得你大概想知道这个消息。这次任务取消了吗？”
　　布莱克上尉猛地挺起了身，极有条理地在那两条瘦成皮包骨的细长大腿上挠起了痒痒。不一会儿，他穿上衣服，不及修面，便走出帐篷，眯眼瞧了瞧，一脸怒气。天空晴朗，气温和暖。他冷漠地注视着那张意大利地图。果不出所料，他们已经攻占了博洛尼亚。情报室内，科洛尼下士正取出导航工具箱里的博洛尼亚地图。布莱克上尉打了个极响的哈欠，坐了下来，把两脚翘到桌上，于是，挂通了科恩中校的电话。
　　“你打电话吵醒我干吗？”科恩中校埋怨道。
　　“他们夜里攻下了博洛尼亚，中校。这次轰炸任务是否取消了？”
　　“你说什么，布莱克？”科恩中校咆哮道，“干吗要取消轰炸任务？”
　　“因为他们攻占了博洛尼亚，中校。难道还不取消轰炸任务？”
　　“当然取消啦。你以为我们现在去轰炸自己的部队？”
　　“你打电话吵醒我干吗？”卡思卡特上校对科恩中校抱怨道。
　　“他们攻占了博洛尼亚，”科恩中校告诉他说，“我想你大概会希望知道这个消息。”
　　“谁攻占了博洛尼亚？”
　　“是我们。”
　　卡思卡特上校狂喜，因为当初是他自告奋勇要求让自己的部下去轰炸博洛尼亚的，从此，他便以英勇闻名，但现在，又解除了这次令他进退维谷的轰炸任务，却丝毫无损他已赢得的名声。攻克博洛尼亚，也着实让德里德尔将军心花怒放，但他对穆达士上校极为恼火，原因是上校为了告诉他这一消息而叫醒了他。司令部同样也很高兴，于是，决定给攻占博洛尼亚城的指挥官授一枚勋章。所以，他们把它给了佩克姆将军，因为佩克姆将军是唯一一位军官主动伸手要这枚勋章的。
　　佩克姆将军荣膺勋章后，便即刻请求承当更多的职责。依照他的意见，战区所有作战部队都应归由他亲任指挥官的特种兵团指挥。他时常自言自语——总带着每次与人争执时必定有的那种殉教者的微笑，令人觉着和蔼可亲又通情达理：假如投弹轰炸敌军算不得是特殊工种，那么，他实在不明白，究竟什么工种才是特殊的。
　　司令部曾提出，让他在德里德尔将军手下担任作战指挥，可他极和气地婉言拒绝了。
　　“我想的可不是替德里德尔将军执行什么作战飞行任务，”佩克姆将军宽容地解释道，笑嘻嘻的，一副和悦的面容。“我更想替代德里德尔将军，或许更想超过德里德尔将军。这样，我也就可以指挥许多其他将军。你知道，我最出色的才能主要在于行政管理。我就有这种高妙的本领，可以让不同的人的意见统一起来。”
　　“他倒是有一种高妙的本领，可以让不同的人都觉得他实在是个讨厌透顶的混蛋，”卡吉尔上校曾怀恨地跟前一等兵温特格林吐出了自己的心里话，希望他把这句刺耳的话传扬出去，让第二十六空军司令部上上下下都知道。“假如有谁配接任那个作战指挥的职位，那个人就是我。我甚至还想到过，我们应该伸手向司令部要那枚勋章。”
　　“你真想参加作战？”前一等兵温特格林问道。
　　“作战？”卡吉尔上校惊呆了。“哦，不——你误解我的意思了。
　　当然，真要参加作战，我其实也不在乎，不过，我最出色的才能主要在于行政管理。我同样有这种高妙的本领，可以让不同的人的意见统一起来。”
　　“他倒是也有一种高妙的本领，可以让不同的人都觉得他实在是个讨厌透顶的混蛋。”后来，前一等兵温特格林来到皮亚诺萨岛，查实米洛和埃及棉花一事时，曾私下里笑着告诉约塞连。“假如有谁配晋升，那就是我。”其实，他调至第二十六空军司令部担任邮件管理员后不久，便接连升级，升到了下士，可后来，因为妄加品藻自己的上级军官，说了些极不中听的话，给传扬出去，结果，一下子又被降为列兵。成功的喜悦，更让他感觉到必须做有道德的人，同时，又激发出他的勃勃雄心，再创一番更崇高的业绩。“你想买几只齐波牌打火机吗？”他问约塞连，“这些打火机是直接从军需军官那里偷来的。”
　　“米洛知道你在卖打火机吗？”
　　“这跟他有什么关系？米洛不是现在也不兜售打火机了吗？”
　　“他当然还在兜售，”约塞连告诉他说，“不过，他的打火机可不是偷来的。”
　　“那是你的看法，”前一等兵温特格林哼了一声，回敬道，“我卖一块钱一只。他卖多少钱？”
　　“一块零一分。”
　　前一等兵温特格林得意洋洋地窃笑了一下。“我每回都占他的上风。”他颇有些幸灾乐祸。“嗨，他那些脱不了手的埃及棉花怎么样了？他究竟买了多少？”
　　“全买了。”
　　“全世界的棉花？哦，真他妈见鬼！”前一等兵温特格林十足一副幸灾乐祸的劲儿。”简直是头蠢驴！当时你一块儿跟他在开罗，干吗不阻止他呢？”
　　“我？”约塞连耸了耸肩，答道，“他能听我的话？他们那儿所有高档饭店都有电传打字电报机。可米洛以前从未见过自动记录证券行市的收报机，就在他请领班给他作解释的时候，埃及棉花的行情报告正巧传了过来。‘埃及棉花？’米洛用他那种惯有的表情问道，‘埃及棉花的售价多少？’接下来，我就知道，他把那些该死的棉花全都买了下来。现在他可真是吃不了兜着走了。”
　　“他真是一点想象力都没有。假如他愿意做买卖，我在黑市上就能抛售许多棉花。”
　　“米洛了解黑市行情，根本就不需要棉花。”
　　“但需要医药用品。我可以把棉花卷在木牙签上，当做消毒药签卖出去。他愿不愿给个合适的价，卖给我？”
　　“不管什么价，他都不会卖给你的，”约塞连答道，“你跟他对着干，他很恼火。其实，他对谁都很恼火，因为上星期大家都拉肚子，把他食堂的名声都给搞臭了。对了，你能帮帮我们大伙儿。”约塞连突然抓住他的胳膊。“你不是可以用你的那台油印机伪造一些官方命令，帮我们逃脱这次去轰炸博洛尼亚的任务吗？”
　　前一等兵温特格林很轻蔑地瞧了他一眼，慢慢把手臂抽了回去。“我当然可以，”他自豪他说，“但是我做梦都没想过要做那种事。”
　　“为什么？”
　　“因为这是你的工作。我们大家都各有各的工作。我的工作就是想办法卖掉这些齐波牌打火机，赚几个钱，还有，再从米洛那里买些棉花来。你的工作就是炸掉博洛尼亚的弹药库。”
　　“可我会在博洛尼亚给炸死的，”约塞连恳求道，“我们全都会给炸死的。”
　　“那你没办法，只得被炸死了，”前一等兵温特格林回答道，“你干吗不学学我，想开些，这都是命中注定的？假如我注定是卖掉这些打火机，赚几个钱，再从米洛那里买些便宜棉花，那么，这就是我要做的事。假如你注定要在博洛尼亚上空被炸死，那你就会被炸死，所以，你最好还是飞出去，勇敢点去死。我不愿这么说，约塞连，可是，你都快成了牢骚鬼了。”
　　克莱文杰很赞同前一等兵温特格林的说法，约塞连要做的事，就是在博洛尼亚上空被炸死。当约塞连供认，是他把那条轰炸路线移到了上面，致使轰炸任务被取消，克莱文杰气得脸色发青，狠狠咒骂了一通。
　　“干吗不可以？”约塞连咆哮道，越发激烈地替自己争辩，因为他自觉做错了事。“是不是因为上校想当将军，我就该让人把屁股给打烂吗？”
　　“意大利大陆上的弟兄们怎么办？”克莱文杰同样很激动地问道，“难道因为你不想去，他们就该让人把屁股给打烂吗？那些弟兄有权得到空中支援！”
　　“但不一定非得我去不可。瞧，他们并不在乎由谁去炸掉那些弹药库。我们去那里执行轰炸任务，唯一的理由，就是因为那个狗娘养的卡思卡特自愿要求让我们去。”
　　“哦，这些我都知道，”克莱文杰跟他说，那张憔悴的面孔显得极苍白，两只焦虑不安的棕色眼睛却是充满了诚挚。“但事实是，那些弹药库还在那里。我跟你一样，也不赞同卡思卡特上校的做法。
　　这一点，你很清楚。”克莱文杰停了停，双唇哆嗦着，再握住拳头，对着自己的睡袋轻击了一下，于是，强调说，“但该炸什么目标，或是由谁去轰炸，或者——，这些都不是我们能决定的。”
　　“或是谁在轰炸目标时送了命？为什么？”
　　“没错，甚至是送命也没法决定。我们无权质问——”
　　“你真是疯啦！”
　　“——无权质问——”
　　“你真的是说，无论我怎么死，还是为什么死，这都不是我的事，而是卡思卡特上校的事？你真是这个意思？”
　　“是的，我是这个意思，”克莱文杰坚持说，但似乎很没什么把握。“那些受命打赢这场战争的人，他们的境遇要比我们好得多。他们将决定该轰炸哪些目标。”
　　“我们谈的是两回事，”约塞连极其不耐烦他说，“你谈的是空军和步兵的关系，而我说的是我跟卡思卡特上校的关系。你谈的是打赢这场战争，而我说的是打赢这场战争，同时又能保全性命。”
　　“千真万确，”克莱文杰厉声说道，显得颇是沾沾自喜。“那么，你说哪一个更重要？”
　　“对谁来说？”约塞连马上接口道，“睁开你的眼好好瞧瞧，克莱文杰。对死人来说，谁打赢这场战争，都无关紧要。”
　　克莱文杰坐了一会儿，好像挨了猛的一掌。“祝贺你啦！”他极刻薄地喊道，嘴抿紧了，周围现出极细的苍白得无半丝血色的一圈。“我实在想不出还有别的什么态度，更让敌人感到快慰。”
　　“敌人，”约塞连斟字酌句地反驳道，“就是让你去送死的人，不管他站的是哪一边，自然也包括卡思卡特上校。这一点你无论如何不能忘记，因为你记住的时间越长，你就可能活得越长。”
　　但，克莱文杰终究是忘了这句话，结果，他死了。当初，由于约塞连没敢告诉克莱文杰，也是他约塞连一手造成了中队人人闹肚子，最后致使轰炸任务又一次不必要地给延期，因此，这扰得克莱文杰很是心烦意乱。米洛更是坐卧不安，因为他疑心很可能又有人在中队的食物里下了毒。于是，他便火烧火燎地跑去求助约塞连。
　　“请赶快找斯纳克下士查问一下，他是不是又在白薯里放了洗衣皂。”他偷偷摸摸地恳求约塞连。“斯纳克下士信任你，假如你向他保证不告诉别人，他会跟你说实后的。他一告诉你，你就来告诉我。”
　　“这还用问，我当然在白薯里放了洗衣皂，”斯纳克下士很坦率地告诉约塞连，“是你让我放的，对不？洗衣皂可真管用。”
　　“他对上帝起誓，他跟这件事毫无关系，”后来，约塞连回答米洛说。
　　米洛将信将疑地撅起了嘴。“邓巴说根本就不存在上帝。”
　　不再有丝毫的希望了。第二个星期刚过一半，中队所有的人看上去就跟亨格利•乔一副模样。亨格利•乔是不需要执行轰炸任务的。他总在睡梦里恐怖地乱叫乱吼，全中队上下能安睡的，惟独他一人，晚上，其余的人仿佛一个个缄口不语的幽灵，叼着烟，彻夜在各自的帐篷外于黑暗中游荡。到了白天，他们就聚在一块，显出一副萎靡不振的模样，徒然地注视着那条轰炸路线；或是一眼不眨地盯着正纹丝不动地坐在紧闭着的医务室帐篷门前的丹尼卡医生，他的头顶上方，是那块可怕的手写的招牌。他们开始自编沉闷无趣的笑话，又捏造灾难性的谣言，说什么粉身碎骨的厄运正在博洛尼亚等着他们呢。
　　一天晚上，在军官俱乐部里，约塞连醉醺醺地侧身走近科恩中校，骗他说，德国人把最新发明的那种莱佩奇炮运到了前线。
　　“什么莱佩奇炮？”科恩中校很好奇地问。
　　“就是最新发明的三百四十四毫米的莱佩奇胶炮，”约塞连回答说，“它可以在半空中把整编队的飞机粘合在一起。”
　　科恩中校被约塞连一手紧抓住了胳膊时，很是吓了一跳。他猛地挣脱开，当众羞辱约塞连。“放开我，你这白痴！”他暴怒地叫喊道。这时，内特利突然跑到约寒连的背后，一把将他拖开，科恩中校怒目而视，心里倒是很赞许内特利这么做，因为替他出了这口恶气。“这疯子到底是谁？”
　　卡思卡特上校高兴得咯咯直笑。“这就是弗拉拉战役结束后，你硬是要我给他一枚勋章的那个家伙。你还让我提升他为上尉，记得吗？你是活该如此！”
　　内特利的体重比约塞连的轻，因此，他花了好大的劲，才把约塞连肥硕的身体拖过房间，拉到一张空桌旁。“你是不是疯啦？”内特利早已吓得浑身直打战，不停地发出嘘嘘声。“那是科恩中校，你是不是疯了？”
　　约塞连想再喝一杯，并作出保证，只要内特利给他要来一杯，他就悄悄离开俱乐部。于是，他让内特利又要来了两杯。最后，内特利好说歹说总算哄他到了门口，这时，布莱克上尉恰好噔噔地踩着重步从外面走了进来，使劲在木地板上跺着满是泥浆的鞋子，帽檐儿上的雨水，像是从高高的屋顶直往下泻。
　　“好家伙，你们这些杂种这下可是没有退路了，”他兴致勃勃地宣布道，边说边离开了脚下那滩污水，他身上的雨水溅得四处都是。“我刚接到科恩中校的电话。你们可知道他们在博洛尼亚准备好了什么迎候你们？哈！哈！他们准备好了最新发明的那种莱佩奇胶炮。它可以在半空中把整编队的飞机粘合在一起。”
　　“上帝啊，真有这回事！”约塞连尖声叫道，吓得瘫倒在了内特利的身上。
　　“哪里有上帝，”邓巴很镇定他说，一面略有些摇晃地走了过来。
　　“嗨，帮我来扶他一把，行吗？我得送他回自己的帐篷去。”
　　“谁这么说的？”
　　“是我。哎呀，瞧瞧这雨。”
　　“我们必须去弄一辆车子来。”
　　“去把布莱克上尉的汽车偷来，”约塞连说，“这可是我老做的事。”
　　“我们是谁的车也偷不到的。因为以前你每次要车，总是偷偷开走停放最近的车子，现在可没人再把点火开关钥匙留在车上了。”
　　“上车吧，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特醉醺醺地驾驶着一辆有篷吉普车，开了过来，招呼他们说。等他们全都挤进车子，他便冷不丁地快速开了出去，大伙儿一个个往后仰面倒下去。他们破口大骂，他听了，哈哈大笑。一出停车场，他便笔直往前，疾驶而去，汽车结结实实地撞到了道路另一侧的路堤上。车里的其他人一齐往前倾了过去，一个个叠了起来，无法动弹，对他又是一顿臭骂。“我忘了拐弯，”他解释说。
　　“小心点，行吗？”内特利告诫他，“你最好把前灯打开。”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特倒车离开路堤，拐过弯，沿着大路飞驰而去。车轮在沥青路面上飕飕地飞转，发出咝咝的声音。
　　“别开这么快，”内特利恳求道。
　　“你最好先带我去你们中队，这样，我可以帮你安顿他上床。然后，你再开车送我回我自己的中队。”
　　“你到底是谁？”
　　“邓巴。”
　　“嗨，把前灯打开，”内特利叫道，“注意路面！”
　　“前灯都开着。约塞连难道没在这车上吗？所以，我才让你们这几个杂种上车。”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特一百八十度转身，两眼直盯住后座。
　　“注意路面！”
　　“约塞连？约塞连在这儿吗？”
　　“我在这儿呢，一级准尉。我们回去吧。你怎么那么肯定？你从来就没回答过我提的问题。”
　　“你们都瞧见了？我跟你们说过，他在这儿。”
　　“什么问题。”
　　“我们刚才谈的什么，就是什么问题。”
　　“重要吗？”
　　“我记不得那问题是否重要。我向上帝发誓，我本来知道是什么问题。”
　　“上帝根本就不存在。”
　　“这正是我们刚才谈的问题。”约塞连大叫了起来。“你怎么会那么肯定？”
　　“喂，你肯定前灯都开了吗？”内特利喊道。
　　“开了，开了。他想要我干吗？挡风玻璃上全是雨水，难怪从后座看前面黑咕隆咚的。”
　　“这雨实在是美极了。”
　　“我真希望这雨一直这样不停地下。雨啊，雨，请走——”
　　“——开。改日——”
　　“——再——”
　　“——来。小约约想要——”
　　“——玩耍。在——”
　　“——草地上，在——”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特错过了途中的第二个拐弯，一路驶去，直把吉普车开上了一条陡峭路堤的最高处。吉普车往下滑行时，侧翻了，轻轻地陷在了泥地里。车子里，一阵受惊后的寂静。
　　“大家没事吧？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特压低了声音问道。没人受伤，他便如释重负，长叹了一口气。“你们知道，我就是这个毛病，”他呻吟道，“从来就不听别人的话。刚才有人再三要我把前灯打开，可我就是不愿听。”
　　“是我再三要你把前灯打开的。”
　　“我知道，我知道。可我就是不愿听，是不是？我真希望有一瓶酒。我是带了瓶酒的。瞧，瓶还没打碎。”
　　“雨进来了。”内特利察觉到了。“我身上都湿啦。”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特打开黑麦威士忌酒瓶，喝了一口，于是便把酒瓶递给了别人。大伙叠罗汉似的，横七竖八地躺在车里，全都喝了酒，只有内特利没喝，他一刻不歇地摸索着找车门把手，可就是摸不着。酒瓶噔的一声，落在了他的头上，威士忌直灌他的颈脖。他一个劲地扭动身体。
　　“喂，我们得爬出去，”他叫喊道，“我们全都会淹死的。”
　　“车里有人吗？”克莱文杰关切地问道，一边打了手电筒从上往下照。
　　“是克莱文杰，”他们大叫道。克莱文杰伸过手去，想帮他们一把，可他们却想把他从车窗拖进去。
　　“瞧瞧他们！”克莱文杰愤怒地对麦克沃特——正坐在指挥车的方向盘后，咧开了嘴笑——大声说，“就像是一群喝醉了酒的牲畜躺在里边。你也在，内特利？你应该感到害臊！快——趁他们都还没得肺炎死掉，帮我把他们拉出来。”
　　“你知道，这主意听起来挺不错，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特想了想说，“我想我倒是乐意得肺炎死的。”
　　“为什么？”
　　“为什么不？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特回答道，然后，双臂抱着那瓶黑麦威士忌酒，极其满足地仰躺在泥地里。
　　“唉，瞧他在干吗？”克莱文杰恼火地大声叫道，“你们都爬起来上车，我们一起回中队去，行不行？”
　　“我们不能都回去。得留下个人在这里，帮一级准尉把车翻过来，因为这车是他签了字从汽车调度场借来的。”
　　一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特极舒适地在指挥车里坐了下来，背往后一靠，咯咯地直笑，一副高兴得意劲儿。“那是布莱克上尉的车，”他喜眉笑眼地告诉他们说，“刚才我是用他那串备用钥匙从军官俱乐部把车偷开来的。他还以为这钥匙今天早上丢了呢。”
　　“啊，真有你的！咱们该为此喝一杯。”
　　“难道你们还没喝够？”麦克沃特刚发动汽车，克莱文杰便开始责骂了起来。“瞧你们这些人。你们是不是不在乎把自己喝死淹死？”
　　“只要不在飞行时死就行。”
　　“喂，把瓶打开，把瓶打开。”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特催促麦克沃特。“把前灯关掉。只有这样，才能在车上喝酒。”
　　“丹尼卡医生说得一点没错，”克莱文杰接着又说，“有些人的确不知道该如何照顾自己。我实在是很厌恶你们这些人。”
　　“行了，饶舌鬼，快下车，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特命令道，“除约塞连外，其他人全都下车。约塞连在哪儿？”
　　“见鬼，别碰我！”约塞连哈哈大笑了起来，一边猛地把他推开。
　　“你满身都是泥。”
　　克莱文杰把目光集中到内特利身上。“真让我吃惊的是你。你知道自己身上是什么味儿，你不想办法劝阻他惹麻烦，反倒跟他一样喝得烂醉。要是他跟阿普尔比再打一架，你怎么办？”克莱文杰听见约塞连在暗笑，吃惊地瞪大了双眼。“他没有跟阿普尔比再打架，是不是？”
　　“这一次没有，”邓巴说。
　　“没有，这一次没有。这次我干得更漂亮。”
　　“这次他跟科恩中校打了一架。”
　　“他没有！”克莱文杰倒抽了一口气。
　　“他真干了？”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特兴奋地大叫了起来。“那该为此喝上一杯。”
　　“这事可就糟啦！”克莱文杰很是不安他说，“你们究竟干吗非得去惹科恩中校呢？哎呀，灯怎么啦？怎么那么黑？”
　　“我把灯都关了，”麦克沃特回答说，“你知道，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特说的没错。前灯关了要好得多。”
　　“你疯啦？”克莱文杰尖声叫了起来，突然俯身前去，吧咯一声打开了前灯。他几乎歇斯底里般地猛转过身，面对着约塞连。“你瞧你干的好事？你让他们一举一动全跟你一样了！要是雨停了，明天我们就得飞博洛尼亚，那可怎么办？你们得有健康的身体。”
　　“雨是再也不会停了。不会，长官，像这样的雨或许真会永远下个不停。”
　　“雨已经停了。”有人说，整个车子一片死寂。
　　“你们这些可怜的杂种。”几分钟过后，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特很是同情地低声说了一句。
　　“雨真的停了吗？”约塞连怯声怯气地问道。
　　麦克沃特关掉挡风玻璃刮水器，想看个清楚。雨早停了。天渐渐晴了。月亮让一片褐色的薄雾给罩住了，轮廊却是清晰可见。
　　“唉，行了，”麦克沃特镇静地大声说，“这有啥了不得的。”
　　“别担心，弟兄们，”一级准尉怀特&mi
Chapter 13 Major--De Coverley
    Moving the bomb line did not fool the Germans, but it did fool Major ---de Coverley, who packed his musettebag, commandeered an airplane and, under the impression that Florence too had been captured by the Allies, hadhimself flown to that city to rent two apartments for the officers and the enlisted men in the squadron to use onrest leaves. He had still not returned by the time Yossarian jumped back outside Major Major’s office andwondered whom to appeal to next for help.
　　Major ---de Coverley was a splendid, awe-inspiring, grave old man with a massive leonine head and an angryshock of wild white hair that raged like a blizzard around his stern, patriarchal face. His duties as squadronexecutive officer did consist entirely, as both Doc Daneeka and Major Major had conjectured, of pitchinghorseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers, and renting apartments for the enlisted men and officers to use on restleaves, and he excelled at all three.
　　Each time the fall of a city like Naples, Rome or Florence seemed imminent, Major ---de Coverley would packhis musette bag, commandeer an airplane and a pilot, and have himself flown away, accomplishing all thiswithout uttering a word, by the sheer force of his solemn, domineering visage and the peremptory gestures of hiswrinkled finger. A day or two after the city fell, he would be back with leases on two large and luxuriousapartments there, one for the officers and one for the enlisted men, both already staffed with competent, jollycooks and maids. A few days after that, newspapers would appear throughout the world with photographs of thefirst American soldiers bludgeoning their way into the shattered city through rubble and smoke. Inevitably,Major ---de Coverley was among them, seated straight as a ramrod in a jeep he had obtained from somewhere,glancing neither right nor left as the artillery fire burst about his invincible head and lithe young infantrymenwith carbines went loping up along the sidewalks in the shelter of burning buildings or fell dead in doorways. Heseemed eternally indestructible as he sat there surrounded by danger, his features molded firmly into that samefierce, regal, just and forbidding countenance which was recognized and revered by every man in the squadron.
　　To German intelligence, Major ---de Coverley was a vexatious enigma; not one of the hundreds of Americanprisoners would ever supply any concrete information about the elderly white-haired officer with the gnarled andmenacing brow and blazing, powerful eyes who seemed to spearhead every important advance so fearlessly andsuccessfully. To American authorities his identity was equally perplexing; a whole regiment of crack C.I.D. menhad been thrown into the front lines to find out who he was, while a battalion of combat-hardened public-relations officers stood on red alert twenty-four hours a day with orders to begin publicizing him the moment hewas located.
　　In Rome, Major --- de Coverley had outdone himself with the apartments. For the officers, who arrived in groupsof four or five, there was an immense double room for each in a new white stone building, with three spaciousbathrooms with walls of shimmering aquamarine tile and one skinny maid named Michaela who tittered ateverything and kept the apartment in spotless order. On the landing below lived the obsequious owners. On thelanding above lived the beautiful rich black-haired Countess and her beautiful, rich black-haired daughter-in-law,both of whom would put out only for Nately, who was too shy to want them, and for Aarfy, who was too stuffy to take them and tried to dissuade them from ever putting out for anyone but their husbands, who had chosen toremain in the north with the family’s business interests.
　　“They’re really a couple of good kids,” Aarfy confided earnestly to Yossarian, whose recurring dream it was tohave the nude milk-white female bodies of both these beautiful rich black-haired good kids lying stretched out inbed erotically with him at the same time.
　　The enlisted men descended upon Rome in gangs of twelve or more with Gargantuan appetites and heavy cratesfilled with canned food for the women to cook and serve to them in the dining room of their own apartment onthe sixth floor of a red brick building with a clinking elevator. There was always more activity at the enlistedmen’s place. There were always more enlisted men, to begin with, and more women to cook and serve and sweepand scrub, and then there were always the gay and silly sensual young girls that Yossarian had found and broughtthere and those that the sleepy enlisted men returning to Pianosa after their exhausting seven-day debauch hadbrought there on their own and were leaving behind for whoever wanted them next. The girls had shelter andfood for as long as they wanted to stay. All they had to do in return was hump any of the men who asked them to,which seemed to make everything just about perfect for them.
　　Every fourth day or so Hungry Joe came crashing in like a man in torment, hoarse, wild, and frenetic, if he hadbeen unlucky enough to finish his missions again and was flying the courier ship. Most times he slept at theenlisted men’s apartment. Nobody was certain how many rooms Major ---de Coverley had rented, not even thestout black-bodiced woman in corsets on the first floor from whom he had rented them. They covered the wholetop floor, and Yossarian knew they extended down to the fifth floor as well, for it was in Snowden’s room on thefifth floor that he had finally found the maid in the lime-colored panties with a dust mop the day after Bologna,after Hungry Joe had discovered him in bed with Luciana at the officers’ apartment that same morning and hadgone running like a fiend for his camera.
　　The maid in the lime-colored panties was a cheerful, fat, obliging woman in her mid-thirties with squashy thighsand swaying hams in lime-colored panties that she was always rolling off for any man who wanted her. She hada plain broad face and was the most virtuous woman alive: she laid for everybody, regardless of race, creed,color or place of national origin, donating herself sociably as an act of hospitality, procrastinating not even forthe moment it might take to discard the cloth or broom or dust mop she was clutching at the time she wasgrabbed. Her allure stemmed from her accessibility; like Mt. Everest, she was there, and the men climbed on topof her each time they felt the urge. Yossarian was in love with the maid in the lime-colored panties because sheseemed to be the only woman left he could make love to without falling in love with. Even the bald-headed girlin Sicily still evoked in him strong sensations of pity, tenderness and regret.
　　Despite the multiple perils to which Major ---de Coverley exposed himself each time he rented apartments, hisonly injury had occurred, ironically enough, while he was leading the triumphal procession into the open city ofRome, where he was wounded in the eye by a flower fired at him from close range by a seedy, cackling,intoxicated old man, who, like Satan himself, had then bounded up on Major --- de Coverley’s car with maliciousglee, seized him roughly and contemptuously by his venerable white head and kissed him mockingly on eachcheek with a mouth reeking with sour fumes of wine, cheese and garlic, before dropping back into the joyouscelebrating throngs with a hollow, dry, excoriating laugh. Major ---de Coverley, a Spartan in adversity, did not flinch once throughout the whole hideous ordeal. And not until he had returned to Pianosa, his business in Romecompleted, did he seek medical attention for his wound.
　　He resolved to remain binocular and specified to Doc Daneeka that his eye patch be transparent so that he couldcontinue pitching horseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers and renting apartments with unimpaired vision. To themen in the squadron, Major ---de Coverley was a colossus, although they never dared tell him so. The only onewho ever did dare address him was Milo Minderbinder, who approached the horseshoe-pitching pit with a hardboiledegg his second week in the squadron and held it aloft for Major ---de Coverley to see. Major ---deCoverley straightened with astonishment at Milo’s effrontery and concentrated upon him the full fury of hisstorming countenance with its rugged overhang of gullied forehead and huge crag of a humpbacked nose thatcame charging out of his face wrathfully like a Big Ten fullback. Milo stood his ground, taking shelter behind thehard-boiled egg raised protectively before his face like a magic charm. In time the gale began to subside, and thedanger passed.
　　“What is that?” Major --- de Coverley demanded at last.
　　“An egg,” Milo answered“What kind of an egg?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
　　“A hard-boiled egg,” Milo answered.
　　“What kind of a hard-boiled egg?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
　　“A fresh hard-boiled egg,” Milo answered.
　　“Where did the fresh egg come from?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
　　“From a chicken,” Milo answered.
　　“Where is the chicken?” Major --- de Coverley demanded.
　　“The chicken is in Malta,” Milo answered.
　　“How many chickens are there in Malta?”
　　“Enough chickens to lay fresh eggs for every officer in the squadron at five cents apiece from the mess fund,”
　　Milo answered.
　　“I have a weakness for fresh eggs,” Major --- de Coverley confessed.
　　“If someone put a plane at my disposal, I could fly down there once a week in a squadron plane and bring backall the fresh eggs we need,” Milo answered. “After all, Malta’s not so far away.”
　　“Malta’s not so far away,” Major ---de Coverley observed. “You could probably fly down there once a week ina squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need.”
　　“Yes,” Milo agreed. “I suppose I could do that, if someone wanted me to and put a plane at my disposal.”
　　“I like my fresh eggs fried,” Major --- de Coverley remembered. “In fresh butter.”
　　“I can find all the fresh butter we need in Sicily for twenty-five cents a pound,” Milo answered. “Twenty-fivecents a pound for fresh butter is a good buy. There’s enough money in the mess fund for butter too, and we couldprobably sell some to the other squadrons at a profit and get back most of what we pay for our own.”
　　“What’s your name, son?” asked Major --- de Coverley.
　　“My name is Milo Minderbinder, sir. I am twenty-seven years old.”
　　“You’re a good mess officer, Milo.”
　　“I’m not the mess officer, sir.”
　　“You’re a good mess officer, Milo.”
　　“Thank you, sir. I’ll do everything in my power to be a good mess officer.”
　　“Bless you, my boy. Have a horseshoe.”
　　“Thank you, sir. What should I do with it?”
　　“Throw it.”
　　“Away?”
　　“At the peg there. Then pick it up and throw it at this peg. It’s a game, see? You get the horseshoe back.”
　　“Yes, sir. I see. How much are horseshoes selling for?”
　　The smell of a fresh egg snapping exotically in a pool of fresh butter carried a long way on the Mediterraneantrade winds and brought General Dreedle racing back with a voracious appetite, accompanied by his nurse, whoaccompanied him everywhere, and his son-in-law, Colonel Moodus. In the beginning General Dreedle devouredall his meals in Milo’s mess hall. Then the other three squadrons in Colonel Cathcart’s group turned their messhalls over to Milo and gave him an airplane and a pilot each so that he could buy fresh eggs and fresh butter forthem too. Milo’s planes shuttled back and forth seven days a week as every officer in the four squadrons begandevouring fresh eggs in an insatiable orgy of fresh-egg eating. General Dreedle devoured fresh eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner—between meals he devoured more fresh eggs—until Milo located abundant sourcesof fresh veal, beef, duck, baby lamb chops, mushroom caps, broccoli, South African rock lobster tails, shrimp,hams, puddings, grapes, ice cream, strawberries and artichokes. There were three other bomb groups in GeneralDreedle’s combat wing, and they each jealously dispatched their own planes to Malta for fresh eggs, butdiscovered that fresh eggs were selling there for seven cents apiece. Since they could buy them from Milo forfive cents apiece, it made more sense to turn over their mess halls to his syndicate, too, and give him the planesand pilots needed to ferry in all the other good food he promised to supply as well.
　　Everyone was elated with this turn of events, most of all Colonel Cathcart, who was convinced he had won afeather in his cap. He greeted Milo jovially each time they met and, in an excess of contrite generosity,impulsively recommended Major Major for promotion. The recommendation was rejected at once at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters by ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who scribbled a brusque, unsigned reminder that theArmy had only one Major Major Major Major and did not intend to lose him by promotion just to please ColonelCathcart. Colonel Cathcart was stung by the blunt rebuke and skulked guiltily about his room in smartingrepudiation. He blamed Major Major for this black eye and decided to bust him down to lieutenant that verysame day.
　　“They probably won’t let you,” Colonel Korn remarked with a condescending smile, savoring the situation. “Forprecisely the same reasons that they wouldn’t let you promote him. Besides, you’d certainly look foolish tryingto bust him down to lieutenant right after you tried to promote him to my rank.”
　　Colonel Cathcart felt hemmed in on every side. He had been much more successful in obtaining a medal forYossarian after the debacle of Ferrara, when the bridge spanning the Po was still standing undamaged seven daysafter Colonel Cathcart had volunteered to destroy it. Nine missions his men had flown there in six days, and thebridge was not demolished until the tenth mission on the seventh day, when Yossarian killed Kraft and his crewby taking his flight of six planes in over the target a second time. Yossarian came in carefully on his secondbomb run because he was brave then. He buried his head in his bombsight until his bombs were away; when helooked up, everything inside the ship was suffused in a weird orange glow. At first he thought that his own planewas on fire. Then he spied the plane with the burning engine directly above him and screamed to McWattthrough the intercom to turn left hard. A second later, the wing of Kraft’s plane blew off. The flaming wreckdropped, first the fuselage, then the spinning wing, while a shower of tiny metal fragments began tap dancing onthe roof of Yossarian’s own plane and the incessant cachung! cachung! cachung! of the flak was still thumpingall around him.
　　Back on the ground, every eye watched grimly as he walked in dull dejection up to Captain Black outside thegreen clapboard briefing room to make his intelligence report and learned that Colonel Cathcart and ColonelKorn were waiting to speak to him inside. Major Danby stood barring the door, waving everyone else away inashen silence. Yossarian was leaden with fatigue and longed to remove his sticky clothing. He stepped into thebriefing room with mixed emotions, uncertain how he was supposed to feel about Kraft and the others, for theyhad all died in the distance of a mute and secluded agony at a moment when he was up to his own ass in the samevile, excruciating dilemma of duty and damnation.
　　Colonel Cathcart, on the other hand, was all broken up by the event. “Twice?” he asked.
　　“I would have missed it the first time,” Yossarian replied softly, his face lowered.
　　Their voices echoed slightly in the long, narrow bungalow.
　　“But twice?” Colonel Cathcart repeated, in vivid disbelief.
　　“I would have missed it the first time,” Yossarian repeated.
　　“But Kraft would be alive.”
　　“And the bridge would still be up.”
　　“A trained bombardier is supposed to drop his bombs the first time,” Colonel Cathcart reminded him. “The otherfive bombardiers dropped their bombs the first time.”
　　“And missed the target,” Yossarian said. “We’d have had to go back there again.”
　　“And maybe you would have gotten it the first time then.”
　　“And maybe I wouldn’t have gotten it at all.”
　　“But maybe there wouldn’t have been any losses.”
　　“And maybe there would have been more losses, with the bridge still left standing. I thought you wanted thebridge destroyed.”
　　“Don’t contradict me,” Colonel Cathcart said. “We’re all in enough trouble.”
　　“I’m not contradicting you, sir.”
　　“Yes you are. Even that’s a contradiction.”
　　“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
　　Colonel Cathcart cracked his knuckles violently. Colonel Korn, a stocky, dark, flaccid man with a shapelesspaunch, sat completely relaxed on one of the benches in the front row, his hands clasped comfortably over thetop of his bald and swarthy head. His eyes were amused behind his glinting rimless spectacles.
　　“We’re trying to be perfectly objective about this,” he prompted Colonel Cathcart.
　　“We’re trying to be perfectly objective about this,” Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian with the zeal of suddeninspiration. “It’s not that I’m being sentimental or anything. I don’t give a damn about the men or the airplane.
　　It’s just that it looks so lousy on the report. How am I going to cover up something like this in the report?”
　　“Why don’t you give me a medal?” Yossarian suggested timidly.
　　“For going around twice?”
　　“You gave one to Hungry Joe when he cracked up that airplane by mistake.”
　　Colonel Cathcart snickered ruefully. “You’ll be lucky if we don’t give you a court-martial.”
　　“But I got the bridge the second time around,” Yossarian protested. “I thought you wanted the bridge destroyed.”
　　“Oh, I don’t know what I wanted,” Colonel Cathcart cried out in exasperation. “Look, of course I wanted thebridge destroyed. That bridge has been a source of trouble to me ever since I decided to send you men out to getit. But why couldn’t you do it the first time?”
　　“I didn’t have enough time. My navigator wasn’t sure we had the right city.”
　　“The right city?” Colonel Cathcart was baffled. “Are you trying to blame it all on Aarfy now?”
　　“No, sir. It was my mistake for letting him distract me. All I’m trying to say is that I’m not infallible.”
　　“Nobody is infallible,” Colonel Cathcart said sharply, and then continued vaguely, with an afterthought:
　　“Nobody is indispensable, either.”
　　There was no rebuttal. Colonel Korn stretched sluggishly. “We’ve got to reach a decision,” he observed casuallyto Colonel Cathcart.
　　“We’ve got to reach a decision,” Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian. “And it’s all your fault. Why did you haveto go around twice? Why couldn’t you drop your bombs the first time like all the others?”
　　“I would have missed the first time.”
　　“It seems to me that we’re going around twice,” Colonel Korn interrupted with a chuckle.
　　“But what are we going to do?” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with distress. “The others are all waiting outside.”
　　“Why don’t we give him a medal?” Colonel Korn proposed.
　　“For going around twice? What can we give him a medal for?”
　　“For going around twice,” Colonel Korn answered with a reflective, self-satisfied smile. “After all, I suppose itdid take a lot of courage to go over that target a second time with no other planes around to divert the antiaircraft fire. And he did hit the bridge. You know, that might be the answer—to act boastfully about something we oughtto be ashamed of. That’s a trick that never seems to fail.”
　　“Do you think it will work?”
　　“I’m sure it will. And let’s promote him to captain, too, just to make certain.”
　　“Don’t you think that’s going a bit farther than we have to?”
　　“No, I don’t think so. It’s best to play safe. And a captain’s not much difference.”
　　“All right,” Colonel Cathcart decided. “We’ll give him a medal for being brave enough to go around over thetarget twice. And we’ll make him a captain, too.”
　　Colonel Korn reached for his hat.
　　“Exit smiling,” he joked, and put his arm around Yossarian’s shoulders as they stepped outside the door.
 13、德•科弗利少校
　　移动了轰炸路线，没有骗过德国人，反倒骗了德•科弗利少校。
　　他打点好野战背包，调用了一架飞机。他有个印象，好像佛罗伦萨也让盟军给占领了，于是，便要人开飞机送他去佛罗伦萨，租两所公寓，好让中队官兵休假时有个安身的地方。等到约塞连向后跳出梅杰少校办公室，寻思着下面该求谁帮忙的时候，德•科弗利少校还没有从佛罗伦萨回来。
　　德•科弗利少校不苟言笑，令人敬畏，却是一个极好的老头儿，长一颗硕大的狮子脑袋，一头松散杂乱的白发，仿佛一场大风雪，在他那张家长似的严峻的面孔四周肆虐。正如丹尼卡医生和梅杰少校所推测，他作为中队主任参谋的全部职责，实实在在就是掷马蹄铁，绑架意大利劳工，还有为中队官兵外出休假租借公寓。
　　每当像那不勒斯、罗马或佛罗伦萨这样的城市即将陷落，德•科弗利少校便会打点好自己的野战背包，调用一架飞机和一名飞行员，把他送走。办妥这一切，他无需说一句话，仅凭藉他那张严厉专横的脸所具有的威力，以及他那根多皱的手指打出的武断手势。
　　城市陷落后一两天，他便回到中队，同时带回两所豪华大公寓的租约，军官和士兵各占一所，且都已配备了成天乐呵呵的称职的厨师和女佣。几天之后，世界各地的报纸便会刊登出那些踩着瓦砾冒着烟雾最先攻进已炸成废墟的城市的美国士兵的照片。在这些士兵当中，必定会有德•科弗利少校。他像一根通条似的直挺挺地坐在一辆不知从什么地方弄来的吉普车里，目不斜视地盯着正前方，炮火在他那颗坚不可摧的脑袋四周爆炸。行动轻快敏捷的年轻的步兵们端着卡宾枪，或是在着了火的建筑物的掩蔽下，沿着人行道大步冲向前，或是在建筑物的出入口倒毙身亡。德•科弗利少校依旧端坐车上，四周处处是危险，可他好像是永远摧毁不了的，依旧毫不动摇地铁板着那张中队上下无人不识、无人不敬畏的面孔：凶险，威严，正直，严厉。
　　对德国情报机构来说，德•科弗利少校是个令人伤透脑筋的谜。许许多多的美国战俘中，竟没有一个提供过有关这位白发老军官——一副饱经了风霜的面容令人生畏，两只炯炯的眼睛咄咄逼人，似乎每一次发动重大进攻，他都那么无所畏惧地冲锋在前，而且又是每战必胜——的任何具体的情报。对美国当局来说，他的身份也同样令人困惑；他们曾从刑事调查部派出了整整一个团的一流高手，前往各路前线，查明他的真实身份。同时，一大批久经沙场的新闻发布官，奉命一天二十四小时处于紧急状态，一旦打听到德•科弗利少校，就立即着手宣传他。
　　在罗马，德•科弗利少校尽了最大的努力，替中队官兵安排度假公寓。军官们——通常是四五人一组来罗马的——住的是一幢崭新的白色的石砌公寓大楼，每人一间宽大的双人房。楼里有三间宽敞的浴室，墙壁贴的是闪亮的浅绿色瓷砖。大楼女仆名叫米恰拉，人瘦得皮包骨，见到什么事都傻笑，倒是把公寓整理得有条不紊，一尘不染。楼下住的是见人必阿谀奉承的房东；楼上住的是一位漂亮富有的黑发伯爵夫人和她那个同样漂亮富有的黑发媳妇，婆媳俩只愿意献身内特利和阿费。但，内特利太羞怯，没敢要她们；
　　阿费则太古板，也没占有这婆媳俩的玉体，这家伙竟还想劝她们，除自己的丈夫——偏偏留在了北方，经营家族的生意，千万别献身其他任何一个男人。
　　“这婆媳俩真是一对尤物。”阿费很认真地跟约塞连道出了自己的心里话。而约塞连朝思暮想的，正是希望这一对漂亮富有的黑发尤物一同赤裸了玉体，伸展四肢跟他躺在床上，调情做爱。
　　士兵们通常是十二人左右结伙来罗马，带来的是特大的胃口，还有一只只塞满罐装食品的沉甸甸的柳条箱，好让女仆们烧了，给他们端到公寓餐厅，侍候他们进餐。士兵们住的公寓在一幢红色的砖砌楼房的六层楼上，上下楼由一部电梯运送，开起来老是丁零当啷作响。士兵们住的地方，总是要热闹得多。首先是士兵人数一向比较多，还有不少女人侍候他们，替他们做饭，收拾房间，擦洗地板。而且，总是不断有约塞连找来的淫荡却又傻里傻气的颇肉感的年轻女子。此外，还有士兵们自己带来的年轻姑娘，待他们精疲力竭地放纵了一个星期，困倦地返回皮亚诺萨岛时，便把姑娘们留了下来，供后来的士兵尽情享用。姑娘们有得住，有得吃，想呆多久就呆多久。她们唯一要做的，就是顺从任何一个想跟她们上床睡觉的士兵，以此作为报答。对她们来说，这样的安排似乎是再理想不过了。
　　要是亨格利•乔不幸再次完成自己的飞行任务后，驾驶军邮班机，每隔四天左右，他便像备受了折磨一般，嘶哑了嗓音，发狂地闯来罗马。大多数时候，他住在士兵的公寓里。德•科弗利少校究竟租了多少房间，谁也说不准，就连住底层的那个穿黑色紧身胸衣的胖女人也搞不明白，虽说房间是她租给德•科弗利少校的。德•科弗利少校租下了顶层所有的房间，约塞连知道，一直到五楼还有他租的房间。轰炸博洛尼亚后的那天上午，亨格利•乔在军官公寓里发现约塞连跟露西安娜同床睡觉，竟着了魔似的跑去取自己的照相机，这后来，约塞连在五楼斯诺登的房间里最终找到了那个手持干拖把、身穿灰白色短裤的女佣人。
　　那个身穿灰白色短裤的女佣人是个热心肠，生性快乐，年纪三十五岁左右，身材肥胖，那条灰白色的短裤紧裹着两条软绵绵的大腿，还有不停地左右扭动的屁股。只要有男人需要，不管是谁，她都会把这短裤脱了。她相貌极平常，一张宽宽的脸盘，尽管如此，却是世界上最公正的女人：她为每个男人躺下，不论种族、信仰、肤色，或是国籍，把自己当做社会性的财物贡献出去，以此表示自己的殷勤好客。一旦有人把她抱住，不管当时手里抓的是抹布，还是扫帚，或是干拖把，她也不会为了搁下这些东西而耽误片刻的时间。她的诱惑力也就在于她容易到手。她就像是埃佛勒斯特峰，始终耸立在那里，男人们一旦欲火中烧，使爬上她的身体。约塞连迷上了这个穿灰白色短裤的女佣人，因为她似乎是世上剩下的唯一的女人，他可以不动真情地跟她做爱。就连西西里岛那个秃顶姑娘也还唤起他内心强烈的情感：怜悯，温情，惋惜。
　　德•科弗利少校每次租公寓，总会遇上不少危险，尽管如此，他唯一的一次受伤，竟出乎意料地发生在他率凯旋的队伍进入不设防的罗马城的时候。当时，一个衣衫褴褛的醉老头一个劲地格格直笑，站在近处，对着德•科弗利少校猛掷去一朵花，不料，伤了他的一只眼睛。紧接着，那个撒旦一般的老头，幸灾乐祸地跃上德•科弗利少校的汽车，粗暴而又轻蔑地抓住德•科弗利少校那颗令人敬重的白发苍苍的脑袋，在左右两颊上嘲弄地吻了吻——嘴里有股酒、奶酪和大蒜混合的酸臭气味。随后，老头发出一阵呵斥似的沉闷的干笑，便又从车上跳回到欢庆的人群里了。德•科弗利少校仿佛身陷逆境的斯巴达人，自始至终没有在这场可怕的磨难面前畏缩半步。直到了结了在罗马的公务，回到皮亚诺萨岛，他方才去找医生，治自己的眼伤。
　　他打定了主意，还是用两只眼睛瞧世界，于是，便对丹尼卡医生明确要求，必须给他用透明眼罩，便于他继续以完好的视力投掷马蹄铁，绑架意大利劳工，以及租借公寓。对中队官兵来说，德•科弗利少校实在是个大人物，不过，他们从来就没敢当面跟他这么说。唯一敢跟他说话的，只有米洛•明德宾德。来中队后的第二个星期，米洛便来到马蹄铁投掷场，手拿一只煮鸡蛋，高高举起，让德•科弗利少校瞧。见米洛如此放肆，德•科弗利少校深感惊讶地直挺起了身体，满脸怒容，两眼瞪着他，布满深深皱纹的额头直凸向前，峭壁似的弓形大鼻子，仿佛一名十大学联合会的进攻后卫，愤然地猛冲前去。米洛丝毫不退却，防卫地高举了那只煮蛋，仿佛是具有魔力的护身符，挡在自己的面前。风暴最终平息了下去，危险也随之过去。
　　“那是什么？”德•科弗利少校最终问道。
　　“一只蛋，”米洛答道。
　　“什么样的蛋？”德•科弗利少校问。
　　“煮蛋，”米洛回答。
　　“什么样的煮蛋？”德•科弗利少校问。
　　“新鲜的煮蛋，”米洛回答。
　　“哪来的新鲜蛋？”德•科弗利少校问。
　　“鸡下的呗，”米洛回答。
　　“鸡在哪儿？”德•科弗利少校问。
　　“鸡在马耳他，”米洛回答。
　　“马耳他有多少鸡？”
　　“有足够的鸡给中队的每一位军官下新鲜鸡蛋吃，从食堂经费里拿出五分钱，就能买一只鸡蛋。”
　　“我特爱吃新鲜鸡蛋，”德•科弗利少校坦白道。
　　“要是中队里有人让一架飞机给我用，我就可以每星期飞一次去那里，把我们需要的所有新鲜鸡蛋全带回来，”米洛回答说，“毕竟，马耳他不算怎么太远。”
　　“马耳他是不算怎么太远，”德•科弗利少校说，“你或许可以开一架中队的飞机，每星期飞一次去那里，把我们需要的新鲜鸡蛋全部带回来。”
　　“行，”米洛一口答应，“只要有人让我去做，再给我一架飞机，我想我能办到。”
　　“我喜欢煎新鲜鸡蛋吃。”德•科弗利少校想了起来。“用新鲜黄油煎。”
　　“我可以在西西里买到我们需要的所有新鲜黄油，两毛五分钱一磅，”米洛回答说，“新鲜黄油两毛五分钱一磅，挺合算的。食堂经费里还有足够的钱买黄油，再说，我们或许可以卖一些给其他中队，赚些个钱，把我们自己买黄油的大部分钱给捞回来。”
　　“你叫什么名字，孩子？”德•科弗利少校问。
　　“我叫米洛•明德宾德，长官，今年二十七岁。”
　　“你是个挺不错的司务长，米洛。”
　　“我不是司务长，长官。”
　　“你是个挺不错的司务长，米洛。”
　　“谢谢您，长官。我一定尽自己的全力，做一名称职的司务长。”
　　“愿上帝保佑你，我的孩子。拿一只马蹄铁。”
　　“谢谢您，长官。我拿了它该怎么办？”
　　“掷它。”
　　“掷掉吗？”
　　“对着那边的那根木桩掷过去，然后再去把它拣起来，对准这根木桩掷过去。这是一种游戏，明白吗？你把那只马蹄铁拣回来。”
　　“是，长官。我明白了。马蹄铁卖多少价钱？”
　　一只新鲜鸡蛋在一汪新鲜黄油里热腾腾地煎着，劈劈啪啪直响，香味随地中海信风飘去了很远的地方，馋得德里德尔将军胃口大增，飞速地赶了回来，随他一起来的，是形影不离地伴着他的那个护士和他的女婿穆达士上校。起初，德里德尔将军一日三餐都在米洛的食堂里吃得狼吞虎咽。后来，卡思卡特上校大队的其他三支中队亦把各自的食堂交托给了米洛，同时又各配给他一架飞机和一名飞行员，好让他也能替他们采购新鲜鸡蛋及新鲜黄油。于是，一周七天，米洛坐了飞机不停地来回奔波，而四支中队的每一位军官倒是在贪得无厌地吞食新鲜鸡蛋了。每天早中晚三餐，德里德尔将军都是狼吞虎咽地吃新鲜鸡蛋——正餐之间还要大吃好多新鲜鸡蛋。直到米洛采购来了大量新鲜小牛肉、牛肉、鸭肉、小羊排、蘑菇菌盖、花茎甘蓝、南非龙虾尾、小虾、火腿、布丁、葡萄、冰淇淋、草莓和朝鲜蓟，他这才不再大吃新鲜鸡蛋了。德里够尔将军的作战联队还有另外三支轰炸大队，他们因眼红，便都派了各自的飞机去马耳他购买新鲜鸡蛋，但却发现那里的鸡蛋卖七分钱一只。既然从米洛那里能五分钱买一只，那么，在他们，把各自的食堂也交托给米洛的辛迪加联合体，并给他配备所需的飞机和飞行员，空运来他曾答应供给的所有其他美味食品，这才是更为明智的选择。
　　这一事态的发展，着实令大家兴高采烈，尤其是卡思卡特上校，更是兴奋至极，他确信自己赢得了荣誉。每次见到米洛，他总是乐呵呵地打招呼。同时，他又因抱愧而显出极度的慷慨，竟一时冲动、提议擢升梅杰少校。他的提议一到第二十七空军司令部，当即被前一等兵温待格林驳回。温特格林匆匆作了个批示，言辞简慢，且又无署名：陆军部只有一个梅杰•梅杰•梅杰少校，不打算只为了讨好卡思卡特上校就提升梅杰少校而最终失去他。这一番粗暴的叱责刺痛了卡思卡特上校。上校深感疚惭，躲在自己的房里，痛苦万分，拒不见人。他把这次出丑归咎于梅杰少校，于是决定当天便降他为尉官。
　　“或许他们不允许你这么做的，”科恩中校很是傲慢地笑了笑说道，一面仔细琢磨着这桩事。“理由就跟他们不让你提升他完全一样。再说，你才想要把他升到跟我同军衔，这会儿却又要降他为尉官，你这么做，必定会让人觉得你实在是太愚蠢了。”
　　卡思卡特上校感到束手无策。当初，弗拉拉一战大败后，他还那么轻而易举地让约塞连得了枚勋章。卡思卡特上校曾主动要求让自己的部下去炸毁波河大桥，可是七天过后，大桥依旧完好无损地横跨河上。六天的时间里，他的士兵们飞了九次去那里，但大桥终究没被摧毁。直到第七天，士兵们第十次去那里执行任务，才炸了那桥。约塞连引着他小队的六架飞机，第二次飞入目标上空，结果，让克拉夫特和他的机组人员全部丧了命。执行第二次轰炸时，约塞连很谨慎，因为当时他无所畏惧。他一直专注于轰炸瞄准器，待炸弹投放出，才抬起头；当他举起头来，便见机舱至弥漫了一种奇怪的桔黄色光。起先，他以为是自己的飞机着了火。紧接着，他便在自己头顶正上方发现了那架引擎着火的飞机，于是通过内部通话系统，高叫着让麦克沃特急速左转。片刻后，克拉夫特飞机的机翼断裂，燃烧着的飞机残骸往下坠落，先是机身，再是那旋转着的机翼，与此同时，阵雨般的金属小碎片啪喀啪喀地打在了约塞连自己的飞机顶上。一刻不绝的高射炮火依旧砰砰砰地在他的周围作响。
　　待返回地面，约塞连便于众人阴冷的目光下，气急败坏地走到布莱克上尉——正站在绿色护墙楔形板搭建的简令下达室外面——身边，想向他汇报战况；于是便得知卡思卡特上校和科恩中校正在里边等着跟他谈话。丹比少校站在那儿，把守着门，脸色灰白，一语不发，挥挥手把其余的人一一支开了去。约塞连疲惫得不行，恨不得马上卸了这一身黏叽叽的衣服。他心绪不宁地走进简令下达室，实在不知道自己对克拉夫特和其他几个人该有什么样的感觉。因为他们当时是在远处默默忍受着孤立无援的痛苦中阵亡的，也就是在那一瞬间，他自己灾难临头，身陷同样令人苦恼、恶劣透顶的窘境：要么尽职，要么毁灭。
　　卡思卡特上校同样也让这件事给搅得心神不安。“两次？”他问道。
　　“要不然，我第一次或许炸不到目标，”约塞连垂下头，低声答道。
　　他们的声音在狭长的平房里轻轻回响着。
　　“可是轰炸了两次？”卡思卡特上校实在很是怀疑，便再又问了一遍。
　　“要不然，我第一次或许炸不到目标。”约塞连重新答了一句。
　　“可是克拉夫特或许就能活着回来。”
　　“那么桥或许还是完好无损的。”
　　“受过训练的轰炸员应该第一次就投放炸弹，”卡思卡特上校提醒他说，“其余五个轰炸员都是第一次就投放炸弹的。”
　　“但都没有击中目标，”约塞连说，“我们就不得不再飞回去一次。”
　　“或许你第一次就该炸了那桥的。”
　　“或许我压根就炸不了它。”
　　“但或许就不会有什么损失了。”
　　“要是桥还没有炸毁，或许损失就会更大了。我想你要的是让人把桥炸掉。”
　　“别跟我争辩，”卡思卡特上校说，“我们的麻烦已经够多的了。”
　　“我不是在跟您争辩，长官。”
　　“不，你是在跟我争辩。就连这句话也是在争辩。”
　　“是，长官。实在是很抱歉。”
　　卡思卡特上校使劲扼了指关节，格格地直响。五短身材的科恩中校，肤色黝黑，肌肉松弛，挺着个极不匀称的大肚子，很是悠闲自在地坐在前排的一张长椅上，两手舒坦地搭在他那黑不溜秋的秃顶上，一双眼睛躲在那副闪闪发亮的无边眼镜后面，流露出顽皮的神情。
　　“我们尽力绝对客观地对待这件事。”他提醒卡思卡特上校。
　　“我们尽力绝对客观地对待这件事，”卡思卡特上校突然计上心来，于是就热情地对约塞连说，“倒不是我感情用事或是别的什么原因。我压根就不在乎死那几个人或是损失那架飞机。只是写进报告太难看了。我在报告里该怎样掩饰这样的事呢？”
　　“您何不给我一枚勋章呢？”
　　“就因为你轰炸了两次？”
　　“那次亨格利•乔因失误而撞毁了飞机，您就给了他一枚勋章。”
　　卡思卡特上校很是悔恨地窃笑了一下。“不送你上军事法庭，就算你走运啦。”
　　“可我第二次就炸了那座桥，”约塞连抗辩道，“我想您要的是让人把桥炸掉。”
　　“哦，我也不清楚自己要什么，”卡思卡特上校恼羞成怒，大声说道，“哎，我要的当然是让人把桥炸了。自从我决定派你们出去炸毁那座桥以后，它就接连不断给我带来烦恼。你为什么就不能第一次把它炸了呢？”
　　“我没有足够的时间。我的领航员当时也没法确定我们是否到了指定的城市。”
　　“指定的城市？”卡思卡特上校困惑了。“你是想把所有责任推给阿费喽？”
　　“不，长官。是我的过错，让他分散了我的思想。我想说的是，我不是绝对不犯错误的。”、“谁也不是绝对不犯错误的，”卡思卡特上校严厉他说。接着，他想了想，含糊其辞地又说道：“同样，谁也不是必不可少的。”
　　约塞连不再反驳。科恩中校伸了个懒腰。“我们该作决定了。”
　　他随口对卡思卡特上校说了一句。
　　“我们该作决定了，”卡思卡特上校对约塞连说，“这一切全都是你的过错。你干吗要飞两次呢？你为什么就不能像所有别的人那样第一次就投炸弹？”
　　“第一次我可能会炸不了那桥。”
　　“我觉得好像我们这会儿的谈话是在转第二圈了，”科恩中校暗自笑了笑，插嘴道。
　　“可是我们该怎么办？”卡思卡特上校极是苦恼地大声叫道，“其他人都在外面等着呢。”
　　“我们何不给他一枚勋章呢？”科恩中校建议道。
　　“就因为他飞了两次？我们给他一枚勋章，凭什么？”
　　“就凭他飞了两次这一点，”科恩中校沉思片刻，自鸣得意地笑了笑，答道，“说实话，当时周围没有其他飞机帮着转移高射炮的人力，在那种情况下，要在目标上空再盘旋一次，我想这实在是需要足够的胆量。而且他确实炸了那座桥。你要知道，凡是碰上该让我们感到羞耻的事，我们反倒要自吹自擂——这或许是解决问题的办法。这是一门诀窍，好像从来就不会出什么差错似的。”
　　“你觉得这样行吗？”
　　“保证没问题。让我们再提升他为上尉，这样就万无一失了。”
　　“难道你不觉得我们这么做有些过头了吗？”
　　“不，我倒不这么看。办事最好是稳当一些。再说，一个上尉实在是没什么了不起的。”
　　“好吧。”卡思卡特上校拿定了主意。“我们就给他发一枚勋章，嘉奖他两次勇敢地飞越轰炸目标上空。同时再提升他为上尉。”
　　科恩中校伸手取过帽子。
　　“出门时得面带笑容，”他开玩笑他说，一手搂住约塞连的肩膀，两人一同走出了门。
Chapter 14 Kid Sampson
    By the time of the mission to Bologna, Yossarian was brave enough not to go around over the target even once,and when he found himself aloft finally in the nose of Kid Sampson’s plane, he pressed in the button of his throatmike and asked,“Well? What’s wrong with the plane?”
　　Kid Sampson let out a shriek. “Is something wrong with the plane? What’s the matter?”
　　Kid Sampson’s cry turned Yossarian to ice. “Is something the matter?” he yelled in horror. “Are we bailing out?”
　　“I don’t know!” Kid Sampson shot back in anguish, wailing excitedly. “Someone said we’re bailing out! Who isthis, anyway? Who is this?”
　　“This is Yossarian in the nose! Yossarian in the nose. I heard you say there was something the matter. Didn’t yousay there was something the matter?”
　　“I thought you said there was something wrong. Everything seems okay. Everything is all right.”
　　Yossarian’s heart sank. Something was terribly wrong if everything was all right and they had no excuse for turning back. He hesitated gravely.
　　“I can’t hear you,” he said.
　　“I said everything is all right.”
　　The sun was blinding white on the porcelain-blue water below and on the flashing edges of the other airplanes.
　　Yossarian took hold of the colored wires leading into the jackbox of the intercom system and tore them loose.
　　“I still can’t hear you,” he said.
　　He heard nothing. Slowly he collected his map case and his three flak suits and crawled back to the maincompartment. Nately, sitting stiffly in the co-pilot’s seat, spied him through the corner of his eye as he steppedup on the flight deck behind Kid Sampson. He smiled at Yossarian wanly, looking frail and exceptionally youngand bashful in the bulky dungeon of his earphones, hat, throat mike, flak suit and parachute. Yossarian bent closeto Kid Sampson’s ear.
　　“I still can’t hear you,” he shouted above the even drone of the engines.
　　Kid Sampson glanced back at him with surprise. Kid Sampson had an angular, comical face with archedeyebrows and a scrawny blond mustache.
　　“What?” he called out over his shoulder.
　　“I still can’t hear you,” Yossarian repeated.
　　“You’ll have to talk louder,” Kid Sampson said. “I still can’t hear you.”
　　“I said I still can’t hear you!” Yossarian yelled.
　　“I can’t help it,” Kid Sampson yelled back at him. “I’m shouting as loud as I can.”
　　“I couldn’t hear you over my intercom,” Yossarian bellowed in mounting helplessness. “You’ll have to turnback.”
　　“For an intercom?” asked Kid Sampson incredulously.
　　“Turn back,” said Yossarian, “before I break your head.”
　　Kid Sampson looked for moral support toward Nately, who stared away from him pointedly. Yossarianoutranked them both. Kid Sampson resisted doubtfully for another moment and then capitulated eagerly with atriumphant whoop.
　　“That’s just fine with me,” he announced gladly, and blew out a shrill series of whistles up into his mustache.
　　“Yes sirree, that’s just fine with old Kid Sampson.” He whistled again and shouted over the intercom, “Now hearthis, my little chickadees. This is Admiral Kid Sampson talking. This is Admiral Kid Sampson squawking, thepride of the Queen’s marines. Yessiree. We’re turning back, boys, by crackee, we’re turning back!”
　　Nately ripped off his hat and earphones in one jubilant sweep and began rocking back and forth happily like ahandsome child in a high chair. Sergeant Knight came plummeting down from the top gun turret and beganpounding them all on the back with delirious enthusiasm. Kid Sampson turned the plane away from theformation in a wide, graceful arc and headed toward the airfield. When Yossarian plugged his headset into one ofthe auxiliary jackboxes, the two gunners in the rear section of the plane were both singing “La Cucaracha.”
　　Back at the field, the party fizzled out abruptly. An uneasy silence replaced it, and Yossarian was sober and self-conscious as he climbed down from the plane and took his place in the jeep that was already waiting for them.
　　None of the men spoke at all on the drive back through the heavy, mesmerizing quiet blanketing mountains, seaand forests. The feeling of desolation persisted when they turned off the road at the squadron. Yossarian got outof the car last. After a minute, Yossarian and a gentle warm wind were the only things stirring in the hauntingtranquillity that hung like a drug over the vacated tents. The squadron stood insensate, bereft of everythinghuman but Doc Daneeka, who roosted dolorously like a shivering turkey buzzard beside the closed door of themedical tent, his stuffed nose jabbing away in thirsting futility at the hazy sunlight streaming down around him.
　　Yossarian knew Doc Daneeka would not go swimming with him. Doc Daneeka would never go swimmingagain; a person could swoon or suffer a mild coronary occlusion in an inch or two of water and drown to death,be carried out to sea by an undertow, or made vulnerable to poliomyelitis or meningococcus infection throughchilling or over-exertion. The threat of Bologna to others had instilled in Doc Daneeka an even more poignantsolicitude for his own safety. At night now, he heard burglars.
　　Through the lavender gloom clouding the entrance of the operations tent, Yossarian glimpsed Chief WhiteHalfoat, diligently embezzling whiskey rations, forging the signatures of nondrinkers and pouring off the alcoholwith which he was poisoning himself into separate bottles rapidly in order to steal as much as he could beforeCaptain Black roused himself with recollection and came hurrying over indolently to steal the rest himself.
　　The jeep started up again softly. Kid Sampson, Nately and the others wandered apart in a noiseless eddy ofmotion and were sucked away into the cloying yellow stillness. The jeep vanished with a cough. Yossarian wasalone in a ponderous, primeval lull in which everything green looked black and everything else was imbued withthe color of pus. The breeze rustled leaves in a dry and diaphanous distance. He was restless, scared and sleepy.
　　The sockets of his eyes felt grimy with exhaustion. Wearily he moved inside the parachute tent with its longtable of smoothed wood, a nagging bitch of a doubt burrowing painlessly inside a conscience that felt perfectlyclear. He left his flak suit and parachute there and crossed back past the water wagon to the intelligence tent toreturn his map case to Captain Black, who sat drowsing in his chair with his skinny long legs up on his desk andinquired with indifferent curiosity why Yossarian’s plane had turned back. Yossarian ignored him. He set themap down on the counter and walked out.
　　Back in his own tent, he squirmed out of his parachute harness and then out of his clothes. Orr was in Rome, dueback that same afternoon from the rest leave he had won by ditching his plane in the waters off Genoa.
　　Nately would already be packing to replace him, entranced to find himself still alive and undoubtedly impatientto resume his wasted and heartbreaking courtship of his prostitute in Rome. When Yossarian was undressed, hesat down on his cot to rest. He felt much better as soon as he was naked. He never felt comfortable in clothes. Ina little while he put fresh undershorts back on and set out for the beach in his moccasins, a khaki-colored bathtowel draped over his shoulders.
　　The path from the squadron led him around a mysterious gun emplacement in the woods; two of the threeenlisted men stationed there lay sleeping on the circle of sand bags and the third sat eating a purple pomegranate,biting off large mouthfuls between his churning jaws and spewing the ground roughage out away from him intothe bushes. When he bit, red juice ran out of his mouth. Yossarian padded ahead into the forest again, caressinghis bare, tingling belly adoringly from time to time as though to reassure himself it was all still there. He rolled apiece of lint out of his navel. Along the ground suddenly, on both sides of the path, he saw dozens of newmushrooms the rain had spawned poking their nodular fingers up through the clammy earth like lifeless stalks offlesh, sprouting in such necrotic profusion everywhere he looked that they seemed to be proliferating right beforehis eyes. There were thousands of them swarming as far back into the underbrush as he could see, and theyappeared to swell in size and multiply in number as he spied them. He hurried away from them with a shiver ofeerie alarm and did not slacken his pace until the soil crumbled to dry sand beneath his feet and they had beenleft behind. He glanced back apprehensively, half expecting to find the limp white things crawling after him insightless pursuit or snaking up through the treetops in a writhing and ungovernable mutative mass.
　　The beach was deserted. The only sounds were hushed ones, the bloated gurgle of the stream, the respiratinghum of the tall grass and shrubs behind him, the apathetic moaning of the dumb, translucent waves. The surf wasalways small, the water clear and cool. Yossarian left his things on the sand and moved through the knee-highwaves until he was completely immersed. On the other side of the sea, a bumpy sliver of dark land lay wrappedin mist, almost invisible. He swam languorously out to the raft, held on a moment, and swam languorously backto where he could stand on the sand bar. He submerged himself head first into the green water several times untilhe felt clean and wide-awake and then stretched himself out face down in the sand and slept until the planesreturning from Bologna were almost overhead and the great, cumulative rumble of their many engines camecrashing in through his slumber in an earth-shattering roar.
　　He woke up blinking with a slight pain in his head and opened his eyes upon a world boiling in chaos in whicheverything was in proper order. He gasped in utter amazement at the fantastic sight of the twelve flights of planesorganized calmly into exact formation. The scene was too unexpected to be true. There were no planes spurtingahead with wounded, none lagging behind with damage. No distress flares smoked in the sky. No ship wasmissing but his own. For an instant he was paralyzed with a sensation of madness. Then he understood, andalmost wept at the irony. The explanation was simple: clouds had covered the target before the planes couldbomb it, and the mission to Bologna was still to be flown.
　　He was wrong. There had been no clouds. Bologna had been bombed. Bologna was a milk run. There had beenno flak there at all.
 14、基德•桑普森
　　待到飞博洛尼亚执行任务的时候，约塞连就连去目标上空盘旋一次的勇气都没有了。当最终发现自己坐在基德•桑普森飞机的机头，到了空中的时候，他便摁了一下喉式传声器的按钮，问道：
　　“喂？飞机怎么啦？”
　　基德•桑普森尖叫了一声。“是不是飞机出了故障？怎么回事儿？”
　　基德•桑普森这一声尖叫，着实把约塞连吓得浑身冰凉。“是不是出啥事了？”他极恐怖地叫喊道，“我们要跳伞吗？”
　　“我不知道！”基德•桑普森极痛苦地回了一句，激动得呜咽了起来。“有人说我们要跳伞！究竟是谁、是谁？”
　　“是我约塞连，在机头！约塞连在机头！我听见你说出事了。难道你没说？”
　　“我还以为是你说的哩。这会儿一切似乎都没问题。一切正常。”
　　约塞连的心沉了下来。要是一切正常，他们便没了丝毫借口返回去，那么，事情更是糟糕透顶。他阴沉着脸，一时竟迟疑不决。
　　“我听不见你说的话，”他说。
　　“我是说一切正常。”
　　太阳照耀在下面瓷青色的水面和其他几架飞机闪烁的边沿上，白色的光芒令人眼花镣乱。约塞连抓住连接内部通话系统转换开关盒的彩色电线，扯松了开来。
　　“我还是听不见你说的话，”他说。
　　他什么也没听见。他慢慢收拾起自己的图囊和三件防弹衣，爬回主舱。内特利端坐在副驾驶员的座位上，用了眼角余光瞟见他走上基德•桑普森身后的驾驶舱。内特利全身上下穿戴着重重的一大堆东西——耳机、帽子、喉式传声器、防弹衣和降落伞，看上去极虚弱，却显得异常地年轻腼腆。他朝约塞连懒洋洋地笑了笑。约塞连弓身凑近基德•桑普森的耳朵。
　　“我还是听不见你说的话，”他于引擎均匀的嗡嗡声中叫喊道。
　　基德•桑普森吃惊地回头扫了他一眼。基德•桑普森长了一副瘦削滑稽的面孔，配了两道弓形眉毛，一对稀稀落落的金黄色八字须。
　　“什么？”他回过头喊道。
　　“我还是听不见你说的话，”约塞连又说了一遍。
　　“你说话还得大声点，”基德•桑普森说，“我还是听不见你说的话。”
　　“我是说我还是听不见你说的话！”约塞连叫嚷道。
　　“我也没办法，”基德•桑普森也冲着他高喊道，“我只能喊这么响了。”
　　“我在对讲机里听不见你说的话，”约塞连愈发无可奈何，便大声咆哮道，“你必须返回去。”
　　“就因为一只对讲机？”基德•桑普森表示怀疑地问道。
　　“返回去，”约塞连说，“免得我砸了你的脑袋。”
　　基德•桑普森望着内特利，以求得到道义上的支持，可内特利干脆就把目光收了回去。约塞连的军衔高于他们两个。基德•桑普森犹豫不决地又抵挡了片刻，然后洋洋得意地高呼了一声，便又急不可耐地屈从了。
　　“这样对我来说也蛮好的，”他兴奋他说，于是撅了那对八字须，吹出一连串尖锐刺耳的唿哨。“是的，长官，这样对老基德•桑普森来说也蛮好的。”他又打了个唿哨，对着对讲机叫喊道，“注意听着，我的小山雀们。这是海军上将基德•桑普森在讲话。这是皇家海军骄傲的基德•桑普森上将在叫喊。是，长官。我们正在返航，弟兄们，上帝啊，我们正在返航！”
　　内特利兴奋异常，一下子拽下了帽子和耳机，仿佛一个漂亮的小孩坐在高脚椅里，快活地前后轻摇了起来。奈特中士纵身从顶屋炮塔跳了下来，欣喜若狂，重重地捶打起每个人的后背。基德•桑普森驾驶飞机，划了一个漂亮的大圆弧，离开编队，直冲机场飞去。当约塞连把头戴式受话器接通了其中一个辅助通信转换开关盒的时候，飞机后部的那两个炮手竟一齐唱起了《库卡拉查舞曲》。
　　待返回机场，他们却又突然蔫了。令人不安的沉默替代了狂喜。约塞连沉着脸且又极不自然地走下飞机，坐进了早就守在机场等候他们的那辆吉普车。车子返回驻地途中，穿越了阴森岑寂但是迷人的群山、大海和森林，一路上没人说一句话。当他们驶离近靠中队驻地的大道时，每一个人的心头依旧萦回着那种凄凉孤寂的感觉。约塞连最后一个走下车。片刻过后，在那一片老是令人心神不安的寂静——仿佛毒品一般，笼罩住那一顶顶空无一人的帐篷——中，只有约塞连和一阵和暖的微风在移动。中队一片死气沉沉，除丹尼卡医生——活像一只浑身哆嗦的红头美洲鹫，忧伤地栖息在医务室那扇关闭的门旁，四周泻下一片朦胧的阳光，把鼻子对了阳光使劲地抽吸，却全无效果——之外，没有丝毫人的气息。
　　约塞连知道丹尼卡医生是不会随他一同去游泳的。丹尼卡医生再也不会下水游泳了；哪怕是在一两英寸深的水里，一个人也有可能因昏厥或轻度冠状动脉闭塞而淹死，让退浪给冲出海去，或是因了寒冷或用力过度而轻易染上脊髓灰质炎或导致脑膜炎球菌感染。
　　博洛尼亚对其他人带来的威胁，更是让丹尼卡医生为自身的安全深深地担忧。入夜了，他听到了窃贼的响动。
　　透过那片笼罩作战室入口的浅紫色暮蔼，约塞连看见一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特正极用心地盗用定量配给的威士忌酒，假冒了那些滴酒不沾者签名，且又边喝边快速地往一个个瓶子里灌，想抢在布莱克上尉记起这事后便懒洋洋地匆匆赶来盗了余下的酒之前，尽可能地多偷一些。
　　吉普车又轻轻地起动了。基德•桑普森、内特利和其他人，在一阵无声的行动中，各自散开去了，融进了令人厌烦的黄色的寂静里。吉普车随着一阵喀喀的响声消失了。约塞连孑然一人处于沉重的原始寂寥之中，一切绿色的东西看去尽是黑的，而所有其他的一切则全部浸透了脓液的黄绿色。干燥朦胧的远处，微风吹过，刮得树叶飒飒作响。约塞连烦躁不安，既害怕又疲倦，两凹眼窝由于疲惫不堪而给人一种脏兮兮的感觉。他筋疲力尽地走进降落伞帐篷，里面搁着一张光滑的木制长桌。此刻，疑虑就像一只烦人的母狗在刨挖着一颗全然无愧的良心而让人毫无痛感。他把防弹衣和降落伞留了下来，再又返身出去，经过那辆运水车，前往情报室把图囊交还给布莱克上尉。布莱克上尉正坐在椅子里打盹儿，两条瘦长的腿跷在桌上，表面装出一副冷漠样，心里却是极好奇地探问约塞连的飞机为什么又返了回来。约塞连没搭理他，往桌上放下图囊，便走了出去。
　　回到自己的帐篷，他便卸了降落伞背带和身上的衣服。奥尔在罗马，定于当天下午回来，因为他在离热亚那不远的海面上迫降，有了机会休假。内特利早就想打点好行装，准备接替奥尔。他实在是很欣喜：自己居然还活着，因而就急不可耐地想赶去罗马，继续毫无结果而又令人心碎地向那个妓女求婚。约塞连脱了个精光，在帆布床上坐下来歇息。一赤裸了身子，他便感觉好多了。只要身上穿了衣服，他从来就不曾有过舒服的感觉。稍过片刻，他又换上干净的短衬裤，穿上软帮鞋，肩披了一条土黄色浴巾，起身往海滩走去。
　　沿中队驻地通向外面的那条路，约塞连绕过了森林里一处神秘的火炮掩体。有三个士兵驻守在那里，其中两个正躺在一圈沙袋上睡觉，还有一个正吃着一只紫石榴，一大口一大口地咬进不停嚼动的嘴里，再把咬碎的渣子吐进灌木丛里。每咬一口，红红的汁便从嘴里流淌了出来。约塞连蹑手蹑脚地往前走着，进了森林，不时爱惜地抚摸颤动着的光肚子，好像是让自己放心，这肚子还在原来的地方。他从肚脐眼处捻出了一块软麻布。突然他在路两侧的地上发现了不少雨后初生的蘑菇，一根根长有菌盖的指状菌柄钻出了黏湿的泥土，仿佛无生命的肉茎，他目光所及的地方，便长出了一大片，似乎它们正是在他的眼前冒出。到处是一大片一大片密密匝匝的蘑菇，就他目光所及，遍布了远处的林下灌木丛。他发现，它们的个头儿好像越来越大，数量似乎也越来越多。他觉得阴森森地恐惧，浑身一阵战栗，撒腿便跑，直到脚下的泥土消失，变成了干沙，那些蘑菇给抛在了后面，他才放慢了脚步。他忐忑不安地回头看了一眼，有些儿巴望着能见到那些又白又软的东西在后面盲目地爬着追赶他，或是突变成了蠕动的难以控制的一团，正悄悄地往上爬过树梢。
　　海滩上空寂无人。唯一的声响也全都是极低沉的：溪流涨水的汩汩声，身后那高高的草丛和灌木林轻轻的呼吸声，还有那沉默无语半透明的波浪漠然的呜咽声。波浪总是很小，海水清澈透凉。约塞连把自己的东西留在了沙滩上，膛过齐膝深的海水，直到整个身子全都浸没在了水里。海的另一边，一片高低不平的暗色的狭长陆地笼罩在薄雾之中，隐隐约约。他懒洋洋地游到了浮台，扶住歇了一会儿，再又返身懒洋洋地游回到沙洲可以站立的地方。他好几次都是一头潜入碧绿的海水，直到觉得身体干净了，头脑又完全地清醒，便伸展了四肢趴在沙滩上睡觉，直睡到从博洛尼亚凯旋的机群差不多掠过了他的头顶。机群那许多台发动机一齐发出由弱而强的巨大的隆隆声，仿佛惊天动地的轰呜，闯进了他的梦乡。
　　他醒了过来，眨眨眼，略觉头疼，睁开眼，见到的是一个乱腾腾的世界，一切倒是有条不紊。他惊愕地注视着眼前的奇观：十二支空军小队的飞机平稳地组成了精确的队形。这景象实在太是出乎意料，简直无法令人置信。没有一架飞机因载了伤员而猛冲在前。
　　也没有一架飞机因受损而掉了队。空中也不见有冒出的遇难火焰。
　　除他自己的飞机外，一架不少。顷刻间，他竟感到神经错乱，无法动弹。随即他便又清醒了过来，差不多因了这命运的嘲弄而落了泪。
　　解释极简单：机群还没来得及轰炸，云层便掩住了目标，于是，得再飞博洛尼亚执行轰炸任务。
　　他错了。压根就没有什么云层。博洛尼亚已遭了轰炸，飞博洛尼亚只是一次例行的飞行。那里也根本不见有什么高射炮火。
Chapter 15 Piltchard & Wren
     Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren, the inoffensive joint squadron operations officers, were both mild, soft-spoken men of less than middle height who enjoyed flying combat missions and begged nothing more of life andColonel Cathcart than the opportunity to continue flying them. They had flown hundreds of combat missions andwanted to fly hundreds more. They assigned themselves to every one. Nothing so wonderful as war had everhappened to them before; and they were afraid it might never happen to them again. They conducted their dutieshumbly and reticently, with a minimum of fuss, and went to great lengths not to antagonize anyone. They smiledquickly at everyone they passed. When they spoke, they mumbled. They were shifty, cheerful, subservient menwho were comfortable only with each other and never met anyone else’s eye, not even Yossarian’s eye at theopen-air meeting they called to reprimand him publicly for making Kid Sampson turn back from the mission toBologna.
　　“Fellas,” said Captain Piltchard, who had thinning dark hair and smiled awkwardly. “When you turn back from amission, try to make sure it’s for something important, will you? Not for something unimportant... like adefective intercom... or something like that. Okay? Captain Wren has more he wants to say to you on thatsubject.”
　　“Captain Piltchard’s right, fellas,” said Captain Wren. “And that’s all I’m going to say to you on that subject.
　　Well, we finally got to Bologna today, and we found out it’s a milk run. We were all a little nervous, I guess, anddidn’t do too much damage. Well, listen to this. Colonel Cathcart got permission for us to go back. Andtomorrow we’re really going to paste those ammunition dumps. Now, what do you think about that?”
　　And to prove to Yossarian that they bore him no animosity, they even assigned him to fly lead bombardier withMcWatt in the first formation when they went back to Bologna the next day. He came in on the target like aHavermeyer, confidently taking no evasive action at all, and suddenly they were shooting the living shit out ofhim!
　　Heavy flak was everywhere! He had been lulled, lured and trapped, and there was nothing he could do but sitthere like an idiot and watch the ugly black puffs smashing up to kill him. There was nothing he could do untilhis bombs dropped but look back into the bombsight, where the fine cross-hairs in the lens were gluedmagnetically over the target exactly where he had placed them, intersecting perfectly deep inside the yard of hisblock of camouflaged warehouses before the base of the first building. He was trembling steadily as the planecrept ahead. He could hear the hollow boom-boom-boom-boom of the flak pounding all around him inoverlapping measures of four, the sharp, piercing crack! of a single shell exploding suddenly very close by. Hishead was bursting with a thousand dissonant impulses as he prayed for the bombs to drop. He wanted to sob. Theengines droned on monotonously like a fat, lazy fly. At last the indices on the bombsight crossed, tripping awaythe eight 500-pounders one after the other. The plane lurched upward buoyantly with the lightened load.
　　Yossarian bent away from the bombsight crookedly to watch the indicator on his left. When the pointer touchedzero, he closed the bomb bay doors and, over the intercom, at the very top of his voice, shrieked:
　　“Turn right hard!”
　　McWatt responded instantly. With a grinding howl of engines, he flipped the plane over on one wing and wrungit around remorselessly in a screaming turn away from the twin spires of flak Yossarian had spied stabbingtoward them. Then Yossarian had McWatt climb and keep climbing higher and higher until they tore free finallyinto a calm, diamond-blue sky that was sunny and pure everywhere and laced in the distance with long whiteveils of tenuous fluff. The wind strummed soothingly against the cylindrical panes of his windows, and herelaxed exultantly only until they picked up speed again and then turned McWatt left and plunged him right backdown, noticing with a transitory spasm of elation the mushrooming clusters of flak leaping open high above himand back over his shoulder to the right, exactly where he could have been if he had not turned left and dived. Heleveled McWatt out with another harsh cry and whipped him upward and around again into a ragged blue patchof unpolluted air just as the bombs he had dropped began to strike. The first one fell in the yard, exactly where hehad aimed, and then the rest of the bombs from his own plane and from the other planes in his flight burst openon the ground in a charge of rapid orange flashes across the tops of the buildings, which collapsed instantly in avast, churning wave of pink and gray and coal-black smoke that went rolling out turbulently in all directions andquaked convulsively in its bowels as though from great blasts of red and white and golden sheet lightning.
　　“Well, will you look at that,” Aarfy marveled sonorously right beside Yossarian, his plump, orbicular facesparkling with a look of bright enchantment. “There must have been an ammunition dump down there.”
　　Yossarian had forgotten about Aarfy. “Get out!” he shouted at him. “Get out of the nose!”
　　Aarfy smiled politely and pointed down toward the target in a generous invitation for Yossarian to look.
　　Yossarian began slapping at him insistently and signaled wildly toward the entrance of the crawlway.
　　“Get back in the ship!” he cried frantically. “Get back in the ship!”
　　Aarfy shrugged amiably. “I can’t hear you,” he explained.
　　Yossarian seized him by the straps of his parachute harness and pushed him backward toward the crawlway justas the plane was hit with a jarring concussion that rattled his bones and made his heart stop. He knew at oncethey were all dead.
　　“Climb!” he screamed into the intercom at McWatt when he saw he was still alive. “Climb, you bastard! Climb,climb, climb, climb!”
　　The plane zoomed upward again in a climb that was swift and straining, until he leveled it out with another harshshout at McWatt and wrenched it around once more in a roaring, merciless forty-five-degree turn that sucked hisinsides out in one enervating sniff and left him floating fleshless in mid-air until he leveled McWatt out againjust long enough to hurl him back around toward the right and then down into a screeching dive. Throughendless blobs of ghostly black smoke he sped, the hanging smut wafting against the smooth plexiglass nose ofthe ship like an evil, damp, sooty vapor against his cheeks. His heart was hammering again in aching terror as he hurtled upward and downward through the blind gangs of flak charging murderously into the sky at him, thensagging inertly. Sweat gushed from his neck in torrents and poured down over his chest and waist with thefeeling of warm slime. He was vaguely aware for an instant that the planes in his formation were no longer there,and then he was aware of only himself. His throat hurt like a raw slash from the strangling intensity with whichhe shrieked each command to McWatt. The engines rose to a deafening, agonized, ululating bellow each timeMcWatt changed direction. And far out in front the bursts of flak were still swarming into the sky from newbatteries of guns poking around for accurate altitude as they waited sadistically for him to fly into range.
　　The plane was slammed again suddenly with another loud, jarring explosion that almost rocked it over on itsback, and the nose filled immediately with sweet clouds of blue smoke. Something was on fire! Yossarianwhirled to escape and smacked into Aarfy, who had struck a match and was placidly lighting his pipe. Yossariangaped at his grinning, moon-faced navigator in utter shock and confusion. It occurred to him that one of themwas mad.
　　“Jesus Christ!” he screamed at Aarfy in tortured amazement. “Get the hell out of the nose! Are you crazy? Getout!”
　　“What?” said Aarfy.
　　“Get out!” Yossarian yelled hysterically, and began clubbing Aarfy backhanded with both fists to drive himaway. “Get out!”
　　“I still can’t hear you,” Aarfy called back innocently with an expression of mild and reproving perplexity.
　　“You’ll have to talk a little louder.”
　　“Get out of the nose!” Yossarian shrieked in frustration. “They’re trying to kill us! Don’t you understand?
　　They’re trying to kill us!”
　　“Which way should I go, goddam it?” McWatt shouted furiously over the intercom in a suffering, high-pitchedvoice. “Which way should I go?”
　　“Turn left! Left, you goddam dirty son of a bitch! Turn left hard!”
　　Aarfy crept up close behind Yossarian and jabbed him sharply in the ribs with the stem of his pipe. Yossarianflew up toward the ceiling with a whinnying cry, then jumped completely around on his knees, white as a sheetand quivering with rage. Aarfy winked encouragingly and jerked his thumb back toward McWatt with ahumorous moue.
　　“What’s eating him?” he asked with a laugh.
　　Yossarian was struck with a weird sense of distortion. “Will you get out of here?” he yelped beseechingly, andshoved Aarfy over with all his strength. “Are you deaf or something? Get back in the plane!” And to McWatt hescreamed, “Dive! Dive!”
　　Down they sank once more into the crunching, thudding, voluminous barrage of bursting antiaircraft shells asAarfy came creeping back behind Yossarian and jabbed him sharply in the ribs again. Yossarian shied upwardwith another whinnying gasp.
　　“I still couldn’t hear you,” Aarfy said.
　　“I said get out of here!” Yossarian shouted, and broke into tears. He began punching Aarfy in the body with bothhands as hard as he could. “Get away from me! Get away!”
　　Punching Aarfy was like sinking his fists into a limp sack of inflated rubber. There was no resistance, noresponse at all from the soft, insensitive mass, and after a while Yossarian’s spirit died and his arms droppedhelplessly with exhaustion. He was overcome with a humiliating feeling of impotence and was ready to weep inself-pity.
　　“What did you say?” Aarfy asked.
　　“Get away from me,” Yossarian answered, pleading with him now. “Go back in the plane.”
　　“I still can’t hear you.”
　　“Never mind,” wailed Yossarian, “never mind. Just leave me alone.”
　　“Never mind what?”
　　Yossarian began hitting himself in the forehead. He seized Aarfy by the shirt front and, struggling to his feet fortraction, dragged him to the rear of the nose compartment and flung him down like a bloated and unwieldy bag inthe entrance of the crawlway. A shell banged open with a stupendous clout right beside his ear as he wasscrambling back toward the front, and some undestroyed recess of his intelligence wondered that it did not killthem all. They were climbing again. The engines were howling again as though in pain, and the air inside theplane was acrid with the smell of machinery and fetid with the stench of gasoline. The next thing he knew, it wassnowing!
　　Thousands of tiny bits of white paper were falling like snowflakes inside the plane, milling around his head sothickly that they clung to his eyelashes when he blinked in astonishment and fluttered against his nostrils and lipseach time he inhaled. When he spun around in his bewilderment, Aarfy was grinning proudly from ear to ear likesomething inhuman as he held up a shattered paper map for Yossarian to see. A large chunk of flak had rippedup from the floor through Aarfy’s colossal jumble of maps and had ripped out through the ceiling inches awayfrom their heads. Aarfy’s joy was sublime.
　　“Will you look at this?” he murmured, waggling two of his stubby fingers playfully into Yossarian’s facethrough the hole in one of his maps. “Will you look at this?”
　　Yossarian was dumbfounded by his state of rapturous contentment. Aarfy was like an eerie ogre in a dream,incapable of being bruised or evaded, and Yossarian dreaded him for a complex of reasons he was too petrifiedto untangle. Wind whistling up through the jagged gash in the floor kept the myriad bits of paper circulating likealabaster particles in a paperweight and contributed to a sensation of lacquered, waterlogged unreality.
　　Everything seemed strange, so tawdry and grotesque. His head was throbbing from a shrill clamor that drilledrelentlessly into both ears. It was McWatt, begging for directions in an incoherent frenzy. Yossarian continuedstaring in tormented fascination at Aarfy’s spherical countenance beaming at him so serenely and vacantlythrough the drifting whorls of white paper bits and concluded that he was a raving lunatic just as eight bursts offlak broke open successively at eye level off to the right, then eight more, and then eight more, the last grouppulled over toward the left so that they were almost directly in front.
　　“Turn left hard!” he hollered to McWatt, as Aarfy kept grinning, and McWatt did turn left hard, but the flakturned left hard with them, catching up fast, and Yossarian hollered, “I said hard, hard, hard, hard, you bastard,hard!”
　　And McWatt bent the plane around even harder still, and suddenly, miraculously, they were out of range. Theflak ended. The guns stopped booming at them. And they were alive.
　　Behind him, men were dying. Strung out for miles in a stricken, tortuous, squirming line, the other flights ofplanes were making the same hazardous journey over the target, threading their swift way through the swollenmasses of new and old bursts of flak like rats racing in a pack through their own droppings. One was on fire, andflapped lamely off by itself, billowing gigantically like a monstrous blood-red star. As Yossarian watched, theburning plane floated over on its side and began spiraling down slowly in wide, tremulous, narrowing circles, itshuge flaming burden blazing orange and flaring out in back like a long, swirling cape of fire and smoke. Therewere parachutes, one, two, three... four, and then the plane gyrated into a spin and fell the rest of the way to theground, fluttering insensibly inside its vivid pyre like a shred of colored tissue paper. One whole flight of planesfrom another squadron had been blasted apart.
　　Yossarian sighed barrenly, his day’s work done. He was listless and sticky. The engines crooned mellifluously asMcWatt throttled back to loiter and allow the rest of the planes in his flight to catch up. The abrupt stillnessseemed alien and artificial, a little insidious. Yossarian unsnapped his flak suit and took off his helmet. He sighedagain, restlessly, and closed his eyes and tried to relax.
　　“Where’s Orr?” someone asked suddenly over his intercom.
　　Yossarian bounded up with a one-syllable cry that crackled with anxiety and provided the only rationalexplanation for the whole mysterious phenomenon of the flak at Bologna: Orr! He lunged forward over thebombsight to search downward through the plexiglass for some reassuring sign of Orr, who drew flak like amagnet and who had undoubtedly attracted the crack batteries of the whole Hermann Goering Division toBologna overnight from wherever the hell they had been stationed the day before when Orr was still in Rome.
　　Aarfy launched himself forward an instant later and cracked Yossarian on the bridge of the nose with the sharprim of his flak helmet. Yossarian cursed him as his eyes flooded with tears.
　　“There he is,” Aarfy orated funereally, pointing down dramatically at a hay wagon and two horses standingbefore the barn of a gray stone farmhouse. “Smashed to bits. I guess their numbers were all up.”
　　Yossarian swore at Aarfy again and continued searching intently, cold with a compassionate kind of fear now forthe little bouncy and bizarre buck-toothed tentmate who had smashed Appleby’s forehead open with a ping-pongracket and who was scaring the daylights out of Yossarian once again. At last Yossarian spotted the two-engined,twin-ruddered plane as it flew out of the green background of the forests over a field of yellow farmland. One ofthe propellers was feathered and perfectly still, but the plane was maintaining altitude and holding a propercourse. Yossarian muttered an unconscious prayer of thankfulness and then flared up at Orr savagely in a rantingfusion of resentment and relief.
　　“That bastard!” he began. “That goddam stunted, red-faced, big-cheeked, curly-headed, buck-toothed rat bastardson of a bitch!”
　　“What?” said Aarfy.
　　“That dirty goddam midget-assed, apple-cheeked, goggle-eyed, undersized, buck-toothed, grinning, crazysonofabitchin-bastard!” Yossarian sputtered.
　　“What?”
　　“Never mind!”
　　“I still can’t hear you,” Aarfy answered.
　　Yossarian swung himself around methodically to face Aarfy. “You prick,” he began.
　　“Me?”
　　“You pompous, rotund, neighborly, vacuous, complacent...”
　　Aarfy was unperturbed. Calmly he struck a wooden match and sucked noisily at his pipe with an eloquent air ofbenign and magnanimous forgiveness. He smiled sociably and opened his mouth to speak. Yossarian put hishand over Aarfy’s mouth and pushed him away wearily. He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep all the way backto the field so that he would not have to listen to Aarfy or see him.
　　At the briefing room Yossarian made his intelligence report to Captain Black and then waited in mutteringsuspense with all the others until Orr chugged into sight overhead finally with his one good engine still keepinghim aloft gamely. Nobody breathed. Orr’s landing gear would not come down. Yossarian hung around only untilOrr had crash-landed safely, and then stole the first jeep he could find with a key in the ignition and raced backto his tent to begin packing feverishly for the emergency rest leave he had decided to take in Rome, where hefound Luciana and her invisible scar that same night.
 15、皮尔查德和雷恩
　　皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉是两个不讨人厌的负责中队协同作战的军官。他俩性格温和，说起话来轻声慢语，个子中等偏矮，并且都喜欢战斗飞行。他俩唯一希望的就是能得到机会，继续执行战斗飞行任务。除此之外，无论是对生活还是对卡思卡特上校，他俩都别无他求。他们已经完成了几百次作战飞行任务，却还想能再飞上几百次。他们每一次都将飞行任务分配到自己头上。以前他俩从未经历过像战争这样奇妙的事情，生怕以后再也经历不到了。每次他们执行任务时，那态度很是谦卑，总是不声不响的，尽量避免张扬，而且尽力不惹恼任何人。无论从谁身旁走过，他俩总是很快地露出微笑。他们说话时，也总是咕咕哦哦的，从不粗声大气。他俩同属那类惯于随机应变、不管做什么事都心甘情愿、乐于屈从他人的人。
　　只有他们两人单独相处时，他们才感到自在。他们从不正视其他人的目光，即使那天在“露天会议”上他们公开谴责约塞连，说他不该唆使基德•桑普森在执行轰炸博洛尼亚的任务时中途返航的时候，他们也不同约塞连的目光接触。
　　“弟兄们，”头上的黑发已变得稀落的皮尔查德上尉开口说道，并局促不安地笑了一下。“当你们想在执行任务的中途返航时，尽量搞搞清楚，是不是有什么重大的理由，行吗？不要为了一点无关紧要的小事……比方说对讲机出了点故障……或诸如此类的小事，就返航了，你们说好不好？关于这事，雷恩上尉还要补充说几句。”
　　“弟兄们，皮尔查德上尉说得对，”雷恩上尉说，“关于这事，我要对你们说的也就是这些。好啦，我们今天总算去过了博洛尼亚，大家也知道了这次飞行任务只不过是一次常规轰炸。我想咱们大伙是有点紧张了，所以没有对那儿造成多大的破坏。现在，听着，卡斯卡特上校已经得到了上级的许可，让咱们重新干一次。明天咱们可真的要去将那些弹药库好好收拾掉。好了，对这事你们有什么想法？”
　　为了向约塞连证明他俩对他并无敌意，第二天重返博洛尼亚执行轰炸时，他俩甚至派他同麦克沃特一起飞，让他们的飞机在第一飞行编队里担任领队轰炸机。当约塞连飞至目标上空时，他表现得像哈弗迈耶那样自信，根本就不做规避动作，可突然间炮火从四面八方向他袭来，吓得他屁滚尿流。
　　到处都是密集的高射炮火！约塞连原来受了骗，中了计，上了大当。此时他毫无办法，只能像个白痴似地坐在那里，眼睁睁地看着那丑陋的团团黑烟向上升腾，朝着他猛扑过来杀死他。然而在炸弹扔完之前，他什么也不能干，只好将视线转回到轰炸瞄准器上；
　　瞄准器透镜上那细细的十字线像是有磁铁吸住似的，同他先前调整好的样子丝毫不差，牢牢地对准着目标；那两条线的相交处不偏不倚地正对着他负责轰炸的那个场院的中央，那是一个经过伪装的仓库，就建在第一排房屋的前面。当他的飞机悄悄地朝前飞着的时候，约塞连一个劲地发起抖来了。他先是听到了那些在他的飞机四周爆炸的高射炮弹发出的四声沉重的嘣——嘣——蹦——蹦的声音，后又听见了夹杂在这些声音中的一声刺耳而又尖厉的爆炸声，原来又有一颗炮弹猛然间就在距他咫尺的地方炸开了。在他祈求炸弹赶快落下去的时候，他的心里涌出上千种互不相干的冲动，脑袋几乎都要裂开。他真想哭。发动机继续发出单调的嗡嗡声，就像一只又肥又懒的苍蝇在哼哼。最后，瞄准器上的指针交叉到了一起，八颗五百磅的炸弹接连投了下去。由于卸掉了重负，飞机轻快地忽闪着向上飞去。约塞连将低着的脑袋从瞄准器上移开，偏过头去看左边的指示器。当指针指到零的时候，他关上了弹舱门，然后朝着对讲机，将嗓门提高到最大，尖叫道：
　　“向右急转！”
　　麦克沃特立即响应。随着引擎发出一阵难听的吼叫，他将飞机的一侧机翼朝下，使整个机身侧转过来，然后毫不留情地让飞机呼啸着就地来了个三百六十度的大转弯，避开了约塞连刚才发现的两道对准他们飞过来的高射炮火。然后约塞连又叫麦克沃特让飞机爬高，并不断地催他爬高、再爬高些，直至他们终于挣脱了炮火，飞进了一片宁静的、犹如蓝宝石一般湛蓝的天空。那里阳光灿烂，只有远处飘浮着些许长长的白纱一样纤薄的浮云。风吹打在飞机那圆柱形的舷窗上，那声音就像杂乱的琴声，不过让人听了感到宽心。飞机又重新加快了速度，直到这时约塞连才轻松下来，并感到一阵欣喜。后来他又吩咐麦克沃特让飞机向左拐，然后再快速向下俯冲。这时他瞥见有高射炮弹穿过他的头顶和右后上方，呈蘑菇形爆炸开来。要不是刚才向左转弯，紧接着又向下俯冲，他们准会被这阵炮火击中。为此，约塞连不禁感到一阵极短暂的狂喜。紧接着他又用刺耳的喊叫声让麦克沃特将飞机拉平，然后又催他赶快往上飞，在空中绕了一大圈，重新回到一片没有硝烟、四周参差不齐的蓝天里。与此同时，他刚才投下的那些炸弹也开始炸响了。第一颗正好落在约塞连先前瞄准的那个场院里，紧接着，其余几颗从他的和他的小队的其他飞机里投下的炸弹也都在地面上炸开。只见橘红色的火焰迅速掠过建筑物的顶部，顷刻之间变成一团团巨大无比、翻腾不已的粉红色、灰色和黑色的烟云，并四下蔓延开来，同时发出隆隆巨响，就好像是一阵阵伴随着红色、白色和金黄色的闪电而来的巨雷声。
　　“哈，你看那儿，”阿费挨着约塞连大声惊叹道，他那胖胖的圆脸上闪出兴奋而又着迷的神情。“那儿原先准是个弹药库。”
　　约塞连刚才早已把阿费给忘了。“滚走！”他大声朝阿费喝道，“快滚出机头！”
　　阿费彬彬有礼地微笑着，指着下面的目标，十分大度地敦请约塞连朝下看。约塞连接连不断地用手拍打着阿费，并一个劲地对着那条爬行通道做着手势。
　　“快回机舱去！”他狂乱地大声喊道，“回机舱去！”
　　阿费和气地耸了耸肩。“我听不见你在说什么，”他解释说。
　　约塞连抓住阿费身上的降落伞具的皮带，将他推回到爬行通通。也就在这时，飞机猛然间剧烈地抖动了一下，被击中了。这一抖动使得约塞连感到全身的骨头全散架了，连心脏也停止了跳动，他立即意识到这下子他们全完了。“快爬高！”他看到麦克沃特还活着，便冲着对讲机朝他尖声大叫起来。“快爬高，你这个杂种！爬高，快爬高，爬呀，快爬！”
　　飞机立即陡直地向上飞去，爬得迅速而又吃力。后来约塞连又用刺耳的声音对麦克沃特大喊了一阵，要他把飞机拉平，然后又一次扭转机身，毫不怜惜地让飞机在一阵轰响中做了一个四十五度的急转弯。这个急转弯就像是一次强有力的吸气，差点没把约塞连的五脏六肺给吸出来，让他感到浑身瘫软，像一件失去了物质形体的东西那样在半空中不住地飘浮着，直到后来他叫麦克沃特再次把飞机拉平。飞机平飞后刚来得及转回右后方，就又带着一阵尖叫声向下俯冲过去。飞机急速地穿过那数不尽的一团团幽灵似的黑色烟雾向下冲着。那些飘浮在空中的黑色烟尘飘落在机头光滑的有机玻璃舱罩上，那情景就像是一片片邪恶、阴湿、肮脏的雾尘拂拭着约塞连的脸颊。此时地面上的高射炮又重新开火，一束束的炮火盲目并且杀气腾腾地朝着天空飞来，随后又无力地落下去，飞机就在这片炮火中忽上忽下地急飞着。在这种钻心揪肺的恐惧中，约塞连的心像是一把锤子似的，咚咚地敲个不停。汗水从他的脖子上大把大把地涌出，直朝着他的胸口和腰间奔流，又热又粘。有那么一会，他模模糊糊地意识到他这一编队里的其他飞机都已不在了，随后他能意识到的就只有他自己了。他感到自己的嗓子眼发堵，透不过气来，并刀割似地疼痛。他带着这种钻心的疼痛对麦克沃特尖叫着，向他发出一个又一个指令。麦克沃特每改变一下航向，发动机便发出震耳欲聋、痛苦不堪的尖声长啸。前方远处，另一群高射炮还在朝着天空接连不断地密集射击着，同时炮口还在不断地移动，以便调整到最精确的高度，恶狠狠地等待着约塞连飞入他们的射程。
　　突然随着另一声震天动地的爆炸巨响，飞机又震动了一下，几乎翻了个身，机头里立刻充满了带有一股甜味的蓝烟。什么东西着火了！约塞连调脸想逃，却撞到了阿费身上。原来刚才是阿费划了根火柴，这会儿正若无其事地点着了他的烟斗呢。约塞连睁大眼睛看着这个生就一张笑嘻嘻的圆脸的领航员，心里既惊恐又疑惑。他心想，他们两人当中准有一个疯了。
　　“天哪！”他痛苦而又吃惊地朝阿费大叫。“你给我从机头滚出去！你疯了吗？滚走！”
　　“什么？”阿费问。
　　“滚走！”约塞连歇斯底里地大叫，一面捏起双拳，用手背狠狠地揍着阿费，想把他赶走。“滚！”
　　“我还是听不见你说什么，”阿费说。他说话时态度温和，口气里既带着困惑不解，又含有几分责难，一副清白无辜的样子。“你得说大声一点才行。”
　　“从机头滚出去！”约塞连拿他没办法，只得再次尖声高叫。“他们想打死咱们！你明不明白？他们想打死咱们！”
　　“该死的，我该往哪飞？”麦克沃特用一种痛苦的声音尖着嗓子朝着对讲机怒喊道，“我该往哪飞？”
　　“向左拐！向左，你这该死的狗娘养的！赶快向左拐！”
　　阿费爬到约塞连的身后，用烟斗柄朝他的肋部猛戳了一下。随着一声嘶哑的叫喊，约塞连一下子跳了起来，脑袋撞着了机舱顶，接着又双膝跪地，在地上蹦了一大圈，脸色像纸一样苍白，整个人气得浑身发抖。阿费则带着一种鼓励的神情朝他眨了眨眼，然后竖起大拇指朝麦克沃特做了个诙谐幽默的怪相。
　　“难道有什么东西在吃他？”他出声地笑着问。
　　突然一种不可名状的感觉攫住了约塞连，使得他一反常态。
　　“请你离开这儿好吗？”他哀求似地大声喊道，并使出全身的力气将阿费推转身去。“你是聋了还是怎么了？回到机舱里去！”然后他又冲着麦克沃特尖叫，“俯冲！俯冲！”
　　他们再度陷入了由不断爆炸着的高射炮弹交织成的砰砰作响的巨大火网之中。这时阿费又一次爬到了约塞连的身后，再次用烟斗使劲捅了一下他的肋部。约塞连又嘶哑着嗓子叫了一声，并惊跳起来。
　　“我还是没听清你刚才说的话，”阿费说。
　　“我说离开这里！”约塞连大叫道，禁不住哭了起来。他使出全部的力气，用双手狠劲地捶打着阿费的身体。“从我这里滚开！滚开！”
　　拳头捶打在阿费身上就像是打在一只软软的充了气的橡皮口袋上。这一大堆柔软的、毫无知觉的物体既无丝毫反抗，也没任何反应。过了一会，约塞连的冲动平息了，他的双臂也因疲惫而无力地垂了下来。此时他感到十分丢脸，因为他竟拿阿费毫无办法，他为自己感到可怜，并几乎为此而哭了出来。
　　“你刚才说什么？”阿费问。
　　“从我这儿走开，”约塞连回答说，现在他用的是恳求的口吻。
　　“回飞机后舱去吧。”
　　“我还是听不见你说什么。”
　　“没关系，”约塞连呜咽着说，“没关系。你别再招我就行了。”
　　“什么没关系？”
　　约塞连开始拍打自己的脑门。他抓住阿费衬衫的前襟，挣扎着站起身来，用力把他拖到机头的后部，像扔一只臃肿笨重的大口袋似地把他推倒在爬行通道的入口处。当他朝着机头爬回来的时候，一枚炮弹带着一声巨响就在他的耳边爆炸了。靠着没被完全摧毁的、残留在大脑深处的那一点理智，约塞连感到纳闷，这枚炮弹怎么没一下子把他们全都炸死。他们的飞机仍旧在爬升。发动机又开始发出了难听的嚎叫声，好像正处于极大的痛苦之中。机舱内的空气中充满了机器发出的呛鼻气味和汽油散发出的恶臭。他意识到的下一桩事就是，下雪了。
　　成千上万的细小的白纸片像雪花一样在飞机里飘落下来，密密麻麻地绕着约塞连的头乱转、每当他惊慌地眨一下眼，这些纸片便立即粘到他的眼睫毛上；他每呼吸一下，它们就贴着他的鼻孔和嘴唇翻飞。他感到晕头转向，不知所措，可阿费却得意洋洋地咧嘴大笑，那样子简直就不像个人，手里还高举着一份破破烂烂的地图叫约塞连快看。一大团高射炮火刚才击穿了机舱底，穿过阿费那一大堆乱七八糟的地图，然后又在距他们的脑袋只几英寸的地方穿透舱顶飞了出去。阿费的那股高兴劲简直不可名状。
　　“你要瞧瞧这个吗？”他嘁嘁喳喳他说着，两根又粗又短的手指头透过一张地图的破洞，朝着约塞连开玩笑地乱晃着。“你要瞧瞧这个吗？”
　　阿费那副欢天喜地、心满意足的样子让约塞连看了直发呆。阿费就像梦中的可怕的吃人妖魔，你既伤不了他，也躲不开他。约塞连害怕他的原因很复杂，这会儿他被吓得魂飞魄散，也就无法去弄清楚其中的原因了。风从舱底被炮弹打穿的齿形裂口呼啸而入，使无数纸片像石膏碎粒一样在空中回旋不已，给人一种飞机里新上了一层漆，并且灌满了水的假相。一切看上去都很怪异，都是那么花哨，那么荒唐。这时传来了一声尖厉的叫嚷声，约塞连的头不禁猛然抽动了一下。这声音无情地钻透他的脑袋，直达他的双耳。原来这是麦克沃特在叫喊，他这是在求约塞连快下指令，因为刚才的这一片慌乱使一切都乱了套。约塞连仍旧痛苦而又惶惑地盯着阿费那张圆鼓鼓的面孔，这面孔透过那些在空中飞舞的无数白纸片，正从容而又茫然地冲着他笑呢。由此约塞连得出了一个结论：阿费是个只知道胡言乱语的白痴。就在这时，八枚高射炮弹在他们齐眉高的机外右方爆炸开来，紧接着又来了八枚，跟着又是八枚。这最后八枚炮弹是朝飞机的左方打来的，所以他们差点就撞上了这些炮弹。
　　“向左急转！”约塞连冲着麦克沃待叫喊道，而阿费则仍然在对着他龇牙咧嘴地笑个不停。麦克沃特的确向左急转了，然而那些炮弹也跟着往左急转，紧紧地尾随着他们。约塞连急得大叫：“我是说要急转，急转，急转，急转，你这狗娘养的，要急转！”
　　麦克沃特让飞机更加迅速地转了一个弯。忽然间，像出现奇迹似的，他们飞出了炮火的射程。火网没有了。那些高射炮也停止了对他们的轰击。而他们仍旧活着。
　　在他的后面，人们正在死去。其他几个小队的飞机在高射炮的轰击下，排成了一个长条，有好几英里长，弯弯曲曲的，并不断蠕动着，仍然在目标上空做着与他们刚才一样危险的飞行。它们快速穿过天空中新老高射炮火留下的巨大烟云，就像一群老鼠穿过它们自己的一堆堆粪便在疾走狂奔，有一架飞机着火了，晃动着机翼摇摇摆摆地飞离了队伍，并不断大幅度地翻滚着，就像一颗巨大的血红色的流星。在约塞连的注视下，这架燃烧着的飞机先是侧着机身在空中飘动，然后开始呈螺旋状慢慢地向下兜起大大的圈子，并且圈子渐渐地变得越来越窄。那着了火的庞大机身吐着桔红色的火舌，而飞机的后部则火光闪闪，就像拖着一条长长的、波动不已的、由火和烟形成的斗篷。天空中开始出现了降落伞，一、二、三——四顶降落伞，接着这架飞机由转圈变成了高速的旋转，然后就一路向下栽去，直落地面，像一大片彩色皱纹纸似的在那堆熊熊烈火中无声无息地抖动着。另一中队里的整整一个小队的飞机已经给打得散了队形。
　　约塞连兴致索然地叹了口气，他这一天的活算是干完了。这会儿他无精打采，心里极不愉快。此刻他们飞机的发动机正甜美地低声吟唱着，麦克沃特放慢了速度，慢悠悠地飞着，好让他们小队里的其他飞机跟上来。这突如其来的宁静显得是如此地陌生，如此地不自然，好像有那么一点隐含杀机的味道。约塞连劈劈啪啪地解开了防弹衣的纽扣，又摘下头上的钢盔。他又叹了口气，依旧感到心神不安，于是便合上双眼，试图让自己放松一下。
　　“奥尔上哪儿去了？”突然有人通过对讲机问了他一句。
　　约塞连一下子弹跳了起来，嘴里大声地吐出了一个音节：奥尔！这一喊声里透着焦虑，这一声喊也是对他们在博洛尼亚上空所遭遇到的不可思议的高射炮火袭击所作出的唯一合乎情理的解释。他猛地俯身向前，扑到他的轰炸瞄准器上，透过上面的有机玻璃朝下看，企图找到奥尔的确切踪影。奥尔像磁铁一样会吸引高射炮火，而且毫无疑问，当他一天前人还在罗马的时候，就在一夜间将赫尔曼•戈林所率的整整一个师从天知道的什么鬼驻扎地给吸引到博洛尼亚来了，并且还将他们所射出的全部劈啪作响的炮弹都引来了。这时阿费的身体也朝前俯了过来，他头盔的锋利帽边恰好砸到了约塞连的鼻梁。顿时，约塞连的双眼泪水横流，于是他便狠狠地咒骂起阿费来。
　　“他在那儿，”阿费装腔作势地用悲哀的语气说，一面戏剧性地指着下面一幢灰色石头农舍的牲口棚前停着的一辆装干草的大车和两匹马。“已经粉身碎骨。我想那些碎片也已荡然无存了。”
　　约塞连又咒骂起阿费来，同时继续专心地寻找着。他心里很同情他那位平日里总是欢蹦乱跳、行为古怪、生着一对龅牙的同帐篷伙伴，因而为他感到恐惧，感到担忧。他的那位伙伴曾经用乒乓球拍子将阿普尔比的脑袋砸开了花，而这会儿他又一次让约塞连吓得灵魂出窍。最后，约塞连发现了一架双引擎、双舵的飞机，这架飞机从一片苍翠的森林里飞了出来，来到一块黄澄澄的田野的上空。
　　飞机的两个螺旋浆有一个变了形，已经完全不转了，然而飞机却还能维持适当的高度，保持着正确的航向。约塞连不知不觉地低声祈祷起来，感谢上帝。可随后又对奥尔感到无比的恼火，不觉又破口大骂起来，不过这种咒骂中既夹杂着怨恨，也夹杂着宽慰。
　　“这个杂种！”他骂道，“这个该死的长不高的红脸蛋、大脸盘、卷头发、一嘴龅牙的狗杂种！”
　　“你在说什么？”阿费问。
　　“这个肮脏而又该死的傻瓜侏儒，这个鼓腮帮、金鱼眼、矮冬瓜、大龅牙、整天就会嬉皮笑脸、疯子一样的狗娘养的杂种！”约塞连唾沫四溅地骂着。
　　“什么呀？”
　　“没什么！”
　　“我还是听不清你说什么，”阿费回答说。
　　约塞连缓慢而又艰难地转过身来，面朝着阿费，开口道：“你竖耳听着。”
　　“我？”
　　“你这个自以为了不得的家伙，胖得像水桶，专会讨好，愚蠢透顶，还自鸣得意……”
　　阿费泰然自若。他镇静地划了根火柴，然后吧咯吧喀地吸着他的烟斗，脸上明显地挂着一副能够包容一切、原谅一切的宽厚表情。他亲切地微笑着，张开嘴准备说话。可约塞连伸手捂住了他的嘴，厌烦地将他推开了。在回机场的途中，约塞连一直闭着两眼假装睡觉，这样他就可以不用听阿费说话，或看到阿费了。
　　在简令下达室，约塞连向布莱克上尉汇报了作战情况，然后便和其他人等在那里；大家一直在心神不安地窃窃私语着，直到奥尔最终架着飞机嘎嚓嘎嚓地出现在上空，进入了他们的视野，方才住口。那架飞机虽然只有一个发动机是好的，但仍能让奥尔神气活现地在天上飞着。大家屏住呼吸。奥尔的起落架放不下来。约塞连一直守在那里，直到奥尔将机身贴着地面安全着陆为止。然后他顺手偷了一辆他能见到的发动机钥匙尚未拔走的吉普车，一溜烟地赶回他的帐篷，急切地开始打点行装。每逢紧急战斗过后他们都会有一次例行休假，约塞连决定这次休假去罗马。就在当天晚上，约塞连在罗马找到了露西安姻，并发现了她身上的那块一般人见不到的疤痕。
Chapter 16 Luciana
    He found Luciana sitting alone at a table in the Allied officers’ night club, where the drunken Anzac major whohad brought her there had been stupid enough to desert her for the ribald company of some singing comrades atthe bar.
　　“All right, I’ll dance with you,” she said, before Yossarian could even speak. “But I won’t let you sleep withme.”
　　“Who asked you?” Yossarian asked her.
　　“You don’t want to sleep with me?” she exclaimed with surprise.
　　“I don’t want to dance with you.”
　　She seized Yossarian’s hand and pulled him out on the dance floor. She was a worse dancer than even he was,but she threw herself about to the synthetic jitterbug music with more uninhibited pleasure than he had everobserved until he felt his legs falling asleep with boredom and yanked her off the dance floor toward the table atwhich the girl he should have been screwing was still sitting tipsily with one hand around Aarfy’s neck, herorange satin blouse still hanging open slovenly below her full white lacy brassière as she made dirty sex talkostentatiously with Huple, Orr, Kid Sampson and Hungry Joe. Just as he reached them, Luciana gave him aforceful, unexpected shove that carried them both well beyond the table, so that they were still alone. She was atall, earthy, exuberant girl with long hair and a pretty face, a buxom, delightful, flirtatious girl.
　　“All right,” she said, “I will let you buy me dinner. But I won’t let you sleep with me.”
　　“Who asked you?” Yossarian asked with surprise.
　　“You don’t want to sleep with me?”
　　“I don’t want to buy you dinner.”
　　She pulled him out of the night club into the street and down a flight of steps into a black-market restaurant filledwith lively, chirping, attractive girls who all seemed to know each other and with the self-conscious militaryofficers from different countries who had come there with them. The food was elegant and expensive, and theaisles were overflowing with great streams of flushed and merry proprietors, all stout and balding. The bustlinginterior radiated with enormous, engulfing waves of fun and warmth.
　　Yossarian got a tremendous kick out of the rude gusto with which Luciana ignored him completely while she shoveled away her whole meal with both hands. She ate like a horse until the last plate was clean, and then sheplaced her silverware down with an air of conclusion and settled back lazily in her chair with a dreamy andcongested look of sated gluttony. She drew a deep, smiling, contented breath and regarded him amorously with amelting gaze.
　　“Okay, Joe,” she purred, her glowing dark eyes drowsy and grateful. “Now I will let you sleep with me.”
　　“My name is Yossarian.”
　　“Okay, Yossarian,” she answered with a soft repentant laugh. “Now I will let you sleep with me.”
　　“Who asked you?” said Yossarian.
　　Luciana was stunned. “You don’t want to sleep with me?”
　　Yossarian nodded emphatically, laughing, and shot his hand up under her dress. The girl came to life with ahorrified start. She jerked her legs away from him instantly, whipping her bottom around. Blushing with alarmand embarrassment, she pushed her skirt back down with a number of prim, sidelong glances about therestaurant.
　　“Now I will let you sleep with me,” she explained cautiously in a manner of apprehensive indulgence. “But notnow.”
　　“I know. When we get back to my room.”
　　The girl shook her head, eyeing him mistrustfully and keeping her knees pressed together. “No, now I must gohome to my mamma, because my mamma does not like me to dance with soldiers or let them take me to dinner,and she will be very angry with me if I do not come home now. But I will let you write down for me where youlive. And tomorrow morning I will come to your room for ficky-fick before I go to my work at the French office.
　　Capisci?”
　　“Bullshit!” Yossarian exclaimed with angry disappointment.
　　“Cosa vuol dire bullshit?” Luciana inquired with a blank look.
　　Yossarian broke into loud laughter. He answered her finally in a tone of sympathetic good humor. “It means thatI want to escort you now to wherever the hell I have to take you next so that I can rush back to that night clubbefore Aarfy leaves with that wonderful tomato he’s got without giving me a chance to ask about an aunt orfriend she must have who’s just like her.”
　　“Come?”
　　“Subito, subito,” he taunted her tenderly. “Mamma is waiting. Remember?”
　　“Si, si. Mamma.”
　　Yossarian let the girl drag him through the lovely Roman spring night for almost a mile until they reached achaotic bus depot honking with horns, blazing with red and yellow lights and echoing with the snarlingvituperations of unshaven bus drivers pouring loathsome, hair-raising curses out at each other, at their passengersand at the strolling, unconcerned knots of pedestrians clogging their paths, who ignored them until they werebumped by the buses and began shouting curses back. Luciana vanished aboard one of the diminutive greenvehicles, and Yossarian hurried as fast as he could all the way back to the cabaret and the bleary-eyed bleachedblonde in the open orange satin blouse. She seemed infatuated with Aarfy, but he prayed intensely for herluscious aunt as he ran, or for a luscious girl friend, sister, cousin, or mother who was just as libidinous anddepraved. She would have been perfect for Yossarian, a debauched, coarse, vulgar, amoral, appetizing slatternwhom he had longed for and idolized for months. She was a real find. She paid for her own drinks, and she hadan automobile, an apartment and a salmon-colored cameo ring that drove Hungry Joe clean out of his senses withits exquisitely carved figures of a naked boy and girl on a rock. Hungry Joe snorted and pranced and pawed atthe floor in salivating lust and groveling need, but the girl would not sell him the ring, even though he offered herall the money in all their pockets and his complicated black camera thrown in. She was not interested in moneyor cameras. She was interested in fornication.
　　She was gone when Yossarian got there. They were all gone, and he walked right out and moved in wistfuldejection through the dark, emptying streets. Yossarian was not often lonely when he was by himself, but he waslonely now in his keen envy of Aarfy, who he knew was in bed that very moment with the girl who was just rightfor Yossarian, and who could also make out any time he wanted to, if he ever wanted to, with either or both ofthe two slender, stunning, aristocratic women who lived in the apartment upstairs and fructified Yossarian’s sexfantasies whenever he had sex fantasies, the beautiful rich black-haired countess with the red, wet, nervous lipsand her beautiful rich black-haired daughter-in-law. Yossarian was madly in love with all of them as he made hisway back to the officers’ apartment, in love with Luciana, with the prurient intoxicated girl in the unbuttonedsatin blouse, and with the beautiful rich countess and her beautiful rich daughter-in-law, both of whom wouldnever let him touch them or even flirt with them. They doted kittenishly on Nately and deferred passively toAarfy, but they thought Yossarian was crazy and recoiled from him with distasteful contempt each time he madean indecent proposal or tried to fondle them when they passed on the stairs. They were both superb creatureswith pulpy, bright, pointed tongues and mouths like round warm plums, a little sweet and sticky, a little rotten.
　　They had class; Yossarian was not sure what class was, but he knew that they had it and he did not, and that theyknew it, too. He could picture, as he walked, the kind of underclothing they wore against their svelte feminineparts, filmy, smooth, clinging garments of deepest black or of opalescent pastel radiance with flowering laceborders fragrant with the tantalizing fumes of pampered flesh and scented bath salts rising in a germinating cloudfrom their blue-white breasts. He wished again that he was where Aarfy was, making obscene, brutal, cheerfullove with a juicy drunken tart who didn’t give a tinker’s dam about him and would never think of him again.
　　But Aarfy was already back in the apartment when Yossarian arrived, and Yossarian gaped at him with that samesense of persecuted astonishment he had suffered that same morning over Bologna at his malign and cabalisticand irremovable presence in the nose of the plane.
　　“What are you doing here?” he asked.
　　“That’s right, ask him!” Hungry Joe exclaimed in a rage. “Make him tell you what he’s doing here!”
　　With a long, theatrical moan, Kid Sampson made a pistol of his thumb and forefinger and blew his own brainsout. Huple, chewing away on a bulging wad of bubble gum, drank everything in with a callow, vacant expressionon his fifteen-year old face. Aarfy was tapping the bowl of his pipe against his palm leisurely as he paced backand forth in corpulent self-approval, obviously delighted by the stir he was causing.
　　“Didn’t you go home with that girl?” Yossarian demanded.
　　“Oh, sure, I went home with her,” Aarfy replied. “You didn’t think I was going to let her try to find her wayhome alone, did you?”
　　“Wouldn’t she let you stay with her?”
　　“Oh, she wanted me to stay with her, all right.” Aarfy chuckled. “Don’t you worry about good old Aarfy. But Iwasn’t going to take advantage of a sweet kid like that just because she’d had a little too much to drink. Whatkind of a guy do you think I am?”
　　“Who said anything about taking advantage of her?” Yossarian railed at him in amazement. “All she wanted todo was get into bed with someone. That’s the only thing she kept talking about all night long.”
　　“That’s because she was a little mixed up,” Aarfy explained. “But I gave her a little talking to and really putsome sense into her.”
　　“You bastard!” Yossarian exclaimed, and sank down tiredly on the divan beside Kid Sampson. “Why the helldidn’t you give her to one of us if you didn’t want her?”
　　“You see?” Hungry Joe asked. “There’s something wrong with him.”
　　Yossarian nodded and looked at Aarfy curiously. “Aarfy, tell me something. Don’t you ever screw any of them?”
　　Aarfy chuckled again with conceited amusement. “Oh sure, I prod them. Don’t you worry about me. But neverany nice girls. I know what kind of girls to prod and what kind of girls not to prod, and I never prod any nicegirls. This one was a sweet kid. You could see her family had money. Why, I even got her to throw that ring ofhers away right out the car window.”
　　Hungry Joe flew into the air with a screech of intolerable pain. “You did what?” he screamed. “You did what?”
　　He began whaling away at Aarfy’s shoulders and arms with both fists, almost in tears. “I ought to kill you forwhat you did, you lousy bastard. He’s sinful, that’s what he is. He’s got a dirty mind, ain’t he? Ain’t he got adirty mind?”
　　“The dirtiest,” Yossarian agreed.
　　“What are you fellows talking about?” Aarfy asked with genuine puzzlement, tucking his face away protectivelyinside the cushioning insulation of his oval shoulders. “Aw, come on, Joe,” he pleaded with a smile of milddiscomfort. “Quit punching me, will you?”
　　But Hungry Joe would not quit punching until Yossarian picked him up and pushed him away toward hisbedroom. Yossarian moved listlessly into his own room, undressed and went to sleep. A second later it wasmorning, and someone was shaking him.
　　“What are you waking me up for?” he whimpered.
　　It was Michaela, the skinny maid with the merry disposition and homely sallow face, and she was waking him upbecause he had a visitor waiting just outside the door. Luciana! He could hardly believe it. And she was alone inthe room with him after Michaela had departed, lovely, hale and statuesque, steaming and rippling with anirrepressible affectionate vitality even as she remained in one place and frowned at him irately. She stood like ayouthful female colossus with her magnificent columnar legs apart on high white shoes with wedged heels,wearing a pretty green dress and swinging a large, flat white leather pocketbook, with which she cracked himhard across the face when he leaped out of bed to grab her. Yossarian staggered backward out of range in a daze,clutching his stinging cheek with bewilderment.
　　“Pig!” She spat out at him viciously, her nostrils flaring in a look of savage disdain. “Vive com’ un animale!”
　　With a fierce, guttural, scornful, disgusted oath, she strode across the room and threw open the three tallcasement windows, letting inside an effulgent flood of sunlight and crisp fresh air that washed through the stuffyroom like an invigorating tonic. She placed her pocketbook on a chair and began tidying the room, picking histhings up from the floor and off the tops of the furniture, throwing his socks, handkerchief and underwear into anempty drawer of the dresser and hanging his shirt and trousers up in the closet.
　　Yossarian ran out of the bedroom into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He washed his hands and face andcombed his hair. When he ran back, the room was in order and Luciana was almost undressed. Her expressionwas relaxed. She left her earrings on the dresser and padded barefoot to the bed wearing just a pink rayonchemise that came down to her hips. She glanced about the room prudently to make certain there was nothing shehad overlooked in the way of neatness and then drew back the coverlet and stretched herself out luxuriously withan expression of feline expectation. She beckoned to him longingly, with a husky laugh.
　　“Now,” she announced in a whisper, holding both arms out to him eagerly. “Now I will let you sleep with me.”
　　She told him some lies about a single weekend in bed with a slaughtered fiancé in the Italian Army, and they allturned out to be true, for she cried, “finito!” almost as soon as he started and wondered why he didn’t stop, untilhe had finitoed too and explained to her.
　　He lit cigarettes for both of them. She was enchanted by the deep suntan covering his whole body. He wonderedabout the pink chemise that she would not remove. It was cut like a man’s undershirt, with narrow shoulderstraps, and concealed the invisible scar on her back that she refused to let him see after he had made her tell himit was there. She grew tense as fine steel when he traced the mutilated contours with his fingertip from a pit inher shoulder blade almost to the base of her spine. He winced at the many tortured nights she had spent in thehospital, drugged or in pain, with the ubiquitous, ineradicable odors of ether, fecal matter and disinfectant, ofhuman flesh mortified and decaying amid the white uniforms, the rubbersoled shoes, and the eerie night lightsglowing dimly until dawn in the corridors. She had been wounded in an air raid.
　　“Dove?” he asked, and he held his breath in suspense.
　　“Napoli.”
　　“Germans?”
　　“Americani.”
　　His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him.
　　“Tu sei pazzo,” she told him with a pleasant laugh.
　　“Why am I crazy?” he asked.
　　“Perchè non posso sposare.”
　　“Why can’t you get married?”
　　“Because I am not a virgin,” she answered.
　　“What has that got to do with it?”
　　“Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.”
　　“I will. I’ll marry you.”
　　“Ma non posso sposarti.”
　　“Why can’t you marry me?”
　　“Perchè sei pazzo.”
　　“Why am I crazy?”
　　“Perchè vuoi sposarmi.”
　　Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. “You won’t marry me because I’m crazy, and yousay I’m crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?”
　　“Si.”
　　“Tu sei pazz’!” he told her loudly.
　　“Perchè?” she shouted back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a saucy huffbeneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. “Why am I crazy?”
　　“Because you won’t marry me.”
　　“Stupido!” she shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with the back of herhand. “Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.”
　　“Oh, sure, I understand. And why can’t you marry me?”
　　“Perchè sei pazzo!”
　　“And why am I crazy?”
　　“Perchè vuoi sposarmi.”
　　“Because I want to marry you. Carina, ti amo,” he explained, and he drew her gently back down to the pillow.
　　“Ti amo molto.”
　　“Tu sei pazzo,” she murmured in reply, flattered.
　　“Perchè?”
　　“Because you say you love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?”
　　“Because I can’t marry you.”
　　She bolted right up again in a threatening rage. “Why can’t you marry me?” she demanded, ready to clout himagain if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. “Just because I am not a virgin?”
　　“No, no, darling. Because you’re crazy.”
　　She stared at him in blank resentment for a moment and then tossed her head back and roared appreciatively withhearty laughter. She gazed at him with new approval when she stopped, the lush, responsive tissues of her dark face turning darker still and blooming somnolently with a swelling and beautifying infusion of blood. Her eyesgrew dim. He crushed out both their cigarettes, and they turned into each other wordlessly in an engrossing kissjust as Hungry Joe came meandering into the room without knocking to ask if Yossarian wanted to go out withhim to look for girls. Hungry Joe stopped on a dime when he saw them and shot out of the room. Yossarian shotout of bed even faster and began shouting at Luciana to get dressed. The girl was dumbfounded. He pulled herroughly out of bed by her arm and flung her away toward her clothing, then raced for the door in time to slam itshut as Hungry Joe was running back in with his camera. Hungry Joe had his leg wedged in the door and wouldnot pull it out.
　　“Let me in!” he begged urgently, wriggling and squirming maniacally. “Let me in!” He stopped struggling for amoment to gaze up into Yossarian’s face through the crack in the door with what he must have supposed was abeguiling smile. “Me no Hungry Joe,” he explained earnestly. “Me heap big photographer from Life magazine.
　　Heap big picture on heap big cover. I make you big Hollywood star, Yossarian. Multi dinero. Multi divorces.
　　Multi ficky-fic all day long. Si, si, si!”
　　Yossarian slammed the door shut when Hungry Joe stepped back a bit to try to shoot a picture of Lucianadressing. Hungry Joe attacked the stout wooden barrier fanatically, fell back to reorganize his energies andhurled himself forward fanatically again. Yossarian slithered into his own clothes between assaults. Luciana hadher green-and-white summer dress on and was holding the skirt bunched up above her waist. A wave of miserybroke over him as he saw her about to vanish inside her panties forever. He reached out to grasp her and drewher to him by the raised calf of her leg. She hopped forward and molded herself against him. Yossarian kissedher ears and her closed eyes romantically and rubbed the backs of her thighs. She began to hum sensually amoment before Hungry Joe hurled his frail body against the door in still one more desperate attack and almostknocked them both down. Yossarian pushed her away.
　　“Vite! Vite!” he scolded her. “Get your things on!”
　　“What the hell are you talking about?” she wanted to know.
　　“Fast! Fast! Can’t you understand English? Get your clothes on fast!”
　　“Stupido!” she snarled back at him. “Vite is French, not Italian. Subito, subito! That’s what you mean. Subito!”
　　“Si, si. That’s what I mean. Subito, subito!”
　　“Si, si,” she responded co-operatively, and ran for her shoes and earrings.
　　Hungry Joe had paused in his attack to shoot pictures through the closed door. Yossarian could hear the camerashutter clicking. When both he and Luciana were ready, Yossarian waited for Hungry Joe’s next charge andyanked the door open on him unexpectedly. Hungry Joe spilled forward into the room like a floundering frog.
　　Yossarian skipped nimbly around him, guiding Luciana along behind him through the apartment and out into thehallway. They bounced down the stairs with a great roistering clatter, laughing out loud breathlessly andknocking their hilarious heads together each time they paused to rest. Near the bottom they met Nately coming up and stopped laughing. Nately was drawn, dirty and unhappy. His tie was twisted and his shirt was rumpled,and he walked with his hands in his pockets. He wore a hangdog, hopeless look.
　　“What’s the matter, kid?” Yossarian inquired compassionately.
　　“I’m flat broke again,” Nately replied with a lame and distracted smile. “What am I going to do?”
　　Yossarian didn’t know. Nately had spent the last thirty-two hours at twenty dollars an hour with the apatheticwhore he adored, and he had nothing left of his pay or of the lucrative allowance he received every month fromhis wealthy and generous father. That meant he could not spend time with her any more. She would not allowhim to walk beside her as she strolled the pavements soliciting other servicemen, and she was infuriated whenshe spied him trailing her from a distance. He was free to hang around her apartment if he cared to, but there wasno certainty that she would be there. And she would give him nothing unless he could pay. She found sexuninteresting. Nately wanted the assurance that she was not going to bed with anyone unsavory or with someonehe knew. Captain Black always made it a point to buy her each time he came to Rome, just so he could tormentNately with the news that he had thrown his sweetheart another hump and watch Nately eat his liver as he relatedthe atrocious indignities to which he had forced her to submit.
　　Luciana was touched by Nately’s forlorn air, but broke loudly into robust laughter again the moment she steppedoutside into the sunny street with Yossarian and heard Hungry Joe beseeching them from the window to comeback and take their clothes off, because he really was a photographer from Life magazine. Luciana fledmirthfully along the sidewalk in her high white wedgies, pulling Yossarian along in tow with the same lusty andingenuous zeal she had displayed in the dance hall the night before and at every moment since. Yossarian caughtup and walked with his arm around her waist until they came to the corner and she stepped away from him. Shestraightened her hair in a mirror from her pocketbook and put lipstick on.
　　“Why don’t you ask me to let you write my name and address on a piece of paper so that you will be able to findme again when you come to Rome?” she suggested.
　　“Why don’t you let me write your name and address down on a piece of paper?” he agreed.
　　“Why?” she demanded belligerently, her mouth curling suddenly into a vehement sneer and her eyes flashingwith anger. “So you can tear it up into little pieces as soon as I leave?”
　　“Who’s going to tear it up?” Yossarian protested in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
　　“You will,” she insisted. “You’ll tear it up into little pieces the minute I’m gone and go walking away like a bigshot because a tall, young, beautiful girl like me, Luciana, let you sleep with her and did not ask you for money.”
　　“How much money are you asking me for?” he asked her.
　　“Stupido!” she shouted with emotion. “I am not asking you for any money!” She stamped her foot and raised herarm in a turbulent gesture that made Yossarian fear she was going to crack him in the face again with her great pocketbook. Instead, she scribbled her name and address on a slip of paper and thrust it at him. “Here,” shetaunted him sardonically, biting on her lip to still a delicate tremor. “Don’t forget. Don’t forget to tear it into tinypieces as soon as I am gone.”
　　Then she smiled at him serenely, squeezed his hand and, with a whispered regretful “Addio,” pressed herselfagainst him for a moment and then straightened and walked away with unconscious dignity and grace.
　　The minute she was gone, Yossarian tore the slip of paper up and walked away in the other direction, feelingvery much like a big shot because a beautiful young girl like Luciana had slept with him and did not ask formoney. He was pretty pleased with himself until he looked up in the dining room of the Red Cross building andfound himself eating breakfast with dozens and dozens of other servicemen in all kinds of fantastic uniforms, andthen all at once he was surrounded by images of Luciana getting out of her clothes and into her clothes andcaressing and haranguing him tempestuously in the pink rayon chemise she wore in bed with him and would nottake off. Yossarian choked on his toast and eggs at the enormity of his error in tearing her long, lithe, nude,young vibrant limbs into any pieces of paper so impudently and dumping her down so smugly into the gutterfrom the curb. He missed her terribly already. There were so many strident faceless people in uniform in thedining room with him. He felt an urgent desire to be alone with her again soon and sprang up impetuously fromhis table and went running outside and back down the street toward the apartment in search of the tiny bits ofpaper in the gutter, but they had all been flushed away by a street cleaner’s hose.
　　He couldn’t find her again in the Allied officers’ night club that evening or in the sweltering, burnished,hedonistic bedlam of the black-market restaurant with its vast bobbing wooden trays of elegant food and itschirping flock of bright and lovely girls. He couldn’t even find the restaurant. When he went to bed alone, hedodged flak over Bologna again in a dream, with Aarfy hanging over his shoulder abominably in the plane with abloated sordid leer. In the morning he ran looking for Luciana in all the French offices he could find, but nobodyknew what he was talking about, and then he ran in terror, so jumpy, distraught and disorganized that he just hadto keep running in terror somewhere, to the enlisted men’s apartment for the squat maid in the lime-coloredpanties, whom he found dusting in Snowden’s room on the fifth floor in her drab brown sweater and heavy darkskirt. Snowden was still alive then, and Yossarian could tell it was Snowden’s room from the name stenciled inwhite on the blue duffel bag he tripped over as he plunged through the doorway at her in a frenzy of creativedesperation. The woman caught him by the wrists before he could fall as he came stumbling toward her in needand pulled him along down on top of her as she flopped over backward onto the bed and enveloped himhospitably in her flaccid and consoling embrace, her dust mop aloft in her hand like a banner as her broad,brutish congenial face gazed up at him fondly with a smile of unperjured friendship. There was a sharp elasticsnap as she rolled the lime-colored panties off beneath them both without disturbing him.
　　He stuffed money into her hand when they were finished. She hugged him in gratitude. He hugged her. Shehugged him back and then pulled him down on top of her on the bed again. He stuffed more money into her handwhen they were finished this time and ran out of the room before she could begin hugging him in gratitude again.
　　Back at his own apartment, he threw his things together as fast as he could, left for Nately what money he had,and ran back to Pianosa on a supply plane to apologize to Hungry Joe for shutting him out of the bedroom. Theapology was unnecessary, for Hungry Joe was in high spirits when Yossarian found him. Hungry Joe wasgrinning from ear to ear, and Yossarian turned sick at the sight of him, for he understood instantly what the high spirits meant.
　　“Forty missions,” Hungry Joe announced readily in a voice lyrical with relief and elation. “The colonel raisedthem again.”
　　Yossarian was stunned. “But I’ve got thirty-two, goddammit! Three more and I would have been through.”
　　Hungry Joe shrugged indifferently. “The colonel wants forty missions,” he repeated.
　　Yossarian shoved him out of the way and ran right into the hospital.
 16、露西安娜
　　他发现露西安娜独自坐在盟军军官夜总会里的一张桌子旁。
　　那个喝得醉醺醺的澳大利亚少校把她带到了这里，可是却愚蠢地把她一人撇在这里，自己跑到酒吧里去找那些正在唱歌的下流伙伴了。
　　“好吧，我来和你跳舞，”还没等约塞连开口她就这么说道，“不过，我可不会让你同我睡觉。”
　　“谁说过要和你睡觉？”约塞连反问。
　　“你不想同我睡觉？”她惊异地喊了起来。
　　“我不想跟你跳舞。”
　　她一把抓住约塞连的手，把他拖到了舞池里。她的舞跳得比约塞连还要糟糕，不过她随着合成的吉特巴舞曲的音乐跳得那么欢，那种无拘无束的快乐劲倒是约塞连头一次见到。他们就这么跳着，直到约塞连跳腻了、两条腿不听使唤了为止。他猛地一下把她拉出舞池，朝着一张桌子走去。那个他原本应同她睡觉的姑娘仍旧坐在那里，已经有点醉意了。只见她一只手搂着阿费的脖子，身上穿的那件橘黄色的缎子衬衫依旧很不像样地半敞着，露出一个高耸着的镶有花边的白胸罩，一个劲地在同赫普尔、奥尔、基德•桑普森和亨格利•乔调情，说着不堪入耳的下流话。就在约塞连快要走到他们跟前时，露西安娜冷不防用劲推了他一下，使他们两人一下子远离了那张桌子，这样他俩依旧单独在一起。她是一个高个子姑娘，人挺朴实的，浑身洋溢着活力，并且还有着一头长发和一张漂亮的脸蛋。总之，她是一个结实丰满、讨人喜欢并且善于卖弄风情的姑娘。
　　“好吧，”她说，“我就让你为我买晚饭吧。不过我不会让你和我睡觉的。”
　　“谁说过要和你睡觉？”
　　“你不想和我睡觉？”
　　“我不想为你买晚饭。”
　　她拖着他离开了夜总会来到大街上，走下一段台阶，进了一家黑市餐馆。餐馆里坐满了活泼好动、叽叽喳喳说个不停的迷人姑娘，她们好像彼此都认识。除了她们，餐馆里还有许多表情不太自然的不同国籍的军官，他们都是同这些姑娘一起来的。饭菜一流，可价格也贵。餐馆的走廊里到处是人，似溪水一样川流不息，全都是些身材矮胖、脑门秃亮的产业老板，个个都喜气洋洋，兴高采烈。
　　餐厅里面更是一片喧闹景象，不时地掀起一阵阵足以吞没一切的欢快而又热烈的巨浪。
　　露西安娜用餐时双手并用，整整一份饭三扒二扒就下了肚。吃饭时她看都不看约塞连一眼，那种粗鲁的好吃劲倒使约塞连感到十分有趣。她像一匹马似的吃个不歇，直到把最后一只盘子里的食物吃得一点不剩，才带着一副完事大吉的样子放下手中的银餐具，然后带着酒足饭饱之后那种蒙蒙胧胧的、餍足了的神态懒洋洋地靠到了椅子里。她心满意足，面带着微笑深深地吸了一口气，一面多情地用能让人发酥的眼神盯着约塞连。
　　“好吧，乔，”她快活地说，闪亮的黑眼睛里闪现着娇媚和感激之情。“现在我就让你和我睡觉吧。”
　　“我叫约塞连。”
　　“好吧，约塞连，”她有点抱歉地柔声笑着答道，“现在我就让你和我睡觉吧。”
　　“谁说过要和你睡觉啦？”
　　露西安娜愣住了。“你不想和我睡觉？”
　　约塞连用力点了点头，大笑着，一只手突然从她的衣裙下插进去。姑娘大吃一惊，随即明白过来了。她赶忙将两条腿从约塞连的身边移开，屁股也转了过去。她又惊又窘，脸羞得通红，连忙将裙子拉下，一本正经了起来，还不住地侧目看看餐馆的四处。
　　“我会让你和我睡觉的，”她审慎地解释道，语气里带着一点小心翼翼的任性。“但不是现在。”
　　“我知道。等我俩回到我的房间才行。”
　　那姑娘摇了摇头，不信任地看着他，两个膝盖依旧并得紧紧的。“不行，我现在必须回家了，回到我妈身边去，因为我妈不喜欢我跟当兵的一起跳舞，也不喜欢我让他们带我去吃饭。要是我现在还不回家她会生气的。不过你可以把你住的地方写下来给我。明天一早在我去法军办事处上班之前，我先到你的房间来同你聚聚。
　　知道吗？”
　　“废活！”约塞连愤怒而又失望地叫了起来。
　　“废话是什么意思？”露西安娜带着一副茫然的神情问。
　　约塞连突然放声大笑起来。最后，他用一种心平气和的语调温和地答道：“这话的意思是说，下面不管你想要我带你去什么鬼地方，我都愿意把你护送到那里，这样我就可以在阿费把他找到的那个漂亮妞带走之前赶回那家夜总会，免得错过向她打听的机会。兴许她有个像她那样的姨妈或朋友呢。”
　　“走吧？”
　　“快，快。”他温和地嘲弄她说，“妈妈在等着呢，还记得吗？”
　　“对，对，妈妈。”
　　于是约塞连就让这姑娘拽着他，在罗马这迷人的春夜中走了大约有一英里，来到了一个混乱不堪的公共汽车站。那里到处充斥着汽车喇叭声，红黄色的交通灯闪个不停，汽车司机们骂人的咆哮声不绝于耳。这些胡子拉碴的司机将那些不堪入耳、令人汗毛直竖的脏话像泼水似地朝彼此的身上泼去，朝他们的乘客和一小群与他们毫不相干的行人身上泼去。这些行人在街上随意溜达，因而挡住了他们的去路。起先这些行人并不理会司机们的咒骂，直到汽车撞到了他们的身上，这才朝司机破口大骂起来。露西安娜上了一辆绿色的小型汽车后不见了。约塞连这才以最快的速度一路赶回那家“卡巴莱”，赶回到那个两眼模糊、满头金发褪了色、穿着敞怀的桔红色绸衬衣的女郎身边。这位女郎似乎迷恋上了阿费，但约塞连一边跑，一边在拼命祈祷，但愿她有一个性感十足的姨妈，或者有一个同样性感的女友、姐妹、表姐妹，不然她妈也行，只要她们同她一样淫荡，一样堕落就行。这个女人是个放荡、粗鲁、俗气、不知廉耻并且很会刺激男人欲望的妓女：要不是刚才的事，她是绝对合约塞连的胃口的，因为几个月以来他一直渴望着能有这么一个女人，一直在心里崇拜着这样的女人。今天他还真找到了这样的女人。这个女人喝酒自己付帐，有一辆自己的汽车和一套公寓，另外她还有一只橙红色的浮雕宝石戒指，上面用十分精细的工艺刻着两个人形——一对裸体躺在一块岩石上的少男少女。看了这幅雕像，亨格利•乔马上就昏了头。只见他先是惊讶地哼了一声，然后一下子跳了起来，接着又用一只脚使劲地扒着地板，一副垂涎欲滴的样子。他想要得不得了，几乎都要跪下了。尽管他提出把他们口袋里的所有钱，外加上他的那架精密的黑色照像机都付给她，可那姑娘就是不肯将那枚戒指卖给他。她对钱和照像机都不感兴趣。她感兴趣的事就是私通。
　　等约塞连赶到那里的时候，那个女人已经走了。他们所有的人也都走了，他只好从那儿走出来，满怀渴望、无精打采地挪着步子，穿过一条又一条黑乎乎、空荡荡的大街。平时，约塞连独自一人时并不常感到孤独，可此时他出于对阿费的强烈的嫉妒，感到很孤独。他明白，此时此刻阿费正同那个很合他约塞连胃口的姑娘一起躺在床上呢。他同时也清楚，只要阿费愿意，他随时都可以同那两个身材苗条的迷人的贵族女人干那种事。那两个女人，即那位美丽而富有，长着一头黑发和两片湿润、性感的红唇的伯爵夫人和她那个同样美丽、富有，也长着一头乌发的儿媳，就住在他们楼上的那套公寓里。每当约塞连有了性交的欲念，一想到了她俩，这种欲望顿时就增强了若干倍。就在回军官公寓的这一路上，约塞连疯狂地爱上所有这些女人。他爱露西安娜，爱那个穿绸衬衫、敞着怀、淫荡而又迷人的姑娘，爱那位美丽、富有的伯爵夫人和她那个同样美丽、富有的儿媳，这两个女人平时连碰都不让他碰一下，甚至都不让他同她们调情。她俩特别喜欢内特利，在内特利面前就像两只温顺的小猫；对阿费，尽管是被动的，倒也很听他的话。然而她们却认为约塞连是个疯子，因此每当他向她们提出下流的要求，或当她们从楼梯上经过，他试图抚摸她们时，她俩总是带着厌恶和蔑视的神情从他的身旁躲开。她俩的舌头和嘴巴是那么柔软，那么伶俐，吐出来的话却是那么尖刻，就像是两个圆溜溜、热乎乎的李子，甜兮兮，粘乎乎、还有一点臭味。总之，她俩是两个超级尤物。她们都有风度，约塞连并不很清楚何为风度，但他知道她们有风度而他却没有，并且明白她们也知道这一点。约塞连一边走一边在头脑中想象着那两个女人身上穿的内衣的样子：她们的内衣可能是墨黑色或者是发乳光的柔和的深粉红色，紧紧地贴在她们那显示出女性特征的柔软部位上，轻如薄纱，柔软滑亮，边缘处缀满了花边，上面散发着娇嫩的肌肤透溢出的撩拨人的香气；香味扑鼻的洗浴盐化成了一个越变越大的云团，从她们那蓝白色的乳房上升腾而起。想到这些，他不禁又一次强烈地希望自己能处在阿费的位置上，这样的话，他这会儿正在同那个浑身充满了活力、喝得醉醺醺的妓女做爱呢。同这个女人他可以怎么下流就怎么干，只要能发泄兽欲，得到快活就行，尽管这个妓女对他毫无兴趣，以后根本不会再想起他了。
　　哪知待约塞连回到公寓的时候，阿费早就回来了。约塞连呆呆地盯着阿费，既困惑，又惊讶。这种感觉同当天上午在博洛尼亚上空阿费不怀好意、令人费解地硬赖在机头里不肯离去时给约塞连的感觉一模一样。
　　“你在这儿做什么？”他问。
　　“对，是该问问他！”亨格利•乔气忿忿地喊道，“让他告诉你他都干了些什么。”
　　基德•桑普森夸张地长叹了一声，用大拇指和食指做成一把手枪的样子，将自己的脑袋打开了花。赫普尔嘴里在使劲地嚼着一大团泡泡糖，饶有兴致地欣赏着眼前的一切，他那张乳臭未干的十五岁娃娃的脸上挂着一副茫然的表情。阿费悠然自得地对着自己的手心磕打着他的那只烟斗，一边晃着肥胖的身体自我欣赏地来回踱着方步。显然，他为自己造成的这场骚动而感到洋洋自得。
　　“你没有同那位姑娘一起回家？”约塞连问他。
　　“噢，当然罗，我跟她一起回去了，”阿费答道，“你总不至于认为我会让她独自一人摸回家去吧？”
　　“她没让你陪她？”
　　“哦，她要我陪她了，没错。”阿费抿嘴一笑。“你用不着为好人老阿费操心。不过我可不想因为她多喝了几杯，就乘机去占这么一个可爱的女孩子的便宜。你把我看成什么人了？”
　　“谁说你想占她的便宜了？”约塞连诧异地斥责阿费道，“她一心想干的事就是找个人跟她上床睡觉。她整个晚上说个不停的就是这件事。”
　　“那是因为她的头脑有点不做主了，”阿费解释说，“但是我稍稍说了她几句，使她清醒了一些。”
　　“你这个杂种！”约塞连喊了一声，随后便疲惫地瘫坐在基德•桑普森身旁的一张长沙发上。“既然你不想要她，干吗不把她让给我们当中随便哪一个呢？”
　　“你看出来没有？”亨格利•乔问，“他有点不正常。”
　　约塞连点了点头，好奇地望着阿费。“阿费，跟我说说。你是不是从不搞这些女人？”
　　阿费带着自负的逗乐神情再次抿着嘴笑了起来。“噢，我当然搞她们。别为**心。但我从不搞正经的姑娘。我知道哪些姑娘可以搞，哪些姑娘不可以搞，所以我从不搞正经的姑娘。这个姑娘是个很可爱的孩子。你能看出来，她家挺有钱的。嗨，我甚至让她把她的那枚戒指扔到车窗外面去了。”
　　听到这话，亨格利•乔的心里痛苦难当，只见他尖叫一声，跳了起来。“你干的什么事？”他尖叫着说，“你干的什么事？”他举起两只拳头开始对着阿费的双肩和双臂没命地乱捶，气得几乎要哭出来。
　　“你干出这种事来，我真该把你宰了，你这个卑鄙的杂种。他是个邪恶的人，他就是这种人，他一肚子的坏心眼，不是吗？他是不是一肚于的坏心眼？”
　　“坏得不能再坏了，”约塞连表示同意。
　　“你们这些家伙在说些什么呀？”阿费问，真的有些困惑不解。
　　为了保护头，他的臂膀呈椭圆形构成一个缓冲隔离垫，将脸塞在里面。“哎，行了，乔，”他央求道，一边有点不自在地笑了一下。“别再打我了，行吗？”
　　可是亨格利•乔就是不肯住手，最后还是约塞连抓住了他，连推带搡地将他弄到他的房间里。然后，约塞连无精打采地回到他自己的房间里，脱了衣服，上床睡觉了。一会儿工夫，天就亮了，有人正在推他。
　　“你干吗要弄醒我？”他抱怨他说。
　　原来是米恰拉，就是那个生性愉快、相貌丑陋、脸色灰黄、长得皮包骨头的女佣人。她来叫醒他，是因为他有客人来访，来人这会儿就等在门外。露西安娜！他简直不敢相信。米恰拉离去以后，房间里就只有露西安娜一人同他在一起了。她显得可爱、健康、体态优美。尽管她站在那里一动不动，怒气冲冲地皱着眉看着他，然而她周身却散发和流动着一种压抑不住的、令人感到亲切的活力。她站在那里，就像一尊青春女神巨像，两条硕大的圆柱形的双腿叉开着，脚上穿着一双有着楔形后跟的白色高帮鞋，上身穿着一件漂亮的绿色上衣，手里不住地晃动着一个又大又扁的白色皮革手袋。约塞连从床上一跃而起，伸出双手想抓住她，可就在这时，她使劲抡起手袋朝着他劈脸就是一下。约塞连头晕眼花，踉踉跄跄地向后退着，直退到手袋打不到的地方，大惑不解地用手捂着火辣辣的面颊。
　　“蠢猪！”她恶狠狠地咒骂着约塞连，两只鼻孔一翕一张的，脸上挂着极端厌恶的神情。
　　她用轻蔑、厌恶的语气恶狠狠地从喉咙间挤出一句脏话，然后大步走到房间的另一头，使劲拉开了三扇高大的竖窗，顿时，灿烂的阳光和清新的空气就像提神壮体的滋补剂一样洪水般地涌进房间，驱尽房间里令人窒息的空气。她将手袋搁在一张椅子上，开始清理房间，从地板上和橱顶上拾起他的东西，将他的袜子、手帕和内衣一古脑地扔进梳妆台的一只空抽屉里，把他的衬衫和长裤挂进壁橱。
　　约塞连从卧室跑进盥洗室去刷牙。他洗手洗脸，梳头打扮。等他回屋时，房间里已是整整齐齐，露西安娜也快脱好衣服了。她表情轻松。她取下耳坠放在梳妆台上，然后光着脚轻轻地走到床边，身上只穿了一件刚刚盖住臀部的粉红色人造丝无袖女衫。她细心地将整个房间环视了一遍，看看在整洁方面还有什么疏漏的地方，然后才掀起床罩，伸展开四肢，舒舒服服地在床上躺下，脸上露出一种狡黠的期待神情。她沙哑地笑了一声，满怀渴望地朝他点头示意。
　　“现在，”她耳语般地宣布，同时急切地向他伸出双臂，“现在我可以让你和我睡觉了。”
　　她胡编乱造地告诉他说，她只在一次周末同她在意大利军队中服役的未婚夫上过床，后来他就被打死了。结果下面发生的事证实了她说的都是真话，因为几乎约塞连刚一开始干那事的时候，她便大喊一声“完事了吗？”约塞连也感到纳闷为什么自己没停下来，直到他“完事了”，才向她解释其中的原委。
　　他为他们两人各点了一支烟。她对他浑身上下晒成的那种黑黝黝的肤色很是着迷。而他则为她不肯脱下那件粉红色的无袖女衫而感到不解。这件衣服裁剪得就跟男式汗衫背心差不多，上面带有窄窄的背带。穿着它正好可以遮住她背上的那条看不见的疤痕，尽管约塞连设法让露西安娜告诉了他，她身上有这么一个疤，但她却不肯让他看。这条残破的疤痕从她肩呷骨中间的小窝开始一直通到她脊椎骨的末端，当约塞连用指尖顺着疤痕抚摸时，她整个身体都绷紧了、像一块优质钢那样硬邦邦的。想到她在医院里度过了许多个备受折磨的夜晚，约塞连的心痛得都缩了起来。她每天得服药，否则就疼痛难忍；空气里弥漫着各种诸如乙醚、人体排泄物、消毒剂等无法消除的气味、以及人的皮肉坏死腐烂时发出的臭味。到处都有穿白大褂、胶底鞋的人在走来走去，走廊里整夜闪烁着幽暗可怖的灯光。她是在一次空袭中受的伤。
　　“在哪儿？”他问。他带着疑虑，屏住呼吸。
　　“在那不勒斯。”
　　“是德国人干的？”
　　“是美国人。”
　　他的心都要碎了，一下子坠入了情网。他想知道她肯不肯嫁给他。
　　“你疯了。”她高兴地笑了笑，对约塞连说。
　　“为什么说我疯了？”他问。
　　“因为我不能结婚。”
　　“你为什么不能结婚？”
　　“因为我已经不是个处女了，”她回答说。
　　“那和结婚有什么关系？”
　　“谁会娶我呢？没人肯要一个已不是处女的姑娘。”
　　“我要，我要娶你。”
　　“但我不能嫁给你。”
　　“你为什么不能嫁给我呢？”
　　“因为你疯了。”
　　“为什么说我疯了？”
　　“因为你想娶我。”
　　约塞连感到既不解又好笑，不禁皱眉问道：“你不肯嫁给我是因为我疯了，但又说，我疯了是因为我想娶你，你是这么说的吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　“你才疯了！”他大声对她说。
　　“为什么？”她气愤地大叫着反问他，随即又气冲冲地从床上坐了起来，两只甩不掉的、圆溜溜的乳房在粉红色的女衫下一起一伏，煞是好看。“我怎么疯了？”
　　“因为你不肯嫁给我。”
　　“笨蛋！”她又一次大声地回了他一句，同时夸张地用手背在他的胸脯上响亮地打了一下。“我能嫁给你！你不明白吗？我不能嫁给你！”
　　“噢，当然啦，我明白。可是你为什么不能嫁给我呢？”
　　“因为你疯了。”
　　“我怎么疯了？”
　　“因为你想娶我。”
　　“那是因为我要娶你。亲爱的，我爱你。”他解释说，然后轻轻地将她拉下来重新躺在枕头上。“我非常爱你。”
　　“你疯了，”她喃喃地答道，心中感到很高兴。
　　“为什么？”
　　“因为你说你爱我。你怎么可以爱一个已不是处女的姑娘呢？”
　　“因为我不能娶你。”
　　她猛地一下弹坐起来，勃然大怒，样子怪怕人的。“你为什么不能娶我？”她质问道，如果他的回答中有什么侮辱她的地方，就准备再给他狠狠的一击。“就因为我不是处女了吗？”
　　“不，不是的，亲爱的。是因为你疯了。”
　　有好一阵子，她茫然而又忿恨地瞪着他，然后猛然将头向后一仰，带着一种欣赏的神情由衷地大笑起来。等她止住笑后，她用一种新的赞许的眼光盯着他。由于血都涌到了脸上，她那张黝黑的脸蛋丰满芬芳，敏感的肌肤变得更黑了，变得容光焕发，娇艳可爱。她的双眼变得迷离起来。约塞连掐灭了他们两人的香烟，随后他们就一言不发地扑进对方的怀抱，纵情接吻。就在这时，亨格利•乔没敲门就信步走了进来，想问问约塞连是否愿意同他一起出去找小妞。
　　亨格利•乔一瞧见他们俩，立即停下了脚步，像颗出膛的子弹似地奔出了屋子。约塞连的动作更快，他从床上一跃而起，一边开始朝着露西安娜大声嚷嚷，要她赶快穿上衣服。这姑娘给惊得目瞪口呆。他粗鲁地抓住她的一只胳臂，一把将她拽下床，使劲一推，将她推到她的那堆衣服跟前，紧接着又冲到门边，想赶在亨格利•乔带着照像机赶回来之前将门砰地一声关上。亨格利•乔将他的一条腿从门外硬塞了进来，怎么也不肯缩回去。
　　“让我进来！”他在门外急切地恳求着，一边发疯似地拼命地扭动着身体。“让我进来！”有那么一会，他停止了挣扎，脸上挂着自以为能逗人开心的微笑透过门缝朝约塞连的脸上看。“我这会儿不是亨格利•乔，”他热切地解释说，“我这会儿是《生活》杂志的大名鼎鼎的摄影师。我拍的大照片都上大封面。约塞连，我会让你成为好莱坞的大明星。那时你就会大把大把地来钱，一次又一次地离婚，一天到晚有一个又一个的约会。”
　　当亨格利•乔往后退了一点，试图抢拍一张露西安娜穿衣的照片时，约塞连使劲将门关上了。亨格利•乔发疯似地朝着这道牢固的木头障碍发起了攻击，只见他先是向后退去，以重新集聚力量，然后再疯狂地朝前撞去。趁着这一次次攻击的间隙，约塞连分几次将衣服套上了身。露西安娜已经将那件绿白相间的夏装穿上了身，这会儿两手正抓着那条在腰间揉成了一团的短裙。约塞连看到露西安娜的身体马上就将永远地消失在她的那条紧身短衬裤里，一股痛苦的感觉像波浪一样立即波及他的全身。他伸出手一把抓住她那隆起的小腿肚，将她往自己身边拽。她单腿朝前跳着，接着就紧紧地贴在了他的身上，像是被浇铸在了一起。约塞连一边热烈地吻着她的耳朵和她那紧闭的双眼，一边用手使劲地搓揉着她大腿的背部。露西安娜快活地发出淫荡的哼哼声，可就在这时，亨格利•乔用他那已虚弱不堪的身体再次朝房门发起了孤注一掷的攻击，差点没把他们两人撞倒在地。约塞连一把推开了露西安娜。
　　“赶快！赶快！”他大声地叱责她，“快把你那些东西穿上！”
　　“你究竟在说些什么呀？”她大惑不解。
　　“快点！‘快点！难道你不懂英语，快把你的衣服穿上！”
　　“笨蛋！”她气冲冲地对他回叫道，“那是法语，而不是意大利语。”
　　亨格利•乔暂时中断了攻击，为的是透过关着的门的缝隙拍照片。约塞连听见了照像机快门的咔嚓声。当他和露西安娜都收拾停当后，约塞连便等着亨格利•乔的下一次冲击，然后出其不意地将门猛地一下拉开。亨格利•乔朝前摔了个大跟头，像一只四肢乱晃的大青蛙一样一头栽进了房间。约塞连灵活地从亨格利•乔身边跳了过去，领着露西安娜出了公寓房间，来到了过道里。他们一路冲下了楼梯，脚步踏得震天响，一边放声大笑，直笑得连气都喘不过来。每次当他们停下来喘口气的时候，他们那两颗乐不可支的脑袋都要互相碰撞一下。快走到楼底时，他们看见内特利正往楼上去，于是他俩停止了大笑。内特利脸色阴沉，浑身脏兮兮的，很是闷闷不乐。他脖子上的领带歪歪扭扭，衬衫也皱巴巴的，走路时两手一直插在裤兜里。他脸上挂着一副愧疚而又绝望的表情。
　　“小伙子，怎么了？”约塞连满怀同情地问他。
　　“我又身无分文了，”内特利挂着一脸勉强而又心烦意乱的苦笑答道，“我该怎么办？”
　　约塞连也不知道他该怎么办。在过去的三十二小时里，内特利一直以每小时二十美元的价格同他所崇拜的那个冷冰冰的妓女呆在一起，将自己的薪水，以及他每月从他那又有钱又慷慨的父亲那儿得到的数目可观的津贴花得精光。这意味着他不能再同她在一起消磨时光了。当那个姑娘在人行道上四处溜达，从其他当兵的人中间拉客的时候，她不许内特利在她的身旁走动。后来她察觉到他远远地一直在跟踪自己，不禁勃然大怒。如果他愿意，他可以不受限制地在她的公寓四周转悠，可就是没有把握她是否一定在那里。
　　再说，除非他付钱，否则她什么也不会让他得到，因为她对性交之类的事不感兴趣。内特利是想让自己确信，她不会同任何令人讨厌的家伙或同他认识的什么人上床。布莱克上尉总是坚持说，他每次来罗马都能将这妓女买到手，以此来折磨内特利。他总是将自己同内特利的心上人在一起的新闻告诉他，详细地向他述说他是如何又一次将她收拾得服服帖帖的，为的是亲眼看到内特利那痛苦难过的样子，因为听了他的述说，内特利总是联想到布莱克强迫她忍受了极其粗暴无礼的侮辱。
　　内特利脸上那种伤心绝望的样子使露西安娜的内心有所触动，但她刚同约塞连踏出屋子，来到外面阳光灿烂的大街上，就立即粗野地开怀大笑起来，因为她听见亨格利•乔在窗口苦苦哀求他们回去重新脱光衣服，说他的的确确是《生活》杂志社的摄影师。露西安娜穿着她那双白色楔形高跟鞋，拉着约塞连踮着脚嘻嘻哈哈地沿着人行道逃走了。她这会儿表现出的天真活泼、生气勃勃的劲头同她那天在舞厅里以及后来每时每刻所表现出来的完全一个样。约塞连快步赶上，用手搂着她的腰同她一起走着，一直来到街角，这时她才从他的身旁走开。她从手袋里掏出一面镜子，对着镜子理了理头发，又涂了些口红。
　　“你干吗不求我让你把我的名字和地址写在一张纸上，这样你下次来罗马就可以再来找我了？”她向他建议。
　　“你干吗不让我把你的名字和地址写在一张纸上呢？”他赞同地说。
　　“干吗？”她好斗地质问，嘴巴猛地一撇，现出一个极为不屑的冷笑，眼睛里闪耀着怒火。“这样你就好等我一离开，就把它撕得粉碎，对不对？”
　　“谁要把它撕个粉碎？”约塞连困惑地抗议说，“你到底在说什么呀？”
　　“你会的，”她坚持道，“我一走你就会把它撕个粉碎，然后会像个什么了不起的人物似的神气活现地走开，因为一个像我露西安娜这样年轻、漂亮的高个子姑娘让你同她睡了觉，却没向你要一分钱。”
　　“你准备向我要多少钱？”约塞连问她。
　　“笨蛋！”她激动地喊道，“我并不是向你要钱。”她使劲跺了下脚，怒气冲冲地扬起一只胳臂，使得约塞连很害怕，担心她又会用那只大手袋照着他的脸上来一下。可她并没有那么做，而是在一张纸上草草地写上自己的姓名和地址，然后把它塞给约塞连。“拿去，”她带着挖苦的语气嘲弄他说，同时还咬了一下嘴唇，以抑制自己说话时声音中的微微颤抖。“别忘了，别忘了等我一走就把它撕成碎片。”
　　随后她平静地对他笑了笑，用劲握了握他的手，然后，一边有点遗憾地轻轻说了一声“再见”，一边将身体紧紧靠在他的身上依偎了片刻，然后直起身来，带着她自己都未曾意识到的端庄、优雅的神态走开了。
　　露西安娜刚离开，约塞连就把那张纸条撕掉了，然后朝着相反的方向走去，心里感到自己的确像一个了不起的人物，因为一个像露西安娜这般年轻、漂亮的姑娘跟他睡了觉，却没向他要一文钱。
　　一路上他为自己的所作所为感到十分开心，不知不觉地进了红十字会大楼的餐厅，直到这时他才抬眼看了一下四周，发现自己正同许许多多穿着各色各样奇形怪状军服的军人一起吃着早饭。突然间，他的周围都是露西安娜的影子：她一会儿脱掉衣服，一会儿又穿起衣服，狂热地抚爱着他，唠唠叨叨地同他说个不停，身上依旧穿着那件同他睡觉时穿的并且不肯脱下来的粉红色人造丝无袖衫。一想到自己刚刚犯下的大错，约塞连差点没被吃在嘴里的吐司和鸡蛋噎死。他竟然如此轻率地将露西安娜那细长、柔软、全部裸露在外、显示着青春活力的四肢撕成了小纸片，并且还沾沾自喜地把她扔进了人行道边的下水道里去了。他这会儿就已经非常思念露西安娜了。餐厅里有那么多穿军装的人同他在一起，可除了他们发出的刺耳声音之外，他对他们全都视而不见。他感到自己体内升起一股迫不及待的欲望，想尽快再次同她单独在一起，于是他从桌边一跃而起，跑出了屋子，顺着那条通向公寓的大街往回奔，想从下水道里找回那些纸片，然而它们早已被一个清洁工用水龙头冲走了。
　　那天晚上，无论是在盟军军官夜总会，还是在那个黑市餐馆里，约塞连都没能再找到露西安娜。他记得那家黑市餐馆里闷热难当，所有的家什都擦拭得晶光闪亮，空气里充斥着寻欢作乐者的喧嚣，那些盛着精美菜肴的巨大木盘不时地互相磕碰着，还有一大群聪明伶俐、讨人喜欢的姑娘像小鸟似的嘁嘁喳喳个不停。可是那晚他甚至连那家餐馆都没能找到。当他独自上床睡觉后，他在梦里又一次忙着躲避博洛尼亚上空的高射炮火。在飞机里，阿费又一次讨人嫌地赖在他的身后不肯离去，斜着一双肿胀、龌龊的眼睛望着他。第二天一早，他就跑到他能找到的所有法军办事处去找露西安娜，可谁也弄不清他在说些什么，后来，他失魂落魄地跑起来。他提心吊胆，脑子里一片混乱，整个失去了条理，就这么失魂落魄地朝着某个地方不停地跑着。最后，他跑进了士兵公寓，去找那个穿着灰白色紧身内裤的矮胖女佣。他找到她的时候，那女佣穿着一件颜色单调的棕色线衫和一条深色厚裙，正在五楼打扫斯诺登住的房间。那时斯诺登还活着，约塞连从那只蓝色行李袋上用模板印上去的白色的姓名得知那是斯诺登的房间。约塞连表现出了一种不同寻常的不顾死活的疯狂，只见他一跃，跳过了这只行李袋，一头扎进了房间。他欲火中烧，踉踉跄跄地向那个女佣扑了过去，还没等他倒下来，那女人一把抓住了他的两只手腕，拖着他压到自己的身上，她自己也顺势后退，仰面躺倒在床上。她殷勤地将他拥抱在她那松软的、能给人以无限慰藉的怀中，她那张宽大的、充满野性的、令人愉快的
Chapter 17 The Soldier In White
    Yossarian ran right into the hospital, determined to remain there forever rather than fly one mission more thanthe thirty-two missions he had. Ten days after he changed his mind and came out, the colonel raised the missionsto forty-five and Yossarian ran right back in, determined to remain in the hospital forever rather than fly onemission more than the six missions more he had just flown.
　　Yossarian could run into the hospital whenever he wanted to because of his liver and because of his eyes; thedoctors couldn’t fix his liver condition and couldn’t meet his eyes each time he told them he had a livercondition. He could enjoy himself in the hospital, just as long as there was no one really very sick in the sameward. His system was sturdy enough to survive a case of someone else’s malaria or influenza with scarcely anydiscomfort at all. He could come through other people’s tonsillectomies without suffering any postoperativedistress, and even endure their hernias and hemorrhoids with only mild nausea and revulsion. But that was justabout as much as he could go through without getting sick. After that he was ready to bolt. He could relax in thehospital, since no one there expected him to do anything. All he was expected to do in the hospital was die or getbetter, and since he was perfectly all right to begin with, getting better was easy.
　　Being in the hospital was better than being over Bologna or flying over Avignon with Huple and Dobbs at thecontrols and Snowden dying in back.
　　There were usually not nearly as many sick people inside the hospital as Yossarian saw outside the hospital, andthere were generally fewer people inside the hospital who were seriously sick. There was a much lower deathrate inside the hospital than outside the hospital, and a much healthier death rate. Few people died unnecessarily.
　　People knew a lot more about dying inside the hospital and made a much neater, more orderly job of it. Theycouldn’t dominate Death inside the hospital, but they certainly made her behave. They had taught her manners.
　　They couldn’t keep Death out, but while she was in she had to act like a lady. People gave up the ghost withdelicacy and taste inside the hospital. There was none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was socommon outside the hospital. They did not blow up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in Yossarian’s tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret toYossarian in the back of the plane.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden had whimpered. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” Yossarian had tried to comfort him. “There, there.”
　　They didn’t take it on the lam weirdly inside a cloud the way Clevinger had done. They didn’t explode into bloodand clotted matter. They didn’t drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or crushed in landslides.
　　They didn’t get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, bludgeoned todeath with axes by parents or children or die summarily by some other act of God. Nobody choked to death.
　　People bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired without comment in an oxygen tent. Therewas none of that tricky now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t business so much in vogue outside the hospital, none ofthat now-I-am-and-now-I-ain’t. There were no famines or floods. Children didn’t suffocate in cradles or iceboxesor fall under trucks. No one was beaten to death. People didn’t stick their heads into ovens with the gas on, jumpin front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of hotel windows with a whoosh!,accelerating at the rate of sixteen feet per second to land with a hideous plop! on the sidewalk and diedisgustingly there in public like an alpaca sack full of hairy strawberry ice cream, bleeding, pink toes awry.
　　All things considered, Yossarian often preferred the hospital, even though it had its faults. The help tended to beofficious, the rules, if heeded, restrictive, and the management meddlesome. Since sick people were apt to bepresent, he could not always depend on a lively young crowd in the same ward with him, and the entertainmentwas not always good. He was forced to admit that the hospitals had altered steadily for the worse as the warcontinued and one moved closer to the battlefront, the deterioration in the quality of the guests becoming mostmarked within the combat zone itself where the effects of booming wartime conditions were apt to makethemselves conspicuous immediately. The people got sicker and sicker the deeper he moved into combat, untilfinally in the hospital that last time there had been the soldier in white, who could not have been any sickerwithout being dead, and he soon was.
　　The soldier in white was constructed entirely of gauze, plaster and a thermometer, and the thermometer wasmerely an adornment left balanced in the empty dark hole in the bandages over his mouth early each morningand late each afternoon by Nurse Cramer and Nurse Duckett right up to the afternoon Nurse Cramer read thethermometer and discovered he was dead. Now that Yossarian looked back, it seemed that Nurse Cramer, ratherthan the talkative Texan, had murdered the soldier in white; if she had not read the thermometer and reportedwhat she had found, the soldier in white might still be lying there alive exactly as he had been lying there allalong, encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze with both strange, rigid legs elevated from the hips and bothstrange arms strung up perpendicularly, all four bulky limbs in casts, all four strange, useless limbs hoisted up inthe air by taut wire cables and fantastically long lead weights suspended darkly above him. Lying there that waymight not have been much of a life, but it was all the life he had, and the decision to terminate it, Yossarian felt,should hardly have been Nurse Cramer’s.
　　The soldier in white was like an unrolled bandage with a hole in it or like a broken block of stone in a harborwith a crooked zinc pipe jutting out. The other patients in the ward, all but the Texan, shrank from him with a tenderhearted aversion from the moment they set eyes on him the morning after the night he had been sneaked in.
　　They gathered soberly in the farthest recess of the ward and gossiped about him in malicious, offendedundertones, rebelling against his presence as a ghastly imposition and resenting him malevolently for thenauseating truth of which he was bright reminder. They shared a common dread that he would begin moaning.
　　“I don’t know what I’ll do if he does begin moaning,” the dashing young fighter pilot with the golden mustachehad grieved forlornly. “It means he’ll moan during the night, too, because he won’t be able to tell time.”
　　No sound at all came from the soldier in white all the time he was there. The ragged round hole over his mouthwas deep and jet black and showed no sign of lip, teeth, palate or tongue. The only one who ever came closeenough to look was the affable Texan, who came close enough several times a day to chat with him about morevotes for the decent folk, opening each conversation with the same unvarying greeting: “What do you say, fella?
　　How you coming along?” The rest of the men avoided them both in their regulation maroon corduroy bathrobesand unraveling flannel pajamas, wondering gloomily who the soldier in white was, why he was there and whathe was really like inside.
　　“He’s all right, I tell you,” the Texan would report back to them encouragingly after each of his social visits.
　　“Deep down inside he’s really a regular guy. He’s feeling a little shy and insecure now because he doesn’t knowanybody here and can’t talk. Why don’t you all just step right up to him and introduce yourselves? He won’t hurtyou.”
　　“What the goddam hell are you talking about?” Dunbar demanded. “Does he even know what you’re talkingabout?”
　　“Sure he knows what I’m talking about. He’s not stupid. There ain’t nothing wrong with him.”
　　“Can he hear you?”
　　“Well, I don’t know if he can hear me or not, but I’m sure he knows what I’m talking about.”
　　“Does that hole over his mouth ever move?”
　　“Now, what kind of a crazy question is that?” the Texan asked uneasily.
　　“How can you tell if he’s breathing if it never moves?”
　　“How can you tell it’s a he?”
　　“Does he have pads over his eyes underneath that bandage over his face?”
　　“Does he ever wiggle his toes or move the tips of his fingers?”
　　The Texan backed away in mounting confusion. “Now, what kind of a crazy question is that? You fellas must allbe crazy or something. Why don’t you just walk right up to him and get acquainted? He’s a real nice guy, I tellyou.”
　　The soldier in white was more like a stuffed and sterilized mummy than a real nice guy. Nurse Duckett andNurse Cramer kept him spick-and-span. They brushed his bandages often with a whiskbroom and scrubbed theplaster casts on his arms, legs, shoulders, chest and pelvis with soapy water. Working with a round tin of metalpolish, they waxed a dim gloss on the dull zinc pipe rising from the cement on his groin. With damp dish towelsthey wiped the dust several times a day from the slim black rubber tubes leading in and out of him to the twolarge stoppered jars, one of them, hanging on a post beside his bed, dripping fluid into his arm constantly througha slit in the bandages while the other, almost out of sight on the floor, drained the fluid away through the zincpipe rising from his groin. Both young nurses polished the glass jars unceasingly. They were proud of theirhousework. The more solicitous of the two was Nurse Cramer, a shapely, pretty, sexless girl with a wholesomeunattractive face. Nurse Cramer had a cute nose and a radiant, blooming complexion dotted with fetching spraysof adorable freckles that Yossarian detested. She was touched very deeply by the soldier in white. Her virtuous,pale-blue, saucerlike eyes flooded with leviathan tears on unexpected occasions and made Yossarian mad.
　　“How the hell do you know he’s even in there?” he asked her.
　　“Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” she replied indignantly.
　　“Well, how do you? You don’t even know if it’s really him.”
　　“Who?”
　　“Whoever’s supposed to be in all those bandages. You might really be weeping for somebody else. How do youknow he’s even alive?”
　　“What a terrible thing to say!” Nurse Cramer exclaimed. “Now, you get right into bed and stop making jokesabout him.”
　　“I’m not making jokes. Anybody might be in there. For all we know, it might even be Mudd.”
　　“What are you talking about?” Nurse Cramer pleaded with him in a quavering voice.
　　“Maybe that’s where the dead man is.”
　　“What dead man?”
　　“I’ve got a dead man in my tent that nobody can throw out. His name is Mudd.”
　　Nurse Cramer’s face blanched and she turned to Dunbar desperately for aid. “Make him stop saying things likethat,” she begged.
　　“Maybe there’s no one inside,” Dunbar suggested helpfully. “Maybe they just sent the bandages here for a joke.”
　　She stepped away from Dunbar in alarm. “You’re crazy,” she cried, glancing about imploringly. “You’re bothcrazy.”
　　Nurse Duckett showed up then and chased them all back to their own beds while Nurse Cramer changed thestoppered jars for the soldier in white. Changing the jars for the soldier in white was no trouble at all, since thesame clear fluid was dripped back inside him over and over again with no apparent loss. When the jar feeding theinside of his elbow was just about empty, the jar on the floor was just about full, and the two were simplyuncoupled from their respective hoses and reversed quickly so that the liquid could be dripped right back intohim. Changing the jars was no trouble to anyone but the men who watched them changed every hour or so andwere baffled by the procedure.
　　“Why can’t they hook the two jars up to each other and eliminate the middleman?” the artillery captain withwhom Yossarian had stopped playing chess inquired. “What the hell do they need him for?”
　　“I wonder what he did to deserve it,” the warrant officer with malaria and a mosquito bite on his ass lamentedafter Nurse Cramer had read her thermometer and discovered that the soldier in white was dead.
　　“He went to war,” the fighter pilot with the golden mustache surmised.
　　“We all went to war,” Dunbar countered.
　　“That’s what I mean,” the warrant officer with malaria continued. “Why him? There just doesn’t seem to be anylogic to this system of rewards and punishment. Look what happened to me. If I had gotten syphilis or a dose ofclap for my five minutes of passion on the beach instead of this damned mosquito bite, I could see justice. Butmalaria? Malaria? Who can explain malaria as a consequence of fornication?” The warrant officer shook hishead in numb astonishment.
　　“What about me?” Yossarian said. “I stepped out of my tent in Marrakech one night to get a bar of candy andcaught your dose of clap when that Wac I never even saw before hissed me into the bushes. All I really wantedwas a bar of candy, but who could turn it down?”
　　“That sounds like my dose of clap, all right,” the warrant officer agreed. “But I’ve still got somebody else’smalaria. Just for once I’d like to see all these things sort of straightened out, with each person getting exactlywhat he deserves. It might give me some confidence in this universe.”
　　“I’ve got somebody else’s three hundred thousand dollars,” the dashing young fighter captain with the goldenmustache admitted. “I’ve been goofing off since the day I was born. I cheated my way through prep school andcollege, and just about all I’ve been doing ever since is shacking up with pretty girls who think I’d make a goodhusband. I’ve got no ambition at all. The only thing I want to do after the war is marry some girl who’s got moremoney than I have and shack up with lots more pretty girls. The three hundred thousand bucks was left to me before I was born by a grandfather who made a fortune selling on an international scale. I know I don’t deserveit, but I’ll be damned if I give it back. I wonder who it really belongs to.”
　　“Maybe it belongs to my father,” Dunbar conjectured. “He spent a lifetime at hard work and never could makeenough money to even send my sister and me through college. He’s dead now, so you might as well keep it.”
　　“Now, if we can just find out who my malaria belongs to we’d be all set. It’s not that I’ve got anything againstmalaria. I’d just as soon goldbrick with malaria as with anything else. It’s only that I feel an injustice has beencommitted. Why should I have somebody else’s malaria and you have my dose of clap?”
　　“I’ve got more than your dose of clap,” Yossarian told him. “I’ve got to keep flying combat missions because ofthat dose of yours until they kill me.”
　　“That makes it even worse. What’s the justice in that?”
　　“I had a friend named Clevinger two and a half weeks ago who used to see plenty of justice in it.”
　　“It’s the highest kind of justice of all,” Clevinger had gloated, clapping his hands with a merry laugh. “I can’thelp thinking of the Hippolytus of Euripides, where the early licentiousness of Theseus is probably responsiblefor the asceticism of the son that helps bring about the tragedy that ruins them all. If nothing else, that episodewith the Wac should teach you the evil of sexual immorality.”
　　“It teaches me the evil of candy.”
　　“Can’t you see that you’re not exactly without blame for the predicament you’re in?” Clevinger had continuedwith undisguised relish. “If you hadn’t been laid up in the hospital with venereal disease for ten days back therein Africa, you might have finished your twenty-five missions in time to be sent home before Colonel Nevers waskilled and Colonel Cathcart came to replace him.”
　　“And what about you?” Yossarian had replied. “You never got clap in Marrakech and you’re in the samepredicament.”
　　“I don’t know,” confessed Clevinger, with a trace of mock concern. “I guess I must have done something verybad in my time.”
　　“Do you really believe that?”
　　Clevinger laughed. “No, of course not. I just like to kid you along a little.”
　　There were too many dangers for Yossarian to keep track of. There was Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo, for example,and they were all out to kill him. There was Lieutenant Scheisskopf with his fanaticism for parades and there wasthe bloated colonel with his big fat mustache and his fanaticism for retribution, and they wanted to kill him, too.
　　There was Appleby, Havermeyer, Black and Korn. There was Nurse Cramer and Nurse Duckett, who he was almost certain wanted him dead, and there was the Texan and the C.I.D. man, about whom he had no doubt.
　　There were bartenders, bricklayers and bus conductors all over the world who wanted him dead, landlords andtenants, traitors and patriots, lynchers, leeches and lackeys, and they were all out to bump him off. That was thesecret Snowden had spilled to him on the mission to Avignon—they were out to get him; and Snowden hadspilled it all over the back of the plane.
　　There were lymph glands that might do him in. There were kidneys, nerve sheaths and corpuscles. There weretumors of the brain. There was Hodgkin’s disease, leukemia, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. There were fertile redmeadows of epithelial tissue to catch and coddle a cancer cell. There were diseases of the skin, diseases of thebone, diseases of the lung, diseases of the stomach, diseases of the heart, blood and arteries. There were diseasesof the head, diseases of the neck, diseases of the chest, diseases of the intestines, diseases of the crotch. Thereeven were diseases of the feet. There were billions of conscientious body cells oxidating away day and night likedumb animals at their complicated job of keeping him alive and healthy, and every one was a potential traitorand foe. There were so many diseases that it took a truly diseased mind to even think about them as often as heand Hungry Joe did.
　　Hungry Joe collected lists of fatal diseases and arranged them in alphabetical order so that he could put his fingerwithout delay on any one he wanted to worry about. He grew very upset whenever he misplaced some or whenhe could not add to his list, and he would go rushing in a cold sweat to Doc Daneeka for help.
　　“Give him Ewing’s tumor,” Yossarian advised Doc Daneeka, who would come to Yossarian for help in handlingHungry Joe, “and follow it up with melanoma. Hungry Joe likes lingering diseases, but he likes the fulminatingones even more.”
　　Doc Daneeka had never heard of either. “How do you manage to keep up on so many diseases like that?” heinquired with high professional esteem.
　　“I learn about them at the hospital when I study the Reader’s Digest.”
　　Yossarian had so many ailments to be afraid of that he was sometimes tempted to turn himself in to the hospitalfor good and spend the rest of his life stretched out there inside an oxygen tent with a battery of specialists andnurses seated at one side of his bed twenty-four hours a day waiting for something to go wrong and at least onesurgeon with a knife poised at the other, ready to jump forward and begin cutting away the moment it becamenecessary. Aneurisms, for instance; how else could they ever defend him in time against an aneurism of theaorta? Yossarian felt much safer inside the hospital than outside the hospital, even though he loathed the surgeonand his knife as much as he had ever loathed anyone. He could start screaming inside a hospital and peoplewould at least come running to try to help; outside the hospital they would throw him in prison if he ever startedscreaming about all the things he felt everyone ought to start screaming about, or they would put him in thehospital. One of the things he wanted to start screaming about was the surgeon’s knife that was almost certain tobe waiting for him and everyone else who lived long enough to die. He wondered often how he would everrecognize the first chill, flush, twinge, ache, belch, sneeze, stain, lethargy, vocal slip, loss of balance or lapse ofmemory that would signal the inevitable beginning of the inevitable end.
　　He was afraid also that Doc Daneeka would still refuse to help him when he went to him again after jumping outof Major Major’s office, and he was right.
　　“You think you’ve got something to be afraid about?” Doc Daneeka demanded, lifting his delicate immaculatedark head up from his chest to gaze at Yossarian irascibly for a moment with lachrymose eyes. “What about me?
　　My precious medical skills are rusting away here on this lousy island while other doctors are cleaning up. Doyou think I enjoy sitting here day after day refusing to help you? I wouldn’t mind it so much if I could refuse tohelp you back in the States or in some place like Rome. But saying no to you here isn’t easy for me, either.”
　　“Then stop saying no. Ground me.”
　　“I can’t ground you,” Doc Daneeka mumbled. “How many times do you have to be told?”
　　“Yes you can. Major Major told me you’re the only one in the squadron who can ground me.”
　　Doc Daneeka was stunned. “Major Major told you that? When?”
　　“When I tackled him in the ditch.”
　　“Major Major told you that? In a ditch?”
　　“He told me in his office after we left the ditch and jumped inside. He told me not to tell anyone he told me, sodon’t start shooting your mouth off.”
　　“Why that dirty, scheming liar!” Doc Daneeka cried. “He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Did he tell you how Icould ground you?”
　　“Just by filling out a little slip of paper saying I’m on the verge of a nervous collapse and sending it to Group.
　　Dr. Stubbs grounds men in his squadron all the time, so why can’t you?”
　　“And what happens to the men after Stubbs does ground them?” Doc Daneeka retorted with a sneer. “They goright back on combat status, don’t they? And he finds himself right up the creek. Sure, I can ground you byfilling out a slip saying you’re unfit to fly. But there’s a catch.”
　　“Catch-22?”
　　“Sure. If I take you off combat duty, Group has to approve my action, and Group isn’t going to. They’ll put youright back on combat status, and then where will I be? On my way to the Pacific Ocean, probably. No, thank you.
　　I’m not going to take any chances for you.”
　　“Isn’t it worth a try?” Yossarian argued. “What’s so hot about Pianosa?”
　　“Pianosa is terrible. But it’s better than the Pacific Ocean. I wouldn’t mind being shipped someplace civilized where I might pick up a buck or two in abortion money every now and then. But all they’ve got in the Pacific isjungles and monsoons, I’d rot there.”
　　“You’re rotting here.”
　　Doc Daneeka flared up angrily. “Yeah? Well, at least I’m going to come out of this war alive, which is a lot morethan you’re going to do.”
　　“That’s just what I’m trying to tell you, goddammit. I’m asking you to save my life.”
　　“It’s not my business to save lives,” Doc Daneeka retorted sullenly.
　　“What is your business?”
　　“I don’t know what my business is. All they ever told me was to uphold the ethics of my profession and nevergive testimony against another physician. Listen. You think you’re the only one whose life is in danger? Whatabout me? Those two quacks I’ve got working for me in the medical tent still can’t find out what’s wrong withme.”
　　“Maybe it’s Ewing’s tumor,” Yossarian muttered sarcastically.
　　“Do you really think so?” Doc Daneeka exclaimed with fright.
　　“Oh, I don’t know,” Yossarian answered impatiently. “I just know I’m not going to fly any more missions. Theywouldn’t really shoot me, would they? I’ve got fifty-one.”
　　“Why don’t you at least finish the fifty-five before you take a stand?” Doc Daneeka advised. “With all yourbitching, you’ve never finished a tour of duty even once.”
　　“How the hell can I? The colonel keeps raising them every time I get close.”
　　“You never finish your missions because you keep running into the hospital or going off to Rome. You’d be in amuch, stronger position if you had your fifty-five finished and then refused to fly. Then maybe I’d see what Icould do.”
　　“Do you promise?”
　　“I promise.”
　　“What do you promise?”
　　“I promise that maybe I’ll think about doing something to help if you finish your fifty-five missions and if youget McWatt to put my name on his flight log again so that I can draw my flight pay without going up in a plane.
　　I’m afraid of airplanes. Did you read about that airplane crash in Idaho three weeks ago? Six people killed. It wasterrible. I don’t know why they want me to put in four hours’ flight time every month in order to get my flightpay. Don’t I have enough to worry about without worrying about being killed in an airplane crash too?”
　　“I worry about the airplane crashes also,” Yossarian told him. “You’re not the only one.”
　　“Yeah, but I’m also pretty worried about that Ewing’s tumor,” Doc Daneeka boasted. “Do you think that’s whymy nose is stuffed all the time and why I always feel so chilly? Take my pulse.”
　　Yossarian also worried about Ewing’s tumor and melanoma. Catastrophes were lurking everywhere, toonumerous to count. When he contemplated the many diseases and potential accidents threatening him, he waspositively astounded that he had managed to survive in good health for as long as he had. It was miraculous.
　　Each day he faced was another dangerous mission against mortality. And he had been surviving them for twenty-eight years.
 17、浑身雪白的士兵
　　约塞连直接跑进了医院，决心永远呆在那儿。他已完成了三十二次飞行任务，他决定不再多飞一次。当他改变了主意从医院出来后的第十天，上校又把飞行任务提高到四十五次，于是约塞连又跑回医院，决定永远呆在医院里，除了他刚刚又多飞的六次之外，不再多飞一次。
　　由于他的肝脏和眼睛的缘故，约塞连只要愿意，随时都可以住进医院；那些医生由于不能确诊他的肝病，因此每次约塞连跟他们说他的肝有毛病时，他们都不敢正视他的目光。只要他的病房里没有人真的病得很厉害，他在医院里就能自得其乐。他的身体还真够结实，别人得疟疾或流感，他几乎连一点不舒服的感觉都没有。他能忍受别人进行扁桃体切除术，并且他们手术后他也不会有任何苦恼。他甚至能忍受他们的疝气和痔疮，只是稍有点作呕和厌恶。
　　不过，他也只能到这个地步而不生病。超过这个地步，他随时要逃走。他可以在医院里休息，因为在那儿没有人指望他做什么。人们期望他在医院里不是死掉就是好起来。既然他一开始就没病，好起来是很容易的。
　　呆在医院里要比在博洛尼亚上空或飞越阿维尼翁上空时的情景好多了，当时赫普尔和多布斯在操纵飞机，斯诺登奄奄一息地躺在后面。
　　通常，医院里面的病人没有约塞连在医院外面见到的多，而且医院里一般很少有人是病得很严重的。医院里的死亡率远比医院外的低，是一种健康得多的死亡率。很少有人死得没有必要。人们对死在医院里这种事知道得要多得多，因而死得更加干净，更加井然有序。他们虽然在医院里还无法支配死神，但却肯定可以让她乖乖听话。他们教她举止得体。他们虽不能把死神挡在医院之外，但当她进来时，她得像位贵妇人一样温文尔雅。在医院里，人们死得文雅而得体。这儿没有医院外边十分常见的那种耸人听闻、野蛮丑陋的死法。他们不会像克拉夫特那样在半空中被炸得身首异处，不会像约塞连帐篷里的那个死人，也不会像斯诺登那样在飞机的后舱里向约塞连吐露了他的秘密之后，在骄阳似火的夏季被活活冻死。
　　“我冷。”斯诺登当时低声呻吟着。“我冷。”
　　“好了，好了。”约塞连极力安慰他。“好了，好了。”
　　他们没有像克莱文杰那样神奇地逃入一片云层。他们没有被炸成血乎乎的肉块。他们没有被淹死，没有遭到雷击，没有被机器轧得血肉模糊或在山崩中被砸得粉身碎骨。他们没有在拦路抢劫中被击毙，没有在强奸中被扼死，没有在酒吧里被捅死，没有被父母和孩子用斧头劈死，或遭上帝的某个天条的惩罚而一命呜呼。没有人窒息而死。人们因流血过多在手术室里像绅士一般死去，或者在氧气帐里断了气而未吭一声。完全没有医院外边流行的那种“这会儿你见到我过会儿就见不到我”的变戏法似的事情，也没有“这会儿我还在过会儿就完蛋”那种事情。这里没有饥荒或洪水。孩子们不会闷死在摇篮里或冰箱里，也不会跌倒在卡车轮下。没有人被活活打死。没有人把他们的脑袋伸进开着煤气的烤箱里，或跳到疾驶的地铁列车前方，或像大铅锤似的带着呼呼声从旅馆窗户里骤然跌落，以每秒三十二英尺的加速度垂直向下，最后令人胆寒地扑通一声，像只装满草莓冰淇淋的羊驼呢口袋摔在人行道上，鲜血淋淋，粉红色的脚趾还在抽动，令人恶心地死于众目睽睽之下。
　　权衡再三，约塞连常常还是宁愿呆在医院里，尽管医院有医院的毛病。那里的护士往往好管闲事，那里的规定，如果执行的话，很有约束性，那里的管理也常常干预病人的事情。由于病人随时有可能住进来，他也不能总指望有一群活泼的年轻人跟他住在同一间病房里，而且，文娱活动也常常没什么意思。他不得不承认，随着战争的继续，人们越来越靠近战场，医院的情况已在逐步变坏。在战区内住院的病员情况恶化得十分明显，这立即说明了战争变得越来越激烈。他越深入到战斗中心去，那儿病员的情况也就越糟，直到最后医院里来了那位浑身雪白的士兵，除了死之外，他不可能病得再厉害了，而他很快就死了。
　　那个浑身雪白的士兵全身上下缠着纱布，绑着石膏，外加一只体温表。那体温表只不过是件装饰品，每天清晨和傍晚由克拉默护士和达克特护士平稳地放在他嘴巴上缠着的绷带中一个小黑洞里，直到那天下午克拉默护士来看体温表时才发现他已经死了。此刻约塞连回想起来，觉得好橡是克拉默护士而不是那个得克萨斯人谋害了那个浑身雪白的士兵。假如她那天没来察看体温表并报告她发现的情况，那个浑身雪白的士兵也许还像往常那样一直活着躺在那儿，从头到脚裹在石膏和纱布里，两条奇形怪状的僵硬的腿从臀部被吊起来，两只奇形怪状的膀子也笔直地吊在那里，四肢都绑着石膏，又粗又大，这些奇形怪状的、无用的四肢用拉紧的电缆线吊在半空中，一些长得出奇的铅块黑乎乎地悬在他上方。那个样子躺在那儿说明他的性命也许不多了，不过那可是他最后的全部生命，因此约塞连觉得似乎不应该由克拉默护士来作出结束他的性命的决定。
　　那个浑身雪白的士兵像块展开的、上面有个洞的绷带，或者像港口里一块破碎的石块，上面有一根扭曲了的锌管突出来，除了那个得克萨斯人之外，病房里其他的病人都是软心肠。他是那天晚上被悄悄送进病房里来的，从第二天早晨他门看见他那一刻起，大家就厌恶地避开他。他们神情庄重地聚集在病房的另一角，用恶毒的话语和受到冒犯的口吻低声议论着他；他们反对硬把他这令人恐怖的模样塞到他们面前，怨恨他那极为醒目的模样，活生生地向他们提醒了那令人作呕的现实，他们都害怕同一件事情：他将开始呻吟。
　　“如果他真的开始呻吟，我不知道我该怎么办，”那个打扮漂亮的、留着金黄色小胡子的年轻的战斗机飞行员可怜兮兮地哀叹道，“那意味着他晚上也要呻吟啦，因为他辨不出白天黑夜。”
　　那个浑身雪白的士兵一直躺在那儿，没有一点声音。他嘴巴上方那个边缘参差不齐的圆洞又深又黑，一点没露出嘴唇、牙齿、上腭或舌头的迹象。唯一走到足够近的地方去看他的人就是那个和蔼可亲的得克萨斯人。他每天好几次走到离他比较近的地方，同他闲谈关于多给那些正派的人投票的事。他每次开始谈话都这么一成不变地先打招呼：“你说什么，伙计？感觉怎么样？”其他病人都穿着规定的栗色灯芯绒浴衣和敞开着的法兰绒睡衣，避开他俩呆在一旁，神情优郁地在猜想那个浑身雪白的士兵到底是谁，他为什么会在这儿，那纱布和石膏里面的他到底是个什么样子。
　　“我跟你们说，他没问题。”每次结束他的社交访问之后，那个得克萨斯人总是这样鼓舞人心地向他们汇报。“他内部完全是个正常的家伙。只不过是他现在还有点儿怯生，有点儿不踏实，因为他不认识我们这儿的任何人，而且也不能说话。你们干吗不都走到他面前去介绍一下自己？他不会把你们吃掉的。”
　　“你***到底在说些什么？”邓巴问道，“他知道你在说些什么吗？”
　　“他肯定知道我在说什么。他并不傻。他没什么问题。”
　　“他能听得见你说话吗？”
　　“嗯，我不清楚他能不能听见我说话，但我肯定他知道我在说什么。”
　　“他嘴巴上的那个洞有没有动过？”
　　“咳，这是个什么怪问题啊？”那个得克萨斯人不大自在地问道。
　　“如果那个洞根本不动，你怎么知道他在呼吸呢？”
　　“你怎么知道那是个男的？”
　　“他脸上的绷带下有没有纱布块盖在眼睛上？”
　　“他有没有动过脚趾头或手指尖？”
　　那个得克萨斯人退却了，自己也越来越糊涂了。“好了，这是些什么怪问题啊。你们这些家伙肯定都疯了或傻了。你们为什么不走到他跟前和他认识一下？他真的是个挺好的家伙，我跟你们说。”
　　那个浑身雪白的士兵与其说是个活生生的人，还不如说更像个已制成标本、消过毒的木乃伊。达克特护士和克拉默护士使他保持得干干净净。她们常用一只短柄小刷轻刷他的绷带，用肥皂水擦洗他手臂上、腿上、肩膀上、胸脯上和骨盆上的石膏。她们用装在一个圆听里的金属抛光剂，给一根从他的腹股沟处的石膏板上伸出来的暗淡的锌管涂上淡淡的一层光。她们还用湿抹布每天几次擦去两条细细的黑橡胶管上的灰尘。这两条管子从他身上一进一出，连着两只塞住的大口瓶，其中一只吊在他床旁边的一根柱子上，瓶中的药液通过他手臂上的绷带中的一个缝隙不断地滴进他的体内；另一只瓶则放在地板上几乎看不见的地方，通过那根从他腹股沟处伸出来的锌管把液体排掉。这两个年轻的护士一刻不停地擦着那两只玻璃瓶。她俩为自己所做的杂务活而感到自豪。在她们两人中，克拉默护士更为细心。她是位身材修长的姑娘，漂亮但不性感，长着一张健康却不迷人的脸庞。克拉默护士的鼻子娇小可爱，脸上的皮肤光泽耀人，透露出青春的气息，脸上星星点点地生着一些动人、然而却让约塞连讨厌的小雀斑。她被那个浑身雪白的士兵深深打动了。她那双善良的、淡蓝色的、又大又圆的眼睛常在意想不到的时候涌出巨大的泪珠，那眼睛真让约塞连受不了。
　　“你怎么知道他在那里面？”他问她。
　　“你怎么敢这样跟我说话！”她气冲冲地回答。
　　“嗯，你怎么知道，你甚至不知道那是不是真的是他。”
　　“谁？”
　　“谁在那些绷带里就是谁。你也许真的在哭其他什么人。你怎么知道他还活着。”
　　“你怎么能说出这么可怕的话来！”克拉默护士嚷道，“好了，快回到床上去，别再拿他开玩笑啦。”
　　“我可不是在开玩笑。任何人都可能在那里面。因为我都知道，那甚至有可能是马德。”
　　“你在说什么呀？”克拉默护士声音颤抖地恳求他说。
　　“也许那就是死人呆的地方。”
　　“什么死人？”
　　“我的帐篷里就有个死人，没有人能把他扔出去。他的名字叫马德。”
　　克拉默护士的脸一下子变得苍白，眼巴巴地转向邓巴求助。
　　“叫他不要再说这样的话吧，”她乞求道。
　　“也许里面没有人，”邓已帮腔似地暗示说，“也许他们只是把这些绷带送到这儿来开个玩笑。”
　　她惊恐地从邓巴身边退开。“你疯了，”她一边喊着，一边用哀求的目光四下张望。“你们两个都疯了。”
　　这时达克特护士出现了，把他们都赶回到他们自己的床上去，而克拉默护士则为那个浑身雪白的士兵更换了塞住口的瓶子。为那个浑身雪白的士兵换瓶子是件毫不费力的事，因为那些相同的、清澈的液体一遍又一遍地滴进他的体内，没有明显的损耗。当那只盛着滴入他手臂内的液体的瓶子差不多要空了的时候，那只放在地板上的瓶子就快要满了，只要把那两只瓶子从它们各自的管子上拿开并很快换个位置，这样液体就又能滴入他的体内。换瓶子这件事对其他人来说并没有什么，但却使那些看着这些瓶子大约每小时被更换一次的人受不了，他们对这一程序感到迷惑不解。
　　“他们干吗不把两只瓶子连起来，去掉那个中间的人呢？”那个刚同约塞连下完棋的炮兵上尉问，“他们到底需要他干什么？”
　　“我不晓得他做了些什么要受这份罪，”那个得了疟疾、屁股上曾被蚊子叮过一口的二级准尉，在克拉默护士察看过体温表并发现那个浑身雪白的士兵已经死了之后这样哀叹道。
　　“他打过仗，”那个留着金黄色小胡子的战斗机飞行员猜测说。
　　“我们都打过仗，”邓巴反驳说。
　　“我就是那个意思，”那个得疟疾的二级准尉继续说，“为什么是他？这种奖惩制度好像没什么逻辑。看看我的遭遇。要是我那次在海滩上放纵五分钟之后得了梅毒或淋病而不是被那该死的蚊子叮了一口，我倒觉得还有点公平。可怎么会得疟疾？疟疾？谁能解释私通的结果会是疟疾？”那个二级准尉摇了摇头，惊讶得无话可说。
　　“我的情况怎么样呢？”约塞连说，“在马拉喀什，我有天晚上从帐篷里出来去买块糖，不想那个我以前从未见过的陆军妇女队队员悄悄把我引进树丛里，于是就得了该你得的那种淋病。我的的确确是想去买块糖，但谁能拒绝那种事呢？”
　　“那听起来是像该我得的淋病，不错，”那准尉赞同他说，“可是我还是得了别人的疟疾。就这一次，我真想看到所有这些事情都能改正过来，每个人该得到什么就得到什么。这也许能使我对这个世界有几分信心。”
　　“我得到了别人的三十万元钱，”那个留着金黄色小胡子的年轻、漂亮的上尉战斗机飞行员承认说，“我从生下来的那天起就开始混日子。我靠欺骗的方法从预备学校一直混到大学毕业；从那以后我所做的一切就是跟漂亮妞睡觉，她们还以为我会做个好丈夫呢。我压根儿就没什么雄心大志。战争结束之后我想做的唯一的一件事就是找个比我还有钱的姑娘结婚，同更多的漂亮妞睡觉。那三十万块钱是在我出生前由我的一个祖父辈的亲戚留给我的，他做国际生意发了财。我知道我不配得到这笔钱，但我要是不拿，我就不是人。我不知道这钱真正该归谁。”
　　“也许该归我父亲，”邓巴推测说，“他辛辛苦苦干了一辈子，也没有挣到足够的钱来送我姐姐和我上大学。他现在已经死了，所以你完全可以留着这笔钱啦。”
　　“现在只要我们能找到我得的疟疾应当归谁，我们的问题就都解决了；这并不是因为我要跟疟疾作对，只要能尽快逃避工作，得疟疾跟得其他病都一样。只是我觉得这事不公平。干吗要我患上别人的疟疾，而你又染上我的淋病呢？”
　　“我还不止得了该你得的淋病呢，”约塞连跟他说，“由于你那个淋病，我不得不一直执行战斗飞行任务，直到他们把我打死为止。”
　　“那这事就更糟了。这件事情里有什么公正可言？”
　　“两个半星期之前，我有个朋友叫克莱文杰，他总认为这事挺公正的。”
　　“这是最公正的事啦。”克莱文杰当时得意扬扬地拍着手，高兴地笑着。“我不禁想起欧里庇得斯的《希波吕托斯》。在那个剧里，由于忒修斯早年生活放荡，他儿子便信奉禁欲主义，这便导致了把他们都毁灭掉了的悲剧。即使没有别的事，那件与陆军妇女队员的插曲也该让你知道风流好色的恶果。”
　　“它让我知道了糖果的恶果。”
　　“你难道看不出，你现在处境尴尬，你自己并非完全没有责任吗？”克莱文杰接着说，一点也不掩盖他的兴致。“如果不是你染上花柳病在非洲那边的医院里躺了十天的话，你也许在内弗斯上校被打死之前，也就是说在卡思卡特上校来接替他之前就按时完成了你的二十五次飞行任务，现在已被送回家了。”
　　“你怎么样？”约塞连以问代答，“你在马拉喀什从未染上淋病，而你也一样处境尴尬嘛。”
　　“我不知道，”克莱文杰假装有点关切地招认说，“我想我这一生中一定干了什么非常坏的事。”
　　“你真的相信那种事情吗？”
　　克莱文杰笑了起来。“不，当然不相信。我只是想和你逗逗乐。”
　　对约塞连来说，危险多得数不胜数。比如说，有希特勒、墨索里尼和东条，他们都极力想杀掉他；还有那个队列狂沙伊斯科普夫少尉和那个留着两撇粗大的八字胡、狂热地盲目相信因果报应的胖上校，他们也都想弄死他；还有阿普尔比、哈弗迈耶、布莱克和科恩；还有克拉默护士和达克特护士，他几乎可以肯定她们都盼他死；还有那个得克萨斯人和那个罪犯调查部的官员，对这两人他也毫无疑问；还有世界各地的酒吧招待、砖瓦匠和公共汽车售票员，他们也都希望他死；还有那些房东和房客、叛徒和爱国者、行私刑的人、吸血鬼和走狗，他们全部一心想谋害他。就是在执行飞往阿维尼翁的任务时斯诺登向他泄露了秘密——他们千方百计想杀死他：而斯诺登当时是在飞机的后舱里把这个秘密泄露出来的。
　　还有淋巴腺也有可能要他的命；还有肾脏、神经束膜和神经膜细胞；还有脑瘤；还有何杰金氏病、白血病、肌萎缩性侧索硬化；还有上皮组织再生性红斑滋生癌细胞；还有皮肤病、骨科病、肺病、胃病、心脏病、血液病和动脉血管病；还有头部疾病、颈部疾病、胸部疾病、大小肠疾病、胯部疾病，甚至还有脚病；还有几十亿个勤劳的人体细胞，在维持他的生命和庭康的复杂的工作中，像默默无闻的牲口一样不分昼夜地进行氧化作用，而它们中任何一个都是潜在的叛徒和敌人。疾病是如此之多，如果有谁像他和亨格利•乔那样经常去考虑它们，那这个人的脑袋瓜一定是有毛病了。
　　亨格利•乔搜集了一大堆不治之症的名称，并把它们按字母顺序排列起来，这样他就能很快找到他想要担心的任何疾病。每当他把某种疾病的名称摆错了位置或当他无法把它加进他的疾病名单里去时，他就会变得心神不安，浑身冷汗地跑去向丹尼卡医生求援。
　　丹尼卡医生在处理亨格利•乔的事情时总会来向约塞连求援。
　　“说他得了尤因氏瘤，”约塞连向医生建议说，“还说他得了黑素瘤。
　　亨格利•乔喜欢旷日持久的病，不过他更喜欢暴发性疾病。”
　　丹尼卡医生从未听说过这两种病。“你怎么能记得住这么多那样的病？”他带着职业性的崇高的敬慕问道。
　　“我在医院里读《读者文摘》知道的。”
　　约塞连有那么多疾病要担心，有时他真想永远呆在医院里度过余生：四肢平展地躺在氧气帐里，一群专家和护士一天二十四小时坐在他的病床的一边，等待着病情发生恶化；在病床的另一边至少有一名外科医生拿着刀，做好了准备，一旦需要随时准备冲上前来开始手术。比如说动脉瘤，要是他得了主动脉瘤，不采取这样的措施，他们又怎能及时医治他呢？尽管约塞连像讨厌任何人一样讨厌外科医生和他的手术刀，他还是觉得呆在医院里面要比呆在医院外面安全得多。在医院里，他可以随时大声叫喊，人们至少会跑过来想办法帮他；而在医院外面，如果他对所有他认为每个人都该大声叫喊的事情大叫大喊，人们会把他关进监狱或者把他送进医院。他想对其大声叫喊的东西之一就是外科医生的手术刀，那刀几乎肯定在等待着他和其他所有活得够长的、可以死去的人。他常常想弄明白他怎样才能辨认出初起的风寒、发烧、剧痛、隐痛、打嗝、打喷嚏、色斑、嗜眠症、失语、失去平衡或者记忆力衰退，那预示着不可避免的结局的不可避免的开始。
　　他还担心当他跳出梅杰少校的办公室再去找丹尼卡医生时，丹尼卡医生仍旧拒绝帮助他。他的担心是对的。
　　“你以为你得了什么可以担心的病了吗？”丹尼卡医生问道，说话间抬起他那低垂在胸前、黑发梳得一尘不染的头，两只满是泪水的眼睛愤怒地盯了约塞连一会儿。“我怎么样呢？我的宝贵的医疗技术在这个该死的岛上白白地荒废了，而其他的医生却在挣大钱。
　　你以为我喜欢日复一日地坐在这儿拒绝帮助你吗？如果我是在国内或在像罗马这样的地方拒绝帮助你，我倒不特别在乎。但在这儿向你说不，对我来说也不是件容易的事。”
　　“那么就别说不。让我停止飞行。”
　　“我不能让你停飞，”丹尼卡医生嘟嚷道，“这话得告诉你多少遍？”
　　“你能。梅杰少校跟我说你是飞行中队里唯一能让我停飞的人。”
　　丹尼卡医生惊得瞠目结舌。“梅杰少校跟你那么说的？什么时”候？”
　　“我在壕沟里同他交涉的时候。”
　　“梅杰少校是那么跟你说的？在一个壕沟里？”
　　“他是在我们离开壕沟，跳进他的办公室后跟我说的。他叫我不要跟任何人说是他告诉我的，所以请你不要乱嚷嚷。”
　　“为什么是那个卑鄙、诡计多端的骗子！”丹尼卡医生喊道，“他不应该告诉任何人。他有没有告诉你我怎样才能让你停飞？”
　　“只要填写一张小纸条，说我已处于精神崩溃的边缘，把它送到大队部就行了。斯塔布斯医生一直让他的中队里的人停飞，你为什么不能呢？”
　　“斯塔布斯让那些人停飞之后，他们的情况又怎么样呢？”丹尼卡医生冷笑着反驳说，“他们马上被恢复战斗状态，不是吗？而他也发现他自己处于困境。当然，我也可以填写一张说你不适合飞行的纸条，让你停飞。但是有一条规定。”
　　“第二十二条军规？”
　　“是的。假如我取消你的战斗任务，还得大队部批准，而大队部是不会批准的。他们会立即让你回到战斗岗位上去。那么，我又会在什么地方呢？也许在去太平洋的路上，不行，多谢你啦，我不想为你去冒险。”
　　“难道这不值得一试吗？”约塞连争辩道，“皮亚诺萨岛有什么好呢？”
　　“皮亚诺萨岛糟透了，但它却比太平洋好。要是用船把我运到某个文明发达的地方，在那儿我时不时可以赚一二块打胎的钱，我倒不会在乎。然而在太平洋却只有丛林和季风。我在那儿会烂掉的。”
　　“你在这儿也会烂掉的。”
　　丹尼卡医生突然发起怒来。“是吗？不过，至少我会活着走出这场战争，这比你所要做的一切都强。”
　　“那正是我想跟你说的，嘿。我求你救我一命。”
　　“救命不是我的职责，”丹尼卡医生绷着脸驳斥道。
　　“什么是你的职责？”
　　“我不知道我的职责是什么。他们告诉我的就是要坚持我的职业道德，决不作证去反对另一个医生。听着，你以为你是唯一有生命危险的人吗？我怎么样呢？医疗帐篷里那两个为我工作的庸医至今还查不出我有什么病。”
　　“可能是尤因氏瘤，”约塞连嘲讽地咕哝说。
　　“你真的那么认为？”丹尼卡医生害怕得嚷起来。
　　“噢，我不知道，”约塞连不耐烦地回答，“我只知道我不想再执行任务了。他们不会真的枪毙我吧，是吗，我已经飞了五十一次。”
　　“你为什么不至少完成五十五次飞行任务再做决定呢？”丹尼卡医生劝告说，“你成天抱怨，可你一次也未完成过任务。”
　　“我怎么能完成呢？每次我快要完成的时候，上校又把飞行次数提高了。”
　　“你从未完成任务，是因为你老是不断地进医院或者离队去罗马。假如你完成了五十五次飞行任务，然后再拒绝飞行，你的处境就会有利得多。那样，我也许会考虑我能做点什么。”
　　“你能保证吗？”
　　“我保证。”
　　“你保证什么呢？”
　　“如果你完成你的五十五次飞行任务，再让麦克沃特把我的名字登入他的飞行日志中，让我不用上飞机就可以拿到我的飞行津贴，我保证我也许会考虑做点什么帮助你。我害怕飞机。你有没有看到三周前发生在爱达荷州的那次飞机坠毁的报道，六个人送了命。太可怕了。我不知道他们为什么非要我每月飞行四小时才能拿到飞行津贴。难道用不着担心死在飞机坠毁中，我要担忧的事就不够多吗？”
　　“我也担心飞机坠毁事故，”约塞连跟他说，“你不是唯一担忧的人。”
　　“是啊，不过我还很担心那个尤因氏瘤，”丹尼卡医生虚夸道，“你看我的鼻子一直不通，身体总觉得冷，是不是就是这个原因？搭搭我的脉。”
　　约塞连也担心尤因氏瘤和黑素瘤。到处都潜伏着灾难，多得数不胜数。当他想到有那么多疾病和可能发生的事故时刻威胁着他，而他却能安然无恙地活到今天，他着实吃惊不小。每一天他所面临的都是新的一次战胜死亡的危险使命。他已经这样活了二十八年了。
Chapter 18 The Soldier Who Saw Everything Twice
    Yossarian owed his good health to exercise, fresh air, teamwork and good sportsmanship; it was to get awayfrom them all that he had first discovered the hospital. When the physical-education officer at Lowery Fieldordered everyone to fall out for calisthenics one afternoon, Yossarian, the private, reported instead at thedispensary with what he said was a pain in his right side.
　　“Beat it,” said the doctor on duty there, who was doing a crossword puzzle.
　　“We can’t tell him to beat it,” said a corporal. “There’s a new directive out about abdominal complaints. Wehave to keep them under observation five days because so many of them have been dying after we make thembeat it.”
　　“All right,” grumbled the doctor. “Keep him under observation five days and then make him beat it.”
　　They took Yossarian’s clothes away and put him in a ward, where he was very happy when no one was snoringnearby. In the morning a helpful young English intern popped in to ask him about his liver.
　　“I think it’s my appendix that’s bothering me,” Yossarian told him.
　　“Your appendix is no good,” the Englishman declared with jaunty authority. “If your appendix goes wrong, wecan take it out and have you back on active duty in almost no time at all. But come to us with a liver complaintand you can fool us for weeks. The liver, you see, is a large, ugly mystery to us. If you’ve ever eaten liver youknow what I mean. We’re pretty sure today that the liver exists and we have a fairly good idea of what it does whenever it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing. Beyond that, we’re really in the dark. After all, what is aliver? My father, for example, died of cancer of the liver and was never sick a day of his life right up till themoment it killed him. Never felt a twinge of pain. In a way, that was too bad, since I hated my father. Lust formy mother, you know.”
　　“What’s an English medical officer doing on duty here?” Yossarian wanted to know.
　　The officer laughed. “I’ll tell you all about that when I see you tomorrow morning. And throw that silly ice bagaway before you die of pneumonia.”
　　Yossarian never saw him again. That was one of the nice things about all the doctors at the hospital; he neversaw any of them a second time. They came and went and simply disappeared. In place of the English intern thenext day, there arrived a group of doctors he had never seen before to ask him about his appendix.
　　“There’s nothing wrong with my appendix,” Yossarian informed them. “The doctor yesterday said it was myliver.”
　　“Maybe it is his liver,” replied the white-haired officer in charge. “What does his blood count show?”
　　“He hasn’t had a blood count.”
　　“Have one taken right away. We can’t afford to take chances with a patient in his condition. We’ve got to keepourselves covered in case he dies.” He made a notation on his clipboard and spoke to Yossarian. “In themeantime, keep that ice bag on. It’s very important.”
　　“I don’t have an ice bag on.”
　　“Well, get one. There must be an ice bag around here somewhere. And let someone know if the pain becomesunendurable.”
　　At the end of ten days, a new group of doctors came to Yossarian with bad news; he was in perfect health andhad to get out. He was rescued in the nick of time by a patient across the aisle who began to see everything twice.
　　Without warning, the patient sat up in bed and shouted.
　　“I see everything twice!”
　　A nurse screamed and an orderly fainted. Doctors came running up from every direction with needles, lights,tubes, rubber mallets and oscillating metal tines. They rolled up complicated instruments on wheels. There wasnot enough of the patient to go around, and specialists pushed forward in line with raw tempers and snapped attheir colleagues in front to hurry up and give somebody else a chance. A colonel with a large forehead and horn-rimmed glasses soon arrived at a diagnosis.
　　“It’s meningitis,” he called out emphatically, waving the others back. “Although Lord knows there’s not the slightest reason for thinking so.”
　　“Then why pick meningitis?” inquired a major with a suave chuckle. “Why not, let’s say, acute nephritis?”
　　“Because I’m a meningitis man, that’s why, and not an acute-nephritis man,” retorted the colonel. “And I’m notgoing to give him up to any of you kidney birds without a struggle. I was here first.”
　　In the end, the doctors were all in accord. They agreed they had no idea what was wrong with the soldier whosaw everything twice, and they rolled him away into a room in the corridor and quarantined everyone else in theward for fourteen days.
　　Thanksgiving Day came and went without any fuss while Yossarian was still in the hospital. The only bad thingabout it was the turkey for dinner, and even that was pretty good. It was the most rational Thanksgiving he hadever spent, and he took a sacred oath to spend every future Thanksgiving Day in the cloistered shelter of ahospital. He broke his sacred oath the very next year, when he spent the holiday in a hotel room instead inintellectual conversation with Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife, who had Dori Duz’s dog tags on for the occasionand who henpecked Yossarian sententiously for being cynical and callous about Thanksgiving, even though shedidn’t believe in God just as much as he didn’t.
　　“I’m probably just as good an atheist as you are,” she speculated boastfully. “But even I feel that we all have agreat deal to be thankful for and that we shouldn’t be ashamed to show it.”
　　“Name one thing I’ve got to be thankful for,” Yossarian challenged her without interest.
　　“Well...” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife mused and paused a moment to ponder dubiously. “Me.”
　　“Oh, come on,” he scoffed.
　　She arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Aren’t you thankful for me?” she asked. She frowned peevishly, her pridewounded. “I don’t have to shack up with you, you know,” she told him with cold dignity. “My husband has awhole squadron full of aviation cadets who would be only too happy to shack up with their commandingofficer’s wife just for the added fillip it would give them.”
　　Yossarian decided to change the subject. “Now you’re changing the subject,” he pointed out diplomatically. “I’llbet I can name two things to be miserable about for every one you can name to be thankful for.”
　　“Be thankful you’ve got me,” she insisted.
　　“I am, honey. But I’m also goddam good and miserable that I can’t have Dori Duz again, too. Or the hundreds ofother girls and women I’ll see and want in my short lifetime and won’t be able to go to bed with even once.”
　　“Be thankful you’re healthy.”
　　“Be bitter you’re not going to stay that way.”
　　“Be glad you’re even alive.”
　　“Be furious you’re going to die.”
　　“Things could be much worse,” she cried.
　　“They could be one hell of a lot better,” he answered heatedly.
　　“You’re naming only one thing,” she protested. “You said you could name two.”
　　“And don’t tell me God works in mysterious ways,” Yossarian continued, hurtling on over her objection.
　　“There’s nothing so mysterious about it. He’s not working at all. He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all aboutus. That’s the kind of God you people talk about—a country bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited,uncouth hayseed. Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being who finds it necessary toinclude such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in His divine system of creation? What in the world wasrunning through that warped, evil, scatological mind of His when He robbed old people of the power to controltheir bowel movements? Why in the world did He ever create pain?”
　　“Pain?” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife pounced upon the word victoriously. “Pain is a useful symptom. Pain is awarning to us of bodily dangers.”
　　“And who created the dangers?” Yossarian demanded. He laughed caustically. “Oh, He was really beingcharitable to us when He gave us pain! Why couldn’t He have used a doorbell instead to notify us, or one of Hiscelestial choirs? Or a system of blue-and-red neon tubes right in the middle of each person’s forehead. Anyjukebox manufacturer worth his salt could have done that. Why couldn’t He?”
　　“People would certainly look silly walking around with red neon tubes in the middle of their foreheads.”
　　“They certainly look beautiful now writhing in agony or stupefied with morphine, don’t they? What a colossal,immortal blunderer! When you consider the opportunity and power He had to really do a job, and then look atthe stupid, ugly little mess He made of it instead, His sheer incompetence is almost staggering. It’s obvious Henever met a payroll. Why, no self-respecting businessman would hire a bungler like Him as even a shippingclerk!”
　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife had turned ashen in disbelief and was ogling him with alarm. “You’d better nottalk that way about Him, honey,” she warned him reprovingly in a low and hostile voice. “He might punish you.”
　　“Isn’t He punishing me enough?” Yossarian snorted resentfully. “You know, we mustn’t let Him get away withit. Oh, no, we certainly mustn’t let Him get away scot free for all the sorrow He’s caused us. Someday I’m goingto make Him pay. I know when. On the Judgment Day. Yes, That’s the day I’ll be close enough to reach out andgrab that little yokel by His neck and—“Stop it! Stop it!” Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife screamed suddenly, and began beating him ineffectually aboutthe head with both fists. “Stop it!”
　　Yossarian ducked behind his arm for protection while she slammed away at him in feminine fury for a fewseconds, and then he caught her determinedly by the wrists and forced her gently back down on the bed. “Whatthe hell are you getting so upset about?” he asked her bewilderedly in a tone of contrite amusement. “I thoughtyou didn’t believe in God.”
　　“I don’t,” she sobbed, bursting violently into tears. “But the God I don’t believe in is a good God, a just God, amerciful God. He’s not the mean and stupid God you make Him out to be.”
　　Yossarian laughed and turned her arms loose. “Let’s have a little more religious freedom between us,” heproposed obligingly. “You don’t believe in the God you want to, and I won’t believe in the God I want to. Is thata deal?”
　　That was the most illogical Thanksgiving he could ever remember spending, and his thoughts returned wishfullyto his halcyon fourteen-day quarantine in the hospital the year before; but even that idyll had ended on a tragicnote; he was still in good health when the quarantine period was over, and they told him again that he had to getout and go to war. Yossarian sat up in bed when he heard the bad news and shouted.
　　“I see everything twice!”
　　Pandemonium broke loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions and ringed himin a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the humid breath from their various noses blowinguncomfortably upon the different sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beamsof light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks, drew blood from his veins, heldanything handy up for him to see on the periphery of his vision.
　　The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up directly in frontof Yossarian and demanded, “How many fingers do you see?”
　　“Two,” said Yossarian.
　　“How many fingers do you see now?” asked the doctor, holding up two.
　　“Two,” said Yossarian.
　　“And how many now?” asked the doctor, holding up none.
　　“Two,” said Yossarian.
　　The doctor’s face wreathed with a smile. “By Jove, he’s right,” he declared jubilantly. “He does see everything twice.”
　　They rolled Yossarian away on a stretcher into the room with the other soldier who saw everything twice andquarantined everyone else in the ward for another fourteen days.
　　“I see everything twice!” the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled Yossarian in.
　　“I see everything twice!” Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink.
　　“The walls! The walls!” the other soldier cried. “Move back the walls!”
　　“The walls! The walls!” Yossarian cried. “Move back the walls!”
　　One of the doctors pretended to shove the wall back. “Is that far enough?”
　　The soldier who saw everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded weakly too,eying his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He knew he was in the presence of a master.
　　His talented roommate was obviously a person to be studied and emulated. During the night, his talentedroommate died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough.
　　“I see everything once!” he cried quickly.
　　A new group of specialists came pounding up to his bedside with their instruments to find out if it was true.
　　“How many fingers do you see?” asked the leader, holding up one.
　　“One.”
　　The doctor held up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see now?”
　　“One.”
　　The doctor held up ten fingers. “And how many now?”
　　“One.”
　　The doctor turned to the other doctors with amazement. “He does see everything once!” he exclaimed. “Wemade him all better.”
　　“And just in time, too,” announced the doctor with whom Yossarian next found himself alone, a tall, torpedo-shaped congenial man with an unshaven growth of brown beard and a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket thathe chain-smoked insouciantly as he leaned against the wall. “There are some relatives here to see you. Oh, don’tworry,” he added with a laugh. “Not your relatives. It’s the mother, father and brother of that chap who died.
　　They’ve traveled all the way from New York to see a dying soldier, and you’re the handiest one we’ve got.”
　　“What are you talking about?” Yossarian asked suspiciously. “I’m not dying.”
　　“Of course you’re dying. We’re all dying. Where the devil else do you think you’re heading?”
　　“They didn’t come to see me,” Yossarian objected. “They came to see their son.”
　　“They’ll have to take what they can get. As far as we’re concerned, one dying boy is just as good as any other, orjust as bad. To a scientist, all dying boys are equal. I have a proposition for you. You let them come in and lookyou over for a few minutes and I won’t tell anyone you’ve been lying about your liver symptoms.”
　　Yossarian drew back from him farther. “You know about that?”
　　“Of course I do. Give us some credit.” The doctor chuckled amiably and lit another cigarette. “How do youexpect anyone to believe you have a liver condition if you keep squeezing the nurses’ tits every time you get achance? You’re going to have to give up sex if you want to convince people you’ve got an ailing liver.”
　　“That’s a hell of a price to pay just to keep alive. Why didn’t you turn me in if you knew I was faking?”
　　“Why the devil should I?” asked the doctor with a flicker of surprise. “We’re all in this business of illusiontogether. I’m always willing to lend a helping hand to a fellow conspirator along the road to survival if he’swilling to do the same for me. These people have come a long way, and I’d rather not disappoint them. I’msentimental about old people.”
　　“But they came to see their son.”
　　“They came too late. Maybe they won’t even notice the difference.”
　　“Suppose they start crying.”
　　“They probably will start crying. That’s one of the reasons they came. I’ll listen outside the door and break it upif it starts getting tacky.”
　　“It all sounds a bit crazy,” Yossarian reflected. “What do they want to watch their son die for, anyway?”
　　“I’ve never been able to figure that one out,” the doctor admitted, “but they always do. Well, what do you say?
　　All you’ve got to do is lie there a few minutes and die a little. Is that asking so much?”
　　“All right,” Yossarian gave in. “If it’s just for a few minutes and you promise to wait right outside.” He warmedto his role. “Say, why don’t you wrap a bandage around me for effect?”
　　“That sounds like a splendid idea,” applauded the doctor.
　　They wrapped a batch of bandages around Yossarian. A team of medical orderlies installed tan shades on each ofthe two windows and lowered them to douse the room in depressing shadows. Yossarian suggested flowers andthe doctor sent an orderly out to find two small bunches of fading ones with a strong and sickening smell. Wheneverything was in place, they made Yossarian get back into bed and lie down. Then they admitted the visitors.
　　The visitors entered uncertainly as though they felt they were intruding, tiptoeing in with stares of meek apology,first the grieving mother and father, then the brother, a glowering heavy-set sailor with a deep chest. The manand woman stepped into the room stify side by side as though right out of a familiar, though esoteric, anniversarydaguerreotype on a wall. They were both short, sere and proud. They seemed made of iron and old, darkclothing. The woman had a long, brooding oval face of burnt umber, with coarse graying black hair partedseverely in the middle and combed back austerely behind her neck without curl, wave or ornamentation. Hermouth was sullen and sad, her lined lips compressed. The father stood very rigid and quaint in a double-breastedsuit with padded shoulders that were much too tight for him. He was broad and muscular on a small scale andhad a magnificently curled silver mustache on his crinkled face. His eyes were creased and rheumy, and heappeared tragically ill at ease as he stood awkwardly with the brim of his black felt fedora held in his two brawnylaborer’s hands out in front of his wide lapels. Poverty and hard work had inflicted iniquitous damage on both.
　　The brother was looking for a fight. His round white cap was cocked at an insolent tilt, his hands were clenched,and he glared at everything in the room with a scowl of injured truculence.
　　The three creaked forward timidly, holding themselves close to each other in a stealthy, funereal group andinching forward almost in step, until they arrived at the side of the bed and stood staring down at Yossarian.
　　There was a gruesome and excruciating silence that threatened to endure forever. Finally Yossarian was unableto bear it any longer and cleared his throat. The old man spoke at last.
　　“He looks terrible,” he said.
　　“He’s sick, Pa.”
　　“Giuseppe,” said the mother, who had seated herself in a chair with her veinous fingers clasped in her lap.
　　“My name is Yossarian,” Yossarian said.
　　“His name is Yossarian, Ma. Yossarian, don’t you recognize me? I’m your brother John. Don’t you know who Iam?”
　　“Sure I do. You’re my brother John.”
　　“He does recognize me! Pa, he knows who I am. Yossarian, here’s Papa. Say hello to Papa.”
　　“Hello, Papa,” said Yossarian.
　　“Hello, Giuseppe.”
　　“His name is Yossarian, Pa.”
　　“I can’t get over how terrible he looks,” the father said.
　　“He’s very sick, Pa. The doctor says he’s going to die.”
　　“I didn’t know whether to believe the doctor or not,” the father said. “You know how crooked those guys are.”
　　“Giuseppe,” the mother said again, in a soft, broken chord of muted anguish.
　　“His name is Yossarian, Ma. She don’t remember things too good any more. How’re they treating you in here,kid? They treating you pretty good?”
　　“Pretty good,” Yossarian told him.
　　“That’s good. Just don’t let anybody in here push you around. You’re just as good as anybody else in here eventhough you are Italian. You’ve got rights, too.”
　　Yossarian winced and closed his eyes so that he would not have to look at his brother John. He began to feelsick.
　　“Now see how terrible he looks,” the father observed.
　　“Giuseppe,” the mother said.
　　“Ma, his name is Yossarian,” the brother interrupted her impatiently. “Can’t you remember?”
　　“It’s all right,” Yossarian interrupted him. “She can call me Giuseppe if she wants to.”
　　“Giuseppe,” she said to him.
　　“Don’t worry, Yossarian,” the brother said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
　　“Don’t worry, Ma,” Yossarian said. “Everything is going to be all right.”
　　“Did you have a priest?” the brother wanted to know.
　　“Yes,” Yossarian lied, wincing again.
　　“That’s good,” the brother decided. “Just as long as you’re getting everything you’ve got coming to you. Wecame all the way from New York. We were afraid we wouldn’t get here in time.”
　　“In time for what?”
　　“In time to see you before you died.”
　　“What difference would it make?”
　　“We didn’t want you to die by yourself.”
　　“What difference would it make?”
　　“He must be getting delirious,” the brother said. “He keeps saying the same thing over and over again.”
　　“That’s really very funny,” the old man replied. “All the time I thought his name was Giuseppe, and now I findout his name is Yossarian. That’s really very funny.”
　　“Ma, make him feel good,” the brother urged. “Say something to cheer him up.”
　　“Giuseppe.”
　　“It’s not Giuseppe, Ma. It’s Yossarian.”
　　“What difference does it make?” the mother answered in the same mourning tone, without looking up. “He’sdying.”
　　Her tumid eyes filled with tears and she began to cry, rocking back and forth slowly in her chair with her handslying in her lap like fallen moths. Yossarian was afraid she would start wailing. The father and brother begancrying also. Yossarian remembered suddenly why they were all crying, and he began crying too. A doctorYossarian had never seen before stepped inside the room and told the visitors courteously that they had to go.
　　The father drew himself up formally to say goodbye.
　　“Giuseppe,” he began.
　　“Yossarian,” corrected the son.
　　“Yossarian,” said the father.
　　“Giuseppe,” corrected Yossarian.
　　“Soon you’re going to die.”
　　Yossarian began to cry again. The doctor threw him a dirty look from the rear of the room, and Yossarian madehimself stop.
　　The father continued solemnly with his head lowered. “When you talk to the man upstairs,” he said, “I want youto tell Him something for me. Tell Him it ain’t right for people to die when they’re young. I mean it. Tell Him ifthey got to die at all, they got to die when they’re old. I want you to tell Him that. I don’t think He knows it ain’tright, because He’s supposed to be good and it’s been going on for a long, long time. Okay?”
　　“And don’t let anybody up there push you around,” the brother advised. “You’ll be just as good as anybody elsein heaven, even though you are Italian.”
　　“Dress warm,” said the mother, who seemed to know.
 18、看什么都是两个图像的士兵
　　约塞连身体非常健康，这得归功于体育锻炼、新鲜空气、伙伴的精诚合作以及他所具有的良好的运动家的道德风范。可是自从他想到进医院这一主意以后，那就意味着他得远离这一切。一天下午，当洛厄里基地的体育教官命令所有人员原地解散做健美体操的时候，士兵约塞连却去了医疗所，他报告说他的右腹部位有些疼痛。
　　“拍拍它，”正在玩纵横填字游戏的值班医生对他说。
　　“我们不能叫他拍，”一名下士说，“对于腹部疾病刚刚出台了一条新规定。我们得把病人留下来观察五天，因为他们其中有许多人在我们叫他们拍打过腹部之后正慢慢地死去。”
　　“好吧，”医生咕哝道，“把他留下来观察五天，然后再让他拍。”
　　他们把约塞连的衣服拿走了，让他住进一间病房。病房里没有人在他附近打呼噜，他很高兴。第二天早晨，一位年轻的英国实习医生匆匆走进来询问他的肝脏情况，他实际上给了约塞连很大的帮助。
　　“我想是我的阑尾疼，”约塞连对他说。
　　“阑尾疼有什么用，”那英国人洋洋自得地以专家的口气断言道，“如果是你的阑尾出了毛病，我们可以把它割了，很快就可以让你回到战斗岗位上去。但是要是你来跟我们说肝有问题，那倒可以糊弄我们几个星期。你知道，肝对我们来说可是个摸不着边际的、令人讨厌的神密玩意儿。你如果吃过动物肝脏，就明白我的意思了。我们今天已经相当肯定，肝是存在的，而且当它按照正常的情况运行时，我们对它的功能也比较了解。超出这一范围，我们真的是一无所知了。说到底，肝究竟是怎么回事？比如说，我的父亲死于肝癌，可直到临死前，他一生中从未生过一天病，从未感到过有半点的疼痛。从某种意义上说，那太便宜他了，因为我恨我的父亲。要知道，他把我母亲当成了泄欲工具。”
　　“一个英国医官来这儿值勤做什么？”约塞连想弄明白。
　　那个医官笑了起来。“我明天早晨来看你时把一切都告诉你。
　　把那个该死的冰袋扔掉，要不你会得肺炎死掉的。”
　　约塞连再也没见到他。那是有关这所医院里所有医生的有趣的事情之一。他再也没有见过他们中间的任何一个。他们来去匆匆，从此消失了。第二天代替那个英国实习医生的是一组他以前从未见过的医生，他们问他有关他阑尾的情况。
　　“我的阑尾没有问题，”约塞连告诉他们说，“昨天的医生说我的肝脏有问题。”
　　“也许是他的肝脏有问题，”那个负责的白头发的医官答道，“他的血球指数多少？”
　　“他还没有做过血球计算。”
　　“立即给他做一个。像他这种情形的病人我们不能冒险。万一他死掉了，我们得有理由为自己辩护。”他在带夹子的书写板上做了个记号，然后对约塞连说：“在此期间，把那个冰袋一直放在上面，这很重要。”
　　“我没有冰袋好放在上面。”
　　“那么，找一个吧。这附近什么地方一定有个冰袋。假如疼痛变得不能忍受，告诉我们。”
　　到第十天时，又来了一组医生，他们给约塞连带来了坏消息：
　　他身体极为健康，必须出院。在此关键时刻，走道对面的一个病人开始看什么东西都是两个图像，这可救了约塞连。那个病人未作任何说明，突然坐在床上大叫起来。
　　“我看什么东西都是两个图像。”
　　一名护士尖叫起来，还有一名护理员晕了过去。医生从四面八方跑过来，有的拿着针，有的拿着灯，还有的拿着试管、橡皮槌和振动金属叉。他们又陆续用车子推来了更多的精密而又复杂的器械。
　　就这一个病号，不够大伙分的，于是那些专家便排成一行，一个接一个地轮着给他诊治。一个个火气还大得很，常常是站在后面的人不客气地大声朝前面的人嚷嚷，催他们快点，给排在后面的人也留点机会。不久，一个长着大脑门，眼睛上戴着一副角质边框眼镜的上校得出了诊断结论。
　　“是脑膜炎，”他以强调的语气喊道，一边挥手让别人回去。“虽然天晓得没有丝毫的理由这么认为。”
　　“那你为什么说是脑膜炎？”一个少校带着讥笑的口吻问道。
　　“为什么不是，比如说，急性肾炎。”
　　“因为我是个脑膜炎医生，而不是个急性肾炎医生，这就是原因，”上校反驳说，“我可不打算就这么一声不响地将他拱手送给你们这些摆弄肾脏的家伙。我可是第一个到的。”
　　最后，所有的医生意见都一致了。他们一致认为他们不清楚那个看见重影的士兵出了什么毛病，于是，他们顺走廊把他推进了一间病房，并将原病房里的其他人隔离十四天。
　　感恩节到了，约塞连仍呆在医院里。感恩节过得很平静，没有出任何乱子。唯一不好的事情是晚餐火鸡，甚至火鸡也相当不错。
　　这是他过过的最平静的感恩节，于是他立下了神圣的誓言：以后每年都要在与世隔绝的医院病房里过感恩节。他第二年就打破了他的神圣誓言，这一年他是在一家旅馆的客房里过的节。那天，他与沙伊斯科普夫中尉的太太进行了学者式的谈话。沙伊斯科普夫中尉太太戴着多丽•达兹的身份识别牌。尽管她同约塞连一样不太相信上帝，但却像老婆教训丈夫似的口口声声责怪他对感恩节玩世不恭、毫无感情。
　　“我可能和你一样是个无神论者，”她以自夸的口气推测道，“但即便如此，我也感到我们都有许多事情需要感谢上帝，而且我们表现这一点也不应该感到羞耻。”
　　“你举个例子，说说有什么事情值得我表示感谢，”约塞连兴趣索然地以挑战的口气说道。
　　“这个——”沙伊斯科普夫中尉太太一时语塞，停了一会儿，犹豫不决地陷入了沉思。“为我。”
　　“咳，得了吧，”他嘲弄道。
　　她惊讶地扬起了双眉，问道：“你难道不为我而感谢上帝吗？”
　　她气冲冲地皱起眉头，自尊心受到了伤害。“我并不是非要跟你过夜不可，这你知道，”她摆出一副高贵的神气冷冰冰地对他说，“我丈夫有整整一中队的航空军校学员，他们就算是为了增加一点刺激也会非常高兴同他们队长的太太过夜的。”
　　约塞连决定换个话题。“你在变换话题嘛，”他很策略地指出来。“我可以打睹说，对于你能列出的需要感谢的每一件事，我都能举出两件使人感到痛苦的事情。”
　　“你得到了我应该表示感谢，”她坚持说。
　　“是的，宝贝。可是我又非常难过，因为我再也不能跟多丽•达兹好了，也不能跟我这短短的一生中将遇见并想要的成百上千的其他姑娘和女人好了，就连跟她们睡一觉都不可能。”
　　“你身体健康，应该表示感谢。”
　　“你不能那样一直保持健康，应该感到痛苦。”
　　“你还活着，应该感到高兴。”
　　“你将会死，为此而怒气冲冲。”
　　“事情可能更糟，”她喊道。
　　“它们也许好上千倍，”他情绪热烈地答道。
　　“你只举出一件事情，”她抗议说，“你刚才说你能举出两件。”
　　“别跟我说上帝的工作是神秘的，”约塞连不顾她的反对，连珠炮似地继续说道，“上帝没有什么特别神秘的地方。他根本没在工作。他在玩。要不就是他把我们全忘了。那就是你们这些人所说的上帝——一个土佬儿，一个笨手笨脚、笨头笨脑、自命不凡、粗野愚昧的乡巴佬。天啊，你对一个把像粘痰和龋齿这样的现象都必须包含在他神圣的造物体系之中的上帝能有多少尊敬呢？当他剥夺了老年人的大小便自控能力时，他那扭曲、邪恶、肮脏的大脑里究竟是怎么想的呢？他到底为什么要创造出疼痛来？”
　　“疼痛？”沙伊斯科普夫中尉太太一下抓住这个词，露出得胜者的神态。“疼痛是个有用的病症，疼痛警告我们：身体有了危险。”
　　“那么危险是谁创造出来的呢？”约塞连问道。他嘲笑说：“哦，他用疼痛警告我们，真是大慈大悲啊！他为什么不能用只门铃，或用他天上的一个唱诗班来通知我们呢？他也可以在每个人的额头正中间安一个红蓝霓虹灯装置嘛。这种事情任何一个地道的自动唱机制造商都能做得到。他为什么不能？”
　　“人们额头中间装上霓虹灯管四处走动，那样子看起来肯定很丑。”
　　“他们疼得扭动身体或被吗啡弄得呆头呆脑看起来就肯定漂亮吗？真是个制造大错误的不朽的罪人！你想想他有的是机会和权力去认认真真做事，再看看他搞的这个乱七八糟、丑陋不堪的局面，他的无能几乎让人吃惊。显然他从没有见到过工资单。唉，没有一个有自尊心的商人会雇用像他这样的笨蛋，哪怕雇他去做个发货员也不会。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫中尉太太简直不相信自己的耳朵，脸色变得苍白，害怕地直向他做媚眼。“你最好别像那样谈论上帝，宝贝，”她用略带敌意的责备口气轻声警告他说，“他也许会惩罚你的。”
　　“他难道惩罚得我还不够吗？”约塞连气呼呼地咕噜道，“嗨，我们不能让他做了错事就这么放过他。哦，不能，他给我们带来这么多苦难，我们不能让他逍遥法外。总有一天我会要他偿还的。我知道是哪一天。就是世界末日那天。对，那天我会离他很近，可以伸出手去抓住那个小乡巴佬的脖子，然后——”
　　“住口！住口！”沙伊斯科普夫中尉太太突然尖叫起来，开始用她的两只拳头朝他的脑袋四周乱打一气。“你住口！”
　　约塞连举起一只胳膊护着头，而她却在一阵狂怒中冲着他乱打一阵。过了片刻，他果断地抓住她的两只手腕，慢慢地使她坐回到床上去。“你到底出什么鬼这么激动不安？”他用后悔但又快活的口气疑惑不解地问她。“我以为你不信上帝。”
　　“我是不信。”她抽泣着，突然放声大哭起来。“但是我不相信的上帝是个好上帝，是个公正的上帝，是个仁慈的上帝。他可不像你污蔑的那样是个卑鄙愚蠢的上帝。”
　　约塞连笑了起来，松开她的双臂。“咱们两人之间应多一点宗教自由，”他彬彬有礼地建议道，“你不信你想信的上帝，我也不会信我想信的上帝。这样行了吧？”
　　那是他能记得的过的最荒唐的感恩节。他的思绪又回到了前一年在医院里度过的十四天平静的与世隔离的生活。但即使那段田园生活也是以悲剧结束的：隔离期满时他的身体仍旧很好，于是他们再次告诉他，他得出院上前线。约塞连听到这个坏消息后，坐在床上喊起来：
　　“我看什么东西都是两个图像！”
　　病房里又是一片混乱。专家们从四面八方奔跑过来，把他围在中间进行仔细检查；他们围得那样紧，他都能感觉到从不同鼻孔里呼出的湿呼呼的气息喷到他身体的不同部位，怪难受的。他们用细微的光线来检查他的眼睛和耳朵，用橡皮槌和振动叉敲他的双腿和双脚，从他的血管里抽血，并随手拿起手边的东西，举到他视力所及之处让他看。
　　这帮医生的头头举止庄重，细心体贴，颇有绅士风度。他在约塞连的正前方举起一只手指，问道：“你看见有几只手指？”
　　“两只，”约塞连答道。
　　“现在你看到几只？”医生伸出两只手指问道。
　　“两只，”约塞连回答说。
　　“那么现在几只？”医生问道，一只手指也没伸出来。
　　“两只，”约塞连说。
　　那个医生满脸堆笑。“啊，他没做假，”他兴高采烈他说道，“他真的看什么都是两个图像。”
　　他们把约塞连放在担架车上，推到另外那个看东西有重影的士兵住的房间，并把病房里所有其他的人再隔离十四天。
　　“我看什么东西都是两个图像！”当他们把约塞连推进病房时，那个看什么都是两个图像的士兵叫喊道。
　　“我看什么东西都是两个图像！”约塞连用同样高的嗓门朝他喊道，同时偷偷地朝他眨眨眼。
　　“有两道墙！有两道墙！”那个士兵嚷着，“把墙往后移一移。”
　　“有两道墙！有两道墙！”约塞连也喊道，“把墙往后移一移。”
　　其中一个医生假装把墙往后推去。“这样行了吗？”
　　那个看什么东西都是两个图像的士兵无力地点了点头，又在床上睡下了。约塞连也无力地点了点头，以极其谦卑和钦佩的眼神注视着他这位室友。他知道在他面前的是位大师。他这位天才的室友显然是个值得学习和竭力仿效的人物。那天晚上，他那位天才的室友死掉了，约塞连断定自己跟着他已经走得够远的了。
　　“我看什么东西只有一个图像啦！”他赶快喊道。
　　又一组医生带着各种仪器噔噔噔地奔到他的病床旁边，来查看是否属实。
　　“你看见几只手指？”带队医生伸出一只手指问道。
　　“一只。”
　　医生伸出两只手指。“现在你看见几只手指？”
　　“一只。”
　　医生伸出十只手指。“现在几只？”
　　“一只。”
　　带队医生诧异地转过脸望着其他医生。“他真的看什么都是一个图像！”他感叹道，“我们把他治得好多了。”
　　“而且还很及时，”另一个医生评论说。这个医生后来与约塞连单独呆了一会。他与约塞连性格相似。他个头挺高，长得像只鱼雷似的，一嘴棕色胡子好久没有剃过了；衬衫口袋里装着一包香烟，靠在墙上漫不经心地一支接着一支地抽着。“有几个亲戚上这儿看你们来了。哦，别担心，”他笑着补充说，“不是你的亲戚。是那个死了的小伙子的母亲、父亲和兄弟。他们大老远地从纽约赶来看望一个快要死的士兵，而你则是我们手边现成的一个。”
　　“你在说什么呀？”约塞连满腹狐疑地问道，“我可不是快要死的。”
　　“你当然要死的。我们大家都要死的。你以为你还能往哪里跑？”
　　“他们可不是来看我的，”约塞连反驳说，“他们来看他们的儿子。”
　　“他们能看到什么人就只好看什么人了。对我们来说，反正是快要死的小伙子，好歹都一样。对一个科学家而言，所有快要死的小伙子一律平等。我给你提个建议，如果你让他们进来看你几分钟，我就不把你一直在撒谎说你肝有毛病的事告诉任何人。”
　　约塞连退得离他更远点。“你知道那件事？”
　　“我当然知道。请相信我们。”那医生和蔼地轻声笑了笑，然后又点燃了一支烟。“每次一有机会你就不断地拧那些护士的奶头，怎么能让人相信你肝有毛病呢？如果你想让人相信你有肝病，你得不沾女色才行。”
　　“付那么大的代价仅仅为了活命。既然你知道我在装假，为什么不告发我？”
　　“我干吗要告发你？”医生有点惊讶地问道，“我们大家都在一同做假。在求生的道路上，只要某个同伙也愿意帮我，我总是乐意帮他一把的。这些人走了这么远的路，我不愿让他们失望。我很同情老人。”
　　“但是他们是来看他们的儿子的。”
　　“他们来得太晚了。也许他们根本看不出你不是他们的儿子。”
　　“说不准他们会哭起来呢。”
　　“他们很可能会哭。那是他们来的原因之一。我在门外听着，要是哭得不可收拾了，我就来制止他们。”
　　“这一切听起来都有点疯了。”约塞连沉思着。“但不管怎样，他们干吗要看着他们的儿子断气呢？”
　　“我一直也没能琢磨出个所以然来，”医生承认说，“不过他们总是这样。哎，你说怎么样？你需要做的就是在那儿躺几分钟，装得像要死了似的。这个要求不太过分吧？”
　　“好吧。”约塞连让步了。“但只能是几分钟，而且你保证等在门外。”他对这个角色产生了兴趣。“喂，我说，干吗不用绷带把我裹起来，那样效果不是更好吗？”
　　“这听起来倒是个挺好的主意。”医生听了直鼓掌。
　　他们在约塞连身上裹了一卷绷带。一帮护理员给两扇窗户都装上了棕褐色的窗帘，并放下窗帘，使房间里显得黑乎乎、阴沉沉的。约塞连建议放些花，医生马上派了一个护理员出去弄来两小束快要凋谢的花。花散发出刺鼻的、令人作呕的气味。当一切准备停当之后，他们让约塞连回到床上躺下来。然后他们让探访者进来了。
　　这几位探访者带着歉意的眼神，蹑手蹑脚、战战兢兢地走进病房，就像是未经邀请闯入人家的不速之客一样。先进屋的是悲痛欲绝的母亲和父亲，然后是那位满面怒容的兄弟，他是个身材矮胖、虎背熊腰的水手。这对夫妇表情呆板地肩并肩走进病房，就像刚从一幅挂在墙上的既熟悉又神秘的结婚周年纪念银板照片上走下来似的。他俩身材矮小，形容枯槁但却颇有自尊心。他们虽穿着深色的旧衣服，但身体却似钢筋铁骨。那女人有一张椭圆形的长脸，呈红棕色，带着沉思的表情，一头粗黑的头发已经泛白，从头正中截然分开，简单地梳向脑后，披在后颈上，没有卷曲、波纹或带什么装饰。她既伤心而又心情沉重，满是皱纹的嘴唇紧紧地抿着。那位父亲直挺挺地站在那里，穿着一套配有垫肩的双排扣西装，西装太小，看起来有点滑稽。他个子不高，但粗壮结实，满是皱纹的脸上蓄着两撇漂亮的向上翘起的小胡子。他的两只眼睛淌着粘液，眼角布满皱纹。他窘迫地站在那儿，一双强壮的劳动者的手抓着他的黑毡软呢帽的帽檐，搁在西装翻领前，那样子看起来又尴尬又凄惨。贫穷和辛劳使他俩过早地衰老了。那位兄弟像是要找人打架似的。他那白色的圆帽傲慢地斜扣在头上，双手握成拳头，带着一种因受到伤害而产生的好斗神色怒视着病房中的一切。
　　这三个人小心翼翼地朝前走来。他们紧挨在一起，像去参加葬礼似的，蹑手蹑脚，几乎步伐一致地一步一步地往前挪，直到走到床边才停下来，站在那儿低着头盯着约塞连。接下来是一阵令人厌恶、使人痛苦的沉默。这沉默像是要永远持续下去似的。最后，约塞连再也不能忍受了，便清了清嗓子。老头儿终于开口说话了。
　　“他看起来挺糟糕，”他说。
　　“他病得挺重，爸。”
　　“吉乌塞普，”母亲喊道。她已经在一张椅子上坐了下来，青筋凸起的手指紧紧地抓着膝盖。
　　“我叫约塞连，”约塞连说道。
　　“他叫约塞连，妈。约塞连，你认不得我了吗？我是你哥哥约翰。
　　你不认识我是谁了吗？”
　　“我当然认得。你是我哥哥约翰。”
　　“他真的认得出我呢！爸，他知道我是谁。约塞连，这是爸爸。跟爸爸说声好。”
　　“你好，爸爸，”约塞连说。
　　“你好，吉乌塞普。”
　　“他叫约塞连，爸。”
　　“他那样子太可怕了，我实在是很难过，”父亲说。
　　“他病得挺重，爸。医生说他要死了。”
　　“我不知道要不要信医生的话，”父亲说，“你知道那些家伙说话是多么不可信。”
　　“吉乌塞普，”母亲又喊道，声音虽低，但却因为痛苦而变了调。
　　“他叫约塞连，妈。她现在记性不大好了，在这儿他们待你怎么样，兄弟？他们待你还好吧？”
　　“挺好，”约塞连告诉他说。
　　“那就好。可别让这儿的任何人欺负你。哪怕你是个意大利人，你也同这里的任何人都一样。你还有你的权利嘛。”
　　约塞连有些胆怯，便闭上了眼睛，这样他就不必再看着他兄弟约翰了。他开始感到恶心。
　　“瞧，他现在这个样子多怕人，”父亲说。
　　“吉乌塞普，”母亲喊道。
　　“妈，他叫约塞连。”那兄弟不耐烦地打断她。“你难道记不住吗？”
　　“没关系，”约塞连打断他说，“她想叫我吉乌塞普就让她叫吧。”
　　“吉乌塞普，”她又叫了他一声。
　　“别担心，约塞连，”兄弟安慰他说，“一切都会好起来的。”
　　“别担心，妈，”约塞连说，“一切都会好起来的。”
　　“你有神父吗？”兄弟想知道。
　　“有的，”约塞连撒谎说，禁不住又一次畏缩起来。
　　“那就好，”兄弟说，“只要你需要的东西都有就好。我们大老远从纽约赶来。原来还担心不能及时赶到呢。”
　　“及时赶来干什么？”
　　“在你死前见你一面呗。”
　　“那又有什么区别？”
　　“我们不想让你孤零零地死去。”
　　“那又有什么区别？”
　　“他一定是神志不清了，”兄弟说，“他总是翻来覆去地说同一句话。”
　　“这事情真是滑稽，”老头儿说道，“我一直以为他的名字叫吉乌塞普，可现在我发现他的名字叫约塞连。真是太滑稽了。”
　　“妈，使他高兴一点，”兄弟劝她说，”说点什么让他高兴高兴。”
　　“吉乌塞普。”
　　“不是吉乌塞普，妈。是约塞连。”
　　“那有什么区别？”母亲用同样悲伤的调子，头也不抬地答道，“反正他就要死了。”
　　她肿胀的双眼老泪纵横，开始哭起来，身体在椅子里缓慢地前后晃动着，两只手平躺在膝盖上，就像两只死去的飞蛾。约塞连担心她会大哭起来。父亲和兄弟也开始哭起来。约塞连突然想起来他们为什么都在哭，于是他也开始哭起来。这时候，一名约塞连从未见过的医生走进病房，很有礼貌地对来访者说他们该走了。父亲挺直身体，很正规地道了个别。
　　“吉乌塞普，”他说。
　　“约塞连，”儿子更正说。
　　“约塞连，”父亲说。
　　“吉乌塞普，”约塞连更正说。
　　“你很快就要死了。”
　　约塞连又开始哭起来。医生从房间的后部狠狠地朝他瞪了一眼，于是约塞连便止住了哭。
　　父亲低下头神情庄重地接着说：“当你向天国里的那人汇报时，我想要你替我给他捎句话，告诉他让人年轻时就死掉是不对的。我是当真的。跟他说，要是人非死不可，得让他们老了再死。我要你把这话告诉他。我想他不一定知道这事不对，因为他应该是大慈大悲的，而这种事已经延续了好长好长时间了。行吗？”
　　“别让上边的人欺负你，”那兄弟告诫他说，“哪怕你是意大利人，你也不比天堂里的任何人差。”
　　“穿暖和些，”母亲说道，仿佛她知道天堂里的事情。
Chapter 19 Colonel Cathcart
    Colonel Cathcart was a slick, successful, slipshod, unhappy man of thirty-six who lumbered when he walked andwanted to be a general. He was dashing and dejected, poised and chagrined. He was complacent and insecure,daring in the administrative stratagems he employed to bring himself to the attention of his superiors and cravenin his concern that his schemes might all backfire. He was handsome and unattractive, a swashbuckling, beefy,conceited man who was putting on fat and was tormented chronically by prolonged seizures of apprehension.
　　Colonel Cathcart was conceited because he was a full colonel with a combat command at the age of only thirty-six; and Colonel Cathcart was dejected because although he was already thirty-six he was still only a full colonel.
　　Colonel Cathcart was impervious to absolutes. He could measure his own progress only in relationship to others,and his idea of excellence was to do something at least as well as all the men his own age who were doing thesame thing even better. The fact that there were thousands of men his own age and older who had not evenattained the rank of major enlivened him with foppish delight in his own remarkable worth; on the other hand,the fact that there were men of his own age and younger who were already generals contaminated him with anagonizing sense of failure and made him gnaw at his fingernails with an unappeasable anxiety that was evenmore intense than Hungry Joe’s.
　　Colonel Cathcart was a very large, pouting, broadshouldered man with close-cropped curly dark hair that wasgraying at the tips and an ornate cigarette holder that he purchased the day before he arrived in Pianosa to takecommand of his group. He displayed the cigarette holder grandly on every occasion and had learned tomanipulate it adroitly. Unwittingly, he had discovered deep within himself a fertile aptitude for smoking with acigarette holder. As far as he could tell, his was the only cigarette holder in the whole Mediterranean theater ofoperations, and the thought was both flattering and disquieting. He had no doubts at all that someone as debonairand intellectual as General Peckem approved of his smoking with a cigarette holder, even though the two were ineach other’s presence rather seldom, which in a way was very lucky, Colonel Cathcart recognized with relief,since General Peckem might not have approved of his cigarette holder at all. When such misgivings assailedColonel Cathcart, he choked back a sob and wanted to throw the damned thing away, but he was restrained byhis unswerving conviction that the cigarette holder never failed to embellish his masculine, martial physique with a high gloss of sophisticated heroism that illuminated him to dazzling advantage among all the other full colonelsin the American Army with whom he was in competition. Although how could he be sure?
　　Colonel Cathcart was indefatigable that way, an industrious, intense, dedicated military tactician who calculatedday and night in the service of himself. He was his own sarcophagus, a bold and infallible diplomat who wasalways berating himself disgustedly for all the chances he had missed and kicking himself regretfully for all theerrors he had made. He was tense, irritable, bitter and smug. He was a valorous opportunist who pouncedhoggishly upon every opportunity Colonel Korn discovered for him and trembled in damp despair immediatelyafterward at the possible consequences he might suffer. He collected rumors greedily and treasured gossip. Hebelieved all the news he heard and had faith in none. He was on the alert constantly for every signal, shrewdlysensitive to relationships and situations that did not exist. He was someone in the know who was always strivingpathetically to find out what was going on. He was a blustering, intrepid bully who brooded inconsolably overthe terrible ineradicable impressions he knew he kept making on people of prominence who were scarcely awarethat he was even alive.
　　Everybody was persecuting him. Colonel Cathcart lived by his wits in an unstable, arithmetical world of blackeyes and feathers in his cap, of overwhelming imaginary triumphs and catastrophic imaginary defeats. Heoscillated hourly between anguish and exhilaration, multiplying fantastically the grandeur of his victories andexaggerating tragically the seriousness of his defeats. Nobody ever caught him napping. If word reached him thatGeneral Dreedle or General Peckem had been seen smiling, frowning, or doing neither, he could not makehimself rest until he had found an acceptable interpretation and grumbled mulishly until Colonel Korn persuadedhim to relax and take things easy.
　　Lieutenant Colonel Korn was a loyal, indispensable ally who got on Colonel Cathcart’s nerves. Colonel Cathcartpledged eternal gratitude to Colonel Korn for the ingenious moves he devised and was furious with himafterward when he realized they might not work. Colonel Cathcart was greatly indebted to Colonel Korn and didnot like him at all. The two were very close. Colonel Cathcart was jealous of Colonel Korn’s intelligence and hadto remind himself often that Colonel Korn was still only a lieutenant colonel, even though he was almost tenyears older than Colonel Cathcart, and that Colonel Korn had obtained his education at a state university.
　　Colonel Cathcart bewailed the miserable fate that had given him for an invaluable assistant someone as commonas Colonel Korn. It was degrading to have to depend so thoroughly on a person who had been educated at a stateuniversity. If someone did have to become indispensable to him, Colonel Cathcart lamented, it could just aseasily have been someone wealthy and well groomed, someone from a better family who was more mature thanColonel Korn and who did not treat Colonel Cathcart’s desire to become a general as frivolously as ColonelCathcart secretly suspected Colonel Korn secretly did.
　　Colonel Cathcart wanted to be a general so desperately he was willing to try anything, even religion, and hesummoned the chaplain to his office late one morning the week after he had raised the number of missions tosixty and pointed abruptly down toward his desk to his copy of The Saturday Evening Post. The colonel wore hiskhaki shirt collar wide open, exposing a shadow of tough black bristles of beard on his egg-white neck, and had aspongy hanging underlip. He was a person who never tanned, and he kept out of the sun as much as possible toavoid burning. The colonel was more than a head taller than the chaplain and over twice as broad, and hisswollen, overbearing authority made the chaplain feel frail and sickly by contrast.
　　“Take a look, Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart directed, screwing a cigarette into his holder and seating himselfaffluently in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Let me know what you think.”
　　The chaplain looked down at the open magazine compliantly and saw an editorial spread dealing with anAmerican bomber group in England whose chaplain said prayers in the briefing room before each mission. Thechaplain almost wept with happiness when he realized the colonel was not going to holler at him. The two hadhardly spoken since the tumultuous evening Colonel Cathcart had thrown him out of the officers’ club at GeneralDreedle’s bidding after Chief White Halfoat had punched Colonel Moodus in the nose. The chaplain’s initial fearhad been that the colonel intended reprimanding him for having gone back into the officers’ club withoutpermission the evening before. He had gone there with Yossarian and Dunbar after the two had comeunexpectedly to his tent in the clearing in the woods to ask him to join them. Intimidated as he was by ColonelCathcart, he nevertheless found it easier to brave his displeasure than to decline the thoughtful invitation of histwo new friends, whom he had met on one of his hospital visits just a few weeks before and who had worked soeffectively to insulate him against the myriad social vicissitudes involved in his official duty to live on closestterms of familiarity with more than nine hundred unfamiliar officers and enlisted men who thought him an oddduck.
　　The chaplain glued his eyes to the pages of the magazine. He studied each photograph twice and read thecaptions intently as he organized his response to the colonel’s question into a grammatically complete sentencethat he rehearsed and reorganized in his mind a considerable number of times before he was able finally tomuster the courage to reply.
　　“I think that saying prayers before each mission is a very moral and highly laudatory procedure, sir,” he offeredtimidly, and waited.
　　“Yeah,” said the colonel. “But I want to know if you think they’ll work here.”
　　“Yes, sir,” answered the chaplain after a few moments. “I should think they would.”
　　“Then I’d like to give it a try.” The colonel’s ponderous, farinaceous cheeks were tinted suddenly with glowingpatches of enthusiasm. He rose to his feet and began walking around excitedly. “Look how much good they’vedone for these people in England. Here’s a picture of a colonel in The Saturday Evening Post whose chaplainconducts prayers before each mission. If the prayers work for him, they should work for us. Maybe if we sayprayers, they’ll put my picture in The Saturday Evening Post.”
　　The colonel sat down again and smiled distantly in lavish contemplation. The chaplain had no hint of what hewas expected to say next. With a pensive expression on his oblong, rather pale face, he allowed his gaze to settleon several of the high bushels filled with red plum tomatoes that stood in rows against each of the walls. Hepretended to concentrate on a reply. After a while he realized that he was staring at rows and rows of bushels ofred plum tomatoes and grew so intrigued by the question of what bushels brimming with red plum tomatoes weredoing in a group commander’s office that he forgot completely about the discussion of prayer meetings untilColonel Cathcart, in a genial digression, inquired:
　　“Would you like to buy some, Chaplain? They come right off the farm Colonel Korn and I have up in the hills. Ican let you have a bushel wholesale.”
　　“Oh, no, sir. I don’t think so.”
　　“That’s quite all right,” the colonel assured him liberally. “You don’t have to. Milo is glad to snap up all we canproduce. These were picked only yesterday. Notice how firm and ripe they are, like a young girl’s breasts.”
　　The chaplain blushed, and the colonel understood at once that he had made a mistake. He lowered his head inshame, his cumbersome face burning. His fingers felt gross and unwieldy. He hated the chaplain venomously forbeing a chaplain and making a coarse blunder out of an observation that in any other circumstances, he knew,would have been considered witty and urbane. He tried miserably to recall some means of extricating them bothfrom their devastating embarrassment. He recalled instead that the chaplain was only a captain, and hestraightened at once with a shocked and outraged gasp. His cheeks grew tight with fury at the thought that he hadjust been duped into humiliation by a man who was almost the same age as he was and still only a captain, andhe swung upon the chaplain avengingly with a look of such murderous antagonism that the chaplain began totremble. The colonel punished him sadistically with a long, glowering, malignant, hateful, silent stare.
　　“We were speaking about something else,” he reminded the chaplain cuttingly at last. “We were not speakingabout the firm, ripe breasts of beautiful young girls but about something else entirely. We were speaking aboutconducting religious services in the briefing room before each mission. Is there any reason why we can’t?”
　　“No, sir,” the chaplain mumbled.
　　“Then we’ll begin with this afternoon’s mission.” The colonel’s hostility softened gradually as he appliedhimself to details. “Now, I want you to give a lot of thought to the kind of prayers we’re going to say. I don’twant anything heavy or sad. I’d like you to keep it light and snappy, something that will send the boys outfeeling pretty good. Do you know what I mean? I don’t want any of this Kingdom of God or Valley of Deathstuff. That’s all too negative. What are you making such a sour face for?”
　　“I’m sorry, sir,” the chaplain stammered. “I happened to be thinking of the Twenty-third Psalm just as you saidthat.”
　　“How does that one go?”
　　“That’s the one you were just referring to, sir. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I—‘”
　　“That’s the one I was just referring to. It’s out. What else have you got?”
　　“’Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto—‘”
　　“No waters,” the colonel decided, blowing ruggedly into his cigarette holder after flipping the butt down into his combed-brass ash tray. “Why don’t we try something musical? How about the harps on the willows?”
　　“That has the rivers of Babylon in it, sir,” the chaplain replied. “’...there we sat down, yea, we wept, when weremembered Zion.’”
　　“Zion? Let’s forget about that one right now. I’d like to know how that one even got in there. Haven’t you gotanything humorous that stays away from waters and valleys and God? I’d like to keep away from the subject ofreligion altogether if we can.”
　　The chaplain was apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but just about all the prayers I know are rather somber in tone andmake at least some passing reference to God.”
　　“Then let’s get some new ones. The men are already doing enough bitching about the missions I send them onwithout our rubbing it in with any sermons about God or death or Paradise. Why can’t we take a more positiveapproach? Why can’t we all pray for something good, like a tighter bomb pattern, for example? Couldn’t wepray for a tighter bomb pattern?”
　　“Well, yes, sir, I suppose so,” the chaplain answered hesitantly. “You wouldn’t even need me if that’s all youwanted to do. You could do that yourself.”
　　“I know I could,” the colonel responded tartly. “But what do you think you’re here for? I could shop for my ownfood, too, but that’s Milo’s job, and that’s why he’s doing it for every group in the area. Your job is to lead us inprayer, and from now on you’re going to lead us in a prayer for a tighter bomb pattern before every mission. Isthat clear? I think a tighter bomb pattern is something really worth praying for. It will be a feather in all our capswith General Peckem. General Peckem feels it makes a much nicer aerial photograph when the bombs explodeclose together.”
　　“General Peckem, sir?”
　　“That’s right, Chaplain,” the colonel replied, chuckling paternally at the chaplain’s look of puzzlement. “Iwouldn’t want this to get around, but it looks like General Dreedle is finally on the way out and that GeneralPeckem is slated to replace him. Frankly, I’m not going to be sorry to see that happen. General Peckem is a verygood man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him. On the other hand, it might never take place, andwe’d still remain under General Dreedle. Frankly, I wouldn’t be sorry to see that happen either, because GeneralDreedle is another very good man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him too. I hope you’re going tokeep all this under your hat, Chaplain. I wouldn’t want either one to get the idea I was throwing my support onthe side of the other.”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“That’s good,” the colonel exclaimed, and stood up jovially. “But all this gossip isn’t getting us into TheSaturday Evening Post, eh, Chaplain? Let’s see what kind of procedure we can evolve. Incidentally, Chaplain,not a word about this beforehand to Colonel Korn. Understand?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　Colonel Cathcart began tramping back and forth reflectively in the narrow corridors left between his bushels ofplum tomatoes and the desk and wooden chairs in the center of the room. “I suppose we’ll have to keep youwaiting outside until the briefing is over, because all that information is classified. We can slip you in whileMajor Danby is synchronizing the watches. I don’t think there’s anything secret about the right time. We’llallocate about a minute and a half for you in the schedule. Will a minute and a half be enough?”
　　“Yes, sir. If it doesn’t include the time necessary to excuse the atheists from the room and admit the enlistedmen.”
　　Colonel Cathcart stopped in his tracks. “What atheists?” he bellowed defensively, his whole manner changing ina flash to one of virtuous and belligerent denial. “There are no atheists in my outfit! Atheism is against the law,isn’t it?”
　　“No, sir.”
　　“It isn’t?” The colonel was surprised. “Then it’s un-American, isn’t it?”
　　“I’m not sure, sir,” answered the chaplain.
　　“Well, I am!” the colonel declared. “I’m not going to disrupt our religious services just to accommodate a bunchof lousy atheists. They’re getting no special privileges from me. They can stay right where they are and pray withthe rest of us. And what’s all this about enlisted men? Just how the hell do they get into this act?”
　　The chaplain felt his face flush. “I’m sorry, sir. I just assumed you would want the enlisted men to be present,since they would be going along on the same mission.”
　　“Well, I don’t. They’ve got a God and a chaplain of their own, haven’t they?”
　　“No, sir.”
　　“What are you talking about? You mean they pray to the same God we do?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“And He listens?”
　　“I think so, sir.”
　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” remarked the colonel, and he snorted to himself in quizzical amusement. His spiritsdrooped suddenly a moment later, and he ran his hand nervously over his short, black, graying curls. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to let the enlisted men in?” he asked with concern.
　　“I should think it only proper, sir.”
　　“I’d like to keep them out,” confided the colonel, and began cracking his knuckles savagely as he wandered backand forth. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Chaplain. It isn’t that I think the enlisted men are dirty, common andinferior. It’s that we just don’t have enough room. Frankly, though, I’d just as soon the officers and enlisted mendidn’t fraternize in the briefing room. They see enough of each other during the mission, it seems to me. Some ofmy very best friends are enlisted men, you understand, but that’s about as close as I care to let them come.
　　Honestly now, Chaplain, you wouldn’t want your sister to marry an enlisted man, would you?”
　　“My sister is an enlisted man, sir,” the chaplain replied.
　　The colonel stopped in his tracks again and eyed the chaplain sharply to make certain he was not being ridiculed.
　　“Just what do you mean by that remark, Chaplain? Are you trying to be funny?”
　　“Oh, no, sir,” the chaplain hastened to explain with a look of excruciating discomfort. “She’s a master sergeantin the Marines.”
　　The colonel had never liked the chaplain and now he loathed and distrusted him. He experienced a keenpremonition of danger and wondered if the chaplain too were plotting against him, if the chaplain’s reticent,unimpressive manner were really just a sinister disguise masking a fiery ambition that, way down deep, wascrafty and unscrupulous. There was something funny about the chaplain, and the colonel soon detected what itwas. The chaplain was standing stiffly at attention, for the colonel had forgotten to put him at ease. Let him staythat way, the colonel decided vindictively, just to show him who was boss and to safeguard himself against anyloss of dignity that might devolve from his acknowledging the omission.
　　Colonel Cathcart was drawn hypnotically toward the window with a massive, dull stare of moody introspection.
　　The enlisted men were always treacherous, he decided. He looked downward in mournful gloom at the skeet-shooting range he had ordered built for the officers on his headquarters staff, and he recalled the mortifyingafternoon General Dreedle had tongue-lashed him ruthlessly in front of Colonel Korn and Major Danby andordered him to throw open the range to all the enlisted men and officers on combat duty. The skeet-shootingrange had been a real black eye for him, Colonel Cathcart was forced to conclude. He was positive that GeneralDreedle had never forgotten it, even though he was positive that General Dreedle didn’t even remember it, whichwas really very unjust, Colonel Cathcart lamented, since the idea of a skeet-shooting range itself should havebeen a real feather in his cap, even though it had been such a real black eye. Colonel Cathcart was helpless toassess exactly how much ground he had gained or lost with his goddam skeet-shooting range and wished thatColonel Korn were in his office right then to evaluate the entire episode for him still one more time and assuagehis fears.
　　It was all very perplexing, all very discouraging. Colonel Cathcart took the cigarette holder out of his mouth,stood it on end inside the pocket of his shirt, and began gnawing on the fingernails of both hands grievously.
　　Everybody was against him, and he was sick to his soul that Colonel Korn was not with him in this moment of crisis to help him decide what to do about the prayer meetings. He had almost no faith at all in the chaplain, whowas still only a captain. “Do you think,” he asked, “that keeping the enlisted men out might interfere with ourchances of getting results?”
　　The chaplain hesitated, feeling himself on unfamiliar ground again. “Yes, sir,” he replied finally. “I think it’sconceivable that such an action could interfere with your chances of having the prayers for a tighter bomb patternanswered.”
　　“I wasn’t even thinking about that!” cried the colonel, with his eyes blinking and splashing like puddles. “Youmean that God might even decide to punish me by giving us a looser bomb pattern?”
　　“Yes, sir,” said the chaplain. “It’s conceivable He might.”
　　“The hell with it, then,” the colonel asserted in a huff of independence. “I’m not going to set these damnedprayer meetings up just to make things worse than they are.” With a scornful snicker, he settled himself behindhis desk, replaced the empty cigarette holder in his mouth and lapsed into parturient silence for a few moments.
　　“Now I think about it,” he confessed, as much to himself as to the chaplain, “having the men pray to Godprobably wasn’t such a hot idea anyway. The editors of The Saturday Evening Post might not have co-operated.”
　　The colonel abandoned his project with remorse, for he had conceived it entirely on his own and had hoped tounveil it as a striking demonstration to everyone that he had no real need for Colonel Korn. Once it was gone, hewas glad to be rid of it, for he had been troubled from the start by the danger of instituting the plan without firstchecking it out with Colonel Korn. He heaved an immense sigh of contentment. He had a much higher opinion ofhimself now that his idea was abandoned, for he had made a very wise decision, he felt, and, most important, hehad made this wise decision without consulting Colonel Korn.
　　“Will that be all, sir?” asked the chaplain.
　　“Yeah,” said Colonel Cathcart. “Unless you’ve got something else to suggest.”
　　“No, sir. Only...”
　　The colonel lifted his eyes as though affronted and studied the chaplain with aloof distrust. “Only what,Chaplain?”
　　“Sir,” said the chaplain, “some of the men are very upset since you raised the number of missions to sixty.
　　They’ve asked me to speak to you about it.”
　　The colonel was silent. The chaplain’s face reddened to the roots of his sandy hair as he waited. The colonel kepthim squirming a long time with a fixed, uninterested look devoid of all emotion.
　　“Tell them there’s a war going on,” he advised finally in a flat voice.
　　“Thank you, sir, I will,” the chaplain replied in a flood of gratitude because the colonel had finally saidsomething. “They were wondering why you couldn’t requisition some of the replacement crews that are waitingin Africa to take their places and then let them go home.”
　　“That’s an administrative matter,” the colonel said. “It’s none of their business.” He pointed languidly toward thewall. “Help yourself to a plum tomato, Chaplain. Go ahead, it’s on me.”
　　“Thank you, sir. Sir—““Don’t mention it. How do you like living out there in the woods, Chaplain? Is everything hunky dory?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“That’s good. You get in touch with us if you need anything.”
　　“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Sir—““Thanks for dropping around, Chaplain. I’ve got some work to do now. You’ll let me know if you can think ofanything for getting our names into The Saturday Evening Post, won’t you?”
　　“Yes, sir, I will.” The chaplain braced himself with a prodigious effort of the will and plunged ahead brazenly.
　　“I’m particularly concerned about the condition of one of the bombardiers, sir. Yossarian.”
　　The colonel glanced up quickly with a start of vague recognition. “Who?” he asked in alarm.
　　“Yossarian, sir.”
　　“Yossarian?”
　　“Yes, sir. Yossarian. He’s in a very bad way, sir. I’m afraid he won’t be able to suffer much longer without doingsomething desperate.”
　　“Is that a fact, Chaplain?”
　　“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”
　　The colonel thought about it in heavy silence for a few moments. “Tell him to trust in God,” he advised finally.
　　“Thank you, sir,” said the chaplain. “I will.”
 19、卡思卡特上校
　　卡思卡特上校聪明圆滑，事业一帆风顺，但却衣着邋遢，满腹忧愁。他三十六岁，走起路来步伐沉重，一心想当将军。他有股子冲劲，但又容易泄气；他处事泰然自若，但又时常懊恼；他自鸣得意，但对自己的前程又没有把握；他无所顾忌地采用各种行政计谋以博取上级的青睐，但又害怕自己的计谋会弄巧成拙。他长相不错，但缺乏魁力；他强壮如牛，但又有些虚张声势，而且还很自负。他已经开始发胖，为此他时常感到担忧，想挥也挥不去，所以，长期以来他一直受着它的折磨。卡思卡特上校很自负，因为他才三十六岁就成了一名带领一支战斗部队的上校军官；但他又感到沮丧，因为他虽然已经三十六岁了还只不过是个上校。
　　卡思卡特上校不是个绝对主义者。他衡量自己的进步的唯一的方法就是拿自己同别人比较。他认为，所谓优秀，就是同样做一件事情，至少能同与他年龄相仿但做事却更高明的人做得一样好。
　　一方面，有成千上万和他年龄相同或者比他大的人还没爬到少校这一级，这一事实使他对自己的超人的才能和价值沾沾自喜；而另一方面，有不少同他一般年纪甚至比他年轻的人已经成了将军，这又使他产生一种失败感，使他痛心疾首，直咬指甲，那种难以抑制的急切心情甚至比亨格利•乔还要强烈。
　　卡思卡特上校身材高大，虎背熊腰，卷曲的黑发剪得短短的，发尖已开始发白，嘴里常叼着他来皮亚诺萨指挥飞行大队前一天购买的那个装饰精美的烟嘴。他一有机会就要把那烟嘴炫耀一番，而且他还学会了熟练地摆弄烟嘴的手段。他无意中发现，在他身体内部有一种生来就有的使用烟嘴抽烟的本领。据他所知，他的这个烟嘴在整个地中海战区是独一无二的。这一想法既使他喜形于色，又使他忧虑不安。他相信，像佩克姆将军那样又有教养又有知识的人肯定会赞同他用烟嘴抽烟的，尽管他与佩克姆将军很少见面。不过从另一个方面看，他们难得见面也不是什么坏事，卡思卡特上校欣慰地认识到这一点，因为佩克姆将军也有可能压根就不赞同他使用烟嘴。当这样的烦恼困扰他时，卡思卡特上校总强忍住呜咽，真想把这个该死的东西扔掉。但是他那种不可动摇的信念使他始终未能这么做，那就是：这个烟嘴一定会为他那副充满阳刚之气的军人体魄增色，使他显得老练、威武、卓越超群，明显胜过美军中所有其他与他竞争的上校军官。不过他到底有多大把握呢？
　　卡思卡特上校就是这么一个不知疲倦的人，一个不分昼夜地为了自己而不住地盘算着的勤劳、紧张、全身心投入的战术家。同时，他又是自己的掘墓人，既是一位颇具胆识的、一贯正确的外交家，又总是为自己失去了众多良机而责骂自己，或为自己所犯的所有错误而自怨自艾，懊悔不已。他神经紧张，性情急躁，言语尖刻，可又自鸣得意。他是个英勇无畏的机会主义者，贪婪地扑向科恩中校为他提供的每一个机会，可事后对自己可能遭受的不良后果又马上吓得浑身发抖，冷汗直冒。他极爱搜集谣言传闻，十分喜欢流言蜚语。他不管听到什么消息都信以为真，但对每一则消息又都不相信。他高度警觉，时刻准备应付每一个信号，即使对那些根本不存在的关系和情况也极其敏感。他是个了解内幕消息的人，总是可怜巴巴地想弄清正在发生什么事情。他是个狂暴、凶猛、欺软怕硬的恶棍。他记得他曾不断地给那些大人物留下了可怕的不可磨灭的印象，每想到这些他就伤心不已，可实际上，那些大人物几乎根本不知道有他这么个人活在世上。
　　每个人都在迫害他。卡思卡特上校凭他的才智生活在一个有时受到羞辱、有时得到荣誉、动荡不定、斤斤计较的社会里。他想象着，在这个社会里他有时得到了绝对的胜利，有时又遭到了灭顶的惨败。他时时刻刻都在极度的痛苦与极度的欢乐之间徘徊，一会儿将胜利的辉煌业绩扩大到了令人难以置信的程度，一会儿又把失败的严重性夸大到了惨绝人衰的地步。从未有人发现他对任何事情有过疏忽。如果他听说有人看见德里德尔将军或佩克姆将军微笑或皱眉头，或既不笑也不皱眉头，他不找到一个可以接受的解释是决不会使自己平静的，而且还老是唠叨个没完，直到科恩中校来劝他不要那么紧张，劝他把事情想开些为止。
　　科恩中校是个忠实且不可缺少的助手，可他总使卡思卡特上校心烦。卡思卡特上校对科恩中校提出的一些具有独创性的建议十分感激，并发誓说这种感激是永久不变的，可后来当他觉得这些建议行不通时，便对他大发雷霆。卡思卡特上校非常感激科恩中校的帮助，但根本就不喜欢他。这两个人只是关系很近而已。卡思卡特上校妒忌科恩中校的聪明才智，只得常常提醒自己科恩中校还只是个中校，而且还比自己大将近十岁，又是个州立大学的毕业生，卡思卡特上校悲叹命运不公，他需要一个得力的助手，可命运却给了他一个像科恩这样平庸的人。得完全依靠一个州立大学毕业的人，真是有失身份。卡思卡特上校伤心地感叹道：要是有人真的要成为他的必不可少的助手的话，他得是个富有、有教养、出身名门的人，要比科恩中校成熟得多，而且不会把他一心想当将军的强烈愿望看做是毫无意义的妄想。卡思卡特上校内心里怀疑科恩中校私下里就是这么看待他的。
　　卡思卡特上校一心渴望当将军，以至于他宁愿尝试任何手段，甚至不惜利用宗教来达到目的。在他下令把战斗飞行的次数提高到六十次的那个星期的某天上午的后半晌，他把随军牧师叫到他的办公室里，突然朝下指着他办公桌上那份《星期六晚邮报》。上校穿着卡其布衬衫，领口大敞着，短而硬的黑须茬子映在雪白的颈子上，富有弹性的下唇下垂着。他是个从未被晒黑过的人，他总是尽可能地避开阳光，免得皮肤被晒黑。上校比牧师高出一个头还要多，身体宽出一倍，因此，在他那副趾高气扬的官架子面前，牧师感到弱不禁风，苍白无力。
　　“看看这个，牧师，”卡思卡特上校吩咐道，一边把一支香烟塞进烟嘴里，一边满满当当地坐在他办公桌后的转椅里。“告诉我你是怎么认为的。”
　　牧师顺从地低下头看了看那份打开着的杂志，看见是满满一页社论，内容是关于美国驻英格兰的一支轰炸机大队的随军牧师在每次战斗任务前都要在简令下达室里做祷告：当牧师意识到上校并不准备训斥他时，他高兴得几乎要哭起来。自从那个闹哄哄的夜晚，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特朝穆达士上校的鼻子揍了一拳之后，卡思卡特上校遵照德里德尔将军的吩咐把他扔出军官俱乐部以来，他俩几乎还没说过话。牧师起初担心的是，他前天晚上未经允许又去了军官俱乐部，上校因此要训斥他。他是同约塞连和邓巴一道去的。那天晚上，这两个人突然来到林中空地上他的帐篷里要他同他们一起去，虽然他受到卡思卡特上校的威胁，但他觉得他宁愿冒惹卡思卡特上校生气的危险，也不愿谢绝这两位新朋友的盛情邀请。这两位新朋友是他几星期前去医院的一次访问中刚刚结识的。他的职责是同九百多名陌生的官兵生活在一起、并与他们保持最密切的关系，而这些官兵却认为他是个古怪的家伙，顺此，他势必会在人际交往中遇到不少令人意想不到的事情，而这两位朋友却卓有成效地帮他从其中解脱了出来。
　　牧师眼睛盯着杂志，将每幅照片都看了两遍、并全神贯注地看了照片的说明，与此同时，他在反复思考如何回答上校的问题，并在头脑里组织好正确、完整的句子；默念了好几遍，最终才鼓起勇气开口回答。
　　“我认为在每次飞行任务前做祷告是非常道德，且又十分值得赞美的做法，长官。”他胆怯地提出了自己的看法，然后等待着。
　　“是的，”上校说，“不过我想知道，你是否认为做祷告在这儿会起作用。”
　　“会的，长官，”牧师停了一会儿回答说，“我想一定会起作用的。”
　　“那么，我倒想试一试。”上校那阴沉沉的、像淀粉做成的雪白的双颊突然泛起两片热情的红晕。他站起身来，激动地走来走去。
　　“瞧，做祷告给在英国的这些人带来了多大的好处。《星期六晚邮报》上登了一幅上校的照片，每次执行任务前，他的随军牧师都要做祷告。如果祷告对他有作用，那对我们也应该有作用。假如我们也做祷告，他们也许会把我的照片也登在《星期六晚邮报》上。”
　　上校又坐下来，脸上带着茫然的微笑想入非非起来。牧师感到不得要领，不知接下去该说什么才好。他那长方形的、苍白的脸上带着忧郁的表情，目光渐渐落在那几只装满了红色梨形番茄的大筐上。像这样的筐屋里有许多，里面装满了红色梨形番茄，沿墙四周摆了一排又一排。他假装在考虑问题。过了一会儿，他才意识到自己正凝视着一排排装在筐里的红色梨形番茄，注意力完全转移到了这个问题上：这一筐筐装得满满的红色梨形番茄摆在大队指挥官的办公室里干什么？他把做祷告的话题忘得一干二净。这时，卡思卡特上校也离开了话题，用温和的语调问道：
　　“你想买一点吗，牧师？它们是从我和科恩中校在山上的农场里刚摘下来的。我可以优惠卖一筐给你。”
　　“噢，不要，长官。我不想买。”
　　“不买也没关系，”上校大度地安慰他说，“你不一定非要买。不管我们收多少米洛都乐意要。这些番茄是昨天刚刚摘下来的。你瞧，它们是多么结实饱满，和大姑娘的乳房一样。”
　　牧师脸红了，上校马上明白自己说错了话。他羞愧地低下头，臃肿的脸上热辣辣的。他的手指都变得迟顿、笨拙、不听使唤了。他恨透了牧师，就因为他是个牧师，才使他铸成说话粗俗的大错。他明白，他那个比喻若在其他任何情况下，都会被认为是趣味横生、温文尔雅的连珠妙语。他绞尽脑汁想找个办法让他们两人从这极为尴尬的场面中摆脱出来。办法他没想出来，却记起牧师只不过是个上尉而已。于是，他立刻挺直了身子，既像吃惊又像受到侮辱似的喘了口粗气。想到刚才一个年纪与自己差不多、军衔不过是上尉的人竟使自己蒙受羞辱，上校气得绷紧了脸，用杀气腾腾的眼神复仇似地扫了牧师一眼，吓得牧师哆嗦了起来。上校用愤怒、恶意和仇恨的目光，长时间一言不发地瞪着牧师，像个虐待狂似的以此来惩罚他。
　　“我们刚才在谈另外一件事，”他最终尖刻地提醒牧师说，“我们刚才谈的事情不是漂亮姑娘的成熟、丰满的乳房，而是另一件与此完全不相干的事。我们谈的是每次飞行任务前在简令下达室里举行宗教仪式的事。难道有理由说我们不能这么做？”
　　“没有，长官，”牧师嘟哝着说。
　　“那么，我们就从今天下午的飞行任务开始。”当上校谈起细节问题时，他原先那种敌意的态度也渐渐变得温和起来。“现在，我要你仔细考虑一下我们要说的祷告词。我不喜欢令人忧郁、悲伤的话。我想要你念些轻松愉快的祈祷文，让那些小伙子出去飞行时感觉良好。你明白我的意思吗？我不想听那种‘上帝的国度’或‘死亡的幽谷’之类的废话。那些话太消极。你干吗这样愁眉苦脸的？”
　　“对不起，长官，”牧师结结巴巴地说，“就在你说刚才那些话时，我恰好想到了第二十三首赞美诗。”
　　“那诗是怎么说的？”
　　“就是你刚才提到的那首，长官。‘基督是我的牧羊人，我——’”“那是我刚才提到的一首。这首不要。你还有别的什么吗？”
　　“‘啊，上帝，拯救我；洪水漫进了——’”。
　　“洪水也不要，”上校断言道，一面把烟头轻弹进他那精制的黄铜烟灰缸里，然后对着烟嘴吹得呜呜响。“咱们为什么不试试跟音乐有关的祈祷文呢？柳树上的竖琴那首怎么样？”
　　“那首诗里提到了巴比伦的河，长官，”牧师回答说，“……我等坐于彼处，当我等忆及郇山，就哭泣了。’”“郇山？咱们忘掉这段吧。我倒想知道那首诗是怎么被收进去的。你就不记得什么有趣的诗，文中没有洪水、幽谷和上帝吗？如果可能，我倒想完全避开宗教不谈。”
　　牧师感到抱歉。“对不起，长官，但我所知道的所有祈祷文调子都相当低沉，而且至少要顺带提到上帝。”
　　“那让咱们找些新的祷告词。那些家伙的埋怨已经够多的了，说我派遣他们执行任务前没有布道，没谈上帝、死亡或天堂什么的。咱们为什么不能采取一种更积极的方法？为什么不能祈祷一些美好的事情，比如说，把炸弹投得更密集些？难道咱们不能祈祷把炸弹投得更密集些吗？”
　　“这个，可以，长官，我想可以，”牧师犹豫不决地答道，“假如那是您想做的一切，您甚至都用不着我。您自己就可以做。”
　　“我知道我可以做，”上校尖刻地答道，“但你认为你在这儿是干什么的？我也可以为自己购买食物，但那是米洛的工作，那就是他为什么要为本地区每一个飞行大队购买食物的道理，你的工作是带领我们做祈祷。从现在起，每次执行飞行任务前，你将带领我们祈祷把炸弹投得更密集些。明白吗？我认为把炸弹投得更密集些倒的确是件值得祈祷的事。那样，佩克姆将军将会给我们所有的人嘉奖。佩克姆将军认为，当炸弹紧挨在一起爆炸时，从空中看到的景观就更漂亮。”
　　“佩克姆将军，长官？”
　　“是的，牧师，”上校回答说，看着牧师那副迷惑不解的神情，他像父亲似的咯咯地笑了起来。“我不想让这事传出去，但看来德里德尔将军最终要调走了，而佩克姆将军已被提名来接替他。坦率地说，我对发生这样的事情并不感到难过。佩克姆将军是个非常好的人，我相信我们大家在他的领导下处境会好得多。但另一方面，这种情况也许决不会发生，我们继续在德里德尔将军手下工作。坦率地说，我对此也不会感到难受，因为德里德尔将军也是个非常好的人。我想，我们大家在他的手下干，处境也将会好得多。我希望对这一切你能守口如瓶，牧师。我不想让他们两人中任何一位知道我在支持另一位。”
　　“是，长官。”
　　“那就好，”上校大声说道，然后快活地站起身来。“不过，这些闲谈是不可能让我们上《星期六晚邮报》的，不是吗，牧师？让我们看看还能想出什么办法来。顺便说一下，牧师，关于这事，事先一个字也不要透露给科恩中校。明白吗？”
　　“明白，长官。”
　　卡思卡特上校开始在那一筐筐红色梨形番茄与屋子中央的办公桌和木椅子之间留出来的那些狭窄的空道里来回走动着，一边走一边思考着。“我想我们得让你在门外等到作战命令下达完毕，因为一切消息都是保密的；等到丹比少校给大家对表时，我们再让你悄悄地进来。我想校对时间没什么可保密的。我们在日程安排上可以留一分半钟。一分半钟够了吗？”
　　“够了，长官；如果不包括让那些无神论者从房间里出去并让士兵进来的时间。”
　　卡思卡特上校停住了脚步。“什么无神论者？”他自卫似地吼道，一眨眼换了个人似的，摆出一副德行高尚、要与无神论者决斗的架势。“我的部队里决没有无神论者！无神论是违法的，不是吗？”
　　“不是，长官。”
　　“不违法？”上校吃惊地问，“那么，它就是非美活动，不是吗？”
　　“我不太清楚，长官，”牧师回答说。
　　“哼，我清楚！”上校断言说，“我不会为了迁就一小撮无耻的无神论者而毁掉我们的宗教仪式；他们不可能从我这儿得到任何特权。他们可以呆在原地和我们一同祈祷。怎么又冒出士兵的事？***真见鬼，他们干吗要参加这个活动？”
　　牧师感到脸红了。“对不起，长官。我刚才以为既然士兵将一同执行作战任务，您一定也想让他们一同参加祈祷。”
　　“嗯，我可没这样想。他们有自己的上帝和牧师，不是吗？”
　　“没有，长官。”
　　“你说什么？你的意思是他们与我们向同一个上帝祈祷？”
　　“是的，长官。”
　　“那么上帝也听？”
　　“我想是的，长官。”
　　“呸，真见鬼，”上校评论说。他觉得荒唐可笑，暗自哼了一声。
　　过了一会儿，他的情绪突然低落下去。他心神不安地用手抹了抹他那又短又黑的、有点灰白的卷发，关切地问道：“你真的认为让士兵进来是个好主意吗？”
　　“我倒是认为只有这样才妥当，长官。”
　　“我想把他们拒之门外。”上校说出了心里话。他一边来回走动，一边把指关节弄得啪啪响。“哦，别误解了我的意思，牧师。那并不是说我认为士兵卑微、平庸、低人一等，而是我们没有足够大的房间。不过，说实话，我不大希望当官的和当兵的在简令下达室里称兄道弟。我觉得他们在执行任务过程中见面的机会已经够多的了。你是了解的，我最要好的朋友中有几个就是士兵，但我跟他们要好也是有限度的。说真心话，牧师，你不会愿意你的妹妹嫁给一个士兵吧？”
　　“我妹妹本人就是个士兵，长官，”牧师回答说。
　　上校再次停住脚步，目光锐利地盯着牧师，想搞清楚牧师是不是在嘲弄他。“你那么说是什么意思，牧师？你是想开个玩笑？”
　　“哦，不是，长官，”牧师带着极其不安的神色急忙解释说，“她是海军陆战队的一名军士长。”
　　上校从未喜欢过牧师，现在就更讨厌他，不信任他了。他突然产生了一种强烈的可能遭到危险的预感。他怀疑牧师也在阴谋反对他，怀疑牧师那沉默寡言、平平淡淡的举止实际上是一种险恶的伪装，掩藏着内心深处熊熊燃烧着的、狡猾而肆无忌惮的野心。此时牧师有什么地方让人觉得可笑，上校很快就发现是什么问题了。
　　牧师一直直挺挺地立正站在那里，原来上校忘了让他“稍息”了。就让他那么站着好了，上校带着报复的心理作出了决定，让他看看谁是长官，再说向他承认疏忽难免不丢架子。
　　卡思卡特上校昏昏沉沉地走向窗前，他目光忧郁、呆滞，内心正在进行反省。他断定，士兵总是有叛逆之心的。他满面愁容地俯视着那个根据他的命令为他的司令部里的参谋们修建的飞靶射击场，想起了那个使他蒙受耻辱的下午。那天下午，德里德尔将军当着科恩中校和丹比少校的面毫不留情地把他训斥了一顿，并命令他把射击场对所有执行战斗任务的官兵开放。这个飞靶射击场对他来说真是件丑事，卡思卡特上校不能不得出这样的结论。他确信德里德尔将军从未忘掉这件事，不过他也确信德里德尔将军甚至根本就记不得这件事了。这件事的确很不公平，卡思卡特上校为此感到痛心，因为即便这件事如此使他丢人现眼，但修建一个飞靶射击场这个主意本身应该是他的荣耀。这个该死的射击场使他得到了多大好处，或是蒙受了多大损失，卡思卡特上校无法准确地估量出来。他希望科恩中校此时此刻就在他的办公室里，再帮他估量一下这件事的整个得失，减轻他的担忧。
　　一切都使人不知所措，令人泄气。卡思卡特上校把烟嘴从嘴上拿下来，竖着放进了衬衫口袋里，然后开始难过地咬起两只手的指甲来。每个人都反对他，而使他伤心透顶的是科恩中校在这关键时刻也不在他身边，就祈祷的事帮他决定该怎么办。他对牧师几乎毫无信赖感，而且牧师只是个上尉。“你认为，”上校问道，“把士兵排除在外会不会影响我们取得成效的机会呢？”
　　牧师犹豫起来，觉得这对自己又是个陌生的问题。“会的，长官，”他最后答道，“我认为，既然你们要祈祷把炸弹投得更密集些，那么这种做法可能会影响你们取得成效的机会。”
　　“我根本没有考虑这个问题！”上校喊道，两只眼睛像两个小水坑似的闪动着。“你是说上帝甚至会决定惩罚我们，让我们把炸弹投得更加稀稀拉拉的？”
　　“是的，长官，”牧师说，“有可能上帝会这样决定。”
　　“那就见它的鬼去吧，”上校断言说，怒气冲冲地不想依赖任何人。“我搞这些该死的祈祷并不是要把事情搞得更糟。”他冷笑了一声，在办公桌后坐下来，然后把空烟嘴重又叼在嘴上，有好长时间一言不发地坐在那儿沉思苦想。“现在我考虑清楚了，”他既像是对牧师也像是对自己表白说，“不管怎样，让官兵向上帝祈祷可能不是好主意。《星期六晚邮报》的编辑们也许不会与我们合作。”
　　上校懊悔地放弃了他的这个计划，因为这个计划是他独自一人设想出来的，他曾希望把它作为一个引人注目的例证拿出来给众人看一看，他并不真正需要科恩中校。既然现在这个计划不行了，他很乐意舍弃它，因为他制定这个计划时没有事先同科恩中校商量，因此他从一开始就担心这个计划有风险。他满意地长舒了一口气；现在既然他放弃了这个计划，他对自己的评价就更高了，因为他觉得他作出了一个非常明智的决定，而且最重要的是，他没有同科恩中校商量就作出了这一明智的决定。
　　“还有其他事吗，长官？”牧师问道。
　　“没啦，”卡思卡特上校回答说，“除非你还有什么别的建议。”
　　“没有，长官。只是……”
　　上校像是受到冒犯似的抬起头，带着冷淡而不信任的表情看着牧师。“只是什么，牧师？”
　　“长官，”牧师说，“因为您把飞行任务增加到了六十次，有些官兵感到非常不安。他们要我把这件事向您反映一下。”
　　上校缄口不语。牧师等在那儿，脸一直红到沙色的头发根旁；
　　上校脸上毫无表情，用冷冷的目光死死地盯着牧师，使牧师长时间不安地扭动着身体。
　　“告诉他们现在正在打仗，”他最后用平淡的语气劝告他说。
　　“谢谢长官，我一定照办，”牧师极为感激地答道，因为上校终于开口说话了。“他们感到纳闷，你为什么不调一些正在非洲待命的预备机组人员来接替他们，然后让他们回家。”
　　“那是个行政问题，”上校说，“不关他们的事。”他无精打采地指了指墙那边。“吃个红色梨形番茄吧，牧师。吃吧，我付钱。”
　　“谢谢长官。长官——”
　　“别客气。你住在外面林子里还喜欢吧，牧师？一切都挺不错吧？”
　　“是的，长官。”
　　“那就好。如果你需要什么，来找我们好了。”
　　“是，长官。谢谢长官。长官——”
　　“谢谢你来这儿，牧师，我现在有些工作要处理一下。如果你想到什么好主意能让我们的名字上《星期六晚邮报》的话，请告诉我，行吗？”
　　“行，长官，我会的，”牧师用惊人的毅力和勇气打起精神，厚着脸说道，“我特别担心一名投弹手的情形，长官，他叫约塞连。”
　　上校觉得这名字有些耳熟，吃惊地匆匆向上扫了一眼。“谁？”
　　他惊恐地问道。
　　“约塞连，长官。”
　　“约塞连？”
　　“是的，长官。是叫约塞连。他的情形很不好，长官。我担心他忍受不了多久，会挺而走险地做出一些出格的事来。”
　　“这事确实吗，牧师？”
　　“是的，长官。恐怕是的。”
　　上校默默地考虑了一会。“告诉他应该相信上帝，”他最后劝告说。
　　“谢谢长官，”牧师说，“我一定照办。”
Chapter 20 Corporal Whitcomb
    The late-August morning sun was hot and steamy, and there was no breeze on the balcony. The chaplain movedslowly. He was downcast and burdened with self-reproach when he stepped without noise from the colonel’soffice on his rubber-soled and rubber-heeled brown shoes. He hated himself for what he construed to be his owncowardice. He had intended to take a much stronger stand with Colonel Cathcart on the matter of the sixtymissions, to speak out with courage, logic and eloquence on a subject about which he had begun to feel verydeeply. Instead he had failed miserably, had choked up once again in the face of opposition from a strongerpersonality. It was a familiar, ignominious experience, and his opinion of himself was low.
　　He choked up even more a second later when he spied Colonel Korn’s tubby monochrome figure trotting up thecurved, wide, yellow stone staircase toward him in lackadaisical haste from the great dilapidated lobby belowwith its lofty walls of cracked dark marble and circular floor of cracked grimy tile. The chaplain was even morefrightened of Colonel Korn than he was of Colonel Cathcart. The swarthy, middle-aged lieutenant colonel withthe rimless, icy glasses and faceted, bald, domelike pate that he was always touching sensitively with the tips ofhis splayed fingers disliked the chaplain and was impolite to him frequently. He kept the chaplain in a constantstate of terror with his curt, derisive tongue and his knowing, cynical eyes that the chaplain was never braveenough to meet for more than an accidental second. Inevitably, the chaplain’s attention, as he cowered meeklybefore him, focused on Colonel Korn’s midriff, where the shirttails bunching up from inside his sagging belt andballooning down over his waist gave him an appearance of slovenly girth and made him seem inches shorter thanhis middle height. Colonel Korn was an untidy disdainful man with an oily skin and deep, hard lines runningalmost straight down from his nose between his crepuscular jowls and his square, clefted chin. His face wasdour, and he glanced at the chaplain without recognition as the two drew close on the staircase and prepared topass.
　　“Hiya, Father,” he said tonelessly without looking at the chaplain. “How’s it going?”
　　“Good morning, sir,” the chaplain replied, discerning wisely that Colonel Korn expected nothing more in theway of a response.
　　Colonel Korn was proceeding up the stairs without slackening his pace, and the chaplain resisted the temptationto remind him again that he was not a Catholic but an Anabaptist, and that it was therefore neither necessary norcorrect to address him as Father. He was almost certain now that Colonel Korn remembered and that calling himFather with a look of such bland innocence was just another one of Colonel Korn’s methods of taunting himbecause he was only an Anabaptist.
　　Colonel Korn halted without warning when he was almost by and came whirling back down upon the chaplainwith a glare of infuriated suspicion. The chaplain was petrified.
　　“What are you doing with that plum tomato, Chaplain?” Colonel Korn demanded roughly.
　　The chaplain looked down his arm with surprise at the plum tomato Colonel Cathcart had invited him to take. “I got it in Colonel Cathcart’s office, sir,” he managed to reply.
　　“Does the colonel know you took it?”
　　“Yes, sir. He gave it to me.”
　　“Oh, in that case I guess it’s okay,” Colonel Korn said, mollified. He smiled without warmth, jabbing thecrumpled folds of his shirt back down inside his trousers with his thumbs. His eyes glinted keenly with a privateand satisfying mischief. “What did Colonel Cathcart want to see you about, Father?” he asked suddenly.
　　The chaplain was tongue-tied with indecision for a moment. “I don’t think I ought—““Saying prayers to the editors of The Saturday Evening Post?”
　　The chaplain almost smiled. “Yes, sir.”
　　Colonel Korn was enchanted with his own intuition. He laughed disparagingly. “You know, I was afraid he’dbegin thinking about something so ridiculous as soon as he saw this week’s Saturday Evening Post. I hope yousucceeded in showing him what an atrocious idea it is.”
　　“He has decided against it, sir.”
　　“That’s good. I’m glad you convinced him that the editors of The Saturday Evening Post were not likely to runthat same story twice just to give some publicity to some obscure colonel. How are things in the wilderness,Father? Are you able to manage out there?”
　　“Yes, sir. Everything is working out.”
　　“That’s good. I’m happy to hear you have nothing to complain about. Let us know if you need anything to makeyou comfortable. We all want you to have a good time out there.”
　　“Thank you, sir. I will.”
　　Noise of a growing stir rose from the lobby below. It was almost lunchtime, and the earliest arrivals were driftinginto the headquarters mess halls, the enlisted men and officers separating into different dining halls on facingsides of the archaic rotunda. Colonel Korn stopped smiling.
　　“You had lunch with us here just a day or so ago, didn’t you, Father?” he asked meaningfully.
　　“Yes, sir. The day before yesterday.”
　　“That’s what I thought,” Colonel Korn said, and paused to let his point sink in. “Well, take it easy, Father. I’llsee you around when it’s time for you to eat here again.”
　　“Thank you, sir.”
　　The chaplain was not certain at which of the five officers’ and five enlisted men’s mess halls he was scheduled tohave lunch that day, for the system of rotation worked out for him by Colonel Korn was complicated, and he hadforgotten his records back in his tent. The chaplain was the only officer attached to Group Headquarters who didnot reside in the moldering red-stone Group Headquarters building itself or in any of the smaller satellitestructures that rose about the grounds in disjuncted relationship. The chaplain lived in a clearing in the woodsabout four miles away between the officers’ club and the first of the four squadron areas that stretched awayfrom Group Headquarters in a distant line. The chaplain lived alone in a spacious, square tent that was also hisoffice. Sounds of revelry traveled to him at night from the officers’ club and kept him awake often as he turnedand tossed on his cot in passive, half-voluntary exile. He was not able to gauge the effect of the mild pills he tookoccasionally to help him sleep and felt guilty about it for days afterward.
　　The only one who lived with the chaplain in his clearing in the woods was Corporal Whitcomb, his assistant.
　　Corporal Whitcomb, an atheist, was a disgruntled subordinate who felt he could do the chaplain’s job muchbetter than the chaplain was doing it and viewed himself, therefore, as an underprivileged victim of socialinequity. He lived in a tent of his own as spacious and square as the chaplain’s. He was openly rude andcontemptuous to the chaplain once he discovered that the chaplain would let him get away with it. The borders ofthe two tents in the clearing stood no more than four or five feet apart.
　　It was Colonel Korn who had mapped out this way of life for the chaplain. One good reason for making thechaplain live outside the Group Headquarters building was Colonel Korn’s theory that dwelling in a tent as mostof his parishioners did would bring him into closer communication with them. Another good reason was the factthat having the chaplain around Headquarters all the time made the other officers uncomfortable. It was one thingto maintain liaison with the Lord, and they were all in favor of that; it was something else, though, to have Himhanging around twenty-four hours a day. All in all, as Colonel Korn described it to Major Danby, the jittery andgoggle-eyed group operations officer, the chaplain had it pretty soft; he had little more to do than listen to thetroubles of others, bury the dead, visit the bedridden and conduct religious services. And there were not so manydead for him to bury any more, Colonel Korn pointed out, since opposition from German fighter planes hadvirtually ceased and since close to ninety per cent of what fatalities there still were, he estimated, perished behindthe enemy lines or disappeared inside the clouds, where the chaplain had nothing to do with disposing of theremains. The religious services were certainly no great strain, either, since they were conducted only once a weekat the Group Headquarters building and were attended by very few of the men.
　　Actually, the chaplain was learning to love it in his clearing in the woods. Both he and Corporal Whitcomb hadbeen provided with every convenience so that neither might ever plead discomfort as a basis for seekingpermission to return to the Headquarters building. The chaplain rotated his breakfasts, lunches and dinners inseparate sets among the eight squadron mess halls and ate every fifth meal in the enlisted men’s mess at GroupHeadquarters and every tenth meal at the officers’ mess there. Back home in Wisconsin the chaplain had beenvery fond of gardening, and his heart welled with a glorious impression of fertility and fruition each time hecontemplated the low, prickly boughs of the stunted trees and the waist-high weeds and thickets by which he wasalmost walled in. In the spring he had longed to plant begonias and zinnias in a narrow bed around his tent but had been deterred by his fear of Corporal Whitcomb’s rancor. The chaplain relished the privacy and isolation ofhis verdant surroundings and the reverie and meditation that living there fostered. Fewer people came to himwith their troubles than formerly, and he allowed himself a measure of gratitude for that too. The chaplain didnot mix freely and was not comfortable in conversation. He missed his wife and his three small children, and shemissed him.
　　What displeased Corporal Whitcomb most about the chaplain, apart from the fact that the chaplain believed inGod, was his lack of initiative and aggressiveness. Corporal Whitcomb regarded the low attendance at religiousservices as a sad reflection of his own status. His mind germinated feverishly with challenging new ideas forsparking the great spiritual revival of which he dreamed himself the architect—box lunches, church socials, formletters to the families of men killed and injured in combat, censorship, Bingo. But the chaplain blocked him.
　　Corporal Whitcomb bridled with vexation beneath the chaplain’s restraint, for he spied room for improvementeverywhere. It was people like the chaplain, he concluded, who were responsible for giving religion such a badname and making pariahs out of them both. Unlike the chaplain, Corporal Whitcomb detested the seclusion ofthe clearing in the woods. One of the first things he intended to do after he deposed the chaplain was move backinto the Group Headquarters building, where he could be right in the thick of things.
　　When the chaplain drove back into the clearing after leaving Colonel Korn, Corporal Whitcomb was outside inthe muggy haze talking in conspiratorial tones to a strange chubby man in a maroon corduroy bathrobe and grayflannel pajamas. The chaplain recognized the bathrobe and pajamas as official hospital attire. Neither of the twomen gave him any sign of recognition. The stranger’s gums had been painted purple; his corduroy bathrobe wasdecorated in back with a picture of a B-25 nosing through orange bursts of flak and in front with six neat rows oftiny bombs signifying sixty combat missions flown. The chaplain was so struck by the sight that he stopped tostare. Both men broke off their conversation and waited in stony silence for him to go. The chaplain hurriedinside his tent. He heard, or imagined he heard, them tittering.
　　Corporal Whitcomb walked in a moment later and demanded, “What’s doing?”
　　“There isn’t anything new,” the chaplain replied with averted eyes. “Was anyone here to see me?”
　　“Just that crackpot Yossarian again. He’s a real troublemaker, isn’t he?”
　　“I’m not so sure he’s a crackpot,” the chaplain observed.
　　“That’s right, take his part,” said Corporal Whitcomb in an injured tone, and stamped out.
　　The chaplain could not believe that Corporal Whitcomb was offended again and had really walked out. As soonas he did realize it, Corporal Whitcomb walked back in.
　　“You always side with other people,” Corporal Whitcomb accused. “You don’t back up your men. That’s one ofthe things that’s wrong with you.”
　　“I didn’t intend to side with him,” the chaplain apologized. “I was just making a statement.”
　　“What did Colonel Cathcart want?”
　　“It wasn’t anything important. He just wanted to discuss the possibility of saying prayers in the briefing roombefore each mission.”
　　“All right, don’t tell me,” Corporal Whitcomb snapped and walked out again.
　　The chaplain felt terrible. No matter how considerate he tried to be, it seemed he always managed to hurtCorporal Whitcomb’s feelings. He gazed down remorsefully and saw that the orderly forced upon him byColonel Korn to keep his tent clean and attend to his belongings had neglected to shine his shoes again.
　　Corporal Whitcomb came back in. “You never trust me with information,” he whined truculently. “You don’thave confidence in your men. That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you.”
　　“Yes, I do,” the chaplain assured him guiltily. “I have lots of confidence in you.”
　　“Then how about those letters?”
　　“No, not now,” the chaplain pleaded, cringing. “Not the letters. Please don’t bring that up again. I’ll let you knowif I have a change of mind.”
　　Corporal Whitcomb looked furious. “Is that so? Well, it’s all right for you to just sit there and shake your headwhile I do all the work. Didn’t you see the guy outside with all those pictures painted on his bathrobe?”
　　“Is he here to see me?”
　　“No,” Corporal Whitcomb said, and walked out.
　　It was hot and humid inside the tent, and the chaplain felt himself turning damp. He listened like an unwillingeavesdropper to the muffled, indistinguishable drone of the lowered voices outside. As he sat inertly at therickety bridge table that served as a desk, his lips were closed, his eyes were blank, and his face, with its paleochre hue and ancient, confined clusters of minute acne pits, had the color and texture of an uncracked almondshell. He racked his memory for some clue to the origin of Corporal Whitcomb’s bitterness toward him. In someway he was unable to fathom, he was convinced he had done him some unforgivable wrong. It seemed incrediblethat such lasting ire as Corporal Whitcomb’s could have stemmed from his rejection of Bingo or the form lettershome to the families of the men killed in combat. The chaplain was despondent with an acceptance of his ownineptitude. He had intended for some weeks to have a heart-to-heart talk with Corporal Whitcomb in order tofind out what was bothering him, but was already ashamed of what he might find out.
　　Outside the tent, Corporal Whitcomb snickered. The other man chuckled. For a few precarious seconds, thechaplain tingled with a weird, occult sensation of having experienced the identical situation before in some priortime or existence. He endeavored to trap and nourish the impression in order to predict, and perhaps even control, what incident would occur next, but the afatus melted away unproductively, as he had known beforehandit would. Déjà vu. The subtle, recurring confusion between illusion and reality that was characteristic ofparamnesia fascinated the chaplain, and he knew a number of things about it. He knew, for example, that it wascalled paramnesia, and he was interested as well in such corollary optical phenomena as jamais vu, never seen,and presque vu, almost seen. There were terrifying, sudden moments when objects, concepts and even peoplethat the chaplain had lived with almost all his life inexplicably took on an unfamiliar and irregular aspect that hehad never seen before and which made them totally strange: jamais vu. And there were other moments when healmost saw absolute truth in brilliant flashes of clarity that almost came to him: presque vu. The episode of thenaked man in the tree at Snowden’s funeral mystified him thoroughly. It was not déjà vu, for at the time he hadexperienced no sensation of ever having seen a naked man in a tree at Snowden’s funeral before. It was notjamais vu, since the apparition was not of someone, or something, familiar appearing to him in an unfamiliarguise. And it was certainly not presque vu, for the chaplain did see him.
　　A jeep started up with a backfire directly outside and roared away. Had the naked man in the tree at Snowden’sfuneral been merely a hallucination? Or had it been a true revelation? The chaplain trembled at the mere idea. Hewanted desperately to confide in Yossarian, but each time he thought about the occurrence he decided not tothink about it any further, although now that he did think about it he could not be sure that he ever really hadthought about it.
　　Corporal Whitcomb sauntered back in wearing a shiny new smirk and leaned his elbow impertinently against thecenter pole of the chaplain’s tent.
　　“Do you know who that guy in the red bathrobe was?” he asked boastfully. “That was a C.I.D. man with afractured nose. He came down here from the hospital on official business. He’s conducting an investigation.”
　　The chaplain raised his eyes quickly in obsequious commiseration. “I hope you’re not in any trouble. Is thereanything I can do?”
　　“No, I’m not in any trouble,” Corporal Whitcomb replied with a grin. “You are. They’re going to crack down onyou for signing Washington Irving’s name to all those letters you’ve been signing Washington Irving’s name to.
　　How do you like that?”
　　“I haven’t been signing Washington Irving’s name to any letters,” said the chaplain.
　　“You don’t have to lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb answered. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”
　　“But I’m not lying.”
　　“I don’t care whether you’re lying or not. They’re going to get you for intercepting Major Major’scorrespondence, too. A lot of that stuff is classified information.”
　　“What correspondence?” asked the chaplain plaintively in rising exasperation. “I’ve never even seen any ofMajor Major’s correspondence.”
　　“You don’t have to lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb replied. “I’m not the one you have to convince.”
　　“But I’m not lying!” protested the chaplain.
　　“I don’t see why you have to shout at me,” Corporal Whitcomb retorted with an injured look. He came awayfrom the center pole and shook his finger at the chaplain for emphasis. “I just did you the biggest favor anybodyever did you in your whole life, and you don’t even realize it. Every time he tries to report you to his superiors,somebody up at the hospital censors out the details. He’s been going batty for weeks trying to turn you in. I justput a censor’s okay on his letter without even reading it. That will make a very good impression for you up atC.I.D. headquarters. It will let them know that we’re not the least bit afraid to have the whole truth about youcome out.”
　　The chaplain was reeling with confusion. “But you aren’t authorized to censor letters, are you?”
　　“Of course not,” Corporal Whitcomb answered. “Only officers are ever authorized to do that. I censored it inyour name.”
　　“But I’m not authorized to censor letters either. Am I?”
　　“I took care of that for you, too,” Corporal Whitcomb assured him. “I signed somebody else’s name for you.”
　　“Isn’t that forgery?”
　　“Oh, don’t worry about that either. The only one who might complain in a case of forgery is the person whosename you forged, and I looked out for your interests by picking a dead man. I used Washington Irving’s name.”
　　Corporal Whitcomb scrutinized the chaplain’s face closely for some sign of rebellion and then breezed aheadconfidently with concealed irony. “That was pretty quick thinking on my part, wasn’t it?”
　　“I don’t know,” the chaplain wailed softly in a quavering voice, squinting with grotesque contortions of anguishand incomprehension. “I don’t think I understand all you’ve been telling me. How will it make a goodimpression for me if you signed Washington Irving’s name instead of my own?”
　　“Because they’re convinced that you are Washington Irving. Don’t you see? They’ll know it was you.”
　　“But isn’t that the very belief we want to dispel? Won’t this help them prove it?”
　　“If I thought you were going to be so stuffy about it, I wouldn’t even have tried to help,” Corporal Whitcombdeclared indignantly, and walked out. A second later he walked back in. “I just did you the biggest favoranybody ever did you in your whole life and you don’t even know it. You don’t know how to show yourappreciation. That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you.”
　　“I’m sorry,” the chaplain apologized contritely. “I really am sorry. It’s just that I’m so completely stunned by all you’re telling me that I don’t even realize what I’m saying. I’m really very grateful to you.”
　　“Then how about letting me send out those form letters?” Corporal Whitcomb demanded immediately. “Can Ibegin working on the first drafts?”
　　The chaplain’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “No, no,” he groaned. “Not now.”
　　Corporal Whitcomb was incensed. “I’m the best friend you’ve got and you don’t even know it,” he assertedbelligerently, and walked out of the chaplain’s tent. He walked back in. “I’m on your side and you don’t evenrealize it. Don’t you know what serious trouble you’re in? That C.I.D. man has gone rushing back to the hospitalto write a brand-new report on you about that tomato.”
　　“What tomato?” the chaplain asked, blinking.
　　“The plum tomato you were hiding in your hand when you first showed up here. There it is. The tomato you’restill holding in your hand right this very minute!”
　　The captain unclenched his fingers with surprise and saw that he was still holding the plum tomato he hadobtained in Colonel Cathcart’s office. He set it down quickly on the bridge table. “I got this tomato from ColonelCathcart,” he said, and was struck by how ludicrous his explanation sounded. “He insisted I take it.”
　　“You don’t have to lie to me,” Corporal Whitcomb answered. “I don’t care whether you stole it from him ornot.”
　　“Stole it?” the chaplain exclaimed with amazement. “Why should I want to steal a plum tomato?”
　　“That’s exactly what had us both stumped,” said Corporal Whitcomb. “And then the C.I.D. man figured out youmight have some important secret papers hidden away inside it.”
　　The chaplain sagged limply beneath the mountainous weight of his despair. “I don’t have any important secretpapers hidden away inside it,” he stated simply. “I didn’t even want it to begin with. Here, you can have it andsee for yourself.”
　　“I don’t want it.”
　　“Please take it away,” the chaplain pleaded in a voice that was barely audible. “I want to be rid of it.”
　　“I don’t want it,” Corporal Whitcomb snapped again, and stalked out with an angry face, suppressing a smile ofgreat jubilation at having forged a powerful new alliance with the C.I.D. man and at having succeeded again inconvincing the chaplain that he was really displeased.
　　Poor Whitcomb, sighed the chaplain, and blamed himself for his assistant’s malaise. He sat mutely in aponderous, stultifying melancholy, waiting expectantly for Corporal Whitcomb to walk back in. He was disappointed as he heard the peremptory crunch of Corporal Whitcomb’s footsteps recede into silence. Therewas nothing he wanted to do next. He decided to pass up lunch for a Milky Way and a Baby Ruth from his footlocker and a few swallows of luke-warm water from his canteen. He felt himself surrounded by dense,overwhelming fogs of possibilities in which he could perceive no glimmer of light. He dreaded what ColonelCathcart would think when the news that he was suspected of being Washington Irving was brought to him, thenfell to fretting over what Colonel Cathcart was already thinking about him for even having broached the subjectof sixty missions. There was so much unhappiness in the world, he reflected, bowing his head dismally beneaththe tragic thought, and there was nothing he could do about anybody’s, least of all his own.
 20、惠特科姆下士
　　八月下旬的朝阳热烘烘的，晒得大地水汽腾腾，阳台上一丝风也没有。随军牧师慢吞吞地走着。当他穿着那双棕色的胶底胶跟鞋静悄悄地从上校的办公室里出来的时候，他垂头丧气，不停地责备自己。他恨自己胆小怕事。他原先打算就六十次飞行任务一事对卡思卡特上校采取较为强硬的立场，对一个自己已开始深为关切的问题大胆地进行一番有条有理的雄辩。可事实却相反，在一个更加强硬的人的反对下，他一败涂地，又一次语塞了。这是一次司空见惯了的、不光彩的经历，他实在是很瞧不起自己。
　　片刻之后，当他发现科恩中校那矮胖的、单色的身影正无精打采地急匆匆地快步登上用黄色石块砌成的宽阔的弧形楼梯向他走过来时，他语塞得就更厉害了。科恩中校从下面那个高大、破败的门厅里走上来。门厅高高的黑色大理石墙壁上满是裂痕，圆形地面上的砖也已破裂，积满污垢。随军牧师虽害怕卡思卡特上校，但更怕科恩中校。这个皮肤黝黑的中年中校戴着一副寒气逼人的无边眼镜，总是不停地张开手用指尖敏感地摸摸他那个凸凹不平的、像个圆形大屋顶似的光脑袋。他不喜欢牧师，常常对他不礼貌。他用粗率无礼、冷嘲热讽的言词和洞悉一切、似笑非笑的目光使牧师常处于一种担惊受怕的状态，除了偶尔刹那间的目光相遇之外，牧师从没有足够的勇气去正视中校片刻。由于牧师在中校面前总是战战兢兢、低头哈腰，因此他的目光总是不可避免地落在科恩中校的腰部，看见他的衬衫下摆从凹陷下去的皮带里皱巴巴地鼓出来，像只气球似的垂挂在腰间，使他的腰部显得臃肿、邋遢，因此他虽是中等身材，但看起来比实际身高要矮几英寸。科恩中校是个不修边幅、傲慢无礼的人，皮肤油光光的，几道又深又粗的皱纹几乎一直从鼻子下延伸到灰暗的两颊下的垂肉和似刀削的方下巴之间。他脸色阴沉，当他们两人在楼梯上走近，将要擦肩而过时，他朝牧师扫了一眼，没有显示出任何认出他的神情。
　　“你好，神父，”他用平板的声调问候说，连看都没看牧师一眼。
　　“过得好吗？”
　　“早晨好，长官，”牧师答道，他明白地看出来科恩中校只不过是要他回问一声好。
　　科恩中校没有放慢脚步，继续朝楼梯上方走，牧师真想再次提醒他，他不是天主教教徒而是再洗礼教教徒，因此没有必要叫他神父，而且这样称呼也不正确，但他忍住了。他几乎可以肯定科恩中校是记得这一点的，他带着一种如此无动于衷的无知神情叫他神父只不过是他嘲弄他的另一种方法，因为他只是一名再洗礼教教徒。
　　科恩中校几乎已经走过去了，突然又冷不防地停了下来，转过身一阵风似地朝牧师冲过来，眼里露出愤怒、怀疑的目光。牧师吓呆了。
　　“你拿着那只红番茄做什么，牧师？”科恩中校态度粗暴地问道。
　　牧师惊讶地低头看了看手里那只卡思卡特上校叫他拿的红番茄。“我是在卡思卡特上校办公室里拿的，长官，”他费了很大劲才回答出来。
　　“上校知道你拿吗？”
　　“知道，长官。是他送给我的。”
　　“哦，既是这样，我想那就没关系了，”科恩中校说，态度缓和了下来。他毫无热情地笑了笑，一面用大拇指把皱巴巴的衬衫下摆重又塞进裤子里去。他两只眼睛闪烁着刺人的光，流露出一种暗自得意的恶作剧的神色。“卡思卡特上校召你去干什么，神父？”他突然问。
　　牧师结结巴巴，一时不知该如何回答。“我想我不该——”
　　“做祷告给《星期六晚邮报》的编辑们看？”
　　牧师差点笑出来。“是的，长官。”
　　科恩中校为自己的直觉感到高兴。他轻蔑地大笑起来。“你知道，我担心他一看到这个星期的《星期六晚邮报》，就会开始考虑如此荒唐可笑的事。我希望你成功地向他表明了这是一个多么糟糕的主意。”
　　“他已经决定不这么干了，长官。”
　　“那就好。我很高兴你使他确信《星期六晚邮报》的编辑们不可能重复登载那种相同的故事，去宣传某个不出名的上校。在野地里过得怎么样，神父？还能对付吧？”
　　“能，长官。没什么问题。”
　　“很好。我很高兴听到你说没什么问题。如果你需要点什么让自己过得舒服些，就告诉我们。我们大家都想让你在野外过得愉快。”
　　“谢谢你，长官。我会的。”
　　从下面门厅那边传来一阵越来越大的喧闹声。快到吃午餐的时间了，最先到的人正走进大队部的食堂。士兵和军官分别进入了不同的餐厅，餐厅就设在那个具有古代建筑风格的圆形大厅的四周。科恩中校收住了微笑。
　　“你一二天前曾在这儿和我们共进过午餐，对吗，神父？”他意味深长地问道。
　　“是的，长官。是前天。”
　　“我想也是前天，”科恩中校说，然后停了一下，让牧师慢慢领会他的意思。“那么，放心好了，神父。当到了你再到这儿来吃饭的时候，我会考虑你的。”
　　“谢谢长官。”
　　军官餐厅和士兵餐厅各有五个，牧师不清楚哪天他被安排在哪个餐厅吃午餐，因为科恩中校为他制定的轮流就餐制度十分复杂，而他又把记录本遗忘在帐篷里了。随军牧师是唯一一位隶属于大队部编制而不住在那幢破旧的、红石头砌的大队指挥部大楼里的军官，他也不住在大楼四周那些独立的、较小的卫星式建筑物里。牧师住在大约四英里外一块介于军官俱乐部和四个中队营区中第一个中队营区之间的林间空地上。这四个中队的营区排成一线，从大队部所在地一直延伸到很远的地方。牧师独自一人住在一顶宽大的方形帐篷里，那也是他的办公室。夜晚，从军官俱乐部那边传来的狂欢声常常使这位过着半是被迫半是自愿的流放生活的随军牧师躺在帆布行军床上翻来覆去难以入眠。他偶尔吃几片药性温和的药丸助他入睡，可那些药丸对他没有什么作用，而且事后他还要内疚好几天。
　　唯一和随军牧师一起住在林间空地上的是他的助手惠特科姆下士。惠特科姆下士是个无神论者、也是个心怀不满的部下，因为他觉得他做随军牧师的工作能比牧师本人做得好得多，因此他把自己看做是被剥夺了基本权利的社会不公正现象的受害者。他住在一顶同牧师的帐篷一样宽敞的方形帐篷里。自从有一次他发现自己做了错事牧师竟没有惩罚他之后，他便公开地对牧师采取粗暴、蔑视的态度。空地上的两顶帐敞间至多不过四五英尺。
　　是科恩中校为牧师安排了这种生活方式。科恩中校认为，有一条很好的理由让随军牧师住在大队部大楼之外，那就是，牧师像他的大多数教徒那样住在帐篷里能使他与教徒之间保持更密切的联系。另一条重要的理由是，让牧师一天到晚呆在大队部周围会使其他军官感到不自在。同上帝保持联系是一码事，他们都赞同这一点，但让上帝一天二十四小时都呆在身边就是另一码事了。总之，正如科恩中校向那个极度紧张不安、眼珠突出的大队作战参谋丹比少校所描绘的那样，牧师的日子过得很轻松，他只要听听别人诉说烦恼，举行葬礼，看望卧床不起的伤病员和主持宗教仪式。科恩中校指出，现在已不再有多少死人需要他去举行葬礼，因为德国战斗机的反击基本上已经停止，还因为，据他估计，将近百分之九十的现有阵亡人员不是死在敌军防线之后就是在云层中失踪了，因此牧师根本用不着去处理尸体。再说，主持宗教仪式也不是什么太劳累的事，因为每周只在大队部大楼里举行一次，而且参加的人也很少。
　　事实上，牧师正努力使自己喜欢在这片林间空地上生活。人们为他和惠特科姆下士两人提供了一切便利措施，因此他俩谁也不可能以生活不便为依据，要求允许他们回到大队部大楼里去。牧师轮流到八个飞行中队的食堂去和不同的人吃早餐、中餐和晚餐，每五餐最后一餐去大队部的士兵食堂吃，每十餐最后一餐去那儿的军官食堂吃。还在威斯康星州家中的时候，牧师非常喜欢栽培花木。每当他陷入沉思，想起那些小树的低矮、多刺的树枝和几乎把他围起来的、齐腰深的野草和灌木丛的时候，一种土地肥沃、果实累累的美好印象便涌上心头。春天，他很想在帐篷四周种上窄窄的一条秋海棠和百日草，但又害怕惠特科姆下士有怨气而未种。牧师非常欣赏自己住在这青枝绿叶的环境中才会有的幽静和与世隔绝的气氛，以及生活在那儿所引起的种种遐想和幽思。现在来找他倾吐苦恼的人比以前少多了，他对此也表示几分感谢，牧师不善与人相处，与人谈话也不大自在。他很想念妻子和三个幼小的孩子，他的妻子也想念他。
　　除了牧师相信上帝这一点之外，惠特科姆下上最讨厌牧师的就是他缺乏主动性，做事缩手缩脚。惠特科姆下士认为，这么少的人参加宗教仪式令人伤心地反映了牧师本人所处的地位。为点燃伟大的精神复兴运动之火，他把自己想象成这一运动的缔造者，他头脑里狂热地想出种种具有挑战性的新主意——午餐盒饭、教堂联欢会、给战斗伤亡人员家属的通函、信件审查、宾戈赌博游戏。
　　但牧师阻止了他。惠特科姆下士对牧师的管束很恼火，因为他发现到处都有改进的余地。他断定，正是像牧师这佯的人才使宗教有了那么一个坏名声，使他们两人均沦为被社会遗弃的流浪汉。和牧师不同的是，惠特科姆下士极为讨厌在林中空地上的隐居生活。等他让牧师免了职之后，他想做的第一件事就是搬回到大队部大楼里去，过上热热闹闹的生活。
　　当牧师离开科恩中校，开车回到那块空地的时候，惠特科姆下士正站在外面闷热的薄雾里，用密谋似的声调同一个圆脸的陌生人在谈着什么。那个陌生人穿着一件栗色的灯芯绒浴衣和灰色的法兰绒睡衣。牧师认出那浴衣和睡衣是医院的统一服装。那两个人谁也没有以任何形式跟他打招呼。那陌生人的齿龈被涂成了紫色；
　　他的灯芯绒浴衣后面有一幅画，画着一架B-25轰炸机正穿过桔红色的高射炮火，浴衣的前面画上了整整齐齐的六排小炸弹，表示飞满了六十次战斗任务。牧师被这两幅图深深吸引住了，他停住脚步目不转睛地看着。那两个人停止了谈话，默不作声地等着他走开。
　　牧师匆匆走进他的帐篷。他听见，或者说他想象着他听见他们在窃笑。
　　过了一会儿，惠特科姆下士走进来问道：“情况怎么样？”
　　“没什么新闻，”牧师回答说，眼睛看着其他地方。“刚才有人来这儿找我吗？”
　　“还不是那个怪人约塞连。他真是个惹事生非的家伙，不是吗？”
　　“我倒不那么肯定他是个怪人，”牧师评论说。
　　“说得对，你和他站在一边，”惠特科姆下士用受到伤害的口气说，然后跺着脚走了出去。
　　牧师难以相信惠特科姆下士又被惹气并真的走出去了。刚等他弄明白，惠特科姆下士又走了进来。
　　“你总是支持别人，”惠特科姆下士指责他说，“可你不支持你手下的人。这就是你的过错之一。”
　　“我并不是想支持他，”牧师抱歉地说，“我只是表明一下态度。”
　　“卡思卡特上校想要干什么？”
　　“不是什么重要的事。他只是想商量一下每次飞行任务前是否有可能在简令下达室里做一下祷告。”
　　“好吧，不告诉我就算了。”惠特科姆下士怒气冲冲地说完，就又走了出去。
　　牧师非常难过。他想方设法，但无论他考虑得多么周到，却总好像是在设法伤害惠特科姆下士的感情。他懊恼地向下凝视着，发现科恩中校硬派来替他打扫帐篷、看管物品的勤务兵又忘了给他擦皮鞋了。
　　惠特科姆下士又回来了。“你从来不把重要的消息告诉我，”他刻薄地抱怨说，“你不信任你手下的人。这是你的又一个过错。”
　　“不对，我信任，”牧师内疚地向他保证说，“我非常非常信任你。”
　　“那么，那些信怎么办？”
　　“不发，现在不发，”牧师畏畏缩缩地恳求说，“别提信的事。请别再提这件事了；如果我改变了主意，我会告诉你的。”
　　惠特科姆下士大发雷霆。“是这样吗？好吧，你倒轻松，往那儿一坐，摇摇头说不行，而所有的工作全得由我去做。你没看见外面那个浴衣上画上了那些图画的家伙吗？”
　　“他来这儿是找我的吗？”
　　“不是，”惠特科姆下士说，然后走了出去。
　　帐篷里闷热、潮湿，牧师觉得自己浑身湿滴滴的。他像个极不情愿的偷听者，听着帐篷外面的人压低嗓门窃窃私语，声音沉闷低沉，嗡嗡的听不清楚。他有气无力地坐在那张作为办公桌用的摇摇晃晃的正方形桥牌桌前，双唇紧闭，两眼露出茫然若失的神色，脸色蜡黄。他脸上长着好几块很小的粉刺窝，已有不少年头了，上面的颜色和表面纹理就像完整的杏仁壳。他绞尽脑汁想理出一些头绪，找到惠特科姆下士怨恨他的根源。他无论如何想不出是什么问题，于是他确信自己对他犯下了不可饶恕的错误。如果说惠特科姆下士的那种长期的愤恨是由于牧师拒绝了他的宾戈赌博游戏和给在战斗中阵亡的将士家属寄通函的主意而产生的，这似乎令人难以置信。牧师垂头丧气，自认自己无能。几个星期以来，他一直打算和惠特科姆下士开诚布公地谈一次，以便弄清到底是什么使他烦恼，但现在他已对自己有可能弄清楚的事情感到害臊了。
　　帐篷外面，惠特科姆下士在窃笑，另一个人也在抿着嘴轻声地笑。有那么几秒钟，牧师头脑里迷迷糊糊的，突然产生了一种神秘、离奇的感觉，仿佛以前在生活中曾经历过这一完全相同的情景。他竭力想抓牢并留住这一印象，以便预测，也许甚至能控制下面将会发生的事情，但正如他事先已知道的那样，这一灵感没给他留下什么印象便消失了。这种微妙的在幻想与现实之间反复出现的内心混乱是典型的错构症；牧师被这种症状迷住了，他对此还颇有了解，比如说，他知道这种症状叫做错构症，他对这种推论性的视觉现象很感兴趣。
　　有些时候，牧师突然感到惊惴失措，那些伴随他度过了几乎大半生的事物、想法，甚至人莫名其妙地呈现出一种他以前从未见过的、陌生而又反常的样子，这种样子使这些事物、想法或人显得似乎是完全陌生的。他脑里几乎闪过一些十分清晰的景象，他在其中几乎见过绝对真理。在斯诺登的葬礼上有个赤条条的人在树上，这个插曲使他迷惑不解，因为当时他没有以前在斯诺登的葬礼上看见一个赤条条的人在树上时曾有过的那种感觉。因为那个幽灵不是以一种陌生的外表出现在他面前的熟悉的人或事。因为牧师确确实实看见了他。
　　一辆吉普车在帐篷外面用回火发动起来，然后轰轰地开走了。
　　在斯诺登葬礼上看见的那个赤条条地呆在树上的人仅仅是个幻觉呢？还是一件真实的事？牧师一想到这个问题就直打哆嗦。他极想把这个秘密告诉约塞连，然而每当他想起那件事的时候，他就决定不再去回想它了，尽管此刻他的的确确在回想这件事，但他不能肯定他以前是否真的想到过这件事。
　　惠特科姆下士喜眉笑眼地闲荡着走了进来，一只胳膊肘很不礼貌地靠在牧师住的帐篷的中央支柱上。
　　“你知道那个穿红浴衣的家伙是谁吗？”他虚张声势地问，“那是鼻梁骨折了的刑事调查部的工作人员。他是因公事从医院到这儿来的。他正在进行一项调查。”
　　牧师飞快地扬起双眼，露出一副讨好、同情的神情。“我希望你没遇到什么麻烦。有什么事需要我帮忙的吗？”
　　“不是，我没有什么麻烦，”惠特科姆下士答道，笑得合不拢嘴。
　　“是你有麻烦啦。由于你在所有那些你一直在签华盛顿•欧文的名字的信上签上了华盛顿•欧文的名字，他们准备对你采取严厉的措施。你觉得这事怎么样？”
　　“我从没有在任何信上签过华盛顿•欧文的名字，”牧师说。
　　“你不必对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“我不是你要说服的人。”
　　“但是我没在说谎。”
　　“你在不在说谎不关我的事。他们还因为你截取梅杰少校的信函要惩办你呢。他的信函里有许多东西都是机密情报。”
　　“什么信函？”牧师越来越气愤，满肚子冤屈地问道，“我连看都没看到过梅杰少校的任何信函。”
　　“你用不着对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“我不是你要说服的人。”
　　“但是我没在说谎！”牧师抗议说。
　　“我不明白你干吗非得向我喊叫，”惠特科姆下士带着受到伤害的表情反击说。他离开了帐篷中央的那根柱子，朝牧师摇晃着一根手指表示强调。“我刚才帮了你这一辈子最大的忙，而你甚至没有意识到。每次他企图向上级打你的小报告时，医院里总有人把那些具体内容删除掉。几个星期来，他发了疯似地想告发你。我甚至连看都没看就在他的信上签上“已经检查”的字样，并签上保密检查员的名字。那样将会为你在刑事调查部总部里留下个非常好的印象。让他们知道我们丝毫不害怕把有关你的全部事实真相公布于众。”
　　牧师头脑里一团乱麻，被搞得晕头转向。“可是没有人授权让你去检查信件啊，是吗？”
　　“当然没有，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“只有军官才有权做那种工作。我是用你的名义去检查的。”
　　“但是我也没被授权去检查信件啊，是吧？”
　　“我也替你想到那一点了，”惠特科姆下士宽慰他说，“我代你签的是其他人的名字。”
　　“这不是伪造吗？”
　　“哦，这也不必担心。唯一可能控告你犯伪造罪的人就是那个你伪造他的签名的人，于是我为你着想挑了一个死人。我用了华盛顿•欧文的名字。”惠特科姆下士仔细打量着牧师的脸，想看看有没有反对的迹象，然后隐隐带着讽刺的口吻轻快而自信地说下去。
　　“我的脑筋转得快吧，不是吗？”
　　“我不知道。”牧师声音颤抖地轻轻哀叹了一声，又痛苦又不明白，蹩眉皱眼，一副怪相。“我想我没弄明白你说的这一切。如果你签的是华盛顿•欧文的名字而不是我的名字，那怎么会为我留个好印象呢？”
　　“因为他们确信你就是华盛顿•欧文。你明白吗？他们会知道那就是你。”
　　“但是我们不正是要让他们不相信那一点吗？这样不是帮助他们相信了吗？”
　　“要是我早知道你对这事会这么呆板教条，我压根儿就不会试着去帮你了，”惠特科姆下士气愤地说。然后他走了出去。一秒钟后他又走了进来。“我刚才帮了你这辈子中最大的一个忙，而你甚至不知道。你不知道怎样表示感谢。这是你的又一个过错。”
　　“我很抱歉，”牧师后悔地道歉说，“我真的很抱歉。你跟我说的那一切把我彻底吓糊涂了，我也搞不清自己在说些什么。我真的十分感激你。”
　　“那么让我寄那些通函怎么样？”惠特科姆下士立即要求说，“我可以开始写初稿吗？”
　　牧师惊愕得嘴都合不拢了。“不，不，”他呻吟着说，“现在不要。”
　　惠特科姆下士被激怒了。“我是你最好的朋友，而你却不知道，”他咄咄逼人地说，然后走出了牧师的帐篷。他又走了进来。“我在支持你，你甚至不知道。你不知道你遇到多大的麻烦了吗？刑事调查部的那个人已经赶回医院去写一份新的报告，揭发你拿那只番茄的事。”
　　“什么番茄？”牧师眨着眼睛问。
　　“就是你刚回到这里时藏在手里的那只红色梨形番茄。这不是吗！这只番茄你直到这一刻还拿在手里呢！”
　　牧师吃惊地松开了手，发现自己还拿着那只从卡思卡特上校的办公室里得到的红色梨形番茄。他赶忙把它放在牌桌上。“我是从卡思卡特上校那儿弄到这只番茄的，”他说，突然惑到自己的解释听起来是多么荒唐可笑。“他非要让我拿一只。”
　　“你用不着对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“你是不是从他那儿偷的不关我的事。”
　　“偷的？”牧师惊诧地叫道，“我于吗要偷一只红色梨形番茄？”
　　“这正是使我们两人都迷惑不解的问题，”惠特科姆下士说，“那时，刑事调查部的那个人断定你也许把什么重要的秘密文件藏在里面了。”
　　牧师绝望了，在这山一般重的心理重压下、他整个人都瘫软了。“我没有什么重要的秘密文件藏在里面，”他坦白地陈述道，“我开始甚至都不想要。喏，你可以拿去。你自己拿去看看吧。”
　　“我不要。”
　　“请把它拿走吧，”牧师恳求说，声音低得几乎听不见。“我想摆脱它。”
　　“我不要，”惠特科姆下士气冲冲地又说了一遍，怒容满面地走了出去、他内心里却高兴无比，只是忍着没笑出来，因为他与刑事调查部的那个人结成了新的强大的联盟，并且又一次成功地使牧师相信他真的生气了。
　　可怜的惠特科姆，牧师叹息道，他为助手心情阴郁而责备自己。他一声不吭地坐在那里，傻乎乎地陷入了沉思，满怀期望地等待着惠特科姆下士走回来。当他听见惠特科姆下士那高傲的步伐声慢慢消逝在远方时，他失望了。他接下来什么事也不想做。他决定不用午餐了，从床脚柜里各拿出一块银河牌和鲁丝宝贝牌巧克力糖吃了，喝了几白水壶里的温水。他觉得自己像是被笼罩一切的大雾包围了，看不见一星半点的光，随时有可能发生什么事情。他担心，一旦有人把他被怀疑成是华盛顿•欧文的消息汇报给卡思卡特上校，上校会怎么想呢？然后又想到卡思卡特上校曾因他提过六十次飞行任务的事已经对他有看法了，因而忧心忡忡。世界上竟有这么多不幸的事，他思忖着，想到这件令人伤心的事情、他心情忧郁地低下了头。他对任何人的不幸都无能为力，尤其是对他自己的不幸更是如此。
Chapter 21 General Dreedle
    Colonel Cathcart was not thinking anything at all about the chaplain, but was tangled up in a brand-new,menacing problem of his own: Yossarian!
　　Yossarian! The mere sound of that execrable, ugly name made his blood run cold and his breath come in laboredgasps. The chaplain’s first mention of the name Yossarian! had tolled deep in his memory like a portentous gong.
　　As soon as the latch of the door had clicked shut, the whole humiliating recollection of the naked man information came cascading down upon him in a mortifying, choking flood of stinging details. He began toperspire and tremble. There was a sinister and unlikely coincidence exposed that was too diabolical inimplication to be anything less than the most hideous of omens. The name of the man who had stood naked inranks that day to receive his Distinguished Flying Cross from General Dreedle had also been—Yossarian! Andnow it was a man named Yossarian who was threatening to make trouble over the sixty missions he had justordered the men in his group to fly. Colonel Cathcart wondered gloomily if it was the same Yossarian.
　　He climbed to his feet with an air of intolerable woe and began moving about his office. He felt himself in thepresence of the mysterious. The naked man in formation, he conceded cheerlessly, had been a real black eye forhim. So had the tampering with the bomb line before the mission to Bologna and the seven-day delay indestroying the bridge at Ferrara, even though destroying the bridge at Ferrara finally, he remembered with glee,had been a real feather in his cap, although losing a plane there the second time around, he recalled in dejection,had been another black eye, even though he had won another real feather in his cap by getting a medal approvedfor the bombardier who had gotten him the real black eye in the first place by going around over the target twice.
　　That bombardier’s name, he remembered suddenly with another stupefying shock, had also been Yossarian!
　　Now there were three! His viscous eyes bulged with astonishment and he whipped himself around in alarm to seewhat was taking place behind him. A moment ago there had been no Yossarians in his life; now they weremultiplying like hobgoblins. He tried to make himself grow calm. Yossarian was not a common name; perhapsthere were not really three Yossarians but only two Yossarians, or maybe even only one Yossarian—but thatreally made no difference! The colonel was still in grave peril. Intuition warned him that he was drawing close tosome immense and inscrutable cosmic climax, and his broad, meaty, towering frame tingled from head to toe atthe thought that Yossarian, whoever he would eventually turn out to be, was destined to serve as his nemesis.
　　Colonel Cathcart was not superstitious, but he did believe in omens, and he sat right back down behind his deskand made a cryptic notation on his memorandum pad to look into the whole suspicious business of theYossarians right away. He wrote his reminder to himself in a heavy and decisive hand, amplifying it sharply witha series of coded punctuation marks and underlining the whole message twice, so that it read:
　　Yossarian! ! ! (?)!
　　The colonel sat back when he had finished and was extremely pleased with himself for the prompt action he hadjust taken to meet this sinister crisis. Yossarian—the very sight of the name made him shudder. There were somany esses in it. It just had to be subversive. It was like the word subversive itself. It was like seditious andinsidious too, and like socialist, suspicious, fascist and Communist. It was an odious, alien, distasteful name, thatjust did not inspire confidence. It was not at all like such clean, crisp, honest, American names as Cathcart,Peckem and Dreedle.
　　Colonel Cathcart rose slowly and began drifting about his office again. Almost unconsciously, he picked up aplum tomato from the top of one of the bushels and took a voracious bite. He made a wry face at once and threwthe rest of the plum tomato into his waste-basket. The colonel did not like plum tomatoes, not even when theywere his own, and these were not even his own. These had been purchased in different market places all overPianosa by Colonel Korn under various identities, moved up to the colonel’s farmhouse in the hills in the dead ofnight, and transported down to Group Headquarters the next morning for sale to Milo, who paid Colonel Cathcartand Colonel Korn premium prices for them. Colonel Cathcart often wondered if what they were doing with theplum tomatoes was legal, but Colonel Korn said it was, and he tried not to brood about it too often. He had noway of knowing whether or not the house in the hills was legal, either, since Colonel Korn had made all thearrangements. Colonel Cathcart did not know if he owned the house or rented it, from whom he had acquired itor how much, if anything, it was costing. Colonel Korn was the lawyer, and if Colonel Korn assured him thatfraud, extortion, currency manipulation, embezzlement, income tax evasion and black-market speculations werelegal, Colonel Cathcart was in no position to disagree with him.
　　All Colonel Cathcart knew about his house in the hills was that he had such a house and hated it. He was neverso bored as when spending there the two or three days every other week necessary to sustain the illusion that hisdamp and drafty stone farmhouse in the hills was a golden palace of carnal delights. Officers’ clubs everywherepulsated with blurred but knowing accounts of lavish, hushed-up drinking and sex orgies there and of secret,intimate nights of ecstasy with the most beautiful, the most tantalizing, the most readily aroused and most easilysatisfied Italian courtesans, film actresses, models and countesses. No such private nights of ecstasy or hushed-up drinking and sex orgies ever occurred. They might have occurred if either General Dreedle or GeneralPeckem had once evinced an interest in taking part in orgies with him, but neither ever did, and the colonel wascertainly not going to waste his time and energy making love to beautiful women unless there was something init for him.
　　The colonel dreaded his dank lonely nights at his farmhouse and the dull, uneventful days. He had much morefun back at Group, browbeating everyone he wasn’t afraid of. However, as Colonel Korn kept reminding him,there was not much glamour in having a farmhouse in the hills if he never used it. He drove off to his farmhouse each time in a mood of self-pity. He carried a shotgun in his jeep and spent the monotonous hours there shootingit at birds and at the plum tomatoes that did grow there in untended rows and were too much trouble to harvest.
　　Among those officers of inferior rank toward whom Colonel Cathcart still deemed it prudent to show respect, heincluded Major ---de Coverley, even though he did not want to and was not sure he even had to. Major ---deCoverley was as great a mystery to him as he was to Major Major and to everyone else who ever took notice ofhim. Colonel Cathcart had no idea whether to look up or look down in his attitude toward Major --- de Coverley.
　　Major ---de Coverley was only a major, even though he was ages older than Colonel Cathcart; at the same time,so many other people treated Major ---de Coverley with such profound and fearful veneration that ColonelCathcart had a hunch they might know something. Major ---de Coverley was an ominous, incomprehensiblepresence who kept him constantly on edge and of whom even Colonel Korn tended to be wary. Everyone wasafraid of him, and no one knew why. No one even knew Major ---de Coverley’s first name, because no one hadever had the temerity to ask him. Colonel Cathcart knew that Major ---de Coverley was away and he rejoiced inhis absence until it occurred to him that Major --- de Coverley might be away somewhere conspiring against him,and then he wished that Major ---de Coverley were back in his squadron where he belonged so that he could bewatched.
　　In a little while Colonel Cathcart’s arches began to ache from pacing back and forth so much. He sat downbehind his desk again and resolved to embark upon a mature and systematic evaluation of the entire militarysituation. With the businesslike air of a man who knows how to get things done, he found a large white pad,drew a straight line down the middle and crossed it near the top, dividing the page into two blank columns ofequal width. He rested a moment in critical rumination. Then he huddled over his desk, and at the head of the leftcolumn, in a cramped and finicky hand, he wrote, “Black Eyes!!!” At the top of the right column he wrote,“Feathers in My Cap!!! !!” He leaned back once more to inspect his chart admiringly from an objectiveperspective. After a few seconds of solemn deliberation, he licked the tip of his pencil carefully and wrote under“Black Eyes!!!,” after intent intervals:
　　FerraraBologna (bomb line moved on map during)Skeet rangeNaked man information (after Avignon)Then he added:
　　Food poisoning (during Bologna)andMoaning (epidemic of during Avignon briefing)Then he added:
　　Chaplain (hanging around officers’ club every night)He decided to be charitable about the chaplain, even though he did not like him, and under “Feathers in MyCap!!! !!” he wrote:
　　Chaplain (hanging around officers’ club every night)The two chaplain entries, therefore, neutralized each other. Alongside “Ferrara” and “Naked man in formation(after Avignon)” he then wrote:
　　Yossarian!
　　Alongside “Bologna (bomb line moved on map during)” “Food poisoning (during Bologna)” and “Moaning(epidemic of during Avignon briefing)” he wrote in a bold, decisive hand:
　　Those entries labeled “?” were the ones he wanted to investigate immediately to determine if Yossarian hadplayed any part in them.
　　Suddenly his arm began to shake, and he was unable to write any more. He rose to his feet in terror, feelingsticky and fat, and rushed to the open window to gulp in fresh air. His gaze fell on the skeet-range, and he reeledaway with a sharp cry of distress, his wild and feverish eyes scanning the walls of his office frantically as thoughthey were swarming with Yossarians.
　　Nobody loved him. General Dreedle hated him, although General Peckem liked him, although he couldn’t besure, since Colonel Cargill, General Peckem’s aide, undoubtedly had ambitions of his own and was probablysabotaging him with General Peckem at every opportunity. The only good colonel, he decided, was a deadcolonel, except for himself. The only colonel he trusted was Colonel Moodus, and even he had an in with hisfather-in-law. Milo, of course, had been the big feather in his cap, although having his group bombed by Milo’splanes had probably been a terrible black eye for him, even though Milo had ultimately stilled all protest bydisclosing the huge net profit the syndicate had realized on the deal with the enemy and convincing everyone thatbombing his own men and planes had therefore really been a commendable and very lucrative blow on the sideof private enterprise. The colonel was insecure about Milo because other colonels were trying to lure him away,and Colonel Cathcart still had that lousy Big Chief White Halfoat in his group who that lousy, lazy CaptainBlack claimed was the one really responsible for the bomb line’s being moved during the Big Siege of Bologna.
　　Colonel Cathcart liked Big Chief White Halfoat because Big Chief White Halfoat kept punching that lousyColonel Moodus in the nose every time he got drunk and Colonel Moodus was around. He wished that Big ChiefWhite Halfoat would begin punching Colonel Korn in his fat face, too. Colonel Korn was a lousy smart aleck.
　　Someone at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters had it in for him and sent back every report he wrote with ablistering rebuke, and Colonel Korn had bribed a clever mail clerk there named Wintergreen to try to find outwho it was. Losing the plane over Ferrara the second time around had not done him any good, he had to admit,and neither had having that other plane disappear inside that cloud—that was one he hadn’t even written down!
　　He tried to recall, longingly, if Yossarian had been lost in that plane in the cloud and realized that Yossariancould not possibly have been lost in that plane in the cloud if he was still around now raising such a big stinkabout having to fly a lousy five missions more.
　　Maybe sixty missions were too many for the men to fly, Colonel Cathcart reasoned, if Yossarian objected toflying them, but he then remembered that forcing his men to fly more missions than everyone else was the mosttangible achievement he had going for him. As Colonel Korn often remarked, the war was crawling with groupcommanders who were merely doing their duty, and it required just some sort of dramatic gesture like makinghis group fly more combat missions than any other bomber group to spotlight his unique qualities of leadership.
　　Certainly none of the generals seemed to object to what he was doing, although as far as he could detect theyweren’t particularly impressed either, which made him suspect that perhaps sixty combat missions were notnearly enough and that he ought to increase the number at once to seventy, eighty, a hundred, or even twohundred, three hundred, or six thousand!
　　Certainly he would be much better off under somebody suave like General Peckem than he was under somebodyboorish and insensitive like General Dreedle, because General Peckem had the discernment, the intelligence andthe Ivy League background to appreciate and enjoy him at his full value, although General Peckem had nevergiven the slightest indication that he appreciated or enjoyed him at all. Colonel Cathcart felt perceptive enough torealize that visible signals of recognition were never necessary between sophisticated, self-assured people likehimself and General Peckem who could warm to each other from a distance with innate mutual understanding. Itwas enough that they were of like kind, and he knew it was only a matter of waiting discreetly for prefermentuntil the right time, although it rotted Colonel Cathcart’s self-esteem to observe that General Peckem neverdeliberately sought him out and that he labored no harder to impress Colonel Cathcart with his epigrams anderudition than he did to impress anyone else in earshot, even enlisted men. Either Colonel Cathcart wasn’tgetting through to General Peckem or General Peckem was not the scintillating, discriminating, intellectual,forward-looking personality he pretended to be and it was really General Dreedle who was sensitive, charming,brilliant and sophisticated and under whom he would certainly be much better off, and suddenly ColonelCathcart had absolutely no conception of how strongly he stood with anyone and began banging on his buzzerwith his fist for Colonel Korn to come running into his office and assure him that everybody loved him, thatYossarian was a figment of his imagination, and that he was making wonderful progress in the splendid andvaliant campaign he was waging to become a general.
　　Actually, Colonel Cathcart did not have a chance in hell of becoming a general. For one thing, there was ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who also wanted to be a general and who always distorted, destroyed, rejected ormisdirected any correspondence by, for or about Colonel Cathcart that might do him credit. For another, therealready was a general, General Dreedle who knew that General Peckem was after his job but did not know howto stop him.
　　General Dreedle, the wing commander, was a blunt, chunky, barrel-chested man in his early fifties. His nose wassquat and red, and he had lumpy white, bunched-up eyelids circling his small gray eyes like haloes of bacon fat.
　　He had a nurse and a son-in law, and he was prone to long, ponderous silences when he had not been drinkingtoo much. General Dreedle had wasted too much of his time in the Army doing his job well, and now it was toolate. New power alignments had coalesced without him and he was at a loss to cope with them. At unguarded moments his hard and sullen face slipped into a somber, preoccupied look of defeat and frustration. GeneralDreedle drank a great deal. His moods were arbitrary and unpredictable. “War is hell,” he declared frequently,drunk or sober, and he really meant it, although that did not prevent him from making a good living out of it orfrom taking his son-in-law into the business with him, even though the two bickered constantly.
　　“That bastard,” General Dreedle would complain about his son-in-law with a contemptuous grunt to anyone whohappened to be standing beside him at the curve of the bar of the officers’ club. “Everything he’s got he owes tome. I made him, that lousy son of a bitch! He hasn’t got brains enough to get ahead on his own.”
　　“He thinks he knows everything,” Colonel Moodus would retort in a sulking tone to his own audience at theother end of the bar. “He can’t take criticism and he won’t listen to advice.”
　　“All he can do is give advice,” General Dreedle would observe with a rasping snort. “If it wasn’t for me, he’dstill be a corporal.”
　　General Dreedle was always accompanied by both Colonel Moodus and his nurse, who was as delectable a pieceof ass as anyone who saw her had ever laid eyes on. General Dreedle’s nurse was chubby, short and blonde. Shehad plump dimpled cheeks, happy blue eyes, and neat curly turned-up hair. She smiled at everyone and neverspoke at all unless she was spoken to. Her bosom was lush and her complexion clear. She was irresistible, andmen edged away from her carefully. She was succulent, sweet, docile and dumb, and she drove everyone crazybut General Dreedle.
　　“You should see her naked,” General Dreedle chortled with croupy relish, while his nurse stood smiling proudlyright at his shoulder. “Back at Wing she’s got a uniform in my room made of purple silk that’s so tight hernipples stand out like bing cherries. Milo got me the fabric. There isn’t even room enough for panties or abrassière underneath. I make her wear it some nights when Moodus is around just to drive him crazy.” GeneralDreedle laughed hoarsely. “You should see what goes on inside that blouse of hers every time she shifts herweight. She drives him out of his mind. The first time I catch him putting a hand on her or any other woman I’llbust the horny bastard right down to private and put him on K.P. for a year.”
　　“He keeps her around just to drive me crazy,” Colonel Moodus accused aggrievedly at the other end of the bar.
　　“Back at Wing she’s got a uniform made out of purple silk that’s so tight her nipples stand out like bing cherries.
　　There isn’t even room for panties or a brassière underneath. You should hear that rustle every time she shifts herweight. The first time I make a pass at her or any other girl he’ll bust me right down to private and put me onK.P. for a year. She drives me out of my mind.”
　　“He hasn’t gotten laid since we shipped overseas,” confided General Dreedle, and his square grizzled headbobbed with sadistic laughter at the fiendish idea. “That’s one of the reasons I never let him out of my sight, justso he can’t get to a woman. Can you imagine what that poor son of a bitch is going through?”
　　“I haven’t been to bed with a woman since we shipped overseas,” Colonel Moodus whimpered tearfully. “Canyou imagine what I’m going through?”
　　General Dreedle could be as intransigent with anyone else when displeased as he was with Colonel Moodus. Hehad no taste for sham, tact or pretension, and his credo as a professional soldier was unified and concise: hebelieved that the young men who took orders from him should be willing to give up their lives for the ideals,aspirations and idiosyncrasies of the old men he took orders from. The officers and enlisted men in his commandhad identity for him only as military quantities. All he asked was that they do their work; beyond that, they werefree to do whatever they pleased. They were free, as Colonel Cathcart was free, to force their men to fly sixtymissions if they chose, and they were free, as Yossarian had been free, to stand in formation naked if theywanted to, although General Dreedle’s granite jaw swung open at the sight and he went striding dictatoriallyright down the line to make certain that there really was a man wearing nothing but moccasins waiting atattention in ranks to receive a medal from him. General Dreedle was speechless. Colonel Cathcart began to faintwhen he spied Yossarian, and Colonel Korn stepped up behind him and squeezed his arm in a strong grip. Thesilence was grotesque. A steady warm wind flowed in from the beach, and an old cart filled with dirty strawrumbled into view on the main road, drawn by a black donkey and driven by a farmer in a flopping hat and fadedbrown work clothes who paid no attention to the formal military ceremony taking place in the small field on hisright.
　　At last General Dreedle spoke. “Get back in the car,” he snapped over his shoulder to his nurse, who hadfollowed him down the line. The nurse toddled away with a smile toward his brown staff car, parked abouttwenty yards away at the edge of the rectangular clearing. General Dreedle waited in austere silence until the cardoor slammed and then demanded, “Which one is this?”
　　Colonel Moodus checked his roster. “This one is Yossarian, Dad. He gets a Distinguished Flying Cross.”
　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” mumbled General Dreedle, and his ruddy monolithic face softened with amusement.
　　“Why aren’t you wearing clothes, Yossarian?”
　　“I don’t want to.”
　　“What do you mean you don’t want to? Why the hell don’t you want to?”
　　“I just don’t want to, sir.”
　　“Why isn’t he wearing clothes?” General Dreedle demanded over his shoulder of Colonel Cathcart.
　　“He’s talking to you,” Colonel Korn whispered over Colonel Cathcart’s shoulder from behind, jabbing his elbowsharply into Colonel Cathcart’s back.
　　“Why isn’t he wearing clothes?” Colonel Cathcart demanded of Colonel Korn with a look of acute pain, tenderlynursing the spot where Colonel Korn had just jabbed him.
　　“Why isn’t he wearing clothes?” Colonel Korn demanded of Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren.
　　“A man was killed in his plane over Avignon last week and bled all over him,” Captain Wren replied. “He swears he’s never going to wear a uniform again.”
　　“A man was killed in his plane over Avignon last week and bled all over him,” Colonel Korn reported directly toGeneral Dreedle. “His uniform hasn’t come back from the laundry yet.”
　　“Where are his other uniforms?”
　　“They’re in the laundry, too.”
　　“What about his underwear?” General Dreedle demanded.
　　“All his underwear’s in the laundry, too,” answered Colonel Korn.
　　“That sounds like a lot of crap to me,” General Dreedle declared.
　　“It is a lot of crap, sir,” Yossarian said.
　　“Don’t you worry, sir,” Colonel Cathcart promised General Dreedle with a threatening look at Yossarian. “Youhave my personal word for it that this man will be severely punished.”
　　“What the hell do I care if he’s punished or not?” General Dreedle replied with surprise and irritation. “He’s justwon a medal. If he wants to receive it without any clothes on, what the hell business is it of yours?”
　　“Those are my sentiments exactly, sir!” Colonel Cathcart echoed with resounding enthusiasm and mopped hisbrow with a damp white handkerchief. “But would you say that, sir, even in the light of General Peckem’s recentmemorandum on the subject of appropriate military attire in combat areas?”
　　“Peckem?” General Dreedle’s face clouded.
　　“Yes, sir, sir,” said Colonel Cathcart obsequiously. “General Peckem even recommends that we send our meninto combat in full-dress uniform so they’ll make a good impression on the enemy when they’re shot down.”
　　“Peckem?” repeated General Dreedle, still squinting with bewilderment. “Just what the hell does Peckem have todo with it?”
　　Colonel Korn jabbed Colonel Cathcart sharply again in the back with his elbow.
　　“Absolutely nothing, sir!” Colonel Cathcart responded sprucely, wincing in extreme pain and gingerly rubbingthe spot where Colonel Korn had just jabbed him again. “And that’s exactly why I decided to take absolutely noaction at all until I first had an opportunity to discuss it with you. Shall we ignore it completely, sir?”
　　General Dreedle ignored him completely, turning away from him in baleful scorn to hand Yossarian his medal inits case.
　　“Get my girl back from the car,” he commanded Colonel Moodus crabbily, and waited in one spot with hisscowling face down until his nurse had rejoined him.
　　“Get word to the office right away to kill that directive I just issued ordering the men to wear neckties on thecombat missions,” Colonel Cathcart whispered to Colonel Korn urgently out of the corner of his mouth.
　　“I told you not to do it,” Colonel Korn snickered. “But you just wouldn’t listen to me.”
　　“Shhhh!” Colonel Cathcart cautioned. “Goddammit, Korn, what did you do to my back?”
　　Colonel Korn snickered again.
　　General Dreedle’s nurse always followed General Dreedle everywhere he went, even into the briefing room justbefore the mission to Avignon, where she stood with her asinine smile at the side of the platform and bloomedlike a fertile oasis at General Dreedle’s shoulder in her pink-and-green uniform. Yossarian looked at her and fellin love, desperately. His spirits sank, leaving him empty inside and numb. He sat gazing in clammy want at herfull red lips and dimpled cheeks as he listened to Major Danby describe in a monotonous, didactic male dronethe heavy concentrations of flak awaiting them at Avignon, and he moaned in deep despair suddenly at thethought that he might never see again this lovely woman to whom he had never spoken a word and whom henow loved so pathetically. He throbbed and ached with sorrow, fear and desire as he stared at her; she was sobeautiful. He worshiped the ground she stood on. He licked his parched, thirsting lips with a sticky tongue andmoaned in misery again, loudly enough this time to attract the startled, searching glances of the men sittingaround him on the rows of crude wooden benches in their chocolate-colored coveralls and stitched whiteparachute harnesses.
　　Nately turned to him quickly with alarm. “What is it?” he whispered. “What’s the matter?”
　　Yossarian did not hear him. He was sick with lust and mesmerized with regret. General Dreedle’s nurse was onlya little chubby, and his senses were stuffed to congestion with the yellow radiance of her hair and the unfeltpressure of her soft short fingers, with the rounded, untasted wealth of her nubile breasts in her Army-pink shirtthat was opened wide at the throat and with the rolling, ripened, triangular confluences of her belly and thighs inher tight, slick forest-green gabardine officer’s pants. He drank her in insatiably from head to painted toenail. Henever wanted to lose her. “Oooooooooooooh,” he moaned again, and this time the whole room rippled at hisquavering, drawn-out cry. A wave of startled uneasiness broke over the officers on the dais, and even MajorDanby, who had begun synchronizing the watches, was distracted momentarily as he counted out the secondsand almost had to begin again. Nately followed Yossarian’s transfixed gaze down the long frame auditoriumuntil he came to General Dreedle’s nurse. He blanched with trepidation when he guessed what was troublingYossarian.
　　“Cut it out, will you?” Nately warned in a fierce whisper.
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Yossarian moaned a fourth time, this time loudly enough for everyone to hear him distinctly.
　　“Are you crazy?” Nately hissed vehemently. “You’ll get into trouble.”
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar answered Yossarian from the opposite end of the room.
　　Nately recognized Dunbar’s voice. The situation was now out of control, and he turned away with a small moan.
　　“Ooh.”
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar moaned back at him.
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Nately moaned out loud in exasperation when he realized that he had just moaned.
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” Dunbar moaned back at him again.
　　“Ooooooooooooooooooooh,” someone entirely new chimed in from another section of the room, and Nately’shair stood on end.
　　Yossarian and Dunbar both replied while Nately cringed and hunted about futilely for some hole in which to hideand take Yossarian with him. A sprinkling of people were smothering laughter. An elfin impulse possessedNately and he moaned intentionally the next time there was a lull. Another new voice answered. The flavor ofdisobedience was titillating, and Nately moaned deliberately again, the next time he could squeeze one inedgewise. Still another new voice echoed him. The room was boiling irrepressibly into bedlam. An eerie hubbubof voices was rising. Feet were scuffled, and things began to drop from people’s fingers—pencils, computers,map cases, clattering steel flak helmets. A number of men who were not moaning were now giggling openly, andthere was no telling how far the unorganized insurrection of moaning might have gone if General Dreedlehimself had not come forward to quell it, stepping out determinedly in the center of the platform directly in frontof Major Danby, who, with his earnest, persevering head down, was still concentrating on his wrist watch andsaying, “...twenty-five seconds... twenty... fifteen...” General Dreedle’s great, red domineering face was gnarledwith perplexity and oaken with awesome resolution.
　　“That will be all, men,” he ordered tersely, his eyes glaring with disapproval and his square jaw firm, and that’sall there was. “I run a fighting outfit,” he told them sternly, when the room had grown absolutely quiet and themen on the benches were all cowering sheepishly, “and there’ll be no more moaning in this group as long as I’min command. Is that clear?”
　　It was clear to everybody but Major Danby, who was still concentrating on his wrist watch and counting downthe seconds aloud. “...four... three... two... one... time!” called out Major Danby, and raised his eyes triumphantlyto discover that no one had been listening to him and that he would have to begin all over again. “Ooooh,” hemoaned in frustration.
　　“What was that?” roared General Dreedle incredulously, and whirled around in a murderous rage upon MajorDanby, who staggered back in terrified confusion and began to quail and perspire. “Who is this man?”
　　“M-major Danby, sir,” Colonel Cathcart stammered. “My group operations officer.”
　　“Take him out and shoot him,” ordered General Dreedle.
　　“S-sir?”
　　“I said take him out and shoot him. Can’t you hear?”
　　“Yes, sir!” Colonel Cathcart responded smartly, swallowing hard, and turned in a brisk manner to his chauffeurand his meteorologist. “Take Major Danby out and shoot him.”
　　“S-sir?” his chauffeur and his meteorologist stammered.
　　“I said take Major Danby out and shoot him,” Colonel Cathcart snapped. “Can’t you hear?”
　　The two young lieutenants nodded lumpishly and gaped at each other in stunned and flaccid reluctance, eachwaiting for the other to initiate the procedure of taking Major Danby outside and shooting him. Neither had evertaken Major Danby outside and shot him before. They inched their way dubiously toward Major Danby fromopposite sides. Major Danby was white with fear. His legs collapsed suddenly and he began to fall, and the twoyoung lieutenants sprang forward and seized him under both arms to save him from slumping to the floor. Nowthat they had Major Danby, the rest seemed easy, but there were no guns. Major Danby began to cry. ColonelCathcart wanted to rush to his side and comfort him, but did not want to look like a sissy in front of GeneralDreedle. He remembered that Appleby and Havermeyer always brought their .45 automatics on the missions, andhe began to scan the rows of men in search of them.
　　As soon as Major Danby began to cry, Colonel Moodus, who had been vacillating wretchedly on the sidelines,could restrain himself no longer and stepped out diffidently toward General Dreedle with a sickly air of self-sacrifice. “I think you’d better wait a minute, Dad,” he suggested hesitantly. “I don’t think you can shoot him.”
　　General Dreedle was infuriated by his intervention. “Who the hell says I can’t?” he thundered pugnaciously in avoice loud enough to rattle the whole building. Colonel Moodus, his face flushing with embarrassment, bentclose to whisper into his ear. “Why the hell can’t I?” General Dreedle bellowed. Colonel Moodus whisperedsome more. “You mean I can’t shoot anyone I want to?” General Dreedle demanded with uncompromisingindignation. He pricked up his ears with interest as Colonel Moodus continued whispering. “Is that a fact?” heinquired, his rage tamed by curiosity.
　　“Yes, Dad. I’m afraid it is.”
　　“I guess you think you’re pretty goddam smart, don’t you?” General Dreedle lashed out at Colonel Moodussuddenly.
　　Colonel Moodus turned crimson again. “No, Dad, it isn’t—““All right, let the insubordinate son of a bitch go,” General Dreedle snarled, turning bitterly away from his sonin-law and barking peevishly at Colonel Cathcart’s chauffeur and Colonel Cathcart’s meteorologist. “But get himout of this building and keep him out. And let’s continue this goddam briefing before the war ends. I’ve neverseen so much incompetence.”
　　Colonel Cathcart nodded lamely at General Dreedle and signaled his men hurriedly to push Major Danby outsidethe building. As soon as Major Danby had been pushed outside, though, there was no one to continue thebriefing. Everyone gawked at everyone else in oafish surprise. General Dreedle turned purple with rage asnothing happened. Colonel Cathcart had no idea what to do. He was about to begin moaning aloud when ColonelKorn came to the rescue by stepping forward and taking control. Colonel Cathcart sighed with enormous, tearfulrelief, almost overwhelmed with gratitude.
　　“Now, men, we’re going to synchronize our watches,” Colonel Korn began promptly in a sharp, commandingmanner, rolling his eyes flirtatiously in General Dreedle’s direction. “We’re going to synchronize our watchesone time and one time only, and if it doesn’t come off in that one time, General Dreedle and I are going to wantto know why. Is that clear?” He fluttered his eyes toward General Dreedle again to make sure his plug hadregistered. “Now set your watches for nine-eighteen.”
　　Colonel Korn synchronized their watches without a single hitch and moved ahead with confidence. He gave themen the colors of the day and reviewed the weather conditions with an agile, flashy versatility, casting sidelong,simpering looks at General Dreedle every few seconds to draw increased encouragement from the excellentimpression he saw he was making. Preening and pruning himself effulgendy and strutting vaingloriously aboutthe platform as he picked up momentum, he gave the men the colors of the day again and shifted nimbly into arousing pep talk on the importance of the bridge at Avignon to the war effort and the obligation of each man onthe mission to place love of country above love of life. When his inspiring dissertation was finished, he gave themen the colors of the day still one more time, stressed the angle of approach and reviewed the weather conditionsagain. Colonel Korn felt himself at the full height of his powers. He belonged in the spotlight.
　　Comprehension dawned slowly on Colonel Cathcart; when it came, he was struck dumb. His face grew longerand longer as he enviously watched Colonel Korn’s treachery continue, and he was almost afraid to listen whenGeneral Dreedle moved up beside him and, in a whisper blustery enough to be heard throughout the room,demanded,“Who is that man?”
　　Colonel Cathcart answered with wan foreboding, and General Dreedle then cupped his hand over his mouth andwhispered something that made Colonel Cathcart’s face glow with immense joy. Colonel Korn saw and quiveredwith uncontainable rapture. Had he just been promoted in the field by General Dreedle to full colonel? He couldnot endure the suspense. With a masterful flourish, he brought the briefing to a close and turned expectantly toreceive ardent congratulations from General Dreedle—who was already striding out of the building without aglance backward, trailing his nurse and Colonel Moodus behind him. Colonel Korn was stunned by thisdisappointing sight, but only for an instant. His eyes found Colonel Cathcart, who was still standing erect in a grinning trance, and he rushed over jubilantly and began pulling on his arm.
　　“What’d he say about me?” he demanded excitedly in a fervor of proud and blissful anticipation. “What didGeneral Dreedle say?”
　　“He wanted to know who you were.”
　　“I know that. I know that. But what’d he say about me? What’d he say?”
　　“You make him sick.”
 21、德里德尔将军
　　卡思卡特上校不再想有关牧师的任何事情，而是陷入了一个使他不寒而栗的新问题：约塞连！
　　约塞连！只要一提到这个令人讨厌、憎恶的名字就会使他血液冰凉、呼吸困难而直喘粗气。牧师第一次提到约塞连这个名字时就像在他的记忆深处敲响了一面预示不祥之兆的锣。门栓咋咯一声，门关上了，他头脑中所有有关队伍中那个裸露着身体的军官的记忆立刻涌现出来，使他感到羞辱，那些刺痛他的细节像令人痛苦、窒息的潮水一样劈头盖脸朝他袭来。他浑身冒汗、发抖。这个不吉祥的、不大可能的巧合如此狰狞可怖，除了是最骇人听闻的不祥之兆外，实在没有什么别的解释。那天，那个一丝不挂地站在队伍中从德里德尔将军手里接受优异飞行十字勋章的军官也叫——约塞连！现在他刚刚下达命令，要他的飞行大队的官兵飞行六十次，可又有一个叫约塞连的人威胁说要同这道命令过不去。卡思卡特上校满腹忧愁，不知这会不会是同一个约塞连。
　　他带着一副难以忍受的痛苦神情吃力地站起来，开始在办公室里来回走动。他觉得自己的面前是个神秘人物。他闷闷不乐地承认，对他而言，队伍中有个一丝不挂的军官的确是件丢人现眼的事。就像原先制定好的轰炸线在空袭博洛尼亚之前被篡改，还有轰炸弗拉拉的大桥的任务被拖延了七天一样使他丢丑。好在弗拉拉的大桥最后终于被炸毁了，这也算是他的一个荣耀，他想起来心里乐滋滋的。不过，第二次转回去轰炸时损失了一架飞机，这又是桩丢脸的事，想到这他又很泄气；由于一个投弹手胆怯而不得不两次飞抵目标，这给他丢了脸，然而他却请求并获准为那个投弹手颁发了勋章，这又使他感到十分荣耀。他突然想到，那个投弹手的名字也叫约塞连，因此一时惊愕得说不出话来。现在有三个约塞连！他那双淌着粘液的眼睛因吃惊而胀得鼓鼓的，他惊慌失措地赶忙转过身去看看身后在发生什么事情。几分钟前，他的生活中根本没有什么约塞连，而现在他们就像妖精似的越变越多。他努力使自己保持平静。约塞连不过是个普通的名字，也许实际上并没有三个约塞连而只有两个约塞连，甚至可能只有一个约塞连——然而那没有什么区别！上校仍然处于严重的危险之中。直觉警告他，他正接近一个巨大的，不可测知的宇宙顶点。一想到约塞连，不管他最终会是谁，将注定要成为他的克星，他那宽厚、肥胖、高大的身躯从头到脚像筛糠似的颤抖起来。
　　卡思卡特上校并不迷信，但他确实相信预兆，于是他在办公桌后坐了下来，在他的活页记事本上做了个秘密的记号，便立即开始研究有关约塞连的这一整个可疑的事件。他用粗重、果断的笔迹写下了提示，在提示后面醒目地画上一连串密码似的标点符号以示强调，然后在整个内容下面画上两道横线，结果便是如下：
　　约塞连！！！（？）！
　　上校写完后靠向椅背，对自己感到非常满意，因为他刚才采取了迅速的行动来应付这一显露凶兆的危机。约塞连———看见这个名字他就发抖。这个名字里竟有那么多的S字母。它一定具有颠覆性，就像颠覆这个词本身一样。它也像煽动和阴险这两个词，像社会主义者、多疑、法西斯分子和共产主义者这些词。这是一个可僧的、令人厌恶的外国人的名字，一个引不起别人信任的名字。
　　它一点也不像卡思卡特、佩克姆和德里德尔这些干净、利落、诚实的美国名字。
　　卡思卡特上校慢慢地站起来、又开始在办公室里踱起步来。他几乎是无意识地从一筐红色梨形番茄的上面拿起一只，狠狠地咬了一大口。他立刻扭曲了脸，把剩下的番茄扔进了废纸篓。上校并不喜欢吃红色梨形番茄，即使是他自己的也不喜欢，而这些番茄并不是他自己的。这些番茄是科恩中校从遍布皮亚诺萨岛的各个市场上以不同的名义买来的，然后在半夜里把它们搬到上校在山上的农舍里，第二天早晨再运到大队司令部来卖给米洛，由米洛付给卡思卡特上校和科恩中校一些佣金。卡思卡特上校时常怀疑他们这样倒卖番茄是否合法，但科恩中校说这事合法，于是他尽力不常去考虑这件事。他也无法知道他在山上的房子是否合法，因为那也是由科恩中校一手安排的。卡思卡特上校对他是否买下了那房子的产权或者只是租用、是从谁手中买下的、付了多少钱等，一概不知。科恩中校是律师，如果科恩中校跟他说欺骗、敲诈、盗用现金、贪污、偷漏所得税和黑市投机是合法的，卡思卡特上校也只能同意。
　　关于他在山上的那所房子，卡思卡特上校所知道的一切就是他有这么一所房子，而且讨厌它，他每隔一周去那儿呆上两三天。
　　为的是保持一种假象，即他山上的那所潮湿、漏风的石头墙农舍是个寻欢作乐的金碧宫殿，但实际上没有什么比呆在那儿更让他厌烦的了。各地的军官俱乐部里都充斥着模糊不清但熟悉的话语，大家谈论着那些放荡不羁但又见不得人的狂饮乱嫖之事，谈论与那些最漂亮、最惹人、最容易被撩动、也最容易满足的意大利名妓、电影明星、模特儿和伯爵夫人幽会的销魂之夜：但从未有过这样的令人销魂的幽会之夜或见不得人的狂饮乱嫖之事。假如德里德尔将军或佩克姆将军哪怕有一次表示过有兴趣同他一起参加这些狂欢，这些事情也许有可能发生、但他们两人谁也没有表示过。因此，上校当然不会浪费时间与精力去同漂亮女人寻欢作乐，除非那样做对他有什么好处。
　　上校害怕在农场的房子里度过那些阴湿、寂寞的夜晚和沉闷、单调的白昼。他回到飞行大队后有更多的兴趣，可以对所有他不害怕的人吹胡子瞪眼睛。但是，正如科恩中校时常提醒他的那样，假如他从不去住，那么在山上拥有一所农舍就没有多大魅力。他每次开车去他的农舍时都是一副顾影自怜的样子；他在吉普车里带着一支猎枪，用它打鸟，打红色梨形番茄，以此来消磨那单调无聊的时光。那儿确实种了一些红色梨形番茄，一行行歪七扭八的，无人照看，摘起来也太麻烦。
　　对有些下级军官，卡思卡特上校仍然认为有必要表示一点敬意，尽管他不愿意也没有把握是不是非得把——德•科弗利少校包括在内，但他还是把他包括进去了。对他来说，——德•科弗利少校是个极为神秘的人物，就像他本人对梅杰少校和其他所有曾注意过他的人来说也很神秘一样。对于——德•科弗利少校，卡思卡特上校不知道该持什么态度，是尊敬呢还是蔑视。尽管——德•科弗利少校比卡思卡特上校要年长许多，但他只不过是个少校。不过，许许多多其他的人如此尊敬、敬畏甚至害怕——德•科弗利少校，因此卡思卡特上校觉得他们也许都知道些什么事情。——德•科弗利少校是个不吉利的、不可思议的人物，他使卡思卡特上校常常坐立不安，就连科恩中校也得提防他；每个人都害怕他，但谁也不知道为什么。甚至没有一个人知道——德•科弗利少校的教名是什么，因为从来没有人敢冒冒失失地去问他。卡思卡特上校得知——
　　德•科弗利少校外出了，他不在，上校很高兴，可他又想到——德•科弗利少校也许在什么地方阴谋反对他，于是他又希望德•科弗利少校回到他所属的中队，那样他就处于监视之中了。
　　过了一会儿，卡思卡特上校的两只脚由于来回走动过多而疼痛起来。他重又在办公桌后坐下，下决心对整个军事形势作一周密而系统的估计。他摆出一副善于处理事务的人具有的那种做事井然有序的样子，找出一大本白色的拍纸簿，在纸正中划了一道竖线，在靠近竖线的上方划了一道横线，将整页纸分成两个宽度相等的空白栏。他休息了一会儿，对一些关键问题作了考虑。然后他伏在桌子上，用拘谨而过分讲究的笔迹在左边一栏的顶端写上：“耻辱！！！”在右边一栏的顶端写上：“荣誉！！！”他再次靠向椅背，带着赞赏的目光从客观的角度来检查他画的图。在慎重地考虑了几秒钟后，他小心翼翼地舔了舔铅笔尖，在“耻辱！！！”一栏下写了起来，每写完一项都要停下来仔细考虑一下，其内容如下：
　　弗拉拉
　　博洛尼亚（轰炸期间轰炸线在地图上被篡改了）
　　双向飞碟射击场
　　队伍中有个赤裸着身体的军官（轰炸阿维尼翁之后）
　　然后他补充写上：
　　食物中毒（轰炸博洛尼亚期间）
　　再写上：
　　呻吟声（下达轰炸阿维尼翁简令时的流行病）
　　然后又加上：
　　牧师（每晚在军官俱乐部里逗留）
　　尽管他不喜欢牧师，但他还是决定对牧师宽宏大量，于是在“荣誉！！！”一栏下写上：
　　牧师（每晚在军官俱乐部里逗留）
　　这样，关于牧师的两条记录就互相抵消了。在弗拉拉和队伍中有个赤裸着身体的军官（轰炸阿维尼翁之后）这两条旁边，他又写上：
　　约塞连！
　　在博洛尼亚（轰炸期间轰炸线在地图上被篡改了），食物中毒（轰炸博洛尼亚期间）和呻吟声（下达轰炸阿维尼翁简令时的流行病）这三条旁边，他果断地打上了醒目粗大的？
　　那些打上了“？”的条目是他想立刻进行调查的事件，为的是确定约塞连是否参与了这些事件。
　　突然，他写字的手臂开始发抖，无法再写下去。他惊恐地站起来，感到手脚迟钝、极不灵活，于是急忙冲到敞开着的窗户旁，大口地呼吸着新鲜空气。他的目光落在了双向飞碟射击场上。他一阵昏眩，痛苦地尖叫了一声，两只狂乱、通红的眼睛疯狂地在办公室的墙壁上扫来扫去，仿佛墙上挤满了许许多多的约塞连。
　　没有人爱他。虽然佩克姆将军喜欢他，但德里德尔将军恨他。
　　不过，他不能肯定佩克姆将军喜欢他，因为佩克姆将军的副官卡吉尔上校无疑有自己的野心，他可能一有机会就在佩克姆将军面前说他的坏话。他断定，除了他自己之外，唯一的一名好上校是一位死了的上校。在上校中，他唯一信赖的是穆达士上校，但即便穆达士上校也是靠他岳父提携的。虽然他的大队被米洛的飞机轰炸一事也许是他的一个奇耻大辱，但米洛无疑是他的骄做。米洛通过向大家透露部队联营企业同敌军的交易取得了巨额纯利润而最终平息了所有的抗议。而且，他还使所有的人相信，从私营企业的立场出发，轰炸自己的人和飞机的的确确是一个值得称赞并十分有利可图的打击。上校对米洛不十分有把握，因为其他上校正竭力想把他引诱走。此外，那个讨厌的一级准尉大个怀特•哈尔福特还在卡思卡特上校的飞行大队里。据那个又讨厌又懒惰的布莱克上尉说，一级准尉大个怀特•哈尔福特实际上是应对博洛尼亚大围攻期间轰炸线被篡改之事负责的人。卡思卡特上校之所以喜欢一级准尉大个怀待•哈尔福特，是因为每次一级准尉大个怀特•哈尔福特喝醉了酒而且看见穆达士上校也在场，他就不停地对着那个讨厌的穆达士上校的鼻子狠揍。他希望一级准尉大个怀特•哈尔福特也会开始朝科恩中校的胖脸上狠揍。科恩中校是个讨厌的、自作聪明的家伙。第二十六空军司令部里有人对他怀恨在心，把他写的每份报告都签上辱骂、训斥的批示退回来。科恩中校买通了司令部里一个名叫温特格林的精明的邮件管理员，竭力想搞清楚那人是谁。他不得不承认，第二次转回去轰炸弗拉拉时损失了一架飞机对他不会有什么好处，另一架飞机在云层中失踪也同样不会对他有益——
　　这件事他甚至忘了写下来。他带着渴望的神情极力想记起约塞连是否同那架在云层里的飞机一起失踪，但他很快就意识到，如果约塞连还在这儿吵吵闹闹，说只要再飞五次就完成了这些讨厌的飞行任务的话，那他就不可能同那架在云层中的飞机一起失踪。
　　卡思卡特上校理智地想了想，如果约塞连反对飞六十次，那么六十次的飞行任务对那些官兵来说也许是太多了。然而他随后又想到，强迫他的部下去执行比别人更多的飞行任务被认为是他取得的最明显的实绩了。正如科恩中校常常说的那样，战争中只知道执行命令的飞行大队长比比皆是，因此要突出自己独一无二的领导才能，必需采取某种富有戏剧性的姿态，比如要求自己的大队去执行比其他任何轰炸机大队都要多的战斗飞行任务。当然，将军中似乎没有一位反对他的做法，但就他所能察觉到的，他们对此也没有什么特别深的印象，这使他觉得也许六十次战斗飞行任务还远远不够，他应该立即把飞行次数提到七十、八十、一百，甚至二百、三百，或者六千次！
　　毫无疑问，他在像佩克姆将军那样文雅、和蔼的人手下工作要比在像德里德尔将军那样粗鲁、迟钝的人手下工作处境会好得多，因为尽管佩克姆将军从未丝毫表示过他赏识或喜欢他，但佩克姆将军有眼力，有天赋，受过名牌大学的教育，能充分了解他的价值，赏识他的能力。卡思卡特上校敏锐的洞察力足以使他认识到，在像他自己和佩克姆将军这样阅历丰富而又十分自信的人之间从不需要明确地表示对对方的承认，他们生来就互相了解，离得很远就能互相产生好感。他们属于同一类人，这就足够了，他知道提升只是个时机问题，他得小心谨慎地等待。不过他又注意到佩克姆将军从未特别看中他，也从不煞费苦心地给卡思卡特上校留下满腹警句和学识的印象、就像将军对他周围的人，甚至士兵一样。要么是卡思卡特上校的心思没有传到佩克姆将军那儿，要么佩克姆将军就不是那个他假装出来的才智横溢、辨别力强、文质彬彬、具有远见卓识的人；而德里德尔将军倒的的确确是个敏锐、可爱、才华横溢、阅历丰富的人，在他的手下他的处境肯定会好得多：突然，卡思卡特上校对众人是否支持他一无所知，于是他用拳头打起铃来，叫科恩中校速到他的办公室来，向他保证，每一个人都爱他，约塞连只是他在想象中虚构出来的人物，他上校本人在为成为将军而进行的英勇、辉煌的战役中正取得惊人的进展。
　　事实上，卡思卡特上校根本没有机会成为将军。一方面是因为有个叫温特格林的前一等兵，他也想当将军，于是对任何可能给卡思卡特上校带来声誉的信函，无论是卡思卡特上校本人写的，还是别人写给卡思卡特上校的或是有关卡思卡特上校的：他一概加以歪曲、销毁、拒投或者写错投递地址；另一方面是因为已经有了一个将军用，即德里德尔将军，他知道佩克姆将军在觊觎他的位子但又不知道如何阻止他。
　　联队司令德里德尔将军五十岁刚出头，他粗率迟钝、身材矮胖、胸部圆得像水桶似的。他的鼻子又短又阔、红乎乎的，肥胖、苍白、凸起的眼睑像咸肥肉似的一圈圈围着他那对灰色的小眼睛。他有个护士和女婿跟着他。没有喝醉酒时，他习惯于长时间沉默不语。德里德尔将军为把部队的工作搞好浪费了太多的时间，现在已为时太晚了。新的权力联盟已经形成，而祖他排除在外，他简直不知如何去应付。稍不留神，他那张冷峻、阴沉的脸就会因失败和挫折而露出闷闷不乐、心事重重的神色。德里德尔将军以酒浇愁。他的情绪变得反复无常、难以捉摸。“战争就是地狱。”他无论是喝醉了还是清醒时常常这样说，而且他心里也真的是这么想的，然而这并不妨碍他靠战争谋得高官厚禄，也不妨碍他把女婿拉进军队同他在一起，尽管翁婿两人常常争吵。
　　“那个杂种，”无论谁在军官俱乐部里那张曲线形柜台前碰巧站在他旁边，他都会这样轻蔑地咕哝一句，向他抱怨自己的女婿。
　　“他能有这一切全亏了我。他是靠了我发迹的，这个狗娘养的混帐东西！他还嫩着呢，还不能独自混出个样子来。”
　　“他以为他什么都知道。”在柜台的另一头，穆达士上校总会用气愤的语气向他周围的人反驳他的岳父。“他不接受批评，也不愿听别人的忠告。”
　　“他所能做的一切就是给别人提忠告，”德里德尔将军总会粗声粗气地哼着鼻子说，“要不是我，他现在还只是个下士。”
　　德里德尔将军总是由穆达士上校和他的护士两人陪着。那护士可是个美人儿，见过她的人都认为她与人们见过的任何漂亮女人比都毫不逊色。德里德尔将军的护士身材小巧，圆圆的脸上生着一对快乐的蓝眼睛，丰满的双颊上有两个小酒窝，一头金色的卷发下边向上卷起，梳得整整齐齐。她逢人便露出微笑，却从不开口说话，除非有人跟她说话才应酬几句。她胸脯丰满，皮肤雪白。她的媚力是难以抗拒的，男人们总是目不转睛地侧着身子慢慢地从她身旁走开。她丰满娇艳、甜美温顺、沉默寡言，弄得所有的人，除了德里德尔将军之外，都如痴如醉。
　　“你该看看她光着身子是什么样子，”德里德尔将军用沙哑的嗓门津津有味地笑着说，而此时他的护士就站在他的肩旁得意地微笑着。“在联队我的房间里，有她的一件用紫红色丝绸做的制服，那衣服太小，她的两个乳头鼓得老高，像两只大樱桃似的。是米洛给我弄来的衣料。那制服小得里面连短裤和胸罩都不能穿。有几个晚上穆达士在这儿时，我让她穿上那制服，撩得他魂不守舍。”德里德尔将军放开沙哑的嗓子哈哈大笑。“要是你能看见她每次挪动身体时她那件衣裳里面的情景才妙呢。她把他弄得神魂颠倒。只要我抓到他向她或其他别的女人伸一伸手，我就立刻把这个好色的杂种一下子降为列兵，让他当一年炊事兵。”
　　“他让她在我身边转悠，就是想把我撩得魂不守舍，”穆达士上校在柜台的另一头愤愤不平地指责说，“在联队里，她有一件用紫红色丝绸做的制服，那衣服太小，她的两个乳头鼓得老高，像两只大樱桃似的。那制服小得里面连短裤和胸罩都不能穿。要是你能听见她每次挪动身体时那绸衣服发出的沙沙声就好啦。要是我对她或其他别的姑娘有什么非礼的举动，他就会把我一下子降为列兵，让我当一年炊事兵。她撩得我神魂颠倒。”
　　“自从我们到海外以来，他还没有和女人上过床呢。”德里德尔将军吐露了秘密。一想到这个恶毒的主意，他就像个性虐待狂似的大笑起来，他那四四方方、满头灰白头发的脑袋也随着笑声直晃悠。“我之所以不让他呆在我看不见的地方，这就是其中一个原因，这样他就不能去找女人。你能想象出这个可怜的狗娘养的有多难过吗？”
　　“自从我们到海外以来，我还没有和女人上过床呢，”穆达士上校眼泪汪汪地抱怨说，“你能想象出我有多难过吗？”
　　德里德尔将军生气的时候，对任何人都会像对穆达士上校那样寸步不让。他不喜欢装假、圆滑、做作。作为职业军人，他的信条是，始终如一，简单明了。他认为接受他命令的年轻军人应该心甘情愿地为了这位向他们发布命令的老军人的理想、抱负和特有的风格献出自己的生命。对他而言，他手下的军官和士兵都只是军人。他所要求的就是他们做好自己的工作，除此之外，他们可以随心所欲，想干什么就干什么。只要愿意，他们可以像卡思卡特上校那样强迫他们的部下执行六十次飞行任务；只要乐意，他们也可以像约塞连那样一丝不挂地站在队列里，尽管当时一看到这一情景，德里德尔将军那花岗岩似的下巴一下子张了开来。他专横而傲慢地大步沿着队伍走过去，想看清楚队伍中是不是真的有个人浑身一丝不挂，只穿了双皮鞋立正站在那儿，等着他颁发勋章。德里德尔将军一句话也没说。卡思卡特上校发现约塞连时，差点昏过去。
　　科恩中校快步走到他身后，一把抓住他的一只手臂。接着是一阵静得出奇的沉默。温暖的海风不停地从海滨吹来，一头黑毛驴拉着一辆装满了脏草的旧马车在大路上辘辘驶过来，赶车的农夫头戴一顶帽檐低垂的帽子，身穿一套褪了色的棕褐色工作服，他对右边那一小块场地上正在举行的正式军事仪式毫不在意。最后，德里德尔将军说话了。“回到汽车里去，”他转过头对跟在他身后的护士厉声说道。护士带着微笑蹦蹦颠颠地朝将军的那辆深褐色军用汽车走去。汽车停在约二十码之外那块长方形空地的边上。德里德尔将军带着严厉的表情静静地等着，直到他听见车门砰的一声关上后才问道：“这个人叫什么名字？”
　　穆达士上校查看了一下名册。“这个人叫约塞连，爹。他获得了一枚优异飞行十字勋章。”
　　“唉；真该死，”德里德尔将军嘟哝着说，由于觉得有趣，他那血红色的石板似的脸上露出了温和的神色。“你为什么不穿衣服，约塞连？”
　　“我不想穿。”
　　“你说不想穿是什么意思？你究竟为什么不想穿？”
　　“我只是不想穿，长官。”
　　“他为什么不穿衣服？”德里德尔将军回过头来问卡思卡特上校。
　　“他在跟你说话，”科恩中校从后面贴着卡思卡特上校的肩膀小声对他说道，一边用胳膊肘猛地捅了一下他的背。
　　“他为什么不穿衣服？”卡思卡特上校带着极度痛苦的表情问科恩中校，一面轻揉着刚才被科恩中校捅过的地方。
　　“他为什么不穿衣服？”科恩中校问皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉。
　　“他的飞机里有个士兵上周在阿维尼翁上空被打死了，溅得他浑身上下都是血，”雷恩上尉回答说，“他发誓再也不穿军装了。”
　　“他的飞机里有个士兵上周在阿维尼翁上空被打死了，溅得他浑身上下都是血，”科恩中校直接向德里德尔将军报告说，“他的制服还在洗衣房里。”
　　“他的其他制服呢？”
　　“也都在洗衣房里。”
　　“他的内衣呢？”德里德尔将军问道。
　　“他的所有内衣也都在洗衣房里，”科恩中校答道。
　　“这些话我听起来好像是一大堆胡说八道
Chapter 22 Milo The Mayor
     That was the mission on which Yossarian lost his nerve. Yossarian lost his nerve on the mission to Avignonbecause Snowden lost his guts, and Snowden lost his guts because their pilot that day was Huple, who was onlyfifteen years old, and their co-pilot was Dobbs, who was even worse and who wanted Yossarian to join with himin a plot to murder Colonel Cathcart. Huple was a good pilot, Yossarian knew, but he was only a kid, and Dobbshad no confidence in him, either, and wrested the controls away without warning after they had dropped theirbombs, going berserk in mid-air and tipping the plane over into that heart-stopping, ear-splitting, indescribablypetrifying fatal dive that tore Yossarian’s earphones free from their connection and hung him helplessly to theroof of the nose by the top of his head.
　　Oh, God! Yossarian had shrieked soundlessly as he felt them all falling. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!
　　he had shrieked beseechingly through lips that could not open as the plane fell and he dangled without weight bythe top of his head until Huple managed to seize the controls back and leveled the plane out down inside thecrazy, craggy, patchwork canyon of crashing antiaircraft fire from which they had climbed away and from whichthey would now have to escape again. Almost at once there was a thud and a hole the size of a big fist in theplexiglass. Yossarian’s cheeks were stinging with shimmering splinters. There was no blood.
　　“What happened? What happened?” he cried, and trembled violently when he could not hear his own voice in hisears. He was cowed by the empty silence on the intercom and almost too horrified to move as he crouched like atrapped mouse on his hands and knees and waited without daring to breathe until he finally spied the gleamingcylindrical jack plug of his headset swinging back and forth in front of his eyes and jammed it back into itsreceptacle with fingers that rattled. Oh, God! he kept shrieking with no abatement of terror as the flak thumpedand mushroomed all about him. Oh, God!
　　Dobbs was weeping when Yossarian jammed his jack plug back into the intercom system and was able to hearagain.
　　“Help him, help him,” Dobbs was sobbing. “Help him, help him.”
　　“Help who? Help who?” Yossarian called back. “Help who?”
　　“The bombardier, the bombardier,” Dobbs cried. “He doesn’t answer. Help the bombardier, help thebombardier.”
　　“I’m the bombardier,” Yossarian cried back at him. “I’m the bombardier. I’m all right. I’m all right.”
　　“Then help him, help him,” Dobbs wept. “Help him, help him.”
　　“Help who? Help who?”
　　“The radio-gunner,” Dobbs begged. “Help the radio-gunner.”
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered feebly over the intercom system then in a bleat of plaintive agony. “Please helpme. I’m cold.”
　　And Yossarian crept out through the crawlway and climbed up over the bomb bay and down into the rear sectionof the plane where Snowden lay on the floor wounded and freezing to death in a yellow splash of sunlight nearthe new tail-gunner lying stretched out on the floor beside him in a dead faint.
　　Dobbs was the worst pilot in the world and knew it, a shattered wreck of a virile young man who was continuallystriving to convince his superiors that he was no longer fit to pilot a plane. None of his superiors would listen,and it was the day the number of missions was raised to sixty that Dobbs stole into Yossarian’s tent while Orrwas out looking for gaskets and disclosed the plot he had formulated to murder Colonel Cathcart. He neededYossarian’s assistance.
　　“You want us to kill him in cold blood?” Yossarian objected.
　　“That’s right,” Dobbs agreed with an optimistic smile, encouraged by Yossarian’s ready grasp of the situation.
　　“We’ll shoot him to death with the Luger I brought back from Sicily that nobody knows I’ve got.”
　　“I don’t think I could do it,” Yossarian concluded, after weighing the idea in silence awhile.
　　Dobbs was astonished. “Why not?”
　　“Look. Nothing would please me more than to have the son of a bitch break his neck or get killed in a crash or tofind out that someone else had shot him to death. But I don’t think I could kill him.”
　　“He’d do it to you,” Dobbs argued. “In fact, you’re the one who told me he is doing it to us by keeping us incombat so long.”
　　“But I don’t think I could do it to him. He’s got a right to live, too, I guess.”
　　“Not as long as he’s trying to rob you and me of our right to live. What’s the matter with you?” Dobbs wasflabbergasted. “I used to listen to you arguing that same thing with Clevinger. And look what happened to him.
　　Right inside that cloud.”
　　“Stop shouting, will you?” Yossarian shushed him.
　　“I’m not shouting!” Dobbs shouted louder, his face red with revolutionary fervor. His eyes and nostrils wererunning, and his palpitating crimson lower lip was splattered with a foamy dew. “There must have been close toa hundred men in the group who had finished their fifty-five missions when he raised the number to sixty. Theremust have been at least another hundred like you with just a couple more to fly. He’s going to kill us all if we lethim go on forever. We’ve got to kill him first.”
　　Yossarian nodded expressionlessly, without committing himself. “Do you think we could get away with it?”
　　“I’ve got it all worked out. I—““Stop shouting, for Christ’s sake!”
　　“I’m not shouting. I’ve got it—““Will you stop shouting!”
　　“I’ve got it all worked out,” Dobbs whispered, gripping the side of Orr’s cot with white-knuckled hands toconstrain them from waving. “Thursday morning when he’s due back from that goddam farmhouse of his in thehills, I’ll sneak up through the woods to that hairpin turn in the road and hide in the bushes. He has to slow downthere, and I can watch the road in both directions to make sure there’s no one else around. When I see himcoming, I’ll shove a big log out into the road to make him stop his jeep. Then I’ll step out of the bushes with myLuger and shoot him in the head until he’s dead. I’ll bury the gun, come back down through the woods to thesquadron and go about my business just like everybody else. What could possibly go wrong?”
　　Yossarian had followed each step attentively. “Where do I come in?” he asked in puzzlement.
　　“I couldn’t do it without you,” Dobbs explained. “I need you to tell me to go ahead.”
　　Yossarian found it hard to believe him. “Is that all you want me to do? Just tell you to go ahead?”
　　“That’s all I need from you,” Dobbs answered. “Just tell me to go ahead and I’ll blow his brains out all by myselfthe day after tomorrow.” His voice was accelerating with emotion and rising again. “I’d like to shoot ColonelKorn in the head, too, while we’re at it, although I’d like to spare Major Danby, if that’s all right with you. ThenI’d murder Appleby and Havermeyer also, and after we finish murdering Appleby and Havermeyer I’d like tomurder McWatt.”
　　“McWatt?” cried Yossarian, almost jumping up in horror. “McWatt’s a friend of mine. What do you want fromMcWatt?”
　　“I don’t know,” Dobbs confessed with an air of floundering embarrassment. “I just thought that as long as wewere murdering Appleby and Havermeyer we might as well murder McWatt too. Don’t you want to murderMcWatt?”
　　Yossarian took a firm stand. “Look, I might keep interested in this if you stop shouting it all over the island andif you stick to killing Colonel Cathcart. But if you’re going to turn this into a blood bath, you can forget aboutme.”
　　“All right, all right,” Dobbs sought to placate him. “Just Colonel Cathcart. Should I do it? Tell me to go ahead.”
　　Yossarian shook his head. “I don’t think I could tell you to go ahead.”
　　Dobbs was frantic. “I’m willing to compromise,” he pleaded vehemently. “You don’t have to tell me to goahead. Just tell me it’s a good idea. Okay? Is it a good idea?”
　　Yossarian still shook his head. “It would have been a great idea if you had gone ahead and done it without evenspeaking to me. Now it’s too late. I don’t think I can tell you anything. Give me some more time. I might changemy mind.”
　　“Then it will be too late.”
　　Yossarian kept shaking his head. Dobbs was disappointed. He sat for a moment with a hangdog look, thenspurted to his feet suddenly and stamped away to have another impetuous crack at persuading Doc Daneeka toground him, knocking over Yossarian’s washstand with his hip when he lurched around and tripping over thefuel line of the stove Orr was still constructing. Doc Daneeka withstood Dobbs’s blustering and gesticulatingattack with a series of impatient nods and sent him to the medical tent to describe his symptoms to Gus and Wes,who painted his gums purple with gentian-violet solution the moment he started to talk. They painted his toespurple, too, and forced a laxative down his throat when he opened his mouth again to complain, and then theysent him away.
　　Dobbs was in even worse shape than Hungry Joe, who could at least fly missions when he was not havingnightmares. Dobbs was almost as bad as Orr, who seemed happy as an undersized, grinning lark with hisderanged and galvanic giggle and shivering warped buck teeth and who was sent along for a rest leave with Miloand Yossarian on the trip to Cairo for eggs when Milo bought cotton instead and took off at dawn for Istanbulwith his plane packed to the gun turrets with exotic spiders and unripened red bananas. Orr was one of thehomeliest freaks Yossarian had ever encountered, and one of the most attractive. He had a raw bulgy face, withhazel eyes squeezing from their sockets like matching brown halves of marbles and thick, wavy particolored hairsloping up to a peak on the top of his head like a pomaded pup tent. Orr was knocked down into the water or hadan engine shot out almost every time he went up, and he began jerking on Yossarian’s arm like a wild man after they had taken off for Naples and come down in Sicily to find the scheming, cigar-smoking, ten-year-old pimpwith the two twelve-year-old virgin sisters waiting for them in town in front of the hotel in which there was roomfor only Milo. Yossarian pulled back from Orr adamantly, gazing with some concern and bewilderment at Mt.
　　Etna instead of Mt. Vesuvius and wondering what they were doing in Sicily instead of Naples as Orr keptentreating him in a tittering, stuttering, concupiscent turmoil to go along with him behind the scheming ten-yearoldpimp to his two twelve-year-old virgin sisters who were not really virgins and not really sisters and who werereally only twenty-eight.
　　“Go with him,” Milo instructed Yossarian laconically. “Remember your mission.”
　　“All right,” Yossarian yielded with a sigh, remembering his mission. “But at least let me try to find a hotel roomfirst so I can get a good night’s sleep afterward.”
　　“You’ll get a good night’s sleep with the girls,” Milo replied with the same air of intrigue. Remember yourmission.”
　　But they got no sleep at all, for Yossarian and Orr found themselves jammed into the same double bed with thetwo twelve-year-old twenty-eight-year-old prostitutes, who turned out to be oily and obese and who kept wakingthem up all night long to ask them to switch partners. Yossarian’s perceptions were soon so fuzzy that he paid nonotice to the beige turban the fat one crowding into him kept wearing until late the next morning when thescheming ten-year-old pimp with the Cuban panatella snatched it off in public in a bestial caprice that exposed inthe brilliant Sicilian daylight her shocking, misshapen and denudate skull. Vengeful neighbors had shaved herhair to the gleaming bone because she had slept with Germans. The girl screeched in feminine outrage andwaddled comically after the scheming ten-year-old pimp, her grisly, bleak, violated scalp slithering up and downludicrously around the queer darkened wart of her face like something bleached and obscene. Yossarian hadnever laid eyes on anything so bare before. The pimp spun the turban high on his finger like a trophy and kepthimself skipping inches ahead of her finger tips as he led her in a tantalizing circle around the square congestedwith people who were howling with laughter and pointing to Yossarian with derision when Milo strode up with agrim look of haste and puckered his lips reprovingly at the unseemly spectacle of so much vice and frivolity.
　　Milo insisted on leaving at once for Malta.
　　“We’re sleepy,” Orr whined.
　　“That’s your own fault,” Milo censured them both selfrighteously. “If you had spent the night in your hotel roominstead of with these immoral girls, you’d both feel as good as I do today.”
　　“You told us to go with them,” Yossarian retorted accusingly. “And we didn’t have a hotel room. You were theonly one who could get a hotel room.”
　　“That wasn’t my fault, either,” Milo explained haughtily. “How was I supposed to know all the buyers would bein town for the chick-pea harvest?”
　　“You knew it,” Yossarian charged. “That explains why we’re here in Sicily instead of Naples. You’ve probably got the whole damned plane filled with chick-peas already.”
　　“Shhhhhh!” Milo cautioned sternly, with a meaningful glance toward Orr. “Remember your mission.”
　　The bomb bay, the rear and tail sections of the plane and most of the top turret gunner’s section were all filledwith bushels of chick-peas when they arrived at the airfield to take off for Malta.
　　Yossarian’s mission on the trip was to distract Orr from observing where Milo bought his eggs, even though Orrwas a member of Milo’s syndicate and, like every other member of Milo’s syndicate, owned a share. His missionwas silly, Yossarian felt, since it was common knowledge that Milo bought his eggs in Malta for seven centsapiece and sold them to the mess halls in his syndicate for five cents apiece.
　　“I just don’t trust him,” Milo brooded in the plane, with a backward nod toward Orr, who was curled up like atangled rope on the low bushels of chick-peas, trying torturedly to sleep. “And I’d just as soon buy my eggswhen he’s not around to learn my business secrets. What else don’t you understand?”
　　Yossarian was riding beside him in the co-pilot’s seat. “I don’t understand why you buy eggs for seven centsapiece in Malta and sell them for five cents.”
　　“I do it to make a profit.”
　　“But how can you make a profit? You lose two cents an egg.”
　　“But I make a profit of three and a quarter cents an egg by selling them for four and a quarter cents an egg to thepeople in Malta I buy them from for seven cents an egg. Of course, I don’t make the profit. The syndicate makesthe profit. And everybody has a share.”
　　Yossarian felt he was beginning to understand. “And the people you sell the eggs to at four and a quarter centsapiece make a profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when they sell them back to you at seven cents apiece.
　　Is that right? Why don’t you sell the eggs directly to you and eliminate the people you buy them from?”
　　“Because I’m the people I buy them from,” Milo explained. “I make a profit of three and a quarter cents apiecewhen I sell them to me and a profit of two and three quarter cents apiece when I buy them back from me. That’sa total profit of six cents an egg. I lose only two cents an egg when I sell them to the mess halls at five centsapiece, and that’s how I can make a profit buying eggs for seven cents apiece and selling them for five centsapiece. I pay only one cent apiece at the hen when I buy them in Sicily.”
　　“In Malta,” Yossarian corrected. “You buy your eggs in Malta, not Sicily.”
　　Milo chortled proudly. “I don’t buy eggs in Malta,” he confessed, with an air of slight and clandestineamusement that was the only departure from industrious sobriety Yossarian had ever seen him make. “I buythem in Sicily for one cent apiece and transfer them to Malta secretly at four and a half cents apiece in order toget the price of eggs up to seven cents apiece when people come to Malta looking for them.”
　　“Why do people come to Malta for eggs when they’re so expensive there?”
　　“Because they’ve always done it that way.”
　　“Why don’t they look for eggs in Sicily?”
　　“Because they’ve never done it that way.”
　　“Now I really don’t understand. Why don’t you sell your mess halls the eggs for seven cents apiece instead offerfive cents apiece?”
　　“Because my mess halls would have no need for me then. Anyone can buy seven-cents-apiece eggs for sevencents apiece.”
　　“Why don’t they bypass you and buy the eggs directly from you in Malta at four and a quarter cents apiece?”
　　“Because I wouldn’t sell it to them.”
　　“Why wouldn’t you sell it to them?”
　　“Because then there wouldn’t be as much room for profit. At least this way I can make a bit for myself as amiddleman.”
　　“Then you do make a profit for yourself,” Yossarian declared.
　　“Of course I do. But it all goes to the syndicate. And everybody has a share. Don’t you understand? It’s exactlywhat happens with those plum tomatoes I sell to Colonel Cathcart.”
　　“Buy,” Yossarian corrected him. “You don’t sell plum tomatoes to Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. You buyplum tomatoes from them.”
　　“No, sell,” Milo corrected Yossarian. “I distribute my plum tomatoes in markets all over Pianosa under anassumed name so that Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn can buy them up from me under their assumed namesat four cents apiece and sell them back to me the next day for the syndicate at five cents apiece. They make aprofit of one cent apiece. I make a profit of three and a half cents apiece, and everybody comes out ahead.”
　　“Everybody but the syndicate,” said Yossarian with a snort. “The syndicate is paying five cents apiece for plumtomatoes that cost you only half a cent apiece. How does the syndicate benefit?”
　　“The syndicate benefits when I benefit,” Milo explained, “because everybody has a share. And the syndicate getsColonel Cathcart’s and Colonel Korn’s support so that they’ll let me go out on trips like this one. You’ll see howmuch profit that can mean in about fifteen minutes when we land in Palermo.”
　　“Malta,” Yossarian corrected him. “We’re flying to Malta now, not Palermo.”
　　“No, we’re flying to Palermo,” Milo answered. “There’s an endive exporter in Palermo I have to see for a minuteabout a shipment of mushrooms to Bern that were damaged by mold.”
　　“Milo, how do you do it?” Yossarian inquired with laughing amazement and admiration. “You fill out a flightplan for one place and then you go to another. Don’t the people in the control towers ever raise hell?”
　　“They all belong to the syndicate,” Milo said. “And they know that what’s good for the syndicate is good for thecountry, because that’s what makes Sammy run. The men in the control towers have a share, too, and that’s whythey always have to do whatever they can to help the syndicate.”
　　“Do I have a share?”
　　“Everybody has a share.”
　　“Does Orr have a share?”
　　“Everybody has a share.”
　　“And Hungry Joe? He has a share, too?”
　　“Everybody has a share.”
　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” mused Yossarian, deeply impressed with the idea of a share for the very first time.
　　Milo turned toward him with a faint glimmer of mischief. “I have a sure-fire plan for cheating the federalgovernment out of six thousand dollars. We can make three thousand dollars apiece without any risk to either ofus. Are you interested?”
　　“No.”
　　Milo looked at Yossarian with profound emotion. “That’s what I like about you,” he exclaimed. “You’re honest!
　　You’re the only one I know that I can really trust. That’s why I wish you’d try to be of more help to me. I reallywas disappointed when you ran off with those two tramps in Catania yesterday.”
　　Yossarian stared at Milo in quizzical disbelief. “Milo, you told me to go with them. Don’t you remember?”
　　“That wasn’t my fault,” Milo answered with dignity. “I had to get rid of Orr some way once we reached town. Itwill be a lot different in Palermo. When we land in Palermo, I want you and Orr to leave with the girls right fromthe airport.”
　　“With what girls?”
　　“I radioed ahead and made arrangements with a four-year-old pimp to supply you and Orr with two eight-yearoldvirgins who are half Spanish. He’ll be waiting at the airport in a limousine. Go right in as soon as you stepout of the plane.”
　　“Nothing doing,” said Yossarian, shaking his head. “The only place I’m going is to sleep.”
　　Milo turned livid with indignation, his slim long nose flickering spasmodically between his black eyebrows andhis unbalanced orange-brown mustache like the pale, thin flame of a single candle. “Yossarian, remember yourmission,” he reminded reverently.
　　“To hell with my mission,” Yossarian responded indifferently. “And to hell with the syndicate too, even though Ido have a share. I don’t want any eight-year-old virgins, even if they are half Spanish.”
　　“I don’t blame you. But these eight-year-old virgins are really only thirty-two. And they’re not really halfSpanish but only one-third Estonian.”
　　“I don’t care for any virgins.”
　　“And they’re not even virgins,” Milo continued persuasively. “The one I picked out for you was married for ashort time to an elderly schoolteacher who slept with her only on Sundays, so she’s really almost as good asnew.”
　　But Orr was sleepy, too, and Yossarian and Orr were both at Milo’s side when they rode into the city of Palermofrom the airport and discovered that there was no room for the two of them at the hotel there either, and, moreimportant, that Milo was mayor.
　　The weird, implausible reception for Milo began at the airfield, where civilian laborers who recognized himhalted in their duties respectfully to gaze at him with full expressions of controlled exuberance and adulation.
　　News of his arrival preceded him into the city, and the outskirts were already crowded with cheering citizens asthey sped by in their small uncovered truck. Yossarian and Orr were mystified and mute and pressed closeagainst Milo for security.
　　Inside the city, the welcome for Milo grew louder as the truck slowed and eased deeper toward the middle oftown. Small boys and girls had been released from school and were lining the sidewalks in new clothes, wavingtiny flags. Yossarian and Orr were absolutely speechless now. The streets were jammed with joyous throngs, andstrung overhead were huge banners bearing Milo’s picture. Milo had posed for these pictures in a drab peasant’sblouse with a high collar, and his scrupulous, paternal countenance was tolerant, wise, critical and strong as hestared out at the populace omnisciently with his undisciplined mustache and disunited eyes. Sinking invalidsblew kisses to him from windows. Aproned shopkeepers cheered ecstatically from the narrow doorways of theirshops. Tubas crumped. Here and there a person fell and was trampled to death. Sobbing old women swarmed through each other frantically around the slow-moving truck to touch Milo’s shoulder or press his hand. Milobore the tumultuous celebrations with benevolent grace. He waved back to everyone in elegant reciprocation andshowered generous handfuls of foilcovered Hershey kisses to the rejoicing multitudes. Lines of lusty young boysand girls skipped along behind him with their arms linked, chanting in hoarse and glassy-eyed adoration, “Milo!
　　Mi-lo! Mi-lo!”
　　Now that his secret was out, Milo relaxed with Yossarian and Orr and inflated opulently with a vast, shy pride.
　　His cheeks turned flesh-colored. Milo had been elected mayor of Palermo—and of nearby Carini, Monreale,Bagheria, Termini Imerese, Cefalu, Mistretta and Nicosia as well—because he had brought Scotch to Sicily.
　　Yossarian was amazed. “The people here like to drink Scotch that much?”
　　“They don’t drink any of the Scotch,” Milo explained. “Scotch is very expensive, and these people here are verypoor.”
　　“Then why do you import it to Sicily if nobody drinks any?”
　　“To build up a price. I move the Scotch here from Malta to make more room for profit when I sell it back to mefor somebody else. I created a whole new industry here. Today Sicily is the third largest exporter of Scotch in theworld, and that’s why they elected me mayor.”
　　“How about getting us a hotel room if you’re such a hotshot?” Orr grumbled impertinently in a voice slurredwith fatigue.
　　Milo responded contritely. “That’s just what I’m going to do,” he promised. “I’m really sorry about forgetting toradio ahead for hotel rooms for you two. Come along to my office and I’ll speak to my deputy mayor about itright now.”
　　Milo’s office was a barbershop, and his deputy mayor was a pudgy barber from whose obsequious lips cordialgreetings foamed as effusively as the lather he began whipping up in Milo’s shaving cup.
　　“Well, Vittorio,” said Milo, settling back lazily in one of Vittorio’s barber chairs, “how were things in myabsence this time?”
　　“Very sad, Signor Milo, very sad. But now that you are back, the people are all happy again.”
　　“I was wondering about the size of the crowds. How come all the hotels are full?”
　　“Because so many people from other cities are here to see you, Signor Milo. And because we have all the buyerswho have come into town for the artichoke auction.”
　　Milo’s hand soared up perpendicularly like an eagle and arrested Vittorio’s shaving brush. “What’s artichoke?”
　　he inquired.
　　“Artichoke, Signor Milo? An artichoke is a very tasty vegetable that is popular everywhere. You must try someartichokes while you are here, Signor Milo. We grow the best in the world.”
　　“Really?” said Milo. “How much are artichokes selling for this year?”
　　“It looks like a very good year for artichokes. The crops were very bad.”
　　“Is that a fact?” mused Milo, and was gone, sliding from his chair so swiftly that his striped barber’s apronretained his shape for a second or two after he had gone before it collapsed. Milo had vanished from sight by thetime Yossarian and Orr rushed after him to the doorway.
　　“Next?” barked Milo’s deputy mayor officiously. “Who’s next?”
　　Yossarian and Orr walked from the barbershop in dejection. Deserted by Milo, they trudged homelessly throughthe reveling masses in futile search of a place to sleep. Yossarian was exhausted. His head throbbed with a dull,debilitating pain, and he was irritable with Orr, who had found two crab apples somewhere and walked withthem in his cheeks until Yossarian spied them there and made him take them out. Then Orr found two horsechestnuts somewhere and slipped those in until Yossarian detected them and snapped at him again to take thecrab apples out of his mouth. Orr grinned and replied that they were not crab apples but horse chestnuts and thatthey were not in his mouth but in his hands, but Yossarian was not able to understand a single word he saidbecause of the horse chestnuts in his mouth and made him take them out anyway. A sly light twinkled in Orr’seyes. He rubbed his forehead harshly with his knuckles, like a man in an alcoholic stupor, and snickered lewdly.
　　“Do you remember that girl—“ He broke off to snicker lewdly again. “Do you remember that girl who washitting me over the head with that shoe in that apartment in Rome, when we were both naked?” he asked with alook of cunning expectation. He waited until Yossarian nodded cautiously. “If you let me put the chestnuts backin my mouth I’ll tell you why she was hitting me. Is that a deal?”
　　Yossarian nodded, and Orr told him the whole fantastic story of why the naked girl in Nately’s whore’sapartment was hitting him over the head with her shoe, but Yossarian was not able to understand a single wordbecause the horse chestnuts were back in his mouth. Yossarian roared with exasperated laughter at the trick, butin the end there was nothing for them to do when night fell but eat a damp dinner in a dirty restaurant and hitch aride back to the airfield, where they slept on the chill metal floor of the plane and turned and tossed in groaningtorment until the truck drivers blasted up less than two hours later with their crates of artichokes and chased themout onto the ground while they filled up the plane. A heavy rain began falling. Yossarian and Orr were drippingwet by the time the trucks drove away and had no choice but to squeeze themselves back into the plane and rollthemselves up like shivering anchovies between the jolting corners of the crates of artichokes that Milo flew upto Naples at dawn and exchanged for the cinnamon sticks, cloves, vanilla beans and pepper pods that he rushedright back down south with that same day to Malta, where, it turned out, he was Assistant Governor-General.
　　There was no room for Yossarian and Orr in Malta either. Milo was Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in Malta andhad a gigantic office in the governor-general’s building. His mahogany desk was immense. In a panel of the oakwall, between crossed British flags, hung a dramatic arresting photograph of Major Sir Milo Minderbinder in the dress uniform of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers. His mustache in the photograph was clipped and narrow, his chinwas chiseled, and his eyes were sharp as thorns. Milo had been knighted, commissioned a major in the RoyalWelsh Fusiliers and named Assistant Governor-General of Malta because he had brought the egg trade there. Hegave Yossarian and Orr generous permission to spend the night on the thick carpet in his office, but shortly afterhe left a sentry in battle dress appeared and drove them from the building at the tip of his bayonet, and they rodeout exhaustedly to the airport with a surly cab driver, who overcharged them, and went to sleep inside the planeagain, which was filled now with leaking gunny sacks of cocoa and freshly ground coffee and reeking with anodor so rich that they were both outside retching violently against the landing gear when Milo was chauffeuredup the first thing the next morning, looking fit as a fiddle, and took right off for Oran, where there was again noroom at the hotel for Yossarian and Orr, and where Milo was Vice-Shah. Milo had at his disposal sumptuousquarters inside a salmon-pink palace, but Yossarian and Orr were not allowed to accompany him inside becausethey were Christian infidels. They were stopped at the gates by gargantuan Berber guards with scimitars andchased away. Orr was snuffling and sneezing with a crippling head cold. Yossarian’s broad back was bent andaching. He was ready to break Milo’s neck, but Milo was Vice-Shah of Oran and his person was sacred. Milowas not only the Vice-Shah of Oran, as it turned out, but also the Caliph of Baghdad, the Imam of Damascus,and the Sheik of Araby. Milo was the corn god, the rain god and the rice god in backward regions where suchcrude gods were still worshiped by ignorant and superstitious people, and deep inside the jungles of Africa, heintimated with becoming modesty, large graven images of his mustached face could be found overlookingprimitive stone altars red with human blood. Everywhere they touched he was acclaimed with honor, and it wasone triumphal ovation after another for him in city after city until they finally doubled back through the MiddleEast and reached Cairo, where Milo cornered the market on cotton that no one else in the world wanted andbrought himself promptly to the brink of ruin. In Cairo there was at last room at the hotel for Yossarian and Orr.
　　There were soft beds for them with fat fluffed-up pillows and clean, crisp sheets. There were closets withhangers for their clothes. There was water to wash with. Yossarian and Orr soaked their rancid, unfriendly bodiespink in a steaming-hot tub and then went from the hotel with Milo to eat shrimp cocktails and filet mignon in avery fine restaurant with a stock ticker in the lobby that happened to be clicking out the latest quotation forEgyptian cotton when Milo inquired of the captain of waiters what kind of machine it was. Milo had neverimagined a machine so beautiful as a stock ticker before.
　　“Really?” he exclaimed when the captain of waiters had finished his explanation. “And how much is Egyptiancotton selling for?” The captain of waiters told him, and Milo bought the whole crop.
　　But Yossarian was not nearly so frightened by the Egyptian cotton Milo bought as he was by the bunches ofgreen red bananas Milo had spotted in the native market place as they drove into the city, and his fears provedjustified, for Milo shook him awake out of a deep sleep just after twelve and shoved a partly peeled bananatoward him. Yossarian choked back a sob.
　　“Taste it,” Milo urged, following Yossarian’s writhing face around with the banana insistently.
　　“Milo, you bastard,” moaned Yossarian, “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
　　“Eat it and tell me if it’s good,” Milo persevered. “Don’t tell Orr I gave it to you. I charged him two piasters forhis.”
　　Yossarian ate the banana submissively and closed his eyes after telling Milo it was good, but Milo shook himawake again and instructed him to get dressed as quickly as he could, because they were leaving at once forPianosa.
　　“You and Orr have to load the bananas into the plane right away,” he explained. “The man said to watch out forspiders while you’re handling the bunches.”
　　“Milo, can’t we wait until morning?” Yossarian pleaded. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
　　“They’re ripening very quickly,” answered Milo, “and we don’t have a minute to lose. Just think how happy themen back at the squadron will be when they get these bananas.”
　　But the men back at the squadron never even saw any of the bananas, for it was a seller’s market for bananas inIstanbul and a buyer’s market in Beirut for the caraway seeds Milo rushed with to Bengasi after selling thebananas, and when they raced back into Pianosa breathlessly six days later at the conclusion of Orr’s rest leave, itwas with a load of best white eggs from Sicily that Milo said were from Egypt and sold to his mess halls for onlyfour cents apiece so that all the commanding officers in his syndicate would implore him to speed right back toCairo for more bunches of green red bananas to sell in Turkey for the caraway seeds in demand in Bengasi. Andeverybody had a share.
 22、米洛市长
　　就是在执行那次飞行任务时，约塞连被吓得惊慌失措。约塞连之所以会在执行轰炸阿维尼翁的任务时吓得惊慌失措，是因为斯诺登被吓破了胆，而斯诺登之所以吓破了胆，是因为那天他们的驾驶员是赫普尔，而赫普尔的年纪只有十五岁。他们的副驾驶是多布斯，而多布斯这人则更糟糕，他竟要约塞连同他一起去谋杀卡思卡特上校。约塞连知道赫普尔是个优秀的驾驶员，但他还只是个孩子，并且多布斯对他也毫无信心。于是，当他们扔完炸弹之后，多布斯一声不吭地一把夺过了操纵杆。他就这么着在半空中突然发起疯来，使飞机向下栽去，那震耳欲聋的声音和快得难以描绘的速度令人心惊肉跳，丧魂落魄。这不要命的俯冲把约塞连的耳机连接线扯断了，使他的头抵在了机头的舱顶，无能为力地悬挂着那儿。
　　哦，上帝！当约塞连感到他们都在向下坠落时，他尖叫起来，可却发不出声音。哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！哦，上帝！他尖声哀求着，可因飞机急速下坠，他连嘴都张不开。他头抵着舱顶，身体处于失重状态，晃来晃去。后来，赫普尔设法夺回了操纵杆，在一片疯狂猛烈的高射炮的火网中拉平了飞机。那高射炮火组成了一个两边是悬崖峭壁的大峡谷，他们刚刚从里面爬出来，此刻又得逃命了。几乎就是同时，砰的一声，飞机舱盖上的有机玻璃被打了一个拳头那么大的洞。只见闪闪发光的碎片四下飞溅，约塞连的两颊一阵刺痛。没有出血。
　　“怎么回事？怎么回事？”他喊了起来，可却听不见自己的声音，禁不住浑身剧烈地颤抖起来。他的对讲机里寂静无声，他被这吓得要死。他趴跪在地上，害怕得要命，一动也不敢动，活像一只中了圈套的老鼠，呆在那里，大气不敢出一下。后来，他终于瞥见自己耳机上那圆柱形的插头一闪一闪地在眼前晃荡，于是赶紧用颤抖的手指将其重新插回到插孔里，此时高射炮火在他四周砰砰作响，并形成了一朵朵蘑菇状的云烟，他惊恐万状地一再尖叫着：“啊，上帝！
　　啊，上帝！”
　　当约塞连把插头插回到对讲机的插孔后，他又能听见声音了。
　　他听到多布斯正在哭泣。
　　“救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯呜咽着喊道，“救救他，救救他。”
　　“救救谁、救救谁呀？”约塞连朝他回叫着，“救谁呀？”
　　“轰炸员，轰炸员，”多布斯喊道，“他那里没有回答。快救轰炸员，快救轰炸员吧。”
　　“我就是轰炸员，”约塞连大叫着口答道，“我就是轰炸员。我没事，我没事。”
　　“那就快救救他，救救他吧，”多布斯哭喊道，“救救他，救救他吧。”
　　“救谁呀，救谁？”
　　“救那个报务员兼炮手，”多布斯哀求道，“快救救咱们的报务灵兼炮手吧。”
　　“我冷。”斯诺登在对讲机里用微弱的声音啜泣着，接着又发出一阵痛苦的哀怨声，“请救救我吧，我好冷啊。”
　　约塞连匍匐着通过了爬行通道，爬上了弹舱，然后爬进飞机的尾舱，斯诺登就躺在那儿的地板上。他受了伤，躺在一片黄色的日光中，冻得快要死了。在他身旁，那个新来的尾炮手直挺挺地躺在那里，已经昏死过去。
　　多布斯是世界上最差劲的飞行员，这点他自己也知道。他本是一个身强力壮的小伙子，可现在身体却全垮了。他总是千方百计地想说服他的上司，让他们相信他已不再适合驾驶飞机了，可是他的上司都不听他的。就在宣布飞行次数提高到六十次的那天，多布斯偷偷地溜进了约塞连的帐篷。当时奥尔正好出去找垫圈了，他就向约塞连吐露了他制定的暗杀卡思卡特上校的阴谋。他说他需要约塞连的协助。
　　“你想让咱俩把他给蓄意谋杀掉？”约塞连可不赞成这主意。
　　“没错。”多布斯十分同意他的说法，脸上挂着乐观的微笑。约塞连这么快就领会了他的意图，他更是受到了鼓舞。“咱们就用那枝卢格尔手枪把他给毙了。这枪是我从西西里带回来的，谁也不知道我有这家伙。”
　　“我想我不能这么干。”约塞连在心里将这主意默默地掂量了一番，得出了这一结论。
　　多布斯大感惊讶：“为什么不能？”
　　“你瞧，对我来说，最能让我开心的事就是有一天这个狗娘养的会赶上飞机坠毁的事故，让他跌断脖子，或跌死掉。要不就是能看到另外的什么人把他一枪给毙了。可我想我是不能去杀他。”
　　“可他会杀你，”多布斯争辩道，“其实，这都是你告诉我的，说他老是不停地让咱们去作战，就是想让咱们统统去死。”
　　“可我想我不能也这么去对待他。我认为他也有活的权利。”
　　“可他老想剥夺你我的生存权利，只要他这么做，那他就无权再活下去。你这是怎么了？”多布斯感到大惑不解。“我以前老是听到你和克莱文杰为这事争个不歇。可现在你瞧瞧克莱文杰怎么了。
　　他就死在了那块云团里。”
　　“你别嚷好不好？”约塞连嘴里发着“嘘——”的声音，示意他小声点。
　　“我没嚷！”多布斯喊的声音更高了，他心里充满了希望进行一场革命的狂热。此时他已是一把眼泪一把鼻涕的了，他那颤动不已的深红色的下唇上溅满了起沫的泪水和鼻涕。“在咱们这个大队里，肯定有将近一百个人已经完成五十五次飞行任务了，可到了这时卡思卡特却又把这数目提高到了六十。像你这样还要再飞上几次才满五十五次的人至少还有一百个。要是我们让他一直这样干下去，他就会把咱们全部给害死掉。我们一定得先把他给干掉才行。”
　　约塞连毫无表情地点了点头，根本没有明确表态。“你认为咱们干了这事以后能逃脱？”
　　“我已把一切都计划好了。我——”
　　“看在基督的分上，别这么大声嚷嚷。”
　　“我没嚷，我已经——”
　　“你别嚷了，好不好？”
　　“我已经把一切都计划好了，”多布斯小声地说，一面用手紧紧地抓住奥尔的吊床边，不让两手晃动，由于用力，他的指关节都发白了。“星期四早上，当他从山上他的那所该死的农舍返回的时候，我就悄悄地穿过树林，溜到公路的那个急转弯处，在树丛中藏起来。他的车到了那儿非减速不可，而我呆在那里能清楚地看到公路两头的动静，以弄清确实没有其他人在附近。等看到他的车子过来了，我就把一根大木头推到公路上去，让他的吉普车停下来。那时我就端着我的那枝卢格尔手枪从树丛里走出来，对着他的脑袋开火，直到把他打死为止。然后我就把枪埋起来，再穿过树林返回中队，像其他人一样，去忙活我自己的事。这样干能出什么差错呢？”
　　约塞连聚精会神地听着他讲的每一个步骤。“我打哪儿能插得上手呢？”他迷惑不解地问。
　　“这事没你的帮助我干不了，”多布斯解释道，“我需要你对我说声‘就这么干吧’。”
　　约塞连觉得他的话简直难以置信。“你要我做的就是这个？就要我对你说声‘干吧’？”
　　“我只需要你做这个，”多布斯回答，“你只要说声干，那后天我就独自一人把他的脑浆给打出来。”由于感情激动，他的声音越来越急，此时又变得响亮起来。“既然咱们干了，那我也想在科恩中校的脑袋上也来上一枪。不过如果你不反对的话，我倒想饶了丹比少校。这以后我还想杀掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶。干掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶之后，我还要杀麦克沃特。”
　　“麦克沃特？”约塞连叫道，吓得几乎跳起来。“麦克沃特是我的朋友。你干吗要对麦克沃特下手？”
　　“我不知道，”多布斯坦白说，一脸的慌乱和尬尴。“我只是想既然咱们要干掉阿普尔比和哈弗迈耶，那咱们不妨也把麦克沃特给干掉。你不想杀麦克沃特，是吗？”
　　约塞连采取了坚定的立场。“你瞧，假如你不再将这事在这整个岛上乱嚷嚷，假如你坚持只干掉卡思卡特上校，那我还可能对这事感兴趣。可如果你想把这事搞成一场屠杀，那你还是把我忘掉的好。”
　　“好吧，好吧。”多布斯竭力想安抚约塞连。“只杀卡思卡特上校一人。我应该去干吗？对我说声‘干吧’。”
　　约塞连摇了摇头。“我想我不能叫你去干。”
　　多布斯激动得像要发狂。“我愿意做点让步，”他强烈地恳求道，“你不必对我说‘干’。你只要对我说一声这是个好主意就行了。
　　行吗？这是个好主意吗？”
　　约塞连还是摇头。“要是你根本不告诉我就直接动手，把这事给干了，那倒是个极好的主意。可现在太晚了。有关这事我对你没什么好说的。给我点时间，没准我会改主意的。”
　　“那会来不及的。”
　　约塞连仍一个劲地摇头，多布斯不禁大为失望。他在那里坐了一会，一脸的沮丧，然后突然跳了起来，踏着重重的脚步走了出去。
　　他又起了一阵冲动，想去说服丹尼卡医生支持自己。在他转身时，他的臀部把约塞连的脸盆架给撞翻了，脚又绊在了奥尔还没做好的电炉丝上。丹尼卡医生不耐烦地连连点头，以此抵挡住了多布斯的咆哮和指手划脚的指责，然后打发他到医务室去把他的症状说给格斯和韦斯听。到了那里，他刚一开口说话，格斯和韦斯就立即在他的牙床上涂满了龙胆紫溶液。接着他俩又将他的脚趾也涂紫了。当他再次张嘴想要抗议时，他们又将一粒轻度腹泻药片塞进了他的喉咙，然后便把他打发走了。
　　多布斯的情况比亨格利•乔要糟。亨格利•乔不做噩梦的时候，至少还可以执行飞行任务。多布斯几乎和奥尔一样糟糕。奥尔看上去总是乐呵呵的，时常像发神经似的咯咯地傻笑，那长得歪歪扭扭的龅牙不住地颤动着，活像一只发育不全、龇牙裂嘴的云雀。
　　上级已准许他前往开罗休假，同去的还有米洛和约塞连。他们去那里是为了采购鸡蛋，可是米洛却买了棉花。米洛在黎明时分起飞赶往伊斯但布尔，飞机里装满了具有异国情调的有柄带脚的煎锅和青里透红的香蕉，连飞机的炮塔里都塞得满满的。奥尔是约塞连遇到过的最难看的怪人之一，可他也挺吸引人的。他的脸粗糙且凸凹不平，淡褐色的眼睛从眼眶中暴出来，活像一对褐色的半粒子弹头。他那一头杂色相间的浓密头发是波浪式的，倾斜向上直到头顶心，就像一顶上过油的小帐篷。他几乎每次上了天都要出事，不是被击落坠入水中，就是一个引擎被人打中失灵。那天他们的飞机起飞后是向着那不勒斯出发的，可不曾想到却在西西里降落了。一路上奥尔像个疯子似的使劲地拉约塞连的胳臂，要他在那里降落。
　　他们上那儿是为了找那个鬼精的、会抽雪茄的年仅十岁的皮条客。
　　这小子有两个十二岁的处女姐姐，她们在市区的一家旅馆门口等候着他们。那家旅馆有一间房专供米洛使用。约塞连毅然地从奥尔身边走开，独自向远方眺望着。此时他眺望到的不是维苏威火山，而是埃特纳火山，眼神里既透着几分关注，也透着几分迷茫。
　　他心里纳闷，他们不去那不勒斯而到西西里来干什么。与此同时，奥尔简直是欲火难熬。他一个劲地傻笑着，结结巴已地吵个不歇，恳求约塞连同他一道跟着那个一肚子鬼主意、年仅十岁的皮条客去找他那两个十二岁的处女姐姐。其实，她们既不是处女，也不是他姐姐。她们实际上已有二十八岁了。
　　“同他去吧。”米洛简洁地给约塞连下达了指令。“别忘了你的使命。”
　　“好吧。”想到自己的使命，约塞连叹了口气，终于让了步。“可至少先让我试试找间旅馆，这样在完事之后我就可以好好地睡上一夜了。”
　　“你可以和那些姑娘好好地睡上一夜，”米洛用同样狡黠的语气答道，“只要别把你的使命给忘了就行了。”
　　可那一夜约塞连和奥尔根本就没睡。他们发现自己和那两个自称十二岁实际上已二十八岁的妓女同挤在一张床上。弄了半天那两个妓女原来是两个油腻腻、长着一身肥肉的女人。她俩夜里就是不让他们睡觉，吵着要交换搭档。约塞连不一会就迷迷糊糊的了，根本没注意到那个挤在他身上的胖女人整整一夜头上都裹着一条米色头巾。第二天早上很晚的时候，那个一肚子鬼心眼、嘴里总叼着古巴雪茄的十岁皮条客突然像个畜牲似的说翻脸就翻脸，一把扯下了那条头巾。顿时，这个女人那颗丑陋的奇形怪状的光秃秃的头颅就一览无遗地暴露在了西西里的光天化日之下。她曾陪德国人睡过觉，为此她的那些复仇心重的邻居将她的头给剃得亮光光的，几乎要露出了骨头。那姑娘带着女性特有的愤怒，一面用尖厉刺耳的声音大叫着，一面拖着肥胖的身子摇摇摆摆地追赶着那个十岁的一肚子坏水的皮条客，那情形甚是滑稽。她那吓人的、颜色苍白且受到了极大冒犯的头皮，环绕着她那张同样古怪的黑肉瘤似的脸，十分可笑地上下滑动着，活像一块经过漂白但却仍然污秽不堪的东西。约塞连以前从未见过如此光秃秃的脑袋。那个小皮条客用一根手指高高地挑着那块头巾，让它转个不停，像举着一件战利品似的。他始终在离她的手指头几英寸的地方蹦着，跳着，让她够不着，引得她在广场上团团转，干着急，把挤在广场上看热闹的人逗得大笑不止，有人还指着约塞连嘲笑他。这时米洛挂着一脸的严厉急匆匆地大步走来。他咂起嘴唇，对眼前这个伤风败俗、轻薄无聊、不成体统的场面深表不满。米洛坚持立即离开这里前往马耳他。
　　“可我们困得要命，”奥尔嘀咕道。
　　“那只能怪你们自己。”米洛自认自己很有道德，故而这样训斥他俩。“要是你们呆在旅馆里过夜，不和这些淫荡的女人鬼混，那么你们今天就会和我一样有精神了。”
　　“是你要我们跟她们走的，”，约塞连用责备的口气反驳道，“而且我们也找不到旅馆房间。只有你一人能弄到房间。”
　　“那也不能怪我呀，”米洛傲慢地解释说，“我哪里知道鹰嘴豆上市时，会有那么多的买主涌到这城里来呀？”
　　“你当然知道，”，约塞连指责道，“这就是为什么我们不去西西里，而跑到那不勒斯来的原因。你他妈可能已经把整架飞机都塞满了鹰嘴豆。”
　　“嘘嘘嘘——！”米洛神情严厉地向他发出警告，一面意味深长地朝奥尔瞥了一眼。“别忘了你的使命。”
　　当他们来到机场准备飞往马耳他时，飞机的弹舱、后舱和尾舱，以及炮塔射手座舱的大部分地方已统统塞满了鹰嘴豆。
　　约塞连这趟飞行的使命就是分散奥尔的注意力，不让他知道米洛在哪儿买鸡蛋，尽管奥尔也是米洛的辛迪加联合体的成员之一，而且同别的成员一样，他也拥有一份股份。约塞连感到自己的这一使命很可笑，因为人人都知道，米洛在马耳他用七分钱一个的价格买下鸡蛋，然后再以五分钱一个的价钱卖给辛迪加联合体的食堂。
　　“我就是不信任他。”米洛像母鸡抱窝似的一动不动地坐在飞机里，一面冲着坐在后面的奥尔点了点头，奥尔则像一根缠结在一起的绳子，蜷缩着躺在下面那排装满了鹰嘴豆的筐子上，竭力想使自己睡着，那样子受罪得要命。“我情愿在我买鸡蛋时他不要在边上转悠，将我的生意秘密全打听去。你还有什么不明白的吗？”
　　约塞连坐在他身旁副驾驶的坐位上。“我不明白，你在马耳他花七分钱买来的一个鸡蛋，为什么又用五分一个的价卖掉呢？”
　　“我这样做是为了弄点赚头。”
　　“可你怎样才能有赚头呢？你每个鸡蛋反倒要赔二分钱呢。”
　　“我在马耳他按每个四分二厘五的价将鸡蛋卖给那儿的人，然后再按每个七分钱的价将鸡蛋从那些人的手中买进，这样我就赚了三分二厘五。当然，我是不赚钱的，赚钱的是咱们的联合体。大伙人人有份。”
　　约塞连觉得自己开始有点明白了。“你按每个四分二厘五的价将鸡蛋卖给那些人，而他们再按每个七分钱的价把鸡蛋卖给你，这样他们每个鸡蛋就净赚二分七厘五。是这样吗？你干吗不把鸡蛋直接卖给你自己，省得再经他人之手买回这道手续呢？”
　　“因为这个‘他人’就是我自己，”米洛解释说，“我将鸡蛋卖给我自己时，我每个蛋可赚三分二厘五。我再把蛋从我的手里买回时，我每个又可赚到二分七厘五。这样每个鸡蛋一共可赚到六分钱。我把它们照每个五分钱的价卖给食堂时，每只蛋只不过少赚二分钱而已。这就是我如何以七分钱一只买进，五分钱一个卖出还能赚到钱的原因。我在西西里收购鸡蛋时，每只蛋只要付老母鸡一分钱就行了。”
　　“在马耳他，”约塞连纠正道，“你是在马耳他买的鸡蛋，而不是在西西里。”
　　米洛得意洋洋地哈哈大笑起来。“我可不是在马耳他买的鸡蛋，”他带着一种暗自得意的神态承认道，这可同他平日显出的那副既勤奋又清醒的样子相违背，约塞连还是第一次看到他的这种神态。“我在西西里一分钱一个买来，然后在马耳他悄悄地以每个四分五厘的价格转手，为的是别人到马耳他来买鸡蛋时，蛋价能上扬到七分钱一个。”
　　“既然马耳他的蛋价这么贵，那人们干吗要上那儿去买蛋？”
　　“因为他们总是这么干。”
　　“他们为什么不去西西里买鸡蛋呢？”
　　“因为他们从来没有那么干过。”
　　“我实在不懂，你为什么要将鸡蛋按五分一个的价卖给食堂，而不卖七分一个呢？”
　　“因为要是这样一来，我的食堂就不需要我了。七分钱一个的鸡蛋任何人都能买到。”
　　“他们为什么不越过你，而直接去马耳他以每个四分二厘五的价格从你的手里将鸡蛋买下呢？”
　　“因为我不会将蛋卖给他们的。”
　　“你为什么不卖给他们？”
　　“因为那样的话就没有什么赚头了。作为中间商，我这样做至少能让我自己能有点赚头。”
　　“这么说，你的确为你自己赚了钱，”约塞连断言道。
　　“我当然赚了。不过赚到的钱全归咱们的辛迪加联合体。人人部有份。你难道不明白？我卖给卡思卡特上校的红色梨形番茄也正是这么回事。”
　　“你是买，不是卖，”约塞连纠正道，“你不是将红色梨形番茄卖给卡思卡特上校和科恩中校。你是从他们的手上买番茄。”
　　“不对，是卖，”米洛纠正约塞连道，“我用了个假名字，在皮亚诺萨岛所有的市场上抛售番茄，这样卡思卡特上校和科恩中校各自也用了个假名，以每个四分的价钱将番茄全部买进，第二天我再以辛迪加的名义按每个五分的价格将番茄买回来。他们每个番茄赚一分钱，而我每个赚三分五厘钱，这样每人都有了赚头。”
　　“你们每人都赚了，只有辛迪加不赚。”约塞连对此嗤之以鼻。
　　“辛迪加出五分钱买进一个番茄，而你每个只花了五厘钱。这样辛迪加怎么能赢利？”
　　“只要我能赚到钱，辛迪加也就赚到了钱，”米洛解释说，“因为人人有份。只要咱们的辛迪加能得到卡思卡特上校和科恩中校的支持，那他们就会像这次这样派我出差。再过大约十五分钟，当我们在巴勒莫降落时，你就会看到咱们能赚到多少钱了。”
　　“在马耳他，”约塞连纠正他说，“我们正在往马耳他飞，而不是朝巴勒莫。”
　　“不对，我们是在朝巴勒莫飞，”米洛回答道，“在巴勒莫有一个苣菜出口商，我要和他谈几分钟，因为我有一批发了霉的蘑菇要运到伯尔尼去。”“米洛，你是怎么干的？”约塞连面带既惊讶又钦佩的笑容问，“你的飞行计划单上填的是一个地方，可后来你却飞到另外一个地方去了。指挥塔上的人就从不找你的麻烦？”
　　“他们都属于咱们的联合体，”米洛说，“他们都明白凡是对咱们联合体有利的事，对国家也是有利的，因为只有这样才会让美国大兵们卖力气。再说指挥塔上的那些人也是有份子的，这就是他们为什么要千方百计地给咱辛迪加联合体帮助的缘故。”
　　“我也有份吗？”
　　“人人都有份。”
　　“奥尔也有份？”
　　“人人都有份。”
　　“亨格利•乔呢？他也有份吗？”
　　“人人都有份。”
　　“呸，活见鬼。”约塞连心里在骂，有生以来，有关股份的主意还是第一次在他的脑子里留下了深刻的印象。
　　米洛将脸转向约塞连，眼睛里隐约闪出一丝图谋不轨的神色。
　　“我有一个主意，可以稳稳当当地从联邦政府那里骗得六千美元。
　　到时咱俩平分，各得三千元，并用不着担任何风险。你有兴趣吗？”
　　“没兴趣。”
　　米洛十分激动地望着约塞连。“这就是我喜欢你的原因，”他大声地说，“你很诚实！在我认识的人中间你是唯一能让我信赖的人。
　　也就是这个原因，我希望你能给我更多的帮助。昨天在卡塔尼亚大街，当你同那两个荡妇一起溜走的时候，我真感到失望。”
　　约塞连盯住米洛，感到大惑不解，简直不敢相信他的话。“米洛，可是你叫我同她们走的呀。难道你不记得了？”
　　“那不是我的过错，”米洛一本正经他说，“以往是在我们进城后，我才设法将奥尔给甩掉。而这次到巴勒莫，情况就大不一样了。
　　当我们在巴勒莫着陆后，我要你同奥尔立即就跟着姑娘离开机场。”
　　“跟着什么姑娘？”
　　“我事先已发过无线电报，同一个四岁的小皮条客安排好了，为你和奥尔找了两个八岁大的、有着一半西班牙血统的处女。他将在机场的一辆交通车上等你们。你俩一下飞机就立即上那辆车。”
　　“不行，”约塞连说，“我只想去个地方睡上一觉。”
　　米洛立刻发火了，脸都涨成了猪肝色，细长的鼻子在两道黑眉毛之间痉孪地颤动着，唇上那抹不对称的赤黄色的小胡子像一根蜡烛发出的暗淡、细弱的火焰。“约塞连，别忘了你的使命。”他提醒约塞连，那口气还算恭敬。
　　“让使命见鬼吧！”约塞连满不在乎地答道，“让辛迪加也见鬼去吧，管它有没有我一份呢。我也不想要什么八岁大的处女，哪怕她们有一半的西班牙血统。”
　　“这我不怪你。不过这些所谓的八岁大的处女实际上是三十二岁。她们并不
Chapter 23 Nately's Old Man
    The only one back in the squadron who did see any of Milo’s red bananas was Aarfy, who picked up two froman influential fraternity brother of his in the Quartermaster Corps when the bananas ripened and began streaminginto Italy through normal black-market channels and who was in the officer’s apartment with Yossarian theevening Nately finally found his whore again after so many fruitless weeks of mournful searching and lured herback to the apartment with two girl friends by promising them thirty dollars each.
　　“Thirty dollars each?” remarked Aarfy slowly, poking and patting each of the three strapping girls skepticallywith the air of a grudging connoisseur. “Thirty dollars is a lot of money for pieces like these. Besides, I neverpaid for it in my life.”
　　“I’m not asking you to pay for it,” Nately assured him quickly. “I’ll pay for them all. I just want you guys to takethe other two. Won’t you help me out?”
　　Aarfy smirked complacently and shook his soft round head. “Nobody has to pay for it for good old Aarfy. I canget all I want any time I want it. I’m just not in the mood right now.”
　　“Why don’t you just pay all three and send the other two away?” Yossarian suggested.
　　“Because then mine will be angry with me for making her work for her money,” Nately replied with an anxiouslook at his girl, who was glowering at him restlessly and starting to mutter. “She says that if I really like her I’dsend her away and go to bed with one of the others.”
　　“I have a better idea,” boasted Aarfy. “Why don’t we keep the three of them here until after the curfew and thenthreaten to push them out into the street to be arrested unless they give us all their money? We can even threatento push them out the window.”
　　“Aarfy!” Nately was aghast.
　　“I was only trying to help,” said Aarfy sheepishly. Aarfy was always trying to help Nately because Nately’sfather was rich and prominent and in an excellent position to help Aarfy after the war. “Gee whiz,” he defendedhimself querulously. “Back in school we were always doing things like that. I remember one day we trickedthese two dumb high-school girls from town into the fraternity house and made them put out for all the fellowsthere who wanted them by threatening to call up their parents and say they were putting out for us. We kept themtrapped in bed there for more than ten hours. We even smacked their faces a little when they started to complain.
　　Then we took away their nickels and dimes and chewing gum and threw them out. Boy, we used to have fun inthat fraternity house,” he recalled peacefully, his corpulent cheeks aglow with the jovial, rubicund warmth ofnostalgic recollection. “We used to ostracize everyone, even each other.”
　　But Aarfy was no help to Nately now as the girl Nately had fallen so deeply in love with began swearing at himsullenly with rising, menacing resentment. Luckily, Hungry Joe burst in just then, and everything was all rightagain, except that Dunbar staggered in drunk a minute later and began embracing one of the other giggling girlsat once. Now there were four men and three girls, and the seven of them left Aarfy in the apartment and climbedinto a horse-drawn cab, which remained at the curb at a dead halt while the girls demanded their money inadvance. Nately gave them ninety dollars with a gallant flourish, after borrowing twenty dollars from Yossarian,thirty-five dollars from Dunbar and seventeen dollars from Hungry Joe. The girls grew friendlier then and calledan address to the driver, who drove them at a clopping pace halfway across the city into a section they had nevervisited before and stopped in front of an old, tall building on a dark street. The girls led them up four steep, verylong flights of creaking wooden stairs and guided them through a doorway into their own wonderful andresplendent tenement apartment, which burgeoned miraculously with an infinite and proliferating flow of suppleyoung naked girls and contained the evil and debauched ugly old man who irritated Nately constantly with hiscaustic laughter and the clucking, proper old woman in the ash-gray woolen sweater who disapproved ofeverything immoral that occurred there and tried her best to tidy up.
　　The amazing place was a fertile, seething cornucopia of female nipples and navels. At first, there were just theirown three girls, in the dimly-lit, drab brown sitting room that stood at the juncture of three murky hallwaysleading in separate directions to the distant recesses of the strange and marvelous bordello. The girls disrobed atonce, pausing in different stages to point proudly to their garish underthings and bantering all the while with thegaunt and dissipated old man with the shabby long white hair and slovenly white unbuttoned shirt who satcackling lasciviously in a musty blue armchair almost in the exact center of the room and bade Nately and his companions welcome with a mirthful and sardonic formality. Then the old woman trudged out to get a girl forHungry Joe, dipping her captious head sadly, and returned with two big-bosomed beauties, one alreadyundressed and the other in only a transparent pink half slip that she wiggled out of while sitting down. Threemore naked girls sauntered in from a different direction and remained to chat, then two others. Four more girlspassed through the room in an indolent group, engrossed in conversation; three were barefoot and one wobbledperilously on a pair of unbuckled silver dancing shoes that did not seem to be her own. One more girl appearedwearing only panties and sat down, bringing the total congregating there in just a few minutes to eleven, all butone of them completely unclothed.
　　There was bare flesh lounging everywhere, most of it plump, and Hungry Joe began to die. He stood stock still inrigid, cataleptic astonishment while the girls ambled in and made themselves comfortable. Then he let out apiercing shriek suddenly and bolted toward the door in a headlong dash back toward the enlisted men’sapartment for his camera, only to be halted in his tracks with another frantic shriek by the dreadful, freezingpremonition that this whole lovely, lurid, rich and colorful pagan paradise would be snatched away from himirredeemably if he were to let it out of his sight for even an instant. He stopped in the doorway and sputtered, thewiry veins and tendons in his face and neck pulsating violently. The old man watched him with victoriousmerriment, sitting in his musty blue armchair like some satanic and hedonistic deity on a throne, a stolen U.S.
　　Army blanket wrapped around his spindly legs to ward off a chill. He laughed quietly, his sunken, shrewd eyessparkling perceptively with a cynical and wanton enjoyment. He had been drinking. Nately reacted on sight withbristling enmity to this wicked, depraved and unpatriotic old man who was old enough to remind him of hisfather and who made disparaging jokes about America.
　　“America,” he said, “will lose the war. And Italy will win it.”
　　“America is the strongest and most prosperous nation on earth,” Nately informed him with lofty fervor anddignity. “And the American fighting man is second to none.”
　　“Exactly,” agreed the old man pleasantly, with a hint of taunting amusement. “Italy, on the other hand, is one ofthe least prosperous nations on earth. And the Italian fighting man is probably second to all. And that’s exactlywhy my country is doing so well in this war while your country is doing so poorly.”
　　Nately guffawed with surprise, then blushed apologetically for his impoliteness. “I’m sorry I laughed at you,” hesaid sincerely, and he continued in a tone of respectful condescension. “But Italy was occupied by the Germansand is now being occupied by us. You don’t call that doing very well, do you?”
　　“But of course I do,” exclaimed the old man cheerfully. “The Germans are being driven out, and we are stillhere. In a few years you will be gone, too, and we will still be here. You see, Italy is really a very poor and weakcountry, and that’s what makes us so strong. Italian soldiers are not dying any more. But American and Germansoldiers are. I call that doing extremely well. Yes, I am quite certain that Italy will survive this war and still be inexistence long after your own country has been destroyed.”
　　Nately could scarcely believe his ears. He had never heard such shocking blasphemies before, and he wonderedwith instinctive logic why G-men did not appear to lock the traitorous old man up. “America is not going to be destroyed!” he shouted passionately.
　　“Never?” prodded the old man softly.
　　“Well...” Nately faltered.
　　The old man laughed indulgently, holding in check a deeper, more explosive delight. His goading remainedgentle. “Rome was destroyed, Greece was destroyed, Persia was destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All greatcountries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you really think your own country will last?
　　Forever? Keep in mind that the earth itself is destined to be destroyed by the sun in twenty-five million years orso.”
　　Nately squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, forever is a long time, I guess.”
　　“A million years?” persisted the jeering old man with keen, sadistic zest. “A half million? The frog is almost fivehundred million years old. Could you really say with much certainty that America, with all its strength andprosperity, with its fighting man that is second to none, and with its standard of living that is the highest in theworld, will last as long as... the frog?”
　　Nately wanted to smash his leering face. He looked about imploringly for help in defending his country’s futureagainst the obnoxious calumnies of this sly and sinful assailant. He was disappointed. Yossarian and Dunbarwere busy in a far corner pawing orgiastically at four or five frolicsome girls and six bottles of red wine, andHungry Joe had long since tramped away down one of the mystic hallways, propelling before him like a raveningdespot as many of the broadest-hipped young prostitutes as he could contain in his frail wind-milling arms andcram into one double bed.
　　Nately felt himself at an embarrassing loss. His own girl sat sprawled out gracelessly on an overstuffed sofa withan expression of otiose boredom. Nately was unnerved by her torpid indifference to him, by the same sleepy andinert poise that he remembered so vivdly, so sweetly, and so miserably from the first time she had seen him andignored him at the packed penny-ante blackjack game in the living room of the enlisted men’s apartment. Her laxmouth hung open in a perfect O, and God alone knew at what her glazed and smoky eyes were staring in suchbrute apathy. The old man waited tranquilly, watching him with a discerning smile that was both scornful andsympathetic. A lissome, blond, sinuous girl with lovely legs and honey-colored skin laid herself out contentedlyon the arm of the old man’s chair and began molesting his angular, pale, dissolute face languidly andcoquettishly. Nately stiffened with resentment and hostility at the sight of such lechery in a man so old. Heturned away with a sinking heart and wondered why he simply did not take his own girl and go to bed.
　　This sordid, vulturous, diabolical old man reminded Nately of his father because the two were nothing at allalike. Nately’s father was a courtly white-haired gentleman who dressed impeccably; this old man was anuncouth bum. Nately’s father was a sober, philosophical and responsible man; this old man was fickle andlicentious. Nately’s father was discreet and cultured; this old man was a boor. Nately’s father believed in honorand knew the answer to everything; this old man believed in nothing and had only questions. Nately’s father hada distinguished white mustache; this old man had no mustache at all. Nately’s father—and everyone else’s father Nately had ever met—was dignified, wise and venerable; this old man was utterly repellent, and Nately plungedback into debate with him, determined to repudiate his vile logic and insinuations with an ambitious vengeancethat would capture the attention of the bored, phlegmatic girl he had fallen so intensely in love with and win heradmiration forever.
　　“Well, frankly, I don’t know how long America is going to last,” he proceeded dauntlessly. “I suppose we can’tlast forever if the world itself is going to be destroyed someday. But I do know that we’re going to survive andtriumph for a long, long time.”
　　“For how long?” mocked the profane old man with a gleam of malicious elation. “Not even as long as the frog?”
　　“Much longer than you or me,” Nately blurted out lamely.
　　“Oh, is that all! That won’t be very much longer then, considering that you’re so gullible and brave and that I amalready such an old, old man.”
　　“How old are you?” Nately asked, growing intrigued and charmed with the old man in spite of himself.
　　“A hundred and seven.” The old man chuckled heartily at Nately’s look of chagrin. “I see you don’t believe thateither.”
　　“I don’t believe anything you tell me,” Nately replied, with a bashful mitigating smile. “The only thing I dobelieve is that America is going to win the war.”
　　“You put so much stock in winning wars,” the grubby iniquitous old man scoffed. “The real trick lies in losingwars, in knowing which wars can be lost. Italy has been losing wars for centuries, and just see how splendidlywe’ve done nonetheless. France wins wars and is in a continual state of crisis. Germany loses and prospers. Lookat our own recent history. Italy won a war in Ethiopia and promptly stumbled into serious trouble. Victory gaveus such insane delusions of grandeur that we helped start a world war we hadn’t a chance of winning. But nowthat we are losing again, everything has taken a turn for the better, and we will certainly come out on top again ifwe succeed in being defeated.”
　　Nately gaped at him in undisguised befuddlement. “Now I really don’t understand what you’re saying. You talklike a madman.”
　　“But I live like a sane one. I was a fascist when Mussolini was on top, and I am an anti-fascist now that he hasbeen deposed. I was fanatically pro-German when the Germans were here to protect us against the Americans,and now that the Americans are here to protect us against the Germans I am fanatically pro-American. I canassure you, my outraged young friend”—the old man’s knowing, disdainful eyes shone even more effervescentlyas Nately’s stuttering dismay increased—“that you and your country will have a no more loyal partisan in Italythan me—but only as long as you remain in Italy.”
　　“But,” Nately cried out in disbelief, “you’re a turncoat! A time-server! A shameful, unscrupulous opportunist!”
　　“I am a hundred and seven years old,” the old man reminded him suavely.
　　“Don’t you have any principles?”
　　“Of course not.”
　　“No morality?”
　　“Oh, I am a very moral man,” the villainous old man assured him with satiric seriousness, stroking the bare hipof a buxom black-haired girl with pretty dimples who had stretched herself out seductively on the other arm ofhis chair. He grinned at Nately sarcastically as he sat between both naked girls in smug and threadbare splendor,with a sovereign hand on each.
　　“I can’t believe it,” Nately remarked grudgingly, trying stubbornly not to watch him in relationship to the girls.
　　“I simply can’t believe it.”
　　“But it’s perfectly true. When the Germans marched into the city, I danced in the streets like a youthful ballerinaand shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’ until my lungs were hoarse. I even waved a small Nazi flag that I snatched away froma beautiful little girl while her mother was looking the other way. When the Germans left the city, I rushed out towelcome the Americans with a bottle of excellent brandy and a basket of flowers. The brandy was for myself, ofcourse, and the flowers were to sprinkle upon our liberators. There was a very stiff and stuffy old major riding inthe first car, and I hit him squarely in the eye with a red rose. A marvelous shot! You should have seen himwince.”
　　Nately gasped and was on his feet with amazement, the blood draining from his cheeks. “Major --- de Coverley!”
　　he cried.
　　“Do you know him?” inquired the old man with delight. “What a charming coincidence!”
　　Nately was too astounded even to hear him. “So you’re the one who wounded Major ---de Coverley!” heexclaimed in horrified indignation. “How could you do such a thing?”
　　The fiendish old man was unperturbed. “How could I resist, you mean. You should have seen the arrogant oldbore, sitting there so sternly in that car like the Almighty Himself, with his big, rigid head and his foolish,solemn face. What a tempting target he made! I got him in the eye with an American Beauty rose. I thought thatwas most appropriate. Don’t you?”
　　“That was a terrible thing to do!” Nately shouted at him reproachfully. “A vicious and criminal thing! Major --deCoverley is our squadron executive officer!”
　　“Is he?” teased the unregenerate old man, pinching his pointy jaw gravely in a parody of repentance. “In that case, you must give me credit for being impartial. When the Germans rode in, I almost stabbed a robust youngOberleutnant to death with a sprig of edelweiss.”
　　Nately was appalled and bewildered by the abominable old man’s inability to perceive the enormity of hisoffence. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done?” he scolded vehemently. “Major ---de Coverley is a noble andwonderful person, and everyone admires him.”
　　“He’s a silly old fool who really has no right acting like a silly young fool. Where is he today? Dead?”
　　Nately answered softly with somber awe. “Nobody knows. He seems to have disappeared.”
　　“You see? Imagine a man his age risking what little life he has left for something so absurd as a country.”
　　Nately was instantly up in arms again. “There is nothing so absurd about risking your life for your country!” hedeclared.
　　“Isn’t there?” asked the old man. “What is a country? A country is a piece of land surrounded on all sides byboundaries, usually unnatural. Englishmen are dying for England, Americans are dying for America, Germansare dying for Germany, Russians are dying for Russia. There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war.
　　Surely so many countries can’t all be worth dying for.”
　　“Anything worth living for,” said Nately, “is worth dying for.”
　　“And anything worth dying for,” answered the sacrilegious old man, “is certainly worth living for. You know,you’re such a pure and naive young man that I almost feel sorry for you. How old are you? Twenty-five?
　　Twenty-six?”
　　“Nineteen,” said Nately. “I’ll be twenty in January.”
　　“If you live.” The old man shook his head, wearing, for a moment, the same touchy, meditating frown of thefretful and disapproving old woman. “They are going to kill you if you don’t watch out, and I can see now thatyou are not going to watch out. Why don’t you use some sense and try to be more like me? You might live to bea hundred and seven, too.”
　　“Because it’s better to die on one’s feet than live on one’s knees,” Nately retorted with triumphant and loftyconviction. “I guess you’ve heard that saying before.”
　　“Yes, I certainly have,” mused the treacherous old man, smiling again. “But I’m afraid you have it backward. Itis better to live on one’s feet than die on one’s knees. That is the way the saying goes.”
　　“Are you sure?” Nately asked with sober confusion. “It seems to make more sense my way.”
　　“No, it makes more sense my way. Ask your friends.”
　　Nately turned to ask his friends and discovered they had gone. Yossarian and Dunbar had both disappeared. Theold man roared with contemptuous merriment at Nately’s look of embarrassed surprise. Nately’s face darkenedwith shame. He vacillated helplessly for a few seconds and then spun himself around and fled inside the nearestof the hallways in search of Yossarian and Dunbar, hoping to catch them in time and bring them back to therescue with news of the remarkable clash between the old man and Major ---de Coverley. All the doors in thehallways were shut. There was light under none. It was already very late. Nately gave up his search forlornly.
　　There was nothing left for him to do, he realized finally, but get the girl he was in love with and lie down withher somewhere to make tender, courteous love to her and plan their future together; but she had gone off to bed,too, by the time he returned to the sitting room for her, and there was nothing left for him to do then but resumehis abortive discussion with the loathsome old man, who rose from his armchair with jesting civility and excusedhimself for the night, abandoning Nately there with two bleary-eyed girls who could not tell him into whichroom his own whore had gone and who padded off to bed several seconds later after trying in vain to interest himin themselves, leaving him to sleep alone in the sitting room on the small, lumpy sofa.
　　Nately was a sensitive, rich, good-looking boy with dark hair, trusting eyes, and a pain in his neck when heawoke on the sofa early the next morning and wondered dully where he was. His nature was invariably gentleand polite. He had lived for almost twenty years without trauma, tension, hate, or neurosis, which was proof toYossarian of just how crazy he really was. His childhood had been a pleasant, though disciplined, one. He got onwell with his brothers and sisters, and he did not hate his mother and father, even though they had both been verygood to him.
　　Nately had been brought up to detest people like Aarfy, whom his mother characterized as climbers, and peoplelike Milo, whom his father characterized as pushers, but he had never learned how, since he had never beenpermitted near them. As far as he could recall, his homes in Philadelphia, New York, Maine, Palm Beach,Southampton, London, Deauville, Paris and the south of France had always been crowded only with ladies andgentlemen who were not climbers or pushers. Nately’s mother, a descendant of the New England Thorntons, wasa Daughter of the American Revolution. His father was a Son of a Bitch.
　　“Always remember,” his mother had reminded him frequently, “that you are a Nately. You are not a Vanderbilt,whose fortune was made by a vulgar tugboat captain, or a Rockefeller, whose wealth was amassed throughunscrupulous speculations in crude petroleum; or a Reynolds or Duke, whose income was derived from the saleto the unsuspecting public of products containing cancer-causing resins and tars; and you are certainly not anAstor, whose family, I believe, still lets rooms. You are a Nately, and the Natelys have never done anything fortheir money.”
　　“What your mother means, son,” interjected his father affably one time with that flair for graceful andeconomical expression Nately admired so much, “is that old money is better than new money and that the newlyrich are never to be esteemed as highly as the newly poor. Isn’t that correct, my dear?”
　　Nately’s father brimmed continually with sage and sophisticated counsel of that kind. He was as ebullient andruddy as mulled claret, and Nately liked him a great deal, although he did not like mulled claret. When war brokeout, Nately’s family decided that he would enlist in the armed forces, since he was too young to be placed in the diplomatic service, and since his father had it on excellent authority that Russia was going to collapse in a matterof weeks or months and that Hitler, Churchill, Roosevelt, Mussolini, Gandhi, Franco, Peron and the Emperor ofJapan would then all sign a peace treaty and live together happily ever after. It was Nately’s father’s idea that hejoin the Air Corps, where he could train safely as a pilot while the Russians capitulated and the details of thearmistice were worked out, and where, as an officer, he would associate only with gentlemen.
　　Instead, he found himself with Yossarian, Dunbar and Hungry Joe in a whore house in Rome, poignantly in lovewith an indifferent girl there with whom he finally did lie down the morning after the night he slept alone in thesitting room, only to be interrupted almost immediately by her incorrigible kid sister, who came bursting inwithout warning and hurled herself onto the bed jealously so that Nately could embrace her, too. Nately’s whoresprang up snarling to whack her angrily and jerked her to her feet by her hair. The twelve-year-old girl looked toNately like a plucked chicken or like a twig with the bark peeled off her sapling body embarrassed everyone inher precocious attempts to imitate her elders, and she was always being chased away to put clothes on andordered out into the street to play in the fresh air with the other children. The two sisters swore and spat at eachother now savagely, raising a fluent, deafening commotion that brought a whole crowd of hilarious spectatorsswarming into the room. Nately gave up in exasperation. He asked his girl to get dressed and took her downstairsfor breakfast. The kid sister tagged along, and Nately felt like the proud head of a family as the three of them aterespectably in a nearby open-air café. But Nately’s whore was already bored by the time they started back, andshe decided to go streetwalking with two other girls rather than spend more time with him. Nately and the kidsister followed meekly a block behind, the ambitious youngster to pick up valuable pointers, Nately to eat hisliver in mooning frustration, and both were saddened when the girls were stopped by soldiers in a staff car anddriven away.
　　Nately went back to the café and bought the kid sister chocolate ice cream until her spirits improved and thenreturned with her to the apartment, where Yossarian and Dunbar were flopped out in the sitting room with anexhausted Hungry Joe, who was still wearing on his battered face the blissful, numb, triumphant smile withwhich he had limped into view from his massive harem that morning like a person with numerous broken bones.
　　The lecherous and depraved old man was delighted with Hungry Joe’s split lips and black-and-blue eyes. Hegreeted Nately warmly, still wearing the same rumpled clothes of the evening before. Nately was profoundlyupset by his seedy and disreputable appearance, and whenever he came to the apartment he wished that thecorrupt, immoral old man would put on a clean Brooks Brothers shirt, shave, comb his hair, wear a tweed jacket,and grow a dapper white mustache so that Nately would not have to suffer such confusing shame each time helooked at him and was reminded of his father.
 23、内特利的老头
　　中队里唯一真正见到过米洛的红香蕉的人就是阿费。当香蕉熟了，并通过正常的黑市渠道开始流入意大利时，他从一个在军需部供职的颇有权势的兄弟会的弟兄那儿拿了两只。内特利花了好多个星期去找他那个妓女，却都徒劳无功，令人泄气，那天晚上终于找到了，并答应给她和她的两个女朋友每人三十块美金，把她们哄骗回了军官公寓。那天晚上，阿费和约塞连一起呆在军官公寓里。
　　“每人三十块美金？”阿费慢悠悠地似问非问地评论说，一面不相信地又是摸又是拍这三个身材高大而匀称的姑娘，那样子就像一个吝啬的行家。“像这样的姑娘出三十块美金可不少啊。再说，我这一生从没有为这种人花过钱。”
　　“我不要你付钱，”内特利急忙向他保证说，“她们的钱全由我来付。我只要你们两个家伙把另外两个姑娘带走。你们就不能帮我一下？”
　　阿费自鸣得意地笑了笑，他那肌肉松软的圆脑袋摇得像货郎鼓一般。“没有人需要为好心的老阿费付这种钱。无论何时我想要，我就能弄到。只不过这会儿我没有情绪。”
　　“你干吗不付三个人的钱，让另外两个人走呢？”约塞连建议说。
　　“因为那样我的那位就会因我让她为了钱而干活跟我生气，”内特利回答说，一面焦急地看着他的姑娘。那姑娘正不耐烦地盯着他，嘴里咕咕哝哝地开始抱怨起来。“她说如果我真的喜欢她，就该把她送走，而同另外两个人中间的一个上床。”
　　“我有一个更好的主意。”阿费吹嘘起来。“我们为什么不把她们三人留在这儿，一直留到宵禁开始，然后我们威胁说要把她们赶到大街上去被人抓起来，除非她们把她们的钱都给我们。我们甚至可以威胁说要把她们从窗户里推下去。
　　“阿费！”内特利吓得目瞪口呆。
　　“我只不过是想帮你，”阿费羞怯地说。阿费总是千方百计想帮助内特利，因为内特利的父亲又有钱又有名，战争结束后完全能够帮助他。“哎呀，”他牢骚满腹地为自己辩护说，“以前在学校里我们总是那样做的。我记得有一天我们把两个这样笨头笨脑的女中学生从市区骗到了联谊会馆，让她们跟所有想和她们睡觉的会友上床，我们威胁说要打电话给她们的父母，说她们在和我们睡觉。我们把她俩困在床上足足有十多个小时。当她们开始抱怨时，我们甚至还打她们几下耳光。后来，我们把她们的五分、一角的硬币和口香糖拿走后，把她们赶了出去。老兄，我们过去在那个联谊会馆里玩得很痛快。”他平静地回忆着，他那肥胖的双颊因怀念起往事而焕发出快乐、红润的光泽。“我们过去把任何人都排斥在外，甚至互相排斥。”
　　但是此刻阿费对内特利毫无帮助，因为内特利如此深深迷恋上的姑娘变得郁郁不乐，越来越气，并以威胁的口气开始骂他。幸运的是，亨格利•乔就在这时闯了进来。于是一切问题又解决了，只是邓巴醉醺醺地、摇摇晃晃地迟进来一会儿，一下搂住了另一个咯咯笑着的姑娘。现在是四男三女，七个人把阿费留在公寓里，爬进了一辆出租马车。马车还停在路边时，姑娘们就要求先付给她们钱。内特利向约塞连借了二十美金，向邓巴借了三十五美金，向亨格利•乔借了十六美金，然后潇洒地一挥手付给了她们九十美金。
　　姑娘们这才变得友好起来，大声对马车夫说了个地址，马车夫便赶着马得得地载着他们穿过半个城市，来到一个他们以前从未光顾过的地段，在一幢坐落于一条漆黑的大街上的古老而高大的楼房前停了下来。姑娘们领着他们爬过四段又陡又长、踩上去嘎嘎作响的木楼梯，穿过一个门廊，走进她们自己的富丽堂皇的公寓套房。
　　这里神奇般地不断涌出越来越多的身体柔软、一丝不挂的年轻姑娘。公寓里有个邪恶、淫荡的丑老头儿，他那刻薄的笑声常惹内特利生气；那里还有个整天咯咯叫唤着的循规蹈矩的老太婆，她穿着烟灰色羊毛衫，对那里发生的所有伤风败俗的事情都看不惯，并竭尽全力要把公寓收拾干净。
　　这个令人惊愕的地方是块肥沃、富饶而沸腾的宝地，这里到处可见女人的乳头和肚脐。起初，在那间灯光昏暗的黄褐色的起居室里只有他们的三个姑娘。那间起居室坐落在三条阴暗的走廊的交界处，这三条走廊从不同的方向通往这间离奇古怪、不可思议的妓院深处的幽室。姑娘们立即开始脱衣，有时还停下来得意地炫耀她们那些花花绿绿的内衣，还一刻不停地同那个憔悴、放荡的老头打情骂俏。那老头一头长长的白发乱蓬蓬的，穿着一件白衬衫，没扣扣子，一副邋遢相。他坐在一张几乎放在房间正中的上了霉的蓝色扶手椅里，与妓女们嘀嘀咕咕地说着下流话；他笑嘻嘻地但又带着嘲讽的神态，礼节性地向内特利和他的同伴们表示欢迎。接着，那老太婆伤心地低着她那颗好找茬的脑袋，磕磕绊绊地出去给亨格利•乔叫一个姑娘来，然而却带回来两个乳房高耸的美人儿，一个已经脱了衣服，另一个只穿着一件透明的粉红色短衬衣，就这一点衣服，她坐下时也扭动着身体把它脱掉了。又有三个一丝不挂的姑娘从另外一个方向荡过来，她们停下聊起来，然后又来了两个。接着又有四个姑娘穿过这间起居室，她们结成懒洋洋的一伙，正在谈着什么，其中三个人光着脚，另一个穿着一双好像不是她自己的银色舞鞋，没结鞋带，走起路来东摇西摆，怪吓人的。后来，又有一个只穿着三角裤的姑娘来到这间房间并坐了下来。这样，在短短几分钟内那里就来了一大群人，一共十一人，除一人外，全都光着身子。
　　到处是闲逛着的赤裸裸的人体，大多数都很丰满，亨格利•乔的魂都不在了。他惊讶地站在那儿，一动不动，任凭姑娘们从容轻松地走进来，舒舒服服地坐下来。后来，他突然尖叫一声，像脱了弦的箭一般冲向门口，想回士兵公寓去取他的照相机，可半路上又想到即使他离开片刻，这个可爱的、刺激的、丰富多彩的异教徒的天堂便会从他这儿被掠走，不复再有，这使他感到害怕，脊骨一阵冰凉，于是狂叫一声，停住了脚步。他在门口停了下来，唾沫飞溅，脸上和脖子上的筋脉剧烈地动着。那老头坐在那张发了霉的蓝色扶手椅里，就像坐在宝座上耽于享乐的魔王，两条细长的腿上裹着一条偷来的美军军用毛毯御寒，带着胜利的喜悦望着亨格利•乔。
　　他不出声地笑着，两只凹陷而机警的眼睛闪烁着因熟知一切而玩世不恭、放荡不羁的神情。他一直在喝酒。一看见这个邪恶、堕落、没有爱国心的老头，内特利就恨得毛发倒竖。那老头年纪够大的了，使内特利想到自己的父亲，他不停地开着低毁美国的玩笑。
　　“美国，”他说，“将会被打败。而意大利将会赢得胜利。”
　　“美国是世界上最强大、最繁荣的国家，”内特利激情满怀、庄严肃穆地对他说，“而且美国的军人是无与伦比的。”
　　“的确如此。”那老头欣然表示同意，口气中带着少许以嘲讽别人为乐趣的意味。“但另一方面，意大利是世界上最不繁荣的国家。
　　意大利士兵也许是最差劲的。但正是因为如此，我的国家在这场战争中打得如此出色，而你的国家却打得那么差劲。”
　　内特利先是感到意外，捧腹大笑起来，接着脸红耳赤地为自己的失礼表示歉意。“对不起，我刚才嘲笑了你，”他真诚地说，接着又用尊敬、屈尊俯就的语调继续说，“但意大利过去被德国人占领，现在又正被我们占领。你不会说这是打得出色吧，是吗？”
　　“不过，我当然要这么说，”那老头快乐地说，“德国人正在被赶出去，而我们还在这儿。几年以后你们也会走的，而我们仍然在这儿。你瞧，意大利确实是一个十分贫穷、弱小的国家，然而正是这一点使我们这么强大。意大利士兵不再死亡了，可美国和德国的士兵正在死亡。我把这叫做打得极其出色。是的，我确信意大利将会在这场战争中幸存下来，并将在你自己的国家被摧毁之后永远存在下去。”
　　内特利简直难以相信自己的耳朵。他以前从未听到过这样令人吃惊的恶毒的言词。他的直觉使他感到纳闷，为什么联邦调查局的人不来把这个背叛祖国的老东西抓起来。“美国是不会被摧毁的！”他慷慨激昂地喊道。
　　“永远不会吗？”那老头轻声激了他一句。
　　“这个……”内特利结结巴巴地说。
　　那老头压抑住一种更深沉、更强烈的喜悦放声大笑起来。他仍然温和地刺激他说：“罗马被摧毁了，希腊被摧毁了，波斯被摧毁了，西班牙被摧毁了。所有的大国都被摧毁了。为什么你的国家不会被摧毁，你实实在在认为你自己的国家还会存在多长时间？永远？请记住地球本身在大约二千五百万年之后也注定要被太阳毁灭的。”
　　内特利不安地扭动着身体。“这个，永远是个很长的时间，我想。”
　　“一百万年？”那个喜欢嘲弄人的老头带着强烈的虐待狂的热情坚持说，“五十万年？青蛙几乎有五亿年的历史了。你真的十分有把握地说，美国尽管强大而繁荣，拥有无以伦比的士兵，拥有世界上最高的生活标准，会存在得像——青蛙那么久吗？”
　　内特利真想揍他那张嘲笑人的脸。他环顾四周，想找人帮他反驳这个狡猾、邪恶的老头的那些该受谴责的诽谤，以扞卫他的国家的未来。他很失望。约塞连和邓巴在一个较远的角落里正忙着同四五个嬉皮笑脸的姑娘寻欢作乐，已经喝了六瓶葡萄酒。亨格利•乔早就沿着一条神秘的过道荡走了，他像个贪得无厌的暴君，两只瘦弱的膀子不停地舞动着，尽可能多地把臀部最大的年轻妓女拥在身前，和她们一起挤睡在一张双人床上。
　　内特利感到进退两难，不知所措。他自己的姑娘伸开四肢样子难看地躺在一张又厚又软的沙发上，露出一副懒散无聊的表情。内特利感到烦恼不安，因为她对他态度冷淡，无动于衷。她第一次看见他是在士兵公寓的客厅里他们许多人在一起玩二十一点小赌博的时候，但她没有理他，自那时起，她对他一直是若即若离，提不起精神，这一点他记得如此清楚，如此甜蜜而又如此伤心。她的嘴张着，成一个完美无缺的0字形，只有天晓得她那双呆滞、蒙胧的眼睛用如此残忍、冷漠的眼神在凝视着什么。那老头静静地等待着，脸上带着一种既轻蔑又同情的洞察一切的微笑望着他。一个满头金发、身体柔软成曲线形、肌肤呈蜂蜜色、长着两条漂亮的腿的姑娘坐在那老头的椅子扶手上，尽情地炫耀着她的姿色，一面无精打采地、卖弄风情地撩摸着他那骨瘦如柴、苍白而放荡的脸。见到一个这么老的人还如此淫荡好色，内特利真是又气又恨。他心情沉重地转过身，心想他干吗不带着他自己的姑娘睡觉去。
　　这个肮脏、贪婪、魔鬼似的老头之所以使他想到他的父亲，是因为他们两人毫无相同之处。内特利的父亲是个衣着得体、举止优雅的白发绅士，而这老头却是个举止粗鲁的游手好闲之徒；内特利的父亲是个冷静、善于思考、有责任心的人，而这老头却是个用情不专、放浪形骸的老色鬼；内特利的父亲言行谨慎、有教养，而这老头却是个粗野的乡巴佬；内特利的父亲自尊自爱、学识渊博，而这老头却寡廉鲜耻、愚昧无知；内特利的父亲蓄着高贵的白胡子，而这老头一根胡子也没有；内特利的父亲——和内特利遇到过的所有其他人的父亲——都很高贵、聪明、受人尊敬，而这老头却实实在在令人憎恶。内特利又同他辩论起来，决心痛斥他的无耻逻辑和含沙射影的诽谤，雄心勃勃地要报一箭之仇，以吸引那个讨厌他、对他无动于衷而他却如此强烈地爱恋着的姑娘的注意，从而永远赢得她的爱慕。
　　“这个，坦率地说，我不知道美国将存在多久，”他无所畏惧地说，“我想如果世界本身有一天将被毁灭的话，那我们也不可能永远存在下去。但是我确实知道我们将会赢得胜利，并活很长、很长时间。”
　　“多长时间？”那个喜欢诽谤别人的老头嘲讽地问道，一脸居心叵测的得意神情。“甚至不如青蛙活得久吗？”
　　“比你或者我活得长久得多。”内特利笨拙地脱口而出。
　　“喔，原来如此！考虑到你是那么有勇无谋，而我已经这么一大把年纪，那就不会太长久啦。”
　　“你多大年纪？”内特利问，不禁对这个老头产生了兴趣，被他迷住了。
　　“一百零六岁。”那老头看见内特利满脸懊恼，开心地抿着嘴轻声笑起来。“我看得出你也不相信这一点。”
　　“我不相信你跟我说的一切，”内特利回答说，脸上露出羞怯和怒气平息后的微笑。“我唯一相信的就是美国将会赢得战争的胜利。”
　　“你太看重胜利了，”那个肮脏而邪恶的老头嘲笑说，“真正的诀窍在于输掉几场战争，在于知道哪几场战争可以输掉。几个世纪以来，意大利一直在战争中打败仗，然而你瞧我们干得多出色。法国打赢了战争，然而却不断处于危机之中。德国打输了但却繁荣起来。意大利在埃塞俄比亚打了胜仗，但立即陷入严重的困境。胜利给我们制造了许多辉煌的假象，使我们丧失了理智，于是便引发了一场我们没有机会获胜的世界大战。可是既然我们又要输了，所有的事情就开始向好的方面转化。假如我们成功地被打败了，我们就一定会成功。”
　　内特利目瞪口呆地看着他，脸上露出未加掩饰的迷惑神情。
　　“现在我真的不明白你在说什么。你说话像个疯子。”
　　“但我像个正常人一样生活。墨索里尼执政时，我是个法西斯分子；现在他被赶下了台，我就成了一名反法西斯分子。当德国人在这儿保护我们反对美国人时，我是狂热的亲德派，而现在美国人在这儿保护我们抵抗德国人，我就成了狂热的亲美派。我可以向你保证，我义愤填膺的年轻朋友”——看见内特利变得更加惊慌失措、张口结舌，老头儿那双机警、轻蔑的眼睛里闪耀出更加得意的光芒——“你和你的国家在意大利不会有比我更忠实的支持者了——但这仅仅是在你们驻守意大利期间。”
　　“但是，”内特利不相信地大声喊道，“你是个叛徒！是个趋炎附势的小人！是个不知廉耻、肆无忌惮的机会主义者！”
　　“我已经一百零七岁了，”那老头温和地提醒他说。
　　“你难道没有任何信条？”
　　“当然没有。”
　　“没有道德标准？”
　　“哦，我是个很有道德的人。”那个恶棍似的老头半是讽刺半是认真地向他保证说，一边说一边摸着一个丰满的、脸上长着两个漂亮酒窝的黑发妓女的光屁股。那妓女勾魂摄魄地在他椅子的另一边扶手上舒展开了身体。他沾沾自喜地坐在两个裸体女郎中间，像个乞丐王似的一手搂着一个，挖苦地咧着嘴向内特利笑着。
　　“我难以相信，”内特利怨恨地说，硬着头皮竭力不去看他与那两个姑娘搂搂抱抱的样子。“我只是难以相信。”
　　“但这一切全是真的。德国人进城的时候，我像个朝气蓬勃的女芭蕾舞演员在大街上翩翩起舞，一边喊着：‘嗨，希特勒！’我把嗓子都喊哑了。我甚至还挥舞着一面纳粹小旗，那是我趁她母亲不注意，从一个漂亮的小姑娘手里抢来的。当德国人离开城市时，我拿着一瓶上等白兰地，提着一筐鲜花跑出去欢迎美国人。当然，白兰地是我自己喝的，花是用来撒向我们的解放者的。在第一辆车子上直挺挺地坐着一个自命不凡的老少校，我用一朵红玫瑰不偏不倚地砸在他的眼睛上。多么美妙的一击！你要是看见他往后躲的样子就好啦。”
　　内特利吃惊地站了起来，直喘粗气，脸色发白。“是——德•科弗利少校！”他叫喊起来。
　　“你认识他？”那老头乐滋滋地问道，“真是太巧了！”
　　内特利吃惊不小，没有听见他的话。“那么你就是那个打伤——德•科弗利少校的人！”他又气又怕地喊道，“你怎么能做这样的事情？”
　　那个魔鬼似的老头泰然自若。“你的意思是说，我怎么能忍住不砸他？你真该看到那个傲慢、讨厌的老家伙，他那么严厉地坐在车子里，大脑袋挺得笔直，愚蠢的脸上一本正经的样子，就像上帝亲临似的。他是个多么诱人的靶子啊！我用一枝美国红玫瑰打中了他的眼睛。我认为这是最合适不过的。你说呢？”
　　“那件事做得糟透了！”内特利大声指责他说，“那是一件恶意的犯罪事件！——德•科弗利少校是我们中队的主任参谋！”
　　“是吗？”那个顽固不化的老头戏弄他说，一边神态严肃地捏着他那个尖下巴，装出一副懊悔的样子。“如果是那样的话，你必须为我的公正而称赞我。当德国人开进来的时候，我用一小枝火绒草差点把一个强壮的年轻中尉扎死。”
　　这个可恶的老头竟不能明白自己犯下了多大的罪过，这使得内特利惊愕不已，手足无措。“你难道不知道自己干了些什么？”他言词激烈地叱责他。“——德•科弗利少校是个品德高尚的大好人，大家都钦佩他。”
　　“他是个老傻瓜，他实在没有权力做得像个年轻的傻瓜似的。
　　他现在在哪儿？死了？”
　　内特利带着忧郁、敬畏的神情轻声回答说：“没人知道。他好像失踪了。”
　　“你明白了吧？想一想吧，一个像他这样年龄的人，为了什么国家之类的荒唐事情，竟拿自己所剩不多的生命去冒险。”
　　内特利马上竭力反对。“为自己的国家用生命去冒险没什么荒唐的！”他郑重地说。
　　“是吗？”那老头问，“国家是什么？国家是四周用界线围着的一块土地。通常是非自然的。英国人为英国而死，美国人为美国而死，德国人为德国而死，俄国人为俄国而死。现在有五六十个国家在打这场战争。当然，这么多国家不可能都值得人们为了它们去死。”
　　“任何值得人为它而生的东西，”内特利说，“都值得人为它而死。”
　　“而任何值得人为它去死的东西，”那个亵渎神灵的老头回答说，“肯定值得人为它而生。你知道，你是个如此单纯、天真的年轻人，我简直为你感到惋惜。你多大啦，二十五？二十六？”
　　“十九，”内特利说，“到一月份我就二十岁了。”
　　“但愿你活下去。”那老头摇了摇头，有那么一会儿，他像那个满腹牢骚、事事看不惯的老太婆一样眉头紧锁，像是生气又像是沉思。“如果你不提防着点，他们会杀了你。我现在能看得出来你不打算提防。你为什么不理智些，努力做得更像我这样、你也可能活到一百零七岁呢。”
　　“因为我宁愿站着死，不愿跪着生，”内特利带着崇高的信念得意洋洋地反驳说，“我想你以前听说过这句俗话吧。”
　　“是的，我当然听说过，”那个阴险的老头沉思地说，脸上又堆起了微笑。“然而恐怕你把这句俗话说颠倒了，宁愿站着生，不愿跪着死。那句俗话是这么说的。”
　　“你肯定吗？”内特利有点糊涂地问，“好像我那样说更讲得通。”
　　“不，我这么说更讲得通。去问你朋友。”
　　内特利转过身去问他的朋友，却发现他们都走了。约塞连和邓巴都不见踪影。那老头看着内特利又尴尬又吃惊的样子，发出轻蔑而快乐的狂笑。内特利羞愧得沉下了脸。他孤力无援地犹豫了片刻，接着快速转过身，匆匆逃进最近的那条走廊去寻找约塞连和邓巴，希望及时找到他们，把那老头同——德•科弗利少校之间发生的那场出人意料的冲突告诉他们，把他们带回来给他解围。所有的走廊里的门都关上了。也没有哪道门下有灯光。夜已经很深了。内特利绝望了，便不再寻找了。最后他意识到，除了去找他爱恋着的姑娘，和她在什么地方躺下来，跟她亲热，向她献殷勤，与她共同安排他们的未来，他没有什么事情可做了；但是当地回到起居室来找她的时候，她已上床睡觉去了。他无事可做，只好去同那个讨厌的老头继续谈刚才未谈完的话题。可那老头却从扶手椅里站起身来、用开玩笑似的客套说夜已深，他得告辞了，让内特利和两个睡眼蒙胧的姑娘呆在那里。那两个姑娘也说不出他自己的妓女进了哪个房间，她俩百般挑逗他，想让他对她俩感兴趣，但却是白费力气，于是她们过了一会儿也上床睡觉去了，留下他一人在起居室里的那张凹凸不平的小沙发上睡着了。
　　内特利是个敏感、富有、漂亮的小伙子，生着一头乌黑的头发，两只眼睛流露出信任他人的眼神。他第二天一大早在沙发上醒来时，脖子感到酸疼，昏昏沉沉地不知自己身在何处。他性格温和、文质彬彬。他快二十岁了，不知道心灵创伤、紧张、仇恨或神经机能病是怎么回事，在约塞连看来，这恰恰证明他实实在在疯得有多么厉害。他在童年虽常受到责骂，但却是愉快的。他与他的兄弟姐妹们相处得很好，他不恨他的父母，因为他们俩待他很好。
　　内特利从小受到的家教是要憎恶像阿费和米洛那样的人。他母亲把像阿费那样的人描绘成拼命向上爬的野心家，他父亲把像米洛那样的人说成是投机倒把犯，但他们从不让他接近那些人，因此他从来也没有学会怎样去恨。就他所能记得的，他的家曾在费城、纽约、缅因、棕榈滩、南安普敦、伦敦、多维尔、巴黎和法国南部呆过，无论在哪儿，他家里总是高朋满座，客人都是绅士淑女，没有一个拼命向上爬的野心家或投机倒把犯。内特利的母亲出身新英格兰地区的桑顿家族，是美国革命的后代。他的父亲却是个私生子。
　　“永远记住，”他母亲过去常常提醒他说，“你是内特利家的人。
　　你不是范德比尔特家的人，他家是靠当一个地位卑微的拖船船长发财的，也不是洛克菲勒家的人，他家的财富是通过肆无忌惮地进行原油投机积累起来的；你也不是雷诺兹或杜克家族的人，他们的收入是靠欺骗公众、推销致癌的树脂和柏油制品获得的；你当然也不是阿斯托家的人，我相信，他家还在出租房屋。你是内特利家的一员，而内特利家从来没有为了钱而什么事都干。”
　　“你妈的意思是，孩子，”有一次他父亲和蔼可亲地插话说，那种措辞优雅、简洁的天才内特利佩服得五体投地，“旧时的富翁要比新富翁好，新兴的暴发户永远不会像新近的破落户那样受人尊敬。这么说对吗，亲爱的？”
　　内特利的父亲不断提出那种贤明而通晓世事的忠告。他热情奔放，脸色红润得像加过热的香甜的红葡萄酒一样。虽然内特利不喜欢香甜的红葡萄酒，但他却很喜欢他父亲。战争爆发后，内特利一家决定他应该参军，因为他太年轻了，不能从事外交工作，同时还因为他父亲根据权威人士的消息说，俄国将会在几个星期或几个月内垮台，而希特勒、邱吉尔、罗斯福、墨索里尼、甘地、佛朗哥、庇隆和日本天皇将签署一个和平协议，他们从此将幸福地生活在一起。内特利参加陆军航空队是他父亲的主意，在那儿他可以作为飞行员安全地接受训练，而在此期间俄国人有条件地投降了，停战的具体条款也制定好了。此外，在航空队里当一名军官，他接触到的只会是有教养的绅士。
　　事与愿违，他却发觉自己和约塞连、邓巴和亨格利•乔等人在罗马一家妓院里鬼混，而且他深深地爱上了妓院里一个对他态度冷漠的姑娘。他独自一人在起居室里睡了一夜后，第二天早上他终于和她同床共枕了，但几乎立刻就被她那任性的小妹妹打断了好事。那小姑娘没敲门便闯了进来，妒忌地扑到床上，这样内特利也可以搂着她。内特利的妓女吼叫着跳了起来，怒气冲冲地使劲揍她，抓着她的头发把她拎了起来。这个十二岁的小姑娘眼巴巴地望着内特利，像只拔了毛的小鸡，或者说像根剥了皮的嫩树枝。她那稚嫩的身体早熟地模仿着那些比她年龄大的女人的样子，使所有人感到难堪，因此她总是被赶走，穿上衣服，到外面大街上去和其他孩子在新鲜的空气里玩。这姐妹俩此刻正粗野地对骂，互相吐唾沫，发出一阵震耳欲聋的喧闹声，引来一大群喜欢热闹的旁观者挤进这间房间。内特利气恼地放弃了做爱的念头。他叫他的妓女穿上衣服，带着她下楼去吃早饭。那个小妹妹跟在后面。当他们三人在附近一家露天咖啡馆里体面地吃早餐时，内特利觉得自己就像是个神气的一家之主。但是等到他们开始往回走的时候，内特利的妓女已经感到厌烦了，于是她决定和其他两个姑娘上街去卖淫，不想再同他在一起了。内特利和那个小妹妹温顺地远远跟在后面，那个野心勃勃的小姑娘想学几手拉客的技巧，内特利则是情场失意而出来散散心。当那几个姑娘被一辆军用汽车里的士兵拦住并带走后，他俩都变得垂头丧气。
　　内特利回到咖啡馆，给那个小妹妹买了一份巧克力冰淇淋，等她情绪好了些之后，带着她回到公寓里。约塞连和邓巴已在起居室里，还有精疲力竭的亨格利•乔，他那憔悴的脸上还带着快乐、麻木、得意洋洋的微笑。那天早晨他就这样笑着从妻妾成群的后宫里跌跌撞撞地走出来，全身骨头像散了架似的，那个淫荡、堕落的老头看到亨格利•乔破裂的嘴唇和青一块紫一块的眼睛，心里乐滋滋的。他热情地跟内特利打招呼。他仍然穿着前一天晚上那件皱巴巴的衣服。他那种衣衫褴褛、面容猥琐的模样使内特利心烦意乱。无论何时他来公寓，他总希望那个荒淫无耻的老头能穿上一件干净的布鲁克斯兄弟公司做的衬衫，刮过脸，梳过头，穿着一件花呢夹克衫，蓄两撇干净利落的白八字胡，这样，内特利每次看到他并想到自己父亲时，就不会有那种说不清的羞愧感了。
Chapter 24 Milo
    April had been the best month of all for Milo. Lilacs bloomed in April and fruit ripened on the vine. Heartbeatsquickened and old appetites were renewed. In April a livelier iris gleamed upon the burnished dove. April wasspring, and in the spring Milo Minderbinder’s fancy had lightly turned to thoughts of tangerines.
　　“Tangerines?”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“My men would love tangerines,” admitted the colonel in Sardinia who commanded four squadrons of B-26s.
　　“There’ll be all the tangerines they can eat that you’re able to pay for with money from your mess fund,” Miloassured him.
　　“Casaba melons?”
　　“Are going for a song in Damascus.”
　　“I have a weakness for casaba melons. I’ve always had a weakness for casaba melons.”
　　“Just lend me one plane from each squadron, just one plane, and you’ll have all the casabas you can eat thatyou’ve money to pay for.”
　　“We buy from the syndicate?”
　　“And everybody has a share.”
　　“It’s amazing, positively amazing. How can you do it?”
　　“Mass purchasing power makes the big difference. For example, breaded veal cutlets.”
　　“I’m not so crazy about breaded veal cutlets,” grumbled the skeptical B-25 commander in the north of Corsica.
　　“Breaded veal cutlets are very nutritious,” Milo admonished him piously. “They contain egg yolk and breadcrumbs. And so are lamb chops.”
　　“Ah, lamb chops,” echoed the B-25 commander. “Good lamb chops?”
　　“The best,” said Milo, “that the black market has to offer.”
　　“Baby lamb chops?”
　　“In the cutest little pink paper panties you ever saw. Are going for a song in Portugal.”
　　“I can’t send a plane to Portugal. I haven’t the authority.”
　　“I can, once you lend the plane to me. With a pilot to fly it. And don’t forget—you’ll get General Dreedle.”
　　“Will General Dreedle eat in my mess hall again?”
　　“Like a pig, once you start feeding him my best white fresh eggs fried in my pure creamery butter. There’ll betangerines too, and casaba melons, honeydews, filet of Dover sole, baked Alaska, and cockles and mussels.”
　　“And everybody has a share?”
　　“That,” said Milo, “is the most beautiful part of it.”
　　“I don’t like it,” growled the unco-operative fighter-plane commander, who didn’t like Milo either.
　　“There’s an unco-operative fighter-plane commander up north who’s got it in for me,” Milo complained toGeneral Dreedle. “It takes just one person to ruin the whole thing, and then you wouldn’t have your fresh eggsfried in my pure creamery butter any more.”
　　General Dreedle had the unco-operative fighter-plane commander transferred to the Solomon Islands to diggraves and replaced him with a senile colonel with bursitis and a craving for litchi nuts who introduced Milo tothe B-17 general on the mainland with a yearning for Polish sausage.
　　“Polish sausage is going for peanuts in Cracow,” Milo informed him.
　　“Polish sausage,” sighed the general nostalgically. “You know, I’d give just about anything for a good hunk ofPolish sausage. Just about anything.”
　　“You don’t have to give anything. Just give me one plane for each mess hall and a pilot who will do what he’stold. And a small down payment on your initial order as a token of good faith.”
　　“But Cracow is hundreds of miles behind the enemy lines. How will you get to the sausage?”
　　“There’s an international Polish sausage exchange in Geneva. I’ll just fly the peanuts into Switzerland andexchange them for Polish sausage at the open market rate. They’ll fly the peanuts back to Cracow and I’ll fly thePolish sausage back to you. You buy only as much Polish sausage as you want through the syndicate. There’ll betangerines too, with only a little artificial coloring added. And eggs from Malta and Scotch from Sicily. You’ll bepaying the money to yourself when you buy from the syndicate, since you’ll own a share, so you’ll really begetting everything you buy for nothing. Doesn’t that makes sense?”
　　“Sheer genius. How in the world did you ever think of it?”
　　“My name is Milo Minderbinder. I am twenty-seven years old.”
　　Milo Minderbinder’s planes flew in from everywhere, the pursuit planes, bombers, and cargo ships streaminginto Colonel Cathcart’s field with pilots at the controls who would do what they were told. The planes were decorated with flamboyant squadron emblems illustrating such laudable ideals as Courage, Might, Justice, Truth,Liberty, Love, Honor and Patriotism that were painted out at once by Milo’s mechanics with a double coat of flatwhite and replaced in garish purple with the stenciled name M & M ENTERPRISES, FINE FRUITS ANDPRODUCE. The ‘M & M’ In ‘M & M ENTERPRISES’ stood for Milo & Minderbinder, and the & was inserted,Milo revealed candidly, to nullify any impression that the syndicate was a one-man operation. Planes arrived forMilo from airfields in Italy, North Africa and England, and from Air Transport Command stations in Liberia,Ascension Island, Cairo, and Karachi. Pursuit planes were traded for additional cargo ships or retained foremergency invoice duty and small-parcel service; trucks and tanks were procured from the ground forces andused for short-distance road hauling. Everybody had a share, and men got fat and moved about tamely withtoothpicks in their greasy lips. Milo supervised the whole expanding operation by himself. Deep otter-brownlines of preoccupation etched themselves permanently into his careworn face and gave him a harried look ofsobriety and mistrust. Everybody but Yossarian thought Milo was a jerk, first for volunteering for the job ofmess officer and next for taking it so seriously. Yossarian also thought that Milo was a jerk; but he also knewthat Milo was a genius.
　　One day Milo flew away to England to pick up a load of Turkish halvah and came flying back from Madagascarleading four German bombers filled with yams, collards, mustard greens and black-eyed Georgia peas. Milo wasdumbfounded when he stepped down to the ground and found a contingent of armed M.P.s waiting to imprisonthe German pilots and confiscate their planes. Confiscate! The mere word was anathema to him, and he stormedback and forth in excoriating condemnation, shaking a piercing finger of rebuke in the guilt-ridden faces ofColonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and the poor battle-scarred captain with the submachine gun who commandedthe M.P.s.
　　“Is this Russia?” Milo assailed them incredulously at the top of his voice. “Confiscate?” he shrieked, as thoughhe could not believe his own ears. “Since when is it the policy of the American government to confiscate theprivate property of its citizens? Shame on you! Shame on all of you for even thinking such a horrible thought.”
　　“But Milo,” Major Danby interrupted timidly, “we’re at war with Germany, and those are German planes.”
　　“They are no such thing!” Milo retorted furiously. “Those planes belong to the syndicate, and everybody has ashare. Confiscate? How can you possibly confiscate your own private property? Confiscate, indeed! I’ve neverheard anything so depraved in my whole life.”
　　And sure enough, Milo was right, for when they looked, his mechanics had painted out the German swastikas onthe wings, tails and fuselages with double coats of flat white and stenciled in the words M & M ENTERPRISES,FINE FRUITS AND PRODUCE. Right before their eyes he had transformed his syndicate into an internationalcartel.
　　Milo’s argosies of plenty now filled the air. Planes poured in from Norway, Denmark, France, Germany, Austria,Italy, Yugoslavia, Romania, Bulgaria, Sweden, Finland, Poland—from everywhere in Europe, in fact, butRussia, with whom Milo refused to do business. When everybody who was going to had signed up with M & MEnterprises, Fine Fruits and Produce, Milo created a wholly owned subsidiary, M & M Fancy Pastry, andobtained more airplanes and more money from the mess funds for scones and crumpets from the British Isles, prune and cheese Danish from Copenhagen, éclairs, cream puffs, Napoleons and petits fours from Paris, Reimsand Grenoble, Kugelhopf, pumpernickel and Pfefferkuchen from Berlin, Linzer and Dobos Torten from Vienna,Strudel from Hungary and baklava from Ankara. Each morning Milo sent planes aloft all over Europe and NorthAfrica hauling long red tow signs advertising the day’s specials in large square letters: “EYEROUND, 79￠...
　　WHITING, 21￠.” He boosted cash income for the syndicate by leasing tow signs to Pet Milk, Gaines DogFood, and Noxzema. In a spirit of civic enterprise, he regularly allotted a certain amount of free aerial advertisingspace to General Peckem for the propagation of such messages in the public interest as NEATNESS COUNTS,HASTE MAKES WASTE, and THE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER. Milopurchased spot radio announcements on Axis Sally’s and Lord Haw Haw’s daily propaganda broadcasts fromBerlin to keep things moving. Business boomed on every battlefront.
　　Milo’s planes were a familiar sight. They had freedom of passage everywhere, and one day Milo contracted withthe American military authorities to bomb the German-held highway bridge at Orvieto and with the Germanmilitary authorities to defend the highway bridge at Orvieto with antiaircraft fire against his own attack. His feefor attacking the bridge for America was the total cost of the operation plus six per cent and his fee fromGermany for defending the bridge was the same cost-plus-six agreement augmented by a merit bonus of athousand dollars for every American plane he shot down. The consummation of these deals represented animportant victory for private enterprise, he pointed out, since the armies of both countries were socializedinstitutions. Once the contracts were signed, there seemed to be no point in using the resources of the syndicateto bomb and defend the bridge, inasmuch as both governments had ample men and material right there to do soand were perfectly happy to contribute them, and in the end Milo realized a fantastic profit from both halves ofhis project for doing nothing more than signing his name twice.
　　The arrangements were fair to both sides. Since Milo did have freedom of passage everywhere, his planes wereable to steal over in a sneak attack without alerting the German antiaircraft gunners; and since Milo knew aboutthe attack, he was able to alert the German antiaircraft gunners in sufficient time for them to begin firingaccurately the moment the planes came into range. It was an ideal arrangement for everyone but the dead man inYossarian’s tent, who was killed over the target the day he arrived.
　　“I didn’t kill him!” Milo kept replying passionately to Yossarian’s angry protest. “I wasn’t even there that day, Itell you. Do you think I was down there on the ground firing an antiaircraft gun when the planes came over?”
　　“But you organized the whole thing, didn’t you?” Yossarian shouted back at him in the velvet darkness cloakingthe path leading past the still vehicles of the motor pool to the open-air movie theater.
　　“And I didn’t organize anything,” Milo answered indignantly, drawing great agitated sniffs of air in through hishissing, pale, twitching nose. “The Germans have the bridge, and we were going to bomb it, whether I steppedinto the picture or not. I just saw a wonderful opportunity to make some profit out of the mission, and I took it.
　　What’s so terrible about that?”
　　“What’s so terrible about it? Milo, a man in my tent was killed on that mission before he could even unpack hisbags.”
　　“But I didn’t kill him.”
　　“You got a thousand dollars extra for it.”
　　“But I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even there, I tell you. I was in Barcelona buying olive oil and skinless andboneless sardines, and I’ve got the purchase orders to prove it. And I didn’t get the thousand dollars. Thatthousand dollars went to the syndicate, and everybody got a share, even you.” Milo was appealing to Yossarianfrom the bottom of his soul. “Look, I didn’t start this war, Yossarian, no matter what that lousy Wintergreen issaying. I’m just trying to put it on a businesslike basis. Is anything wrong with that? You know, a thousanddollars ain’t such a bad price for a medium bomber and a crew. If I can persuade the Germans to pay me athousand dollars for every plane they shoot down, why shouldn’t I take it?”
　　“Because you’re dealing with the enemy, that’s why. Can’t you understand that we’re fighting a war? People aredying. Look around you, for Christ’s sake!”
　　Milo shook his head with weary forbearance. “And the Germans are not our enemies,” he declared. “Oh I knowwhat you’re going to say. Sure, we’re at war with them. But the Germans are also members in good standing ofthe syndicate, and it’s my job to protect their rights as shareholders. Maybe they did start the war, and maybethey are killing millions of people, but they pay their bills a lot more promptly than some allies of ours I couldname. Don’t you understand that I have to respect the sanctity of my contract with Germany? Can’t you see itfrom my point of view?”
　　“No,” Yossarian rebuffed him harshly.
　　Milo was stung and made no effort to disguise his wounded feelings. It was a muggy, moonlit night filled withgnats, moths, and mosquitoes. Milo lifted his arm suddenly and pointed toward the open-air theater, where themilky, dust-filled beam bursting horizontally from the projector slashed a conelike swath in the blackness anddraped in a fluorescent membrane of light the audience tilted on the seats there in hypnotic sags, their facesfocused upward toward the aluminized movie screen. Milo’s eyes were liquid with integrity, and his artless anduncorrupted face was lustrous with a shining mixture of sweat and insect repellent.
　　“Look at them,” he exclaimed in a voice choked with emotion. “They’re my friends, my countrymen, mycomrades in arms. A fellow never had a better bunch of buddies. Do you think I’d do a single thing to harm themif I didn’t have to? Haven’t I got enough on my mind? Can’t you see how upset I am already about all that cottonpiling up on those piers in Egypt?” Milo’s voice splintered into fragments, and he clutched at Yossarian’s shirtfront as though drowning. His eyes were throbbing visibly like brown caterpillars. “Yossarian, what am I goingto do with so much cotton? It’s all your fault for letting me buy it.”
　　The cotton was piling up on the piers in Egypt, and nobody wanted any. Milo had never dreamed that the NileValley could be so fertile or that there would be no market at all for the crop he had bought. The mess halls in hissyndicate would not help; they rose up in uncompromising rebellion against his proposal to tax them on a percapita basis in order to enable each man to own his own share of the Egyptian cotton crop. Even his reliablefriends the Germans failed him in this crisis: they preferred ersatz. Milo’s mess halls would not even help him store the cotton, and his warehousing costs skyrocketed and contributed to the devastating drain upon his cashreserves. The profits from the Orvieto mission were sucked away. He began writing home for the money he hadsent back in better days; soon that was almost gone. And new bales of cotton kept arriving on the wharves atAlexandria every day. Each time he succeeded in dumping some on the world market for a loss it was snappedup by canny Egyptian brokers in the Levant, who sold it back to him at the original price, so that he was reallyworse off than before.
　　M & M Enterprises verged on collapse. Milo cursed himself hourly for his monumental greed and stupidity inpurchasing the entire Egyptian cotton crop, but a contract was a contract and had to be honored, and one night,after a sumptuous evening meal, all Milo’s fighters and bombers took off, joined in formation directly overheadand began dropping bombs on the group. He had landed another contract with the Germans, this time to bombhis own outfit. Milo’s planes separated in a well co-ordinated attack and bombed the fuel stocks and theordnance dump, the repair hangars and the B-25 bombers resting on the lollipop-shaped hardstands at the field.
　　His crews spared the landing strip and the mess halls so that they could land safely when their work was doneand enjoy a hot snack before retiring. They bombed with their landing lights on, since no one was shooting back.
　　They bombed all four squadrons, the officers’ club and the Group Headquarters building. Men bolted from theirtents in sheer terror and did not know in which direction to turn. Wounded soon lay screaming everywhere. Acluster of fragmentation bombs exploded in the yard of the officers’ club and punched jagged holes in the side ofthe wooden building and in the bellies and backs of a row of lieutenants and captains standing at the bar. Theydoubled over in agony and dropped. The rest of the officers fled toward the two exits in panic and jammed up thedoorways like a dense, howling dam of human flesh as they shrank from going farther.
　　Colonel Cathcart clawed and elbowed his way through the unruly, bewildered mass until he stood outside byhimself. He stared up at the sky in stark astonishment and horror. Milo’s planes, ballooning serenely in over theblossoming treetops with their bomb bay doors open and wing flaps down and with their monstrous, bug-eyed,blinding, fiercely flickering, eerie landing lights on, were the most apocalyptic sight he had ever beheld. ColonelCathcart let go a stricken gasp of dismay and hurled himself headlong into his jeep, almost sobbing. He found thegas pedal and the ignition and sped toward the airfield as fast as the rocking car would carry him, his huge flabbyhands clenched and bloodless on the wheel or blaring his horn tormentedly. Once he almost killed himself whenhe swerved with a banshee screech of tires to avoid plowing into a bunch of men running crazily toward the hillsin their underwear with their stunned faces down and their thin arms pressed high around their temples as punyshields. Yellow, orange and red fires were burning on both sides of the road. Tents and trees were in flames, andMilo’s planes kept coming around interminably with their blinking white landing lights on and their bomb baydoors open. Colonel Cathcart almost turned the jeep over when he slammed the brakes on at the control tower.
　　He leaped from the car while it was still skidding dangerously and hurtled up the flight of steps inside, wherethree men were busy at the instruments and the controls. He bowled two of them aside in his lunge for the nickel-plated microphone, his eyes glittering wildly and his beefy face contorted with stress. He squeezed themicrophone in a bestial grip and began shouting hysterically at the top of his voice.
　　“Milo, you son of a bitch! Are you crazy? What the hell are you doing? Come down! Come down!”
　　“Stop hollering so much, will you?” answered Milo, who was standing there right beside him in the controltower with a microphone of his own. “I’m right here.” Milo looked at him with reproof and turned back to his work. “Very good, men, very good,” he chanted into his microphone. “But I see one supply shed still standing.
　　That will never do, Purvis—I’ve spoken to you about that kind of shoddy work before. Now, you go right backthere this minute and try it again. And this time come in slowly... slowly. Haste makes waste, Purvis. Hastemakes waste. If I’ve told you that once, I must have told you that a hundred times. Haste makes waste.”
　　The loudspeaker overhead began squawking. “Milo, this is Alvin Brown. I’ve finished dropping my bombs.
　　What should I do now?”
　　“Strafe,” said Milo.
　　“Strafe?” Alvin Brown was shocked.
　　“We have no choice,” Milo informed him resignedly. “It’s in the contract.”
　　“Oh, okay, then,” Alvin Brown acquiesced. “In that case I’ll strafe.”
　　This time Milo had gone too far. Bombing his own men and planes was more than even the most phlegmaticobserver could stomach, and it looked like the end for him. High-ranking government officials poured in toinvestigate. Newspapers inveighed against Milo with glaring headlines, and Congressmen denounced the atrocityin stentorian wrath and clamored for punishment. Mothers with children in the service organized into militantgroups and demanded revenge. Not one voice was raised in his defense. Decent people everywhere wereaffronted, and Milo was all washed up until he opened his books to the public and disclosed the tremendousprofit he had made. He could reimburse the government for all the people and property he had destroyed and stillhave enough money left over to continue buying Egyptian cotton. Everybody, of course, owned a share. And thesweetest part of the whole deal was that there really was no need to reimburse the government at all.
　　“In a democracy, the government is the people,” Milo explained. “We’re people, aren’t we? So we might just aswell keep the money and eliminate the middleman. Frankly, I’d like to see the government get out of waraltogether and leave the whole field to private industry. If we pay the government everything we owe it, we’llonly be encouraging government control and discouraging other individuals from bombing their own men andplanes. We’ll be taking away their incentive.”
　　Milo was correct, of course, as everyone soon agreed but a few embittered misfits like Doc Daneeka, who sulkedcantankerously and muttered offensive insinuations about the morality of the whole venture until Milo mollifiedhim with a donation, in the name of the syndicate, of a lightweight aluminum collapsible garden chair that DocDaneeka could fold up conveniently and carry outside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came inside histent and carry back inside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came out. Doc Daneeka had lost his headduring Milo’s bombardment; instead of running for cover, he had remained out in the open and performed hisduty, slithering along the ground through shrapnel, strafing and incendiary bombs like a furtive, wily lizard fromcasualty to casualty, administering tourniquets, morphine, splints and sulfanilamide with a dark and dolefulvisage, never saying one word more than he had to and reading in each man’s bluing wound a dreadful portent ofhis own decay. He worked himself relentlessly into exhaustion before the long night was over and came downwith a snife the next day that sent him hurrying querulously into the medical tent to have his temperature taken by Gus and Wes and to obtain a mustard plaster and vaporizer.
　　Doc Daneeka tended each moaning man that night with the same glum and profound and introverted grief heshowed at the airfield the day of the Avignon mission when Yossarian climbed down the few steps of his planenaked, in a state of utter shock, with Snowden smeared abundantly all over his bare heels and toes, knees, armsand fingers, and pointed inside wordlessly toward where the young radio-gunner lay freezing to death on thefloor beside the still younger tail-gunner who kept falling back into a dead faint each time he opened his eyes andsaw Snowden dying.
　　Doc Daneeka draped a blanket around Yossarian’s shoulders almost tenderly after Snowden had been removedfrom the plane and carried into an ambulance on a stretcher. He led Yossarian toward his jeep. McWatt helped,and the three drove in silence to the squadron medical tent, where McWatt and Doc Daneeka guided Yossarianinside to a chair and washed Snowden off him with cold wet balls of absorbent cotton. Doc Daneeka gave him apill and a shot that put him to sleep for twelve hours. When Yossarian woke up and went to see him, DocDaneeka gave him another pill and a shot that put him to sleep for another twelve hours. When Yossarian wokeup again and went to see him, Doc Daneeka made ready to give him another pill and a shot.
　　“How long are you going to keep giving me those pills and shots?” Yossarian asked him.
　　“Until you feel better.”
　　“I feel all right now.”
　　Doc Daneeka’s frail suntanned forehead furrowed with surprise. “Then why don’t you put some clothes on? Whyare you walking around naked?”
　　“I don’t want to wear a uniform any more.”
　　Doc Daneeka accepted the explanation and put away his hypodermic syringe. “Are you sure you feel all right?”
　　“I feel fine. I’m just a little logy from all those pills and shots you’ve been giving me.”
　　Yossarian went about his business with no clothes on all the rest of that day and was still naked late the nextmorning when Milo, after hunting everywhere else, finally found him sitting up a tree a small distance in back ofthe quaint little military cemetery at which Snowden was being buried. Milo was dressed in his customarybusiness attire—olive-drab trousers, a fresh olive-drab shirt and tie, with one silver first lieutenant’s bargleaming on the collar, and a regulation dress cap with a stiff leather bill.
　　“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Milo called up to Yossarian from the ground reproachfully.
　　“You should have looked for me in this tree,” Yossarian answered. “I’ve been up here all morning.”
　　“Come on down and taste this and tell me if it’s good. It’s very important.”
　　Yossarian shook his head. He sat nude on the lowest limb of the tree and balanced himself with both handsgrasping the bough directly above. He refused to budge, and Milo had no choice but to stretch both arms aboutthe trunk in a distasteful hug and start climbing. He struggled upward clumsily with loud grunts and wheezes,and his clothes were squashed and crooked by the time he pulled himself up high enough to hook a leg over thelimb and pause for breath. His dress cap was askew and in danger of falling. Milo caught it just in time when itbegan slipping. Globules of perspiration glistened like transparent pearls around his mustache and swelled likeopaque blisters under his eyes. Yossarian watched him impassively. Cautiously Milo worked himself around in ahalf circle so that he could face Yossarian. He unwrapped tissue paper from something soft, round and brownand handed it to Yossarian.
　　“Please taste this and let me know what you think. I’d like to serve it to the men.”
　　“What is it?” asked Yossarian, and took a big bite.
　　“Chocolate-covered cotton.”
　　Yossarian gagged convulsively and sprayed his big mouthful of chocolate-covered cotton right into Milo’s face.
　　“Here, take it back!” he spouted angrily. “Jesus Christ! Have you gone crazy? You didn’t even take the goddamseeds out.”
　　“Give it a chance, will you?” Milo begged. “It can’t be that bad. Is it really that bad?”
　　“It’s even worse.”
　　“But I’ve got to make the mess halls feed it to the men.”
　　“They’ll never be able to swallow it.”
　　“They’ve got to swallow it,” Milo ordained with dictatorial grandeur, and almost broke his neck when he let gowith one arm to wave a righteous finger in the air.
　　“Come on out here,” Yossarian invited him. “You’ll be much safer, and you can see everything.”
　　Gripping the bough above with both hands, Milo began inching his way out on the limb sideways with utmostcare and apprehension. His face was rigid with tension, and he sighed with relief when he found himself seatedsecurely beside Yossarian. He stroked the tree affectionately. “This is a pretty good tree,” he observedadmiringly with proprietary gratitude.
　　“It’s the tree of life,” Yossarian answered, waggling his toes, “and of knowledge of good and evil, too.”
　　Milo squinted closely at the bark and branches. “No it isn’t,” he replied. “It’s a chestnut tree. I ought to know. Isell chestnuts.”
　　“Have it your way.”
　　They sat in the tree without talking for several seconds, their legs dangling and their hands almost straight up onthe bough above, the one completely nude but for a pair of crepe-soled sandals, the other completely dressed in acoarse olive-drab woolen uniform with his tie knotted tight. Milo studied Yossarian diffidently through thecorner of his eye, hesitating tactfully.
　　“I want to ask you something,” he said at last. “You don’t have any clothes on. I don’t want to butt in oranything, but I just want to know. Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”
　　“I don’t want to.”
　　Milo nodded rapidly like a sparrow pecking. “I see, I see,” he stated quickly with a look of vivid confusion. “Iunderstand perfectly. I heard Appleby and Captain Black say you had gone crazy, and I just wanted to find out.”
　　He hesitated politely again, weighing his next question. “Aren’t you ever going to put your uniform on again?”
　　“I don’t think so.”
　　Milo nodded with spurious vim to indicate he still understood and then sat silent, ruminating gravely withtroubled misgiving. A scarlet-crested bird shot by below, brushing sure dark wings against a quivering bush.
　　Yossarian and Milo were covered in their bower by tissue-thin tiers of sloping green and largely surrounded byother gray chestnut trees and a silver spruce. The sun was high overhead in a vast sapphire-blue sky beaded withlow, isolated, puffy clouds of dry and immaculate white. There was no breeze, and the leaves about them hungmotionless. The shade was feathery. Everything was at peace but Milo, who straightened suddenly with amuffled cry and began pointing excitedly.
　　“Look at that!” he exclaimed in alarm. “Look at that! That’s a funeral going on down there. That looks like thecemetery. Isn’t it?”
　　Yossarian answered him slowly in a level voice. “They’re burying that kid who got killed in my plane overAvignon the other day. Snowden.”
　　“What happened to him?” Milo asked in a voice deadened with awe.
　　“He got killed.”
　　“That’s terrible,” Milo grieved, and his large brown eyes filled with tears. “That poor kid. It really is terrible.”
　　He bit his trembling lip hard, and his voice rose with emotion when he continued. “And it will get even worse ifthe mess halls don’t agree to buy my cotton. Yossarian, what’s the matter with them? Don’t they realize it’s theirsyndicate? Don’t they know they’ve all got a share?”
　　“Did the dead man in my tent have a share?” Yossarian demanded caustically.
　　“Of course he did,” Milo assured him lavishly. “Everybody in the squadron has a share.”
　　“He was killed before he even got into the squadron.”
　　Milo made a deft grimace of tribulation and turned away. “I wish you’d stop picking on me about that dead manin your tent,” he pleaded peevishly. “I told you I didn’t have anything to do with killing him. Is it my fault that Isaw this great opportunity to corner the market on Egyptian cotton and got us into all this trouble? Was Isupposed to know there was going to be a glut? I didn’t even know what a glut was in those days. An opportunityto corner a market doesn’t come along very often, and I was pretty shrewd to grab the chance when I had it.”
　　Milo gulped back a moan as he saw six uniformed pallbearers lift the plain pine coffin from the ambulance andset it gently down on the ground beside the yawning gash of the freshly dug grave. “And now I can’t get rid of asingle penny’s worth,” he mourned.
　　Yossarian was unmoved by the fustian charade of the burial ceremony, and by Milo’s crushing bereavement. Thechaplain’s voice floated up to him through the distance tenuously in an unintelligible, almost inaudiblemonotone, like a gaseous murmur. Yossarian could make out Major Major by his towering and lanky aloofnessand thought he recognized Major Danby mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Major Danby had not stoppedshaking since his run-in with General Dreedle. There were strands of enlisted men molded in a curve around thethree officers, as inflexible as lumps of wood, and four idle gravediggers in streaked fatigues loungingindifferently on spades near the shocking, incongruous heap of loose copperred earth. As Yossarian stared, thechaplain elevated his gaze toward Yossarian beatifically, pressed his fingers down over his eyeballs in a mannerof affliction, peered upward again toward Yossarian searchingly, and bowed his head, concluding whatYossarian took to be a climactic part of the funeral rite. The four men in fatigues lifted the coffin on slings andlowered it into the grave. Milo shuddered violently.
　　“I can’t watch it,” he cried, turning away in anguish. “I just can’t sit here and watch while those mess halls letmy syndicate die.” He gnashed his teeth and shook his head with bitter woe and resentment. “If they had anyloyalty, they would buy my cotton till it hurts so that they can keep right on buying my cotton till it hurts themsome more. They would build fires and burn up their underwear and summer uniforms just to create biggerdemand. But they won’t do a thing. Yossarian, try eating the rest of this chocolate-covered cotton for me. Maybeit will taste delicious now.”
　　Yossarian pushed his hand away. “Give up, Milo. People can’t eat cotton.”
　　Milo’s face narrowed cunningly. “It isn’t really cotton,” he coaxed. “I was joking. It’s really cotton candy,delicious cotton candy. Try it and see.”
　　“Now you’re lying.”
　　“I never lie!” Milo rejoindered with proud dignity.
　　“You’re lying now.”
　　“I only lie when it’s necessary,” Milo explained defensively, averting his eyes for a moment and blinking hislashes winningly. “This stuff is better than cotton candy, really it is. It’s made out of real cotton. Yossarian,you’ve got to help me make the men eat it. Egyptian cotton is the finest cotton in the world.”
　　“But it’s indigestible,” Yossarian emphasized. “It will make them sick, don’t you understand? Why don’t you tryliving on it yourself if you don’t believe me?”
　　“I did try,” admitted Milo gloomily. “And it made me sick.”
　　The graveyard was yellow as hay and green as cooked cabbage. In a little while the chaplain stepped back, andthe beige crescent of human forms began to break up sluggishly, like flotsam. The men drifted without haste orsound to the vehicles parked along the side of the bumpy dirt road. With their heads down disconsolately, thechaplain, Major Major and Major Danby moved toward their jeeps in an ostracized group, each holding himselffriendlessly several feet away from the other two.
　　“It’s all over,” observed Yossarian.
　　“It’s the end,” Milo agreed despondently. “There’s no hope left. And all because I left them free to make theirown decisions. That should teach me a lesson about discipline the next time I try something like this.”
　　“Why don’t you sell your cotton to the government?” Yossarian suggested casually, as he watched the four menin streaked fatigues shoveling heaping bladefuls of the copper-red earth back down inside the grave.
　　Milo vetoed the idea brusquely. “It’s a matter of principle,” he explained firmly. “The government has nobusiness in business, and I would be the last person in the world to ever try to involve the government in abusiness of mine. But the business of government is business,” he remembered alertly, and continued withelation. “Calvin Coolidge said that, and Calvin Coolidge was a President, so it must be true. And the governmentdoes have the responsibility of buying all the Egyptian cotton I’ve got that no one else wants so that I can make aprofit, doesn’t it?” Milo’s face clouded almost as abruptly, and his spirits descended into a state of sad anxiety.
　　“But how will I get the government to do it?”
　　“Bribe it,” Yossarian said.
　　“Bribe it!” Milo was outraged and almost lost his balance and broke his neck again. “Shame on you!” he scoldedseverely, breathing virtuous fire down and upward into his rusty mustache through his billowing nostrils andprim lips. “Bribery is against the law, and you know it. But it’s not against the law to make a profit, is it? So itcan’t be against the law for me to bribe someone in order to make a fair profit, can it? No, of course not!” He fellto brooding again, with a meek, almost pitiable distress. “But how will I know who to bribe?”
　　“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Yossarian comforted him with a toneless snicker as the engines of the jeepsand ambulance fractured the drowsy silence and the vehicles in the rear began driving away backward. “Youmake the bribe big enough and they’ll find you. Just make sure you do everything right out in the open. Let everyone know exactly what you want and how much you’re willing to pay for it. The first time you act guilty orashamed, you might get into trouble.”
　　“I wish you’d come with me,” Milo remarked. “I won’t feel safe among people who take bribes. They’re nobetter than a bunch of crooks.”
　　“You’ll be all right,” Yossarian assured him with confidence. “If you run into trouble, just tell everybody that thesecurity of the country requires a strong domestic Egyptian-cotton speculating industry.”
　　“It does,” Milo informed him solemnly. “A strong Egyptian-cotton speculating industry means a much strongerAmerica.”
　　“Of course it does. And if that doesn’t work, point out the great number of American families that depend on itfor income.”
　　“A great many American families do depend on it for income.”
　　“You see?” said Yossarian. “You’re much better at it than I am. You almost make it sound true.”
　　“It is true,” Milo exclaimed with a strong trace of old hauteur.
　　“That’s what I mean. You do it with just the right amount of conviction.”
　　“You’re sure you won’t come with me?”
　　Yossarian shook his head.
　　Milo was impatient to get started. He stuffed the remainder of the chocolate-covered cotton ball into his shirtpocket and edged his way back gingerly along the branch to the smooth gray trunk. He threw this arms about thetrunk in a generous and awkward embrace and began shinnying down, the sides of his leather-soled shoesslipping constantly so that it seemed many times he would fall and injure himself. Halfway down, he changed hismind and climbed back up. Bits of tree bark stuck to his mustache, and his straining face was flushed withexertion.
　　“I wish you’d put your uniform on instead of going around naked that way,” he confided pensively before heclimbed back down again and hurried away. “You might start a trend, and then I’ll never get rid of all thisgoldarned cotton.”
 24、米洛
　　对米洛来说，四月一直是他最喜欢的一个月份。丁香花总在四月里盛开，结在藤蔓上的水果也在这时成熟。人的心跳会比以前加快，减弱了的胃口也会重新恢复起来。四月里，曾有一道色彩更为艳丽的彩虹在那只周身发光的鸽子的身上闪烁。四月是春天，而一到春天米洛•明德宾德的脑筋一下子就转到了柑橘上面。
　　“柑橘？”
　　“是的，长官。”
　　“我的士兵会喜欢柑橘的，”那位指挥驻扎撒丁岛的四个B26型飞机中队的上校承认说。
　　“他们吃多少都不成问题，只要你能从伙食费里弄到钱来付帐。”米洛向他保证。
　　“卡萨巴甜瓜弄得到吗？”
　　“在大马士革便宜极了。”
　　“我特别爱吃卡萨巴甜瓜。我一向都爱吃得不得了。”
　　“只要每个中队借给我一架飞机就成，各队只要出一架，那你想吃多少卡萨巴甜瓜就有多少，只要你付得起钱。”
　　“我们是从辛迪加联合体中购买吗？”
　　“人人都在联合体里有股份。”
　　“这真令人吃惊，简直太令人吃惊了。你是怎么办到的？”
　　“集团购买力能使得一切都大不一样。比如说，想来点裹了面包屑的炸小牛排也成。”
　　“我可不大爱吃裹了面包屑的炸小牛排，”那位驻扎科西嘉北部的B25型机群指挥官嘀嘀咕咕地说，他仍然心存疑虑。
　　“裹了面包屑的炸小牛排可是很有营养的噢。”米洛非常诚恳地忠告他。“它含有蛋黄和面包屑。小羊排也很有营养。”
　　“哈，小羊排！”这位B25指挥官立即作出响应。“是上好的小羊排吗？”
　　“是最好的，”米洛说，“黑市上卖的最好的。”
　　“是小羊羔的排骨？”
　　“是你从未见过的、穿着最漂亮的粉红色小纸尿裤的小羊羔。
　　在葡萄牙，这种小羊排卖得非常便宜。”
　　“我可不能派一架飞机去葡萄牙。我没这个权力。”
　　“只要你借飞机给我，我就能办到。再派一名飞行员驾驶就行了。别忘了——这能使你讨得德里德尔将军的欢心。”
　　“德里德尔将军会再来我们食堂吃饭？”
　　“会吃得像头猪似的，只要你用我的纯黄油煎上一些最新鲜的鸡蛋，然后拿给他吃，他就会这样。你还会有柑橘、卡萨巴甜瓜、白兰瓜、多佛的纯鳎鱼片、烘烤冰淇淋、鸟蛤和贻贝等。”
　　“人人都有份吗？”
　　米洛说：“这是整件事中最妙的部分。”
　　“这事我一点也不喜欢，”这位不肯合作的战斗机指挥官咆哮道，他也不喜欢米洛这个人。
　　“北边部队里有个战斗机指挥官不肯合作，他跟我过不去，”米洛对德里德尔将军抱怨道，“往往一个人就会把整个事给毁了，这一来你就再也吃不上用我的纯黄油煎出来的新鲜鸡蛋了。”
　　于是，德里德尔将军便把这位不肯合作的战斗机指挥官调到所罗门群岛去了，让他在那里挖坟墓，后来又换了一个患有滑囊炎的老头子上校来接替他。这老头特别爱吃荔枝，他又将米洛介绍给了驻扎在陆地上的一位指挥B17型机群的将军，此人尤其爱吃波兰香肠。
　　“在克拉科夫，用花生可以换到波兰香肠，”米洛告诉他说。
　　“啊，波兰香肠，”将军怀旧地感叹道，“要知道，只要能买到一大截波兰香肠，我什么都愿意拿出来。什么都愿意。”
　　“你什么都不必拿出来。只要给我一架飞机，每个食堂一架，外加一名叫干啥就干啥的驾驶员。还有，在第一次订货时，你得付上一小笔现金作为定金。”
　　“可是克拉科夫远在敌后几百英里，你怎么去那里弄香肠？”
　　“在日内瓦有一个波兰香肠国际交易市场。我只要将花生空运到瑞士，以市场上的公开价格将其换成波兰香肠。他们将把花生运到克拉科夫，我呢，则把波兰香肠运回来给你。你要多少波兰香肠，就可以通过辛迪加联合体买到多少。你还能买到柑橘，只不过上面稍微染了点人造颜色。还有马耳他的鸡蛋和西西里的苏格兰威士忌。当你通过辛迪加联合体买这些东西时，你等于是自己付钱给自己，因为你将在里面拥有一份股份。所以，你实际上是不花一个子儿就买到了所有的东西。这不是挺有意义吗？”
　　“你简直是个天才。你究竟是怎样想出这个主意来的？”
　　“我叫米洛•明德宾德，今年二十六岁。”
　　米洛•明德宾德的飞机从各处飞了回来，驱逐机、轰炸机，还有运输机接连不断地涌进卡思卡特上校的机场，开飞机的飞行员都是些叫干啥就干啥的人。这些飞机的机身上都装饰有各个飞行中队的象征图案，其色彩艳丽夺目。每一个图案都代表着一种值得称赞的理想，如勇敢、力量、正义、真理、自由、博爱、荣誉和爱国主义等等。飞机归米洛调遣后，机械师立即用乳白色的油漆刷了两遍，将这些图案涂掉，取而代之的是将事先刻好的标志用耀眼的紫色喷在飞机上。那标志是：M&M果蔬产品联合公司。在这个名称里，“M&M”代表米洛和明德宾德。米洛坦白地透露，之所以要将连接符号“＆”插在中间，是为了消除这样一个印象：这个辛迪加联合体实际上是在一个人的操纵下。在米洛的调遣下，一架架飞机分别从意大利、北非和英国的机场，以及设在利比里亚、阿森松岛、开罗，还有卡拉奇等地的空运指挥站飞来。那些驱逐机有些被拿来做了交易，以多换几架运输机，有些则留着用来应付紧急托运事宜和运送一些小包裹。他还从地面部队弄来了一些卡车和坦克，用它们来搞短途运输。凡参与的单位人人都有股份，个个吃得发福，两片油光光的嘴唇间整天叼着根牙签，懒洋洋地到处逛游。米洛独自掌管着所有的正在日益扩大的经营业务。由于他全神贯注地投入该项工作，一条条水獭皮似的褐色皱纹渐渐地爬满了他那张操劳过度的脸，永远也休想消除掉。这一来，他看上去既清醒理智，又满腹狐疑，整天不是为这，就是为那而头疼。除约塞连之外，人人都认为米洛是个笨蛋，一则是因为他主动要求去干事务长的工作，二则是因为他干这差事干得太卖力。约塞连也认为米洛是个笨蛋，但同时他也知道米洛是个天才。
　　有一天，米洛飞往英国去采购一批土耳其芝麻糖，然后领着四架德国飞机从马达加斯加飞了回来。那些德国飞机上装满了甘薯、甘蓝、芥菜和乔治亚黑斑豌豆等蔬菜。米洛从飞机上走了下来。他刚一踏上地面就呆住了，因为他发现有一小队宪兵正等在那里，准备俘获德国驾驶员，并还要没收他们的飞机。没收！仅仅这两个字就使他又气又恨。只见他暴跳如雷地来回走个不停，一根非难的手指犹如一柄利剑，在卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和那位统领着宪兵、脸上带有战场上留下的疤痕、手上端着冲锋枪的可怜上尉那三张满含愧疚的脸前舞个不休，嘴里还在不住地严辞痛斥着他们。
　　“这是在俄国吗？”米洛以怀疑的口吻声嘶力竭地斥责着他们。
　　“没收？”他尖叫着，好像不相信自己的耳朵似的。“美国政府从什么时候起开始执行没收私人财产的政策了？你们真不要脸！你们竟会生出这么一个可怕念头，一个个都不要脸极了。”
　　“可是，米洛，”丹比少校胆怯地打断了他，“我们毕竟是在同德国人打仗呀。这些可全都是德国飞机。”
　　“它们根本不是！”米洛愤怒地反驳道，“这些飞机都属于咱们的辛迪加联合体，大伙人人都有股份。没收？你们怎么能自己没收自己的私有财产？没收，亏你们想得出！我这一辈子还从来没有听说过这么卑鄙的事呢。”
　　米洛果然没说错，因为等他们再细看时，他的那些机械师早已将德国飞机机翼、机尾和机身上原有的“十”形纳粹符号用乳白色的油漆给涂掉了，而且还涂了两遍，然后又用模板在这些地方印上了“M＆M果蔬产品联合公司”的字样。就这样，米洛当着他们的面将他的辛迪加组织变成了一个国际性卡特尔。
　　如今，米洛的庞大的空中商船队充斥着整个天空。一架又一架的飞机源源不断地从各地涌来，从挪威、丹麦、法国、德国、奥地利、意大利、南斯拉夫、罗马尼亚、保加利亚、瑞典、芬兰、波兰等地方涌来。实际上，这些飞机欧洲的什么地方都去，唯独不去俄国，因为米洛拒绝同俄国做生意。当他找过的那些人都同“M＆M果蔬产品联合公司”签了约以后，米洛又创办了一个集体所有的附属公司，取名为“M&M花色糕点公司”。他又弄来了一些飞机，并从伙食费中拨出更多的公款来做这项生意。他经营的糕点有英伦三岛的烤饼和松饼，有哥本哈根的梅干和丹麦奶酪，还有从巴黎、尼姆斯和格勒诺布尔弄来的奶酪饼、奶油卷、奶油千层饼、花色小蛋糕，另有柏林的水果蛋糕、稞麦面包、姜汁面包、维也纳的杏仁果酱饼、巧克力饼和分别从匈牙利和安卡拉搞来的包馅卷饼和果仁蛋糕。每天早上米洛都要往欧洲和北非派遣飞机，飞机上拖着两条长长的红色广告标牌，上面用大大的方体字写着当天的特色商品：“注意：
　　有圆腿肉，七十九美分……鳍鱼，二十一美分。”他还将两条这样的牌子租给了佩特牛奶公司、盖恩斯狗食公司以及诺克泽默公司，大大提高了辛迪加联合体的现金收入。为了体现自己有愿意为公众服务的公民意识，他还常常在空中广告里留出一些位置，免费为佩克姆将军做公益宣传广告，如“要讲究整洁”，“欲速则不达”，还有“能同做祈祷的家庭是永不离散的家庭”。在柏林，阿克西斯•萨利和霍•霍爵士这两位大名鼎鼎的广播员每天都要主持宣传性的广播节目，而米洛居然花钱买到了这些节目前的广告插播权，以促进他的业务活动。就这样，他的生意在各前线战场都做得很红火。
　　米洛的飞机成了人们司空见惯的东西。它们享有在各处随便通行的自由。有一天米洛同美军当局签订了一份合同，由他负责去轰炸德军在奥尔维那托守卫的一座公路桥，同时又同德军当局签订了由他来守护该大桥的合同，用高射炮火来对付他自己策划的攻击。为美军轰炸桥梁，米洛可得到轰炸的全部成本费用外加百分之六的酬金，为德军守护大桥的协议款项也是如此，只不过还附加了一条，即他每击落一架美军飞机，德方将付给他一千美元奖金。
　　米洛强调指出，这些交易的圆满成功标志着私有企业的重大胜利，因为两国的军队都是社会化的团体。这两个合同一经签订，无论是炸桥还是守桥，似乎都无需让辛迪加联合体破费一文，因为双方的政府有的是现成的人力和物力来从事这些事情，更何况双方都非常情愿将其投入进去。结果，米洛通过他的双边谋划实现了巨额利润，而他所做的仅仅是签了两次名而已。
　　米洛的这个安排对双方都是很公平的。一方面，由于米洛有在各处随意通行的自由，因此他的飞机就可以悄悄潜入德军阵地进行偷袭，而不会惊动德军的高射炮火；而另一方面，由于米洛知道袭击行动，因此他有充分的时间向德军的高射炮手发出警告，待美军飞机一进入他们的炮火射程，就准确地向它们开火。除了约塞连帐篷里的那个死人以外，没有一个人不认为这是一个绝妙的策划。
　　当天，那家伙刚飞到目标上空就被击中，丧了命。
　　“我可没杀他！”米洛感情激动地一再重复着这句话，以此来回答约塞连那怒不可遏的非难。“告诉你，我那天根本没在场。你难道认为那天咱们的飞机飞来的时候，我就呆在那边的地面上朝它们开火？”
　　“但这整个事情都是你一手策划的，不是吗？”约塞连大叫着回敬他。此时他们正站在黑缎子般的黑暗之中，这黑暗同时也笼罩着那条穿过寂静的停车场直通露天影院的小路。
　　“我什么也没策划，”米洛气冲冲地回答说，一边激动地使劲吸气，将他那咝咝有声、毫无血色的鼻子挤成了一团。“不管有没有我的插手，德国人总归占着大桥，而我们则要去炸了它。我只不过发现了一个极好的机会，可以让我们从这一任务中捞到一把。这有什么大不了的？”
　　“有什么大不了的？米洛，躺在我帐篷里的那个人在这次任务中丢了命，而他连背包都没来得及打开呢。”
　　“可我又没杀他。”
　　“你为此而得到了一千美元的外快。”
　　“可他不是我杀的。我说过，我根本不在场。我当时在巴塞罗那，在那里购买橄榄油和去皮剔骨的沙丁鱼。我有定货单，它可以为我作证。我也没得到那一千美元。这一千美元都入了咱们联合体的帐，每个人都有份，连你也有，”米洛万般诚恳地向约塞连倾诉道，“瞧，约塞连，不管那个混帐的温特格林说过些什么，反正这场战争不是我发起的。我只不过是尽量以做买卖的方式来对待它。这难道有什么不对吗？要知道，用一架中型轰炸机另加上面的机组人员来换一千美元，这不能说是坏价钱。如果我能说服德国人，要他们每击落一架飞机就付给我一千美元，那我为什么不能拿这笔钱呢？”
　　“因为你在同敌人做交易，这就是全部理由。难道你就不明白，我们是在打仗？有人正在死亡。看在基督的分上，你朝你的周围看看吧！”
　　米洛已极不耐烦，但他仍克制着自己。“德国人并不是我们的敌人，他声明道，“哦，我知道你想说什么。不错，我们是在同他们打仗。不过德国人也是咱们辛迪加联合体里声誉很好的成员。作为我们的股东，我有责任保护他们的权利。也许是他们挑起了战争，也许他们的确杀了成千上万的人，可他们付起帐来却比我所知道的我们的一些盟国痛快得多。我得维护我同德国人订的合同的严肃性，你明白吗？你就不能从我的角度来看待这个问题？”
　　“不能！”约塞连厉声回绝道。
　　米洛被狠狠刺了一下，觉得感情受到了极大的伤害，他也并不想设法掩饰这一事实。那是一个闷热的月夜，空中到处飞有小虫、飞蛾和蚊子。米洛突然伸出一只胳臂，指向那边的露天影院，只见那里的放映机正在工作，平射出一道银白色的光芒，映得灰尘清晰可见，似一柄利剑，在黑暗中划出一道圆锥形的光痕，将一层薄膜似的荧光覆盖在观众的身上。那里的观众一个个都斜倚在椅子上，像受了催眠似地软瘫无力，大家的脸都朝上抬着，正对着那面白色银幕。此时，只见米洛的双眼里噙着泪水，显得无比真诚，脸上透着朴实和清白，并因渗出的亮晶晶的汗水和所搽的避蚊油而闪闪发光。
　　“你瞧瞧他们，”他大声说，因感情激动而有些透不过气来。“他们是我的朋友，我的同胞，我的战友。任何人都不会拥有比他们这么一群人更好的伙伴了。难道你认为我会做出一桩伤害他们的事情吗？除非是万不得已。我现在的烦心事还不够多吗？你没看见？
　　为了那些堆积在埃及各个码头上的大批棉花，我已经头疼死了。”
　　米洛的说话声音断断续续的，突然，他像个溺水者一样，一把抓住了约塞连的衬衣前襟。他的眼睛像一对褐色毛虫一样，醒目地眨动个不歇。“约塞连，我该拿这么些棉花怎么办呀？这都是你的错，让我买下这么多的棉花。”
　　那些棉花在埃及的码头上堆积如山，却没有一个买主。米洛从前做梦也没想到尼罗河流域的土地竟会这么肥沃，也没想到他买下的这批农作物会找不到市场。他的辛迪加联合体的各个食堂都帮不上他的忙。不仅如此，食堂成员还纷纷起来造反，毫不妥协地反对米洛要按人头硬性摊派给每人一份埃及棉花的建议。连他最忠实的朋友德国人在这次危机中也不肯帮他的忙。他们宁愿使用棉花的代用品。米洛的食堂甚至都不肯让他将棉花堆在那里。他只好租用仓库，其费用是直线上升，导致了他的现金储备彻底枯竭。从那次奥尔维那托战斗行动中所赚到的利润渐渐被耗光了。他开始不断写信回家去要钱，这些钱是他在生意兴隆的时候寄回去的，但不久这笔钱也几乎要用完了。仍有一包一包的棉花接连不断地被运到亚历山大港的码头。每次，只要米洛在国际市场上以亏本价脱手一批棉花，那些狡猾的埃及掮客就在地中海东部各地将其统统吃进，然后再以合同规定的原价卖给米洛。这一来，米洛就变得越来越穷了。
　　“M&M果蔬产品联合公司”眼看就要垮台。米洛无时无刻不在咒骂自己，恨自己大贪婪，太愚蠢，不该买下埃及的所有棉花。然而，不管怎么样合同就是合同，非得信守不行。于是，一天晚上，在吃了一顿丰盛的晚餐之后，米洛的所有战斗机和轰炸机一起起飞，在基地上空编好队形，随后便开始向自己的空军大队投起炸弹来了。原来米洛又同德国人弄了一个合同，这一次他得轰炸自己大队的全部装备和设施。米洛的飞机分成几路协同袭击，轰炸了机场的油料库、弹药库、修理库，还有停在棒糖形停机坪上的B25轰炸机。他的机组人员总算对起落跑道和各个食堂手下留了情，因为这样一来他们干完活之后便可以安全着陆，而且在上床睡觉之前还可以享用到一顿热气腾腾的快餐。他们轰炸时机上的着陆灯一直亮着，因为地面上根本没人向他们开火还击。他们轰炸了四个中队、军官俱乐部和大队的指挥大楼。官兵们纷纷逃出各自的帐篷，个个惊恐万状，都不知道往哪个方向逃窜是好。不一会，受伤者躺得到处都是，尖叫声不绝于耳。连续几颗杀伤弹在军官俱乐部的院子里爆炸开来，使得这座木头建筑的一侧墙壁上留下了累累弹痕，也弹穿了那排站在吧台前的中尉和上尉们的腹背。他们痛苦万状地先是弯曲了身子，然后倒了下去。剩下的那些军官都给吓得魂不附体，纷纷朝那两个出口处逃窜，但他们又不敢出去，于是只好全都鬼哭狼嚎着挤在门口，就像一道厚实的人肉堤坝。
　　卡思卡特上校又是爬又是挤，好不容易才从乱成一团、茫然失措的人群中钻出来，独自站在了门外。他瞪大双眼朝天上一看，不禁大惊失色。只见米洛的飞机像气球一样从容不迫地掠过花朵盛开的树梢，朝他们逼过来。机上的投弹舱的门敞开着，机翼上的风门片也向下垂着；那些巨大的着陆灯一直亮着，好似一对对暴眼，闪烁着强烈、炫目而又可怕的光芒。这番景象犹如一种神灵的启示，他以往从未目睹过。卡思卡特上校像被什么击中了一样，惊愕地叫了一声，接着便向前猛冲，几乎是呜咽着一头扑进自己的吉普车。他的脚找到了油门踏板和车子的发火装置，随后便以这辆摇摇摆摆的汽车所能达到的最快速度朝着机场疾驶而去。他那双松软无力的手因紧紧地握着方向盘而变得毫无血色。间或他还乱摁一阵子喇叭，似想故意折磨它一样。一次，他碰到了一群人，一个个只穿内衣，惊恐万状地低着脸，一边将瘦弱的胳臂当成不堪一击的盾牌紧紧抱着脑袋，一边疯了似的没命地朝小山上狂奔。为了避让这帮人，他来了一个急转弯，只听轮胎发出了一阵刺耳的尖叫声，差点没送掉他的小命。公路两旁，黄色、桔红色和红色的火焰在熊熊燃烧。帐篷和树木也在火中燃烧，而米洛的飞机还在不断地盘旋，不停地闪烁着的白色着陆灯仍旧亮着，投弹舱的门也还敞开着。吉普车开到机场指挥塔时，卡思卡特上校猛拉了一下刹车，车子几乎给弄翻掉。没
Chapter 25 The Chaplain
    It was already some time since the chaplain had first begun wondering what everything was all about. Was therea God? How could he be sure? Being an Anabaptist minister in the American Army was difficult enough underthe best of circumstances; without dogma, it was almost intolerable.
　　People with loud voices frightened him. Brave, aggressive men of action like Colonel Cathcart left him feelinghelpless and alone. Wherever he went in the Army, he was a stranger. Enlisted men and officers did not conductthemselves with him as they conducted themselves with other enlisted men and officers, and even otherchaplains were not as friendly toward him as they were toward each other. In a world in which success was theonly virtue, he had resigned himself to failure. He was painfully aware that he lacked the ecclesiastical aplomband savoir-faire that enabled so many of his colleagues in other faiths and sects to get ahead. He was just notequipped to excel. He thought of himself as ugly and wanted daily to be home with his wife.
　　Actually, the chaplain was almost good-looking, with a pleasant, sensitive face as pale and brittle as sandstone.
　　His mind was open on every subject.
　　Perhaps he really was Washington Irving, and perhaps he really had been signing Washington Irving’s name tothose letters he knew nothing about. Such lapses of memory were not uncommon in medical annals, he knew.
　　There was no way of really knowing anything. He remembered very distinctly—or was under the impression heremembered very distinctly—his feeling that he had met Yossarian somewhere before the first time he had metYossarian lying in bed in the hospital. He remembered experiencing the same disquieting sensation almost twoweeks later when Yossarian appeared at his tent to ask to be taken off combat duty. By that time, of course, thechaplain had met Yossarian somewhere before, in that odd, unorthodox ward in which every patient seemeddelinquent but the unfortunate patient covered from head to toe in white bandages and plaster who was founddead one day with a thermometer in his mouth. But the chaplain’s impression of a prior meeting was of someoccasion far more momentous and occult than that, of a significant encounter with Yossarian in some remote,submerged and perhaps even entirely spiritual epoch in which he had made the identical, foredooming admissionthat there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to help him.
　　Doubts of such kind gnawed at the chaplain’s lean, suffering frame insatiably. Was there a single true faith, or alife after death? How many angels could dance on the head of a pin, and with what matters did God occupyhimself in all the infinite aeons before the Creation? Why was it necessary to put a protective seal on the brow ofCain if there were no other people to protect him from? Did Adam and Eve produce daughters? These were thegreat, complex questions of ontology that tormented him. Yet they never seemed nearly as crucial to him as thequestion of kindness and good manners. He was pinched perspinngly in the epistemological dilemma of theskeptic, unable to accept solutions to problems he was unwilling to dismiss as unsolvable. He was never withoutmisery, and never without hope.
　　“Have you ever,” he inquired hesitantly of Yossarian that day in his tent as Yossarian sat holding in both handsthe warm bottle of Coca-Cola with which the chaplain had been able to solace him, “been in a situation whichyou felt you had been in before, even though you knew you were experiencing it for the first time?” Yossariannodded perfunctorily, and the chaplain’s breath quickened in anticipation as he made ready to join his will powerwith Yossarian’s in a prodigious effort to rip away at last the voluminous black folds shrouding the eternal mysteries of existence. “Do you have that feeling now?”
　　Yossarian shook his head and explained that déjà vu was just a momentary infinitesimal lag in the operation oftwo coactive sensory nerve centers that commonly functioned simultaneously. The chaplain scarcely heard him.
　　He was disappointed, but not inclined to believe Yossarian, for he had been given a sign, a secret, enigmaticvision that he still lacked the boldness to divulge. There was no mistaking the awesome implications of thechaplain’s revelation: it was either an insight of divine origin or a hallucination; he was either blessed or losinghis mind. Both prospects filled him with equal fear and depression. It was neither déjà vu, presque vu nor jamaisvu. It was possible that there were other vus of which he had never heard and that one of these other vus wouldexplain succinctly the bafing phenomenon of which he had been both a witness and a part; it was even possiblethat none of what he thought had taken place, really had taken place, that he was dealing with an aberration ofmemory rather than of perception, that he never really had thought he had seen, that his impression now that heonce had thought so was merely the illusion of an illusion, and that he was only now imagining that he had everonce imagined seeing a naked man sitting in a tree at the cemetery.
　　It was obvious to the chaplain now that he was not particularly well suited to his work, and he often speculatedwhether he might not be happier serving in some other branch of the service, as a private in the infantry or fieldartillery, perhaps, or even as a paratrooper. He had no real friends. Before meeting Yossarian, there was no onein the group with whom he felt at ease, and he was hardly at ease with Yossarian, whose frequent rash andinsubordinate outbursts kept him almost constantly on edge and in an ambiguous state of enjoyable trepidation.
　　The chaplain felt safe when he was at the officers’ club with Yossarian and Dunbar, and even with just Natelyand McWatt. When he sat with them he had no need to sit with anyone else; his problem of where to sit wassolved, and he was protected against the undesired company of all those fellow officers who invariablywelcomed him with excessive cordiality when he approached and waited uncomfortably for him to go away. Hemade so many people uneasy. Everyone was always very friendly toward him, and no one was ever very nice;everyone spoke to him, and no one ever said anything. Yossarian and Dunbar were much more relaxed, and thechaplain was hardly uncomfortable with them at all. They even defended him the night Colonel Cathcart tried tothrow him out of the officers’ club again, Yossarian rising truculently to intervene and Nately shouting out,“Yossarian!” to restrain him. Colonel Cathcart turned white as a sheet at the sound of Yossarian’s name, and, toeveryone’s amazement, retreated in horrified disorder until he bumped into General Dreedle, who elbowed himaway with annoyance and ordered him right back to order the chaplain to start coming into the officers’ clubevery night again.
　　The chaplain had almost as much trouble keeping track of his status at the officers’ club as he had rememberingat which of the ten mess halls in the group he was scheduled to eat his next meal. He would just as soon haveremained kicked out of the officers’ club, had it not been for the pleasure he was now finding there with his newcompanions. If the chaplain did not go to the officers’ club at night, there was no place else he could go. Hewould pass the time at Yossarian’s and Dunbar’s table with a shy, reticent smile, seldom speaking unlessaddressed, a glass of thick sweet wine almost untasted before him as he toyed unfamiliarly with the tiny corncobpipe that he affected selfconsciously and occasionally stuffed with tobacco and smoked. He enjoyed listening toNately, whose maudlin, bittersweet lamentations mirrored much of his own romantic desolation and never failedto evoke in him resurgent tides of longing for his wife and children. The chaplain would encourage Nately withnods of comprehension or assent, amused by his candor and immaturity. Nately did not glory too immodestly that his girl was a prostitute, and the chaplain’s awareness stemmed mainly from Captain Black, who neverslouched past their table without a broad wink at the chaplain and some tasteless, wounding gibe about her toNately. The chaplain did not approve of Captain Black and found it difficult not to wish him evil.
　　No one, not even Nately, seemed really to appreciate that he, Chaplain Robert Oliver Shipman, was not just achaplain but a human being, that he could have a charming, passionate, pretty wife whom he loved almostinsanely and three small blue-eyed children with strange, forgotten faces who would grow up someday to regardhim as a freak and who might never forgive him for all the social embarrassment his vocation would cause them.
　　Why couldn’t anybody understand that he was not really a freak but a normal, lonely adult trying to lead anormal, lonely adult life? If they pricked him, didn’t he bleed? And if he was tickled, didn’t he laugh? It seemednever to have occurred to them that he, just as they, had eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses and affections,that he was wounded by the same kind of weapons they were, warmed and cooled by the same breezes and fedby the same kind of food, although, he was forced to concede, in a different mess hall for each successive meal.
　　The only person who did seem to realize he had feelings was Corporal Whitcomb, who had just managed tobruise them all by going over his head to Colonel Cathcart with his proposal for sending form letters ofcondolence home to the families of men killed or wounded in combat.
　　The chaplain’s wife was the one thing in the world he could be certain of, and it would have been sufficient, ifonly he had been left to live his life out with just her and the children. The chaplain’s wife was a reserved,diminutive, agreeable woman in her early thirties, very dark and very attractive, with a narrow waist, calmintelligent eyes, and small, bright, pointy teeth in a childlike face that was vivacious and petite; he kept forgettingwhat his children looked like, and each time he returned to their snapshots it was like seeing their faces for thefirst time. The chaplain loved his wife and children with such tameless intensity that he often wanted to sink tothe ground helplessly and weep like a castaway cripple. He was tormented inexorably by morbid fantasiesinvolving them, by dire, hideous omens of illness and accident. His meditations were polluted with threats ofdread diseases like Ewing’s tumor and leukemia; he saw his infant son die two or three times every weekbecause he had never taught his wife how to stop arterial bleeding; watched, in tearful, paralyzed silence, hiswhole family electrocuted, one after the other, at a baseboard socket because he had never told her that a humanbody would conduct electricity; all four went up in flames almost every night when the water heater explodedand set the two-story wooden house afire; in ghastly, heartless, revolting detail he saw his poor dear wife’s trimand fragile body crushed to a viscous pulp against the brick wall of a market building by a half-wined drunkenautomobile driver and watched his hysterical five-year-old daughter being led away from the grisly scene by akindly middle-aged gentleman with snow-white hair who raped and murdered her repeatedly as soon as he haddriven her off to a deserted sandpit, while his two younger children starved to death slowly in the house after hiswife’s mother, who had been baby-sitting, dropped dead from a heart attack when news of his wife’s accidentwas given to her over the telephone. The chaplain’s wife was a sweet, soothing, considerate woman, and heyearned to touch the warm flesh of her slender arm again and stroke her smooth black hair, to hear her intimate,comforting voice. She was a much stronger person than he was. He wrote brief, untroubled letters to her once aweek, sometimes twice. He wanted to write urgent love letters to her all day long and crowd the endless pageswith desperate, uninhibited confessions of his humble worship and need and with careful instructions foradministering artificial respiration. He wanted to pour out to her in torrents of self-pity all his unbearableloneliness and despair and warn her never to leave the boric acid or the aspirin in reach of the children or to crossa street against the traffic light. He did not wish to worry her. The chaplain’s wife was intuitive, gentle, compassionate and responsive. Almost inevitably, his reveries of reunion with her ended in explicit acts of lovemaking.
　　The chaplain felt most deceitful presiding at funerals, and it would not have astonished him to learn that theapparition in the tree that day was a manifestation of the Almighty’s censure for the blasphemy and prideinherent in his function. To simulate gravity, feign grief and pretend supernatural intelligence of the hereafter inso fearsome and arcane a circumstance as death seemed the most criminal of offenses. He recalled—or wasalmost convinced he recalled—the scene at the cemetery perfectly. He could still see Major Major and MajorDanby standing somber as broken stone pillars on either side of him, see almost the exact number of enlistedmen and almost the exact places in which they had stood, see the four unmoving men with spades, the repulsivecoffin and the large, loose, triumphant mound of reddish-brown earth, and the massive, still, depthless, mufflingsky, so weirdly blank and blue that day it was almost poisonous. He would remember them forever, for theywere all part and parcel of the most extraordinary event that had ever befallen him, an event perhaps marvelous,perhaps pathological—the vision of the naked man in the tree. How could he explain it? It was not already seenor never seen, and certainly not almost seen; neither déjà vu, jamais vu nor presque vu was elastic enough tocover it. Was it a ghost, then? The dead man’s soul? An angel from heaven or a minion from hell? Or was thewhole fantastic episode merely the figment of a diseased imagination, his own, of a deteriorating mind, a rottingbrain? The possibility that there really had been a naked man in the tree—two men, actually, since the first hadbeen joined shortly by a second man clad in a brown mustache and sinister dark garments from head to toe whobent forward ritualistically along the limb of the tree to offer the first man something to drink from a browngoblet—never crossed the chaplain’s mind.
　　The chaplain was sincerely a very helpful person who was never able to help anyone, not even Yossarian whenhe finally decided to seize the bull by the horns and visit Major Major secretly to learn if, as Yossarian had said,the men in Colonel Cathcart’s group really were being forced to fly more combat missions than anyone else. Itwas a daring, impulsive move on which the chaplain decided after quarreling with Corporal Whitcomb again andwashing down with tepid canteen water his joyless lunch of Milky Way and Baby Ruth. He went to Major Majoron foot so that Corporal Whitcomb would not see him leaving, stealing into the forest noiselessly until the twotents in his clearing were left behind, then dropping down inside the abandoned railroad ditch, where the footingwas surer. He hurried along the fossilized wooden ties with accumulating mutinous anger. He had beenbrowbeaten and humiliated successively that morning by Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and CorporalWhitcomb. He just had to make himself felt in some respect! His slight chest was soon puffing for breath. Hemoved as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run, fearing his resolution might dissolve if he slowed.
　　Soon he saw a uniformed figure coming toward him between the rusted rails. He clambered immediately up theside of the ditch, ducked inside a dense copse of low trees for concealment and sped along in his originaldirection a narrow, overgrown mossy path he found winding deep inside the shaded forest. It was tougher goingthere, but he plunged ahead with the same reckless and consuming determination, slipping and stumbling oftenand stinging his unprotected hands on the stubborn branches blocking his way until the bushes and tall ferns onboth sides spread open and he lurched past an olive-drab military trailer on cinder blocks clearly visible throughthe thinning underbrush. He continued past a tent with a luminous pearl-gray cat sunning itself outside and pastanother trailer on cinder blocks and then burst into the clearing of Yossarian’s squadron. A salty dew had formedon his lips. He did not pause, but strode directly across the clearing into the orderly room, where he waswelcomed by a gaunt, stoop-shouldered staff sergeant with prominent cheekbones and long, very light blond hair, who informed him graciously that he could go right in, since Major Major was out.
　　The chaplain thanked him with a curt nod and proceeded alone down the aisle between the desks and typewritersto the canvas partition in the rear. He bobbed through the triangular opening and found himself inside an emptyoffice. The flap fell closed behind him. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely. The office remainedempty. He thought he heard furtive whispering. Ten minutes passed. He looked about in stern displeasure, hisjaws clamped together indomitably, and then turned suddenly to water as he remembered the staff sergeant’sexact words: he could go right in, since Major Major was out. The enlisted men were playing a practical joke!
　　The chaplain shrank back from the wall in terror, bitter tears springing to his eyes. A pleading whimper escapedhis trembling lips. Major Major was elsewhere, and the enlisted men in the other room had made him the butt ofan inhuman prank. He could almost see them waiting on the other side of the canvas wall, bunched upexpectantly like a pack of greedy, gloating omnivorous beasts of prey, ready with their barbaric mirth and jeersto pounce on him brutally the moment he reappeared. He cursed himself for his gullibility and wished in panicfor something like a mask or a pair of dark glasses and a false mustache to disguise him, or for a forceful, deepvoice like Colonel Cathcart’s and broad, muscular shoulders and biceps to enable him to step outside fearlesslyand vanquish his malevolent persecutors with an overbearing authority and self-confidence that would makethem all quail and slink away cravenly in repentance. He lacked the courage to face them. The only other wayout was the window. The coast was clear, and the chaplain jumped out of Major Major’s office through thewindow, darted swiftly around the corner of the tent, and leaped down inside the railroad ditch to hide.
　　He scooted away with his body doubled over and his face contorted intentionally into a nonchalant, sociablesmile in case anyone chanced to see him. He abandoned the ditch for the forest the moment he saw someonecoming toward him from the opposite direction and ran through the cluttered forest frenziedly like someonepursued, his cheeks burning with disgrace. He heard loud, wild peals of derisive laughter crashing all about himand caught blurred glimpses of wicked, beery faces smirking far back inside the bushes and high overhead in thefoliage of the trees. Spasms of scorching pains stabbed through his lungs and slowed him to a crippled walk. Helunged and staggered onward until he could go no farther and collapsed all at once against a gnarled apple tree,banging his head hard against the trunk as he toppled forward and holding on with both arms to keep fromfalling. His breathing was a rasping, moaning din in his ears. Minutes passed like hours before he finallyrecognized himself as the source of the turbulent roar that was overwhelming him. The pains in his chest abated.
　　Soon he felt strong enough to stand. He cocked his ears craftily. The forest was quiet. There was no demoniclaughter, no one was chasing him. He was too tired and sad and dirty to feel relieved. He straightened hisdisheveled clothing with fingers that were numb and shaking and walked the rest of the way to the clearing withrigid self-control. The chaplain brooded often about the danger of heart attack.
　　Corporal Whitcomb’s jeep was still parked in the clearing. The chaplain tiptoed stealthily around the back ofCorporal Whitcomb’s tent rather than pass the entrance and risk being seen and insulted by him. Heaving agrateful sigh, he slipped quickly inside his own tent and found Corporal Whitcomb ensconced on his cot, hisknees propped up. Corporal Whitcomb’s mud-caked shoes were on the chaplain’s blanket, and he was eating oneof the chaplain’s candy bars as he thumbed with sneering expression through one of the chaplain’s Bibles.
　　“Where’ve you been?” he demanded rudely and disinterestedly, without looking up.
　　The chaplain colored and turned away evasively. “I went for a walk through the woods.”
　　“All right,” Corporal Whitcomb snapped. “Don’t take me into your confidence. But just wait and see whathappens to my morale.” He bit into the chaplain’s candy bar hungrily and continued with a full mouth. “You hada visitor while you were gone. Major Major.”
　　The chaplain spun around with surprise and cried: “Major Major? Major Major was here?”
　　“That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?”
　　“Where did he go?”
　　“He jumped down into that railroad ditch and took off like a frightened rabbit.” Corporal Whitcomb snickered.
　　“What a jerk!”
　　“Did he say what he wanted?”
　　“He said he needed your help in a matter of great importance.”
　　The chaplain was astounded. “Major Major said that?”
　　“He didn’t say that,” Corporal Whitcomb corrected with withering precision. “He wrote it down in a sealedpersonal letter he left on your desk.”
　　The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable orange-red pear-shaped plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where hehad forgotten it like an indestructible and incamadine symbol of his own ineptitude. “Where is the letter?”
　　“I threw it away as soon as I tore it open and read it.” Corporal Whitcomb slammed the Bible shut and jumpedup. “What’s the matter? Won’t you take my word for it?” He walked out. He walked right back in and almostcollided with the chaplain, who was rushing out behind him on his way back to Major Major. “You don’t knowhow to delegate responsibility,” Corporal Whitcomb informed him sullenly. “That’s another one of the thingsthat’s wrong with you.”
　　The chaplain nodded penitently and hurried past, unable to make himself take the time to apologize. He couldfeel the skillful hand of fate motivating him imperatively. Twice that day already, he realized now, Major Majorhad come racing toward him inside the ditch; and twice that day the chaplain had stupidly postponed the destinedmeeting by bolting into the forest. He seethed with self-recrimination as he hastened back as rapidly as he couldstride along the splintered, irregularly spaced railroad ties. Bits of grit and gravel inside his shoes and socks weregrinding the tops of his toes raw. His pale, laboring face was screwed up unconsciously into a grimace of acutediscomfort. The early August afternoon was growing hotter and more humid. It was almost a mile from his tentto Yossarian’s squadron. The chaplain’s summer-tan shirt was soaking with perspiration by the time he arrivedthere and rushed breathlessly back inside the orderly room tent, where he was halted peremptorily by the same treacherous, soft-spoken staff sergeant with round eyeglasses and gaunt cheeks, who requested him to remainoutside because Major Major was inside and told him he would not be allowed inside until Major Major wentout. The chaplain looked at him in an uncomprehending daze. Why did the sergeant hate him? he wondered. Hislips were white and trembling. He was aching with thirst. What was the matter with people? Wasn’t theretragedy enough? The sergeant put his hand out and held the chaplain steady.
　　“I’m sorry, sir,” he said regretfully in a low, courteous, melancholy voice. “But those are Major Major’s orders.
　　He never wants to see anyone.”
　　“He wants to see me,” the chaplain pleaded. “He came to my tent to see me while I was here before.”
　　“Major Major did that?” the sergeant asked.
　　“Yes, he did. Please go in and ask him.”
　　“I’m afraid I can’t go in, sir. He never wants to see me either. Perhaps if you left a note.”
　　“I don’t want to leave a note. Doesn’t he ever make an exception?”
　　“Only in extreme circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one of the enlistedmen. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarianforced—““Yossarian?” The chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another miracle in themaking? “But that’s exactly whom I want to speak to him about! Did they talk about the number of missionsYossarian has to fly?”
　　“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one missions, and heappealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn’t have to fly four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted onlyfifty-five missions then.”
　　“And what did Major Major say?”
　　“Major Major told him there was nothing he could do.”
　　The chaplain’s face fell. “Major Major said that?”
　　“Yes, sir. In fact, he advised Yossarian to go see you for help. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to leave a note,sir? I have a pencil and paper right here.”
　　The chaplain shook his head, chewing his clotted dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was still so early inthe day, and so much had already happened. The air was cooler in the forest. His throat was parched and sore. Hewalked slowly and asked himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before the mad hermit in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a mulberry bush. The chaplainscreamed at the top of his voice.
　　The tall, cadaverous stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain’s cry and shrieked, “Don’t hurt me!”
　　“Who are you?” the chaplain shouted.
　　“Please don’t hurt me!” the man shouted back.
　　“I’m the chaplain!”
　　“Then why do you want to hurt me?”
　　“I don’t want to hurt you!” the chaplain insisted with a rising hint of exasperation, even though he was stillrooted to the spot. “Just tell me who you are and what you want from me.”
　　“I just want to find out if Chief White Halfoat died of pneumonia yet,” the man shouted back. “That’s all I want.
　　I live here. My name is Flume. I belong to the squadron, but I live here in the woods. You can ask anyone.”
　　The chaplain’s composure began trickling back as he studied the queer, cringing figure intently. A pair ofcaptain’s bars ulcerated with rust hung on the man’s ragged shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole on theunderside of one nostril and a heavy rough mustache the color of poplar bark.
　　“Why do you live in the woods if you belong to the squadron?” the chaplain inquired curiously.
　　“I have to live in the woods,” the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought to know. He straightenedslowly, still watching the chaplain guardedly although he towered above him by more than a full head.
　　“Don’t you hear everybody talking about me? Chief White Halfoat swore he was going to cut my throat somenight when I was fast asleep, and I don’t dare lie down in the squadron while he’s still alive.”
　　The chaplain listened to the implausible explanation distrustfully. “But that’s incredible,” he replied. “Thatwould be premeditated murder. Why didn’t you report the incident to Major Major?”
　　“I did report the incident to Major Major,” said the captain sadly, “and Major Major said he would cut my throatif I ever spoke to him again.” The man studied the chaplain fearfully. “Are you going to cut my throat, too?”
　　“Oh, no, no, no,” the chaplain assured him. “Of course not. Do you really live in the forest?”
　　The captain nodded, and the chaplain gazed at his porous gray pallor of fatigue and malnutrition with a mixtureof pity and esteem. The man’s body was a bony shell inside rumpled clothing that hung on him like a disorderlycollection of sacks. Wisps of dried grass were glued all over him; he needed a haircut badly. There were great,dark circles under his eyes. The chaplain was moved almost to tears by the harassed, bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with deference and compassion at the thought of the many severe rigors the poorman had to endure daily. In a voice hushed with humility, he said,“Who does your laundry?”
　　The captain pursed his lips in a businesslike manner. “I have it done by a washerwoman in one of the farmhousesdown the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak inside once or twice a day for a clean handkerchief or achange of underwear.”
　　“What will you do when winter comes?”
　　“Oh, I expect to be back in the squadron by then,” the captain answered with a kind of martyred confidence.
　　“Chief White Halfoat kept promising everyone that he was going to die of pneumonia, and I guess I’ll have to bepatient until the weather turns a little colder and damper.” He scrutinized the chaplain perplexedly. “Don’t youknow all this? Don’t you hear all the fellows talking about me?”
　　“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone mention you.”
　　“Well, I certainly can’t understand that.” The captain was piqued, but managed to carry on with a pretense ofoptimism. “Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess it won’t be too long now. The next time any ofthe boys ask about me, why, just tell them I’ll be back grinding out those old publicity releases again as soon asChief White Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I’ll be back in the squadron as soon aswinter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Okay?”
　　The chaplain memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric import. “Do you liveon berries, herbs and roots?” he asked.
　　“No, of course not,” the captain replied with surprise. “I sneak into the mess hall through the back and eat in thekitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.”
　　“What do you do when it rains?”
　　The captain answered frankly. “I get wet.”
　　“Where do you sleep?”
　　Swiftly the captain ducked down into a crouch and began backing away. “You too?” he cried frantically.
　　“Oh, no,” cried the chaplain. “I swear to you.”
　　“You do want to cut my throat!” the captain insisted.
　　“I give my word,” the chaplain pleaded, but it was too late, for the homely hirsute specter had already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled, fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows thatthe chaplain was already doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous events were occurring that hewas no longer positive which events were monstrous and which were really taking place. He wanted to find outabout the madman in the woods as quickly as possible, to check if there ever really had been a Captain Flume,but his first chore, he recalled with reluctance, was to appease Corporal Whitcomb for neglecting to delegateenough responsibility to him. He plodded along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly, clogged withthirst and feeling almost too exhausted to go on. He was remorseful when he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. Heprayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he reached the clearing so that he could undress withoutembarrassment, wash his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and perhapseven sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and still another shock, for CorporalWhitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain’schair sewing his new sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain’s needle and thread. Corporal Whitcombhad been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.
　　“Oh, no,” groaned the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm canteen was empty, and hewas too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade between the two tents. “I can’t believeit. I just can’t believe that anyone would seriously believe that I’ve been forging Washington Irving’s name.”
　　“Not those letters,” Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain’s chagrin. “He wants to see youabout the letters home to the families of casualties.”
　　“Those letters?” asked the chaplain with surprise.
　　“That’s right,” Corporal Whitcomb gloated. “He’s really going to chew you out for refusing to let me send them.
　　You should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded him the letters could carry his signature. That’s whyhe promoted me. He’s absolutely sure they’ll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.”
　　The chaplain’s befuddlement increased. “But how did he know we were even considering the idea?”
　　“I went to his office and told him.”
　　“You did what?” the chaplain demanded shrilly, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar rage. “Do you mean tosay that you actually went over my head to the colonel without asking my permission?”
　　Corporal Whitcomb grinned brazenly with scornful satisfaction. “That’s right, Chaplain,” he answered. “Andyou better not try to do anything about it if you know what’s good for you.” He laughed quietly in maliciousdefiance. “Colonel Cathcart isn’t going to like it if he finds out you’re getting even with me for bringing him myidea. You know something, Chaplain?” Corporal Whitcomb continued, biting the chaplain’s black thread apartcontemptuously with a loud snap and buttoning on his shirt. “That dumb bastard really thinks it’s one of thegreatest ideas he’s ever heard.”
　　“It might even get me into The Saturday Evening Post,” Colonel Cathcart boasted in his office with a smile,swaggering back and forth convivially as he reproached the chaplain. “And you didn’t have brains enough to appreciate it. You’ve got a good man in Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain. I hope you have brains enough toappreciate that.”
　　“Sergeant Whitcomb,” the chaplain corrected, before he could control himself.
　　Colonel Cathcart Oared. “I said Sergeant Whitcomb,” he replied. “I wish you’d try listening once in a whileinstead of always finding fault. You don’t want to be a captain all your life, do you?”
　　“Sir?”
　　“Well, I certainly don’t see how you’re ever going to amount to anything else if you keep on this way. CorporalWhitcomb feels that you fellows haven’t had a fresh idea in nineteen hundred and forty-four years, and I’minclined to agree with him. A bright boy, that Corporal Whitcomb. Well, it’s all going to change.” ColonelCathcart sat down at his desk with a determined air and cleared a large neat space in his blotter. When he hadfinished, he tapped his finger inside it. “Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I want you and Corporal Whitcomb towrite a letter of condolence for me to the next of kin of every man in the group who’s killed, wounded or takenprisoner. I want those letters to be sincere letters. I want them filled up with lots of personal details so there’ll beno doubt I mean every word you say. Is that clear?”
　　The chaplain stepped forward impulsively to remonstrate. “But, sir, that’s impossible!” he blurted out. “We don’teven know all the men that well.”
　　“What difference does that make?” Colonel Cathcart demanded, and then smiled amicably. “Corporal Whitcombbrought me this basic form letter that takes care of just about every situation. Listen: ‘Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, orMr. and Mrs.: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father orbrother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action.’ And so on. I think that opening sentence sums up mysentiments exactly. Listen, maybe you’d better let Corporal Whitcomb take charge of the whole thing if youdon’t feel up to it.” Colonel Cathcart whipped out his cigarette holder and flexed it between both hands like anonyx and ivory riding crop. “That’s one of the things that’s wrong with you, Chaplain. Corporal Whitcomb tellsme you don’t know how to delegate responsibility. He says you’ve got no initiative either. You’re not going todisagree with me, are you?”
　　“No, sir.” The chaplain shook his head, feeling despicably remiss because he did not know how to delegateresponsibility and had no initiative, and because he really had been tempted to disagree with the colonel. Hismind was a shambles. They were shooting skeet outside, and every time a gun was fired his senses were jarred.
　　He could not adjust to the sound of the shots. He was surrounded by bushels of plum tomatoes and was almostconvinced that he had stood in Colonel Cathcart’s office on some similar occasion deep in the past and had beensurrounded by those same bushels of those same plum tomatoes. Déjà vu again. The setting seemed so familiar;yet it also seemed so distant. His clothes felt grimy and old, and he was deathly afraid he smelled.
　　“You take things too seriously, Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart told him bluntly with an air of adult objectivity.
　　“That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you. That long face of yours gets everybody depressed. Letme see you laugh once in a while. Come on, Chaplain. You give me a belly laugh now and I’ll give you a whole bushel of plum tomatoes.” He waited a second or two, watching, and then chortled victoriously. “You see,Chaplain, I’m right. You can’t give me a belly laugh, can you?”
　　“No, sir,” admitted the chaplain meekly, swallowing slowly with a visible effort. “Not right now. I’m verythirsty.”
　　“Then get yourself a drink. Colonel Korn keeps some bourbon in his desk. You ought to try dropping around theofficers’ club with us some evening just to have yourself a little fun. Try getting lit once in a while. I hope youdon’t feel you’re better than the rest of us just because you’re a professional man.”
　　“Oh, no, sir,” the chaplain assured him with embarrassment. “As a matter of fact, I have been going to theofficers’ club the past few evenings.”
　　“You’re only a captain, you know,” Colonel Cathcart continued, paying no attention to the chaplain’s remark.
　　“You may be a professional man, but you’re still only a captain.”
　　“Yes, sir. I know.”
　　“That’s fine, then. It’s just as well you didn’t laugh before. I wouldn’t have given you the plum tomatoesanyway. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you took a plum tomato when you were in here this morning.”
　　“This morning? But, sir! You gave it to me.”
　　Colonel Cathcart cocked his head with suspicion. “I didn’t say I didn’t give it to you, did I? I merely said youtook it. I don’t see why you’ve got such a guilty conscience if you really didn’t steal it. Did I give it to you?”
　　“Yes, sir. I swear you did.”
　　“Then I’ll just have to take your word for it. Although I can’t imagine why I’d want to give you a plum tomato.”
　　Colonel Cathcart transferred a round glass paperweight competently from the right edge of his desk to the leftedge and picked up a sharpened pencil. “Okay. Chaplain, I’ve got a lot of important work to do now if you’rethrough. You let me know when Corporal Whitcomb has sent out about a dozen of those letters and we’ll get intouch with the editors of The Saturday Evening Post.” A sudden inspiration made his face brighten. “Say! I thinkI’ll volunteer the group for Avignon again. That should speed things up!”
　　“For Avignon?” The chaplain’s heart missed a beat, and all his flesh began to prickle and creep.
　　“That’s right,” the colonel explained exuberantly. “The sooner we get some casualties, the sooner we can makesome progress on this. I’d like to get in the Christmas issue if we can. I imagine the circulation is higher then.”
　　And to the chaplain’s horror, the colonel lifted the phone to volunteer the group for Avignon and tried to kickhim out of the officers’ club again that very same night a moment before Yossarian rose up drunkenly, knockingover his chair, to start an avenging punch that made Nately call out his name and made Colonel Cathcart blanch and retreat prudently smack into General Dreedle, who shoved him off his bruised foot disgustedly and orderhim forward to kick the chaplain right back into the officers’ club. It was all very upsetting to Colonel Cathcart,first the dreaded name Yossarian! tolling out again clearly like a warning of doom and then General Dreedle’sbruised foot, and that was another fault Colonel Cathcart found in the chaplain, the fact that it was impossible topredict how General Dreedle would react each time he saw him. Colonel Cathcart would never forget the firstevening General Dreedle took notice of the chaplain in the officers’ club, lifting his ruddy, sweltering,intoxicated face to stare ponderously through the yellow pall of cigarette smoke at the chaplain lurking near thewall by himself.
　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” General Dreedle had exclaimed hoarsely, his shaggy gray menacing eyebrows beetling inrecognition. “Is that a chaplain I see over there? That’s really a fine thing when a man of God begins hangingaround a place like this with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.”
　　Colonel Cathcart compressed his lips primly and started to rise. “I couldn’t agree with you more, sir,” heassented briskly in a tone of ostentatious disapproval. “I just don’t know what’s happening to the clergy thesedays.”
　　“They’re getting better, that’s what’s happening to them,” General Dreedle growled emphatically.
　　Colonel Cathcart gulped awkwardly and made a nimble recovery. “Yes, sir. They are getting better. That’sexactly what I had in mind, sir.”
　　“This is just the place for a chaplain to be, mingling with the men while they’re out drinking and gambling so hecan get to understand them and win their confidence. How the hell else is he ever going to get them to believe inGod?”
　　“That’s exactly what I had in mind, sir, when I ordered him to come here,” Colonel Cathcart said carefully, andthrew his arm familiarly around the chaplain’s shoulders as he walked him off into a corner to order him in acold undertone to start reporting for duty at the officers’ club every evening to mingle with the men while theywere drinking and gambling so that he could get to understand them and win their confidence.
　　The chaplain agreed and did report for duty to the officers’ club every night to mingle with men who wanted toavoid him, until the evening the vicious fist fight broke out at the ping-pong table and Chief White Halfoatwhirled without provocation and punched Colonel Moodus squarely in the nose, knocking Colonel Moodusdown on the seat of his pants and making General Dreedle roar with lusty, unexpected laughter until he spied thechaplain standing close by gawking at him grotesquely in tortured wonder. General Dreedle froze at the sight ofhim. He glowered at the chaplain with swollen fury for a moment, his good humor gone, and turned back towardthe bar disgruntedly, rolling from side to side like a sailor on his short bandy legs. Colonel Cathcart canteredfearfully along behind, glancing anxiously about in vain for some sign of help from Colonel Korn.
　　“That’s a fine thing,” General Dreedle growled at the bar, gripping his empty shot glass in his burly hand.
　　“That’s really a fine thing, when a man of God begins hanging around a place like this with a bunch of dirtydrunks and gamblers.”
　　Colonel Cathcart sighed with relief. “Yes, sir,” he exclaimed proudly. “It certainly is a fine thing.”
　　“Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?”
　　“Sir?” Colonel Cathcart inquired, blinking.
　　“Do you think it does you credit to have your chaplain hanging around here every night? He’s in here everygoddam time I come.”
　　“You’re right, sir, absolutely right,” Colonel Cathcart responded. “It does me no credit at all. And I am going todo something about it, this very minute.”
　　“Aren’t you the one who ordered him to come here?”
　　“No, sir, that was Colonel Korn. I intend to punish him severely, too.”
　　“If he wasn’t a chaplain,” General Dreedle muttered, “I’d have him taken outside and shot.”
　　“He’s not a chaplain, sir.” Colonel Cathcart advised helpfully.
　　“Isn’t he? Then why the hell does he wear that cross on his collar if he’s not a chaplain?”
　　“He doesn’t wear a cross on his collar, sir. He wears a silver leaf. He’s a lieutenant colonel.”
　　“You’ve got a chaplain who’s a lieutenant colonel?” inquired General Dreedle with amazement.
　　“Oh, no, sir. My chaplain is only a captain.”
　　“Then why the hell does he wear a silver leaf on his collar if he’s only a captain?”
　　“He doesn’t wear a silver leaf on his collar, sir. He wears a cross.”
　　“Go away from me now, you son of a bitch,” said General Dreedle. “Or I’ll have you taken outside and shot!”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　Colonel Cathcart went away from General Dreedle with a gulp and kicked the chaplain out of the officers’ club,and it was exactly the way it almost was two months later after the chaplain had tried to persuade ColonelCathcart to rescind his order increasing the number of missions to sixty and had failed abysmally in thatendeavor too, and the chaplain was ready now to capitulate to despair entirely but was restrained by the memoryof his wife, whom he loved and missed so pathetically with such sensual and exalted ardor, and by the lifelongtrust he had placed in the wisdom and justice of an immortal, omnipotent, omniscient, humane, universal, anthropomorphic, English-speaking, Anglo-Saxon, pro-American God, which had begun to waver. So manythings were testing his faith. There was the Bible, of course, but the Bible was a book, and so were Bleak House,Treasure Island, Ethan Frome and The Last of the Mohicans. Did it then seem probable, as he had onceoverheard Dunbar ask, that the answers to the riddles of creation would be supplied by people too ignorant tounderstand the mechanics of rainfall? Had Almighty God, in all His infinite wisdom, really been afraid that mensix thousand years ago would succeed in building a tower to heaven? Where the devil was heaven? Was it up?
　　Down? There was no up or down in a finite but expanding universe in which even the vast, burning, dazzling,majestic sun was in a state of progressive decay that would eventually destroy the earth too. There were nomiracles; prayers went unanswered, and misfortune tramped with equal brutality on the virtuous and the corrupt;and the chaplain, who had conscience and character, would have yielded to reason and relinquished his belief inthe God of his fathers—would truly have resigned both his calling and his commission and taken his chances as aprivate in the infantry or field artillery, or even, perhaps, as a corporal in the paratroopers—had it not been forsuch successive mystic phenomena as the naked man in the tree at that poor sergeant’s funeral weeks before andthe cryptic, haunting, encouraging promise of the prophet Flume in the forest only that afternoon: “Tell them I’llbe back when winter comes.”
 25、随军牧师
　　很久以前随军牧师便开始在心里起了疑惑，世间的一切究竟是怎么回事？到底有没有上帝，他怎么能肯定呢，身为美国军队中的一名浸礼教牧师，即便在最顺利的情况下，处境就够艰难的了；若再没了信仰，那境况就几乎无法容忍了。
　　那些大嗓门的人总让他感到害怕。像卡思卡特上校那样无所畏惧、敢做敢为的人总让他感到自己孤立无助，形单影只。在军中，无论他走到哪里，他总像个局外人似的。官兵们在在他面前总不及在别的官兵面前那么自在；连其他的牧师对他也不如他们彼此之间那么友好。在一个以成功为唯一美德的世界里，他自认自己是个失败者。一名教士应当镇定自若，且能随机应变。他痛苦地认识到，自己缺乏教士应具备的这种基本素质，而其他教派的那些同僚就因为具有这两点而干得相当出色。他生就没有胜过别人的本领。他认为自己丑陋不堪，没有一天不想立即回家去与妻子团聚。
　　其实，牧师的长相几乎是英俊的。他有一张讨人喜爱而又显得十分敏感的脸，像沙岩一样苍白、脆弱。他的思想相当开放。
　　也许，他真的是华盛顿•欧文。也许在一些信件上他一直都签的是华盛顿•欧文的姓名，尽管对此他一无所知。他知道，在医学史上，这种记忆错误是很常见的。他也明白，要想真正将什么事情都弄清楚是办不到的，甚至连为什么办不到也是无法知晓的。他清楚地记得——或者说他有印象清楚地记得——他见到约塞连时的那种感觉；他觉得在他第一次看到约塞连躺在医院里的病床上之前，就已经在什么地方见过他。他记得，大约两周以后当约塞连再次出现在他的帐篷，要求免除他的战斗任务时，他产生了同样的不安的感觉。当然，在此之前牧师已的确在什么地方见过他，就是在那间临时的、非正规的病房里。那个病房里的每个病人看上去都为怠工而来，只有一名不幸的病人除外。那人浑身上下敷着石膏，绑着绷带。一天人们发现他就这么死了，嘴里还含着温度计。但是在牧师的印象中，在此之前他就在某个更为重大、更为神秘的场合见过约塞连。那次有意义的会面是在某个遥远的、为时间的烟尘所淹没的、甚至是在纯属超现实的时代里发生的；而那次，他也曾同样命中注定地承认：他没有办法，没有任何办法可帮助约塞连。
　　这样的疑虑一刻不停地折磨着牧师那瘦削、多病的躯体。世上有没有哪怕是一种真正的信仰，或者人死后究竟有没有灵魂？有多少天使能够在一根大头针的针尖上跳舞？上帝在创造万物之前的那段漫长岁月里究竟在忙活些啥？如果没有其他的什么人需要防范，那有何必要在该隐的前额打上个保护的印记呢？亚当和夏娃真的生过女儿吗？这些就是一直不断地折磨着他的重大而又复杂的本体论问题，然而，在他看来，这些问题从来就不及善良和礼貌等问题来得重要。那些怀疑论者在认识论方面进退维谷的困境让他急得冒汗，他不能接受对一些问题的解释，可又不情愿将问题视为无法解释而不予理会。他从来都是处在痛苦之中，可又一直心怀希望。
　　那天约塞连坐在他的帐篷里，手里捧着一瓶热乎乎的可口可乐。这可乐是牧师为了安慰他才给他的。牧师犹豫不决地问道：
　　“你有没有过这样的感觉：你明明知道你是第一次碰到某一情形，但你却感到你过去好像经历过它？”约塞连敷衍地点了点头。牧师的呼吸由于急切的期待而变得急促起来，因为他准备让自己的意志与约塞连的联合起来，同心协力，最终揭开像巨大的黑幕一样笼罩在人类生存之上的永恒奥秘。
　　约塞连摇了摇头，接着解释说，所谓dejavu不过是两根共同活动的感觉神经中枢——他们通常是同时起作用的——在瞬间产生的极细微的时间差。他的话牧师几乎没听进去。他感到很失望，但他不愿相信约塞连的话，因为他曾得到过一个征兆，一个秘密而又不可思议的幻觉，那就是约塞连仍然缺乏勇气，不敢将真话说出来。无疑，在牧师所揭示的事情中有着令人敬畏的含义，这就是：它要么是一种神赐的顿悟，要么是一种幻觉；他本人不是得到了神灵的垂青就是丧失了理智。这两种可能使他内心充满了同样的恐惧和沮丧。这既不是dejavu，也不是presquevu或jamaisvu。很可能还有他从未听说过的其他幻觉，其中之一可以简单明了地解释他亲眼看见并亲身经历过的令人困惑的种种现象。也有这些可能：
　　可能他以往以为会发生的事情压根就没发生过；可能他患了记忆方面而不是感觉方面的毛病；可能他从来也没真正认为他亲眼见过现在他自认为过去一度曾以为自己见过的东西；可能对于他曾一度以为是的东西，他现在的印象只不过是幻党中的幻觉；可能他只是想象自己曾经在想象中看见过一个赤身裸体的男人坐在公墓里的一棵树上。
　　显然，牧师现在已意识到自己并不特别适合干目前的这份工作。他常常考虑，如果他到部队的某一其他部门去服役，比如说去步兵或野战炮兵部队当一名列兵，或者甚至去当一名伞兵，是不是会比现在开心点。他没有真正的朋友。在没遇到约塞连之前，在飞行大队的任何一个人面前他都会感到不自在，即使同约塞连相处，他也感到局促不安。约塞连常常表现得十分粗鲁，并不时爆发出一些反抗行为，这常使得他感到紧张不安，并伴有一种说不出来的心情，既开心又惶恐。当牧师同约塞连和邓巴一起呆在军官俱乐部里，甚至同内特利和麦克沃特呆在一起时他才感到安全。同他们在一起，他便无需再与其他人坐在一起了；他该坐在哪儿的问题也就解决了，他用不着再同那些他不喜欢的军官坐在一起了。平时，每当他走近这些军官时，他们无一例外地用过分的热情来欢迎他的到来，然后又非常不自在地等着他离去。他使得那么多的人不舒服。大伙都对他非常友好，但没有一个人真心待他。人人都同他说话，但没有一人同他说过真心话。约塞连和邓巴要随和得多，同他俩在一起，牧师几乎没有什么不自在的感觉。那天晚上，当卡思卡特上校又一次想把牧师从军官俱乐部撵出去时，他俩甚至还保护了他。当时约塞连气势汹汹地站了起来要进行干预，内特利想阻止他，就大叫了一声“约塞连！”卡思卡特上校一听到约塞连的名字，脸色顿时煞白，而且让大家感到吃惊的是，他吓得六神无主，一个劲地往后退，最后竟撞到了德里德尔将军的身上。将军气恼地用胳臂肘将他推开，并命令他立即回到牧师面前，叫他从今天开始每晚都到军官俱乐部来。
　　牧师要想保持他在军官俱乐部的地位是很难的，就同他想记往下一餐他该在大队的十个食堂的哪一个食堂就餐一样难。要不是如今他在军官俱乐部里从他的那些新伙伴那里找到了乐趣，他倒很愿意被人从那儿撵出来。晚上如果牧师不去军官俱乐部，那他也就没地方可去了。他时常坐在约塞连和邓巴的桌旁消磨时光，羞怯、沉默地微笑着，除非别人同他说话，否则他便一言不发。他的面前总是放着一杯浓浓的甜酒，可他几乎一口也不尝，只是不熟练地、别别扭扭、装模作样地玩弄着一只用玉米芯做成的烟斗，偶尔也往里面塞些烟丝，抽上几口。他喜欢听内特利讲话，因为内特利酒后说出的那些伤感的、又苦又乐的话在很大程度上反映出了牧师本人那充满了浪漫情调的孤寂惆怅，并且总能引发起牧师对妻儿的思念，使他的心情如潮水一样久久不得平静。内特利的坦率和幼稚让牧师感到有趣，他频频地朝着内特利点头表示理解和赞同，以鼓励他继续说下去。内特利还没有冒失到会向人夸耀自己的女朋友是个妓女的程度，牧师之所以会知道这事主要是由于布莱克上尉的缘故。每当布莱克上尉懒洋洋地从他们的桌旁经过时，他总要先使劲朝牧师眨眨眼，然后就转向内特利，就他的女友将他嘲弄一番，说出来的话既下流又伤人。牧师对布莱克上尉的这种做法很是不满，因此就产生了一个按捺不住的念头，那就是希望他倒大霉。
　　似乎没有人，甚至连内特利也不例外，真正意识到他，艾尔伯特•泰勒•塔普曼牧师，不光是个牧师，而且也是个活生生的人。
　　没人意识到他还有个漂亮迷人、充满激情的妻子——让他爱得几乎发狂，三个蓝眼睛的小孩，他们的相貌显得陌生，因为他已记不太清他们的模样了。将来有一天当他们长大了的时候，他们会将他视为一个怪物。他的职业会给他们在社会上带来种种尴尬，为此他们可能永远不会原谅他。为什么就没人明白他实际上并不是个怪物，而是一个正常、孤独的成年人，竭力想过一种正常、孤独的成年人的生活？假如他们刺他一下，难道他就不会出血吗？如果有人呵他痒，难道他就不会笑？看来他们从来就没想过，他，同他们一样，有眼、有手、有器官、有形体、有感觉、有感情。和他们一样，他也会被同样的武器所伤，因同样的微风而感到温暖和寒冷，并以同样的食物充饥，虽然在这一点上他被迫做出让步，每一顿都得去不同的食堂用餐。只有一个人似乎意识到了牧师是有感情的，这个人就是惠特科姆下士，而他所做的一切只是想方设法去伤害这些感情，因为正是他越过了他的上司去找卡思卡特上校，建议向阵亡或负伤士兵的家属寄发慰问通函。
　　在这个世界上，唯一能让他感到踏实的就是他的妻子。如果就让他与妻儿们在一起过一辈子，那他也就满足了。牧师的妻子是个文静的小个子女人，和蔼可亲，年纪刚过三十，皮肤黝黑，富有魅力。她的腰身纤细，眼睛里流露出沉着和机灵；牙齿雪白，又尖又小，再配上一张孩子似的脸蛋，显得既生气勃勃又娇小可爱。牧师常常忘记自己孩子的长相，每次拿出孩子们的照片，总觉得好像是第一次见到他们的面孔。牧师就像这样爱着他的妻儿，这种爱简直强烈得不可遏制，以致他总想放弃强打精神的努力，就此瘫倒在地，像个被人遗弃的残废人那样放声大哭。围绕着他的家人，他产生了许多病态的怪念头，产生了许多悲惨、可怕的预感，不是想到他们得了重病就是认为他们遭到了可怕的意外。这些东西每天都在无情地折磨着他。他的思维也受到了这些念头的侵扰，尽想着他的妻儿可能得了诸如恶性骨癌和白血病之类的可怕疾病。每周他至少有二三次会看见他那刚出生不久的儿子夭折了，因为他从未教过妻子如何止住动脉出血。他还曾泪流满面、眼睁睁地一声不响地目睹了全家人在墙基插座旁一个接一个地触电而亡的情景，因为他从未告诉过妻子人体是会导电的。几乎每天夜里他都会看到，家里的热水锅炉发生了爆炸，他家那两层木结构的楼房燃烧了起来，他的妻儿四人统统被烧死；他还看到了一件恐怖、惨不忍睹、令人震惊的惨祸的全部细节：他可怜的爱妻那一向整洁而又娇弱的躯体竟被一个喝醉了酒的白痴司机撞到了市场大楼的砖墙上，压成了黏糊糊的一滩肉酱；他还看到，他那被吓得歇斯底里地哭个不休的五岁女儿被一个长一头雪白头发、面目慈祥的中年男子领着离开了那可怖的事故现场；那男人驱车把她带到一个废弃的采沙场，一到那里他就一次接一次地对他的女儿进行奸污，最后把她给杀害了；帮他照管孩子的岳母，从电话里得知了他妻子的惨祸，当即就发了心脏病，倒在地上死掉了。于是，他那两个年幼的孩子就在家里慢慢地饿死了。牧师的妻子是个和蔼可亲、总能给人以安慰并善于体贴的女人。牧师渴望能再一次触摸到她那匀称的胳臂上的肌肤，抚摸到她那乌黑、光滑的秀发，听到她那亲切、充满了安慰的嗓音。她是一个比他坚强得多的人。他每周一次，有时两次给她去一封内容简单而又干巴巴的短信，而内心里他成天想着要给她去许许多多封情真意
Chapter 26 Aarfy
    In a way it was all Yossarian’s fault, for if he had not moved the bomb line during the Big Siege of Bologna,Major ---de Coverley might still be around to save him, and if he had not stocked the enlisted men’s apartmentwith girls who had no other place to live, Nately might never have fallen in love with his whore as she sat nakedfrom the waist down in the room full of grumpy blackjack players who ignored her. Nately stared at her covertlyfrom his over-stuffed yellow armchair, marveling at the bored, phlegmatic strength with which she accepted themass rejection. She yawned, and he was deeply moved. He had never witnessed such heroic poise before.
　　The girl had climbed five steep flights of stairs to sell herself to the group of satiated enlisted men, who had girlsliving there all around them; none wanted her at any price, not even after she had stripped without realenthusiasm to tempt them with a tall body that was firm and full and truly voluptuous. She seemed more fatiguedthan disappointed. Now she sat resting in vacuous indolence, watching the card game with dull curiosity as shegathered her recalcitrant energies for the tedious chore of donning the rest of her clothing and going back towork. In a little while she stirred. A little while later she rose with an unconscious sigh and stepped lethargicallyinto her tight cotton panties and dark skirt, then buckled on her shoes and left. Nately slipped out behind her; andwhen Yossarian and Aarfy entered the officers’ apartment almost two hours later, there she was again, steppinginto her panties and skirt, and it was almost like the chaplain’s recurring sensation of having been through asituation before, except for Nately, who was moping inconsolably with his hands in his pockets.
　　“She wants to go now,” he said in a faint, strange voice. “She doesn’t want to stay.”
　　“Why don’t you just pay her some money to let you spend the rest of the day with her?” Yossarian advised.
　　“She gave me my money back,” Nately admitted. “She’s tired of me now and wants to go looking for someoneelse.”
　　The girl paused when her shoes were on to glance in surly invitation at Yossarian and Aarfy. Her breasts werepointy and large in the thin white sleeveless sweater she wore that squeezed each contour and flowed outwardsmoothly with the tops of her enticing hips. Yossarian returned her gaze and was strongly attracted. He shook hishead.
　　“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” was Aarfy’s unperturbed response.
　　“Don’t say that about her!” Nately protested with passion that was both a plea and a rebuke. “I want her to staywith me.”
　　“What’s so special about her?” Aarfy sneered with mock surprise. “She’s only a whore.”
　　“And don’t call her a whore!”
　　The girl shrugged impassively after a few more seconds and ambled toward the door. Nately bounded forwardwretchedly to hold it open. He wandered back in a heartbroken daze, his sensitive face eloquent with grief.
　　“Don’t worry about it,” Yossarian counseled him as kindly as he could. “You’ll probably be able to find heragain. We know where all the whores hang out.”
　　“Please don’t call her that,” Nately begged, looking as though he might cry.
　　“I’m sorry,” murmured Yossarian.
　　Aarfy thundered jovially, “There are hundreds of whores just as good crawling all over the streets. That onewasn’t even pretty.” He chuckled mellifluously with resonant disdain and authority. “Why, you rushed forwardto open that door as though you were in love with her.”
　　“I think I am in love with her,” Nately confessed in a shamed, far-off voice.
　　Aarfy wrinkled his chubby round rosy forehead in comic disbelief. “Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed, patting theexpansive forest-green sides of his officer’s tunic prosperously. “That’s rich. You in love with her? That’s reallyrich.” Aarfy had a date that same afternoon with a Red Cross girl from Smith whose father owned an importantmilk-of-magnesia plant. “Now, that’s the kind of girl you ought to be associating with, and not with commonsluts like that one. Why, she didn’t even look clean.”
　　“I don’t care!” Nately shouted desperately. “And I wish you’d shut up, I don’t even want to talk about it withyou.”
　　“Aarfy, shut up,” said Yossarian.
　　“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” Aarfy continued. “I just can’t imagine what your father and mother would say if they knew youwere running around with filthy trollops like that one. Your father is a very distinguished man, you know.”
　　“I’m not going to tell him,” Nately declared with determination. “I’m not going to say a word about her to him orMother until after we’re married.”
　　“Married?” Aarfy’s indulgent merriment swelled tremendously. “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Now you’re really talkingstupid. Why, you’re not even old enough to know what true love is.”
　　Aarfy was an authority on the subject of true love because he had already fallen truly in love with Nately’s fatherand with the prospect of working for him after the war in some executive capacity as a reward for befriendingNately. Aarfy was a lead navigator who had never been able to find himself since leaving college. He was agenial, magnanimous lead navigator who could always forgive the other man in the squadron for denouncing himfuriously each time he got lost on a combat mission and led them over concentrations of antiaircraft fire. He gotlost on the streets of Rome that same afternoon and never did find the eligible Red Cross girl from Smith withthe important milk-of-magnesia plant. He got lost on the mission to Ferrara the day Kraft was shot down andkilled, and he got lost again on the weekly milk run to Parma and tried to lead the planes out to sea over the cityof Leghorn after Yossarian had dropped his bombs on the undefended inland target and settled back against histhick wall of armor plate with his eyes closed and a fragrant cigarette in his fingertips. Suddenly there was flak,and all at once McWatt was shrieking over the intercom, “Flak! Flak! Where the hell are we? What the hell’sgoing on?”
　　Yossarian flipped his eyes open in alarm and saw the totally unexpected bulging black puffs of flak crashingdown in toward them from high up and Aarfy’s complacent melon-round tiny-eyed face gazing out at theapproaching cannon bursts with affable bemusement. Yossarian was flabbergasted. His leg went abruptly tosleep. McWatt had started to climb and was yelping over the intercom for instructions. Yossarian sprang forwardto see where they were and remained in the same place. He was unable to move. Then he realized he wassopping wet. He looked down at his crotch with a sinking, sick sensation. A wild crimson blot was crawlingupward rapidly along his shirt front like an enormous sea monster rising to devour him. He was hit! Separatetrickles of blood spilled to a puddle on the floor through one saturated trouser leg like countless unstoppableswarms of wriggling red worms. His heart stopped. A second solid jolt struck the plane. Yossarian shudderedwith revulsion at the queer sight of his wound and screamed at Aarfy for help.
　　“I lost my balls! Aarfy, I lost my balls!” Aarfy didn’t hear, and Yossarian bent forward and tugged at his arm.
　　“Aarfy, help me,” he pleaded, almost weeping, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”
　　Aarfy turned slowly with a bland, quizzical grin. “What?”
　　“I’m hit, Aarfy! Help me!”
　　Aarfy grinned again and shrugged amiably. “I can’t hear you,” he said.
　　“Can’t you see me?” Yossarian cried incredulously, and he pointed to the deepening pool of blood he feltsplashing down all around him and spreading out underneath. “I’m wounded! Help me, for God’s sake! Aarfy,help me!”
　　“I still can’t hear you,” Aarfy complained tolerantly, cupping his podgy hand behind the blanched corolla of hisear. “What did you say?”
　　Yossarian answered in a collapsing voice, weary suddenly of shouting so much, of the whole frustrating,exasperating, ridiculous situation. He was dying, and no one took notice. “Never mind.”
　　“What?” Aarfy shouted.
　　“I said I lost my balls! Can’t you hear me? I’m wounded in the groin!”
　　“I still can’t hear you,” Aarfy chided.
　　“I said never mind!” Yossarian screamed with a trapped feeling of terror and began to shiver, feeling very coldsuddenly and very weak.
　　Aarfy shook his head regretfully again and lowered his obscene, lactescent ear almost directly into Yossarian’sface. “You’ll just have to speak up, my friend. You’ll just have to speak up.”
　　“Leave me alone, you bastard! You dumb, insensitive bastard, leave me alone!” Yossarian sobbed. He wanted topummel Aarfy, but lacked the strength to lift his arms. He decided to sleep instead and keeled over sideways intoa dead faint.
　　He was wounded in the thigh, and when he recovered consciousness he found McWatt on both knees taking careof him. He was relieved, even though he still saw Aarfy’s bloated cherub’s face hanging down over McWatt’sshoulder with placid interest. Yossarian smiled feebly at McWatt, feeling ill, and asked, “Who’s minding thestore?” McWatt gave no sign that he heard. With growing horror, Yossarian gathered in breath and repeated thewords as loudly as he could.
　　McWatt looked up. “Christ, I’m glad you’re still alive!” he exclaimed, heaving an enormous sigh. The good-humored, friendly crinkles about his eyes were white with tension and oily with grime as he kept unrolling aninterminable bandage around the bulky cotton compress Yossarian felt strapped burdensomely to the inside ofone thigh. “Nately’s at the controls. The poor kid almost started bawling when he heard you were hit. He stillthinks you’re dead. They knocked open an artery for you, but I think I’ve got it stopped. I gave you somemorphine.”
　　“Give me some more.”
　　“It might be too soon. I’ll give you some more when it starts to hurt.”
　　“It hurts now.”
　　“Oh, well, what the hell,” said McWatt and injected another syrette of morphine into Yossarian’s arm.
　　“When you tell Nately I’m all right...” said Yossarian to McWatt, and lost consciousness again as everythingwent fuzzy behind a film of strawberry-strained gelatin and a great baritone buzz swallowed him in sound. Hecame to in the ambulance and smiled encouragement at Doc Daneeka’s weevil-like, glum and overshadowedcountenance for the dizzy second or two he had before everything went rose-petal pink again and then turnedreally black and unfathomably still.
　　Yossarian woke up in the hospital and went to sleep. When he woke up in the hospital again, the smell of etherwas gone and Dunbar was lying in pajamas in the bed across the aisle maintaining that he was not Dunbar but afortiori. Yossarian thought he was cracked. He curled his lip skeptically at Dunbar’s bit of news and slept on itfitfully for a day or two, then woke up while the nurses were elsewhere and eased himself out of bed to see forhimself. The floor swayed like the floating raft at the beach and the stitches on the inside of his thigh bit into hisflesh like fine sets of fish teeth as he limped across the aisle to peruse the name on the temperature card on thefoot of Dunbar’s bed, but sure enough, Dunbar was right: he was not Dunbar any more but Second LieutenantAnthony F. Fortiori.
　　“What the hell’s going on?”
　　A. Fortiori got out of bed and motioned to Yossarian to follow. Grasping for support at anything he could reach,Yossarian limped along after him into the corridor and down the adjacent ward to a bed containing a harriedyoung man with pimples and a receding chin. The harried young man rose on one elbow with alacrity as theyapproached. A. Fortiori jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “Screw.” The harried young man jumpedout of bed and ran away. A. Fortiori climbed into the bed and became Dunbar again.
　　“That was A. Fortiori,” Dunbar explained. “They didn’t have an empty bed in your ward, so I pulled my rankand chased him back here into mine. It’s a pretty satisfying experience pulling rank. You ought to try itsometime. You ought to try it right now, in fact, because you look like you’re going to fall down.”
　　Yossarian felt like he was going to fall down. He turned to the lantern jawed, leather-faced middle-aged manlying in the bed next to Dunbar’s, jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said “Screw.” The middle-aged manstiffened fiercely and glared.
　　“He’s a major,” Dunbar explained. “Why don’t you aim a little lower and try becoming Warrant Officer HomerLumley for a while? Then you can have a father in the state legislature and a sister who’s engaged to a championskier. Just tell him you’re a captain.”
　　Yossarian turned to the startled patient Dunbar had indicated. “I’m a captain,” he said, jerking his thumb over hisshoulder. “Screw.”
　　The startled patient jumped down to the floor at Yossarian’s command and ran away. Yossarian climbed up intohis bed and became Warrant Officer Homer Lumley, who felt like vomiting and was covered suddenly with aclammy sweat. He slept for an hour and wanted to be Yossarian again. It did not mean so much to have a fatherin the state legislature and a sister who was engaged to a champion skier. Dunbar led the way back toYossarian’s ward, where he thumbed A. Fortiori out of bed to become Dunbar again for a while. There was nosign of Warrant Officer Homer Lumley. Nurse Cramer was there, though, and sizzled with sanctimonious angerlike a damp firecracker. She ordered Yossarian to get right back into his bed and blocked his path so he couldn’tcomply. Her pretty face was more repulsive than ever. Nurse Cramer was a good-hearted, sentimental creaturewho rejoiced unselfishly at news of weddings, engagements, births and anniversaries even though she wasunacquainted with any of the people involved.
　　“Are you crazy?” she scolded virtuously, shaking an indignant finger in front of his eyes. “I suppose you justdon’t care if you kill yourself, do you?”
　　“It’s my self,” he reminded her.
　　“I suppose you just don’t care if you lose your leg, do you?”
　　“It’s my leg.”
　　“It certainly is not your leg!” Nurse Cramer retorted. “That leg belongs to the U. S. government. It’s no differentthan a gear or a bedpan. The Army has invested a lot of money to make you an airplane pilot, and you’ve noright to disobey the doctor’s orders.”
　　Yossarian was not sure he liked being invested in. Nurse Cramer was still standing directly in front of him so thathe could not pass. His head was aching. Nurse Cramer shouted at him some question he could not understand.
　　He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “Screw.”
　　Nurse Cramer cracked him in the face so hard she almost knocked him down. Yossarian drew back his fist topunch her in the jaw just as his leg buckled and he began to fall. Nurse Duckett strode up in time to catch him.
　　She addressed them both firmly.
　　“Just what’s going on here?”
　　“He won’t get back into his bed,” Nurse Cramer reported zealously in an injured tone. “Sue Ann, he saidsomething absolutely horrible to me. Oh, I can’t even make myself repeat it!”
　　“She called me a gear,” Yossarian muttered.
　　Nurse Duckett was not sympathetic. “Will you get back into bed,” she said, “or must I take you by your ear andput you there?”
　　“Take me by my ear and put me there,” Yossarian dared her.
　　Nurse Duckett took him by his ear and put him back in bed.
 26、阿费
　　从某种意义上来说，这全都是约塞连的过错。在对博洛尼亚实行大围攻的时候，要是他没有去动那条标在图上的轰炸路线，那么——德•科弗利少校或许还能活着救他；要是他没有将那些没其他地方好住的姑娘塞进军人公寓，那么内特利就永远也不会有可能爱上他的那个妓女。当时这个妓女自腰部以下一丝不挂地坐在房里——挤满了正在玩二十一点的脾气暴躁的赌徒，可就是没人理会她，内特利坐在一张垫得又软又厚的黄色扶手椅上，偷偷地盯着她看。她一脸厌烦的样子，可身上又流露出一种对一切都毫不在乎的力量，就是凭借着这服力量，她泰然接受了这伙人对她的公然摒弃。对此，内特利在心里感到十分惊异。她张嘴打了个呵欠，这一举动深深感动了内特利。他以前还从未目睹过像这样异乎寻常的沉着。
　　这姑娘爬了整整五段陡峭的楼梯，来到这群大兵中间出卖自己的肉体。可这些大兵因四周住满了女人，所以早就对玩女人一事感到腻烦了。不管她要什么价，都没人想要她，后来，她不带多少热情地将自己脱了个精光，以自己那结实、丰满、十分肉感的颀长身体来引诱他们。可即便这样，也还是没有一个人要她。，对此，她似乎不是感到失望，而是觉得疲惫。此时，她带着一脸茫然、迟钝的倦态坐在那里休息，以一种无精打采的好奇看着别人玩牌。她这是在集聚已不受其支配的精力，以应付接下来要做的乏味枯燥的琐事：将其余的衣服一一穿好，然后再去干活。过了一会儿她开始动弹起来。又过了一会儿，她无意识地叹了口气，然后站了起来，懒洋洋地将双脚套进那条紧身棉布裤衩和黑裙子里，然后扣上鞋子，起身走了。内特利跟在她的后面悄悄溜了出去。差不多两小时后，当约塞连和阿费跨进军官公寓时，她也在那里，又一次在往脚上套裤衩和裙子。这情景真有点像随军牧师近来常有的那种似曾经历过类似场面的感觉。这场面里的唯一例外就是内特利，他两手插在衣兜里，一副闷闷不乐的沮丧样子。
　　“她现在就要走，”他用一种微弱而又奇怪的声音说，“她不肯留下来。”
　　“你干吗不付她点钱，这样你就可以同她一起度过今天的其他时间了，”约塞连向他建议道。
　　“她把钱还给我了，”内特利承认说，“她现在对我感到厌倦，想去另找一个人。”
　　姑娘穿好鞋后又停了下来，目光在约塞连和阿费身上扫来扫去，她这是在不怀好意地挑逗他们。她的两只乳房在衣衫下显得又尖又大。她身上穿的是一件薄薄的白色无袖毛线衫，将其身上所有的线条都勾勒了出来。尤其是臀部，线条流畅地向外突起，很是迷人。约塞连也盯着她看，深深地被吸引住了。他摇了摇头。
　　“早滚早好，”阿费说，他一点也不为她所动。
　　“不要这样说她！”内特利感情冲动地说，他的话半是请求，半是责备。“我想要她同我呆在一起。”
　　“她有什么不同寻常的地方？”阿费假装吃惊地嗤笑道，“她只不过是个妓女而已。”
　　“别叫她妓女。”
　　姑娘又等了几秒钟，然后面无表情地耸了耸肩，便从容不迫地朝门口走去。内特利连忙可怜巴巴地跳上前去将门拉开。他走回来时一副伤心欲绝的样子，目光呆滞，敏感的脸上满是痛苦悲伤的表情。
　　“别担心，”约塞连以尽可能友善的口气劝他说，“你有可能还会碰见她。所有妓女爱呆的地方我们都知道。”
　　“求求你别这么称呼她，”内特利恳求道，那样子看上去像是要哭出来似的。
　　“对不起，”约塞连咕哝道。
　　阿费乐不可支地高声大笑起来。“像她这样的妓女有好几百呢，街上到处都是。而这一位也谈不上有多漂亮。”他先是声音甜甜地窃笑了几声，然后又声音洪亮地用轻蔑而又充满权威的语气说，“哼，你竟跑上前去为她开门，好像你已经爱上了她似的。”
　　“我想我是爱上她了，”内特利满脸羞愧，用几乎听不见的声音坦白道。
　　阿费皱起他那光洁丰满并且红润的前额，扮了一个表示不相信的滑稽鬼脸。“哈，哈，哈，哈！”他大笑了起来，一边不住地拍打着身上穿的草绿色军官束腰短外衣的宽大下摆的两侧。“这真是荒唐。你真的爱上她了？这真是太荒唐了。”阿费当天下午要同一个从史密斯来的在红十字会工作的姑娘约会，这姑娘的父亲开了一家重要的镁乳厂。“瞧，那才是你应该留意的姑娘，而不是像刚才那位一样的粗俗荡妇。嗨，瞧她那样子，连干净都谈不上。”
　　“我不在乎！”内特利不顾一切地喊叫道，“我希望你给我闭嘴。
　　我根本不想和你谈论这件事。”
　　“阿费，住嘴吧，”约塞连说。
　　“哈，哈，哈，哈！”阿费又大笑了起来。“要是你父母知道你在同那个肮脏的淫妇厮混，对此他们会说些什么，我完全想象得出。要知道，你父亲可是一个很有名望的人。”
　　“我并不打算把这事告诉他，”内特利说，他已打定了主意。“关于她，我在他或母亲面前一个字也不提，等我们结婚后再告诉他们。”
　　“结婚？”阿费乐得纵声狂笑起来。“哈，哈，哈，哈，哈！你真是在说蠢话。嗬，你太嫩了，还不知道什么叫真正的爱。”
　　说到真正的爱，阿费可是这方面的权威，因为他已经真正爱上了内特利的父亲，并且有希望战后在他手下当一名行政人员，以作为对他亲近内特利的报答。阿费是一名领队领航员，可自打离开大学后，他连自己究竟身在何处从来都没搞清楚。他是个和蔼可亲、心地宽厚的领队领航员。他在执行战斗任务时总是迷航，领着他那一中队的人飞到高射炮火最密集的空中。每次，中队里的其他成员部会将他臭骂一通，而他总是原谅他们。就在那天下午，他在罗马的大街上迷了路，始终没找到那位从史密斯来的、拥有重要镁乳厂的、符合其择偶条件的红十字会的姑娘。克拉夫特被击落丧命的那天，他在飞往弗拉拉执行任务时也迷失了方向。在每周一次前往帕尔马执行例行飞行时，他又一次迷了路。当时约塞连对帕尔马这个没有设防的内陆目标扔完炸弹后，就背靠飞机那厚厚的金属板壁安顿下来闭目养神，手指间还夹着一支香气扑鼻的香烟。可这时阿费却试图领着飞机穿过来航上空，往大海飞去。突然，高射炮声大作，紧接着就听见了麦克沃特在对讲机里尖声大叫：“高射炮！高射炮！该死的，我们这是在哪儿？究竟***出了什么事？”
　　约塞连连忙惊慌地睁开双眼，他万万没料到会看见高射炮弹的黑烟在机舱里弥漫，正从头顶上方向他们压下来。接着他又看见了阿费那张一向自鸣得意、像西瓜一样滚圆、生着一对小眼睛的脸，这会儿这张脸上挂着一副慈祥却又茫然的表情，正盯着那炸个不停的炮火。约塞连被吓得目瞪口呆。他的一条腿突然一阵麻木。
　　麦克沃特已经开始让飞机爬高，并对着对讲机大喊大叫，要求指示。约塞连向前扑去，想看看他们这会儿是在哪里，可人却仍呆在原地。他动弹不了。他感觉到身上什么地方湿透了，于是低头朝自己的裤裆看了看，心头一沉，并感到极度的恶心。一股鲜红的血沿着他衬衣的前襟迅速地向上蠕动，就像一只巨大的海怪正站起来准备将他吞吃掉。他中弹了！鲜血像无数只阻挡不住的蠕动着的红色幼虫，一滴一滴接连不断地从一条湿透了的裤管里溢出，在地板上汇成了一小汪血泊。他的心脏停止了跳动。这时飞机又一次遭到了结结实实的一击。看着自己伤处的奇怪情景，约塞连一阵心悸，不禁打了个寒战，便冲着阿费尖叫求救。
　　“我的睾丸被打掉了！阿费，我的睾丸没了！”阿费没听见他的话，约塞连于是俯过身去拉他的胳臂。“阿费，救救我，”他哀求道，几乎哭了出来。“我中弹了！我中弹了！”
　　阿费慢吞吞地回过身来，茫然而又疑惑地露齿一笑，问：“你说什么？”
　　阿费又咧嘴一笑，亲切地耸了耸肩。“我听不见，”他说。
　　“难道你看不见？”约塞连表示怀疑地大声叫了起来。他感到鲜血在自己身体的四周溅得到处都是，并在脚下淌了开来。他指着地上越积越多的鲜血喊道：“我受伤了！看在上帝的分上，救救我吧！
　　阿费，救救我！”
　　“我还是听不见你在说什么。”阿费很宽容地抱怨了一句，一边窝起那只胖乎乎的手置于自己毫无血色的耳朵之后。“你刚才说什么来着？”
　　约塞连再答话时声音一下子降了八度，因为他突然对一切都感到厌倦了。他厌倦喊叫，厌倦自己目前的处境，此时他做什么都是徒劳的，只能令他气恼，使他觉得自己滑稽可笑。他快要死了，可竟然没人注意到这一点。“算了。”
　　“你说什么？”阿费大声喊道。
　　“我说我的睾丸被打掉了。难道你听不见？我大腿根那儿受伤了！”
　　“我还是听不见你说的话，”阿费责备他说。
　　“我说算了！”约塞连尖声叫了起来，他感到自己好像中了圈套，害怕极了，突然浑身发冷，四肢无力，不禁颤抖了起来。
　　阿费再次遗憾地摇了摇头，低下他那只可憎的、乳白色的耳朵，几乎快贴到了约塞连的脸上。“你得大声一点，我的朋友。你只要再大声一点就行了。”
　　“别管我，你这个杂种！你这个装聋作哑、麻木不仁的杂种，别管我！”约塞连呜咽着说。他真想给阿费一拳，可却连抬起手臂的力气都没有。他只好决定睡觉，于是身体朝旁边一歪，昏了过去。
　　他的大腿受了伤。当他苏醒时，他发现麦克沃特正跪在他身边照料自己。尽管仍能看到阿费那张鼓鼓囊囊，孩子似的胖脸凑在麦克沃特的肩后看他，约塞连还是感到十分宽慰。他感到浑身难受，可仍无力地朝麦克沃特笑了笑，问道：“谁在照看铺子？”麦克沃特根本没听见他的话。约塞连越来越感到恐惧，他喘了一口气，用尽可能高的声音将刚才的话又重复了一遍。
　　麦克沃特抬起头看了他一眼。“天啊，你还活着，我真高兴！”他长长地吁了口气，激动地喊了起来。他那双和蔼、亲切的眼睛周围布满了皱纹，此时紧张得发白，机舱里的烟灰沾到上面显得油腻腻的。约塞连感觉到他的一条大腿的内侧绑着一大块棉花敷料，沉甸甸的，而麦克沃特手上拿着一卷长长的绷带，正在用它往那块敷料上一圈一圈地缠绕。“内特利在控制飞机。这可怜的小伙子听说你中弹了，几乎放声大哭起来。他到现在还以为你已经死了。他们打破了你的一条动脉，不过我想我已经将它给扎住了。我刚才给你注射了一针吗啡。”
　　“再给我打一针。”
　　“现在恐怕还太早。等你感觉到疼痛的时候，我再给你打。”
　　“现在就很疼。”
　　“哦，好吧，管他呢，”麦克沃特说，紧接着便又拿出了一只可折叠的皮下注射器，在约塞连的胳臂上注射了一管吗啡。
　　“你告诉内特利我没死的时候……”约塞连刚对麦克沃特说了这几个字，就感到眼前好像出现了一层薄薄的草莓色胶，一切都变得模糊不清；一大片低沉的嗡嗡声把他吞没了。他又一次昏了过去。他再次醒来已是在救护车里了，他冲着丹尼卡医生那张像象鼻虫一样忧郁、阴沉的脸笑了一下，以此为他打气。他就这么头昏眼花地清醒了一两秒钟，而后眼前的一切又一次变成像玫瑰花瓣似的粉红色一片，再后来就成了一团漆黑，接着就是深不可测的沉寂。
　　约塞连在医院里醒了过来，随后又睡着了。当他在医院里再度醒来时，那股乙醚的气味已经没有了。邓巴穿着睡衣，躺在过道对面的病床上，可他一再声称自己不叫邓巴，而是一个姓福尔蒂奥里的什么人。约塞连心想他准是疯了。他噘起嘴唇，对邓巴说的话表示怀疑。在以后的一两天里，他老是断断续续地想着这事，将信将疑，总是拿不准主意。后来，当他又一次醒来时，他发现护士们都在别处忙活，于是他便小心翼翼地从床上挪了下来，想亲眼探个究竟。地板就像海滩上漂动不已的木筏一样晃个不歇。当他一瘸一拐地横穿过道去察看挂在邓巴床脚边的体温登记卡上写的姓名时，他大腿内侧的缝线就像被两排细碎的鱼齿撕咬着一般疼痛。果然不错，邓巴说得对，他已不再是邓巴，而是安东尼•费•福尔蒂奥里少尉。
　　“这究竟是怎么回事？”
　　安•福尔蒂奥里从床上爬了下来，示意约塞连跟着他走。约塞连抓住自己够得着的任何东西，以支撑身体，一瘸一拐地跟在他的后面出了房间，进入走廊，来到他们紧隔壁的那间病房里的一张病床前。那张床上躺着一个正在遭受伤痛折磨的年轻人，只见他满脸的丘疹，还长了一个向后削的下巴。当他们走近时，这个一脸苦相的年轻人轻捷地用一只胳臂时撑起身来。安•福尔蒂奥里突然用大拇指朝自己的肩后一指，说：“快走开！”这个饱受痛苦的年轻人不敢有丝毫怠慢，从床上跳下来跑走了。安•福尔蒂奥里爬上了这张床，他又成了邓巴了。
　　“那个人才是安•福尔蒂奥里，”邓巴解释说，“你病房里没有空床了，所以我就亮了亮我的军衔，将他赶到我的房间来。这可真是一次令人得意的经历，嘿，亮亮军衔。你有时不妨也试试。其实，你现在就应该试试，因为你看上去像是要倒下去了。”
　　约塞连的确感到自己像是要倒下去了。他转向躺在邓巴旁边床上的那个双颊深陷、皮肤粗糙的中年人，使劲用大拇指朝自己肩后一指，说：“快走开！”那中年人一动也不动，怒气冲冲地拿两眼瞪着他。
　　“他是一名少校，”邓巴解释道，“你干吗不把目标对准军衔低些的人，你就试试当一回霍默•拉姆利准尉怎么样？这样，你就有了一个在州立法机关当差的父亲，还有一个同滑雪冠军订了婚的妹妹，你只要告诉他你是个上尉就行了。”
　　约塞连转身对着邓巴所指的那个病人，那人吃了一惊。“我是上尉。”说着他把大拇指用力朝肩后一指。“快走开！”
　　听到约塞连的命令，那个吃惊的病人一下子跳到地上，立即跑走了。约塞连爬到那人的床上，转眼间就变成了霍默•拉姆利准尉。此时他觉得想吐，并且突如其来地出了一身冷汗。他在那里睡了一个小时，就又想重新变为约塞连了。有一个当州议员的父亲和一个同滑雪冠军订了婚的妹妹也并没有多大的意义。于是，由邓巴领路，他们又回到了约塞连的病房。一到那里，邓巴又用大拇指将那个安•福尔蒂奥里撵出了病房，让他再去做一阵子邓巴。病房里连霍默•拉姆利准尉的影子都看不见，可克拉默护士倒是在这里。
　　她装出一副气恼的样子，就像一根受了潮、在咝咝作响的爆竹。她命令约塞连立即回到自己的病床上去，却又挡着他的路，使他无法按她的话去做。此时她那张漂亮脸蛋比以往任何时候都令人讨厌。
　　克拉默护士是个好脾气同时又多愁善感的人。每当她听到有人结婚、订婚、生孩子或庆祝周年纪念日的消息，她总是由衷地为人家感到高兴，尽管这些人她一个也不认识。
　　“难道你疯了？”她好心好意地数落着他，一边生气地将一根手指在他的眼前晃个不停。“我看你是不打算要你的这条小命了，是不是？”
　　“这是我自己的命。”他提醒她。
　　“我看你也不想要你的这条腿了，是吗？”
　　“这是我自己的腿。”
　　“它肯定不是你的腿，”克拉默护士反驳道，“这条腿属于美国政府，它和一件装备或一只便盆没什么两样。为了把你培养成一名飞行员，美国军队在你的身上投下了大量的资金，所以你没有权利不遵从医生的命令。”
　　约塞连自己也说不准他是否喜欢国家在他身上进行的这种投资。此时克拉默护士仍然站在他的面前，因此他无法走过去。他感到头痛。克拉默护士又大叫大嚷地向他提了几个问题，对此他一点儿也听不明白。于是，他举起大拇指使劲向肩后一指，说：“快走开。”
　　克拉默护士照着他的脸狠狠地抽了一个耳光，差点没把他打倒在地。约塞连捏起拳头朝着她的下颌打过来，可就在这时他的那条腿一软，整个人眼看着就要跌倒。就在这时达克特护士及时赶到了，一把将约塞连抓住。她用严厉的语气质问他俩：
　　“这到底是怎么回事？”
　　“他不肯回到床上去，”克拉默护士用受了极大委屈的口气急切地向她报告说，“苏•安，他还对我说了一句最最不要脸的下流话。噢，要我重复一遍我都说不出口。”
　　“她管我叫一件装备。”约塞连喃喃地说。
　　达克特护士一点也不同情他。“你是自己回到床上去呢，”她问，“还是要我揪着你的耳朵，把你拖到床上去？”
　　“揪着我的耳朵，把我拖到床上去好了。”约塞连谅她不敢这么做。
　　可达克特护士却真的揪着他的耳朵把他拖上了床。
Chapter 27 Nurse Duckett
    Nurse Sue Ann Duckett was a tall, spare, mature, straight-backed woman with a prominent, well-rounded ass,small breasts and angular ascetic New England features that came equally close to being very lovely and veryplain. Her skin was white and pink, her eyes small, her nose and chin slender and sharp. She was able, prompt,strict and intelligent. She welcomed responsibility and kept her head in every crisis. She was adult and self-reliant, and there was nothing she needed from anyone. Yossarian took pity and decided to help her.
　　Next morning while she was standing bent over smoothing the sheets at the foot of his bed, he slipped his handstealthily into the narrow space between her knees and, all at once, brought it up swiftly under her dress as far asit would go. Nurse Duckett shrieked and jumped into the air a mile, but it wasn’t high enough, and she squirmedand vaulted and seesawed back and forth on her divine fulcrum for almost a full fifteen seconds before shewiggled free finally and retreated frantically into the aisle with an ashen, trembling face. She backed away toofar, and Dunbar, who had watched from the beginning, sprang forward on his bed without warning and flungboth arms around her bosom from behind. Nurse Duckett let out another scream and twisted away, fleeing farenough from Dunbar for Yossarian to lunge forward and grab her by the snatch again. Nurse Duckett bouncedout across the aisle once more like a ping-pong ball with legs. Dunbar was waiting vigilantly, ready to pounce.
　　She remembered him just in time and leaped aside. Dunbar missed completely and sailed by her over the bed tothe floor, landing on his skull with a soggy, crunching thud that knocked him cold.
　　He woke up on the floor with a bleeding nose and exactly the same distressful head symptoms he had beenfeigning all along. The ward was in a chaotic uproar. Nurse Duckett was in tears, and Yossarian was consolingher apologetically as he sat beside her on the edge of a bed. The commanding colonel was wroth and shouting atYossarian that he would not permit his patients to take indecent liberties with his nurses.
　　“What do you want from him?” Dunbar asked plaintively from the floor, wincing at the vibrating pains in histemples that his voice set up. “He didn’t do anything.”
　　“I’m talking about you!” the thin, dignified colonel bellowed as loudly as he could. “You’re going to bepunished for what you did.”
　　“What do you want from him?” Yossarian called out. “All he did was fall on his head.”
　　“And I’m talking about you too!” the colonel declared, whirling to rage at Yossarian. “You’re going to be goodand sorry you grabbed Nurse Duckett by the bosom.”
　　“I didn’t grab Nurse Duckett by the bosom,” said Yossarian.
　　“I grabbed her by the bosom,” said Dunbar.
　　“Are you both crazy?” the doctor cried shrilly, backing away in paling confusion.
　　“Yes, he really is crazy, Doc,” Dunbar assured him. “Every night he dreams he’s holding a live fish in hishands.”
　　The doctor stopped in his tracks with a look of elegant amazement and distaste, and the ward grew still. “He doeswhat?” he demanded.
　　“He dreams he’s holding a live fish in his hand.”
　　“What kind of fish?” the doctor inquired sternly of Yossarian.
　　“I don’t know,” Yossarian answered. “I can’t tell one kind of fish from another.”
　　“In which hand do you hold them?”
　　“It varies,” answered Yossarian.
　　“It varies with the fish,” Dunbar added helpfully.
　　The colonel turned and stared down at Dunbar suspiciously with a narrow squint. “Yes? And how come youseem to know so much about it?”
　　“I’m in the dream,” Dunbar answered without cracking a smile.
　　The colonel’s face flushed with embarrassment. He glared at them both with cold, unforgiving resentment. “Getup off the floor and into your bed,” he directed Dunbar through thin lips. “And I don’t want to hear another wordabout this dream from either one of you. I’ve got a man on my staff to listen to disgusting bilge like this.”
　　“Just why do you think,” carefully inquired Major Sanderson, the soft and thickset smiling staff psychiatrist towhom the colonel had ordered Yossarian sent, “that Colonel Ferredge finds your dream disgusting?”
　　Yossarian replied respectfully. “I suppose it’s either some quality in the dream or some quality in ColonelFerredge.”
　　“That’s very well put,” applauded Major Sanderson, who wore squeaking GI shoes and had charcoal-black hairthat stood up almost straight. “For some reason,” he confided, “Colonel Ferredge has always reminded me of asea gull. He doesn’t put much faith in psychiatry, you know.”
　　“You don’t like sea gulls, do you?” inquired Yossarian.
　　“No, not very much,” admitted Major Sanderson with a sharp, nervous laugh and pulled at his pendulous secondchin lovingly as though it were a long goatee. “I think your dream is charming, and I hope it recurs frequently sothat we can continue discussing it. Would you like a cigarette?” He smiled when Yossarian declined. “Just whydo you think,” he asked knowingly, “that you have such a strong aversion to accepting a cigarette from me?”
　　“I put one out a second ago. It’s still smoldering in your ash tray.”
　　Major Sanderson chuckled. “That’s a very ingenious explanation. But I suppose we’ll soon discover the truereason.” He tied a sloppy double bow in his opened shoelace and then transferred a lined yellow pad from hisdesk to his lap. “This fish you dream about. Let’s talk about that. It’s always the same fish, isn’t it?”
　　“I don’t know,” Yossarian replied. “I have trouble recognizing fish.”
　　“What does the fish remind you of?”
　　“Other fish.”
　　“And what do other fish remind you of?”
　　“Other fish.”
　　Major Sanderson sat back disappointedly. “Do you like fish?”
　　“Not especially.”
　　“Just why do you think you have such a morbid aversion to fish?” asked Major Sanderson triumphantly.
　　“They’re too bland,” Yossarian answered. “And too bony.”
　　Major Sanderson nodded understandingly, with a smile that was agreeable and insincere. “That’s a veryinteresting explanation. But we’ll soon discover the true reason, I suppose. Do you like this particular fish? Theone you’re holding in your hand?”
　　“I have no feelings about it either way.”
　　“Do you dislike the fish? Do you have any hostile or aggressive emotions toward it?”
　　“No, not at all. In fact, I rather like the fish.”
　　“Then you do like the fish.”
　　“Oh, no. I have no feelings toward it either way.”
　　“But you just said you liked it. And now you say you have no feelings toward it either way. I’ve just caught youin a contradiction. Don’t you see?”
　　“Yes, sir. I suppose you have caught me in a contradiction.”
　　Major Sanderson proudly lettered “Contradiction” on his pad with his thick black pencil. “Just why do youthink,” he resumed when he had finished, looking up, “that you made those two statements expressingcontradictory emotional responses to the fish?”
　　“I suppose I have an ambivalent attitude toward it.”
　　Major Sanderson sprang up with joy when he heard the words “ambivalent attitude”. “You do understand!” heexclaimed, wringing his hands together ecstatically. “Oh, you can’t imagine how lonely it’s been for me, talkingday after day to patients who haven’t the slightest knowledge of psychiatry, trying to cure people who have noreal interest in me or my work! It’s given me such a terrible feeling of inadequacy.” A shadow of anxiety crossedhis face. “I can’t seem to shake it.”
　　“Really?” asked Yossarian, wondering what else to say. “Why do you blame yourself for gaps in the educationof others?”
　　“It’s silly, I know,” Major Sanderson replied uneasily with a giddy, involuntary laugh. “But I’ve alwaysdepended very heavily on the good opinion of others. I reached puberty a bit later than all the other boys my age,you see, and it’s given me sort of—well, all sorts of problems. I just know I’m going to enjoy discussing themwith you. I’m so eager to begin that I’m almost reluctant to digress now to your problem, but I’m afraid I must.
　　Colonel Ferredge would be cross if he knew we were spending all our time on me. I’d like to show you some inkblots now to find out what certain shapes and colors remind you of.”
　　“You can save yourself the trouble, Doctor. Everything reminds me of sex.”
　　“Does it?” cried Major Sanderson with delight, as though unable to believe his ears. “Now we’re really gettingsomewhere! Do you ever have any good sex dreams?”
　　“My fish dream is a sex dream.”
　　“No, I mean real sex dreams—the kind where you grab some naked bitch by the neck and pinch her and punchher in the face until she’s all bloody and then throw yourself down to ravish her and burst into tears because youlove her and hate her so much you don’t know what else to do. That’s the kind of sex dreams I like to talk about.
　　Don’t you ever have sex dreams like that?”
　　Yossarian reflected a moment with a wise look. “That’s a fish dream,” he decided.
　　Major Sanderson recoiled as though he had been slapped. “Yes, of course,” he conceded frigidly, his mannerchanging to one of edgy and defensive antagonism. “But I’d like you to dream one like that anyway just to seehow you react. That will be all for today. In the meantime, I’d also like you to dream up the answers to some ofthose questions I asked you. These sessions are no more pleasant for me than they are for you, you know.”
　　“I’ll mention it to Dunbar,” Yossarian replied.
　　“Dunbar?”
　　“He’s the one who started it all. It’s his dream.”
　　“Oh, Dunbar.” Major Sanderson sneered, his confidence returning. “I’ll bet Dunbar is that evil fellow who reallydoes all those nasty things you’re always being blamed for, isn’t he?”
　　“He’s not so evil.”
　　And yet you’ll defend him to the very death, won’t you?”
　　“Not that far.”
　　Major Sanderson smiled tauntingly and wrote “Dunbar” on his pad. “Why are you limping?” he asked sharply, asYossarian moved to the door. “And what the devil is that bandage doing on your leg? Are you mad orsomething?”
　　“I was wounded in the leg. That’s what I’m in the hospital for.”
　　“Oh, no, you’re not,” gloated Major Sanderson maliciously. “You’re in the hospital for a stone in your salivarygland. So you’re not so smart after all, are you? You don’t even know what you’re in the hospital for.”
　　“I’m in the hospital for a wounded leg,” Yossarian insisted.
　　Major Sanderson ignored his argument with a sarcastic laugh. “Well, give my regards to your friend Dunbar.
　　And you will tell him to dream that dream for me, won’t you?”
　　But Dunbar had nausea and dizziness with his constant headache and was not inclined to co-operate with MajorSanderson. Hungry Joe had nightmares because he had finished sixty missions and was waiting again to gohome, but he was unwilling to share any when he came to the hospital to visit.
　　“Hasn’t anyone got any dreams for Major Sanderson?” Yossarian asked. “I hate to disappoint him. He feels sorejected already.”
　　“I’ve been having a very peculiar dream ever since I learned you were wounded,” confessed the chaplain. “I usedto dream every night that my wife was dying or being murdered or that my children were choking to death on morsels of nutritious food. Now I dream that I’m out swimming in water over my head and a shark is eating myleft leg in exactly the same place where you have your bandage.”
　　“That’s a wonderful dream,” Dunbar declared. “I bet Major Sanderson will love it.”
　　“That’s a horrible dream!” Major Sanderson cried. “It’s filled with pain and mutilation and death. I’m sure youhad it just to spite me. You know, I’m not even sure you belong in the Army, with a disgusting dream like that.”
　　Yossarian thought he spied a ray of hope. “Perhaps you’re right, sir,” he suggested slyly. “Perhaps I ought to begrounded and returned to the States.”
　　“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that in your promiscuous pursuit of women you are merely trying to assuage yoursubconscious fears of sexual impotence?”
　　“Yes, sir, it has.”
　　“Then why do you do it?”
　　“To assuage my fears of sexual impotence.”
　　“Why don’t you get yourself a good hobby instead?” Major Sanderson inquired with friendly interest. “Likefishing. Do you really find Nurse Duckett so attractive? I should think she was rather bony. Rather bland andbony, you know. Like a fish.”
　　“I hardly know Nurse Duckett.”
　　“Then why did you grab her by the bosom? Merely because she has one?”
　　“Dunbar did that.”
　　“Oh, don’t start that again,” Major Sanderson exclaimed with vitriolic scorn, and hurled down his pencildisgustedly. “Do you really think that you can absolve yourself of guilt by pretending to be someone else? Idon’t like you, Fortiori. Do you know that? I don’t like you at all.”
　　Yossarian felt a cold, damp wind of apprehension blow over him. “I’m not Fortiori, sir,” he said timidly. “I’mYossarian.”
　　“You’re who?”
　　“My name is Yossarian, sir. And I’m in the hospital with a wounded leg.”
　　“Your name is Fortiori,” Major Sanderson contradicted him belligerently. “And you’re in the hospital for a stonein your salivary gland.”
　　“Oh, come on, Major!” Yossarian exploded. “I ought to know who I am.”
　　“And I’ve got an official Army record here to prove it,” Major Sanderson retorted. “You’d better get a grip onyourself before it’s too late. First you’re Dunbar. Now you’re Yossarian. The next thing you know you’ll beclaiming you’re Washington Irving. Do you know what’s wrong with you? You’ve got a split personality, that’swhat’s wrong with you.”
　　“Perhaps you’re right, sir.” Yossarian agreed diplomatically.
　　“I know I’m right. You’ve got a bad persecution complex. You think people are trying to harm you.”
　　“People are trying to harm me.”
　　“You see? You have no respect for excessive authority or obsolete traditions. You’re dangerous and depraved,and you ought to be taken outside and shot!”
　　“Are you serious?”
　　“You’re an enemy of the people!”
　　“Are you nuts?” Yossarian shouted.
　　“No, I’m not nuts,” Dobbs roared furiously back in the ward, in what he imagined was a furtive whisper.
　　“Hungry Joe saw them, I tell you. He saw them yesterday when he flew to Naples to pick up some black-marketair conditioners for Colonel Cathcart’s farm. They’ve got a big replacement center there and it’s filled withhundreds of pilots, bombardiers and gunners on the way home. They’ve got forty-five missions, that’s all. A fewwith Purple Hearts have even less. Replacement crews are pouring in from the States into the other bombergroups. They want everyone to serve overseas at least once, even administrative personnel. Don’t you read thepapers? We’ve got to kill him now!”
　　“You’ve got only two more missions to fly,” Yossarian reasoned with him in a low voice. “Why take a chance?”
　　“I can get killed flying them, too,” Dobbs answered pugnaciously in his rough, quavering, overwrought voice.
　　“We can kill him the first thing tomorrow morning when he drives back from his farm. I’ve got the gun righthere.”
　　Yossarian goggled with amazement as Dobbs pulled a gun out of his pocket and displayed it high in the air. “Areyou crazy?” he hissed frantically. “Put it away. And keep your idiot voice down.”
　　“What are you worried about?” Dobbs asked with offended innocence. “No one can hear us.”
　　“Hey, knock it off down there,” a voice rang out from the far end of the ward. “Can’t you see we’re trying to nap?”
　　“What the hell are you, a wise guy?” Dobbs yelled back and spun around with clenched fists, ready to fight. Hewhirled back to Yossarian and, before he could speak, sneezed thunderously six times, staggering sideways onrubbery legs in the intervals and raising his elbows ineffectively to fend each seizure off. The lids of his wateryeyes were puffy and inflamed.
　　“Who does he think,” he demanded, sniffing spasmodically and wiping his nose with the back of his sturdy wrist,“he is, a cop or something?”
　　“He’s a C.I.D. man,” Yossarian notified him tranquilly. “We’ve got three here now and more on the way. Oh,don’t be scared. They’re after a forger named Washington Irving. They’re not interested in murderers.”
　　“Murderers?” Dobbs was affronted. “Why do you call us murderers? Just because we’re going to murder ColonelCathcart?”
　　“Be quiet, damn you!” directed Yossarian. “Can’t you whisper?”
　　“I am whispering. I—““You’re still shouting.”
　　“No, I’m not. I—““Hey, shut up down there, will you?” patients all over the ward began hollering at Dobbs.
　　“I’ll fight you all!” Dobbs screamed back at them, and stood up on a rickety wooden chair, waving the gunwildly. Yossarian caught his arm and yanked him down. Dobbs began sneezing again. “I have an allergy,” heapologized when he had finished, his nostrils running and his eyes streaming with tears.
　　“That’s too bad. You’d make a great leader of men without it.”
　　“Colonel Cathcart’s the murderer,” Dobbs complained hoarsely when he had shoved away a soiled, crumpledkhaki handkerchief. “Colonel Cathcart’s the one who’s going to murder us all if we don’t do something to stophim.”
　　“Maybe he won’t raise the missions any more. Maybe sixty is as high as he’ll go.”
　　“He always raises the missions. You know that better than I do.” Dobbs swallowed and bent his intense face veryclose to Yossarian’s, the muscles in his bronze, rocklike jaw bunching up into quivering knots. “Just say it’sokay and I’ll do the whole thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand what I’m telling you? I’m whisperingnow, ain’t I?”
　　Yossarian tore his eyes away from the gaze of burning entreaty Dobbs had fastened on him. “Why the goddamhell don’t you just go out and do it?” he protested. “Why don’t you stop talking to me about it and do it alone?”
　　“I’m afraid to do it alone. I’m afraid to do anything alone.”
　　“Then leave me out of it. I’d have to be crazy to get mixed up in something like this now. I’ve got a million-dollar leg wound here. They’re going to send me home.”
　　“Are you crazy?” Dobbs exclaimed in disbelief. “All you’ve got there is a scratch. He’ll have you back flyingcombat missions the day you come out, Purple Heart and all.”
　　“Then I really will kill him,” Yossarian vowed. “I’ll come looking for you and we’ll do it together.”
　　“Then let’s do it tomorrow while we’ve still got the chance,” Dobbs pleaded. “The chaplain says he’svolunteered the group for Avignon again. I may be killed before you get out. Look how these hands of mineshake. I can’t fly a plane. I’m not good enough.”
　　Yossarian was afraid to say yes. “I want to wait and see what happens first.”
　　“The trouble with you is that you just won’t do anything,” Dobbs complained in a thick infuriated voice.
　　“I’m doing everything I possibly can,” the chaplain explained softly to Yossarian after Dobbs had departed. “Ieven went to the medical tent to speak to Doc Daneeka about helping you.”
　　“Yes, I can see.” Yossarian suppressed a smile. “What happened?”
　　“They painted my gums purple,” the chaplain replied sheepishly.
　　“They painted his toes purple, too,” Nately added in outrage. “And then they gave him a laxative.”
　　“But I went back again this morning to see him.”
　　“And they painted his gums purple again,” said Nately.
　　“But I did get to speak to him,” the chaplain argued in a plaintive tone of self-justification. “Doctor Daneekaseems like such an unhappy man. He suspects that someone is plotting to transfer him to the Pacific Ocean. Allthis time he’s been thinking of coming to me for help. When I told him I needed his help, he wondered if therewasn’t a chaplain I couldn’t go see.” The chaplain waited in patient dejection when Yossarian and Dunbar bothbroke into laughter. “I used to think it was immoral to be unhappy,” he continued, as though keening aloud insolitude. “Now I don’t know what to think any more. I’d like to make the subject of immorality the basis of mysermon this Sunday, but I’m not sure I ought to give any sermon at all with these purple gums. Colonel Korn wasvery displeased with them.”
　　“Chaplain, why don’t you come into the hospital with us for a while and take it easy?” Yossarian invited. “Youcould be very comfortable here.”
　　The brash iniquity of the proposal tempted and amused the chaplain for a second or two. “No, I don’t think so,”
　　he decided reluctantly. “I want to arrange for a trip to the mainland to see a mail clerk named Wintergreen.
　　Doctor Daneeka told me he could help.”
　　“Wintergreen is probably the most influential man in the whole theater of operations. He’s not only a mail clerk,but he has access to a mimeograph machine. But he won’t help anybody. That’s one of the reasons he’ll go far.”
　　“I’d like to speak to him anyway. There must be somebody who will help you.”
　　“Do it for Dunbar, Chaplain,” Yossarian corrected with a superior air. “I’ve got this million-dollar leg woundthat will take me out of combat. If that doesn’t do it, there’s a psychiatrist who thinks I’m not good enough to bein the Army.”
　　“I’m the one who isn’t good enough to be in the Army,” Dunbar whined jealously. “It was my dream.”
　　“It’s not the dream, Dunbar,” Yossarian explained. “He likes your dream. It’s my personality. He thinks it’ssplit.”
　　“It’s split right down the middle,” said Major Sanderson, who had laced his lumpy GI shoes for the occasion andhad slicked his charcoal-dull hair down with some stiffening and redolent tonic. He smiled ostentatiously toshow himself reasonable and nice. “I’m not saying that to be cruel and insulting,” he continued with cruel andinsulting delight. “I’m not saying it because I hate you and want revenge. I’m not saying it because you rejectedme and hurt my feelings terribly. No, I’m a man of medicine and I’m being coldly objective. I have very badnews for you. Are you man enough to take it?”
　　“God, no!” screamed Yossarian. “I’ll go right to pieces.”
　　Major Sanderson flew instantly into a rage. “Can’t you even do one thing right?” he pleaded, turning beet-redwith vexation and crashing the sides of both fists down upon his desk together. “The trouble with you is that youthink you’re too good for all the conventions of society. You probably think you’re too good for me too, justbecause I arrived at puberty late. Well, do you know what you are? You’re a frustrated, unhappy, disillusioned,undisciplined, maladjusted young man!” Major Sanderson’s disposition seemed to mellow as he reeled off theuncomplimentary adjectives.
　　“Yes, sir,” Yossarian agreed carefully. “I guess you’re right.”
　　“Of course I’m right. You’re immature. You’ve been unable to adjust to the idea of war.”
　　“Yes, sir.”
　　“You have a morbid aversion to dying. You probably resent the fact that you’re at war and might get your headblown off any second.”
　　“I more than resent it, sir. I’m absolutely incensed.”
　　“You have deep-seated survival anxieties. And you don’t like bigots, bullies, snobs or hypocrites.
　　Subconsciously there are many people you hate.”
　　“Consciously, sir, consciously,” Yossarian corrected in an effort to help. “I hate them consciously.”
　　“You’re antagonistic to the idea of being robbed, exploited, degraded, humiliated or deceived. Misery depressesyou. Ignorance depresses you. Persecution depresses you. Violence depresses you. Slums depress you. Greeddepresses you. Crime depresses you. Corruption depresses you. You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re amanic-depressive!”
　　“Yes, sir. Perhaps I am.”
　　“Don’t try to deny it.”
　　“I’m not denying it, sir,” said Yossarian, pleased with the miraculous rapport that finally existed between them.
　　“I agree with all you’ve said.”
　　“Then you admit you’re crazy, do you?”
　　“Crazy?” Yossarian was shocked. “What are you talking about? Why am I crazy? You’re the one who’s crazy!”
　　Major Sanderson turned red with indignation again and crashed both fists down upon his thighs. “Calling mecrazy,” he shouted in a sputtering rage, “is a typically sadistic and vindictive paranoiac reaction! You really arecrazy!”
　　“Then why don’t you send me home?”
　　“And I’m going to send you home!”
　　“They’re going to send me home!” Yossarian announced jubilantly, as he hobbled back into the ward.
　　“Me too!” A. Fortiori rejoiced. “They just came to my ward and told me.”
　　“What about me?” Dunbar demanded petulantly of the doctors.
　　“You?” they replied with asperity. “You’re going with Yossarian. Right back into combat!”
　　And back into combat they both went. Yossarian was enraged when the ambulance returned him to the squadron, and he went limping for justice to Doc Daneeka, who glared at him glumly with misery and disdain.
　　“You!” Doc Daneeka exclaimed mournfully with accusing disgust, the egg-shaped pouches under both eyes firmand censorious. “All you ever think of is yourself. Go take a look at the bomb line if you want to see what’s beenhappening since you went to the hospital.”
　　Yossarian was startled. “Are we losing?”
　　“Losing?” Doc Daneeka cried. “The whole military situation has been going to hell ever since we captured Paris.
　　I knew it would happen.” He paused, his sulking ire turning to melancholy, and frowned irritably as though itwere all Yossarian’s fault. “American troops are pushing into German soil. The Russians have captured back allof Romania. Only yesterday the Greeks in the Eighth Army captured Rimini. The Germans are on the defensiveeverywhere!” Doc Daneeka paused again and fortified himself with a huge breath for a piercing ejaculation ofgrief. “There’s no more Luftwaffe left!” he wailed. He seemed ready to burst into tears. “The whole Gothic lineis in danger of collapsing!”
　　“So?” asked Yossarian. “What’s wrong?”
　　“What’s wrong?” Doc Daneeka cried. “If something doesn’t happen soon, Germany may surrender. And thenwe’ll all be sent to the Pacific!”
　　Yossarian gawked at Doc Daneeka in grotesque dismay. “Are you crazy? Do you know what you’re saying?”
　　“Yeah, it’s easy for you to laugh,” Doc Daneeka sneered.
　　“Who the hell is laughing?”
　　“At least you’ve got a chance. You’re in combat and might get killed. But what about me? I’ve got nothing tohope for.”
　　“You’re out of your goddam head!” Yossarian shouted at him emphatically, seizing him by the shirt front. “Doyou know that? Now keep your stupid mouth shut and listen to me.”
　　Doc Daneeka wrenched himself away. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m a licensed physician.”
　　“Then keep your stupid licensed physician’s mouth shut and listen to what they told me up at the hospital. I’mcrazy. Did you know that?”
　　“So?”
　　“Really crazy.”
　　“So?”
　　“I’m nuts. Cuckoo. Don’t you understand? I’m off my rocker. They sent someone else home in my place bymistake. They’ve got a licensed psychiatrist up at the hospital who examined me, and that was his verdict. I’mreally insane.”
　　“So?”
　　“So?” Yossarian was puzzled by Doc Daneeka’s inability to comprehend. “Don’t you see what that means? Nowyou can take me off combat duty and send me home. They’re not going to send a crazy man out to be killed, arethey?”
　　“Who else will go?”
 
 27、达克特护士
　　苏•安•达克特护士是个成年女性，又瘦又高，腰板笔直，长着一个圆滚滚的翘屁股和一对小巧的乳房。她的脸庞棱角分明，皮肤白里透红，眼睛小小的，鼻子和下巴尖细瘦削，一副新英格兰禁欲主义者的模样，看上去既非常可爱又非常平庸。达克特护士成熟老练，精明能干，办事果断严格。她喜欢独当一面，一向遇事不慌，无论大事小事都是自己拿主意，从来不需要别人帮忙。约塞连觉得她可怜，打算帮她一把。
　　第二天一早，当她站在约塞连的床脚边整理床单时，他悄悄把手伸到她双膝间的窄缝里，随即飞快地在她的裙子里面尽力向上摸去。达克特护士尖叫一声，猛地往上跳去，可是跳得不够高。她扭动着身体，弓着腰，以自己那神圣的部位为支点，前旋后转，左扭右摆，整整折腾了十五秒钟，才终于挣脱出来。她惊惶失措地后退到走道中间，面如纸灰，双颊抽搐个不停。她后退得太远了。一直在走道另一侧看热闹的邓巴一声不吭地从床上跃起直扑她的身后，伸出双臂一下子揽住她的胸脯。达克特护士又尖叫了一声。她甩开邓巴，远远地躲到走道的这一侧。不料约塞连又趁机扑上去一把抓住了她。她只好又一次蹦过走道，活像一只长着脚的乒乓球。
　　正严阵以待的邓巴立刻朝她猛扑过来，幸好她反应及时，闪身跳到一旁。邓巴扑了个空，从她身边蹿过病床，一头撞到地上。只听扑通一声，他便昏了过去。
　　他在地上醒来时，鼻子正在流血，这倒正和他一直假装的那种折磨人的脑病的症状一模一样。病房里闹哄哄乱成一团。达克特护士在哭泣，约塞连挨着她坐在床边，一个劲地向她赔不是。主管上校怒气冲冲地朝约塞连大喊大叫，说他绝对不能允许病人肆意调戏护士。
　　“你要他怎么样？”躺在地上的邓巴可怜巴巴地问。他一开口说话太阳穴便感到一阵阵的疼痛，疼得他身体缩成一团。“他又没干什么。”
　　“我是在说你呢！”这位很有派头的瘦上校放开嗓门吼叫道，“你要为你的所作所为受处分的。”
　　“你要他怎么样？”约塞连叫喊起来。“他不就是头朝下摔到地上去了嘛。”
　　“我也正在说你呢！”上校一转身冲着约塞连发起火来。“你抱住了达克特护士的胸脯，等着吧，你会为此而后悔的。”
　　“我没有抱住达克特护士的胸脯，”约塞连说。
　　“是我抱住达克特护士的胸脯的，”邓巴说。
　　“你们两个都疯了吗？”医生面色苍白，一边尖叫着，一边慌慌张张地向后退去。
　　“是的，医生，他的确疯了，”邓巴肯定他说，“他每天夜里都梦见自己手里拿着一条活鱼。”
　　正在后退的医生停了下来，露出既惊奇又厌恶但又不失优雅的表情，病房里静了下来，“他梦见了什么？”医生质问道。
　　“他梦见自己手里拿着一条活鱼。”
　　“是什么样的鱼？”医生转向约塞连，厉声发问道。
　　“我不知道，”约塞连答道，“我不会分辨鱼的种类。”
　　“你哪一只手拿的鱼？”
　　“不一定。”
　　“那是随着鱼而变化的，”邓巴帮腔道。
　　上校转过身，眯起眼睛怀疑地盯着邓巴。“是吗？你是怎么知道这么多的？”
　　“因为我在梦里呀，”邓巴一本正经地答道。
　　上校窘得面红耳赤。他恶狠狠地瞪着他们俩，一副决不手软的样子。“爬起来，回到你的床上去。”他咧开两片薄嘴唇命令邓巴。
　　“关于这个梦，我再也不想听你们俩讲一个字了。我手下有人专门负责听你们这类令人讨厌的疯话。”
　　上校把约塞连打发到精神病专家桑德森少校那儿。这位少校长得敦敦实实，总是笑眯眯的，显得十分和蔼可亲。他小心翼翼地问约塞连：“你究竟为什么认为费瑞杰上校讨厌你的梦呢？”
　　约塞连恭恭敬敬地回答道：“我认为，这或者是由于这个梦的某种特性，或者是由于费瑞杰上校的某种特性。”
　　“你讲得很好，”桑德森少校拍手称赞道。他穿着一双咯吱作响的步兵军鞋，一头木炭般乌黑的头发几乎朝天直竖着。“由于某种原因，”他推心置腹地说，“费瑞杰上校总是使我想起海鸥。你知道，他不大相信精神病学。”
　　“你不大喜欢海鸥吧？”约塞连问。
　　“是的，不怎么喜欢，”桑德森少校承认道。他发出一种神经质的尖笑，伸出手爱抚地摸摸他那胖得垂挂下来的双下巴，仿佛那是一把长长的山羊胡子。“我认为你的这个梦很迷人。我希望这个梦经常出现，这样我们就可以继续不断地讨论它。你想抽支烟吗？”当约塞连拒绝时，他笑了笑。“你认为究竟是什么使你产生这么大的反感，”他故意问，“连我的一支烟都不肯接受？”
　　“我刚刚熄掉一支，它还在你的烟灰缸里冒烟呢。”
　　桑德森少校抿嘴笑笑。“这个解释很巧妙。但我想我们很快就会找出真正的原因的。”他把松开的鞋带系成一个松松垮垮的蝴蝶结，然后从桌上拿过一本黄色横道拍纸簿放到膝上。“让我们谈谈你梦见的那条鱼吧。总是同一条鱼，是吗？”
　　“我不知道，约塞连回答道，“我不大会辨认鱼。”
　　“这鱼使你想到了什么？”
　　“其它的鱼。”
　　“其它的鱼又使你想到了什么？”
　　“其它的鱼。”
　　桑德森少校失望地往后一靠。“你喜欢鱼吗？”
　　“不是特别喜欢，”“那么你认为究竟是什么使你对鱼产生这样一种病态的反感呢？”桑德森少校得意洋洋地问。
　　“它们太乏味了，”约塞连回答说，“刺又太多。”
　　桑德森理解地点点头，露出讨人喜欢的、虚假的微笑。“这个解释很有意思。但我想我们很快就会找出真正的原因的。你喜欢那条鱼吗？那条你拿在手里的鱼？”
　　“我对它没有一点感情。”
　　“你不喜欢那条鱼吗？你对它怀有什么故意的或者对抗的情绪吗？”
　　“不，完全没有。事实上，我还是喜欢那条鱼的。”
　　“那么，你确实喜欢那条鱼咯？”
　　“哦，不，我对它没有一点感情。”
　　“但你刚才还说你喜欢它呢。现在你又说你对它没有一点感情。我把你的自相矛盾之处抓住了，你明白吗？”
　　“是的，长官，我想您是把我的自相矛盾之处抓住了。”
　　桑德森少校拿起他那枝粗粗的黑铅笔，得意洋洋地在拍纸簿上一笔一划地写下“自相矛盾”几个字。写完之后，他抬起头来继续问道：“你这两句话表达了你对那条鱼的自相矛盾的情绪反应，究竟是什么使你说出这两句话来的呢？”
　　“我想我对它持有一种既爱又恨的矛盾态度。”
　　听到“既爱又恨的矛盾态度”这几个字，桑德森少校高兴得跳了起来。“你的确理解了！”他喊道，欣喜若狂地把两只手放在一起拧来拧去。“唉，你想象不出我是多么孤独，天天跟那些毫无精神病常识的人谈话，想方设法给那些对我或者我的工作丝毫不感兴趣的人治病！这使我产生了一种无能为力的可怕感觉。”一丝焦虑的阴影在他的脸上一闪而过。“我似乎无法摆脱这种感觉。”
　　“真的吗？”约塞连问，他不知道还有什么话好说。“你为什么要为别人缺乏教育而责怪你自己呢？”
　　“我知道这很愚蠢，”桑德森少校心神不安地回答道，脸上带着不很雅观的、无意识的笑容。“可我一向十分看重别人的好主意。你瞧，比起我的同龄人来，我的青春期来得晚一些，这就给我带来某种——嗯，各种问题。我清清楚楚地知道，和你讨论我的这些问题将会给我带来乐趣，我真希望马上开始这种讨论，所以我不大愿意现在就把话题扯到你的问题上去。可恐怕我必须这样做。要是费瑞杰上校知道我们把全部时间都花在我的问题上的话，他准会发火的。我现在想给你看一些墨水迹，看看某些形状和颜色会使你联想起什么来。”
　　“你就别操这份心了吧，医生，不管什么东西都会使我联想起性来的。”
　　“是吗？”桑德森少校高兴得叫了起来，好像不敢相信自己的耳朵似的。“现在我们的确有了进展！你做没做过有关性生活的美梦呢？”
　　“我那条鱼的梦就是性生活的梦。”
　　“不，我的意思是真正的性生活的梦——在这种梦里，你抱住一个光屁股女人的脖子，拧她，使劲打她的脸，直打得她浑身是血，后来你就扑上去强奸她，再后来你突然哭了起来，因为你爱她爱得这么深，恨她也恨得这么深，真不知该怎么办才好。这就是我想跟你讨论的性生活的梦，你没有做过这类性生活的梦吗？”
　　约塞连摆出一副精明的神情，想了一想，下结论说：“这是鱼的梦。”
　　桑德森少校往后缩了一下，好像被人打了一巴掌似的。“对，对，当然罗，”他冷淡地随声应道，他的态度变得急躁起来，带有一种自我防护性质的对立情绪。“但不管怎么说，我希望你能做这一类的梦，也好让我看看你如何反应。今天就谈到这里吧。还有，我问你的那些问题，我希望你能梦见它们的答案。你知道，这些谈话对我和对你一样不愉快。”
　　“我会把这个说给邓巴听的，”约塞连说。
　　“邓巴？”
　　“这一切都是他开的头。是他做的梦。”
　　“噢，是邓巴，”桑德森少校冷笑道。他的自信心又恢复了。“我敢肯定，邓巴就是那个干了那么多下流事却总是让你替他受过的坏家伙，是不是？”
　　“他没有那么坏。”
　　“你到死也护着他，是不是？”
　　“倒是没达到那种程度。”
　　桑德森少校嘲讽地笑着，把“邓巴”两字写在他的拍纸簿上。
　　“你怎么一瘸一拐的？”约塞连朝门口走时他厉声问道，“你腿上究竟为什么要缠着绷带？你是疯了还是怎么的？”
　　“我的腿受了伤，就是为了这个我才住院的。”
　　“噢，不，你没受伤。”桑德森少校幸灾乐祸地盯着他，目光中充满了恶意。“你是因为唾液腺结石才住院的。说到底，你还是不够聪明，对吧？你甚至不知道自己是为什么住院的。”
　　“我是因为腿伤才住院的，”约塞连坚持道。
　　桑德森少校发出一声嘲笑，不再理会他的辩解。“好吧，请代我问候你的朋友邓巴，并请告诉他为我做一个那样的梦，行吗？”
　　但是，邓巴由于经常性的头痛而感到恶心和晕眩，无心跟桑德森少校合作。亨格利•乔倒是常做噩梦，因为他已经完成了六十次飞行任务，又在等着回家呢。可是，当他到医院里来时，他坚决不肯跟任何人谈论他的梦。
　　“难道就没有人为桑德森少校做过什么梦吗？”约塞连问，“我真的不想让他失望，他本来就已经感到被人抛弃了。”
　　“自从听说你受伤后，我一直在做一个非常奇特的梦，”牧师坦白说，“我从前每天夜里不是梦见我老婆要咽气，或者被人害死，就是梦见我孩子被一小口营养食品给噎死了。最近我梦见我在没顶的深水里游泳，一条鲨鱼正在咬我的腿，咬的部位和你缠绷带的地方正相同。”
　　“这是个美妙的梦，”邓巴大声宣布，“我敢打赌，桑德森少校肯定会爱上这个梦的。”
　　“这是个可怕的梦！”桑德森少校叫道，“里面全是些痛苦、伤残和死亡。我敢肯定，你做这个梦就是为了惹我生气。你竟然做出这种可恶的梦来，我真的说不准你该不该留在美国军队里。”
　　约塞连认为自己看到了一线希望。“也许你是对的，长官，”他狡猾地暗示道，“也许我应该停飞，回到美国去。”
　　“难道你从来都没有想到过，你不加选择地乱追女人，不过是为了缓解你下意识里对性无能的恐惧吗？”
　　“是的，长官，想到过。”
　　“那你为什么还要这样做呢？”
　　“为了缓解我对性无能的恐惧。”
　　“你为什么不能给自己另找一项有益的业余爱好呢？”桑德森少校友好而关切地问道，“比方说，钓鱼。你真的觉得达克特护士有那么大的吸引力？我倒认为她太瘦了，相当乏味，相当瘦，你明白吗？像条鱼。”
　　“我几乎不了解达克特护士。”
　　“那你为什么抱住她的胸脯呢？仅仅因为她有个胸脯吗？”
　　“那是邓巴干的。”
　　“喂，别又来这一套，”桑德森少校嘲弄地叫道，话音十分尖刻。
　　他厌恶地把笔猛地往下一摔。“你真的认为假装成另一个人就能开脱掉自己的罪责吗？我不喜欢你，福尔蒂奥里。你知道这一点吗？
　　我一点也不喜欢你。”
　　约塞连感到一阵冰冷潮湿的恐慌风一般穿胸而过。“我不是福尔蒂奥里，长官，”他战战兢兢地说，“我是约塞连。”
　　“你是谁？”
　　“我的姓是约塞连，长官，我是因为一条腿受了伤而住院的。”
　　“你的姓是福尔蒂奥里，”桑德森少校挑衅地反驳道，“你是因为唾液腺结石而住院的。”
　　“喂，得啦，少校！”约塞连火了。“我应该知道我是谁。”
　　“我这儿有一份军方的正式记录可以证明这一点，”桑德森少校反唇相讥道，“你最好趁着还来得及赶快抓住你自己。起先你是邓巴，现在你是约塞连，下回你也许会声称你是华盛顿•欧文了。
　　你知道你得了什么病吗？你得的是精神分裂症，这就是你的病。”
　　“也许你是对的，长官，”约塞连圆滑地赞同道。
　　“我知道我是对的。你有一种严重的迫害情结，你以为大家都想害你。”
　　“大家是都想害我。”
　　“你瞧见了吧？你既不尊重极度的权威，又不尊重旧式的传统。
　　你是危险的，是堕落的，应当把你拉到外面去枪毙！”
　　“你这话当真吗？”
　　“你是人民的敌人！”
　　“你是疯子吗？”约塞连叫喊起来。
　　“不，我不是疯子。”多布斯在病房里怒吼着答话，他还以为自己不过是在偷偷摸摸地耳语呢。“我告诉你吧，亨格利•乔看见他们了。他是昨天飞往那不勒斯去给卡思卡特上校的农场装运黑市空调器的时候看见他们的。他们那儿有一个很大的人员补充中心，里面住满了正预备回国的几百个飞行员、轰炸手和机枪手。他们完成了四十五次飞行任务，只有四十五次。有几个戴紫心勋章的人完成的次数还要少。从国内来的补充机组人员一批接一批地到达，全都补充到别的轰炸机大队去了。他们要求每个人至少在海外服役一次，行政人员也是这样。你难道没读报纸吗？我们应该马上杀了他！”
　　“你只要再飞两次就完成任务了。”约塞连低声劝解他。“为什么要冒这个险呢？”
　　“只飞两次也有可能被打死，”多布斯摆出一副寻衅闹事的架势回答道。他的嗓音嘶哑颤抖，显得很紧张。“明天早上我们干的第一件事就是趁他从农场开车回来时杀掉他。我这儿有枝手枪。”
　　约塞连吃了一惊，瞪大眼睛看着多布斯从衣袋里抽出手枪来，高高地举在空中摇晃着。“你疯了吗？”约塞连惊惶失措地低声制止他。“快收起来，把你那白痴嗓门放低点。”
　　“你担什么心？”多布斯傻乎乎地问，他有点不高兴了。“没有人会听见我们。”
　　“喂，你们那边说话小点声。”一个声音远远地从病房那一头传过来。“你们难道没看见我们正想睡午觉吗？”
　　“你他妈算什么人，你这个自高自大的家伙！”多布斯高声回敬道。他猛地转过身去，握紧拳头，摆出一副打架的姿势。接着他又扭转身对着约塞连，还没来得及说话，就一连打了六个响雷般的喷嚏。每打完一个喷嚏，他都要左右晃动着他那橡胶般柔韧的双腿，徒劳地抬起胳膊肘想把下一个喷嚏挡回去。他的眼睛水汪汪的，眼睑又红又肿。“他以为他是谁，”他质问道。他一边抽抽搭搭地用鼻子吸气，一边用粗壮的手腕背揩着鼻子。“他是警察还是什么人？”
　　“他是刑事调查部的人，”约塞连平静地告诉他，“我们这儿眼下有三个这样的人，还有更多的人正要来呢。嗨，别给吓住了。他们是来找一个名叫华盛顿•欧文的伪造犯的。他们对谋杀犯不感兴趣。”
　　“谋杀犯？”多布斯觉得受到了侮辱。“你为什么把我们叫做谋杀犯？就是因为我们打算杀掉卡思卡特上校吗？”
　　“闭嘴，你这该死的！”约塞连喝道，“你就不能小点声说话吗？”
　　“我是在小声说话呢。我——”
　　“你仍然在大声嚷嚷呢。”
　　“不，我没有。我——”
　　“嗨，闭上你的嘴，行不行？”病房里所有的病人都朝着多布斯叫喊起来。
　　“我跟你们这帮家伙拼了！”多布斯冲着他们尖叫道。他站到一把摇摇晃晃的木椅子上，疯狂地挥舞着他的手枪。约塞连抓住他的胳膊，使劲把他揪下来。多布斯又开始打喷嚏。“我有过敏症，”打完喷嚏后他抱歉地说。他的鼻涕直流，泪水盈眶。
　　“这太糟了，要是没有这毛病，你满可以成为一个伟大的领袖人物。”
　　“卡思卡特上校才是谋杀犯呢。”多布斯嗓音嘶哑地发着牢骚，把一条又脏又皱的土黄色手帕塞到口袋里。“就是他想要害死我们大家，我们必须想办法制止他。”
　　“也许他不会再增加飞行任务的次数了，也许他最多就增加到六十次。”
　　“他一直在增加飞行任务的次数，这你比我知道得更清楚。”多布斯咽了口唾沫，俯下身去，几乎把脸贴到了约塞连的脸上。他的脸绷得紧紧的，石头块般的古铜色腮帮子上鼓起一个个微微颤抖的肉疙瘩。“你只要说声行，明天早上我就把这件事全办好了。我跟你说的话你明白吗？我现在可是在小声说话，对不对？”
　　多布斯紧紧盯住约塞连，目光中饱含着热切的恳求。约塞连好不容易才把自己的目光移开。“你***干吗不出去干了这件事？”
　　他顶撞道，“你为什么非得对我说不行，你自己一个人干不就得了？”
　　“我一个人不敢干。不论什么事，我都不敢一个人干。”
　　“那么，别把我扯进去。我现在要是搀和到这种事情当中去，那可是傻透了。我腿上的这个伤口值一百万美元呢。他们就要把我送回国去了。”
　　“你疯了吗？”多布斯不相信地叫起来。“你那腿上不过擦破点皮。你只要一出院，他马上就会安排你参加战斗飞行，哪怕你得了紫心勋章什么的也得参加。”
　　“到那时候我会真的杀了他的，”约塞连咬牙切齿地说，“我会去找你一块干的。”
　　“趁着现在有个机会咱们明天就干了吧，”多布斯恳求道，“牧师说卡思卡特上校又去主动请战了，要求派咱们轰炸大队去轰击阿维尼翁。也许你还没出院我就被打死了。瞧瞧，我这双手直打颤，我不能开飞机了，我不行了。”
　　约塞连不敢答应他。“我想再等一等，先看看会发生什么事情。”
　　“你的毛病就是你什么都不愿意干。”多布斯给惹火了，粗声粗气地发作起来。
　　“我正在尽我的最大努力呢，”多布斯离开后，牧师向约塞连解释道，“我甚至到医务室找丹尼卡医生谈过，叫他想法帮帮你。”
　　“是的，我明白。”约塞连强忍住笑。“结果怎么样？”
　　“他们往我的牙龈上涂了紫药水。”牧师不好意思地说。
　　“他们还往他的脚趾头上涂了紫药水。”内特利愤愤地加上一句。“然后他们又给他开了轻泻剂。”
　　“可我今天早上又去见了他一次。”
　　“他们又往他的牙龈上涂了紫药水。”
　　“可我到底还是对他讲了，”牧师用自我辩解的悲哀语调争辩道，“丹尼卡医生是个忧郁的人，他怀疑有人正在策划着把他调到太平洋战区去。这些日子，他一直想来求我帮忙。当我告诉他，我需要他帮忙时，他感到很奇怪，怎么就没有一个可以让我去见见的牧师呢？”约塞连和邓巴放声大笑，牧师则垂头丧气而又耐心地等着他们笑个够。“我原来一直以为忧郁是不道德的，”他继续说下去，好像是一个人在独自大声哭泣似的。“现在我也不知道该怎样看待这个问题了。我想把不道德作为我这个礼拜天的布道主题。可是我拿不准我该不该带着涂了一层紫药水的牙龈去布道。科恩中校非常讨厌涂着紫药水的牙龈。”
　　“牧师，你为什么不到医院来跟我们一块住上一阵散散心呢？”
　　约塞连怂恿地说，“你在这儿会非常舒服的。”
　　有那么一会儿，这个轻率的馊点子曾引起了牧师的兴趣。“不，我想这不行。”他犹豫地作出了决定。“我打算到大陆去一趟，去找一个叫温特格林的邮件收发兵。丹尼卡医生告诉我，他能帮忙。”
　　“温特格林大概是整个战区最有影响的人物了。他不仅仅是个邮件收发兵，他还有机会使用一台油印机。但是他不愿意帮任何人的忙，这正是他成功的原因之一。”
　　“无论如何，我还是想跟他谈谈。总会有一个愿意帮你忙的人。”
　　“找个人帮帮邓巴吧，牧师，”约塞连态度傲慢地纠正他说，“我腿上这个值百万美元的伤口会帮我离开战场的。再不然的话，还有位精神病专家认为我不适合留在军队里呢。”
　　“我才是那个不适合留在军队里的人呢，”邓巴嫉妒地嘟囔着，“那是我的梦。”
　　“不是因为梦，邓巴，”约塞连解释说，“他挺喜欢你的梦。是因为我的精神。他认为我的精神分裂了。”
　　“你的精神正好从中间一分两半，”桑德森少校说。为了这次谈话，他把他那双笨重的步兵军鞋的鞋带系得整整齐齐，又用粘糊糊的芳香发油把他那木炭般乌黑的头发抹得光溜溜的。他假惺惺地笑着，装出一副通情达理有教养的样子。“我这么说并不是为了折磨你，侮辱你，”他带着折磨人、侮辱人的得意神情继续说，“我这么说也不是因为我恨你，想报复你，我这么说更不是因为你拒绝了我的建议，深深地伤害了我的感情。不，我是个医务工作者，我是冷静客观的。我有一个非常坏的消息要告诉你。你有足够的勇气听我说吗？”
　　“上帝啊，千万别说！”约塞连叫道，“我马上就会崩溃的。”
　　桑德森少校顿时大怒。“你就不能认认真真地做一件事吗？”他恳求道。他气得涨红了脸，两只拳头一起朝桌面捶去。“你的毛病在于你自以为了不起，什么社会习俗都不遵守。你大概也瞧不起我吧，我不就是青春期来得迟一点嘛。好吧，你知道你是什么东西吗。
　　你是个屡遭挫折、倒霉透顶、灰心丧气、目无法纪、适应不良的毛孩子！”桑德森少校放连珠炮似他说出这一长串贬意词之后，火气似乎逐渐平息下来了。
　　“是的，长官，”约塞连小心翼翼地附和道，“我想您是对的。”
　　“我当然是对的。你还不成熟，还不能适应战争的观念。”
　　“是的，长官。”
　　“你对死有一种病态的反感，对打仗随时可能掉脑袋这一实际情况，你大概也心怀怨恨吧。”
　　“岂止是怨恨，长官，我满腔怒火。”
　　“你的生存欲望根深蒂固。你不喜欢固执已见的人，也不喜欢恶棍、势利小人和伪君子。你下意识地恨许多人。”
　　“是有意识地，长官，”约塞连帮着纠正道，“我是有意识地恨他们的。”
　　“一想到被剥夺、被剥削、被贬低、受侮辱和受欺骗这种种现象，你就愤愤不平。痛苦使你感到压抑，无知使你感到压抑，迫害使你感到压抑，罪恶使你感到压抑，腐化使你感到压抑。你知道吗，你要不是个抑郁症患者，那我才会感到吃惊呢！”
　　“是的，长官，也许我是的。”
　　“你别想抵赖。”
　　“我没抵赖，长官，”约塞连说。他很高兴，他们俩之间终于达到了这种奇迹般的和睦关系。“我同意你所说的一切。”
　　“那么，你承认你疯了，是吗？”
　　“我疯了？”约塞连大为震惊。“你在说什么呀？我为什么要疯呢，你才疯了呢？”
　　桑德森少校又一次气得涨红了脸，两只拳头一起朝大腿上捶去。“你竟敢骂我疯了，”他气急败坏地大声嚷道，“你这是典型的施虐狂、报复狂、偏执狂的反应！你真的疯了！”
　　“那你为什么不把我打发回国去呢？”
　　“我是要打发你回国去的！”
　　“他们要打发我回国去啦！”约塞连一瘸一拐地走回病房，兴高采烈地宣布了这个消息。
　　“我也要回国了！”安•福尔蒂奥里高兴地说，“他们刚才到病房里来告诉我的。”
　　“那我怎么办？”邓巴气愤地质问医生们。
　　“你吗？”他们粗暴地回答道，“你和约塞连一块走，马上回到战斗岗位上去！”
　　于是，他们俩都回到战斗岗位上去了。一辆救护车把约塞连送回到中队。他怒气冲冲，一瘸一拐地去找丹尼卡医生评理。丹尼卡一脸愁容，痛苦而轻蔑地盯着他。
　　“你！”丹尼卡医生悲哀地大声训斥他。他一脸厌恶的表情，连两只眼睛下面的蛋形眼袋都显得严厉而苛刻。“你只想着你自己。
　　你要是想知道自从你住院之后发生了什么事情，就到那条轰炸线那儿去看看吧。”
　　约塞连吃惊地问：“我们输了吗？”
　　“输了？”丹尼卡医生叫道，“自从我们攻占巴黎以后，整个军事形势变得糟糕透顶。”他停顿了一会，一腔怒火渐渐变成了忧愁烦恼。他烦躁地皱起眉头，好像这一切全是约塞连的错误似的。“美国军队正在德国人的土地上向前推进，俄国人已经夺回了整个罗马尼亚。就在昨天，第八军团的希腊部队攻占了里米尼。德国人正在四面挨打！”丹尼卡医生又停顿了一下，深深地吸了一口气，憋足劲，突然发出一声痛苦的尖叫。“德国空军完蛋了！”他呜咽道，泪水似乎马上就要夺眶而出。“哥特人的整条战线一触即溃！”
　　“怎么啦？”约塞连问，“这有什么不好吗？”
　　“这有什么不好吗？”丹尼卡医生叫了起来。“如果不会很快出
Chapter 28 Dobbs
    McWatt went, and McWatt was not crazy. And so did Yossarian, still walking with a limp, and when Yossarianhad gone two more times and then found himself menaced by the rumor of another mission to Bologna, helimped determinedly into Dobbs’s tent early one warm afternoon, put a finger to his mouth and said, “Shush!”
　　“What are you shushing him for?” asked Kid Sampson, peeling a tangerine with his front teeth as he perused thedog-eared pages of a comic book. “He isn’t even saying anything.”
　　“Screw,” said Yossarian to Kid Sampson, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder toward the entrance of thetent.
　　Kid Sampson cocked his blond eyebrows discerningly and rose to co-operate. He whistled upward four timesinto his drooping yellow mustache and spurted away into the hills on the dented old green motorcycle he hadpurchased secondhand months before. Yossarian waited until the last faint bark of the motor had died away inthe distance. Things inside the tent did not seem quite normal. The place was too neat. Dobbs was watching himcuriously, smoking a fat cigar. Now that Yossarian had made up his mind to be brave, he was deathly afraid.
　　“All right,” he said. “Let’s kill Colonel Cathcart. We’ll do it together.”
　　Dobbs sprang forward off his cot with a look of wildest terror. “Shush!” he roared. “Kill Colonel Cathcart? Whatare you talking about?”
　　“Be quiet, damn it,” Yossarian snarled. “The whole island will hear. Have you still got that gun?”
　　“Are you crazy or something?” shouted Dobbs. “Why should I want to kill Colonel Cathcart?”
　　“Why?” Yossarian stared at Dobbs with an incredulous scowl. “Why? It was your idea, wasn’t it? Didn’t youcome to the hospital and ask me to do it?”
　　Dobbs smiled slowly. “But that was when I had only fifty-eight missions,” he explained, puffing on his cigarluxuriously. “I’m all packed now and I’m waiting to go home. I’ve finished my sixty missions.”
　　“So what?” Yossarian replied. “He’s only going to raise them again.”
　　“Maybe this time he won’t.”
　　“He always raises them. What the hell’s the matter with you, Dobbs? Ask Hungry Joe how many time he’spacked his bags.”
　　“I’ve got to wait and see what happens,” Dobbs maintained stubbornly. “I’d have to be crazy to get mixed up insomething like this now that I’m out of combat.” He flicked the ash from his cigar. “No, my advice to you,” heremarked, “is that you fly your sixty missions like the rest of us and then see what happens.”
　　Yossarian resisted the impulse to spit squarely in his eye. “I may not live through sixty,” he wheedled in a flat,pessimistic voice. “There’s a rumor around that he volunteered the group for Bologna again.”
　　“It’s only a rumor,” Dobbs pointed out with a self-important air. “You mustn’t believe every rumor you hear.”
　　“Will you stop giving me advice?”
　　“Why don’t you speak to Orr?” Dobbs advised. “Orr got knocked down into the water again last week on thatsecond mission to Avignon. Maybe he’s unhappy enough to kill him.”
　　“Orr hasn’t got brains enough to be unhappy.”
　　Orr had been knocked down into the water again while Yossarian was still in the hospital and had eased hiscrippled airplane down gently into the glassy blue swells off Marseilles with such flawless skill that not onemember of the six-man crew suffered the slightest bruise. The escape hatches in the front and rear sections flewopen while the sea was still foaming white and green around the plane, and the men scrambled out as speedily asthey could in their flaccid orange Mae West life jackets that failed to inflate and dangled limp and useless aroundtheir necks and waists. The life jackets failed to inflate because Milo had removed the twin carbon-dioxidecylinders from the inflating chambers to make the strawberry and crushed-pineapple ice-cream sodas he servedin the officers’ mess hall and had replaced them with mimeographed notes that read: “What’s good for M & MEnterprises is good for the country.” Orr popped out of the sinking airplane last.
　　“You should have seen him!” Sergeant Knight roared with laughter as he related the episode to Yossarian. “Itwas the funniest goddam thing you ever saw. None of the Mae Wests would work because Milo had stolen thecarbon dioxide to make those ice-cream sodas you bastards have been getting in the officers’ mess. But that wasn’t too bad, as it turned out. Only one of us couldn’t swim, and we lifted that guy up into the raft after Orrhad worked it over by its rope right up against the fuselage while we were all still standing on the plane. Thatlittle crackpot sure has a knack for things like that. Then the other raft came loose and drifted away, so that allsix of us wound up sitting in one with our elbows and legs pressed so close against each other you almostcouldn’t move without knocking the guy next to you out of the raft into the water. The plane went down aboutthree seconds after we left it and we were out there all alone, and right after that we began unscrewing the capson our Mae Wests to see what the hell had gone wrong and found those goddam notes from Milo telling us thatwhat was good for him was good enough for the rest of us. That bastard! Jesus, did we curse him, all except thatbuddy of yours, Orr, who just kept grinning as though for all he cared what was good for Milo might be goodenough for the rest of us.
　　“I swear, you should have seen him sitting up there on the rim of the raft like the captain of a ship while the restof us just watched him and waited for him to tell us what to do. He kept slapping his hands on his legs every fewseconds as though he had the shakes and saying, ‘All right now, all right,’ and giggling like a crazy little freak,then saying, ‘All right now, all right,’ again, and giggling like a crazy little freak some more. It was likewatching some kind of a moron. Watching him was all that kept us from going to pieces altogether during thefirst few minutes, what with each wave washing over us into the raft or dumping a few of us back into the waterso that we had to climb back in again before the next wave came along and washed us right back out. It was surefunny. We just kept falling out and climbing back in. We had the guy who couldn’t swim stretched out in themiddle of the raft on the floor, but even there he almost drowned, because the water inside the raft was deepenough to keep splashing in his face. Oh, boy!
　　“Then Orr began opening up compartments in the raft, and the fun really began. First he found a box ofchocolate bars and he passed those around so we sat there eating salty chocolate bars while the waves keptknocking us out of the raft into the water. Next he found some bouillon cubes and aluminum cups and made ussome soup. Then he found some tea. Sure, he made it! Can’t you see him serving us tea as we sat there soakingwet in water up to our ass? Now I was falling out of the raft because I was laughing so much. We were alllaughing. And he was dead serious, except for that goofy giggle of his and that crazy grin. What a jerk! Whateverhe found he used. He found some shark repellent and he sprinkled it right out into the water. He found somemarker dye and he threw it into the water. The next thing he finds is a fishing line and dried bait, and his facelights up as though the Air-Sea Rescue launch had just sped up to save us before we died of exposure or beforethe Germans sent a boat out from Spezia to take us prisoner or machine-gun us. In no time at all, Orr had thatfishing line out into the water, trolling away as happy as a lark. ‘Lieutenant, what do you expect to catch?’ Iasked him. ‘Cod,’ he told me. And he meant it. And it’s a good thing he didn’t catch any, because he would haveeaten that codfish raw if he had caught any, and would have made us eat it, too, because he had found this littlebook that said it was all right to eat codfish raw.
　　“The next thing he found was this little blue oar about the size of a Dixie-cup spoon, and, sure enough, he beganrowing with it, trying to move all nine hundred pounds of us with that little stick. Can you imagine? After that hefound a small magnetic compass and a big waterproof map, and he spread the map open on his knees and set thecompass on top of it. And that’s how he spent the time until the launch picked us up about thirty minutes later,sitting there with that baited fishing line out behind him, with the compass in his lap and the map spread out onhis knees, and paddling away as hard as he could with that dinky blue oar as though he was speeding to Majorca.
　　Jesus!”
　　Sergeant Knight knew all about Majorca, and so did Orr, because Yossarian had told them often of suchsanctuaries as Spain, Switzerland and Sweden where American fliers could be interned for the duration of thewar under conditions of utmost ease and luxury merely by flying there. Yossarian was the squadron’s leadingauthority on internment and had already begun plotting an emergency heading into Switzerland on every missionhe flew into northernmost Italy. He would certainly have preferred Sweden, where the level of intelligence washigh and where he could swim nude with beautiful girls with low, demurring voices and sire whole happy,undisciplined tribes of illegitimate Yossarians that the state would assist through parturition and launch into lifewithout stigma; but Sweden was out of reach, too far away, and Yossarian waited for the piece of flak that wouldknock out one engine over the Italian Alps and provide him with the excuse for heading for Switzerland. Hewould not even tell his pilot he was guiding him there. Yossarian often thought of scheming with some pilot hetrusted to fake a crippled engine and then destroy the evidence of deception with a belly landing, but the onlypilot he really trusted was McWatt, who was happiest where he was and still got a big boot out of buzzing hisplane over Yossarian’s tent or roaring in so low over the bathers at the beach that the fierce wind from hispropellers slashed dark furrows in the water and whipped sheets of spray flapping back for seconds afterward.
　　Dobbs and Hungry Joe were out of the question, and so was Orr, who was tinkering with the valve of the stoveagain when Yossarian limped despondently back into the tent after Dobbs had turned him down. The stove Orrwas manufacturing out of an inverted metal drum stood in the middle of the smooth cement floor he hadconstructed. He was working sedulously on both knees. Yossarian tried paying no attention to him and limpedwearily to his cot and sat down with a labored, drawn-out grunt. Prickles of perspiration were turning chilly onhis forehead. Dobbs had depressed him. Doc Daneeka depressed him. An ominous vision of doom depressed himwhen he looked at Orr. He began ticking with a variety of internal tremors. Nerves twitched, and the vein in onewrist began palpitating.
　　Orr studied Yossarian over his shoulder, his moist lips drawn back around convex rows of large buck teeth.
　　Reaching sideways, he dug a bottle of warm beer out of his foot locker, and he handed it to Yossarian afterprying off the cap. Neither said a word. Yossarian sipped the bubbles off the top and tilted his head back. Orrwatched him cunningly with a noiseless grin. Yossarian eyed Orr guardedly. Orr snickered with a slight, mucidsibilance and turned back to his work, squatting. Yossarian grew tense.
　　“Don’t start,” he begged in a threatening voice, both hands tightening around his beer bottle. “Don’t startworking on your stove.”
　　Orr cackled quietly. “I’m almost finished.”
　　“No, you’re not. You’re about to begin.”
　　“Here’s the valve. See? It’s almost all together.”
　　“And you’re about to take it apart. I know what you’re doing, you bastard. I’ve seen you do it three hundredtimes.”
　　Orr shivered with glee. “I want to get the leak in this gasoline line out,” he explained. “I’ve got it down now towhere it’s only an ooze.”
　　“I can’t watch you,” Yossarian confessed tonelessly. “If you want to work with something big, that’s okay. Butthat valve is filled with tiny parts, and I just haven’t got the patience right now to watch you working so hardover things that are so goddam small and unimportant.”
　　“Just because they’re small doesn’t mean they’re unimportant.”
　　“I don’t care.”
　　“Once more?”
　　“When I’m not around. You’re a happy imbecile and you don’t know what it means to feel the way I do. Thingshappen to me when you work over small things that I can’t even begin to explain. I find out that I can’t standyou. I start to hate you, and I’m soon thinking seriously about busting this bottle down on your head or stabbingyou in the neck with that hunting knife there. Do you understand?”
　　Orr nodded very intelligently. “I won’t take the valve apart now,” he said, and began taking it apart, workingwith slow, tireless, interminable precision, his rustic, ungainly face bent very close to the floor, pickingpainstakingly at the minute mechanism in his fingers with such limitless, plodding concentration that he seemedscarcely to be thinking of it at all.
　　Yossarian cursed him silently and made up his mind to ignore him. “What the hell’s your hurry with that stove,anyway?” he barked out a moment later in spite of himself. “It’s still hot out. We’re probably going swimminglater. What are you worried about the cold for.”
　　“The days are getting shorter,” Orr observed philosophically. “I’d like to get this all finished for you whilethere’s still time. You’ll have the best stove in the squadron when I’m through. It will burn all night with thisfeed control I’m fixing, and these metal plates will radiate the heat all over the tent. If you leave a helmet full ofwater on this thing when you go to sleep, you’ll have warm water to wash with all ready for you when you wakeup. Won’t that be nice? If you want to cook eggs or soup, all you’ll have to do is set the pot down here and turnthe fire up.”
　　“What do you mean, me?” Yossarian wanted to know. “Where are you going to be?”
　　Orr’s stunted torso shook suddenly with a muffled spasm of amusement. “I don’t know,” he exclaimed, and aweird, wavering giggle gushed out suddenly through his chattering buck teeth like an exploding jet of emotion.
　　He was still laughing when he continued, and his voice was clogged with saliva. “If they keep on shooting medown this way, I don’t know where I’m going to be.”
　　Yossarian was moved. “Why don’t you try to stop flying, Orr? You’ve got an excuse.”
　　“I’ve only got eighteen missions.”
　　“But you’ve been shot down on almost every one. You’re either ditching or crash-landing every time you go up.”
　　“Oh, I don’t mind flying missions. I guess they’re lots of fun. You ought to try flying a few with me when you’renot flying lead. Just for laughs. Tee-hee.” Orr gazed up at Yossarian through the corners of his eyes with a lookof pointed mirth.
　　Yossarian avoided his stare. “They’ve got me flying lead again.”
　　“When you’re not flying lead. If you had any brains, do you know what you’d do? You’d go right to Piltchardand Wren and tell them you want to fly with me.”
　　“And get shot down with you every time you go up? What’s the fun in that?”
　　“That’s just why you ought to do it,” Orr insisted. “I guess I’m just about the best pilot around now when itcomes to ditching or making crash landings. It would be good practice for you.”
　　“Good practice for what?”
　　“Good practice in case you ever have to ditch or make a crash landing. Tee-hee-hee.”
　　“Have you got another bottle of beer for me?” Yossarian asked morosely.
　　“Do you want to bust it down on my head?”
　　This time Yossarian did laugh. “Like that whore in that apartment in Rome?”
　　Orr sniggered lewdly, his bulging crab apple cheeks blowing outward with pleasure. “Do you really want toknow why she was hitting me over the head with her shoe?” he teased.
　　“I do know,” Yossarian teased back. “Nately’s whore told me.”
　　Orr grinned like a gargoyle. “No she didn’t.”
　　Yossarian felt sorry for Orr. Orr was so small and ugly. Who would protect him if he lived? Who would protect awarm-hearted, simple-minded gnome like Orr from rowdies and cliques and from expert athletes like Applebywho had flies in their eyes and would walk right over him with swaggering conceit and self-assurance everychance they got? Yossarian worried frequently about Orr. Who would shield him against animosity and deceit,against people with ambition and the embittered snobbery of the big shot’s wife, against the squalid, corruptingindignities of the profit motive and the friendly neighborhood butcher with inferior meat? Orr was a happy andunsuspecting simpleton with a thick mass of wavy polychromatic hair parted down the center. He would be mere child’s play for them. They would take his money, screw his wife and show no kindness to his children.
　　Yossarian felt a flood of compassion sweep over him.
　　Orr was an eccentric midget, a freakish, likable dwarf with a smutty mind and a thousand valuable skills thatwould keep him in a low income group all his life. He could use a soldering iron and hammer two boardstogether so that the wood did not split and the nails did not bend. He could drill holes. He had built a good dealmore in the tent while Yossarian was away in the hospital. He had filed or chiseled a perfect channel in thecement so that the slender gasoline line was flush with the floor as it ran to the stove from the tank he had builtoutside on an elevated platform. He had constructed andirons for the fireplace out of excess bomb parts and hadfilled them with stout silver logs, and he had framed with stained wood the photographs of girls with big breastshe had torn out of cheesecake magazines and hung over the mantelpiece. Orr could open a can of paint. He couldmix paint, thin paint, remove paint. He could chop wood and measure things with a ruler. He knew how to buildfires. He could dig holes, and he had a real gift for bringing water for them both in cans and canteens from thetanks near the mess hall. He could engross himself in an inconsequential task for hours without growing restlessor bored, as oblivious to fatigue as the stump of a tree, and almost as taciturn. He had an uncanny knowledge ofwildlife and was not afraid of dogs or cats or beetles or moths, or of foods like scrod or tripe.
　　Yossarian sighed drearily and began brooding about the rumored mission to Bologna. The valve Orr wasdismantling was about the size of a thumb and contained thirty-seven separate parts, excluding the casing, manyof them so minute that Orr was required to pinch them tightly between the tips of his fingernails as he placedthem carefully on the floor in orderly, catalogued rows, never quickening his movements or slowing them down,never tiring, never pausing in his relentless, methodical, monotonous procedure unless it was to leer at Yossarianwith maniacal mischief. Yossarian tried not to watch him. He counted the parts and thought he would go clearout of his mind. He turned away, shutting his eyes, but that was even worse, for now he had only the sounds, thetiny maddening, indefatigable, distinct clicks and rustles of hands and weightless parts. Orr was breathingrhythmically with a noise that was stertorous and repulsive. Yossarian clenched his fists and looked at the longbone-handled hunting knife hanging in a holster over the cot of the dead man in the tent. As soon as he thoughtof stabbing Orr, his tension eased. The idea of murdering Orr was so ridiculous that he began to consider itseriously with queer whimsy and fascination. He searched the nape of Orr’s neck for the probable site of themedulla oblongata. Just the daintiest stick there would kill him and solve so many serious, agonizing problemsfor them both.
　　“Does it hurt?” Orr asked at precisely that moment, as though by protective instinct.
　　Yossarian eyed him closely. “Does what hurt?”
　　“Your leg,” said Orr with a strange, mysterious laugh. “You still limp a little.”
　　“It’s just a habit, I guess,” said Yossarian, breathing again with relief. “I’ll probably get over it soon.”
　　Orr rolled over sideways to the floor and came up on one knee, facing toward Yossarian. “Do you remember,” hedrawled reflectively, with an air of labored recollection, “that girl who was hitting me on the head that day inRome?” He chuckled at Yossarian’s involuntary exclamation of tricked annoyance. “I’ll make a deal with you about that girl. I’ll tell you why that girl was hitting me on the head with her shoe that day if you answer onequestion.”
　　“What’s the question?”
　　“Did you ever screw Nately’s girl?”
　　Yossarian laughed with surprise. “Me? No. Now tell me why that girl hit you with her shoe.”
　　“That wasn’t the question,” Orr informed him with victorious delight. “That was just conversation. She acts likeyou screwed her.”
　　“Well, I didn’t. How does she act?”
　　“She acts like she don’t like you.”
　　“She doesn’t like anyone.”
　　“She likes Captain Black,” Orr reminded.
　　“That’s because he treats her like dirt. Anyone can get a girl that way.”
　　“She wears a slave bracelet on her leg with his name on it.”
　　“He makes her wear it to needle Nately.”
　　“She even gives him some of the money she gets from Nately.”
　　“Listen, what do you want from me?”
　　“Did you ever screw my girl?”
　　“Your girl? Who the hell is your girl?”
　　“The one who hit me over the head with her shoe.”
　　“I’ve been with her a couple of times,” Yossarian admitted. “Since when is she your girl? What are you gettingat?”
　　“She don’t like you, either.”
　　“What the hell do I care if she likes me or not? She likes me as much as she likes you.”
　　“Did she ever hit you over the head with her shoe?”
　　“Orr, I’m tired. Why don’t you leave me alone?”
　　“Tee-hee-hee. How about that skinny countess in Rome and her skinny daughter-in-law?” Orr persisted impishlywith increasing zest. “Did you ever screw them?”
　　“Oh, how I wish I could,” sighed Yossarian honestly, imagining, at the mere question, the prurient, used,decaying feel in his petting hands of their teeny, pulpy buttocks and breasts.
　　“They don’t like you either,” commented Orr. “They like Aarfy, and they like Nately, but they don’t like you.
　　Women just don’t seem to like you. I think they think you’re a bad influence.”
　　“Women are crazy,” Yossarian answered, and waited grimly for what he knew was coming next.
　　“How about that other girl of yours?” Orr asked with a pretense of pensive curiosity. “The fat one? The baldone? You know, that fat bald one in Sicily with the turban who kept sweating all over us all night long? Is shecrazy too?”
　　“Didn’t she like me either?”
　　“How could you do it to a girl with no hair?”
　　“How was I supposed to know she had no hair?”
　　“I knew it,” Orr bragged. “I knew it all the time.”
　　“You knew she was bald?” Yossarian exclaimed in wonder.
　　“No, I knew this valve wouldn’t work if I left a part out,” Orr answered, glowing with cranberry-red elationbecause he had just duped Yossarian again. “Will you please hand me that small composition gasket that rolledover there? It’s right near your foot.”
　　“No it isn’t.”
　　“Right here,” said Orr, and took hold of something invisible with the tips of his fingernails and held it up forYossarian to see. “Now I’ll have to start all over again.”
　　“I’ll kill you if you do. I’ll murder you right on the spot.”
　　“Why don’t you ever fly with me?” Orr asked suddenly, and looked straight into Yossarian’s face for the firsttime. “There, that’s the question I want you to answer. Why don’t you ever fly with me?”
　　Yossarian turned away with intense shame and embarrassment. “I told you why. They’ve got me flying leadbombardier most of the time.”
　　“That’s not why,” Orr said, shaking his head. “You went to Piltchard and Wren after the first Avignon missionand told them you didn’t ever want to fly with me. That’s why, isn’t it?”
　　Yossarian felt his skin turn hot. “No I didn’t,” he lied.
　　“Yes you did,” Orr insisted equably. “You asked them not to assign you to any plane piloted by me, Dobbs orHuple because you didn’t have confidence in us at the controls. And Piltchard and Wren said they couldn’t makean exception of you because it wouldn’t be fair to the men who did have to fly with us.”
　　“So?” said Yossarian. “It didn’t make any difference then, did it?”
　　“But they’ve never made you fly with me.” Orr, working on both knees again, was addressing Yossarian withoutbitterness or reproach, but with injured humility, which was infinitely more painful to observe, although he wasstill grinning and snickering, as though the situation were comic. “You really ought to fly with me, you know.
　　I’m a pretty good pilot, and I’d take care of you. I may get knocked down a lot, but that’s not my fault, andnobody’s ever been hurt in my plane. Yes, sir—if you had any brains, you know what you’d do? You’d go rightto Piltchard and Wren and tell them you want to fly all your missions with me.”
　　Yossarian leaned forward and peered closely into Orr’s inscrutable mask of contradictory emotions. “Are youtrying to tell me something?”
　　“Tee-hee-hee-hee,” Orr responded. “I’m trying to tell you why that big girl with the shoe was hitting me on thehead that day. But you just won’t let me.”
　　“Tell me.”
　　“Will you fly with me?”
　　Yossarian laughed and shook his head. “You’ll only get knocked down into the water again.”
　　Orr did get knocked down into the water again when the rumored mission to Bologna was flown, and he landedhis single-engine plane with a smashing jar on the choppy, windswept waves tossing and falling below thewarlike black thunderclouds mobilizing overhead. He was late getting out of the plane and ended up alone in araft that began drifting away from the men in the other raft and was out of sight by the time the Air-Sea Rescuelaunch came plowing up through the wind and splattering raindrops to take them aboard. Night was alreadyfalling by the time they were returned to the squadron. There was no word of Orr.
　　“Don’t worry,” reassured Kid Sampson, still wrapped in the heavy blankets and raincoat in which he had beenswaddled on the boat by his rescuers. “He’s probably been picked up already if he didn’t drown in that storm. Itdidn’t last long. I bet he’ll show up any minute.”
　　Yossarian walked back to his tent to wait for Orr to show up any minute and lit a fire to make things warm forhim. The stove worked perfectly, with a strong, robust blaze that could be raised or lowered by turning the tapOrr had finally finished repairing. A light rain was falling, drumming softly on the tent, the trees, the ground.
　　Yossarian cooked a can of hot soup to have ready for Orr and ate it all himself as the time passed. He hard-boiledsome eggs for Orr and ate those too. Then he ate a whole tin of Cheddar cheese from a package of K rations.
　　Each time he caught himself worrying he made himself remember that Orr could do everything and broke intosilent laughter at the picture of Orr in the raft as Sergeant Knight had described him, bent forward with a busy,preoccupied smile over the map and compass in his lap, stuffing one soaking-wet chocolate bar after another intohis grinning, tittering mouth as he paddled away dutifully through the lightning, thunder and rain with the bright-blue useless toy oar, the fishing line with dried bait trailing out behind him. Yossarian really had no doubt aboutOrr’s ability to survive. If fish could be caught with that silly fishing line, Orr would catch them, and if it wascodfish he was after, then Orr would catch a codfish, even though no codfish had ever been caught in thosewaters before. Yossarian put another can of soup up to cook and ate that too when it was hot. Every time a cardoor slammed, he broke into a hopeful smile and turned expectantly toward the entrance, listening for footsteps.
　　He knew that any moment Orr would come walking into the tent with big, glistening, rain-soaked eyes, cheeksand buck teeth, looking ludicrously like a jolly New England oysterman in a yellow oilskin rain hat and slickernumerous sizes too large for him and holding up proudly for Yossarian’s amusement a great dead codfish he hadcaught. But he didn’t.
 28、多布斯
　　麦克沃特没有疯，麦克沃特执行任务去了。约塞连也执行了飞行任务，走路时仍然一瘸一拐的，又飞了两次之后，约塞连听说还要到博洛尼亚去执行一次飞行任务，感到生命受到了威胁，便在一个温暖的午后坚定地跛着脚走进多布斯的帐篷，把一个手指头放到嘴边，说了声“嘘！”
　　“你干吗要这样？”基德•桑普森问道。他正在仔细地读着一本破旧的连环漫画册，一边用门牙剥开一只橘子的皮。“他还什么都没说呢。”
　　约塞连把大拇指朝自己背后的帐篷出口处一指，对基德•桑音森说：“滚出去。”
　　基德•桑普森理解地扬了扬他那淡黄的眉毛，顺从地起身往外走。他朝自己那垂到唇边的焦黄的小胡子吹了四声口哨，跨上那辆被撞得凹凸不平的绿色摩托车，向山里飞驰而去。这辆旧摩托车是他几个月前买的二手货。约塞连一直等到摩托车最后的微弱声响在远处完全消失掉。帐篷里的情况不大对劲，收拾得过于整洁了。多布斯抽着一支粗粗的雪茄，好奇地打量着他，既然约塞连已经拿定主意要大胆行事，他感到害怕得要命。
　　“好吧，”他说，“我们去杀掉卡思卡特上校吧。我们俩一块干。”
　　多布斯大惊失色，噌地一下从行军床上蹦了起来。“嘘！”他吼叫道，“杀死卡思卡特上校？你在说什么呀？”
　　“你小声点，该死的，”约塞连咆哮着说，“全岛的人都听见了。
　　你那枝枪还在吗？”
　　“你是疯了还是怎么啦？”多布斯大声说，“我为什么要杀死卡思卡特上校呢？”
　　“为什么？”约塞连满脸疑惑地瞪着多布斯。“为什么？这是你的主意，不是吗？不是你到医院去叫我来干的吗？”
　　多布斯淡淡一笑，“那时候我只完成了五十八次飞行任务，”他美美地吐了一口雪茄烟，解释道，“可现在我行李都捆好啦，就等着回国了，我已经完成了我的六十次飞行任务了。”
　　“那又怎么样？”约塞连反驳道，“他还会再增加飞行任务的次数的。”
　　“也许这次他不会。”
　　“他一直在增加次数。你***怎么啦，多布斯？问问亨格利•乔，他捆好多少次行李了。”
　　“我得再等一等，看看会发生什么事情，”多布斯执拗地坚持道，“我已经离开了战斗岗位，现在要是再搀和到这种事情当中去，那可是真疯了。”他轻轻弹去雪茄的烟灰。“不，要我说呀，”他劝道，“你先像我们这样完成你的六十次飞行任务，然后看看情况再决定。”
　　约塞连克制着朝他眼睛啐一口唾沫的冲动。“我也许飞不完六十次就送命了，”他用干巴巴的悲观腔调哄骗多布斯说，“这儿到处都在传说，他又去主动请战，要求再派我们大队去轰炸博洛尼亚。”
　　“这不过是谣传，”多布斯带着自命不凡的神情向他指出，“你不要听到什么谣传都相信。”
　　“你别对我指手划脚好不好？”
　　“你为什么不去和奥尔谈谈呢？”多布斯建议道，“上星期第二次飞到阿维尼翁执行任务时，奥尔又被击落到水里了。也许他很生气，正想干掉他呢。”
　　“奥尔没有头脑，他才不会生气呢。”
　　约塞连还在医院里时，奥尔又一次被击落到水里。他驾着受伤的飞机缓缓滑落到马赛港外明镜般清澈的碧波上。他的技术棒极了，机组的六个成员连一根毫毛也没伤着。海水还在飞机周围翻腾着蓝白相间的浪花时，飞机前后舱的应急出口便迅速打开，穿着松软的橙色飞行救生衣的机组人员尽可能快地爬了出来。他们的救生衣没能充气，软瘪瘪地垂挂在他们的脖子上，系在他们的腰间，丝毫不起作用。救生衣没能充气，是因为米洛从充气膛里取走了二氧化碳双管充气筒。他拿它们去做草莓和菠萝冰淇淋苏打，供应给军官食堂。在充气膛里，他贴上液印的纸条代替充气筒，上面印着“有益于M&M辛迪加联合体就是有益于国家。”奥尔是最后一个从下沉的飞机里蹦出来的。
　　“你要是看见当时他那副样子就好了！”奈特中士向约塞连讲述事情经过时笑得震天响。“这是你这辈子见过的最他妈滑稽可笑的事。那些救生衣全部不管用了，就因为米洛偷走了二氧化碳，给你们这些在军官食堂就餐的家伙做冰淇淋苏打去了。不过结果证明，那还不算太糟。我们中间只有一个人不会游泳，我们把这家伙抬起来放到救生筏里。当我们还都站在飞机上时，奥尔就用绳子系着这只救生筏，把它贴着机身下降到海面上去了。那个古怪的小家伙干这种事情的确很在行。后来，另一只救生筏绳子松开漂走了。
　　所以我们六个人最后只好挤在一只小筏上，胳膊肘碰胳膊肘，大腿紧挨大腿，谁也不能动弹一下，否则就会把你旁边的那个家伙挤到水里去。我们离开飞机大约只有二秒钟，飞机就沉下去了，把我们几个人孤零零地甩在救生筏上。我们随即打开救生衣充气膛的螺帽，看看里面***出了什么毛病，这才发现米洛那些向我们宣称凡有益于他就有益于我们其余人的该死的纸条。这个狗杂种！***，我们大伙全都在诅咒他，只有你那个伙计奥尔除外，他一直咧嘴笑着，好像他觉得有益于米洛的也可能真的有益于我们其余的人。
　　“我发誓，你真应该看看他当时那副模样，他像个船长坐在救生筏边沿上，我们其余的人全都望着他，等着他告诉我们该怎么办。他每隔几秒钟就打摆子似地用手拍拍大腿说：‘现在没事了，没事了。’接着像个古怪的小疯子似的格格傻笑一阵后，他又说：‘现在没事了，没事了。’然后又像个古怪的小疯子似的格格傻笑一阵。
　　他看上去活脱脱一个白痴。不过，亏得只顾看着他，我们在开头几分钟里才没有给吓垮掉。那个时候，大浪一个接一个朝我们的救生筏打过来，有时甚至把我们中的几个卷到海里，我们得赶忙爬回到筏里去，要不然下一个浪打过来就会把我们冲得更远。那真是滑稽透顶，我们就这么不断地掉下去又不断地爬上来。我们让那个不会游泳的家伙平躺在救生筏的中央，可即使在那个地方，他也差点被淹死，因为灌到救生筏里的水很深，不断地泼洒到他的脸上。嘿，太惊险了！
　　“后来，奥尔动手打开救生筏的贮藏舱，滑稽事真正开始了。开头，他找到一盒巧克力，分发给我们大家，于是我们就坐在那儿一边吃又湿又咸的巧克力，一边让海浪一次次地把我们从救生筏上卷到水里去。接着，他找到一些固体牛肉汤料和几只铝杯子，他就给我们做牛肉汤喝。后来，他又找到些茶叶。真的，他沏了茶！我们屁股坐在水里，浑身湿透，他却请我们喝茶，你能想象出这种情景吗？当时我笑得太厉害了，一下子从救生筏上掉到水里去了。我们全都笑个不停，他却一本正经，除了每隔一会疯疯癫癫地咧开嘴格格傻笑一阵。真是个怪人！他找到什么用什么。他找到一些驱鲨剂，立刻全洒到海水里，他找到一些标识颜料，也马上扔到水里。
　　接下来他找到一根钓鱼线和一块干鱼饵，顿时满脸放光，就好像当我们正要葬身大海，或者当德国鬼子从斯培西亚派船出来抓我们或者用机关枪扫射我们时，我们的海空救援艇及时赶到救出了我们似的。一转眼工夫，奥尔就把钓鱼线甩到水里钓起鱼来。他高兴得像只云雀。我问他：‘中尉，你指望钓到什么？’‘鳕鱼，’他告诉我。
　　他的确指望能钓到鳕鱼。不过幸好他没有钓到，因为要是真的钓到了，他会把鳕鱼生吃了，还会迫着我们也生吃，因为他找到一本小书，那书上说生吃鳕鱼没关系。
　　“接下来，他找到一把蓝色的小桨，小得和纸杯冰淇淋里的小勺一般大。真的，他就用这把桨划了起来。想靠这么根小木棍划动我们这条总共重九百磅的救生筏，你能想象得出来吗？再后来，他找到一个小小的罗盘和一张大大的防水地图，他把地图摊开在膝盖上，又把罗盘放在地图上。他坐在那里，背后拖着装有鱼饵的钓鱼线，膝盖上铺着地图，地图上压着罗盘。他使尽全身力气划着那把蓝色的小桨，好像他正全速划向马略卡岛。真***！他就这样划了大约半个小时，直到救援艇来把我们接走。”
　　对马略卡岛奈特中士知道得一清二楚，奥尔也一样，因为约塞连常常对他们谈起西班牙、瑞士和瑞典境内这样一些避难地的情况。美国飞行员只要飞到这些地方去，就会被拘留到战争结束，而且生活条件极其舒适奢侈。在拘留问题上，约塞连是中队里的头号权威。每回飞往意大利最北部执行任务时，他总是谋划着如何以紧急情况为借口飞到瑞士去。当然，他想去的地方是瑞典。瑞典人智商高。在那儿他可以脱得光溜溜的同那些低声细语、半推半就的漂亮女郎一块游泳，并且生下一大群快活散漫的小约塞连来。在瑞典，没有人会耻笑他的这些私生子。而且，他们一落地，国家就会担负起供养他们的责任，直到他们长大成人。但是，瑞典太远了，很难到达。约塞连只好等着飞越意大利境内的阿尔卑斯山时高射炮火把他飞机的一个引擎打掉，这样他就有理由飞往瑞士了。他甚至不想告诉他的驾驶员他要把飞机带到哪里去。约塞连常常想找一个他信得过的驾驶员合伙干。他们可以假称引擎受损，然后来个机腹着陆，毁掉说谎的证据。可是，他唯一真正信得过的驾驶员只有麦克沃特。那家伙无论走到哪儿都是一副乐呵呵的样子，仍然喜欢做低空俯冲来寻开心，擦着约塞连的帐篷飞过去；紧贴着海滩游泳者的头顶盘旋，飞机推进器喷出的强大气流在海里划出一道道黑浪，飞机过处，浪花飞溅，长达数秒钟。
　　多布斯和亨格利•乔都不能考虑，奥尔也不行。当约塞连遭到多布斯的拒绝，心情绝望、一瘸一拐地走回到自己的帐篷时，奥尔又在摆弄那个炉子阀门了。这炉子是奥尔用一只铁壳油桶倒过头来改装而成的。他把炉子摆在地中央，水泥地面平坦光滑，是他铺修过的。他双腿跪在地上，正起劲地干着呢。约塞连竭力不去注意他，瘸着腿疲倦地走到自己的行军床前坐下来，吃力地发出一声长长的叹息。他前额上的汗珠变得冰凉冰凉的。多布斯使他感到沮丧，丹尼卡医生也使他感到沮丧。现在看到了奥尔，他似乎觉得厄运正在逼近，越发沮丧起来。在他的身体内部，各种各样的紧张感一起涌出来刺激着他，他的神经抽搐起来，一只手上的青筋开始突突直跳。
　　奥尔转过脸打量着约塞连，两片湿漉漉的嘴唇咧开着；露出两排大龅牙。他把手伸到旁边他自己的床头柜里，取出一瓶温热的啤酒，撬开盖递给约塞连。约塞连啜饮完上面的啤酒泡沫，向后仰起脑袋。奥尔狡诈地望着他，不出声地咧嘴笑着。约塞连谨慎地盯着奥尔。奥尔窃笑了一阵之后，转过身蹲下去继续干活。约塞连紧张了起来。
　　“你别摆弄了，”他双手紧握着啤酒瓶，用威胁的口吻请求道，“你别摆弄那炉子了。”
　　奥尔平静地格格笑着说：“我快干完了。”
　　“不，你没有，你正要开始干。”
　　“这是阀门，看见了吗？就快全部装好了。”
　　“你很快又要把它拆开。我知道你在干什么，你这混蛋。我已经看你这样干了三百次了。”
　　奥尔高兴得浑身直抖动。“我要把这根汽油管漏油的地方补上，”他解释道，“我已经差不多全弄好了，只有一点点地方还渗油。”
　　“我实在没法看下去，”约塞连干巴巴地说，“如果你想做一件大东西，那不成问题。可是这阀门是用这么多小零件拼凑起来的，它们那么小，那么无足轻重，我眼下可没有耐性看着你辛辛苦苦地摆弄这些该死的玩意。”
　　“它们是小点，可这并不意味着它们无足轻重。”
　　“这我不管。”
　　“让我再干一回吧。”
　　“等我不在这儿的时候你再干吧。你是个不知忧愁的白痴，你根本不理解我的感觉是什么滋味。就在你摆弄那些小玩意时，我出了一些事，这些事我根本无法向你解释。我发现我无法容忍你。我开始恨你。用不了多久，我就会认真考虑把这个瓶子砸到你的脑袋上，或者用那边那把猎刀戳穿你的脖子。你明白吗？”
　　奥尔领悟地点点头。“现在我不会再把阀门拆开了。”他说着就动手拆阀门，他用手指费劲地捏着那个小小的装置，缓慢地、不知疲倦地、精益求精地干着。他俯着身子，脸紧贴着地面，一副专心致志、聚精会神的模样，好像他的脑子里什么杂念都没有。
　　约塞连暗暗地诅咒着他，打定主意不再理睬他。“可你***究竟为什么急着摆弄这炉子呢？”一转眼他又忍不住叫喊起来。“外面还热着呢。过一会儿我们还可能去游泳呢。你为寒冷操什么心呢？”
　　“白天越来越短了，”奥尔不动声色地说，“趁着这会儿有空，我打算把这炉子给你装好。等我装好了，你就会有一个全中队最好的炉子。我现在正装着的这个供油控制器会保证这炉子整夜燃烧不灭，这些金属散热片会把整座帐篷烤得暖烘烘的。你睡觉前可以把钢盔盛满了水坐在炉子上，这样你醒来时就有热水洗脸。这不是很好吗？要是你想煮鸡蛋或者烧汤的话，你只要把锅坐在上面，拧大火苗就行了。”
　　“你这是什么意思，给我？”约塞连追问道，“你会到哪里去？”
　　奥尔忍不住心头一阵快活，矮小的身体突然哆嗦起来。“我不知道，”他大声说道。接着，从他那直打战的两排龅牙中间突然迸发出一串奇特的、颤抖的格格傻笑，好像一阵情感爆发。他满嘴唾沫，边笑边说，声音都变得含糊不清了。“要是他们不断地这样把我击落，我不知道我会到哪里去。”
　　约塞连被感动了。“奥尔，你为什么不争取停飞呢？你是有理由的。”
　　“我只剩下十八次飞行任务了。”
　　“可你几乎每次都被击落。你每次飞上天不是降落到水面上就是强行着陆。”
　　“噢，飞行任务我倒不在乎。我觉得它们非常好玩。你不领航飞行时应当试着跟我一块飞几回，就为开开心，嘿嘿。”奥尔满脸堆笑，斜眼瞅着约塞连。
　　约塞连避开他的目光。“他们又叫我领航飞行了。”
　　“那就等你不领航飞行的时候吧。要是你有头脑的话，你知道你该怎么办吗？你应该直接去找皮尔查德和雷恩，告诉他们说，你要和我一起飞行。”
　　“每回飞行都跟你一起被击落吗？这有什么好玩的？”
　　“就因为这个你才应该跟我一块飞呢，”奥尔坚持道，“我觉得，就水面降落或强行着陆这方面说，我大概算得上是这儿最优秀的飞行员了。对你来说，这将是很好的练习。”
　　“练习这个做什么？”
　　“万一你哪一次降落到水面上或者强行着陆的话，这不是很好的练习吗？嘿嘿嘿。”
　　“你还能再给我一瓶啤酒吗？”约塞连愁眉不展地问。
　　“你要把它砸到我的脑袋上吗？”
　　这下约塞连乐了。“就像罗马那所公寓里的那个妓女吗？”
　　奥尔淫荡地窃笑着，两个腮帮子高兴地鼓了起来，活像两只酸苹果。“你真的想知道她为什么拿鞋敲我的脑袋吗？”他揶揄道。
　　“我已经知道了，”约塞连嘲笑道，“内特利的妓女告诉我的。”
　　奥尔像个怪物似的咧嘴一笑。“不，她没告诉你。”
　　约塞连为奥尔感到难过。奥尔是那么的矮小丑陋。要是他活下去，谁愿意保护他呢？谁愿意保护一个像奥尔这样热心而单纯的侏儒，使他免遭无赖、朋党以及阿普尔比那样的老牌运动员的欺辱呢？他们这些人全是目空一切、自命不凡、狂妄自大的家伙，一有机会就会把奥尔踩在脚底下。约塞连常常为奥尔担心。谁能替他抵挡憎恶和欺诈，抵挡野心勃勃的家伙和势利刻薄的贵妇人，抵挡谋取暴利者卑劣下流的侮辱，抵挡邻近专卖坏肉的客客气气的屠夫？奥尔是个无忧无虑轻信他人的傻瓜，一头浓密卷曲的杂色头发从中间一分为二。对那些家伙来说，对付他是再容易不过的了。他们会拿走他的钱，强奸他的妻子，冷酷地对待他的孩子。约塞连感到自己心底涌起一股同情的热流。
　　奥尔是个古怪的小矮人，是个令人捉摸不透的可爱的侏儒。他心灵猥琐，却身怀无数种宝贵的技艺，这就使得他终生与低收入者为伍。他能够用烙铁把两块木板钉在一起，既不让木板裂缝，又不把钉子砸弯。他会钻孔眼。约塞连住院期间，他在帐篷里搞出不少名堂来。他先在帐篷外面的高台上建起一个油箱，然后在水泥地上连挫带凿，开出一条无可挑剔的槽沟。顺着这条沟，他把一根细长的汽油管贴着地面从外面的油箱一直引到炉子上。他用多余的炸弹零件给壁炉做了几个柴架，并在柴架上堆满了粗壮的次等圆木。
　　他从一些三流杂志上剪下一些长着硕大乳房的女人的照片，把它们镶在他用染色木条做成的镜框里，挂到壁炉架上面。奥尔会开油漆筒，会调配油漆，会稀释油漆，还会除掉油漆，他会劈木头，会用尺子测量东西。他知道怎么生火，怎么挖洞。他还有一项本事，那就是用罐头筒和水壶从食堂附近的水箱里运来足够他们俩用的水，他能够一连几小时聚精会神地做一项无足轻重的工作，既不急躁也不厌烦，像根树桩那样不知疲倦，也几乎像树桩那样不吭不响。对于野外生活，他具有非同寻常的知识。而且，他不怕狗，不怕猫，不怕甲虫，不怕飞蛾，还敢吃小鳕鱼、动物内脏之类的东西。
　　约塞连烦闷地长叹一声，考虑起要去轰炸博洛尼亚的传闻来。
　　奥尔正在拆卸的阀门大约有大拇指那么大小，除了外壳，里面一共有三十六个零件。奥尔小心地把这些零件按类别整整齐齐地排列在地面上。其中有许多零件非常细小，他不得不用两个指甲尖捏住它们，在这细致严密、有条不紊、单调乏味的工作进程中，他从不加快或是放慢速度，仿佛永远不知疲倦，永远不会停下来似的，唯一例外的是，他有时会斜眼瞥一下约塞连，那目光中饱含癫狂和恶作剧的神情。约塞连努力不去看奥尔。他数着那些零件，满以为这样就可以把奥尔从心里摆脱掉。他转过脸去，闭上眼睛，可结果更糟，因为这样一来，他只听到声音，听到那些细微清晰、持续不断、令人恼火的咔哒声以及奥尔的手接触那些轻巧的零件时发出的悉悉声。奥尔有节奏地喘着粗气，发出打鼾般的呼噜声，非常令人讨厌。
　　约塞连握着拳头，眼睛盯着那把插在皮套里、挂在那个死掉的人的床上方的骨柄长猎刀。他脑袋里突然冒出拿这刀刺死奥尔的念头。
　　这念头一出现；他的紧张情绪随即松弛下来。他觉得这个念头荒谬至极，便认真而专注地胡思乱想起来。他打量着奥尔的后脖颈，想找出他脊椎的大致部位，只要往那个部位很轻地戳上一刀，准能把他杀死。这样一来，他们俩之间许多令人痛苦的严重问题就都迎刃而解了。
　　“痛不痛？”就在这个时候，奥尔仿佛出于自卫本能似地问了这么一句。
　　约塞连紧盯着他。“什么痛不痛？”
　　“你的腿呀。”奥尔发出一声神秘莫测的怪笑。“你还有点瘸。”
　　“我想这只是出于习惯。”约塞连松了一口气，呼吸又通畅起来，“也许很快就改掉了。”
　　奥尔在地上侧起身，又用一只膝盖撑着跪起来，把脸对着约塞连。他做出一副竭力回忆往事的神情，沉思般地拖长声调问：“你记得那天在罗马打我脑袋的那个妓女吗？”约塞连想起上一回受骗一事，非常恼火，不由得叫了一声，惹得奥尔格格地笑了起来。“我要拿这个妓女跟你做笔交易，你要是能回答我一个问题，我就告诉你那天她为什么拿鞋打我的脑袋。”
　　“什么问题？”
　　“你有没有跟内特利的女人睡过觉？”
　　约塞连吃了一惊，不由得笑了起来。“我？没有。现在告诉我，她为什么拿鞋打你的脑袋。”
　　“这不算问题，”奥尔得意洋洋地对他说，“这不过是随便聊聊。
　　她装得好像你跟她睡过觉似的。”
　　“我没有。她装出一副什么样呢？”
　　“她装得好像不喜欢你。”
　　“她谁也不喜欢。”
　　“她喜欢布莱克上尉，”奥尔提醒他说。
　　“那是因为他把她当贱货对待，用这法子谁都能把姑娘勾上手。”
　　“她脚脖子上戴着一只只有奴隶才戴的镯子，上面刻着他的名字。”
　　“是他让她戴上那玩艺的，他想拿这个气气内特利。”
　　“她甚至把从内特利那儿得来的钱给了他一些，”“听着，你到底想向我打听什么？”
　　“你有没有跟我的女人睡过觉？”
　　“你的女人？谁妈的是你的女人？”
　　“就是那个用鞋打我脑袋的妓女。”
　　“我跟她睡过几次，”约塞连承认道，“她什么时候成了你的女人？你到底什么意思？”
　　“她也不喜欢你。”
　　“管她喜不喜欢我，我***干吗要在乎，她喜欢我跟喜欢你的程度差不多。”
　　“她有没有拿她的鞋子打过你的脑袋？”
　　“奥尔，我累了。你为什么不能让我一个人呆一会呢？”
　　“嘻嘻嘻。罗马那个干瘦干瘦的伯爵夫人和她那个干瘦干瘦的儿媳妇怎么样？”奥尔兴致越来越高，便淘气地缠着他问，“你有没有跟她们睡过觉？”
　　“唉，我倒希望能跟她们睡觉，”约塞连老老实实地回答道。奥尔的这句话唤起了他的遐想。他习惯性地想象着自己用双手抚摸她们那小巧而又富于肉感的屁股和乳房时的那种感觉，那真是叫人欲火中烧，神魂颠倒。
　　“她们也不喜欢你，”奥尔评论道，“她们喜欢阿费，她们喜欢内特利，可是她们不喜欢你。女人似乎就是不喜欢你。依我看，她们认为你一去就没好事。”
　　“女人全是疯子，”约塞连答道。他板着脸等待着奥尔发问，他早已知道奥尔接下来要问什么。
　　“你的另一个姑娘怎么样？”奥尔装出一副好奇的沉思神情问，“就是那个胖胖的姑娘，那个秃头的姑娘。你知道，在西西里那一回，这个又胖又秃的姑娘戴着头巾，整夜浑身直冒汗，弄得我们全都跟着受罪。她也疯了吗？”
　　“她也不喜欢我吗？”
　　“你怎么能去搞一个没有长头发的姑娘呢？”
　　“我怎么能知道她没长头发呢？”
　　“我知道，”奥尔自夸道，“我一直知道。”
　　“你知道她是秃子？”约塞连惊奇地叫起来。
　　“不，我知道要是我漏装了一个零件，这个阀门就无法工作，”奥尔回答道。他高兴得红光满面，因为他又捉弄了约塞连一回。
　　“你把滚到那边的那个小垫圈递给我好吗？它就在你脚旁边。”
　　“不，不在。”
　　“在这儿。”奥尔边说边用指甲尖捏起一个小得几乎看不见的东西，举到约塞连面前让他看。“现在我只好再从头开始啦。”
　　“你再干的话，我就宰了你。我就在这儿宰了你。”
　　“你为什么从来不跟我一块飞呢？”奥尔突然问道，第一次正视着约塞连的脸。“喂，这就是我想要你回答的问题。你为什么从来不跟我一块飞呢？”
　　约塞连感到又愧又窘，尴尬地转过身去。“我告诉过你为什么。
　　大部分时间里，他们都让我当领航轰炸员。”
　　“这不是理由，”奥尔摇头说，“咱们第一次飞到阿维尼翁执行任务后，你去找过皮尔查德和雷恩，告诉他们，你决不想和我一共飞。这才是理由，不对吗？”
　　约塞连感到浑身发烧。“不，我没去找过他们，”他抵赖说。
　　“不，你找过，”奥尔平静地坚持道，“你请求他们不要派你到由我和多布斯或者赫普尔驾驶的飞机上去，因为你对我们的操纵技术没有信心。皮尔查德和雷恩说，他们不能给你破这个例，因为要是真的那样做了，对那些跟我们一起飞的人就太不公平了。”
　　“那又怎么样？”约塞连说，“还不是没有什么区别嘛，对吧？”
　　“可他们从来没有逼你跟我一起飞过。”奥尔双膝跪在地上又干起活来。他对约塞连说活时的神情既没有怨恨，也没有责备，却包含着一种含冤负屈的谦卑。他的这副神情叫人看上去越发感到难过，尽管他本人仍然咧嘴窃笑着，好像这种情况很滑稽似的。“你知道，你真的应该跟我一起飞。我是个很优秀的飞行员，我会照顾你的。也许，我会被击落好多次，但这不是我的惜，我飞机上的人从来没有受过伤。是的，长官——如果你有头脑的话，你知道你该怎么做吗？你该立刻去找皮尔查德和雷恩，告诉他们你要求跟我一起飞完你所有的飞行任务。”
　　约塞连俯下身去，直盯着奥尔那张交织着各种矛盾情绪、令人费解的面孔。“你是想告诉我什么事吗？”
　　“嘿嘿，嘿嘿，”奥尔回答道，“我想告诉你那个大块头姑娘那天为什么用她的鞋打我的脑袋。可你就是不让我说。”
　　“告诉我吧。”
　　“你愿意跟我一块飞吗？”
　　约塞连大笑着摇摇头。“你只会再一次给击落到水里去的。”
　　等到真的执行传闻中轰炸博洛尼亚的那次飞行任务时，奥尔的飞机果然又被击落到水里了。当时，天空乌云密布，电闪雷鸣。他驾着只剩下一个引擎的飞机歪歪扭扭、摇摇摆摆地扑通一声落到波涛滚滚风急浪高的海面上。他从飞机里钻出来晚了点，一个人独自上了一只救生筏。那只筏漂流而去，离其他人乘坐的救生筏越来越远。等到海空救援艇冒着狂风骤雨驶来营救他们时，奥尔的救生筏早已无影无踪了。获救人员回到中队时，夜幕已经降临，奥尔仍然没有消息。
　　“别担心，”基德•桑普森安慰大家说。他身上仍然裹着救援艇救护人员给他披上的厚毯子和雨衣。“要是他没有在那场暴风雨中淹死的话，他很可能已经被救上来了。那场暴风雨没下多长时间。
　　我敢说，他随时都会出现的。”
　　约塞连走回自己的帐篷去，等待着奥尔随时出现。他生起炉火，好让自己暖和点，那炉子非常好使，炉火熊熊，烧得旺极了。奥尔终于把供油控制器修好了，要是想调大或者调小炉火，只消拧一下就行。外面正下着小雨，雨点淅淅沥沥地落在帐篷顶上，落在树上，落在地面上。约塞连用罐头筒给奥尔烧好了热汤预备着：可随着时间渐渐过去，他自己把汤全喝了。他又给奥尔煮了几个鸡蛋，可后来也让他自己吃了。接着，他又从应急干粮袋里拿出一整听切达干酪，吃了个精光。
　　每当他为奥尔感到担心时，他就会想起奥尔什么事都做得来的本领。当想起奈特中士向他描述奥尔在救生筏上的那幅情景时，他不禁哑然失笑。奥尔把地图和罗盘放在自己的膝盖上，微笑着俯下身专心致志地研究着它们。他一边一块接一块地把湿透了的巧克力塞进自己那大咧着傻笑的嘴里，一边恪尽职守地在电闪雷鸣狂风暴雨之中使劲地划着那把丝毫不起作用的天蓝色的玩具船桨，身后还拖着根装有鱼饵的钓鱼线。约塞连对奥尔的生存能力毫不怀疑。如果用那很可笑的钓鱼线能钓到鱼的话，奥尔准能钓到鱼；如果奥尔想钓鳕鱼的话，那么，哪怕以前从来没有人在这些海域钓到过鳕鱼，奥尔也准能钓到一条鳕鱼。约塞连又煮了一罐头汤，然后趁热把它喝了。每次听到门外汽车门砰的一声响，约塞连都会露出一个饱含希望的微笑，期待着转身面对帐篷入口，倾听着脚步声。他知道，奥尔随时会走进帐篷的。他那双闪闪发光的大眼睛、大腮帮子和龅牙，全都会被雨浇得湿淋淋的；他的头上会戴着一顶黄色的油布雨帽，身上会穿着一件大好几号的宽松油布雨衣；
　　他的手里会得意洋洋地举着一条他钓上来的硕大的死鳕鱼，用它来逗约塞连开心。那副样子看上去活像个快活的采牡蛎的新英格兰人，可笑极了。但是，他没有回来。
Chapter 29 Peckem
    There was no word about Orr the next day, and Sergeant Whitcomb, with commendable dispatch andconsiderable hope, dropped a reminder in his tickler file to send a form letter over Colonel Cathcart’s signatureto Orr’s next of kin when nine more days had elapsed. There was word from General Peckem’s headquarters,though, and Yossarian was drawn to the crowd of officers and enlisted men in shorts and bathing trunks buzzingin grumpy confusion around the bulletin board just outside the orderly room.
　　“What’s so different about this Sunday, I want to know?” Hungry Joe was demanding vociferously of ChiefWhite Halfoat. “Why won’t we have a parade this Sunday when we don’t have a parade every Sunday? Huh?”
　　Yossarian worked his way through to the front and let out a long, agonized groan when he read the terseannouncement there:
　　Due to circumstances beyond my control, there will be no big parade this Sunday afternoon.
　　Colonel Scheisskopf Dobbs was right. They were indeed sending everyone overseas, even Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who had resistedthe move with all the vigor and wisdom at his command and who reported for duty at General Peckem’s office ina mood of grave discontent.
　　General Peckem welcomed Colonel Scheisskopf with effusive charm and said he was delighted to have him. Anadditional colonel on his staff meant that he could now begin agitating for two additional majors, four additionalcaptains, sixteen additional lieutenants and untold quantities of additional enlisted men, typewriters, desks, filingcabinets, automobiles and other substantial equipment and supplies that would contribute to the prestige of hisposition and increase his striking power in the war he had declared against General Dreedle. He now had two fullcolonels; General Dreedle had only five, and four of those were combat commanders. With almost no intriguingat all, General Peckem had executed a maneuver that would eventually double his strength. And General Dreedlewas getting drunk more often. The future looked wonderful, and General Peckem contemplated his bright newcolonel enchantedly with an effulgent smile.
　　In all matters of consequence, General P. P. Peckem was, as he always remarked when he was about to criticizethe work of some close associate publicly, a realist. He was a handsome, pink-skinned man of fifty-three. Hismanner was always casual and relaxed, and his uniforms were custom-made. He had silver-gray hair, slightlymyopic eyes and thin, overhanging, sensual lips. He was a perceptive, graceful, sophisticated man who wassensitive to everyone’s weaknesses but his own and found everyone absurd but himself. General Peckem laidgreat, fastidious stress on small matters of taste and style. He was always augmenting things. Approaching eventswere never coming, but always upcoming. It was not true that he wrote memorandums praising himself andrecommending that his authority be enhanced to include all combat operations; he wrote memoranda. And theprose in the memoranda of other officers was always turgid, stilted, or ambiguous. The errors of others wereinevitably deplorable. Regulations were stringent, and his data never was obtained from a reliable source, butalways were obtained. General Peckem was frequently constrained. Things were often incumbent upon him, andhe frequently acted with greatest reluctance. It never escaped his memory that neither black nor white was acolor, and he never used verbal when he meant oral. He could quote glibly from Plato, Nietzsche, Montaigne,Theodore Roosevelt, the Marquis de Sade and Warren G. Harding. A virgin audience like Colonel Scheisskopfwas grist for General Peckem’s mill, a stimulating opportunity to throw open his whole dazzling erudite treasurehouse of puns, wisecracks, slanders, homilies, anecdotes, proverbs, epigrams, apophthegms, bon mots and otherpungent sayings. He beamed urbanely as he began orienting Colonel Scheisskopf to his new surroundings.
　　“My only fault,” he observed with practiced good humor, watching for the effect of his words, “is that I have nofaults.”
　　Colonel Scheisskopf didn’t laugh, and General Peckem was stunned. A heavy doubt crushed his enthusiasm. Hehad just opened with one of his most trusted paradoxes, and he was positively alarmed that not the slightestflicker of acknowledgment had moved across that impervious face, which began to remind him suddenly, in hueand texture, of an unused soap eraser. Perhaps Colonel Scheisskopf was tired, General Peckem granted tohimself charitably; he had come a long way, and everything was unfamiliar. General Peckem’s attitude towardall the personnel in his command, officers and enlisted men, was marked by the same easy spirit of tolerance andpermissiveness. He mentioned often that if the people who worked for him met him halfway, he would meetthem more than halfway, with the result, as he always added with an astute chuckle, that there was never any meeting of the minds at all. General Peckem thought of himself as aesthetic and intellectual. When peopledisagreed with him, he urged them to be objective.
　　And it was indeed an objective Peckem who gazed at Colonel Scheisskopf encouragingly and resumed hisindoctrination with an attitude of magnanimous forgiveness. “You’ve come to us just in time, Scheisskopf. Thesummer offensive has petered out, thanks to the incompetent leadership with which we supply our troops, and Ihave a crying need for a tough, experienced, competent officer like you to help produce the memoranda uponwhich we rely so heavily to let people know how good we are and how much work we’re turning out. I hope youare a prolific writer.”
　　“I don’t know anything about writing,” Colonel Scheisskopf retorted sullenly.
　　“Well, don’t let that trouble you,” General Peckem continued with a careless flick of his wrist. “Just pass thework I assign you along to somebody else and trust to luck. We call that delegation of responsibility. Somewheredown near the lowest level of this co-ordinated organization I run are people who do get the work done when itreaches them, and everything manages to run along smoothly without too much effort on my part. I supposethat’s because I am a good executive. Nothing we do in this large department of ours is really very important,and there’s never any rush. On the other hand, it is important that we let people know we do a great deal of it. Letme know if you find yourself shorthanded. I’ve already put in a requisition for two majors, four captains andsixteen lieutenants to give you a hand. While none of the work we do is very important, it is important that we doa great deal of it. Don’t you agree?”
　　“What about the parades?” Colonel Scheisskopf broke in.
　　“What parades?” inquired General Peckem with a feeling that his polish just wasn’t getting across.
　　“Won’t I be able to conduct parades every Sunday afternoon?” Colonel Scheisskopf demanded petulantly.
　　“No. Of course not. What ever gave you that idea?”
　　“But they said I could.”
　　“Who said you could?”
　　“The officers who sent me overseas. They told me I’d be able to march the men around in parades all I wantedto.”
　　“They lied to you.”
　　“That wasn’t fair, sir.”
　　“I’m sorry, Scheisskopf. I’m willing to do everything I can to make you happy here, but parades are out of thequestion. We don’t have enough men in our own organization to make up much of a parade, and the combat units would rise up in open rebellion if we tried to make them march. I’m afraid you’ll just have to hold backawhile until we get control. Then you can do what you want with the men.”
　　“What about my wife?” Colonel Scheisskopf demanded with disgruntled suspicion. “I’ll still be able to send forher, won’t I?”
　　“Your wife? Why in the world should you want to?”
　　“A husband and wife should be together.”
　　“That’s out of the question also.”
　　“But they said I could send for her!”
　　“They lied to you again.”
　　“They had no right to lie to me!” Colonel Scheisskopf protested, his eyes wetting with indignation.
　　“Of course they had a right,” General Peckem snapped with cold and calculated severity, resolving right then andthere to test the mettle of his new colonel under fire. “Don’t be such an ass, Scheisskopf. People have a right todo anything that’s not forbidden by law, and there’s no law against lying to you. Now, don’t ever waste my timewith such sentimental platitudes again. Do you hear?”
　　“Yes, sir,” murmured Colonel ScheisskopfColonel Scheisskopf wilted pathetically, and General Peckem blessed the fates that had sent him a weakling for asubordinate. A man of spunk would have been unthinkable. Having won, General Peckem relented. He did notenjoy humiliating his men. “If your wife were a Wac, I could probably have her transferred here. But that’s themost I can do.”
　　“She has a friend who’s a Wac,” Colonel Scheisskopf offered hopefully.
　　“I’m afraid that isn’t good enough. Have Mrs. Scheisskopf join the Wacs if she wants to, and I’ll bring her overhere. But in the meantime, my dear Colonel, let’s get back to our little war, if we may. Here, briefly, is themilitary situation that confronts us.” General Peckem rose and moved toward a rotary rack of enormous coloredmaps.
　　Colonel Scheisskopf blanched. “We’re not going into combat, are we?” he blurted out in horror.
　　“Oh, no, of course not,” General Peckem assured him indulgently, with a companionable laugh. “Please give mesome credit, won’t you? That’s why we’re still down here in Rome. Certainly, I’d like to be up in Florence, too,where I could keep in closer touch with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen. But Florence is still a bit too near the actualfighting to suit me.” General Peckem lifted a wooden pointer and swept the rubber tip cheerfully across Italy from one coast to the other. “These, Scheisskopf, are the Germans. They’re dug into these mountains very solidlyin the Gothic Line and won’t be pushed out till late next spring, although that isn’t going to stop those clods wehave in charge from trying. That gives us in Special Services almost nine months to achieve our objective. Andthat objective is to capture every bomber group in the U.S. Air Force. After all,” said General Peckem with hislow, well-modulated chuckle, “if dropping bombs on the enemy isn’t a special service, I wonder what in theworld is. Don’t you agree?” Colonel Scheisskopf gave no indication that he did agree, but General Peckem wasalready too entranced with his own loquacity to notice. “Our position right now is excellent. Reinforcements likeyourself keep arriving, and we have more than enough time to plan our entire strategy carefully. Our immediategoal,” he said, “is right here.” And General Peckem swung his pointer south to the island of Pianosa and tappedit significantly upon a large word that had been lettered on there with black grease pencil. The word wasDREEDLE.
　　Colonel Scheisskopf, squinting, moved very close to the map, and for the first time since he entered the room alight of comprehension shed a dim glow over his stolid face. “I think I understand,” he exclaimed. “Yes, I know Iunderstand. Our first job is to capture Dreedle away from the enemy. Right?”
　　General Peckem laughed benignly. “No, Scheisskopf. Dreedle’s on our side, and Dreedle is the enemy. GeneralDreedle commands four bomb groups that we simply must capture in order to continue our offensive.
　　Conquering General Dreedle will give us the aircraft and vital bases we need to carry our operations into otherareas. And that battle, by the way, is just about won.” General Peckem drifted toward the window, laughingquietly again, and settled back against the sill with his arms folded, greatly satisfied by his own wit and by hisknowledgeable, blase impudence. The skilled choice of words he was exercising was exquisitely titillating.
　　General Peckem liked listening to himself talk, like most of all listening to himself talk about himself. “GeneralDreedle simply doesn’t know how to cope with me,” he gloated. “I keep invading his jurisdiction with commentsand criticisms that are really none of my business, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. When he accuses meof seeking to undermine him, I merely answer that my only purpose in calling attention to his errors is tostrengthen our war effort by eliminating inefficiency. Then I ask him innocently if he’s opposed to improvingour war effort. Oh, he grumbles and he bristles and he bellows, but he’s really quite helpless. He’s simply out ofstyle. He’s turning into quite a souse, you know. The poor blockhead shouldn’t even be a general. He has notone, no tone at all. Thank God he isn’t going to last.” General Peckem chuckled with jaunty relish and sailedsmoothly along toward a favorite learned allusion. “I sometimes think of myself as Fortinbras—ha, ha—in theplay Hamlet by William Shakespeare, who just keeps circling and circling around the action until everything elsefalls apart, and then strolls in at the end to pick up all the pieces for himself. Shakespeare is—““I don’t know anything about plays,” Colonel Scheisskopf broke in bluntly.
　　General Peckem looked at him with amazement. Never before had a reference of his to Shakespeare’s hallowedHamlet been ignored and trampled upon with such rude indifference. He began to wonder with genuine concernjust what sort of shithead the Pentagon had foisted on him. “What do you know about?” he asked acidly.
　　“Parades,” answered Colonel Scheisskopf eagerly. “Will I be able to send out memos about parades?”
　　“As long as you don’t schedule any.” General Peckem returned to his chair still wearing a frown. “And as long as they don’t interfere with your main assignment of recommending that the authority of Special Services beexpanded to include combat activities.”
　　“Can I schedule parades and then call them off?”
　　General Peckem brightened instantly. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea! But just send out weekly announcementspostponing the parades. Don’t even bother to schedule them. That would be infinitely more disconcerting.”
　　General Peckem was blossoming spryly with cordiality again. “Yes, Scheisskopf,” he said, “I think you’ve reallyhit on something. After all, what combat commander could possibly quarrel with us for notifying his men thatthere won’t be a parade that coming Sunday? We’d be merely stating a widely known fact. But the implication isbeautiful. Yes, positively beautiful. We’re implying that we could schedule a parade if we chose to. I’m going tolike you, Scheisskopf. Stop in and introduce yourself to Colonel Cargill and tell him what you’re up to. I knowyou two will like each other.”
　　Colonel Cargill came storming into General Peckem’s office a minute later in a furor of timid resentment. “I’vebeen here longer than Scheisskopf,” he complained. “Why can’t I be the one to call off the parades?”
　　“Because Scheisskopf has experience with parades, and you haven’t. You can call off U.S.O. shows if you wantto. In fact why don’t you? Just think of all the places that won’t be getting a U.S.O. show on any given day.
　　Think of all the places each big-name entertainer won’t be visiting. Yes, Cargill, I think you’ve hit on something.
　　I think you’ve just thrown open a whole new area of operation for us. Tell Colonel Scheisskopf I want him towork along under your supervision on this. And send him in to see me when you’re through giving himinstructions.”
　　“Colonel Cargill says you told him you want me to work along under his supervision on the U.S.O. project,”
　　Colonel Scheisskopf complained.
　　“I told him no such thing,” answered General Peckem. “Confidentially, Scheisskopf, I’m not too happy withColonel Cargill. He’s bossy and he’s slow. I’d like you to keep a close eye on what he’s doing and see if youcan’t get a little more work out of him.”
　　“He keeps butting in,” Colonel Cargill protested. “He won’t let me get any work done.”
　　“There’s something very funny about Scheisskopf,” General Peckem agreed reflectively. “Keep a very close eyeon him and see if you can’t find out what he’s up to.”
　　“Now he’s butting into my business!” Colonel Scheisskopf cried.
　　“Don’t let it worry you, Scheisskopf,” said General Peckem, congratulating himself on how adeptly he had fitColonel Scheisskopf into his standard method of operation. Already his two colonels were barely on speakingterms. “Colonel Cargill envies you because of the splendid job you’re doing on parades. He’s afraid I’m going toput you in charge of bomb patterns.”
　　Colonel Scheisskopf was all ears. “What are bomb patterns?”
　　“Bomb patterns?” General Peckem repeated, twinkling with self-satisfied good humor. “A bomb pattern is a termI dreamed up just several weeks ago. It means nothing, but you’d be surprised at how rapidly it’s caught on.
　　Why, I’ve got all sorts of people convinced I think it’s important for the bombs to explode close together andmake a neat aerial photograph. There’s one colonel in Pianosa who’s hardly concerned any more with whether hehits the target or not. Let’s fly over and have some fun with him today. It will make Colonel Cargill jealous, andI learned from Wintergreen this morning that General Dreedle will be off in Sardinia. It drives General Dreedleinsane to find out I’ve been inspecting one of his installations while he’s been off inspecting another. We mayeven get there in time for the briefing. They’ll be bombing a tiny undefended village, reducing the wholecommunity to rubble. I have it from Wintergreen—Wintergreen’s an ex-sergeant now, by the way—that themission is entirely unnecessary. Its only purpose is to delay German reinforcements at a time when we aren’teven planning an offensive. But that’s the way things go when you elevate mediocre people to positions ofauthority.” He gestured languidly toward his gigantic map of Italy. “Why, this tiny mountain village is soinsignificant that it isn’t even there.”
　　They arrived at Colonel Cathcart’s group too late to attend the preliminary briefing and hear Major Danby insist,“But it is there, I tell you. It’s there, it’s there.”
　　“It’s where?” Dunbar demanded defiantly, pretending not to see.
　　“It’s right there on the map where this road makes this slight turn. Can’t you see this slight turn on your map?”
　　“No, I can’t see it.”
　　“I can see it,” volunteered Havermeyer, and marked the spot on Dunbar’s map. “And here’s a good picture of thevillage right on these photographs. I understand the whole thing. The purpose of the mission is to knock thewhole village sliding down the side of the mountain and create a roadblock that the Germans will have to clear.
　　Is that right?”
　　“That’s right,” said Major Danby, mopping his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m glad somebodyhere is beginning to understand. These two armored divisions will be coming down from Austria into Italy alongthis road. The village is built on such a steep incline that all the rubble from the houses and other buildings youdestroy will certainly tumble right down and pile upon the road.”
　　“What the hell difference will it make?” Dunbar wanted to know, as Yossarian watched him excitedly with amixture of awe and adulation. “It will only take them a couple of days to clear it.”
　　Major Danby was trying to avoid an argument. “Well, it apparently makes some difference to Headquarters,” heanswered in a conciliatory tone. “I suppose that’s why they ordered the mission.”
　　“Have the people in the village been warned?” asked McWatt.
　　Major Danby was dismayed that McWatt too was registering opposition. “No, I don’t think so.”
　　“Haven’t we dropped any leaflets telling them that this time we’ll be flying over to hit them?” asked Yossarian.
　　“Can’t we even tip them off so they’ll get out of the way?”
　　“No, I don’t think so.” Major Danby was swearing some more and still shifting his eyes about uneasily. “TheGermans might find out and choose another road. I’m not sure about any of this. I’m just making assumptions.”
　　“They won’t even take shelter,” Dunbar argued bitterly. “They’ll pour out into the streets to wave when they seeour planes coming, all the children and dogs and old people. Jesus Christ! Why can’t we leave them alone?”
　　“Why can’t we create the roadblock somewhere else?” asked McWatt. “Why must it be there?”
　　“I don’t know,” Major Danby answered unhappily. “I don’t know. Look, fellows, we’ve got to have someconfidence in the people above us who issue our orders. They know what they’re doing.”
　　“The hell they do,” said Dunbar.
　　“What’s the trouble?” inquired Colonel Korn, moving leisurely across the briefing room with his hands in hispockets and his tan shirt baggy.
　　“Oh, no trouble, Colonel,” said Major Danby, trying nervously to cover up. “We’re just discussing the mission.”
　　“They don’t want to bomb the village,” Havermeyer snickered, giving Major Danby away.
　　“You prick!” Yossarian said to Havermeyer.
　　“You leave Havermeyer alone,” Colonel Korn ordered Yossarian curtly. He recognized Yossarian as the drunkwho had accosted him roughly at the officers’ club one night before the first mission to Bologna, and he swunghis displeasure prudently to Dunbar. “Why don’t you want to bomb the village?”
　　“It’s cruel, that’s why.”
　　“Cruel?” asked Colonel Korn with cold good humor, frightened only momentarily by the uninhibited vehemenceof Dunbar’s hostility. “Would it be any less cruel to let those two German divisions down to fight with ourtroops? American lives are at stake, too, you know. Would you rather see American blood spilled?”
　　“American blood is being spilled. But those people are living up there in peace. Why can’t we leave them thehell alone?”
　　“Yes, it’s easy for you to talk,” Colonel Korn jeered. “You’re safe here in Pianosa. It won’t make any differenceto you when these German reinforcements arrive, will it?”
　　Dunbar turned crimson with embarrassment and replied in a voice that was suddenly defensive. “Why can’t wecreate the roadblock somewhere else? Couldn’t we bomb the slope of a mountain or the road itself?”
　　“Would you rather go back to Bologna?” The question, asked quietly, rang out like a shot and created a silencein the room that was awkward and menacing. Yossarian prayed intensely, with shame, that Dunbar would keephis mouth shut. Dunbar dropped his gaze, and Colonel Korn knew he had won. “No, I thought not,” he continuedwith undisguised scorn. “You know, Colonel Cathcart and I have to go to a lot of trouble to get you a milk runlike this. If you’d sooner fly missions to Bologna, Spezia and Ferrara, we can get those targets with no trouble atall.” His eyes gleamed dangerously behind his rimless glasses, and his muddy jowls were square and hard. “Justlet me know.”
　　“I would,” responded Havermeyer eagerly with another boastful snicker. “I like to fly into Bologna straight andlevel with my head in the bombsight and listen to all that flak pumping away all around me. I get a big kick outof the way the men come charging over to me after the mission and call me dirty names. Even the enlisted menget sore enough to curse me and want to take socks at me.”
　　Colonel Korn chucked Havermeyer under the chin jovially, ignoring him, and then addressed himself to Dunbarand Yossarian in a dry monotone. “You’ve got my sacred word for it. Nobody is more distressed about thoselousy wops up in the hills than Colonel Cathcart and myself. Mais c”est la guerre. Try to remember that wedidn’t start the war and Italy did. That we weren’t the aggressors and Italy was. And that we couldn’t possiblyinflict as much cruelty on the Italians, Germans, Russians and Chinese as they’re already inflicting onthemselves.” Colonel Korn gave Major Danby’s shoulder a friendly squeeze without changing his unfriendlyexpression. “Carry on with the briefing, Danby. And make sure they understand the importance of a tight bombpattern.”
　　“Oh, no, Colonel,” Major Danby blurted out, blinking upward. “Not for this target. I’ve told them to space theirbombs sixty feet apart so that we’ll have a roadblock the full length of the village instead of in just one spot. Itwill be a much more effective roadblock with a loose bomb pattern.”
　　“We don’t care about the roadblock,” Colonel Korn informed him. “Colonel Cathcart wants to come out of thismission with a good clean aerial photograph he won’t be ashamed to send through channels. Don’t forget thatGeneral Peckem will be here for the full briefing, and you know how he feels about bomb patterns. Incidentally,Major, you’d better hurry up with these details and clear out before he gets here. General Peckem can’t standyou.”
　　“Oh, no, Colonel,” Major Danby corrected obligingly. “It’s General Dreedle who can’t stand me.”
　　“General Peckem can’t stand you either. In fact, no one can stand you. Finish what you’re doing, Danby, anddisappear. I’ll conduct the briefing.”
　　“Where’s Major Danby?” Colonel Cathcart inquired, after he had driven up for the full briefing with GeneralPeckem and Colonel Scheisskopf.
　　“He asked permission to leave as soon as he saw you driving up,” answered Colonel Korn. “He’s afraid GeneralPeckem doesn’t like him. I was going to conduct the briefing anyway. I do a much better job.”
　　“Splendid!” said Colonel Cathcart. “No!” Colonel Cathcart countermanded himself an instant later when heremembered how good a job Colonel Korn had done before General Dreedle at the first Avignon briefing. “I’lldo it myself.”
　　Colonel Cathcart braced himself with the knowledge that he was one of General Peckem’s favorites and tookcharge of the meeting, snapping his words out crisply to the attentive audience of subordinate officers with thebluff and dispassionate toughness he had picked up from General Dreedle. He knew he cut a fine figure there onthe platform with his open shirt collar, his cigarette holder, and his close-cropped, gray-tipped curly black hair.
　　He breezed along beautifully, even emulating certain characteristic mispronunciations of General Dreedle’s, andhe was not the least bit intimidated by General Peckem’s new colonel until he suddenly recalled that GeneralPeckem detested General Dreedle. Then his voice cracked, and all confidence left him. He stumbled aheadthrough instinct in burning humiliation. He was suddenly in terror of Colonel Scheisskopf. Another colonel inthe area meant another rival, another enemy, another person who hated him. And this one was tough! Ahorrifying thought occurred to Colonel Cathcart: Suppose Colonel Scheisskopf had already bribed all the men inthe room to begin moaning, as they had done at the first Avignon mission. How could he silence them? What aterrible black eye that would be! Colonel Cathcart was seized with such fright that he almost beckoned toColonel Korn. Somehow he held himself together and synchronized the watches. When he had done that, heknew he had won, for he could end now at any time. He had come through in a crisis. He wanted to laugh inColonel Scheisskopf’s face with triumph and spite. He had proved himself brilliantly under pressure, and heconcluded the briefing with an inspiring peroration that every instinct told him was a masterful exhibition ofeloquent tact and subtlety.
　　“Now, men,” he exhorted. “We have with us today a very distinguished guest, General Peckem from SpecialServices, the man who gives us all our softball bats, comic books and U.S.O. shows. I want to dedicate thismission to him. Go on out there and bomb—for me, for your country, for God, and for that great American,General P. P. Peckem. And let’s see you put all those bombs on a dime!”
 29、佩克姆
　　第二天仍然没有奥尔的消息。惠特科姆下士迫不及待地在他的备忘夹里做了一个记号，满怀希望地等着九天过后给奥尔的亲属寄上一封由卡思卡特上校签名的通函。然而，佩克姆将军的司令部发布了一张告示，就贴在传达室外面的告示栏里。一群穿着短裤和游泳裤的军官和士兵围在告示前，吵吵嚷嚷地发牢骚，闹得乱哄哄的，约塞连也给吸引了过去。
　　“我倒想知道这个星期天有什么特别？”亨格利•乔正大叫大嚷地质问一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特。“既然我们并不是每一个星期天都举行阅兵，那为什么这一个星期天就不能举行一次呢？嗯？”
　　约塞连费了好大的劲才挤到告示栏前，他读了一遍那张简短扼要的告示，不禁发出一声痛苦的长叹。那告示是这样写的：
　　由于我无法控制的情况，本星期天下午将不举行大阅兵。
　　沙伊斯科普夫上校
　　多布斯是对的。他们的确正在把国内的每个人派到海外，就连沙伊斯科普夫上校也不例外。他曾经绞尽脑汁竭尽全力反对这一调动，结果还是不得不带着强烈的不满情绪到佩克姆将军的办公室报到就职。
　　佩克姆将军热情洋溢地欢迎了沙伊斯科普夫上校。他说，上校能到他这儿来工作真叫他高兴。在他的司令部班子里新增加一名上校就意味着他现在可以向上级要求再增加两名少校、四名上尉、十六名中尉和许许多多的士兵、打字机、办公桌、档案柜、汽车以及大量的装备给养。所有这些将会大大提高他的地位和声望，增强他在这场针对德里德尔将军的战争中的攻击能力。目前，他有两名上校了，而德里德尔将军只有五名上校，且其中四名是战地指挥官。
　　佩克姆将军略施小计就成功地实施了一项将会使他的实力增加一倍的策略，而且，德里德尔将军喝醉酒的次数越来越多了。看来，前途十分美妙。佩克姆将军满脸堆笑，上下打量着这位新来的生气勃勃的上校，越看越喜欢。
　　佩克姆将军准备公开批评他身边某个下属的工作时，常常发议论说自己在所有重大问题上都是一个现实主义者。佩克姆将军现年五十三岁，皮肤红润，相貌堂堂。他一向从容潇洒，极有风度；
　　他总是身着制作考究的制服，一头银发，轻微近视的眼睛，两片向外突出的肉感的薄嘴唇，佩克姆将军是个感觉敏锐、斯文大方、稳重老练的人。他对任何人的缺点都十分敏感，对他自己的缺点却视而不见；他觉得所有人都愚蠢透顶，只有他自己是个例外。佩克姆将军尤其重视情趣和仪表，在这类小事情上十分挑剔。他用词总喜欢夸张。谈到快要发生的事件时，他从来不说正在来临，而总是用即将来临这个词，如果说他写了许多报告，在上面自吹自擂，并要求把他的权力扩展到能涵盖所有的作战行动，那是不真实的，他写的那些东西叫呈文，其他军官的呈文总是写得夸张、做作、含糊其辞。别人的错误从来都是可悲可叹的。规章制度则是不容通融的。
　　他的资料从来都不是有可靠出处，却总是源自可靠出处。佩克姆将军常常迫于无奈，许多任务常常义不容辞地落到他的肩上，他行动起来常常是万分勉强，他永远记得黑和白都不是颜色，当地想表达口述这个意思时，他绝不用口头这个词，他善于引用柏拉图、尼采、蒙田、西奥多。罗斯福、萨德侯爵和沃伦•加•哈定的名言。一个像沙伊斯科普夫这样思想单纯的听众对佩克姆将军再合适不过了。他的到来使将军兴奋不已，因为他给将军提供了一个大展身手的机会。将军可以向他打开自己那令人眼花燎乱的知识宝手，尽情地运用双关语、俏皮活、诽谤、说教、轶事、谚语、警句、格言、隽语以及其它尖酸刻薄的俗语。佩克姆将军彬彬有礼地微笑着，着手帮助沙伊斯科普夫上校适应新环境。
　　“我唯一的缺点，”他以他那种长期练就的诙谐口吻说道，同时密切注意着自己这句话的效果。“就是我没有缺点。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫上校一点没笑，佩克姆将军不禁大吃一惊。深深的疑虑一下子打消了他的热情。他刚一说出这个他最拿手的悖论，就惊恐地注意到对方那张毫无表情的脸上没有流露出任何反应。
　　这张脸的皮肤和肌理突然使他联想起一把没有用过的肥皂擦子。
　　佩克姆将军宽容地想，沙伊斯科普夫上校也许是累了，他千里迢迢才来到这里，而这里的一切又都是那么陌生。对他手下的所有人员，无论是军官还是士兵，佩克姆将军的态度一向是随和、宽容、忍让的。他常说，如果为他工作的人迎合他的活，他将会更加主动地迎合他们。并且，他总是狡猾地笑着补充道，这样做的结果就是大家彼此间永远都不会做到心心相印。佩克姆将军认为自己是个美学家，是个知识分子。每当别人与他发生意见分歧时，他总是劝告他们要客观一些。
　　此时，这位非常客观的佩克姆将军用鼓励的目光盯着沙伊斯科普夫上校，以一种宽容大度的态度继续对他进行教导。“你到我们这儿来得正是时候，沙伊斯科普夫。由于我们部队中指挥人员的无能，夏季攻势已告瓦解。我眼下急需一位像你这样肯吃苦、有经验、有能力的军官来帮我写呈文。这些呈文对我们非常重要，它们将告诉大家我们干得如何出色、我们做了多少工作。我希望你是个高产的文书。”
　　“我对文书工作一窍不通，”沙伊斯科普夫闷闷不乐地回答道。
　　“好吧，别为这件事烦恼了，”佩克姆将军随便地甩了甩手腕继续说，“去把我派给你的任务转派给别的人，看你的运气怎么样吧。
　　我们把这叫做分工负责。在我掌管的这个协作机构中，在较下层的部门里，倒是有一些来了任务就认真完成的人，那些地方的工作样样都进行得很顺利，不需要**多少心。我想，这是因为我是个优秀的行政官员。在我们这个大部门里，我们所干的工作实际上全都不怎么重要，也不需要赶任务。另一方面，重要的是我们要让人家知道我们做了大量的工作。你要是发现自己缺人手就告诉我。我已经正式提出申请，要求增加两名少校、四名上尉和十六名中尉来给你帮忙。我们做的工作全都不怎么重要，但重要的是我们做了大量的工作。你同意吗？”
　　“阅兵的事怎么说？”沙伊斯科普夫上校插嘴问道。
　　“什么阅兵？”佩克姆将军问，他感到自己的潇洒风度对这位上校一点不起作用。：＝＞“我可不可以每星期天下午主持一次阅兵？”沙伊斯科普夫上校气哼哼地问。
　　“不可以，当然不可以。你怎么会有这个念头的？”
　　“但他们说我可以的。”
　　“谁说你可以？”
　　“派我来海外的军官。他们告诉我，我只要愿意，就可以指挥部队进行阅兵。”
　　“他们对你说谎。”
　　“这不公平，长官。”
　　“我很遗憾，沙伊斯科普夫。我愿意尽我所能使你在这里感到愉快，可是阅兵一事是不可能的。我们司令部本身人员不足，没法举行阅兵。要是我们让战斗部队参加阅兵，他们就会起来公开造反。你这件事恐怕得搁一搁，等我们控制住局面再说。到那时你想叫部队干什么就干什么。”、“那我的太太怎么办？”沙伊斯科普夫上校怀疑地问，他看上去非常不满意。“我仍然可以把她接来，对不对？”
　　“你的太太？你为什么非把她接来不可呢？”
　　“丈夫和妻子应该呆在一起。”
　　“这件事也不可能。”
　　“可他们说我可以把她接来。”
　　“他们又对你说谎了。”
　　“他们没有权利对我说谎！”沙伊斯科普夫上校抗议道。他气得眼泪都要流出来了。
　　“他们当然有权利，”佩克姆将军厉声说道。他决定当场用批评指责来考验一下他这位新上校的勇气，于是故意摆出一副冷峻严厉的样子。“你别做傻瓜了，沙伊斯科普夫。人们有权利做任何不违犯法律的事情。而法律又没有规定不准对你说谎。听着，别再用你这些伤感的陈词滥调来浪费我的时间了。你听见了吗？”
　　“听见了，长官，”沙伊斯科普夫上校唯唯诺诺地答道。
　　沙伊斯科普夫上校垂头丧气，一副可怜相。佩克姆将军暗暗感谢上天给他派来这么一个懦弱的下属。如果派来的是个胆量十足的男子汉，后果就难以想象了。佩克姆将军制服了沙伊斯科普夫上校，又转而可怜起他来。他并不喜欢令他的手下人难堪。“如果你的太太是陆军妇女队队员，我也许可以把她调到这里来。不过，我只能帮这一点忙。”
　　“她有个朋友是陆军妇女队队员，”沙伊斯科普夫上校满怀希望地建议道。
　　“这恐怕还不够。要是沙伊斯科普夫太太愿意，就让她参加陆军妇女队吧，那样我就可以把她调到这儿来。不过现在，我亲爱的上校，如果可以的话，我们还是回到我们小小的战争上来吧。简单地说，这儿是我们目前所面临的军事形势。”佩克姆将军站起身，朝挂在旋转支架上的巨幅彩色地图走过去。
　　沙伊斯科普夫顿时脸色苍白。“我们不会去打仗吧。”他惊恐万分地脱口问道。
　　“噢，不，当然不，”佩克姆将军友好而宽容地笑着向他保证道，“相信我的话，好吗？这就是我们至今仍然驻扎在罗马的原因。当然，我也很想到佛罗伦萨去，在那儿我可以跟前一等兵温特格林保持更紧密的联系。但是，佛罗伦萨离实战区域太近了点，不适合我。”佩克姆将军兴致勃勃地举起一根木制指示棒，用它的橡皮头从意大利的一侧海岸划向另一侧海岸。“沙伊斯科普夫，这些就是德国人。他们在这些山里挖筑了坚固的哥特防线，估计明年夏天以前是赶不走他们的。当然，我们派去的那些乡巴佬会不断地向他们发起进攻的。这样一来，我们特种任务兵团就有大约九个月的时间实现我们的目标。这个目标就是夺取美国空军中的全部轰炸机大队。说到底，”佩克姆将军有节奏地低声窃笑道，“要是往敌人的头上扔炸弹不算是特种任务的话，那世界上还有什么特种任务呢？你同意吗？”沙伊斯科普夫上校没有作出任何同意的表示。然而，佩克姆将军正沉浸在自己的长篇大论之中，根本没有去注意他。“我们目前的情况好极了。像你这样的增援力量正源源不断地到达，我们有充裕的时间精心制订我们的整体战略。我们的直接目标，”他说，“就在这儿。”佩克姆将军把他的指示棒向南部的皮亚诺萨岛一挥，意味深长地用橡皮头敲了敲用黑色油彩笔写在那儿的一个大字。
　　那个字是德里德尔。”沙伊斯科普夫上校眯缝起眼睛，走到地图跟前。自从他走进这个房间以来，他那张愚钝的脸上第一次闪现出一丝领悟的光。“我想我明白了，”他叫道，“是的，我知道我明白了。我们的头一项任务就是把德里德尔从敌人那边俘虏过来，对吗？”
　　佩克姆将军宽厚地笑了笑。“不，沙伊斯科普夫。德里德尔是我们这边的，但德里德尔是敌人。德里德尔将军指挥着四个轰炸机大队，我们只有把这四个轰炸机大队夺过来，才能继续我们的进攻。战胜德里德尔将军将会给我们提供我们所急需的飞机和重要基地，这样我们就可以把我们的攻击扩展到其它地区。顺便说一句，这场战斗，我们就要赢了。”佩克姆将军慢慢地走到窗前，又平静地笑了笑，双臂合抱在胸前，背靠窗台站定。他对自己的才智，对自己的见多识广和讲究实际，对自己的厚颜无耻感到洋洋自得。他讲话时遣词造句的高超本领实在令人赞叹不已，佩克姆将军喜欢听自己讲话，而且特别喜欢听自己讲自己。“德里德尔将军根本不知道如何对付我，”他幸灾乐祸地说，“我一直在越权议论批评他管辖范围内的事情，这些事情我本来根本不该管的，他却不知道该怎么办才好。当他指责我企图削弱他的力量时，我仅仅回答他说，我揭露他缺点的唯一目的就是要消灭不称职现象，增强我军的战斗力，接着，我直截了当地问他是不是反对增强我军的战斗力。嘿，他发牢骚，他发脾气，他狂吼乱叫，可他就是拿我毫无办法。他实在是落伍了。你知道吗，他变得越来越像个大傻瓜。这个可怜的傻瓜真不应该当将军的。他没有一点将军的风度，一点都没有。感谢上帝，他撑不了多久了。”佩克姆将军得意洋洋地窃笑着，随口引用了一个他特别喜爱的文学典故。“我有时把自己当成了福丁布拉斯——哈，哈——在威廉•莎士比亚的《哈姆莱特》中，他一直在剧情之外兜圈子，直到一切都土崩瓦解了，他才悠闲地走进来为自己捞取好处。莎士比亚是——”
　　“我对戏剧一窍不通，”沙伊斯科普夫上校生硬地插嘴说道。
　　佩克姆惊奇地望着他。以前他引用莎士比亚神圣的剧本《哈姆莱特》时，从来没有遭受到如此冷漠而粗暴的蔑视和凌辱。他不由得认真寻思起来，五角大楼硬塞给他的究竟是一个什么样的笨蛋。
　　“那你到底知道些什么？”他讥讽地问道。
　　“阅兵，”沙伊斯科普夫急切地答道，“我可以把阅兵报告发送出去吗？”
　　“只要你不定下阅兵的具体时间就行，”佩克姆将军回到椅子上坐下来，眉头依然皱着。“只要准备这些报告不妨碍你的主要任务就行。你的主要任务是呈文建议把特种任务部队的权力扩大到指挥所有的战斗活动。”
　　“我能不能先定下阅兵时间，然后再取消呢？”
　　佩克姆将军顿时眉开眼笑，“嘿，这是个多么绝妙的主意！不过，根本不必费心去安排阅兵的时间，只要每星期发布一个延期阅兵的告示就行。要是把时间定下来，麻烦可就太多了。”佩克姆将军又一次迅速露出一个热诚的笑脸。“不错，沙伊斯科普夫，”他说，“我认为你的确出了个好点子。说到底，哪个战斗指挥官会因为我们通知他的士兵下星期天取消阅兵而来找我们大吵大闹呢？我们只不过是公布一个众所周知的事实罢了。但是，这其中的寓意妙极了，是的，真是妙极了。我们是在暗示，如果我们愿意的话，我们是能够安排一次阅兵的。我开始喜欢你了，沙伊斯科普夫。你去见见卡吉尔上校，告诉他你打算做些什么。我知道你们两个会互相喜欢上的。”
　　一分钟之后，卡吉尔上校旋风般地冲进佩克姆将军的办公室。
　　他满腔怨愤，却又不敢肆意发作。“我在这儿工作的时间比沙伊斯科普夫长，”他抱怨道，“为什么不能由我来取消阅兵呢？”
　　“因为沙伊斯科普夫对阅兵有经验，而你没有。如果你愿意，你可以取消劳军联合组织的演出。实际上，你为什么不这样做呢？想想看，不论在哪儿，不论在什么时候，都不会有什么劳军联合组织的演出的。想想看，不论是哪儿，也不会有什么名演员愿意来的。是的，卡吉尔，我认为你的确出了个好点子。我认为你给我们开辟出了一个全新的活动领域。告诉沙伊斯科普夫上校，我叫他在你的指导下干这项工作。你给他作完指示之后，叫他来见我。”
　　“卡吉尔上校说你告诉他叫我在他的指导下负责劳军联合组织的活动计划，”沙伊斯科普夫上校抱怨说。
　　“我根本没对他这样说过，”佩克姆将军回答道，“沙伊斯科普夫，对你说句心里话吧，我对卡吉尔上校有点反感。他专横霸道，反应迟钝。我希望你密切注意他的一举一动，并且想办法把他手里的工作再多接过来一些。”
　　“他总是跟我对着干，”卡吉尔上校抗议说，“他搅得我什么工作都干不成。”
　　“沙伊斯科普夫确实有点滑稽可笑。”佩克姆将军若有所思地表示同意。“你要密切注意他，设法发现他在干些什么。”
　　“哼，他老是来干涉我的事情！”沙伊斯科普夫上校叫嚷道。
　　“别为这个担心，沙伊斯科普夫，”佩克姆将军说。他在心里暗暗庆幸，自己已经十分巧妙地引导沙伊斯科普夫上校适应了自己那种标准作战方法。现在，他的两个上校几乎已经互相不理睬了。
　　“卡吉尔上校嫉妒你，因为你把阅兵这项工作干得十分出色。他担心我会把炸弹散布面这项工作交给你负责。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫竖起耳朵听着。“什么炸弹散布面？”
　　“炸弹散布面？”佩克姆将军自鸣得意地眨眨眼睛重复道，“炸弹散布面是我几星期前创造出来的一个术语。这术语没有什么意思，可奇怪的是它这么快就流行起来了。嘿，我已经使各种各样的人相信，我认为重要的是把炸弹密集地投向地面，然后从空中拍一张清晰的照片。在皮亚诺萨岛上有一个上校，他一点也不关心自己是否击中了目标。今天咱们就飞到那儿去跟他开个玩笑。卡吉尔上校会因此而嫉妒的。今天早上我从温特格林那儿打听到，德里德尔将军要去撒丁岛。等到他发现我趁着他外出视察他的一个基地时去检查了他的另一个基地，他准会气得发疯的。我们甚至来得及赶到那儿去听他们下达简令。他们要去轰炸一个小小的不设防的村庄，他们打算把整个村子炸成废墟。我是听温特格林说的——顺便告诉你，温特格林原先是个中士——这次任务完全没有必要。它唯一的目的不过是拖延德国人的增援，可眼下我们甚至还没有准备发动进攻呢。不过，当你让平庸的人登上权力高位，事情就会这样。”他朝着那边的巨幅意大利地图做了个懒洋洋的手势。“喏，这个小山村太无足轻重了，地图上甚至都没标出来。”
　　他们到达卡思卡特上校的轰炸机大队时，已经太晚了。他们没能赶上下达预备性简令，也没能听到丹比少校所做的一遍遍的说服和解释。“可它就在这儿，我告诉你们，它就在这儿，它就在这儿。”
　　“它在哪儿？”邓巴装作没有看见，挑衅地问。
　　“它就在地图上这条路稍稍拐弯的地方。你难道看不见你地图上的那个小弯吗？”
　　“不，我看不见。”
　　“我能看见，”哈弗迈耶凑上前说。他在邓巴的地图上把那个地方标了出来。“这些照片中有一张是那个小村子，拍得很好。这个任务我已经完全清楚了。它的目的就是把整个村庄从山坡上炸坍下去，从而堆积起一个路障。德国人不清除这个路障就无法进兵。
　　对不对？”
　　“对极了，”丹比少校说。他用手帕擦拭着前额上的汗水。“我很高兴，我们这儿终于有人开始明白这一点了。德国人的两个装甲师将会沿着这条路从奥地利开进意大利。这个村庄坐落在非常陡的山坡上，你们炸毁的房子和其它建筑物的瓦砾肯定全会直接滚落下来堆积在路上。”
　　“见鬼，这又能有什么区别呢？”邓巴追问道。约塞连激动地望着他，目光中既有敬畏也有谄媚。“只要两三天，他们就能清除干净。”叫丹比少校竭力避免引起争论。“不过，对司令部来说，这还是有些区别的，”他语气缓和地回答说，“我想这大概就是他们为什么要布置这次任务的原因。”
　　“是不是已经把这次轰炸通知村里的人了？”麦克沃特问。
　　丹比少校有点惊慌，连麦克沃特这样的人也敢站出来表示反对意见了。“不，我想还没有。”
　　“我们是不是已经撒传单告诉他们这一回我们的飞机要去轰炸他们了？”约塞连问，“难道我们就不能向他们暗示一下，叫他们躲出去吗？”
　　“不行，我看不行。”丹比少校不安地转动着眼珠，他的汗越出越多。“德国人也许会发现的，那样他们就会改变路线，对于这一我不敢肯定，我只不过是假设而已。”
　　“他们甚至不会隐蔽起来，”约塞连愤愤不平地争辩说，“当他们看见我们的飞机飞过来时，他们会连小孩带老人还有狗一起涌上街头冲着飞机挥手。天哪，我们为什么不能放过他们呢？”
　　“我们为什么不能在别处设置路障呢？”麦克沃特问，“为什么非在这儿不可呢？”
　　“我不知道，”丹比少校不高兴地回答说，“我不知道。听着，弟兄们，我们对向我们下达命令的上级应该有信心。他们知道他们自己在干些什么。”
　　“他们知道个鬼，”邓巴说。
　　“出了什么麻烦事？”科恩中校问。他穿着一件棕黄色的宽松衫，双手插在口袋里，悠闲自得地踱进简令下达室。
　　“噢，没出什么麻烦事，中校，”丹比少校神情紧张地掩饰道，“我们正在讨论这次任务呢。”
　　“他们不想轰炸那个村庄，”哈弗迈耶窃笑着说。他把丹比少校给出卖了。
　　“你这个混蛋！”约塞连冲着哈弗迈耶呵斥道。
　　“你离哈弗迈耶远点。”科恩中校粗暴地命令约塞连。他认出来了，约塞连就是第一次飞往博洛尼亚执行任务的前一天晚上在军官俱乐部里对他出言不逊的那个醉汉。他压制着自己的不满，转向邓巴问道：“你们为什么不想去轰炸那个村庄呢？”
　　“这太残忍了，就因为这个。”
　　“残忍？”科恩中校语调冷淡地问。邓巴毫无顾忌发作出来的敌对情绪使他心头一震。“让德国人的两个师开过来打我们的部队不是同样残忍吗？你当然知道，美国人的生命也处在危险之中。你愿意看到美国人流血吗？”
　　“美国人是在流血。可那村庄里的老百姓正生活在和平之中呢。我们究竟为什么要去找他们的麻烦呢？”
　　“不错，你这样讲倒挺容易，”科恩中校讥笑道，“你呆在皮亚诺萨岛上当然是很安全的。那些德国人的增援部队来与不来对你都没有关系，是吗？”
　　邓已窘得满脸通红。他突然以一种自我辩解的口吻反问道：
　　“我们为什么不能在别处设置路障呢？我们就不能把哪座山的山坡炸坍下来或者直接去轰炸那条路吗？”
　　“你是不是宁愿回博洛尼亚去呢？”这个问题虽然是平静地提出来的，却像一发子弹似的飞了出去。屋子里顿时静了下来，大家面面相觑，神色紧张，约塞连又急又愧，暗暗祈求邓巴不要再开口说话了，邓巴垂下了眼睛。科恩中校知道自己赢了。“不，我想你不愿意，”他带着露骨的轻蔑目光继续说道，“你知道吗，卡思卡特上校和我本人费了多大的力气才给你们争来这么一个没有危险的飞行任务？要是你们宁愿飞到博洛尼亚、斯培西亚和弗拉拉执行任务的话，我们不费吹灰之力就可以把这些目标派给你们。”他的眼睛在无框镜片后面威胁性地闪着光，宽大的下巴黑不溜秋的，显得冷酷无情。“只要告诉我一声就行。”
　　“我愿意去，”哈弗迈耶急忙答应道，发出一阵自高自大的窃笑声。“我愿意直接飞到博洛尼亚上空，把脑袋平对着轰炸瞄准器，听着那些高射炮弹在我四周呼啸爆炸。等到我完成任务回来，人们围过来指责我，咒骂我时，我会感到格外地开心。甚至连那些当兵的也气得骂我，恨不得揍我一顿。”
　　科恩中校愉快地拍了拍哈弗迈耶的下巴，却没有跟他说话。他转而干巴巴地对邓巴和约塞连说：“我郑重地告诉你们，说到为山上那些意大利乡巴佬伤心难过，谁也比不上卡思卡特上校和我本人。战争就是这个样子。你们一定要记住，发动战争的不是我们而是意大利人，侵略者不是我们而是意大利人。这些意大利人、德国人、俄国人，他们自己对待自己已经够残忍的啦，我们怎么残忍也比不过他们。”科恩中校友好地捏了捏丹比少校的肩膀，可是他脸上的不友好表情却没有改变。“继续下达简令吧，丹比。一定要让他们理解密集的炸弹散布面的重要性。”
　　“不，不，中校，”丹比少校眨眨眼脱口说道，“这个目标不采用这种方式，我已经告诉他们，每颗炸弹的落点间距为六十英尺。这样一来，路障就不是只集中在一个地点而是和整个村庄一样长了。
　　疏散的炸弹散布面会形成更有效的路障。”
　　“我们关心的不是路障，”科恩中校开导他说，“卡思卡特上校想借这次任务拍出一张高清晰度的空中照片，这张照片他可以自豪地通过各种渠道散发出去。别忘了，佩克姆将军要来这里听取下达正式简令。他对炸弹散布面的看法如何，你是知道的。顺便说一句，趁他还没来，你最好抓紧时间布置完这些细节，赶快离开。佩克姆将军受不了你。”
　　“噢，不，中校，”丹比少校诚恳地纠正他说，“是德里德尔将军受不了我。”
　　“佩克姆将军也受不了你。事实上，谁都受不了你。把你正在讲的讲完，丹比，然后就走吧。我来主持下达简令。”
　　“丹比少校在哪儿？”卡思卡特上校驾车陪着佩克姆将军和沙伊斯科普夫前来听取下达正式简令，一下车便问道。
　　“他一看到你开车来了，就请假离开了，”科恩中校回答说，“他担心佩克姆将军不喜欢他。本来也是准备由我主持下达简令的。我会干得比他好得多。”
　　“好极了！”卡思卡特上校叫道。可一转眼，他想起第一次下达轰炸阿维尼翁的简令时，科恩中校在德里德尔将军面前干的好事，便急忙收回刚才的话。“不，我自己来主持吧。”
　　卡思卡特上校精神抖擞地站起来主持会议。他心里想着自己是德里德尔将军的一个心腹，便学着德里德尔将军的样子，摆出一副粗鲁直率强硬的架势，对着那些凝神静听的下级军官斩钉截铁地厉声训话。他觉得，自己敞开着衬衫领口，手握着烟嘴，加上那一头剪得短短的花白卷发，站在讲台上的样子一定很威风。他口若悬河，滔滔不绝，讲得妙极了，甚至把德里德尔将军特有的某几个不正确发音都模仿得维妙维肖。后来，他突然记起来，佩克姆将军很厌恶德里德尔将军，于是便对佩克姆将军手下这位新来的上校生出几分惧怕来。他的嗓音变得沙哑了。他的自信心一下子全没了。
　　他结结巴巴地往下讲，不由得满面羞惭，脸红耳热。突然间，沙伊斯科普夫上校使他惊恐万分起来。这个地区多了一个上校就意味着多了一个对手，多了一个敌人，多了一个恨他的人。而且，这个家伙不好对付！卡思卡特上校忽然产生了一个可怕的念头：要是沙伊斯科普夫上校已经贿赂了这会场里所有的人，叫他们起来抱怨，就像他们第一次执行轰炸阿维尼翁的任务前那样，他怎么做才能使他们安静下来呢：那他可就丢尽脸了！卡思卡特上校吓得都快撑不住了，差一点招手叫科恩中校过来接替他。他费了好大劲才使自己镇定下来，和大家对了对手表。对完表，他知道自己总算应付过去了，因为他现在可以随时结束会议。他已经顺利地渡过了危机。他真想以胜利者的姿态当面嘲笑挖苦沙伊斯科普夫上校一通。事实证明，他在压力下表现得很出色。他以一番鼓舞人心的演说结束了简令的下达。他的直觉告诉他，这番演说淋漓尽致地展现了他的雄辩口才和机智敏锐。
　　“喂，弟兄们，”他鼓动地叫道，“今天到场的有一位贵宾，这就是来自特种任务部队的佩克姆将军，他给我们带来了垒球的球棒。
　　连环漫画和劳军联合组织的演出。我要用这次任务向他献礼。出发到那儿去扔炸弹吧——为了我，为了你们的国家，为了上帝，为了这位伟大的美国人佩克姆将军。让我们看到你们把所有的炸弹全部扔到那一丁点大的地方上去吧！”
Chapter 30 Dunbar
    Yossarian no longer gave a damn where his bombs fell, although he did not go as far as Dunbar, who dropped hisbombs hundreds of yards past the village and would face a court-martial if it could ever be shown he had done itdeliberately. Without a word even to Yossarian, Dunbar had washed his hands of the mission. The fall in thehospital had either shown him the light or scrambled his brains; it was impossible to say which.
　　Dunbar seldom laughed any more and seemed to be wasting away. He snarled belligerently at superior officers,even at Major Danby, and was crude and surly and profane even in front of the chaplain, who was afraid of Dunbar now and seemed to be wasting away also. The chaplain’s pilgrimage to Wintergreen had provedabortive; another shrine was empty. Wintergreen was too busy to see the chaplain himself. A brash assistantbrought the chaplain a stolen Zippo cigarette lighter as a gift and informed him condescendingly thatWintergreen was too deeply involved with wartime activities to concern himself with matters so trivial as thenumber of missions men had to fly. The chaplain worried about Dunbar and brooded more over Yossarian nowthat Orr was gone. To the chaplain, who lived by himself in a spacious tent whose pointy top sealed him ingloomy solitude each night like the cap of a tomb, it seemed incredible that Yossarian really preferred livingalone and wanted no roommates.
　　As a lead bombardier again, Yossarian had McWatt for a pilot, and that was one consolation, although he wasstill so utterly undefended. There was no way to fight back. He could not even see McWatt and the co-pilot fromhis post in the nose. All he could ever see was Aarfy, with whose fustian, moon-faced ineptitude he had finallylost all patience, and there were minutes of agonizing fury and frustration in the sky when he hungered to bedemoted again to a wing plane with a loaded machine gun in the compartment instead of the precision bombsightthat he really had no need for, a powerful, heavy fifty-caliber machine gun he could seize vengefully in bothhands and turn loose savagely against all the demons tyrannizing him: at the smoky black puffs of the flak itself;at the German antiaircraft gunners below whom he could not even see and could not possibly harm with hismachine gun even if he ever did take the time to open fire, at Havermeyer and Appleby in the lead plane for theirfearless straight and level bomb run on the second mission to Bologna where the flak from two hundred andtwenty-four cannons had knocked out one of Orr’s engines for the very last time and sent him down ditching intothe sea between Genoa and La Spezia just before the brief thunderstorm broke.
　　Actually, there was not much he could do with that powerful machine gun except load it and test-fire a fewrounds. It was no more use to him than the bombsight. He could really cut loose with it against attacking Germanfighters, but there were no German fighters any more, and he could not even swing it all the way around into thehelpless faces of pilots like Huple and Dobbs and order them back down carefully to the ground, as he had onceordered Kid Sampson back down, which is exactly what he did want to do to Dobbs and Huple on the hideousfirst mission to Avignon the moment he realized the fantastic pickle he was in, the moment he found himselfaloft in a wing plane with Dobbs and Huple in a flight headed by Havermeyer and Appleby. Dobbs and Huple?
　　Huple and Dobbs? Who were they? What preposterous madness to float in thin air two miles high on an inch ortwo of metal, sustained from death by the meager skill and intelligence of two vapid strangers, a beardless kidnamed Huple and a nervous nut like Dobbs, who really did go nuts right there in the plane, running amuck overthe target without leaving his copilot’s seat and grabbing the controls from Huple to plunge them all down intothat chilling dive that tore Yossarian’s headset loose and brought them right back inside the dense flak fromwhich they had almost escaped. The next thing he knew, another stranger, a radio-gunner named Snowden, wasdying in back. It was impossible to be positive that Dobbs had killed him, for when Yossarian plugged hisheadset back in, Dobbs was already on the intercom pleading for someone to go up front and help thebombardier. And almost immediately Snowden broke in, whimpering, “Help me. Please help me. I’m cold. I’mcold.” And Yossarian crawled slowly out of the nose and up on top of the bomb bay and wriggled back into therear section of the plane—passing the first-aid kit on the way that he had to return for—to treat Snowden for thewrong wound, the yawning, raw, melon-shaped hole as big as a football in the outside of his thigh, theunsevered, blood-soaked muscle fibers inside pulsating weirdly like blind things with lives of their own, the oval,naked wound that was almost a foot long and made Yossarian moan in shock and sympathy the instant he spied it and nearly made him vomit. And the small, slight tail-gunner was lying on the floor beside Snowden in a deadfaint, his face as white as a handkerchief, so that Yossarian sprang forward with revulsion to help him first.
　　Yes, in the long run, he was much safer flying with McWatt, and he was not even safe with McWatt, who lovedflying too much and went buzzing boldly inches off the ground with Yossarian in the nose on the way back fromthe training flight to break in the new bombardier in the whole replacement crew Colonel Cathcart had obtainedafter Orr was lost. The practice bomb range was on the other side of Pianosa, and, flying back, McWatt edgedthe belly of the lazing, slow-cruising plane just over the crest of mountains in the middle and then, instead ofmaintaining altitude, jolted both engines open all the way, lurched up on one side and, to Yossarian’sastonishment, began following the falling land down as fast as the plane would go, wagging his wings gaily andskimming with a massive, grinding, hammering roar over each rocky rise and dip of the rolling terrain like adizzy gull over wild brown waves. Yossarian was petrified. The new bombardier beside him sat demurely with abewitched grin and kept whistling “Whee!” and Yossarian wanted to reach out and crush his idiotic face withone hand as he flinched and flung himself away from the boulders and hillocks and lashing branches of trees thatloomed up above him out in front and rushed past just underneath in a sinking, streaking blur. No one had a rightto take such frightful risks with his life.
　　“Go up, go up, go up!” he shouted frantically at McWatt, hating him venomously, but McWatt was singingbuoyantly over the intercom and probably couldn’t hear. Yossarian, blazing with rage and almost sobbing forrevenge, hurled himself down into the crawlway and fought his way through against the dragging weight ofgravity and inertia until he arrived at the main section and pulled himself up to the flight deck, to stand tremblingbehind McWatt in the pilot’s seat. He looked desperately about for a gun, a gray-black .45 automatic that hecould cock and ram right up against the base of McWatt’s skull. There was no gun. There was no hunting knifeeither, and no other weapon with which he could bludgeon or stab, and Yossarian grasped and jerked the collarof McWatt’s coveralls in tightening fists and shouted to him to go up, go up. The land was still swimming byunderneath and flashing by overhead on both sides. McWatt looked back at Yossarian and laughed joyfully asthough Yossarian were sharing his fun. Yossarian slid both hands around McWatt’s bare throat and squeezed.
　　McWatt turned stiff:
　　“Go up,” Yossarian ordered unmistakably through his teeth in a low, menacing voice. “Or I’ll kill you.”
　　Rigid with caution, McWatt cut the motors back and climbed gradually. Yossarian’s hands weakened onMcWatt’s neck and slid down off his shoulders to dangle inertly. He was not angry any more. He was ashamed.
　　When McWatt turned, he was sorry the hands were his and wished there were someplace where he could burythem. They felt dead.
　　McWatt gazed at him deeply. There was no friendliness in his stare. “Boy,” he said coldly, “you sure must be inpretty bad shape. You ought to go home.”
　　“They won’t let me.” Yossarian answered with averted eyes, and crept away.
　　Yossarian stepped down from the flight deck and seated himself on the floor, hanging his head with guilt andremorse. He was covered with sweat.
　　McWatt set course directly back toward the field. Yossarian wondered whether McWatt would now go to theoperations tent to see Piltchard and Wren and request that Yossarian never be assigned to his plane again, just asYossarian had gone surreptitiously to speak to them about Dobbs and Huple and Orr and, unsuccessfully, aboutAarfy. He had never seen McWatt look displeased before, had never seen him in any but the most lightheartedmood, and he wondered whether he had just lost another friend.
　　But McWatt winked at him reassuringly as he climbed down from the plane and joshed hospitably with thecredulous new pilot and bombardier during the jeep ride back to the squadron, although he did not address aword to Yossarian until all four had returned their parachutes and separated and the two of them were walkingside by side toward their own row of tents. Then McWatt’s sparsely freckled tan Scotch-Irish face brokesuddenly into a smile and he dug his knuckles playfully into Yossarian’s ribs, as though throwing a punch.
　　“You louse,” he laughed. “Were you really going to kill me up there?”
　　Yossarian grinned penitently and shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
　　“I didn’t realize you got it so bad. Boy! Why don’t you talk to somebody about it?”
　　“I talk to everybody about it. What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you ever hear me?”
　　“I guess I never really believed you.”
　　“Aren’t you ever afraid?”
　　“Maybe I ought to be.”
　　“Not even on the missions?”
　　“I guess I just don’t have brains enough.” McWatt laughed sheepishly.
　　“There are so many ways for me to get killed,” Yossarian commented, “and you had to find one more.”
　　McWatt smiled again. “Say, I bet it must really scare you when I buzz your tent, huh?”
　　“It scares me to death. I’ve told you that.”
　　“I thought it was just the noise you were complaining about.” McWatt made a resigned shrug. “Oh, well, whatthe hell,” he sang. “I guess I’ll just have to give it up.”
　　But McWatt was incorrigible, and, while he never buzzed Yossarian’s tent again, he never missed an opportunityto buzz the beach and roar like a fierce and low-flying thunderbolt over the raft in the water and the secludedhollow in the sand where Yossarian lay feeling up Nurse Duckett or playing hearts, poker or pinochle with Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe. Yossarian met Nurse Duckett almost every afternoon that both were free andcame with her to the beach on the other side of the narrow swell of shoulder-high dunes separating them from thearea in which the other officers and enlisted men went swimming nude. Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe wouldcome there, too. McWatt would occasionally join them, and often Aarfy, who always arrived pudgily in fulluniform and never removed any of his clothing but his shoes and his hat; Aarfy never went swimming. The othermen wore swimming trunks in deference to Nurse Duckett, and in deference also to Nurse Cramer, whoaccompanied Nurse Duckett and Yossarian to the beach every time and sat haughtily by herself ten yards away.
　　No one but Aarfy ever made reference to the naked men sun-bathing in full view farther down the beach orjumping and diving from the enormous white-washed raft that bobbed on empty oil drums out beyond the siltsand. Nurse Cramer sat by herself because she was angry with Yossarian and disappointed in Nurse Duckett.
　　Nurse Sue Ann Duckett despised Aarfy, and that was another one of the numerous fetching traits about NurseDuckett that Yossarian enjoyed. He enjoyed Nurse Sue Ann Duckett’s long white legs and supple, callipygousass; he often neglected to remember that she was quite slim and fragile from the waist up and hurt herunintentionally in moments of passion when he hugged her too roughly. He loved her manner of sleepyacquiescence when they lay on the beach at dusk. He drew solace and sedation from her nearness. He had acraving to touch her always, to remain always in physical communication. He liked to encircle her ankle looselywith his fingers as he played cards with Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe, to lightly and lovingly caress the downyskin of her fair, smooth thigh with the backs of his nails or, dreamily, sensuously, almost unconsciously, slide hisproprietary, respectful hand up the shell-like ridge of her spine beneath the elastic strap of the top of the two-piece bathing suit she always wore to contain and cover her tiny, long-nippled breasts. He loved Nurse Duckett’sserene, flattered response, the sense of attachment to him she displayed proudly. Hungry Joe had a craving to feelNurse Duckett up, too, and was restrained more than once by Yossarian’s forbidding glower. Nurse Duckettflirted with Hungry Joe just to keep him in heat, and her round light-brown eyes glimmered with mischief everytime Yossarian rapped her sharply with his elbow or fist to make her stop.
　　The men played cards on a towel, undershirt, or blanket, and Nurse Duckett mixed the extra deck of cards, sittingwith her back resting against a sand dune. When she was not shuffling the extra deck of cards, she sat squintinginto a tiny pocket mirror, brushing mascara on her curling reddish eyelashes in a birdbrained effort to make themlonger permanently. Occasionally she was able to stack the cards or spoil the deck in a way they did not discoveruntil they were well into the game, and she laughed and glowed with blissful gratification when they all hurledtheir cards down disgustedly and began punching her sharply on the arms or legs as they called her filthy namesand warned her to stop fooling around. She would prattle nonsensically when they were striving hardest to think,and a pink flush of elation crept into her cheeks when they gave her more sharp raps on the arms and legs withtheir fists and told her to shut up. Nurse Duckett reveled in such attention and ducked her short chestnut bangswith joy when Yossarian and the others focused upon her. It gave her a peculiar feeling of warm and expectantwell-being to know that so many naked boys and men were idling close by on the other side of the sand dunes.
　　She had only to stretch her neck or rise on some pretext to see twenty or forty undressed males lounging orplaying ball in the sunlight. Her own body was such a familiar and unremarkable thing to her that she waspuzzled by the convulsive ecstasy men could take from it, by the intense and amusing need they had merely totouch it, to reach out urgently and press it, squeeze it, pinch it, rub it. She did not understand Yossarian’s lust;but she was willing to take his word for it.
　　Evenings when Yossarian felt horny he brought Nurse Duckett to the beach with two blankets and enjoyedmaking love to her with most of their clothes on more than he sometimes enjoyed making love to all the vigorousbare amoral girls in Rome. Frequently they went to the beach at night and did not make love, but just layshivering between the blankets against each other to ward off the brisk, damp chill. The ink-black nights wereturning cold, the stars frosty and fewer. The raft swayed in the ghostly trail of moonlight and seemed to besailing away. A marked hint of cold weather penetrated the air. Other men were just starting to build stoves andcame to Yossarian’s tent during the day to marvel at Orr’s workmanship. It thrilled Nurse Duckett rapturouslythat Yossarian could not keep his hands off her when they were together, although she would not let him slipthem inside her bathing shorts during the day when anyone was near enough to see, not even when the onlywitness was Nurse Cramer, who sat on the other side of her sand dune with her reproving nose in the air andpretended not to see anything.
　　Nurse Cramer had stopped speaking to Nurse Duckett, her best friend, because of her liaison with Yossarian, butstill went everywhere with Nurse Duckett since Nurse Duckett was her best friend. She did not approve ofYossarian or his friends. When they stood up and went swimming with Nurse Duckett, Nurse Cramer stood upand went swimming, too, maintaining the same ten-yard distance between them, and maintaining her silence,snubbing them even in the water. When they laughed and splashed, she laughed and splashed; when they dived,she dived; when they swam to the sand bar and rested, Nurse Cramer swam to the sand bar and rested. Whenthey came out, she came out, dried her shoulders with her own towel and seated herself aloofly in her own spot,her back rigid and a ring of reflected sunlight burnishing her light-blond hair like a halo. Nurse Cramer wasprepared to begin talking to Nurse Duckett again if she repented and apologized. Nurse Duckett preferred thingsthe way they were. For a long time she had wanted to give Nurse Cramer a rap to make her shut up.
　　Nurse Duckett found Yossarian wonderful and was already trying to change him. She loved to watch him takingshort naps with his face down and his arm thrown across her, or staring bleakly at the endless tame, quiet wavesbreaking like pet puppy dogs against the shore, scampering lightly up the sand a foot or two and then trottingaway. She was calm in his silences. She knew she did not bore him, and she buffed or painted her fingernailsstudiously while he dozed or brooded and the desultory warm afternoon breeze vibrated delicately on the surfaceof the beach. She loved to look at his wide, long, sinewy back with its bronzed, unblemished skin. She loved tobring him to flame instantly by taking his whole ear in her mouth suddenly and running her hand down his frontall the way. She loved to make him burn and suffer till dark, then satisfy him. Then kiss him adoringly becauseshe had brought him such bliss.
　　Yossarian was never lonely with Nurse Duckett, who really did know how to keep her mouth shut and was justcapricious enough. He was haunted and tormented by the vast, boundless ocean. He wondered mournfully, asNurse Duckett buffed her nails, about all the people who had died under water. There were surely more than amillion already. Where were they? What insects had eaten their flesh? He imagined the awful impotence ofbreathing in helplessly quarts and quarts of water. Yossarian followed the small fishing boats and militarylaunches plying back and forth far out and found them unreal; it did not seem true that there were full-sized menaboard, going somewhere every time. He looked toward stony Elba, and his eyes automatically searchedoverhead for the fluffy, white, turnip-shaped cloud in which Clevinger had vanished. He peered at the vaporousItalian skyline and thought of Orr. Clevinger and Orr. Where had they gone? Yossarian had once stood on a jettyat dawn and watched a tufted round log that was drifting toward him on the tide turn unexpectedly into the bloated face of a drowned man; it was the first dead person he had ever seen. He thirsted for life and reached outravenously to grasp and hold Nurse Duckett’s flesh. He studied every floating object fearfully for somegruesome sign of Clevinger and Orr, prepared for any morbid shock but the shock McWatt gave him one daywith the plane that came blasting suddenly into sight out of the distant stillness and hurtled mercilessly along theshore line with a great growling, clattering roar over the bobbing raft on which blond, pale Kid Sampson, hisnaked sides scrawny even from so far away, leaped clownishly up to touch it at the exact moment some arbitrarygust of wind or minor miscalculation of McWatt’s senses dropped the speeding plane down just low enough for apropeller to slice him half away.
　　Even people who were not there remembered vividly exactly what happened next. There was the briefest, softesttsst! filtering audibly through the shattering, overwhelming howl of the plane’s engines, and then there were justKid Sampson’s two pale, skinny legs, still joined by strings somehow at the bloody truncated hips, standingstock-still on the raft for what seemed a full minute or two before they toppled over backward into the waterfinally with a faint, echoing splash and turned completely upside down so that only the grotesque toes and theplaster-white soles of Kid Sampson’s feet remained in view.
　　On the beach, all hell broke loose. Nurse Cramer materialized out of thin air suddenly and was weepinghysterically against Yossarian’s chest while Yossarian hugged her shoulders and soothed her. His other armbolstered Nurse Duckett, who was trembling and sobbing against him, too, her long, angular face dead white.
　　Everyone at the beach was screaming and running, and the men sounded like women. They scampered for theirthings in panic, stooping hurriedly and looking askance at each gentle, knee-high wave bubbling in as thoughsome ugly, red, grisly organ like a liver or a lung might come washing right up against them. Those in the waterwere struggling to get out, forgetting in their haste to swim, wailing, walking, held back in their flight by theviscous, clinging sea as though by a biting wind.
　　Kid Sampson had rained all over. Those who spied drops of him on their limbs or torsos drew back with terrorand revulsion, as though trying to shrink away from their own odious skins. Everybody ran in a sluggishstampede, shooting tortured, horrified glances back, filling the deep, shadowy, rustling woods with their frailgasps and cries. Yossarian drove both stumbling, faltering women before him frantically, shoving them andprodding them to make them hurry, and raced back with a curse to help when Hungry Joe tripped on the blanketor the camera case he was carrying and fell forward on his face in the mud of the stream.
　　Back at the squadron everyone already knew. Men in uniform were screaming and running there too, or standingmotionless in one spot, rooted in awe, like Sergeant Knight and Doc Daneeka as they gravely craned their headsupward and watched the guilty, banking, forlorn airplane with McWatt circle and circle slowly and climb.
　　“Who is it?” Yossarian shouted anxiously at Doc Daneeka as he ran up, breathless and limp, his somber eyesburning with a misty, hectic anguish. “Who’s in the plane?”
　　“McWatt,” said Sergeant Knight. “He’s got the two new pilots with him on a training flight. Doc Daneeka’s upthere, too.”
　　“I’m right here,” contended Doc Daneeka, in a strange and troubled voice, darting an anxious look at Sergeant Knight.
　　“Why doesn’t he come down?” Yossarian exclaimed in despair. “Why does he keep going up?”
　　“He’s probably afraid to come down,” Sergeant Knight answered, without moving his solemn gaze fromMcWatt’s solitary climbing airplane. “He knows what kind of trouble he’s in.”
　　And McWatt kept climbing higher and higher, nosing his droning airplane upward evenly in a slow, oval spiralthat carried him far out over the water as he headed south and far in over the russet foothills when he had circledthe landing field again and was flying north. He was soon up over five thousand feet. His engines were soft aswhispers. A white parachute popped open suddenly in a surprising puff. A second parachute popped open a fewminutes later and coasted down, like the first, directly in toward the clearing of the landing strip. There was nomotion on the ground. The plane continued south for thirty seconds more, following the same pattern, familiarand predictable now, and McWatt lifted a wing and banked gracefully around into his turn.
　　“Two more to go,” said Sergeant Knight. “McWatt and Doc Daneeka.”
　　“I’m right here, Sergeant Knight,” Doc Daneeka told him plaintively. “I’m not in the plane.”
　　“Why don’t they jump?” Sergeant Knight asked, pleading aloud to himself. “Why don’t they jump?”
　　“It doesn’t make sense,” grieved Doc Daneeka, biting his lip. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
　　But Yossarian understood suddenly why McWatt wouldn’t jump, and went running uncontrollably down thewhole length of the squadron after McWatt’s plane, waving his arms and shouting up at him imploringly to comedown, McWatt, come down; but no one seemed to hear, certainly not McWatt, and a great, choking moan torefrom Yossarian’s throat as McWatt turned again, dipped his wings once in salute, decided oh, well, what the hell,and flew into a mountain.
　　Colonel Cathcart was so upset by the deaths of Kid Sampson and McWatt that he raised the missions to sixty-five.
 30、邓巴
　　自己投下的炸弹落到哪儿去了，约塞连已经一点也不在乎了。
　　可他并没有邓巴干得那么过分。邓巴飞过那个村庄几百码后才把炸弹扔下去。如果有证据能表明他是故意这样干的，他就得上军事法庭。邓巴甚至没对约塞连讲一声，就洗手不再执行飞行命令了。
　　他在医院里跌的那一跤不是使他开了窍，就是把他摔糊涂了。到底是哪种情况，就很难说了。
　　邓巴很少放声大笑了，而且似乎一天天消瘦下去。对级别比他高的军官，甚至对丹比少校，他都敢挑衅般地大吼大叫。即使在牧师面前，他也是那样地粗暴无礼，满嘴污言秽语。牧师现在很怕邓巴，他似乎也在一天天消瘦下去。他对温特格林的朝拜以失败而告终，他只不过是再次进入了一座空空如也的圣殿而已。温特格林太忙了，没有工夫接见牧师。他的一个傲慢的助手把一个偷来的齐波牌打火机赠送给牧师，居高临下地通知他说，温特格林正忙于战争事务，无暇过问空勤人员飞行次数之类的小事情。现在，既然奥尔已经失踪，牧师就更加为邓巴担心，为约塞连想得也更多了。牧师独自住在一顶宽敞的大帐篷里。每到晚上，他就觉得这顶帐篷活像坟墓的拱顶，严严实实地把他封在阴森孤寂之中。他简直弄不懂，约塞连为什么会宁愿自己一个人住而不愿跟别人合住一顶帐篷。
　　约塞连再次担任了领航轰炸手，给他做驾驶员的是麦克沃特。
　　这也算是一种安慰，尽管他仍然像以往一样丝毫得不到保护。想反击是办不到的。他坐在机头里的座位上，却连麦克沃特和他的副驾驶员都看不到。他能看见的只有阿费。阿费那张圆脸上粗俗愚蠢的神态真叫他烦透了。在空中，有时怒气和失望一起向他袭来，折磨得他难以忍受，真恨不得自己再次降到僚机上，去操纵机舱里一挺压满子弹的机关枪，而不是守着这么一只他压根不需要的高精度轰炸瞄准器。如果真能那样，他就可以怀着满腔仇恨，双手紧握着一挺五十口径的重型机关枪，对着所有压迫他虐待他的混蛋狂扫乱射；对着高射炮火的黑烟；对着地面上的德国高射炮手，这些家伙他甚至看不见，而且，即使他来得及朝他们开火，他的机枪火力也伤害不着他们；对着长机上的哈弗迈耶和阿普尔比，这两个天不怕地不怕的家伙执行第三次轰炸博洛尼亚的任务时，带队一直俯冲到二百五十门高射炮的火力网之中，结果一发炮弹打掉了奥尔飞机上的一个引擎，使奥尔正赶在一场短暂的雷暴雨来临之前栽进了热那亚和斯培西亚之间的大海里。
　　实际上，他就是手中握着那挺重型机关枪，也干不了什么事，最多不过装上子弹，打几个连发试试火力罢了。对他来说，机关枪和轰炸瞄准器同样没有什么用处。他可以用它猛烈扫射前来攻击的德国战斗机，但现在已经没有德国战斗机了。他甚至不能够掉转枪口对准驾驶员那惊慌失措的面孔，比方说赫普尔和多布斯，命令他们老老实实地返航。有一回他就是这么命令基德•桑普森返航的。执行第一次轰炸阿维尼翁的可怕任务时，他与多布斯和赫普尔一起坐在僚机里，跟在哈弗迈耶和阿普尔比的长机后面飞过高空。
　　突然，他意识到自己处在一种糟糕透顶的困境之中，当时他真想像对待基德•桑普森那样命令多布斯和赫普尔返航。是多布斯和赫普尔吗？是赫普尔和多布斯吗？他们俩是什么人呢？没长胡子的娃娃叫赫普尔，神经紧张的疯子叫多布斯。这两个傻乎乎的新手，竟敢凭着他们那蹩脚的技术和迟钝的大脑，驾着一架用一两英寸厚的合金制成的飞机在两英里高的稀薄空气中穿行，而且居然保住了性命，这真是荒谬绝伦、疯狂透顶。多布斯当时在飞机里就发起疯来。他身体仍然坐在副驾驶员的位置上，手却伸过去从赫普尔那里一把夺过操纵器猛地一推，飞机立刻杀气腾腾地朝着轰炸目标俯冲下去，一下子钻到他们刚刚逃离的高射炮火力网里面去了。
　　约塞连吓得浑身冰凉，对讲耳机的插头也给震掉了。接下来他记得的就是另一个新来的无线电通讯员兼机枪手，名叫斯诺登，躺在机舱的后部快要咽气了。是不是多布斯送了他的命，这无法肯定，反正当约塞连重新插上对讲耳机的插头时，多布斯正在内部对讲机里呼救，叫人赶快到前舱去救救轰炸手。几乎与此同时，斯诺登插进来呜咽着说：“救救我吧，救救我吧。我冷啊，我冷啊。”约塞连慢慢地爬出机头，爬上炸弹舱的舱顶，一步一挪地退到机尾舱——路过急救药箱时他却忘了拿，只好又返回去取——去抢救斯诺登，结果却找错了伤口。在斯诺登的大腿外侧有一个橄榄球那么大的西瓜形状的窟窿，大张着口子，血肉淋漓，一缕缕一丝丝浸透鲜血的肌肉组织在里面奇怪地颤动着，仿佛它们本身是有生命的瞎眼动物似的。这个裸露着的椭圆形伤口几乎有一英尺长。一看到它，约塞连又是震惊又是怜悯，不禁呻吟起来，还差一点吐了出来。那个矮小瘦弱的尾舱机枪手昏死在斯诺登身旁的地上，他的脸色白得像一块手帕，约塞连只好强忍住嫌恶扑过去先救他。
　　是的，从长远来看，和麦克沃特一起飞行要安全得多。可是，和麦克沃特一起飞行也可以说是一点都不安全的，因为麦克沃特太喜欢飞行了。奥尔失踪后，卡思卡特上校从机组补充人员中挑选了一名轰炸手给他们，他们带着这个新手完成飞行训练返航时，约塞连坐在机头里，麦克沃特驾驶着飞机冒冒失失地从离地几英寸的地方轰鸣而过。轰炸训练场设在皮亚诺萨岛的另一头。从那儿经过岛中部的群山往回飞时，麦克沃特把机腹紧贴着山脊，让飞机懒洋洋、慢悠悠地飘行着。突然间，他非但不保持高度，反而开足两个引擎，猛地把飞机向一侧倾斜过去。更叫约塞连吃惊的是，麦克沃特快活地摆动着机翼，让飞机顺着斜坡飞快地冲下去。飞机时而飞腾，时而下跌，发出刺耳的隆隆巨响，轻快地掠过绵延起伏的山峦，就像一只吓傻了的海鸥在汹涌的浊浪之中穿行。约塞连吓得呆若木鸡。那个新来的轰炸手故作镇定地坐在他身旁，着魔般地咧嘴傻笑着，一个劲地吹口哨。约塞连真想伸出手去在这个白痴的脸上扇一巴掌。就在这时，飞机钻进了遍布巨石的丘陵地带，一排排树枝劈里啪啦地从他眼前和头顶擦过，随即在他的身后模模糊糊地一闪即逝。约塞连给震得东倒西晃。谁也没有权利拿自己的性命冒这么可怕的危险。
　　“朝上飞，朝上飞，朝上飞！”他冲着麦克沃特狂叫着。他简直恨死这家伙了。可麦克沃特正对着内部对讲机快快活活地唱着呢，也许根本没有听见他的话。约塞连不禁怒火中烧，恨得眼泪都快掉下来了。他扑向爬行通道，顶着引力和惯性的强大拉力，费劲地朝主舱爬去。他一口气爬进驾驶舱，站在麦克沃特的驾驶员座位后面直打哆嗦。他四下里望着，急于找到一把手枪，一把零点四五口径的灰色自动手枪。他要拿着这手枪朝麦克沃特的后脑勺猛砸下去。可是驾驶舱里没有枪，也没有猎刀，更没有别的可以让他拿来砸过去或者戳过去的武器。约塞连双手一把揪住麦克沃特的飞行服领子，猛力摇晃着，大声叫他朝上飞，朝上飞。陆地仍然继续从飞机的左右两侧飞快地闪过去。麦克沃特转脸看着约塞连，快活地哈哈大笑，好像约塞连正在分享他的快乐似的。约塞连伸出双手掐住麦克沃特袒露的脖颈，猛地一用劲，麦克沃特顿时僵住了。
　　“朝上飞。”约塞连咬着牙，用低沉、威胁的口吻不容置辩地命令他。“否则我就掐死你。”
　　麦克沃特紧张而又小心地扳回操纵杆，让飞机逐渐爬升。约塞连掐着麦克沃特脖子的双手瘫软下来，滑下他的肩头，无力地晃动着。他的火气全消了。他感到难为情。麦克沃特转过身来时，他觉得很难过，那双手竟然是他的，他真恨不得有个地方把它们埋藏起来。他的手上毫无感觉。
　　麦克沃特深沉地凝视着他，目光里没有一丝友好的神情。“伙计，”他冷冷地说，“你的情况很不好。你该回家了。”
　　“他们不让我回家，”约塞连躲避着他的目光回答道，说完便悄悄地离开了。
　　从驾驶舱里爬下来后，约塞连一屁股坐到地上。他又愧又悔，耷拉着脑袋，浑身大汗淋漓。
　　麦克沃特直接把飞机开回基地。约塞连拿不准麦克沃特会不会跑到指挥部的帐篷里去找皮尔查德和雷恩，要求他们以后再也不要派约塞连到他的飞机上去。他自己以前就曾偷偷摸摸地去找过他们，要求不跟多布斯、赫普尔或者奥尔，还有阿费，一起执行飞行任务，不过没有成功。他以前从来没有见过麦克沃特这么生气。
　　麦克沃特不论在什么时候什么地方都是一副轻松愉快的样子。约塞连担心自己是不是又失去了一个朋友。
　　但是，他从飞机上下来时，麦克沃特却向他眨眨眼睛叫他放心。在乘吉普车返回中队的路上，麦克沃特兴致勃勃地跟那个新来的什么话都相信的飞行员及轰炸手开着玩笑，却没有跟约塞连说一句话。直到他们四个人交还降落伞后分了手，他和约塞连肩并肩往他们自己的那排帐篷走去时，麦克沃特那张长着稀疏雀斑的苏格兰-爱尔兰人的棕褐色脸上才突然绽开了笑容。他用指关节开玩笑地戳了戳约塞连的肋骨，好像是要打他一拳似的。
　　“你这个混蛋，”他笑道，“在天上时你真的想掐死我吗？”
　　约塞连后悔地笑着摇了摇头。“不，我想我不至于。”
　　“我真没想到你会受不了。唉！你为什么不去找个人谈谈？”
　　“我跟每个人都谈了。你***怎么了？你难道没听见我谈吗？”
　　“恐怕我从来没有真正相信过你说的那些话。”
　　“难道你没害怕过吗？”
　　“也许我应该害怕。”
　　“甚至执行飞行任务的时候也没害怕？”
　　“恐怕我没有多少头脑，不知道害怕。”麦克沃特不好意思地笑笑。
　　“已经有那么多杀死我的办法啦，”约塞连发议论道，“你还要再找出一种来。”
　　麦克沃特又笑了。“嘿，我敢打赌，我贴着你的帐篷飞过去时，把你吓了个半死，对不对？”
　　“把我吓死了。这我告诉过你了。”
　　“我还以为你不过是向我抱怨飞机的噪音呢。”麦克沃特耸耸肩表示让步。“噢，好吧，真***，”他叫道，“我想我只好不这么干了。”
　　但是，麦克沃特是不可救药的。他虽然不再贴着约塞连的帐篷飞行，却一有机会就驾着飞机在海滩上低空盘旋，如同一串震耳欲聋的落地雷那样掠过水面上的浮筏和海滩上僻静的沙坑，约塞连常常躺在海滩上抚摸达克特护士，或者跟内特利、邓巴和亨格利•乔打红桃纸牌戏、扑克牌戏或平纳克尔牌戏。约塞连和达克特护士几乎每天下午都没事，他们双双跑到沙滩上，坐到一堆窄窄的齐肩高的沙丘后面，沙丘把他们跟海滩上赤身裸体游泳的军官和士兵分隔了开来。内特利、邓巴和亨格利•乔常常去那儿，麦克沃特偶尔也参加进去，还有阿费也常去。他总是鼓鼓囊囊地穿着全套军装，到了那儿以后，除了鞋帽，从来不肯脱一件衣服，当然也从来不肯游泳，其他的男人都穿着游泳裤头，这是出于对达克特护士，也是出于对克拉默护士的尊重。克拉默护士每次都陪着达克特护士和约塞连到海滩上去，独自一人高傲地坐在离他们十码以外的地方。只有阿费提起过那些一丝不挂的男人，他们或者在远处的海滩上晒日光浴，或者从一个漆成白色的大浮筏上跳水潜泳。那个大浮笺架设在沙堤外面的几只空油桶上，随着海浪上下颠簸着。克拉默护士生约塞连的气，又对达克特护士失望，所以总是一个人单独坐着。
　　苏•安•达克特护士有许多约塞连十分欣赏的迷人之处，其中之一就是瞧不起阿费。约塞连喜欢她的另一个原因是她长着两条白嫩的长腿和一个丰满富于弹性的屁股。约塞连常常感情一激动就过分粗鲁地搂抱她。每逢这时，他就忘掉了她腰以上的身体部分过于纤细，过于单薄了。他喜欢在薄暮中和她一块躺在沙滩上时她那种懒散柔顺的卧姿。有她在身旁，他感到欣慰和镇静。他有一种强烈的欲望，那就是一直抚摸着她的胴体，一直跟她保持着肉体的接触。她的大腿白皙光滑。当他跟内特利、邓巴和亨格利•乔玩牌时，他喜欢用手指松松地握住她的脚脖子，用手指甲轻轻地、怜爱地抚弄她腿上那长满绒毛的皮肤，或者心不在焉地、感觉愉快地、几乎无意识地伸手顺着她那贝壳般的脊梁骨向上摸去。她天天穿着一件三点式泳装，泳装的上半截刚好能遮住她那垂着长长奶头的娇小乳房。约塞连经常毫无拘束地把手伸到她泳装背后的松紧带下面，以满足自己的占有欲望。达克特护士自豪地表现出一种对他的依恋感。约塞连很喜欢她这种沉静的、心满意足的反应。亨格利•乔也很想上下摸一摸达克特护士，可是不止一次地被约塞连恶狠狠的目光给吓回去了。达克特护士跟亨格利•乔眉来眼去，只不过是为了挑起他的欲火。每回约塞连用胳膊肘或者拳头猛戳她一下，叫她老实点时，她那双浅褐色的圆眼睛里就闪烁出恶作剧的光芒来。
　　这几个男人往沙滩上铺一条毛巾、汗衫或者毯子什么的，就在上面打起了纸牌。达克特护士则倚在旁边的一个沙丘上，洗着一副多余的牌。有时她不洗这牌，而是坐在那里眯缝着眼睛对着一面小镜子左顾右盼，没完没了地往她那卷曲的淡红色睫毛上涂睫毛油。
　　她傻乎乎地认为，这样会使它们越长越长。偶尔她洗牌时会故意作弊，或者搞点别的鬼名堂。他们打了好一会才发现，只好气恼地把牌统统扔下，一起扑上前去捶她的胳膊和大腿，用脏话骂她，警告她不许再这么胡闹，她却得意极了，满脸通红地哈哈大笑起来，当他们正绞尽脑汁想着如何出牌时，她会在旁边唠唠叨叨地乱出主意，于是他们又用拳头使劲捶她的胳膊和大腿，叫她闭嘴，这时她就会高兴得面颊泛起淡淡的红晕。达克特护士特别喜欢招人注意。
　　当约塞连或者其他人盯着她看时，她会快活地垂下留着栗色前刘海的脑袋。每当她想到有许多一丝不挂的小伙子和男人就在沙丘另一侧不远的地方闲荡时，心中就不由得生出一种温暖的、企望快乐的奇怪感觉。她只要随便找个借口伸长脖子或者站起身来，就能够看见那边三四十个裸体男人在阳光下溜达或是打球。对她自己来说，她的身体既熟悉又普通，她怎么也弄不明白，男人们为什么能从她的肉体上得到令他们神魂颠倒的狂喜，为什么能对她的肉体产生出那么强烈的欲念，为什么仅仅摸摸她，揿揿她，捏捏她，拧拧她，触触她，就能给他们带来那么大的乐趣，她不理解约塞连的情欲，但她愿意相信他说的话。
　　晚上，当约塞连性欲冲动时，他就拿着两条毯子把达克特护士带到海滩上。他喜欢穿着大部分衣服跟她做爱，他觉得这比跟罗马那些情欲旺盛的裸体妓女做爱更有乐趣。夜里他俩常常一块到海滩上去，不过不是去做爱，而是搂抱着躺在毯子底下瑟瑟发抖，互相为对方抵御着清新湿润的寒气。墨汁般漆黑的夜晚越来越冷，星星闪烁着一层寒光渐渐隐去。那个浮筏在阴冷的月光下左右摇摆，似乎正在渐渐漂去。天气明显地变冷了，别的军官这才开始动手装炉子。每天都有人到约塞连的帐篷里来对奥尔的手艺发出一番赞叹。达克特护士兴奋得发狂，因为约塞连和她呆在一起时手从来不离开她的身体。不过，白天附近有人能看见他俩时，她不允许他把手伸到她的游泳裤里，即使旁边只有克拉默护士一个人时也不行。
　　克拉默护士总是独自坐在沙丘的另一侧，责备地翘着鼻子，装着什么都没有看见。
　　达克特护士本来是克拉默护士最好的朋友，可是由于她和约塞连发生了那种关系，克拉默护士便不再跟她说话了。不过，看在她们曾经是最好的朋友的分上，达克特护士走到哪儿她仍然跟到哪儿。她对约塞连以及他所有的那些朋友都不满意。当他们站起来和达克特护士去游泳时，她也站起来去游泳。不过，即使在水里她仍然和他们保持着十码的距离，仍然对他们保持着沉默的、冷冰冰的态度。他们笑着泼溅水花时，她也笑着泼溅水花；他们潜水时，她也潜水；他们游到沙堤上休息时，她也游到沙堤上休息。最后，他们上岸时，她也上岸，用她自己的浴巾把臂膀擦干，回到远处她自己的那块地方坐下来，腰板挺得直直的，一圈阳光映照在她的亚麻色头发上，就像一个光环。如果达克特护士表示出悔恨和歉意的话，克拉默护士准备重新开口跟她讲话。可是，达克特护士偏偏愿意保持现在这种局面。很久以来，她一直想痛骂克拉默护士一通，以便叫她闭上她那张嘴。
　　达克特护士觉得约塞连棒极了，并且已经开始设法改造他了。
　　她非常喜欢看他用一只胳膊搂着她、脸朝下趴着打盹的模样，或是看着他悲伤地凝视着平静柔缓的海浪。那一排排的浪花不断地拍击着海岸，像快活的小狗似的蹦跳到沙滩上一两英尺远的地方，又急急忙忙地退了回去。他沉默不语的时候她也很安静。她知道自己没有惹他厌烦。他打瞌睡或者想心思时，她就仔仔细细地涂手指甲。午后的徐徐暖风轻轻吹拂在海滩上。她非常喜欢打量他那又宽又长、肌肉强健的后背和后背上那光滑油亮的古铜色皮肤。她喜欢突然把他的整个耳朵咬在嘴里，同时用手顺着他的前胸往下抚摸，从而一下子撩拨起他的欲火。她喜欢挑逗得他心急火燎、坐立不安，一直拖到天黑才满足他的要求。完事以后，她爱慕地吻着他。
　　她给他带来了多么巨大的幸福啊。
　　有达克特护士陪着，约塞连从来不感到孤寂。达克特护士切切实实地懂得如何保持沉默，而且不算过分地任性。广阔无垠的海洋时时萦绕在约塞连的心头，折磨得他痛苦不堪。达克特护士擦拭指甲的时候，他悲伤地怀念起死在水底下的所有人来。他们肯定已经超过一百万了吧。他们在哪儿呢？是什么样的虫子吃掉了他们的肉呢？他想象着他们在水中无能为力的样子，想象着他们被迫大口大口往肚里灌水的可怕情景。约塞连目送着远处穿梭往返的小渔船和军用汽艇，觉得它们显得那么虚幻，每回它们往远处什么地方驶去时，上面的人看上去那么渺小，简直不像有血有肉的真人。他望着厄尔巴岛的石崖，眼睛不由自主地向空中寻找着一片萝卜形的絮状白云。克莱文杰就是在这么一片白云中消失的。他凝视着意大利雾茫茫的地平线，心中思念起奥尔来。克莱文杰和奥尔。他们到哪里去了？有一天黎明时分，约塞连站在防波堤上，看到一捆圆木随着潮水朝他漂移过来，等到离他近了，这捆圆木出乎意料地变成了一个溺死者泡得肿胀的脸，这是他这辈子见到的第一个死人。他渴望生活，急切地伸出手去牢牢抓住达克特护士的肉体不放。他心惊胆战地仔细打量着每一件漂浮物，寻找着有关克莱文杰和奥尔的某种令人毛骨悚然的迹象，做好准备迎接任何令人震惊的恐怖情景。但是，麦克沃特给他带来的震惊却是他始料不及的。
　　有一天，麦克沃特驾着飞机疾风般穿过远处的寂静，突然出现在海滩的上空。飞机朝着海岸线恶狠狠地直冲过去，轰隆轰隆地吼叫着掠过海面上起伏不定的浮筏。此时，亚麻色头发、面容苍白的基德•桑普森正站在浮筏上，他那裸露着的胸部肋骨根根突出，甚至在很远的地方也看得一清二楚。就在飞机飞过他头顶的一瞬间，他笨拙地跳起身去摸飞机。也就在这时，一阵狂风卷过，不知是由于这阵风作怪，还是由于麦克沃特小小的判断失误，反正一闪而过的飞机飞得稍微低了一点，一个螺旋桨把他的身体一劈两半。
　　接下来发生的事情甚至当时不在场的人也记得清清楚楚，透过震撼人心压倒一切的飞机轰鸣声，人们只听到最短暂最轻微的“嚓”的一声，随即就看见基德•桑普森两条苍白干瘦的腿不知怎么地仍有几根筋与那齐刷刷截断的血肉模糊的臀部相连接着。这两条腿在浮筏上一动不动地站立了一两秒钟才摇摇晃晃地向后翻倒在水里，发出一声微弱的溅水花的声响。基德•桑普森的身体在水里翻了个个儿，露在水面上的只剩下他那奇形怪状的脚趾和灰白色的脚掌。
　　海滩上乱成一团。克拉默护士突然不知从哪儿冒了出来，伏在约塞连的胸脯上歇斯底里地哭泣着。约塞连用一只胳膊搂住她的肩膀抚慰着她；另一只胳膊则搀着达克特护士，她也正倚在他的身上，瘦削的长脸惨白惨白的，浑身战栗，抽抽搭搭地哭泣着。
　　海滩上，人人都在狂叫乱窜，男人像女人那样尖叫着。他们惊慌失措地四处寻找着自己的东西，匆匆忙忙俯下身偷眼望着每一个缓缓涌上沙滩的齐膝深的浪头，好象海浪会把某个血淋淋的、令人恶心的可怕器官，比方肝或肺之类，直接冲到他们的面前。那些在水里的人全都奋力往外逃去。慌忙之中，他们竟忘了游泳，只知道哀嚎着涉水往海滩奔，粘糊糊的海水像刺骨的寒风那样揪住他们，拦着不让他们逃跑。基德•桑普森的鲜血溅得到处都是。许多人发现自己的四肢或躯干上溅有血迹。他们恐怖而嫌恶地后退着，好像要竭力甩掉自己那可憎的皮肤似的。人人都在没头没脑地乱窜。
　　他们时不时地回头瞥上一眼，目光中充满着痛苦和惊恐。他们钻进幽深阴暗的树林，树叶沙沙作响，虚弱的喘息声和叫喊声此起彼伏。约塞连发狂地拖着两个跌跌撞撞的女人往回跑，连拉带拽地催促她们快点走，接着又跑回去骂骂咧咧地扶起亨格利•乔，后者踩到了他拖在身后的毯子或者照相机壳上，脸朝下摔了一跤，扑倒在一滩稀泥上。
　　中队里人人都已经知道这件事了。穿着军服的人们也都在那里狂叫乱窜，不过也有人一动不动地肃然站立着，好像扎了根似的，比方奈特中士和丹尼卡医生。这两个人目光严肃地伸长脖子仰望着麦克沃待那架闯了祸的飞机，看着它孤零零地在空中慢慢盘旋上升。
　　“谁在飞机上？”约塞连一瘸一拐、上气不接下气地跑上前，忧郁的眼睛里闪动着焦虑和痛苦的泪光，急切不安地冲着丹尼卡医生喊道。
　　“麦克沃特，”奈特中士说，“他正带着两个新来的驾驶员进行飞行训练。丹尼卡医生也在上面。”
　　“我正在这里呢，”丹尼卡医生焦虑不安地迅速看了奈特中士一眼，用一种奇怪而困惑的声调争辩道。
　　“他为什么不降落？”约塞连绝望地叫道，“他为什么一个劲地往上飞？”
　　“他大概不敢降落，”奈特中士回答说，“他知道自己闯下了什么祸。”
　　麦克沃特越飞越高。飞机发出嗡嗡的声响，机头朝上，平稳缓慢地呈椭圆形地螺旋上升，而后朝南边远处的海面上飞去，接着又折回头，在小飞机场上空盘旋一圈之后，便往北飞越远处黄褐色的丘陵地带，不一会，飞机就上升到五千英尺以上的高空，引擎的声音低得近似耳语声。一顶白色的降落伞突然噗的一下在空中张开。
　　几分钟之后，第二顶降落伞又张开了，像第一顶一样一直朝着简易机场的空处飘落下去。地面上毫无动静。飞机继续往南飞了三十来秒钟。它依然保持着方才那种飞行方式，不过这种方式现在人们已经很熟悉了，毫无意外之处。麦克沃特扬起一侧机翼，让飞机优雅地倾斜盘旋着，然后转了一个弯朝下冲去。
　　“又有两个人完了，”奈特中士说，“麦克沃特和丹尼卡医生。”
　　“我就在这儿呢，奈特中士，”丹尼卡医生可怜巴巴地对他说，“我没在飞机上。”
　　“他们为什么不跳伞？”奈特中士自言自语地大声询问道，“他们为什么不跳伞？”
　　“这样做毫无意义，”丹尼卡医生咬着嘴唇说，“这样做根本毫无意义。”
　　但是，约塞连突然间明白了麦克沃特为什么不跳伞。他跟着麦克沃特的飞机狂奔着从中队营地的一头追到另一头，恳求地挥动着双臂冲他大声呼喊，快降落吧，麦克沃特，快降落吧。然而，似乎没有人听见，当然不用说麦克沃特了。麦克沃特又转了一个弯，摆动了一下机翼向地面致敬，啊，老天爷，他下决心了，飞机猛然朝着一座大山撞去。约塞连只觉得一阵窒息，喉咙里不由自主地发出一声悲叹。
　　基德•桑普森和麦克沃特的死弄得卡思卡特上校心烦意乱。
　　他决定把飞行任务提高到六十五次。
Chapter 31 Mrs. Daneeka
    When Colonel Cathcart learned that Doc Daneeka too had been killed in McWatt’s plane, he increased thenumber of missions to seventy.
　　The first person in the squadron to find out that Doc Daneeka was dead was Sergeant Towser, who had beeninformed earlier by the man in the control tower that Doc Daneeka’s name was down as a passenger on the pilot’s manifest McWatt had filed before taking off. Sergeant Towser brushed away a tear and struck DocDaneeka’s name from the roster of squadron personnel. With lips still quivering, he rose and trudged outsidereluctantly to break the bad news to Gus and Wes, discreetly avoiding any conversation with Doc Daneekahimself as he moved by the flight surgeon’s slight sepulchral figure roosting despondently on his stool in thelate-afternoon sunlight between the orderly room and the medical tent. Sergeant Towser’s heart was heavy; nowhe had two dead men on his hands—Mudd, the dead man in Yossarian’s tent who wasn’t even there, and DocDaneeka, the new dead man in the squadron, who most certainly was there and gave every indication of provinga still thornier administrative problem for him.
　　Gus and Wes listened to Sergeant Towser with looks of stoic surprise and said not a word about theirbereavement to anyone else until Doc Daneeka himself came in about an hour afterward to have his temperaturetaken for the third time that day and his blood pressure checked. The thermometer registered a half degree lowerthan his usual subnormal temperature of 96.8. Doc Daneeka was alarmed. The fixed, vacant, wooden stares of histwo enlisted men were even more irritating than always.
　　“Goddammit,” he expostulated politely in an uncommon excess of exasperation, “what’s the matter with you twomen anyway? It just isn’t right for a person to have a low temperature all the time and walk around with a stuffednose.” Doc Daneeka emitted a glum, self-pitying sniff and strolled disconsolately across the tent to help himselfto some aspirin and sulphur pills and paint his own throat with Argyrol. His downcast face was fragile andforlorn as a swallow’s, and he rubbed the back of his arms rhythmically. “Just look how cold I am right now.
　　You’re sure you’re not holding anything back?”
　　“You’re dead, sir,” one of his two enlisted men explained.
　　Doc Daneeka jerked his head up quickly with resentful distrust. “What’s that?”
　　“You’re dead, sir,” repeated the other. “That’s probably the reason you always feel so cold.”
　　“That’s right, sir. You’ve probably been dead all this time and we just didn’t detect it.”
　　“What the hell are you both talking about?” Doc Daneeka cried shrilly with a surging, petrifying sensation ofsome onrushing unavoidable disaster.
　　“It’s true, sir,” said one of the enlisted men. “The records show that you went up in McWatt’s plane to collectsome flight time. You didn’t come down in a parachute, so you must have been killed in the crash.”
　　“That’s right, sir,” said the other. “You ought to be glad you’ve got any temperature at all.”
　　Doc Daneeka’s mind was reeling in confusion. “Have you both gone crazy?” he demanded. “I’m going to reportthis whole insubordinate incident to Sergeant Towser.”
　　“Sergeant Towser’s the one who told us about it,” said either Gus or Wes. “The War Department’s even going tonotify your wife.”
　　Doc Daneeka yelped and ran out of the medical tent to remonstrate with Sergeant Towser, who edged away fromhim with repugnance and advised Doc Daneeka to remain out of sight as much as possible until some decisioncould be reached relating to the disposition of his remains.
　　“Gee, I guess he really is dead,” grieved one of his enlisted men in a low, respectful voice. “I’m going to misshim. He was a pretty wonderful guy, wasn’t he?”
　　“Yeah, he sure was,” mourned the other. “But I’m glad the little fuck is gone. I was getting sick and tired oftaking his blood pressure all the time.”
　　Mrs. Daneeka, Doc Daneeka’s wife, was not glad that Doc Daneeka was gone and split the peaceful StatenIsland night with woeful shrieks of lamentation when she learned by War Department telegram that her husbandhad been killed in action. Women came to comfort her, and their husbands paid condolence calls and hopedinwardly that she would soon move to another neighborhood and spare them the obligation of continuoussympathy. The poor woman was totally distraught for almost a full week. Slowly, heroically, she found thestrength to contemplate a future filled with dire problems for herself and her children. Just as she was growingresigned to her loss, the postman rang with a bolt from the blue—a letter from overseas that was signed with herhusband’s signature and urged her frantically to disregard any bad news concerning him. Mrs. Daneeka wasdumbfounded. The date on the letter was illegible. The handwriting throughout was shaky and hurried, but thestyle resembled her husband’s and the melancholy, self-pitying tone was familiar, although more dreary thanusual. Mrs. Daneeka was overjoyed and wept irrepressibly with relief and kissed the crinkled, grubby tissue ofV-mail stationery a thousand times. She dashed a grateful note off to her husband pressing him for details andsent a wire informing the War Department of its error. The War Department replied touchily that there had beenno error and that she was undoubtedly the victim of some sadistic and psychotic forger in her husband’ssquadron. The letter to her husband was returned unopened, stamped KILLED IN ACTION.
　　Mrs. Daneeka had been widowed cruelly again, but this time her grief was mitigated somewhat by a notificationfrom Washington that she was sole beneficiary of her husband’s $10,000 GI insurance policy, which amount wasobtainable by her on demand. The realization that she and the children were not faced immediately withstarvation brought a brave smile to her face and marked the turning point in her distress. The VeteransAdministration informed her by mail the very next day that she would be entitled to pension benefits for the restof her natural life because of her husband’s demise, and to a burial allowance for him of $250. A governmentcheck for $250 was enclosed. Gradually, inexorably, her prospects brightened. A letter arrived that same weekfrom the Social Security Administration stating that, under the provisions of the Old Age and SurvivorsInsurance Act Of 1935, she would receive monthly support for herself and her dependent children until theyreached the age of eighteen, and a burial allowance of $250. With these government letters as proof of death, sheapplied for payment on three life insurance policies Doc Daneeka had carried, with a value of $50,000 each; herclaim was honored and processed swiftly. Each day brought new unexpected treasures. A key to a safe-depositbox led to a fourth life insurance policy with a face value of $50,000, and to $18,000 in cash on which incometax had never been paid and need never be paid. A fraternal lodge to which he had belonged gave her a cemeteryplot. A second fraternal organization of which he had been a member sent her a burial allowance of $250. Hiscounty medical association gave her a burial allowance of $250.
　　The husbands of her closest friends began to flirt with her. Mrs. Daneeka was simply delighted with the waythings were turning out and had her hair dyed. Her fantastic wealth just kept piling up, and she had to remindherself daily that all the hundreds of thousands of dollars she was acquiring were not worth a single pennywithout her husband to share this good fortune with her. It astonished her that so many separate organizationswere willing to do so much to bury Doc Daneeka, who, back in Pianosa, was having a terrible time trying to keephis head above the ground and wondered with dismal apprehension why his wife did not answer the letter he hadwritten.
　　He found himself ostracized in the squadron by men who cursed his memory foully for having supplied ColonelCathcart with provocation to raise the number of combat missions. Records attesting to his death werepullulating like insect eggs and verifying each other beyond all contention. He drew no pay or PX rations anddepended for life on the charity of Sergeant Towser and Milo, who both knew he was dead. Colonel Cathcartrefused to see him, and Colonel Korn sent word through Major Danby that he would have Doc Daneekacremated on the spot if he ever showed up at Group Headquarters. Major Danby confided that Group wasincensed with all flight surgeons because of Dr. Stubbs, the bushy-haired, baggy-chinned, slovenly flight surgeonin Dunbar’s squadron who was deliberately and defiantly brewing insidious dissension there by grounding allmen with sixty missions on proper forms that were rejected by Group indignantly with orders restoring theconfused pilots, navigators, bombardiers and gunners to combat duty. Morale there was ebbing rapidly, andDunbar was under surveillance. Group was glad Doc Daneeka had been killed and did not intend to ask for areplacement.
　　Not even the chaplain could bring Doc Daneeka back to life under the circumstances. Alarm changed toresignation, and more and more Doc Daneeka acquired the look of an ailing rodent. The sacks under his eyesturned hollow and black, and he padded through the shadows fruitlessly like a ubiquitous spook. Even CaptainFlume recoiled when Doc Daneeka sought him out in the woods for help. Heartlessly, Gus and Wes turned himaway from their medical tent without even a thermometer for comfort, and then, only then, did he realize that, toall intents and purposes, he really was dead, and that he had better do something damned fast if he ever hoped tosave himself.
　　There was nowhere else to turn but to his wife, and he scribbled an impassioned letter begging her to bring hisplight to the attention of the War Department and urging her to communicate at once with his group commander,Colonel Cathcart, for assurances that—no matter what else she might have heard—it was indeed he, her husband,Doc Daneeka, who was pleading with her, and not a corpse or some impostor. Mrs. Daneeka was stunned by thedepth of emotion in the almost illegible appeal. She was torn with compunction and tempted to comply, but thevery next letter she opened that day was from that same Colonel Cathcart, her husband’s group commander, andbegan:
　　Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experiencedwhen your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action.
　　Mrs. Daneeka moved with her children to Lansing, Michigan, and left no forwarding address.
 31、丹尼卡太太
　　卡思卡特上校得知丹尼卡医生也死在麦克沃特的飞机上后，便把飞行任务增加到了七十次。
　　中队里第一个发现丹尼卡医生死了的是陶塞军士。事故发生前，机场指挥塔台上的那个人就告诉过他，麦克沃特起飞前填写的飞行员日志上面有丹尼卡医生的名字。陶塞军士抹去一颗泪珠，从中队的花名册上勾掉了丹尼卡医生的名字。随后，他站起身，嘴唇依然颤抖着，步履沉重地硬撑着走出门去，把这个不幸的消息告诉洛斯和韦斯。经过传达室和医务室帐篷之间时，他看见在落日的余晖里，丹尼卡医生耷拉着脑袋坐在自己的凳子上。他小心翼翼地从这位瘦小的令人感到阴森可怕的航空军医身旁绕过去，没有跟他说一句话。陶塞军士的心情非常沉重。眼下他手上有两个死人——
　　—个是约塞连帐篷里的死人马德，这家伙甚至根本没到那帐篷去过；另一个就是中队里刚刚死去的丹尼卡医生，此人毫无疑问仍然在中队里，而且，种种迹象表明，这个人的问题对他的行政勤务工作来说将会更加棘手。
　　格斯和韦斯带着惊奇而淡漠的神情听陶塞军士讲完这件事，没有向任何人说一句表示他们悲痛心情的话。大约一小时后，丹尼卡医生走进来要求量体温和测血压，这是这一天里他第三次提出这种要求。他平时的体温就比一般人低，只有九十六点八度，可这次测量出的体温又比他平日的体温低半度。丹尼卡医生不由得惊慌起来。更叫他恼火的是，他手底下的这两个士兵木头人似的呆呆地死盯住他。
　　“真***该死。”他内心极为恼怒，不过还是很有礼貌地劝诫他们俩。“你们两个人到底怎么了？一个人如果一直体温偏低，散步时鼻子又不通气的话，那就不正常了。”丹尼卡医生闷闷不乐自怜自爱地吸了吸鼻子，忧心忡忡地走到帐篷的另一边拿了些阿司匹林和磺胺药片吃下去，接着又往喉咙里喷了点弱蛋白银。他那张愁眉不展的面孔显得虚弱、凄惨，就像一只孤燕。他有节奏地揉搓着两只臂膀的外侧。“瞧瞧，我现在身体冰凉冰凉的，你们真的没对我隐瞒什么事情吗？”
　　“你已经死了，长官，”他手底下这两个士兵中的一个解释道。
　　丹尼卡医生猛地抬起头来，愤愤地望着他们，疑惑不解地问：
　　“你说什么？”
　　“你已经死了，长官，”另一个士兵重复道，“也许这就是你总是感到身体冰凉的原因。”
　　“不错，长官。你大概死了很久了，我们原先不过没觉察出来罢了。”
　　“你们俩究竟在胡说些什么？”丹尼卡医生尖叫起来。他本能地感到某种不可避免的灾难正在向他逼近，一时间竟愣住了。
　　“这是真的，长官，”其中一个士兵说，“记录表明，你为了统计飞行时间，上了麦克沃特的飞机。而且，你没有跳伞降落，所以飞机坠毁时你肯定牺牲了。”
　　“是啊，长官，”另一个士兵说，“你居然还有体温，你应该高兴才对。”
　　丹尼卡医生顿时头晕目眩。“你们俩都疯了吗？”他质问道，“我要把这个犯上事件原原本本地报告给陶塞军士。”
　　“就是陶塞军士告诉我们这件事的，”不知是格斯还是韦斯说，“陆军部已经准备通知你的妻子了。”
　　丹尼卡医生大叫一声，冲出医务室帐篷去找陶塞军士提出抗议。陶塞军士厌恶地侧身躲开他，并且劝告他在军方就他的遗体安排作出某种决定之前尽量少露面。
　　“唉，我想他真的死了，”他手底下的一个士兵恭恭敬敬地低声叹息道，“我会怀念他的。他是个很了不起的家伙，不是吗？”
　　“是啊，他当然是，”另一个士兵悲伤他说，“不过这个小王八蛋死了，我还是很高兴的。天天给他测量血压，我都快烦死了。”
　　得知丹尼卡医生的死讯后，丹尼卡医生的妻子丹尼卡太太非常难过。当她收到陆军部通知他丈夫阵亡消息的电报时，她悲痛欲绝，尖厉的恸哭声刺破了斯塔腾岛宁静的夜空。女人们前去安慰他，她们的丈夫也登门吊唁，心里却盼望着她赶快搬到别处去，免得他们不得不三天两头地向她表示同情。几乎整整一个星期，这可怜的女人完全心神错乱。随后，她慢慢地恢复了勇气和力量，开始为自己和孩子们多钟的前途作通盘打算。就在她渐渐听天由命地接受了丈夫的死亡时，邮递员前来按了一下门铃，带来了一个晴天霹雳———封有她丈夫亲笔签名的海外来信。信中再三嘱咐她不要理会任何有关他的坏消息。这封信把丹尼卡太太惊得目瞪口呆。
　　信封上的日期已经无法辨认，信上的字迹从头到尾歪歪扭扭、潦潦草草，不过字体倒像是她丈夫的。而且，字里行间流露出的那种忧郁凄凉自怜自爱的情绪虽然比往常更消沉，但却是她熟悉的。丹尼卡太太大喜过望，心中如释重负，一边纵情大哭，一边无数次地吻着那封皱巴巴脏兮兮的缩印邮递信笺。她匆匆忙忙写了一封充满感激之情的短信给她的丈夫，催促他快点来信告诉她详情。她又赶快给陆军部拍了一份电报，指出他们的错误。陆军部生气地回复说，他们没有犯任何错误，她肯定是受骗上当了，那封信肯定是她丈夫所在中队的某个虐待狂和精神病患者伪造的。她写给丈夫的信被原封不动地退了回来，信封上盖着阵亡两个字。
　　冷酷的现实又一次使丹尼卡太太失去了丈夫，不过，这一回她的悲痛多多少少减轻了几分，因为她收到了一份来自华盛顿的通知，那上面说，她是她丈夫一万美元美国军人保险金的唯一受益人，这笔钱她随时可以领取。她意识到自己和孩子眼下不会挨饿了，脸上不禁露出一个无所畏惧的微笑。她的悲痛从此出现转折。
　　就在第二天，退伍军人管理局来函通知她，由于她丈夫的牺牲，她今后有权终生享受抚恤金，此外还可以得到一笔二百五十美元的丧葬费。来函内附着一张二百五十美元的政府支票。毫无疑问，她的前途一天天光明起来。同一星期，社会保障总署来函通知她说，根据一九三五年《老年和鳏寡保险法令》的条例，她和由她抚养的十八岁以内未成年儿女都可以按月领取补助费，此外她还可以领取二百五十美元的丧葬费。她以上述政府公丞作为丈夫的死亡证明，申请兑付丹尼卡医生名下的三张保险金额均为五万美元的人寿保险单。她的申请很快得到认可，各项手续迅速办理完毕。每天都给她带来出乎意料的新财富。她得到一把保险箱的钥匙，在保险箱里找到了第四张面值五万美元的人寿保险单，以及一万八千美元的现金，这笔钱从来没有交纳过所得税，而且永远也不必交了。丈夫生前所属的某个兄弟互助会的分会向她提供了一块墓地。
　　另一个他生前参加过的兄弟互助组织给她寄来了二百五十美元的丧葬费。他县里的医学协会也给了她二百五十美元的丧葬费。
　　她最亲密的女友们的丈夫开始和她调情。事情发展成这种结局，丹尼卡太太开心极了。她甚至把头发都染了。她那笔惊人的财富仍在不断增加，她不得不天天提醒自己，没有丈夫来和自己分享这笔源源而来的巨款，她手头的这几十万美元等于一钱不值。使她感到惊奇的是，有这么多互不相干的组织都愿意帮助安葬丹尼卡医生。而此时，皮亚诺萨岛上的丹尼卡医生却为了不被埋入地下而苦苦挣扎。他终日垂头丧气惶恐不安，想不通他的太太为什么不回他写的那封信。
　　他发现中队里人人见了他都避之不及。大伙用下流恶毒的语言咒骂他这个死人，因为正是他的死惹恼了卡思卡特上校，这才又一次增加了战斗飞行任务的次数。有关他阵亡的证明材料像虫卵一样剧增，而且彼此互为佐证，无可争议地判定了他的死亡，他领不到军饷，也得不到陆军消费合作社的配给供应，只好靠陶塞军士和米洛的施舍勉强度日，这两个人也都知道他已经死了。卡思卡特上校拒绝接见他，科恩中校则叫丹比少校捎过话来，丹尼卡医生要是胆敢在大队部露面的话，他就要叫人当场把他火化掉。丹比少校还私下里告诉他，邓巴中队里有一名姓斯塔布斯的航空军医，他长着一头浓密的头发和一个松弛下垂的下巴，是个邋邋遢遢不修边幅的人，他存心跟上级作对，极其巧妙地使那些完成了六十次战斗飞行任务的空勤人员全都留在了地面上，结果弄得大队里人心浮动，敌对不满情绪甚嚣尘上。大队部愤怒地斥责了他的这种做法，命令那些给弄得莫名其妙的飞行员、领航员、轰炸手和机枪手重返岗位执行战斗任务。队里的士气迅速低落下去，邓巴也遭到了监视。由于这个缘故，大队部对所有的航空军医都非常敌视。所以，丹尼卡医生阵亡以后，大队部十分高兴，不打算请求上级再派一名军医来。
　　在这种情况下，就连牧师也没有办法让丹尼卡医生起死回生。
　　丹尼卡医生起初惊慌失措，后来就只好听天由命了。他的模样越来越像一只病恹恹的老鼠，眼睛下面的眼袋变得又瘪又黑。他在阴影里徒劳无益地徘徊着，活像一个无处不在的幽灵。甚至当他在树林里找到弗卢姆上尉请求帮助时，后者也赶快躲得远远的。格斯和韦斯无情地把他从医务室帐篷里赶了出去，甚至连一只体温表也没让他带走。只是到了这个时候，他才真正意识到，自己实质上已经死了，如果他还想救活自己的话，那就得赶快采取行动。
　　他没有别的办法，只有向妻子求援。他潦潦草草写就一封感情真挚的信，恳求妻子提请陆军部注意他目前的困境，催促她立刻给他的大队指挥官卡思卡特上校写信，以便证实——无论她听到了什么别的谣传——的确是他，她的丈夫丹尼卡医生，而不是什么死尸和骗子，在向她恳求。丹尼卡太太收到了这封潦草得几乎无法辨认的信，信中流露出的一片深切情感强烈地震撼了她的心灵。她悔恨交加，深感不安，打算马上照丈夫的话办，可就在这一天，她接下来拆开的第二封信就是她丈夫的大队指挥官卡思卡特上校寄来的。信是这样开头的：
　　亲爱的丹尼卡太太／先生／小姐／先生和太太：
　　您的丈夫/儿子/父亲或兄弟在战斗中牺牲或负伤或失踪，对此，语言无法表达我个人所感受到的深切悲痛。
　　丹尼卡太太带着孩子们搬到密执安州的兰辛去了，连信件转递地址都没有留下。
Chapter 32 Yo-Yo's Roomies
    Yossarian was warm when the cold weather came and whale-shaped clouds blew low through a dingy, slate-graysky, almost without end, like the droning, dark, iron flocks of B-17 and B-24 bombers from the long-range airbases in Italy the day of the invasion of southern France two months earlier. Everyone in the squadron knew thatKid Sampson’s skinny legs had washed up on the wet sand to lie there and rot like a purple twisted wishbone. Noone would go to retrieve them, not Gus or Wes or even the men in the mortuary at the hospital; everyone madebelieve that Kid Sampson’s legs were not there, that they had bobbed away south forever on the tide like all ofClevinger and Orr. Now that bad weather had come, almost no one ever sneaked away alone any more to peekthrough bushes like a pervert at the moldering stumps.
　　There were no more beautiful days. There were no more easy missions. There was stinging rain and dull, chillingfog, and the men flew at week-long intervals, whenever the weather cleared. At night the wind moaned. Thegnarled and stunted tree trunks creaked and groaned and forced Yossarian’s thoughts each morning, even beforehe was fully awake, back on Kid Sampson’s skinny legs bloating and decaying, as systematically as a tickingclock, in the icy rain and wet sand all through the blind, cold, gusty October nights. After Kid Sampson’s legs, hewould think of pitiful, whimpering Snowden freezing to death in the rear section of the plane, holding his eternal,immutable secret concealed inside his quilted, armor-plate flak suit until Yossarian had finished sterilizing andbandaging the wrong wound on his leg, and then spilling it out suddenly all over the floor. At night when he wastrying to sleep, Yossarian would call the roll of all the men, women and children he had ever known who werenow dead. He tried to remember all the soldiers, and he resurrected images of all the elderly people he hadknown when a child—all the aunts, uncles, neighbors, parents and grandparents, his own and everyone else’s,and all the pathetic, deluded shopkeepers who opened their small, dusty stores at dawn and worked in themfoolishly until midnight. They were all dead, too. The number of dead people just seemed to increase. And theGermans were still fighting. Death was irreversible, he suspected, and he began to think he was going to lose.
　　Yossarian was warm when the cold weather came because of Orr’s marvelous stove, and he might have existedin his warm tent quite comfortably if not for the memory of Orr, and if not for the gang of animated roommatesthat came swarming inside rapaciously one day from the two full combat crews Colonel Cathcart hadrequisitioned—and obtained in less than forty-eight hours—as replacements for Kid Sampson and McWatt.
　　Yossarian emitted a long, loud, croaking gasp of protest when he trudged in tiredly after a mission and foundthem already there.
　　There were four of them, and they were having a whale of a good time as they helped each other set up their cots.
　　They were horsing around. The moment he saw them, Yossarian knew they were impossible. They were frisky,eager and exuberant, and they had all been friends in the States. They were plainly unthinkable.
　　They were noisy, overconfident, empty-headed kids of twenty-one. They had gone to college and were engagedto pretty, clean girls whose pictures were already standing on the rough cement mantelpiece of Orr’s fireplace.
　　They had ridden in speedboats and played tennis. They had been horseback riding. One had once been to bedwith an older woman. They knew the same people in different parts of the country and had gone to school witheach other’s cousins. They had listened to the World Series and really cared who won football games. They wereobtuse; their morale was good. They were glad that the war had lasted long enough for them to find out whatcombat was really like. They were halfway through unpacking when Yossarian threw them out.
　　They were plainly out of the question, Yossarian explained adamantly to Sergeant Towser, whose sallow equineface was despondent as he informed Yossarian that the new officers would have to be admitted. Sergeant Towserwas not permitted to requisition another six-man tent from Group while Yossarian was living in one alone.
　　“I’m not living in this one alone,” Yossarian said with a sulk. “I’ve got a dead man in here with me. His name isMudd.”
　　“Please, sir,” begged Sergeant Towser, sighing wearily, with a sidelong glance at the four baffled new officerslistening in mystified silence just outside the entrance. “Mudd was killed on the mission to Orvieto. You knowthat. He was flying right beside you.”
　　“Then why don’t you move his things out?”
　　“Because he never even got here. Captain, please don’t bring that up again. You can move in with LieutenantNately if you like. I’ll even send some men from the orderly room to transfer your belongings.”
　　But to abandon Orr’s tent would be to abandon Orr, who would have been spurned and humiliated clannishly bythese four simple-minded officers waiting to move in. It did not seem just that these boisterous, immature youngmen should show up after all the work was done and be allowed to take possession of the most desirable tent onthe island. But that was the law, Sergeant Towser explained, and all Yossarian could do was glare at them inbaleful apology as he made room for them and volunteer helpful penitent hints as they moved inside his privacyand made themselves at home.
　　They were the most depressing group of people Yossarian had ever been with. They were always in high spirits.
　　They laughed at everything. They called him “Yo-Yo” jocularly and came in tipsy late at night and woke him upwith their clumsy, bumping, giggling efforts to be quiet, then bombarded him with asinine shouts of hilariousgood-fellowship when he sat up cursing to complain. He wanted to massacre them each time they did. Theyreminded him of Donald Duck’s nephews. They were afraid of Yossarian and persecuted him incessantly withnagging generosity and with their exasperating insistence on doing small favors for him. They were reckless,puerile, congenial, naive, presumptuous, deferential and rambunctious. They were dumb; they had nocomplaints. They admired Colonel Cathcart and they found Colonel Korn witty. They were afraid of Yossarian,but they were not the least bit afraid of Colonel Cathcart’s seventy missions. They were four clean-cut kids whowere having lots of fun, and they were driving Yossarian nuts. He could not make them understand that he was acrotchety old fogey of twenty-eight, that he belonged to another generation, another era, another world, thathaving a good time bored him and was not worth the effort, and that they bored him, too. He could not makethem shut up; they were worse than women. They had not brains enough to be introverted and repressed.
　　Cronies of theirs in other squadrons began dropping in unashamedly and using the tent as a hangout. There wasoften not room enough for him. Worst of all, he could no longer bring Nurse Duckett there to lie down with her.
　　And now that foul weather had come, he had no place else! This was a calamity he had not foreseen, and hewanted to bust his roommates’ heads open with his fists or pick them up, each in turn, by the seats of their pantsand the scruffs of their necks and pitch them out once and for all into the dank, rubbery perennial weeds growingbetween his rusty soupcan urinal with nail holes in the bottom and the knotty-pine squadron latrine that stoodlike a beach locker not far away.
　　Instead of busting their heads open, he tramped in his galoshes and black raincoat through the drizzling darknessto invite Chief White Halfoat to move in with him, too, and drive the fastidious, clean-living bastards out withhis threats and swinish habits. But Chief White Halfoat felt cold and was already making plans to move up intothe hospital to die of pneumonia. Instinct told Chief White Halfoat it was almost time. His chest ached and hecoughed chronically. Whiskey no longer warmed him. Most damning of all, Captain Flume had moved back intohis trailer. Here was an omen of unmistakable meaning.
　　“He had to move back,” Yossarian argued in a vain effort to cheer up the glum, barrel-chested Indian, whosewell-knit sorrel-red face had degenerated rapidly into a dilapidated, calcareous gray. “He’d die of exposure if hetried to live in the woods in this weather.”
　　“No, that wouldn’t drive the yellowbelly back,” Chief White Halfoat disagreed obstinately. He tapped hisforehead with cryptic insight. “No, sirree. He knows something. He knows it’s time for me to die of pneumonia,that’s what he knows. And that’s how I know it’s time.”
　　“What does Doc Daneeka say?”
　　“I’m not allowed to say anything,” Doc Daneeka said sorrowfully from his seat on his stool in the shadows of acorner, his smooth, tapered, diminutive face turtle-green in the flickering candlelight. Everything smelled ofmildew. The bulb in the tent had blown out several days before, and neither of the two men had been able tomuster the initiative to replace it. “I’m not allowed to practice medicine any more,” Doc Daneeka added.
　　“He’s dead,” Chief White Halfoat gloated, with a horse laugh entangled in phlegm. “That’s really funny.”
　　“I don’t even draw my pay any more.”
　　“That’s really funny,” Chief White Halfoat repeated. “All this time he’s been insulting my liver, and look whathappened to him. He’s dead. Killed by his own greed.”
　　“That’s not what killed me,” Doc Daneeka observed in a voice that was calm and flat. “There’s nothing wrongwith greed. It’s all that lousy Dr. Stubbs’ fault, getting Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn stirred up againstflight surgeons. He’s going to give the medical profession a bad name by standing up for principle. If he’s notcareful, he’ll be black-balled by his state medical association and kept out of the hospitals.”
　　Yossarian watched Chief White Halfoat pour whiskey carefully into three empty shampoo bottles and store them away in the musette bag he was packing.
　　“Can’t you stop by my tent on your way up to the hospital and punch one of them in the nose for me?” hespeculated aloud. “I’ve got four of them, and they’re going to crowd me out of my tent altogether.”
　　“You know, something like that once happened to my whole tribe,” Chief White Halfoat remarked in jollyappreciation, sitting back on his cot to chuckle. “Why don’t you get Captain Black to kick those kids out?
　　Captain Black likes to kick people out.”
　　Yossarian grimaced sourly at the mere mention of Captain Black, who was already bullying the new fliers eachtime they stepped into his intelligence tent for maps or information. Yossarian’s attitude toward his roommatesturned merciful and protective at the mere recollection of Captain Black. It was not their fault that they wereyoung and cheerful, he reminded himself as he carried the swinging beam of his flashlight back through thedarkness. He wished that he could be young and cheerful, too. And it wasn’t their fault that they werecourageous, confident and carefree. He would just have to be patient with them until one or two were killed andthe rest wounded, and then they would all turn out okay. He vowed to be more tolerant and benevolent, but whenhe ducked inside his tent with his friendlier attitude a great blaze was roaring in the fireplace, and he gasped inhorrified amazement. Orr’s beautiful birch logs were going up in smoke! His roommates had set fire to them! Hegaped at the four insensitive overheated faces and wanted to shout curses at them. He wanted to bang their headstogether as they greeted him with loud convivial cries and invited him generously to pull up a chair and eat theirchestnuts and roasted potatoes. What could he do with them?
　　And the very next morning they got rid of the dead man in his tent! Just like that, they whisked him away! Theycarried his cot and all his belongings right out into the bushes and simply dumped them there, and then theystrode back slapping their hands briskly at a job well done. Yossarian was stunned by their overbearing vigor andzeal, by their practical, direct efficiency. In a matter of moments they had disposed energetically of a problemwith which Yossarian and Sergeant Towser had been grappling unsuccessfully for months. Yossarian wasalarmed—they might get rid of him just as quickly, he feared—and ran to Hungry Joe and fled with him to Romethe day before Nately’s whore finally got a good night’s sleep and woke up in love.
 32、约-约的同帐篷伙伴
　　天气变冷了，约塞连却感到很暖和。几乎连绵不绝的鲸鱼状云彩低低飘浮在阴沉灰暗的天空中。约塞连觉得它们看上去很像两个月前进攻法国南部那一天天上黑压压的Bl7型和B24型轰炸机群。这些飞机从意大利各远程空军基地起飞，轰轰隆隆、密密麻麻地飞过天空。中队里人人都知道基德•桑普森的两条细腿被潮水卷到潮湿的沙滩上，而且已经腐烂了，看上去就像一截弯曲的紫色的鸟的胸叉骨。不论是格斯、韦斯还是太平间的收尸员，谁都不愿意去收拾它们。大家全都装作不知道基德•桑普森的腿还在那里，好像它们早已像克莱文杰和奥尔的尸体那样，随着潮水永远地向南漂去了。现在，天气又不好，几乎没有人会再独自溜出来，像个有怪癖的人一样钻到灌木丛中窥探那堆腐烂的残肢了。
　　再也没有晴朗的天气了，再也没有轻松的飞行任务了。只有令人恼火的淫雨和阴沉冰冷的浓雾。天只要一放晴，飞行员们就得连着飞上一个星期。到了夜里，寒风呼啸，扭曲多节的矮树丛吱吱嘎嘎地呻吟着，就像滴答作响的时钟一样每天凌晨准时把约塞连从似睡非睡的状态中唤醒，使他想起基德•桑普森的两条泡胀了的腐烂的细腿，想起在十月这种寒风呼啸、冷气袭人的黑夜里，那两条腿正躺在湿漉漉的沙滩上，任凭冷雨浇洒。从基德•桑普森的腿，约塞连又会联想起可怜的、呜咽不止的斯诺登在飞机尾舱里冻得要死的情景。约塞连始终没有发现遮盖在斯诺登鸭绒防弹衣里面的那个伤口，错误地以为他只是腿上负了伤。等到他把这个伤口消毒包扎好，斯诺登的内脏突然喷涌而出，弄得满地都是。晚上，当约塞连努力入睡时，他会把他所认识的、但现在已经死掉的男女老少的名字统统在脑子里过一遍。他回忆起所有的战友，在脑海里唤起他从童年时代起就认识的长辈们的形象——他自己的和所有别人的大伯、大娘、邻居、父母和祖父母，以及那些可怜的、总是受骗上当的店小二——天一亮就起身打开铺门，在那狭窄肮脏的铺子里傻乎乎地一直干到深夜。这些人现在也都死了，死人的数字看来正在不断地增加，德国人仍然在抵抗。他暗自猜想，死是不可逆转的趋势，他开始认为自己也快要死了。
　　由于奥尔精心制作的那个火炉，天气转冷时，约塞连却仍然感到很暖和。要不是因为怀念奥尔，要不是因为有一天一帮精力旺盛的伙伴强行闯入他的帐篷的话，他本来会在他这顶温暖的帐篷里过得非常舒适的。这些人是卡思卡特上校为了填补基德•桑普森和麦克沃特留下的空缺，在四十八小时内从两个满员的战斗机组调过来的。约塞连执行完飞行任务，拖着沉重的脚步走回帐篷时，发现他们已经搬进来了，他只好发出一声嘶哑的长叹，以表示抗议。
　　这帮人一共四个，他们有说有笑地互相帮着搭起行军床，吵吵闹闹的，快活极了，约塞连一看见他们，就知道自己受不了他们那一套。这帮人活泼好动，热情洋溢，精力充沛，在国内时就已经结为朋友。他们简直令人不可思议，他们都是些刚满二十一岁的小伙子，喜欢咋咋唬唬，过分自信，头脑简单。他们都上过大学，跟漂亮、单纯的姑娘订了婚，未婚妻的照片已经摆在奥尔装修过的粗糙的水泥壁炉架上了。他们开过快艇，打过网球，骑过马。他们中的一个还跟一个比他年龄大的女人睡过觉。他们在国内不同的地方有着共同的朋友，他们曾经和彼此的表兄弟一块上过学。他们都喜欢听世界棒球锦标赛的实况转播，都很关心哪一支橄揽球队赢了球。
　　他们的感觉虽然迟钝，斗志却很旺盛。他们对战争的延续感到十分高兴，因为这样他们就可以亲眼看看打仗究竟是怎么一回事。他们的行李刚打开一半，约塞连就把他们全轰了出去。
　　约塞连态度强硬地向陶塞军士表示，让他们住进来是根本不可能的。陶塞军士那张灰黄瘦长的马脸露出一副沮丧相，他告诉约塞连必须让这些新来的军官住进来。只要约塞连一个人独自住着一顶帐篷，他就不能向大队另外申请一顶六人住的帐篷。
　　“我不是一个人独自住在这里的，”约塞连气呼呼地说，“我这儿有个死人跟我一块住呢。他叫马德。”
　　“行行好吧，长官，”陶塞军士恳求道，他疲倦地叹了口气，斜眼瞟了瞟那四个就站在帐篷门外的新来的军官。他们正困惑不解地默默听着他们俩的谈话。“马德在奥尔维那托执行飞行任务时战死了，这你是知道的。他是紧挨着你飞行的。”
　　“那你为什么不把他的东西搬走？”
　　“因为他从来没到这帐篷来过。上尉，请你不要再提这件事了。
　　要是你愿意，你可以搬过去跟内特利上尉一块住，我还可以从中队传达室叫几个士兵过来帮你搬东西。”
　　但是，抛弃奥尔的帐篷就等于抛弃奥尔，那样一来，奥尔会遭到这四个急等着往里搬的笨蛋军官的排挤和侮辱。这些咋咋唬唬、嘴上没毛的年轻人偏偏等到一切都安排就绪才露面，而且居然获准进驻这岛上最舒适的帐篷，这实在太没道理了。但陶塞军士却解释说，这是军规，因此约塞连只能是在给他们腾地方时用狠毒而又抱歉的目光瞪着他们。待到他们搬进他独居的帐篷并成为主人时，他又主动凑上前指指点点地帮忙，以表示他的歉意。
　　在约塞连接触过的人当中，这几个家伙是最叫人泄气的一伙了。他们总是兴高采烈的，见了什么东西都觉得可笑。他们开玩笑地把他叫做“约•约”。他们总是要到半夜三更才回来。他们踮起脚尖，竭力不弄出声响，可还是笨手笨脚地不是踢到这个就是撞上那个，或者干脆格格地笑起来，最后总要把他吵醒。当他坐起身来骂骂咧咧地抱怨时，他们发出驴叫般的欢笑声，像老朋友似的跟他打哈哈。他们每回这么胡闹时他就想全杀了他们。他们使他想起唐老鸭的侄儿们。他们都很怕约塞连，天天没完没了唠唠叨叨地竭力讨他欢心，并且争着为他做这做那。这更使他恼火，觉得自己真是活受罪。他们鲁莽幼稚，臭味相投；他们既天真又放肆，既恭顺又任性；他们愚笨无知，从不叫苦抱屈。他们钦佩卡思卡特上校，他们认为科恩中校聪明机智。他们害怕约塞连，可是一点也不害怕卡思卡特上校规定的七十次战斗飞行任务。他们是四个潇洒英俊、诙谐幽默的小伙子，他们快要把约塞连逼疯了。他无法使他们理解，他是一个二十八岁的古怪的守旧分子，属于另一代人，另一个时代，另一个世界。他更无法使他们理解，他不喜欢把时间花在玩乐享受上，他觉得这不值得，至于他们四个更是叫他心烦，他没有办法叫他们闭上嘴不讲话。他们比女人还糟糕，他们没有头脑，不知道内省和自我抑制。
　　他们在其它中队的朋友开始恬不知耻地过来串门聊天。他们把他的帐篷当做聚会地点，弄得他常常没有地方呆。最糟糕的是，他再也不能把达克特护士带到帐篷里睡觉了，眼下天气这么坏，他实在也没有别处可去了！这真是一场他始料不及的灾难。伦恨不得用拳头砸碎他帐篷里这些家伙的脑袋，或者挨个抓住他们的裤子后腰和后脖领，把他们揪起来扔出去，扔到那些潮湿绵软的多年生野草丛中去，永远不许他们回来。那野草丛的一侧搁着他那个锈迹斑斑、底部有几个小沉的尿壶，这尿壶原本是个汤盆；另一侧是中队用多节松木板搭成的厕所，那厕所看上去跟近处海滩上的更衣室相差无几。
　　然而，他并没有砸碎这些家伙的脑袋，而是穿上高统胶靴和黑雨衣，冒着蒙蒙细雨，黑灯瞎火地跑去邀请一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特搬来跟他一起住，打算借助他的恐吓诅咒和下流习惯把这帮衣食讲究、生活严谨的狗杂种赶出去。但是，一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特冻得生了病，正打算搬去住院，万一转成肺炎，还是死在医院里好。直觉告诉一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特，他的死期就要到了。他胸部疼痛，咳嗽个不停。威士忌已经不能使他暖和起来了。最要命的是，弗卢姆上尉已经搬回到他的活动房子里去了。这是一个含义明确无误的预兆。
　　“他会搬回来的，”约塞连争辩道。他竭力想使这个忧郁的宽胸脯印第安人振作起来，可是做不到。他那张结实的红褐色脸蒙上了一层死灰色，显得衰老憔悴。“在这种天气里，他要是还住在树林里，准会冻死的。”
　　“不，那也不会把这个胆小鬼赶回来的，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特固执地反驳道。他摆出一副神秘莫测的样子，敲了敲前额。
　　“不，先生，他心里很清楚。他知道现在是我染上肺炎死去的时候了，这就是他知道的事情，这也就是我怎么会知道我的死期到了的。”
　　“丹尼卡医生怎么说？”
　　“他们什么话都不让我说，”丹尼卡医生坐在他那张放在阴暗角落里的凳子上，伤心他说。在摇曳不定的烛光里，他那张光滑、细长的小脸呈现出一种龟绿色。帐篷里到处散发着霉味。电灯泡几天前就烧坏了，可两个人谁也不愿意动手换一个。“他们再也不让我开药方了。”丹尼卡医生又加上一句。
　　“他已经死了，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特幸灾乐祸地说。他从被痰堵住的嗓子里发出一声嘶哑的大笑。“这真是可笑极了。”
　　“我甚至连军饷也领不到了。”
　　“这真是可笑极了。”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特又说了一遍。
　　“这些日子里，他一直在糟踏我的肝，看看他自己出的事吧，他已经死了，他是因为太贪心才死去的。”
　　“我不是因为这个才死的，”丹尼卡医生语调平淡地说。贪心并没有什么错。这全是斯塔布斯医生那个讨厌鬼惹的事。他激起了卡思卡特上校和科恩中校对全体航空军医的怒火。他倒是坚持住原则了，可医务界的名声全让他给败坏了。他要是再不小心点，他那个州的医学协会就会开除他的会籍，他就再也别想在医院里干下去了。
　　约塞连看着一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特小心地把威士忌倒入三个空的洗发香波的瓶子里，又把瓶子放到他正在收拾的军用背包里。
　　“你去医院的路上能不能顺路到我的帐篷走一趟，替我往他们中不管哪一个的鼻梁上揍上一拳？”他沉思着大声说，“我那儿一共住进去四个家伙，他们要把我从我的帐篷里挤出去了。”
　　“你知道，我那个部落从前发生过一件类似的事情，”一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特快活地开玩笑说。他一屁股坐到他的行军床上，抿着嘴笑起来。“你为什么不去叫布莱克上尉把他们踢出去呢？布莱克上尉就喜欢干这种事。”
　　听到布莱克上尉的名字，约塞连愁眉不展地做了个鬼脸。每回新来的飞行员到布莱克上尉的情报室帐篷去取地图或资料时，他都要欺侮他们一番。一想到布莱克上尉，约塞连对他的这些同帐篷伙伴的态度变得宽容起来，竟转而护着他们了。当他在黑暗中晃动着手电筒的光束往回走时，他提醒自己说，他们年轻、生气勃勃，这不是他们的过错。他真希望自己也年轻、生气勃勃。他们勇敢、自信、无忧无虑，这也不是他们的过错。他应当对他们有耐心，等到他们中有一两个阵亡，其余人受伤时，他们就会成熟起来。他发誓要更加忍让，更加仁慈。但是，当他态度比以往更加友好地钻进自己的帐篷时，却被壁炉里熊熊燃烧的火舌惊得瞠目结舌。奥尔那些美丽的银杉回木正在化为灰烬！他的同帐篷伙伴已经把它们烧掉了！
　　他目瞪口呆地盯着这四张麻木迟钝、兴高采烈的面孔，恨不得狠狠骂他们一顿，恨不得揪住他们的脑袋往一块猛撞，可他们却开心地大叫着迎接他，殷勤地搬过一把椅子请他坐下来吃栗子和烤土豆。
　　他能把他们怎么样呢？
　　就在第二天早晨，他们把帐篷里的死人也给弄出去了！他们就那样把他往外一扔！他们把他的行军床和他所有的行李物品全都搬到外面，往灌木丛那儿随便一扔，轻松地拍了拍手，转身就往回走，心里还觉得这件事办得挺圆满。他们精力过人，热情充沛，办起事来既讲究实际，又干脆利落，效率高极了。约塞连差点给吓晕过去。仅仅一转眼的工夫，他们就把约塞连和陶塞军士几个月来费尽心机都没能解决的问题一下子全解决了。约塞连惊慌起来，他真怕他们也许会同样干脆利落地把他给扔出去。于是，他跑到亨格利•乔那里，和他一起逃到罗马去了。第二天，内特利的妓女终于睡了一夜好觉，并从柔情蜜意中醒来。
Chapter 33 Nately's Whore
    He missed Nurse Duckett in Rome. There was not much else to do after Hungry Joe left on his mail run.
　　Yossarian missed Nurse Duckett so much that he went searching hungrily through the streets for Luciana, whoselaugh and invisible scar he had never forgotten, or the boozy, blowzy, bleary-eyed floozy in the overloaded whitebrassière and unbuttoned orange satin blouse whose naughty salmon-colored cameo ring Aarfy had thrown awayso callously through the window of her car. How he yearned for both girls! He looked for them in vain. He wasso deeply in love with them, and he knew he would never see either again. Despair gnawed at him. Visions besethim. He wanted Nurse Duckett with her dress up and her slim thighs bare to the hips. He banged a thin streetwalker with a wet cough who picked him up from an alley between hotels, but that was no fun at all and hehastened to the enlisted men’s apartment for the fat, friendly maid in the lime-colored panties, who wasoverjoyed to see him but couldn’t arouse him. He went to bed there early and slept alone. He woke updisappointed and banged a sassy, short, chubby girl he found in the apartment after breakfast, but that was only alittle better, and he chased her away when he’d finished and went back to sleep. He napped till lunch and thenwent shopping for presents for Nurse Duckett and a scarf for the maid in the lime-coloured panties, who huggedhim with such gargantuan gratitude that he was soon hot for Nurse Duckett and ran looking lecherously forLuciana again. Instead he found Aarfy, who had landed in Rome when Hungry Joe returned with Dunbar, Natelyand Dobbs, and who would not go along on the drunken foray that night to rescue Nately’s whore from themiddle-aged military big shots holding her captive in a hotel because she would not say uncle.
　　“Why should I risk getting into trouble just to help her out?” Aarfy demanded haughtily. “But don’t tell Nately Isaid that. Tell him I had to keep an appointment with some very important fraternity brothers.”
　　The middle-aged big shots would not let Nately’s whore leave until they made her say uncle.
　　“Say uncle,” they said to her.
　　“Uncle,” she said.
　　“No, no. Say uncle.”
　　“Uncle,” she said.
　　“She still doesn’t understand.”
　　“You still don’t understand, do you? We can’t really make you say uncle unless you don’t want to say uncle.
　　Don’t you see? Don’t say uncle when I tell you to say uncle. Okay? Say uncle.”
　　“Uncle,” she said.
　　“No, don’t say uncle. Say uncle.”
　　She didn’t say uncle.
　　“That’s good!”
　　“That’s very good.”
　　“It’s a start. Now say uncle.”
　　“Uncle,” she said.
　　“It’s no good.”
　　“No, it’s no good that way either. She just isn’t impressed with us. There’s just no fun making her say unclewhen she doesn’t care whether we make her say uncle or not.”
　　“No, she really doesn’t care, does she? Say ‘foot.’”
　　“Foot.”
　　“You see? She doesn’t care about anything we do. She doesn’t care about us. We don’t mean a thing to you, dowe?”
　　“Uncle,” she said.
　　She didn’t care about them a bit, and it upset them terribly. They shook her roughly each time she yawned. Shedid not seem to care about anything, not even when they threatened to throw her out the window. They wereutterly demoralized men of distinction. She was bored and indifferent and wanted very much to sleep. She hadbeen on the job for twenty-two hours, and she was sorry that these men had not permitted her to leave with theother two girls with whom the orgy had begun. She wondered vaguely why they wanted her to laugh when theylaughed, and why they wanted her to enjoy it when they made love to her. It was all very mysterious to her, andvery uninteresting.
　　She was not sure what they wanted from her. Each time she slumped over with her eyes closed they shook herawake and made her say “uncle” again. Each time she said “uncle,” they were disappointed. She wondered what“uncle” meant. She sat on the sofa in a passive, phlegmatic stupor, her mouth open and all her clothing crumpledin a corner on the floor, and wondered how much longer they would sit around naked with her and make her sayuncle in the elegant hotel suite to which Orr’s old girl friend, giggling uncontrollably at Yossarian’s andDunbar’s drunken antics, guided Nately and the other members of the motley rescue party.
　　Dunbar squeezed Orr’s old girl friend’s fanny gratefully and passed her back to Yossarian, who propped heragainst the door jamb with both hands on her hips and wormed himself against her lasciviously until Natelyseized him by the arm and pulled him away from her into the blue sitting room, where Dunbar was alreadyhurling everything in sight out the window into the court. Dobbs was smashing furniture with an ash stand. Anude, ridiculous man with a blushing appendectomy scar appeared in the doorway suddenly and bellowed.
　　“What’s going on here?”
　　“Your toes are dirty,” Dunbar said.
　　The man covered his groin with both hands and shrank from view. Dunbar, Dobbs and Hungry Joe just keptdumping everything they could lift out the window with great, howling whoops of happy abandon. They soonfinished with the clothing on the couches and the luggage on the floor, and they were ransacking a cedar closetwhen the door to the inner room opened again and a man who was very distinguished-looking from the neck up padded into view imperiously on bare feet.
　　“Here, you, stop that,” he barked. “Just what do you men think you’re doing?”
　　“Your toes are dirty,” Dunbar said to him.
　　The man covered his groin as the first one had done and disappeared. Nately charged after him, but was blockedby the first officer, who plodded back in holding a pillow in front of him, like a bubble dancer.
　　“Hey, you men!” he roared angrily. “Stop it!”
　　“Stop it,” Dunbar replied.
　　“That’s what I said.”
　　“That’s what I said,” Dunbar said.
　　The officer stamped his foot petulantly, turning weak with frustration. “Are you deliberately repeatingeverything I say?”
　　“Are you deliberately repeating everything I say?”
　　“I’ll thrash you.” The man raised a fist.
　　“I’ll thrash you,” Dunbar warned him coldly. “You’re a German spy, and I’m going to have you shot.”
　　“German spy? I’m an American colonel.”
　　“You don’t look like an American colonel. You look like a fat man with a pillow in front of him. Where’s youruniform, if you’re an American colonel?”
　　“You just threw it out the window.”
　　“All right, men,” Dunbar said. “Lock the silly bastard up. Take the silly bastard down to the station house andthrow away the key.”
　　The colonel blanched with alarm. “Are you all crazy? Where’s your badge? Hey, you! Come back in here!”
　　But he whirled too late to stop Nately, who had glimpsed his girl sitting on the sofa in the other room and haddarted through the doorway behind his back. The others poured through after him right into the midst of the othernaked big shots. Hungry Joe laughed hysterically when he saw them, pointing in disbelief at one after the otherand clasping his head and sides. Two with fleshy physiques advanced truculently until they spied the look ofmean dislike and hostility on Dobbs and Dunbar and noticed that Dobbs was still swinging like a two-handed club the wrought-iron ash stand he had used to smash things in the sitting room. Nately was already at his girl’sside. She stared at him without recognition for a few seconds. Then she smiled faintly and let her head sink to hisshoulder with her eyes closed. Nately was in ecstasy; she had never smiled at him before.
　　“Filpo,” said a calm, slender, jaded-looking man who had not even stirred from his armchair. “You don’t obeyorders. I told you to get them out, and you’ve gone and brought them in. Can’t you see the difference?”
　　“They’ve thrown our things out the window, General.”
　　“Good for them. Our uniforms too? That was clever. We’ll never be able to convince anyone we’re superiorwithout our uniforms.”
　　“Let’s get their names, Lou, and—““Oh, Ned, relax,” said the slender man with practiced weariness. “You may be pretty good at moving armoreddivisions into action, but you’re almost useless in a social situation. Sooner or later we’ll get our uniforms back,and then we’ll be their superiors again. Did they really throw our uniforms out? That was a splendid tactic.”
　　“They threw everything out.”
　　“The ones in the closet, too?”
　　“They threw the closet out, General. That was that crash we heard when we thought they were coming in to killus.”
　　“And I’ll throw you out next,” Dunbar threatened.
　　The general paled slightly. “What the devil is he so mad about?” he asked Yossarian.
　　“He means it, too,” Yossarian said. “You’d better let the girl leave.”
　　“Lord, take her,” exclaimed the general with relief. “All she’s done is make us feel insecure. At least she mighthave disliked or resented us for the hundred dollars we paid her. But she wouldn’t even do that. Your handsomeyoung friend there seems quite attached to her. Notice the way he lets his fingers linger on the inside of herthighs as he pretends to roll up her stockings.”
　　Nately, caught in the act, blushed guiltily and moved more quickly through the steps of dressing her. She wassound asleep and breathed so regularly that she seemed to be snoring softly.
　　“Let’s charge her now, Lou!” urged another officer. “We’ve got more personnel, and we can encircle—““Oh, no, Bill,” answered the general with a sigh. “You may be a wizard at directing a pincer movement in goodweather on level terrain against an enemy that has already committed his reserves, but you don’t always think so clearly anywhere else. Why should we want to keep her?”
　　“General, we’re in a very bad strategic position. We haven’t got a stitch of clothing, and it’s going to be verydegrading and embarrassing for the person who has to go downstairs through the lobby to get some.”
　　“Yes, Filpo, you’re quite right,” said the general. “And that’s exactly why you’re the one to do it. Get going.”
　　“Naked, sir?”
　　“Take your pillow with you if you want to. And get some cigarettes, too, while you’re downstairs picking up myunderwear and pants, will you?”
　　“I’ll send everything up for you,” Yossarian offered.
　　“There, General,” said Filpo with relief. “Now I won’t have to go.”
　　“Filpo, you nitwit. Can’t you see he’s lying?”
　　“Are you lying?”
　　Yossarian nodded, and Filpo’s faith was shattered. Yossarian laughed and helped Nately walk his girl out intothe corridor and into the elevator. Her face was smiling as though with a lovely dream as she slept with her headstill resting on Nately’s shoulder. Dobbs and Dunbar ran out into the street to stop a cab.
　　Nately’s whore looked up when they left the car. She swallowed dryly several times during the arduous trek upthe stairs to her apartment, but she was sleeping soundly again by the time Nately undressed her and put her tobed. She slept for eighteen hours, while Nately dashed about the apartment all the next morning shushingeverybody in sight, and when she woke up she was deeply in love with him. In the last analysis, that was all ittook to win her heart—a good night’s sleep.
　　The girl smiled with contentment when she opened her eyes and saw him, and then, stretching her long legslanguorously beneath the rustling sheets, beckoned him into bed beside her with that look of simpering idiocy ofa woman in heat. Nately moved to her in a happy daze, so overcome with rapture that he hardly minded when herkid sister interrupted him again by flying into the room and flinging herself down onto the bed between them.
　　Nately’s whore slapped and cursed her, but this time with laughter and generous affection, and Nately settledback smugly with an arm about each, feeling strong and protective. They made a wonderful family group, hedecided. The little girl would go to college when she was old enough, to Smith or Radcliffe or Bryn Mawr—hewould see to that. Nately bounded out of bed after a few minutes to announce his good fortune to his friends atthe top of his voice. He called to them jubilantly to come to the room and slammed the door in their startled facesas soon as they arrived. He had remembered just in time that his girl had no clothes on.
　　“Get dressed,” he ordered her, congratulating himself on his alertness.
　　“Perchè?” she asked curiously.
　　“Perchè?” he repeated with an indulgent chuckle. “Because I don’t want them to see you without any clotheson.”
　　“Perchè no?” she inquired.
　　“Perchè no?” He looked at her with astonishment. “Because it isn’t right for other men to see you naked, that’swhy.”
　　“Perchè no?”
　　“Because I say no!” Nately exploded in frustration. “Now don’t argue with me. I’m the man and you have to dowhatever I say. From now on, I forbid you ever to go out of this room unless you have all your clothes on. Is thatclear?”
　　Nately’s whore looked at him as though he were insane. “Are you crazy? Che succede?”
　　“I mean every word I say.”
　　“Tu sei pazzo!” she shouted at him with incredulous indignation, and sprang out of bed. Snarling unintelligibly,she snapped on panties and strode toward the door.
　　Nately drew himself up with full manly authority. “I forbid you to leave this room that way,” he informed her.
　　“Tu sei pazzo!” she shot back at him, after he had left, shaking her head in disbelief. “Idiota! Tu sei un pazzoimbecille!”
　　“Tu sei pazzo,” said her thin kid sister, starting out after her in the same haughty walk.
　　“You come back here,” Nately ordered her. “I forbid you to go out that way, too!”
　　“Idiota!” the kid sister called back at him with dignity after she had flounced past. “Tu sei un pazzo imbecille.”
　　Nately fumed in circles of distracted helplessness for several seconds and then sprinted out into the sitting roomto forbid his friends to look at his girl friend while she complained about him in only her panties.
　　“Why not?” asked Dunbar.
　　“Why not?” exclaimed Nately. “Because she’s my girl now, and it isn’t right for you to see her unless she’s fullydressed.”
　　“Why not?” asked Dunbar.
　　“You see?” said his girl with a shrug. “Lui è pazzo!”
　　“Si, è molto pazzo,” echoed her kid sister.
　　“Then make her keep her clothes on if you don’t want us to see her,” argued Hungry Joe. “What the hell do youwant from us?”
　　“She won’t listen to me,” Nately confessed sheepishly. “So from now on you’ll all have to shut your eyes or lookin the other direction when she comes in that way. Okay?”
　　“Madonn’!” cried his girl in exasperation, and stamped out of the room.
　　“Madonn’!” cried her kid sister, and stamped out behind her.
　　“Lui è pazzo,” Yossarian observed good-naturedly. “I certainly have to admit it.”
　　“Hey, you crazy or something?” Hungry Joe demanded of Nately. “The next thing you know you’ll be trying tomake her give up hustling.”
　　“From now on,” Nately said to his girl, “I forbid you to go out hustling.”
　　“Perchè?” she inquired curiously.
　　“Perchè?” he screamed with amazement. “Because it’s not nice, that’s why!”
　　“Perchè no?”
　　“Because it just isn’t!” Nately insisted. “It just isn’t right for a nice girl like you to go looking for other men tosleep with. I’ll give you all the money you need, so you won’t have to do it any more.”
　　“And what will I do all day instead?”
　　“Do?” said Nately. “You’ll do what all your friends do.”
　　“My friends go looking for men to sleep with.”
　　“Then get new friends! I don’t even want you to associate with girls like that, anyway. Prostitution is bad!
　　Everybody knows that, even him.” He turned with confidence to the experienced old man. “Am I right?”
　　“You’re wrong,” answered the old man. “Prostitution gives her an opportunity to meet people. It provides freshair and wholesome exercise, and it keeps her out of trouble.”
　　“From now on,” Nately declared sternly to his girl friend, “I forbid you to have anything to do with that wickedold man.”
　　“Va fongul!” his girl replied, rolling her harassed eyes up toward the ceiling. “What does he want from me?” sheimplored, shaking her fists. “Lasciami!” she told him in menacing entreaty. “Stupido! If you think my friends areso bad, go tell your friends not to ficky-fick all the time with my friends!”
　　“From now on,” Nately told his friends, “I think you fellows ought to stop running around with her friends andsettle down.”
　　“Madonn’!” cried his friends, rolling their harassed eyes up toward the ceiling.
　　Nately had gone clear out of his mind. He wanted them all to fall in love right away and get married. Dunbarcould marry Orr’s whore, and Yossarian could fall in love with Nurse Duckett or anyone else he liked. After thewar they could all work for Nately’s father and bring up their children in the same suburb. Nately saw it all veryclearly. Love had transmogrified him into a romantic idiot, and they drove him away back into the bedroom towrangle with his girl over Captain Black. She agreed not to go to bed with Captain Black again or give him anymore of Nately’s money, but she would not budge an inch on her friendship with the ugly, ill-kempt, dissipated,filthy-minded old man, who witnessed Nately’s flowering love affair with insulting derision and would not admitthat Congress was the greatest deliberative body in the whole world.
　　“From now on,” Nately ordered his girl firmly, “I absolutely forbid you even to speak to that disgusting oldman.”
　　“Again the old man?” cried the girl in wailing confusion. “Perchè no?”
　　“He doesn’t like the House of Representatives.”
　　“Mamma mia! What’s the matter with you?”
　　“è pazzo,” observed her kid sister philosophically. “That’s what’s the matter with him.”
　　“Si,” the older girl agreed readily, tearing at her long brown hair with both hands. “Lui è pazzo.”
　　But she missed Nately when he was away and was furious with Yossarian when he punched Nately in the facewith all his might and knocked him into the hospital with a broken nose.
 33、内特利的妓女
　　在罗马，约塞连很想念达克特护士。亨格利•乔出发去执行军邮任务之后，他越发感到无所事事。他实在太想念达克特护士了，于是便急不可耐地跑到大街上，到处去寻找露西安娜。他从来没有忘掉露西安娜的笑声和她那从不让外人看见的伤疤，更没有忘掉那个嗜酒如命、头发蓬乱、泪眼模糊的浪荡女人。那女人总是穿着一件桔黄色的缎子衬衫，从来不扣扣子，胸脯上紧紧束着一只白色乳罩。她的那枚橙红色浮雕宝石戒指有一回被阿费无情地从她的汽车窗口扔了出去。他是多么渴望得到这两个女人啊！他徒劳地寻找着她们，他那么深深地爱着她们，可他知道，他永远也见不到她们中的任何一个了。绝望折磨着他，幻觉困扰着他。他真希望达克特护士就在他身边，裙子撩得高高的，露出她那修长的大腿和白白的屁股。在两个旅馆之间的一条小巷子里，一个又咳嗽又吐痰的瘦瘦的街头女郎拉住了他。他跟她做了一回爱，可是没有得到丝毫乐趣。他又跑到士兵公寓去找那个穿灰白色内裤、待人十分和气的胖女佣。她见到他高兴极了，可他却仍然打不起精神来，只好在那里独自早早上床睡觉。醒来时他依然感到无聊，吃罢早饭在公寓里找了一个活泼、丰满的矮个子姑娘鬼混了一通，觉得稍稍有一点乐趣，完事后就把她打发走了，自己接着睡觉。他一觉睡到开午饭，然后就上街去给达克特护士买礼物，还给穿灰白色内裤的胖女佣买了一条围巾，让她感激得不知道怎么做才好，一个劲地拥抱他。这下子又勾起了他对达克特护士的欲火，只好又一次色迷迷地跑出去寻找露西安娜。他没有找到露西安娜，却找到了阿费。阿费在罗马着陆时，正赶上亨格利•乔和邓巴、内特利、多布斯等人一起返回。那天晚上，一帮已人到中年的军方大人物把内特利的妓女扣在一家旅馆里，她不说“认输”两个字就不让她走。亨格利•乔等人喝得醉醺醺地去找那帮人打架，要把她救出来。阿费说什么也不愿意跟他们去。
　　“我为什么要仅仅为了救她出来而给自己惹麻烦呢？”阿费傲慢地质问道，“不过，别把我这句话告诉内特利。就告诉他我和兄弟互助会里几个非常重要的弟兄有一个约会。”
　　那帮军方中年大人物一定要让内特利的妓女说出“认输”两个字，才肯放她走。
　　“说‘认输’，”他们对她说。
　　“叔叔，”她说。
　　“不，不，说‘认输’。”
　　“叔叔，”她说。
　　“她还是不明白。”
　　“你还是不明白，是吗？你不想说‘认输’，我们是不能硬逼你说的。你明白吗？当我们叫你说‘认输’时，别叫我叔叔，好吗？说‘认输’。”
　　“叔叔，”她说。
　　“不，别叫叔叔，说‘认输’。”
　　她不再叫叔叔了。
　　“这就对了。”
　　“这很好。”
　　“这是个好的开端。现在，说‘认输’。”
　　“叔叔，”她说。
　　“这没有用。”
　　“不，这样也没有用。我们的话根本进不了她的脑子里去。我们要不要她说‘认输’，她一点都不在乎。这样要她说‘认输’也没有什么意思。”
　　“是呀，她一点都不在乎，是吗，说‘脚’。”
　　“脚。”
　　“你瞧见了吧？我们干什么，她都不在乎。她对我们一点也不在乎。我们对你毫无意义，是吗？”
　　“叔叔，”她说。
　　她对他们一点也不在乎，这一点弄得他们心烦意乱。每回她打哈欠时，他们就粗暴地摇晃她。她似乎对什么都不在乎，甚至当他们威胁说要把她从窗口扔出去时，她也无所谓。这真是一帮伤风败俗的上流人。她觉得很厌倦很无聊，很想躺下睡一觉。她已经连着伺候他们二十二个小时了。她是和另外两个姑娘一块来供他们寻欢作乐的，可他们不让她跟她们一块离开，这使她感到难过。她有些弄不明白，他们哈哈大笑的时候为什么要求她跟着笑。她也不明白，他们跟她做爱时为什么要求她做出一副快活的样子。对她来说，这一切全都这么难以理解，这么令人厌烦。
　　她拿不准他们到底要她干什么。每一回她闭上眼睛想打瞌睡时，他们都要把她摇醒，叫她说“叔叔”。可每一回她说“叔叔”时，他们又都显得很失望。她弄不清楚“叔叔”是什么意思。她驯顺而麻木地坐在长沙发上，神情恍惚，嘴微微张着。她所有的衣服都扔在地板的一个角落里。她不知道他们还要叫她这样一丝不挂地陪着他们在这套豪华的旅馆客房里坐多久，也不知道他们是不是还要逼她喊“叔叔”。就在这时，奥尔的老相好把内特利和这支救援队里其他穿着五花八门衣服的成员带进了这套客房。她一边领着他们往里走，一边放荡地笑话着约塞连和邓巴滑稽的醉态。
　　邓巴感激地捏了捏奥尔老相好的屁股，一把把她推到约塞连的怀里。约塞连双手抱住她的屁股，把她的身体抵在门框上，自己则猥亵地贴在她身上扭来扭去，直到内特利揪住他的胳膊把他从她身上拉开，推到那间蓝色起居室里。邓巴已经在那儿动手把能看得见的东西一件件从窗口往院子里面扔。多布斯则拿起一个烟灰缸架子砸家具。一个赤身裸体的人出现在门口，他的肚子上有一道阑尾炎开刀留下的红疤，模样非常滑稽。这人吼叫道：
　　“这儿出了什么事？”
　　“瞧瞧你这副脏样，”邓巴说。
　　这人双手捂住羞处退了出去。邓巴、多布斯和亨格利•乔快活放肆地大吼大叫着，把房间里所有他们举得动的东西一件接一件地从窗子往外扔。不一会，他们就把床上的铺盖和地板上的行李统统扔光了。他们正打算去洗劫一个杉木衣柜时，通往里间的门又打开了。一个相貌出众但却赤身裸体的男人趾高气扬地光着脚走了进来。
　　“喂，你们给我住手，”他叫道，“你们这帮家伙知道自己在干什么吗？”
　　“瞧瞧你这副脏样，”邓巴对他说。
　　这个人和方才第一个人一样双手捂住羞处溜走了。内特利正要去追他，不料那第一个军官又抱着个枕头遮住自己的羞处回来了。他像跳裸体舞那样摇摇摆摆地挡住了内特利的去路。
　　“喂，你们这些家伙！”他愤怒地吼叫道，“给我住手！”
　　“给我住手，”邓巴回嘴道。
　　“这是我说的。”
　　“这是我说的，”邓巴说。这军官的锐气给挫了下去，他急躁地跺着脚。“你是在故意重复我说的每一句话吗？”
　　“你是在故意重复我说的每一句话吗？”
　　“我要揍你一顿。”这人举起了拳头。
　　“我要揍你一顿。”邓巴冷冷地警告他。“你是个德国间谍，我要叫人毙了你。”
　　“德国间谍？我是个美国上校。”
　　“你根本不像个美国上校。你活像个身体前面放了个枕头的大胖子。你要是个美国上校，那你的制服哪里去了？”
　　“你们刚刚扔到窗外去了。”
　　“好吧，弟兄们，”邓巴说，“把这个笨蛋关起来。把他带到警察局去，把钥匙扔掉。”
　　上校的脸都吓白了。“你们都疯了吗？你们的徽章呢？喂，你，快回到这儿来！”
　　可是他转身太迟了，没能拉注内特利，内特利瞥见他的女人坐在另一间房子的沙发上，便从他背后一个箭步蹿进门去。其他的人随着他一拥而进，闯到了那群赤身裸体的大人物中间。亨格利•乔一看到他们便歇斯底里地大笑起来。他不相信地挨个指指他们，又伸出双臂，一会抱住自己的脑袋，一会搂住自己的腰。两个满身肥膘的家伙蛮横地冲着他们迎上来，直到他们看出多布斯和邓巴脸上的厌恶和敌意，注意到多布斯双手仍然握着那个他在起居室里砸东西用的锻铁烟灰缸架上下左右挥舞个不停，这才停住脚步。内特利已经站到了他的女人身边。她盯着他看了好几秒钟，才把他认出来。她软弱无力地笑了笑，闭上眼睛把头伏到了他的肩膀上。内特利欣喜若狂，她以前从来没有对他笑过。
　　“菲尔波，”一个镇静、瘦削、面容疲倦的人一直坐在沙发上一动不动，这会他开口了。“你没有执行命令。我叫你把他们赶出去，你却出去把他们带了进来。你难道看不出这其中的矛盾之处吗？”
　　“他们把我们的东西都从窗口扔出去了，将军。”
　　“他们干得好。我们的制服也扔出去了吗、聪明极了。没有制服，我们永远没有办法使人相信我们是上级。”
　　“我们把他们的名字记下来吧，罗，和——”
　　“噢，内德，放松点，”那个瘦子带着习惯性的疲倦神情说，“你指挥装甲师作战也许很有本事，可对社会上的事情你却几乎无能为力。迟早我们总会找回我们的制服，到那时我们就又是他们的上级了。他们真的把我们的制服扔出去了吗，这一招干得漂亮极了。”
　　“他们把所有东西部扔出去了。”
　　“把衣柜里的东西也扔出去了吗？”
　　“他们连衣柜都扔出去了，将军，就是我们刚才听到的咣当一声，当时我们还以为他们要冲进来杀我们呢。”
　　“接下来我就要把你扔出去了，”邓巴威胁道。
　　将军的脸有点发白。“他究意为什么火气这么大？”他问约塞连。
　　“他说得出就做得到，”约塞连说，“你们最好让这姑娘离开。”
　　“天哪，把她带走吧，”将军松了口气，大声说，“她在这儿所做的一切都使我们觉得摸不透。至少，她要是嫌我们付给她的一百美元太少，她可以对我们表示不满或者怨恨，可她连这一点都不愿意做。你那个英俊的年轻朋友看来是迷上她了。你们瞧瞧，他假装替她往上提裤子，手指头却在她的大腿根摸个不停。”
　　内特利的行为当场被人揭穿，羞得满脸通红，赶快急急忙忙地把衣服一件件全给她套上。她睡得很熟，呼吸十分均匀，似乎在轻轻地打鼾。
　　“我们现在就冲上去把她夺回来，罗！”另一个军官怂恿说，“我们的人比他们多，我们可以包围——”
　　“噢，不，比尔，”将军叹了一口气说，“说到天气好时在平原上指挥一场钳形攻势，对付已经出动了全部后备力量的敌人，你也许是个奇才。但你在别的方面思路并不总是那么清楚。我们为什么应该留住她呢？”
　　“将军，从战略上讲，我们处于劣势。我们的身上全都一丝不挂，对于那个不得不下楼穿过门厅到外面去取衣服的人来说，这将会是很掉价、很难堪的。”
　　“是的，菲尔波，你说得很对，”将军说，“这恰恰就是为什么你应该去干这件事的原因。去取衣服吧。”
　　“赤身裸体去吗，长官？”
　　“你要是愿意的话，就带上你的枕头，你下去捡我的内衣内裤时，带点香烟回来，好吗？”
　　“我可以把所有的东西部给你送上来，”约塞连凑上去说。
　　“这下好了，将军，”菲尔波松了一口气说，“现在我不用去了。”
　　“菲尔波，你这个傻瓜，你难道看不出他说的是谎话吗？”
　　“你说的是谎话吗？”
　　约塞连点点头。菲尔波的希望破灭了。约塞连大笑起来，然后帮助内特利搀着他的女人走到走廊里，进了电梯。她仍然在睡觉。
　　她的脑袋依然伏在内特利的肩上，脸上浮现出一丝微笑，好像正在做着一个美梦。多布斯和邓巴跑到街上叫住了一辆出租车。
　　下车的时候，内特利的妓女抬头看了看。他们艰难地沿着她公寓的楼梯往上爬时，她干咽了好几口唾沫，可等到内特利帮她脱衣服上床时，她又已经睡熟了，她一觉睡了十八个小时。第二天整个早上，内特利在公寓里跑来跑去，逢人就发出嘘声。她醒来时，心中充满了对他的爱情。归根到底，赢得她的心只需要一件事——一夜好觉。
　　她睁开眼睛看见他时，心满意足地笑了。随后，她在瑟瑟作响的被单底下懒洋洋地伸了伸她修长的双腿，招手叫他上床躺在她的身边。她哧哧地傻笑着，一副春情勃发的白痴模样。内特利高兴得神魂颠倒，欣喜若狂地朝她走过去。就连她的小妹妹冲进房间，扑到床上硬把他们俩分开时，他都几乎一点没生气。内特利的妓女对她的妹妹又打又骂，不过这次是满怀深情地笑着这样干的。内特利沾沾自喜地一只胳膊搂着一个女人倚在床上，觉得自己强壮有力，足以保护她们。他在心里想，他们三个人在一起肯定会组成一个美满幸福的家庭。等到这小姑娘够年龄时，她一定要去上大学，上史密斯学院，拉德克利夫学院或者布林马尔学院——这件事将由他来办。几分钟后，内特利跳下床去，扯开嗓子叫唤着，向他的朋友宣布他的好消息。他兴高采烈地叫他们到她的房间来，可他们刚到门口，他又砰的一声把门关上了，吓了他们一跳，因为他这时才想起来，他的姑娘还没有穿衣服呢。
　　“快穿上衣服。”他命令她，暗自庆幸自己的机警。
　　“出了什么事？”她好奇地问。
　　“出了什么事？”他宠爱地笑着重复了一遍。“因为我不愿意让他们看见你光着身子的模样。”
　　“不愿意？”她问。
　　“不愿意？，”他惊讶地看了看她。“因为让别的男人看见你的裸体是不对头的，这就是为什么。”
　　“不对头？”
　　“因为我这么说了。”内特利恼火地发作起来。“听着，不许跟我犟嘴。我是你的男人，我说什么，你就得做什么。从现在起，你要是不把衣服全穿上，我就不许你走出这间房子。明白了吗？”
　　内特利的妓女看看他，好像他是个疯子似的。“你疯了吗？”
　　“我说的话句句算数。”
　　“你疯了！”她不敢相信地冲他叫着，愤怒地从床上跳下来。她一把扯过短裤套上，大步朝门口走去，嘴里乱七八糟地不知在喊叫些什么。
　　内特利像一个十足的男子汉似的威严地挺直了腰板。“我不准你这个样子离开这间房子，”他对她说。
　　“你疯了！”她冲出房门后，一边回身冲他喊，一边不相信地摇着脑袋。“你这个白痴！你这个傻乎乎的疯子！”
　　“你疯了！”她那瘦小的妹妹边说边学着她姐姐的样子傲慢地往外走。
　　“你给我回来！”内特利命令她。“我也不准你这个样子出去。”
　　“你这个白痴！”那小妹妹从他身旁冲过去之后，回过头来庄严地对他大声说，“你这个傻乎乎的疯子！”
　　内特利心烦意乱却又拿她们没有办法。他愤愤地在原地转了几个圈，便飞快地冲进起居室，想阻止他的朋友看见他的女友，她只穿着一条短裤正在向他们抱怨他呢。
　　“为什么不能看？”邓巴问。
　　“为什么不能看？”内特利叫道，“因为她现在是我的女人了，她还没穿好衣服，你们就看到了她，这是不对头的。”
　　“为什么不对头？”邓巴问。
　　“你们看到了吧？”他的女人耸耸肩说，“他疯了！”
　　“对，他真疯了！”她的小妹妹附和着。
　　“要是你不想让我们看见她的裸体，那就叫她穿上衣服嘛，”亨格利•乔分辩道，“你到底想要我们怎么样？”
　　“她不肯听我的话，”内特利局促不安地承认道，“所以，从现在起，当她这个样子进来时，你们大伙都闭上眼睛，或者转脸看着别处，行吗？”
　　“圣母玛丽亚！”他的女人恼怒地叫了一声，一跺脚冲出了房间。
　　“圣母玛丽亚！”她的小妹妹也叫了一声，跺了跺脚跟着她跑了出去。
　　“他疯了，”约塞连和和气气他说，“这点我敢肯定。”
　　“喂，你是疯了还是怎么了？”亨格利•乔质问内特利。“接下来你要干的大概是不许她再接客了。”
　　“从现在起，”内特利对他的女人说，“我不许你外出接客。”
　　“为什么？”她好奇地问。
　　“为什么？”他吃惊地尖叫起来。“因为这不体面，这就是为什么！”
　　“为什么不体面？”
　　“就因为不体面！”内特利坚持道，“一个像你这样体面的姑娘跑到外面去找别的男人睡觉，实在太不应该了。你需要多少钱我就给你多少钱，所以你不必再去干这种事情了。”
　　“那我整天干些什么呢？”
　　“干什么？”内特利反问道，“你的朋友干什么，你也可以干什么。”
　　“我的朋友跑去找男人睡觉。”
　　“那么你就去交几个新朋友吧！不管怎么说，我再也不许你和那种女人来往！卖淫是不道德的！每个人都知道这一点，甚至这个家伙。”他满怀信心地转向那个阅历丰富的老头。“我讲的对吗？”
　　“你讲错了，”老头回答说，“卖淫使她有了接触男人的机会，给她提供了新鲜的空气和有益于健康的运动，而且还帮她摆脱了烦恼。”
　　“从现在起，”内特利严厉地对他的女人宣布道，“我不准你跟这个坏老头有任何来往。”
　　“圣母玛丽亚！”他的女人恼火地抬眼望着天花板说。“他到底要我干什么？”她晃了晃拳头问。“走开！”她半是威胁半是请求他说道，“要是你觉得我的朋友全都这么坏，那就告诉你的朋友别再老来缠着我的朋友。”
　　“从现在起，”内特利对他的朋友说，“我认为你们这帮家伙不应该再去缠住她的朋友，你们都应该成家了。”
　　“圣母玛丽亚！”他的朋友们恼火地抬眼望着天花板叫道。
　　内特利的精神完全失常了。他要他们大家全都马上恋爱结婚。
　　邓巴可以娶奥尔的妓女，约塞连可以爱上达克特护士或者他看上的随便别的什么女人。战争结束后，他们可以一起为内特利的父亲工作，在同一个郊区把他们的孩子养大。内特利仿佛清清楚楚地看到了这一切。爱情一夜之间把他变成了一个耽于幻想的白痴。他们把他赶回到卧室，让他为了布莱克上尉而去跟他的女人吵架。她同意不再跟布莱克上尉上床，也不再把内特利的钱给他，可是在她与那个丑陋、邋遢、行为放荡、心地肮脏的老头之间的友谊这个问题上，她却寸步不让。这老头带着侮辱性的嘲弄神情目睹了内特利爱情之花开放的全过程，并且坚决不肯同意美国国会是世界上最伟大的审议机构这一观点。
　　“从现在起，”内特利态度坚决地命令他的女人，“我绝对不准你再跟那个讨厌的老家伙讲一句话。”
　　“又是那个老头吗？”那女人困惑不解地呜咽着说，“为什么不准？”
　　“他不喜欢我们的众议院。”
　　“我的妈呀！你到底是怎么回事呀？”
　　她的小妹妹平静地说，“他就是出了这种毛病。”
　　“对，”她的姐姐马上表示同意。她抬起双手将自己的棕色头发扯来扯去。
　　然而，内特利离开以后，她又非常想念他。当约塞连使尽全身力气一拳打在内特利的脸上，打断了他的鼻梁骨，使他住进了医院时，她对约塞连怒火满腔。
Chapter 34 Thanksgiving
    It was actually all Sergeant Knight’s fault that Yossarian busted Nately in the nose on Thanksgiving Day, aftereveryone in the squadron had given humble thanks to Milo for providing the fantastically opulent meal on whichthe officers and enlisted men had gorged themselves insatiably all afternoon and for dispensing like inexhaustiblelargess the unopened bottles of cheap whiskey he handed out unsparingly to every man who asked. Even beforedark, young soldiers with pasty white faces were throwing up everywhere and passing out drunkenly on theground. The air turned foul. Other men picked up steam as the hours passed, and the aimless, riotous celebrationcontinued. It was a raw, violent, guzzling saturnalia that spilled obstreperously through the woods to the officers’
　　club and spread up into the hills toward the hospital and the antiaircraft-gun emplacements. There were fist fightsin the squadron and one stabbing. Corporal Kolodny shot himself through the leg in the intelligence tent whileplaying with a loaded gun and had his gums and toes painted purple in the speeding ambulance as he lay on hisback with the blood spurting from his wound. Men with cut fingers, bleeding heads, stomach cramps and brokenankles came limping penitently up to the medical tent to have their gums and toes painted purple by Gus andWes and be given a laxative to throw into the bushes. The joyous celebration lasted long into the night, and thestillness was fractured often by wild, exultant shouts and by the cries of people who were merry or sick. Therewas the recurring sound of retching and moaning, of laughter, greetings, threats and swearing, and of bottlesshattering against rock. There were dirty songs in the distance. It was worse than New Year’s Eve.
　　Yossarian went to bed early for safety and soon dreamed that he was fleeing almost headlong down an endlesswooden staircase, making a loud, staccato clatter with his heels. Then he woke up a little and realized someonewas shooting at him with a machine gun. A tortured, terrified sob rose in his throat. His first thought was thatMilo was attacking the squadron again, and he rolled of his cot to the floor and lay underneath in a trembling,praying ball, his heart thumping like a drop forge, his body bathed in a cold sweat. There was no noise of planes.
　　A drunken, happy laugh sounded from afar. “Happy New Year, Happy New Year!” a triumphant familiar voiceshouted hilariously from high above between the short, sharp bursts of machine gun fire, and Yossarianunderstood that some men had gone as a prank to one of the sandbagged machine-gun emplacements Milo hadinstalled in the hills after his raid on the squadron and staffed with his own men.
　　Yossarian blazed with hatred and wrath when he saw he was the victim of an irresponsible joke that haddestroyed his sleep and reduced him to a whimpering hulk. He wanted to kill, he wanted to murder. He wasangrier than he had ever been before, angrier even than when he had slid his hands around McWatt’s neck tostrangle him. The gun opened fire again. Voices cried “Happy New Year!” and gloating laughter rolled downfrom the hills through the darkness like a witch’s glee. In moccasins and coveralls, Yossarian charged out of histent for revenge with his .45, ramming a clip of cartridges up into the grip and slamming the bolt of the gun backto load it. He snapped off the safety catch and was ready to shoot. He heard Nately running after him to restrainhim, calling his name. The machine gun opened fire once more from a black rise above the motor pool, andorange tracer bullets skimmed like low-gliding dashes over the tops of the shadowy tents, almost clipping thepeaks. Roars of rough laughter rang out again between the short bursts. Yossarian felt resentment boil like acidinside him; they were endangering his life, the bastards! With blind, ferocious rage and determination, he racedacross the squadron past the motor pool, running as fast as he could, and was already pounding up into the hillsalong the narrow, winding path when Nately finally caught up, still calling “Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!” with pleadingconcern and imploring him to stop. He grasped Yossarian’s shoulders and tried to hold him back. Yossariantwisted free, turning. Nately reached for him again, and Yossarian drove his fist squarely into Nately’s delicateyoung face as hard as he could, cursing him, then drew his arm back to hit him again, but Nately had dropped out of sight with a groan and lay curled up on the ground with his head buried in both hands and blood streamingbetween his fingers. Yossarian whirled and plunged ahead up the path without looking back.
　　Soon he saw the machine gun. Two figures leaped up in silhouette when they heard him and fled into the nightwith taunting laughter before he could get there. He was too late. Their footsteps receded, leaving the circle ofsandbags empty and silent in the crisp and windless moonlight. He looked about dejectedly. Jeering laughtercame to him again, from a distance. A twig snapped nearby. Yossarian dropped to his knees with a cold thrill ofelation and aimed. He heard a stealthy rustle of leaves on the other side of the sandbags and fired two quickrounds. Someone fired back at him once, and he recognized the shot.
　　“Dunbar? he called.
　　“Yossarian?”
　　The two men left their hiding places and walked forward to meet in the clearing with weary disappointment, theirguns down. They were both shivering slightly from the frosty air and wheezing from the labor of their uphillrush.
　　“The bastards,” said Yossarian. “They got away.”
　　“They took ten years off my life,” Dunbar exclaimed. “I thought that son of a bitch Milo was bombing us again.
　　I’ve never been so scared. I wish I knew who the bastards were.
　　“One was Sergeant Knight.”
　　“Let’s go kill him.” Dunbar’s teeth were chattering. “He had no right to scare us that way.”
　　Yossarian no longer wanted to kill anyone. “Let’s help Nately first. I think I hurt him at the bottom of the hill.”
　　But there was no sign of Nately along the path, even though Yossarian located the right spot by the blood on thestones. Nately was not in his tent either, and they did not catch up with him until the next morning when theychecked into the hospital as patients after learning he had checked in with a broken nose the night before. Natelybeamed in frightened surprise as they padded into the ward in their slippers and robes behind Nurse Cramer andwere assigned to their beds. Nately’s nose was in a bulky cast, and he had two black eyes. He kept blushinggiddily in shy embarrassment and saying he was sorry when Yossarian came over to apologize for hitting him.
　　Yossarian felt terrible; he could hardly bear to look at Nately’s battered countenance, even though the sight wasso comical he was tempted to guffaw. Dunbar was disgusted by their sentimentality, and all three were relievedwhen Hungry Joe came barging in unexpectedly with his intricate black camera and trumped-up symptoms ofappendicitis to be near enough to Yossarian to take pictures of him feeling up Nurse Duckett. Like Yossarian, hewas soon disappointed. Nurse Duckett had decided to marry a doctor—any doctor, because they all did so well inbusiness—and would not take chances in the vicinity of the man who might someday be her husband. HungryJoe was irate and inconsolable until—of all people—the chaplain was led in wearing a maroon corduroybathrobe, shining like a skinny lighthouse with a radiant grin of self-satisfaction too tremendous to be concealed.
　　The chaplain had entered the hospital with a pain in his heart that the doctors thought was gas in his stomach andwith an advanced case of Wisconsin shingles.
　　“What in the world are Wisconsin shingles?” asked Yossarian.
　　“That’s just what the doctors wanted to know!” blurted out the chaplain proudly, and burst into laughter. No onehad ever seen him so waggish, or so happy. “There’s no such thing as Wisconsin shingles. Don’t youunderstand? I lied. I made a deal with the doctors. I promised that I would let them know when my Wisconsinshingles went away if they would promise not to do anything to cure them. I never told a lie before. Isn’t itwonderful?”
　　The chaplain had sinned, and it was good. Common sense told him that telling lies and defecting from duty weresins. On the other hand, everyone knew that sin was evil, and that no good could come from evil. But he did feelgood; he felt positively marvelous. Consequently, it followed logically that telling lies and defecting from dutycould not be sins. The chaplain had mastered, in a moment of divine intuition, the handy technique of protectiverationalization, and he was exhilarated by his discovery. It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw,to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder intophilanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice.
　　Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no character. With effervescent agility thechaplain ran through the whole gamut of orthodox immoralities, while Nately sat up in bed with flushed elation,astounded by the mad gang of companions of which he found himself the nucleus. He was flattered andapprehensive, certain that some severe official would soon appear and throw the whole lot of them out like apack of bums. No one bothered them. In the evening they all trooped exuberantly out to see a lousy Hollywoodextravaganza in Technicolor, and when they trooped exuberantly back in after the lousy Hollywoodextravaganza, the soldier in white was there, and Dunbar screamed and went to pieces.
　　“He’s back!” Dunbar screamed. “He’s back! He’s back!”
　　Yossarian froze in his tracks, paralyzed as much by the eerie shrillness in Dunbar’s voice as by the familiar,white, morbid sight of the soldier in white covered from head to toe in plaster and gauze. A strange, quavering,involuntary noise came bubbling from Yossarian’s throat.
　　“He’s back!” Dunbar screamed again.
　　“He’s back!” a patient delirious with fever echoed in automatic terror.
　　All at once the ward erupted into bedlam. Mobs of sick and injured men began ranting incoherently and runningand jumping in the aisle as though the building were on fire. A patient with one foot and one crutch was hoppingback and forth swiftly in panic crying, “What is it? What is it? Are we burning? Are we burning?”
　　“He’s back!” someone shouted at him. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s back! He’s back!”
　　“Who’s back?” shouted someone else. “Who is it?”
　　“What does it mean? What should we do?”
　　“Are we on fire?”
　　“Get up and run, damn it! Everybody get up and run!”
　　Everybody got out of bed and began running from one end of the ward to the other. One C.I.D. man was lookingfor a gun to shoot one of the other C.I.D. men who had jabbed his elbow into his eye. The ward had turned intochaos. The patient delirious with the high fever leaped into the aisle and almost knocked over the patient withone foot, who accidentally brought the black rubber tip of his crutch down on the other’s bare foot, crushingsome toes. The delirious man with the fever and the crushed toes sank to the floor and wept in pain while othermen tripped over him and hurt him more in their blind, milling, agonized stampede. “He’s back!” all the menkept mumbling and chanting and calling out hysterically as they rushed back and forth. “He’s back, he’s back!”
　　Nurse Cramer was there in the middle suddenly like a spinning policeman, trying desperately to restore order,dissolving helplessly into tears when she failed. “Be still, please be still,” she urged uselessly through hermassive sobs. The chaplain, pale as a ghost, had no idea what was going on. Neither did Nately, who kept closeto Yossarian’s side, clinging to his elbow, or Hungry Joe, who followed dubiously with his scrawny fistsclenched and glanced from side to side with a face that was scared.
　　“Hey, what’s going on?” Hungry Joe pleaded. “What the hell is going on?”
　　“It’s the same one!” Dunbar shouted at him emphatically in a voice rising clearly above the raucous commotion.
　　“Don’t you understand? It’s the same one.”
　　“The same one!” Yossarian heard himself echo, quivering with a deep and ominous excitement that he could notcontrol, and shoved his way after Dunbar toward the bed of the soldier in white.
　　“Take it easy, fellas,” the short patriotic Texan counseled affably, with an uncertain grin. “There’s no cause to beupset. Why don’t we all just take it easy?”
　　“The same one!” others began murmuring, chanting and shouting.
　　Suddenly Nurse Duckett was there, too. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
　　“He’s back!” Nurse Cramer screamed, sinking into her arms. “He’s back, he’s back!”
　　It was, indeed, the same man. He had lost a few inches and added some weight, but Yossarian remembered himinstantly by the two stiff anus and the two stiff, thick, useless legs all drawn upward into the air almostperpendicularly by the taut ropes and the long lead weights suspended from pulleys over him and by the frayedblack hole in the bandages over his mouth. He had, in fact, hardly changed at all. There was the same zinc piperising from the hard stone mass over his groin and leading to the clear glass jar on the floor. There was the sameclear glass jar on a pole dripping fluid into him through the crook of his elbow. Yossarian would recognize him anywhere. He wondered who he was.
　　“There’s no one inside!” Dunbar yelled out at him unexpectedly.
　　Yossarian felt his heart skip a beat and his legs grow weak. “What are you talking about?” he shouted withdread, stunned by the haggard, sparking anguish in Dunbar’s eyes and by his crazed look of wild shock andhorror. “Are you nuts or something? What the hell do you mean, there’s no one inside?”
　　“They’ve stolen him away!” Dunbar shouted back. “He’s hollow inside, like a chocolate soldier. They just tookhim away and left those bandages there.”
　　“Why should they do that?”
　　“Why do they do anything?”
　　“They’ve stolen him away!” screamed someone else, and people all over the ward began screaming, “They’vestolen him away. They’ve stolen him away!”
　　“Go back to your beds,” Nurse Duckett pleaded with Dunbar and Yossarian, pushing feebly against Yossarian’schest. “Please go back to your beds.”
　　“You’re crazy!” Yossarian shouted angrily at Dunbar. “What the hell makes you say that?”
　　“Did anyone see him?” Dunbar demanded with sneering fervor.
　　“You saw him, didn’t you?” Yossarian said to Nurse Duckett. “Tell Dunbar there’s someone inside.”
　　“Lieutenant Schmulker is inside,” Nurse Duckett said. “He’s burned all over.”
　　“Did she see him?”
　　“You saw him, didn’t you?”
　　“The doctor who bandaged him saw him.”
　　“Go get him, will you? Which doctor was it?”
　　Nurse Duckett reacted to the question with a startled gasp. “The doctor isn’t even here!” she exclaimed. “Thepatient was brought to us that way from a field hospital.”
　　“You see?” cried Nurse Cramer. “There’s no one inside!”
　　“There’s no one inside!” yelled Hungry Joe, and began stamping on the floor.
　　Dunbar broke through and leaped up furiously on the soldier in white’s bed to see for himself, pressing hisgleaming eye down hungrily against the tattered black hole in the shell of white bandages. He was still bent overstaring with one eye into the lightless, unstirring void of the soldier in white’s mouth when the doctors and theM.P.s came running to help Yossarian pull him away. The doctors wore guns at the waist. The guards carriedcarbines and rifles with which they shoved and jolted the crowd of muttering patients back. A stretcher onwheels was there, and the solder in white was lifted out of bed skillfully and rolled out of sight in a matter ofseconds. The doctors and M.P.s moved through the ward assuring everyone that everything was all right.
　　Nurse Duckett plucked Yossarian’s arm and whispered to him furtively to meet her in the broom closet outsidein the corridor. Yossarian rejoiced when he heard her. He thought Nurse Duckett finally wanted to get laid andpulled her skirt up the second they were alone in the broom closet, but she pushed him away. She had urgentnews about Dunbar.
　　“They’re going to disappear him,” she said.
　　Yossarian squinted at her uncomprehendingly. “They’re what?” he asked in surprise, and laughed uneasily.
　　“What does that mean?”
　　“I don’t know. I heard them talking behind a door.”
　　“Who?”
　　“I don’t know. I couldn’t see them. I just heard them say they were going to disappear Dunbar.”
　　“Why are they going to disappear him?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“It doesn’t make sense. It isn’t even good grammar. What the hell does it mean when they disappear somebody?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Jesus, you’re a great help!”
　　“Why are you picking on me?” Nurse Duckett protested with hurt feelings, and began sniffing back tears. “I’monly trying to help. It isn’t my fault they’re going to disappear him, is it? I shouldn’t even be telling you.”
　　Yossarian took her in his arms and hugged her with gentle, contrite affection. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, kissingher cheek respectfully, and hurried away to warn Dunbar, who was nowhere to be found.
 34、感恩节
　　感恩节那天，约塞连一拳砸在内特利的鼻子上。这其实全是奈特中士的过错。那一天，中队里每一个人都谦卑恭敬地前去向米洛表示感谢，因为他为官兵们准备了丰盛得令人难以置信的午餐，让大伙狼吞虎咽地猛吃了一个下午。而且，他还弄来了大批没启封的廉价威士忌赏赐给众人，毫不吝惜地把它们递给每一个要酒喝的人。天还没黑，面色苍白的年轻士兵就四处呕吐起来，横七竖八地醉倒了一地。空气变得臭哄哄的。过了一阵子，另外一些人又来了精神，漫无目的、肆意妄为的庆祝活动又继续下去了。从树林到军官俱乐部，到处是粗鄙、狂野的滥饮和纵情狂欢，闹哄哄的场面一直延伸到医院和高射炮阵地外面的山上。中队里有人动手打了起来，还有一个人被刀刺伤了。在情报室的帐篷里，科洛尼下士玩一枝子弹上了膛的手枪时走了火，打穿了自己的腿。他仰面躺在飞驰的救护车里，鲜血一个劲地从伤口往外喷，牙龈和脚趾上都涂着紫药水。那些割破了手指头、打破了脑袋、扭伤了脚脖子和吃得胃痉挛的家伙，一个个后悔不迭地一腐一拐地走进了医务室的帐篷。
　　格斯和韦斯往他们的牙龈和脚趾头上涂点紫药水，又发给他们一些轻泻剂。他们一出帐篷，就把轻泻剂扔到灌木丛里去了。欢乐的庆祝活动一直进行到深夜。夜晚的寂静一再被兴高采烈的狂呼乱喊以及快活或者伤心的军人们的叫声打破。呕吐、呻吟、欢笑、问候、威胁、诅咒，各种声音此起彼伏，时不时还会传来往岩石上摔瓶子的声音。远处有人唱着下流的小调。这个场面比除夕夜还要乱七八糟。
　　约塞连怕出事，早早地上了床睡觉。不一会，他就梦见自己连滚带爬地顺着无穷无尽的木制楼梯往下逃，一路上脚后跟磕磕碰碰，带出一阵嘈杂的咔哒咔哒声。后来，他有几分醒了，意识到这是有人用机关枪向他扫射。他痛苦而恐惧地从喉咙眼里发出一声呜咽，脑子里闪过的第一个念头就是米洛又来袭击中队营地了。他急忙翻身从行军床上滚到地下，钻到床底缩成一团，哆哆嗦嗦地祈求上帝保佑，他的心咚咚直跳，浑身直冒冷汗。可是，天上并没有飞机的轰鸣声，远处却响起了醉鬼快活的笑声。“新年好，新年好！”一个熟悉的声音夹杂在阵阵短促刺耳的机关枪射击声中间，得意洋洋、兴高采烈地高声叫喊着，约塞连明白了，这是有人恶作剧地跑到沙包掩体里打机关枪玩。米洛袭击中队营地后，在山上设置了这些沙包掩体，并在里面配备了他自己的人。
　　约塞连这才意识到自己成了这场冒冒失失的恶作剧的受害者。想到自己被害得睡不好觉，还差点给吓成了呜呜咽咽的白痴，他恨得咬牙切齿，不禁火冒三丈。他真想杀掉他们中的一个解解恨。他从来也没有发过这么大的火，甚至当他卡住麦克沃特的脖子要掐死他时也没有眼下这么愤怒。机关枪又开火了。“新年好！”的叫喊声和幸灾乐祸的笑声从山上飘落下来，听起来就像女巫得意洋洋的狞笑。约塞连伸手抓过他那把零点四五口径的手枪，穿着软拖鞋和工作服冲出帐篷去报仇。他装上一梭子子弹，拉动枪栓，把子弹顶上膛，随后打开保险，准备射击。
　　机关枪又从汽车调度场背后一座黑乎乎的小山丘上升起火来，桔红色的曳光弹就像低空俯冲的飞机那样，贴着这片黑乎乎的帐篷顶飞掠而过，差一点削去它们的尖顶，粗野的狂笑声又一次夹杂在短促的射击声中间传了过来。约塞连内心怒火熊熊燃烧：这帮狗杂种，他们是打算要他的命了！他满脸杀气，决心跟他们拼个你死我活。他不顾一切地冲出中队营地，跑过汽车调度场，沿着弯弯曲曲的羊肠小道，脚步咚咚地朝山上跑去。内特利追了上来，诚恳而关切地叫着“约一约！约一约！”恳求约塞连停下来。他抓住约塞连的肩膀，想把他往回拖。约塞连扭身挣脱了他。他又伸出手来想抓住约塞连，约塞连骂了他一声，握紧拳头使足了力气对准内特利那张稚嫩的脸猛击过去。他收回胳膊想再给他一拳，可内特利已经哼了一声倒下去了。他蜷缩着身子躺在地上，双手捂着脸，鲜血从指缝中流了出来。约塞连转过身，头也不回地沿着小道往山上冲去。
　　不一会，他就看到了那挺机关枪。那两个人影听到他的脚步声立刻跳了起来。不等他跑到跟前，他们便嘲弄地大笑着逃到夜幕里去了。他到得太晚了，他们的脚步声渐渐消逝，只留下一圈空无一人的沙包掩体静悄悄地躺在冷清的月光下，他垂头丧气地四下里打量着。远处又传来嘲弄的笑声，附近一根树枝啪的一声折断了。
　　约塞连不由得一阵惊喜，赶忙跪下瞄准。他听到沙包另一侧隐隐约的地传来树叶的沙沙声，立刻往那边打了两枪。随即有人朝他还击，他听出了是谁开的枪。
　　“是邓巴吗？”他喊道。
　　“是约塞连吗？”
　　两个人从各自的隐蔽处走了出来，疲倦而失望地拖着枪互相迎上前去，他们在中间的空地上相会了。方才往山坡上的那阵猛冲累得他们俩呼哧呼哧地直喘气，这会儿给寒气一吹，两个人不禁微微打起寒战来。
　　“狗杂种，”约塞连说，“他们逃走了。”
　　“他们害得我要少活十年，”邓巴叫道，“我还以为是米洛那个狗娘养的又来轰炸我们了呢。我从来也没有这么害怕过。我真想知道这些狗杂种是谁。”
　　“有一个是奈特中士。”
　　“我们去杀了他。”邓巴的牙齿在格格打战。“他没有权利这么吓唬我们。”
　　约塞连已经不再想杀人了。“我们先去救内特利吧。刚才在山脚下我怕是把他打伤了。”
　　但是，虽然约塞连顺着石头上的血迹找到了内特利倒下的地方，小道上却哪儿也没有他的身影。他也没在帐篷里。他们到处都找不到他。直到第二天早上，他们才得知内特利头天晚上因鼻梁骨被打断而被送进了医院。他们装作病人住进了医院。当他们穿着拖鞋和睡衣，跟着克拉默护士走进病房，来到指定的病床前时，内特利吃了一惊，随即笑了起来。内特利的鼻梁上贴着一块沉甸甸的石膏，双眼青紫青紫的。约塞连走过去为打他一事向他道歉时，他窘得满脸通红，一再说自己也很抱歉。约塞连心里很不是滋味；他几乎不忍心看内特利那被他打得不成形的脸，尽管内特利的那副模样非常滑稽，逗得他直想放声大笑。看到他们俩这种悲悲切切的样子，邓巴在一旁直感到恶心。后来，亨格利•乔背着他那架结构复杂的黑色照相机出人意料地闯了进来，这才给他们三个解了围。
　　为了接近约塞连，替他拍几张抚摸达克特护士时的照片，亨格利•乔装成阑尾炎患者住进了医院。可是，他和约塞连一样，很快就失望了。达克特护士已经决定嫁给一个医生——哪个医生都行，因为他们干起本职工作来都很棒——所以在那个将来某一天可能成为她丈夫的人看得见的地方，她是不愿意干那种事的。亨格利•乔又愤怒又沮丧，直到牧师——偏偏是牧师！——被领了进来。牧师穿着一件栗色灯芯绒浴衣，喜气洋洋地笑着，满脸掩饰不住的得意神情，就像一座小小的灯塔那样闪闪发光。他是因为心口痛来住院的，医生们却认为他是胃胀气并染上了晚期威斯康星疱疹。
　　“到底什么是威斯康星疱疹？”约塞连问。
　　“这正是医生们想知道的！”牧师自豪地脱口说道，接着便哈哈大笑起来。以前还没有人见过他这么滑稽，这么开心。“世上根本就没有威斯康星疱疹这种病，难道你不明白吗？是我编出来的，我跟医生们做了笔交易。我答应他们，只要他们答应不采取任何治疗措施，等我的威斯康星疱疹消失时，我就会告诉他们的。我以前从来没说过谎。这不是妙极了吗？”
　　牧师犯下了罪孽，这可真不错。常识告诉他，撒谎和擅离职守是罪孽。而且，人人都知道，罪孽是邪恶的，邪恶是没有好结果的。
　　可是，他却感觉良好，他甚至觉得飘飘然。因此，他顺理成章地断定，撒谎和擅离职守不是罪孽。凭借着转瞬即逝的天赐直觉，牧师一下子掌握住了这种自我开脱的最方便的推理法。他为自己的这一成就而振奋不已。这真是奇妙至极。他认识到，用这种推理法可以轻而易举地把恶习说成美德，把谣言说成真理，把阳痿说成禁欲，把傲慢说成谦卑，把掠夺说成行善，把贼赃说成荣誉，把亵渎神灵说成明智之举，把野蛮暴行说成爱国行为，把淫威说成正义。任何人都能做到这一点，这根本不需要开动脑筋，也不需要什么个性。牧师饶有兴致地把各种各样违反习俗的不道德行为在脑子里匆匆过了一遍，而此时内特利正被自己那群疯子似的伙伴团团围在中央。他端坐在床上，又惊又喜，满脸通红。他很得意，也很担心，过一会肯定会有一位正言厉色的军官出现在他们面前，像赶流浪汉似的把他们这一群人全轰出去。然而，没有谁来打搅他们。到了晚上，他们成群结伙兴高采烈地跑出去看了一部蹩脚的、场面华丽的好莱坞彩色影片。当他们看完电影成群结伙兴高采烈地回到病房时，那个白色士兵已经在那儿了。邓巴尖叫一声，当时就给吓垮了。
　　“他回来了！”邓巴尖叫道，“他回来了！他回来了！”
　　约塞连一下子呆住了。邓巴惊恐的尖叫声吓得他浑身瘫软，更叫他毛骨悚然的是他又看见了那个他十分熟悉的从头顶到脚趾都裹着石膏、缠着绷带的白色士兵。他不由自主地从喉咙眼里发出一阵古怪的颤音。
　　“他回来了！”邓巴又尖叫起来。
　　“他回来了！”一个正在发高烧说胡话的病人也下意识地跟着叫了起来。
　　病房里登时大乱，简直成了疯人院。一群群的伤病员在走道里东跳西窜，语无伦次地狂呼乱叫，就好像楼里着了火似的。一个只有一只脚的伤员拄着拐杖蹦来蹦去，惊恐万状地到处大声问：“出了什么事？出了什么事？我们这儿失火了吗？我们这儿失火了吗？”
　　“他回来了！”有人对他喊道，“你难道没听见吗？他回来了，他回来了！”
　　“谁回来了？”另一个人叫道，“他是谁？”
　　“这是什么意思，我们该怎么办？”
　　“我们这儿失火了吗？”
　　“快起来逃命吧，真见鬼！大家快起来逃命吧！”
　　于是所有的人都跳下床，来来回回地从病房的一头往另一头跑。一个刑事调查部的人跳起来找手枪要去打另一个刑事调查部的人，因为那人的胳膊肘碰了他的眼睛，病房里乱作一团。那个发高烧说胡话的病人蹦到走道中间，差点把那个只有一只脚的伤员撞倒：后者一不小心把拐杖的黑色橡皮头拄到了对方的光脚上，压破了他好几个脚趾头，痛得他一屁股坐到地上，哭喊起来。那些痛苦万状的人惊慌失措地四处乱窜着，不顾一切地在他身上踩来踩去，又踩伤了他更多的地方。“他回来了！”人们一边来回跑着一边反反复复地咕哝着这句话，念叨着这句话，或者干脆歇斯底里地喊着这句话。“他回来了！他回来了！”克拉默护士突然出现在人群中间。她像个警察似的转来转去，竭力想恢复秩序，可是却无能为力，急得她掉下眼泪来。“静一静，请静一静。”她一边粗声粗气地抽泣着，一边徒劳地恳求着人们。牧师的脸色苍白得像个鬼魂，他并不明白出了什么事。内特利也不明白。他身体贴着约塞连站着，紧紧抓住他的胳膊肘。亨格利•乔也是一样。他握紧瘦骨鳞峋的拳头，疑惑不解地跟在约塞连后面，东瞧瞧西望望，满脸惧色。
　　“喂，出了什么事？”亨格利•乔恳求地问，“到底出了什么事？”
　　“还是那个人！”邓巴提高嗓门对他说。他的声音明显地盖过了周围的喧哗。“你难道不明白吗？还是那个人。”
　　“是那个人！”约塞连不自觉地附和了一声。他内心涌起一阵不祥的预感，激动得不能自持，不禁打起哆嗦来。他跟在邓巴后面，挤出一条路走到那个白色士兵的床前。
　　“别紧张，伙计们，”那个小个子得克萨斯爱国主义者友善地劝说道。他的脸上浮现出令人难以捉摸的微笑。“没有必要这么惊慌失措。为什么我们不能放松一点？”
　　“是那个人！”其他人又开始咕哝着，念叨着，喊叫着。
　　突然，达克特护士也到了床前。“出了什么事？”她问道。
　　“他回来了！”克拉默护士尖叫着扑到她的怀里。“他回来了，回来了！”
　　是的，的确是那个人。他矮了几英寸，体重却增加了。他那两只僵硬的胳膊和两条僵硬、丝毫不起作用的粗腿被绷得紧紧的吊索几乎垂直地拉向上空，吊索的另一端是从他身体上方的滑轮上悬垂下来的长长的铅块。他的嘴上缠着绷带，绷带中间有个边沿破损的黑洞。约塞连一看到这些，马上就记起他来了。事实上，他几乎一点都没有变样。一根与原来一模一样的锌管从他腹股沟上面那块坚硬的石膏中伸出来，一直引到地上一个与原来一模一样的透明玻璃瓶子里。另外一个与原来一模一样的透明玻璃瓶子挂在一根竹杆上，里面的液体通过他胳膊弯上的绷带处滴入他的体内。
　　约塞连走到哪儿也认得他。他很想知道这个人到底是谁。
　　“里面没有人！”邓巴突然冲他叫起来。
　　约塞连感到自己的心脏猛然停止了跳动，双腿直发软。“你在说什么呀？”他畏惧地大声问。邓巴眼里闪动着的焦虑苦恼的神态以及他那惊恐狂乱的表情把约塞连吓得晕头转向。“你是疯了还是怎么了？你究竟是什么意思，里面没有人？”
　　“他们把他偷走了！”邓巴大叫着答道，“他里面是空的，就像空心巧克力玩具兵棒糖。他们就这么把他弄走了，只留下这些绷带。”
　　“他们为什么要做这件事？”
　　“他们为什么要做任何一件事？”
　　“他们把他偷走了！”另一个人尖叫起来，于是病房里所有的人都跟着尖叫起来。“他们把他偷走了，他们把他偷走了！”
　　“回到你们的床上去吧。”达克特护士轻轻推着约塞连的胸脯，一个劲地央求邓巴和约塞连。“请回到你们的床上去吧。”
　　“你疯了！”约塞连生气地对邓巴喊道，“你究竟为什么要这么说？”
　　“有人看见过他吗？”邓巴情绪激动地嘲笑着质问道。
　　“你看见过他，对吗？”约塞连对达克特护士说，“告诉邓巴里面有人。”
　　“施穆尔克上尉在里面，”达克特护士说，“他全身都烧伤了。”
　　“她看见过他吗？”
　　“你看见过他，对吗？”
　　“给他包扎的医生看见过他。”
　　“把那医生叫来，行吗？是哪个医生？”
　　这个问题把达克特护士吓得透不过气来。“那医生根本不在这儿！”她叫道，“这伤员从野战医院转送过来时就是这个样子。”
　　“你明白了吗？”克拉默护士大声叫道，“那里面没有人。”
　　“那里面没有人！”亨格利•乔一边嚷着，一边在地板上跺开了脚。
　　邓巴推开众人，发疯似地跳到那个浑身洁白的士兵身上，想亲眼看个究竟。他忽闪着眼睛，凑上去紧贴着白色绷带躯壳上那个边沿破损的黑洞急切地往里看。就在他正弯着腰，瞪起一只眼往白色士兵那既无光亮也无气息的空洞洞的嘴里盯着时，医生们和宪兵们急匆匆跑过来，帮着约塞连把他拉开了。那些医生腰间全都别着手枪，卫兵们则端着卡宾枪和步枪。他们推推搡搡地把嘀嘀咕咕的病员全都赶开了。一副有轮子的担架推到了床前，白色士兵被巧妙地抬到担架上，一转眼就给推走了。医生们和宪兵们在病房里转了一圈，告诉大家只管放心，一切都很正常。
　　达克特护士拉了拉约塞连的胳膊，悄声地约他在走廊里放扫帚的小屋里见面。听到这句话，约塞连非常高兴。他还以为达克特护士终于又想跟他做爱了呢。他们两个一走进那间小屋，他就伸手往上撩她的裙子，可她却把他推开了。她说她有关于邓巴的紧急消息。
　　“他们打算失踪他，”她说。
　　约塞连莫名其妙地斜眼瞅着她。“他们要干什么？”他不自然池笑着，惊奇地问道，“你这话是什么意思？”
　　“我不知道。我在门外听见他们说这件事。”
　　“谁？”
　　“我不知道。我看不见他们，我只听见他们说他们打算失踪邓巴。”
　　“他们为什么打算失踪他？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“这话真是莫名其妙，甚至从语法上都说不通。他们打算失踪什么人，这到底是什么意思？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“天哪，你可真是个好帮手！”
　　“你为什么要拿我出气？”达克特护士感到自己的感情受到了伤害，抽抽搭搭地抗议着。“我不过是想帮帮忙。他们打算失踪他，这又不是我的错，对不对？我真不应该告诉你。”
　　约塞连把她搂到怀里，温存地、满怀歉意地拥抱着她。“很对不起，”他道歉说。他彬彬有礼地吻了吻她的面颊，便匆匆忙忙地跑出去提醒邓巴当心，可是到处都找不到他了。
Chapter 35 Milo The Militant
    For the first time in his life, Yossarian prayed. He got down on his knees and prayed to Nately not to volunteer tofly more than seventy missions after Chief White Halfoat did die of pneumonia in the hospital and Nately hadapplied for his job. But Nately just wouldn’t listen.
　　“I’ve got to fly more missions,” Nately insisted lamely with a crooked smile. “Otherwise they’ll send me home.”
　　“So?”
　　“I don’t want to go home until I can take her back with me.”
　　“She means that much to you?”
　　Nately nodded dejectedly. “I might never see her again.”
　　“Then get yourself grounded,” Yossarian urged. “You’ve finished your missions and you don’t need the flightpay. Why don’t you ask for Chief White Halfoat’s job, if you can stand working for Captain Black?”
　　Nately shook his head, his cheeks darkening with shy and regretful mortification. “They won’t give it to me. Ispoke to Colonel Korn, and he told me I’d have to fly more missions or be sent home.”
　　Yossarian cursed savagely. “That’s just plain meanness.”
　　“I don’t mind, I guess. I’ve flown seventy missions without getting hurt. I guess I can fly a few more.”
　　“Don’t do anything at all about it until I talk to someone,” Yossarian decided, and went looking for help fromMilo, who went immediately afterward to Colonel Cathcart for help in having himself assigned to more combatmissions.
　　Milo had been earning many distinctions for himself. He had flown fearlessly into danger and criticism byselling petroleum and ball bearings to Germany at good prices in order to make a good profit and help maintain abalance of power between the contending forces. His nerve under fire was graceful and infinite. With a devotionto purpose above and beyond the line of duty, he had then raised the price of food in his mess halls so high thatall officers and enlisted men had to turn over all their pay to him in order to eat. Their alternative—there was analternative, of course, since Milo detested coercion and was a vocal champion of freedom of choice—was tostarve. When he encountered a wave of enemy resistance to this attack, he stuck to his position without regardfor his safety or reputation and gallantly invoked the law of supply and demand. And when someone somewheresaid no, Milo gave ground grudgingly, valiantly defending, even in retreat, the historic right of free men to pay asmuch as they had to for the things they needed in order to survive.
　　Milo had been caught red-handed in the act of plundering his countrymen, and, as a result, his stock had neverbeen higher. He proved good as his word when a rawboned major from Minnesota curled his lip in rebelliousdisavowal and demanded his share of the syndicate Milo kept saying everybody owned. Milo met the challengeby writing the words “A Share” on the nearest scrap of paper and handing it away with a virtuous disdain thatwon the envy and admiration of almost everyone who knew him. His glory was at a peak, and Colonel Cathcart,who knew and admired his war record, was astonished by the deferential humility with which Milo presentedhimself at Group Headquarters and made his fantastic appeal for more hazardous assignments.
　　“You want to fly more combat missions?” Colonel Cathcart gasped. “What in the world for?”
　　Milo answered in a demure voice with his face lowered meekly. “I want to do my duty, sir. The country is atwar, and I want to fight to defend it like the rest of the fellows.”
　　“But, Milo, you are doing your duty,” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with a laugh that thundered jovially. “I can’tthink of a single person who’s done more for the men than you have. Who gave them chocolate-covered cotton?”
　　Milo shook his head slowly and sadly. “But being a good mess officer in wartime just isn’t enough, ColonelCathcart.”
　　“Certainly it is, Milo. I don’t know what’s come over you.”
　　“Certainly it isn’t, Colonel,” Milo disagreed in a somewhat firm tone, raising his subservient eyes significantlyjust far enough to arrest Colonel Cathcart’s. “Some of the men are beginning to talk.”
　　“Oh, is that it? Give me their names, Milo. Give me their names and I’ll see to it that they go on every dangerousmission the group flies.”
　　“No, Colonel, I’m afraid they’re right,” Milo said, with his head drooping again. “I was sent overseas as a pilot,and I should be flying more combat missions and spending less time on my duties as a mess officer.”
　　Colonel Cathcart was surprised but co-operative. “Well, Milo, if you really feel that way, I’m sure we can makewhatever arrangements you want. How long have you been overseas now?”
　　“Eleven months, sir.”
　　“And how many missions have you flown?”
　　“Five.”
　　“Five?” asked Colonel Cathcart.
　　“Five, sir.”
　　“Five, eh?” Colonel Cathcart rubbed his cheek pensively. “That isn’t very good, is it?”
　　“Isn’t it?” asked Milo in a sharply edged voice, glancing up again.
　　Colonel Cathcart quailed. “On the contrary, that’s very good, Milo,” he corrected himself hastily. “It isn’t bad atall.”
　　“No, Colonel,” Milo said, with a long, languishing, wistful sigh, “it isn’t very good. Although it’s very generousof you to say so.”
　　“But it’s really not bad, Milo. Not bad at all, when you consider all your other valuable contributions. Fivemissions, you say? Just five?”
　　“Just five, sir.”
　　“Just five.” Colonel Cathcart grew awfully depressed for a moment as he wondered what Milo was reallythinking, and whether he had already got a black eye with him. “Five is very good, Milo,” he observed withenthusiasm, spying a ray of hope. “That averages out to almost one combat mission every two months. And I’llbet your total doesn’t include the time you bombed us.”
　　“Yes, sir. It does.”
　　“It does?” inquired Colonel Cathcart with mild wonder. “You didn’t actually fly along on that mission, did you?
　　If I remember correctly, you were in the control tower with me, weren’t you?”
　　“But it was my mission,” Milo contended. “I organized it, and we used my planes and supplies. I planned andsupervised the whole thing.”
　　“Oh, certainly, Milo, certainly. I’m not disputing you. I’m only checking the figures to make sure you’reclaiming all you’re entitled to. Did you also include the time we contracted with you to bomb the bridge atOrvieto?”
　　“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t think I should, since I was in Orvieto at the time directing the antiaircraft fire.”
　　“I don’t see what difference that makes, Milo. It was still your mission. And a damned good one, too, I must say.
　　We didn’t get the bridge, but we did have a beautiful bomb pattern. I remember General Peckem commenting onit. No, Milo, I insist you count Orvieto as a mission, too.”
　　“If you insist, sir.”
　　“I do insist, Milo. Now, let’s see—you now have a grand total of six missions, which is damned good, Milo,damned good, really. Six missions is an increase of twenty per cent in just a couple of minutes, which is not badat all, Milo, not bad at all.”
　　“Many of the other men have seventy missions,” Milo pointed out.
　　“But they never produced any chocolate-covered cotton, did they? Milo, you’re doing more than your share.”
　　“But they’re getting all the fame and opportunity,” Milo persisted with a petulance that bordered on sniveling.
　　“Sir, I want to get in there and fight like the rest of the fellows. That’s what I’m here for. I want to win medals,too.”
　　“Yes, Milo, of course. We all want to spend more time in combat. But people like you and me serve in differentways. Look at my own record,” Colonel Cathcart uttered a deprecatory laugh. “I’ll bet it’s not generally known,Milo, that I myself have flown only four missions, is it?”
　　“No, sir,” Milo replied. “It’s generally known that you’ve flown only two missions. And that one of thoseoccurred when Aarfy accidentally flew you over enemy territory while navigating you to Naples for a black-market water cooler.”
　　Colonel Cathcart, flushing with embarrassment, abandoned all further argument. “All right, Milo. I can’t praiseyou enough for what you want to do. If it really means so much to you, I’ll have Major Major assign you to thenext sixty-four missions so that you can have seventy, too.”
　　“Thank you, Colonel, thank you, sir. You don’t know what this means.”
　　“Don’t mention it, Milo. I know exactly what it means.”
　　“No, Colonel, I don’t think you do know what it means,” Milo disagreed pointedly. “Someone will have to beginrunning the syndicate for me right away. It’s very complicated, and I might get shot down at any time.”
　　Colonel Cathcart brightened instantly at the thought and began rubbing his hands with avaricious zest. “Youknow, Milo, I think Colonel Korn and I might be willing to take the syndicate off your hands,” he suggested inan offhand manner, almost licking his lips in savory anticipation. “Our experience in black-market plumtomatoes should come in very useful. Where do we begin?”
　　Milo watched Colonel Cathcart steadily with a bland and guileless expression. “Thank you, sir, that’s very goodof you. Begin with a salt-free diet for General Peckem and a fat-free diet for General Dreedle.”
　　“Let me get a pencil. What’s next?”
　　“The cedars.”
　　“Cedars?”
　　“From Lebanon.”
　　“Lebanon?”
　　“We’ve got cedars from Lebanon due at the sawmill in Oslo to be turned into shingles for the builder in CapeCod. C.O.D. And then there’s the peas.”
　　“Peas?”
　　“That are on the high seas. We’ve got boatloads of peas that are on the high seas from Atlanta to Holland to payfor the tulips that were shipped to Geneva to pay for the cheeses that must go to Vienna M.I.F.”
　　“M.I.F.?”
　　“Money in Front. The Hapsburgs are shaky.”
　　“Milo.”
　　“And don’t forget the galvanized zinc in the warehouse at Flint. Four carloads of galvanized zinc from Flint mustbe flown to the smelters in Damascus by noon of the eighteenth, terms F.O.B. Calcutta two per cent ten daysE.O.M. One Messerschmitt full of hemp is due in Belgrade for a C-47 and a half full of those semi-pitted dateswe stuck them with from Khartoum. Use the money from the Portuguese anchovies we’re selling back to Lisbonto pay for the Egyptian cotton we’ve got coming back to us from Mamaroneck and to pick up as many oranges asyou can in Spain. Always pay cash for naranjas.”
　　“Naranjas?”
　　“That’s what they call oranges in Spain, and these are Spanish oranges. And—oh, yes. Don’t forget PiltdownMan.”
　　“Piltdown Man?”
　　“Yes, Piltdown Man. The Smithsonian Institution is not in a position at this time to meet our price for a secondPiltdown Man, but they are looking forward to the death of a wealthy and beloved donor and—““Milo.”
　　“France wants all the parsley we can send them, and I think we might as well, because we’ll need the francs forthe lire for the pfennigs for the dates when they get back. I’ve also ordered a tremendous shipment of Peruvianbalsa wood for distribution to each of the mess halls in the syndicate on a pro rata basis.”
　　“Balsa wood? What are the mess halls going to do with balsa wood?”
　　“Good balsa wood isn’t so easy to come by these days, Colonel. I just didn’t think it was a good idea to pass up the chance to buy it.”
　　“No, I suppose not,” Colonel Cathcart surmised vaguely with the look of somebody seasick. “And I assume theprice was right.”
　　“The price,” said Milo, “was outrageous—positively exorbitant! But since we bought it from one of our ownsubsidiaries, we were happy to pay it. Look after the hides.”
　　“The hives?”
　　“The hides.”
　　“The hides?”
　　“The hides. In Buenos Aires. They have to be tanned.”
　　“Tanned?”
　　“In Newfoundland. And shipped to Helsinki N.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins. Everything to Finland goesN.M.I.F. before the spring thaw begins.”
　　“No Money in Front?” guessed Colonel Cathcart.
　　“Good, Colonel. You have a gift, sir. And then there’s the cork.”
　　“The cork?”
　　“That must go to New York, the shoes for Toulouse, the ham for Siam, the nails from Wales, and the tangerinesfor New Orleans.”
　　“Milo.”
　　“We have coals in Newcastle, sir.”
　　Colonel Cathcart threw up his hands. “Milo, stop!” he cried, almost in tears. “It’s no use. You’re just like I am—indispensable!” He pushed his pencil aside and rose to his feet in frantic exasperation. “Milo, you can’t fly sixty-four more missions. You can’t even fly one more mission. The whole system would fall apart if anythinghappened to you.”
　　Milo nodded serenely with complacent gratification. “Sir, are you forbidding me to fly any more combatmissions?”
　　“Milo, I forbid you to fly any more combat missions,” Colonel Cathcart declared in a tone of stern and inflexible authority.
　　“But that’s not fair, sir,” said Milo. “What about my record? The other men are getting all the fame and medalsand publicity. Why should I be penalized just because I’m doing such a good job as mess officer?”
　　“No, Milo, it isn’t fair. But I don’t see anything we can do about it.”
　　“Maybe we can get someone else to fly my missions for me.”
　　“But maybe we can get someone else to fly your missions for you,” Colonel Cathcart suggested. “How about thestriking coal miners in Pennsylvania and West Virginia?”
　　Milo shook his head. “It would take too long to train them. But why not the men in the squadron, sir? After all,I’m doing this for them. They ought to be willing to do something for me in return.”
　　“But why not the men in the squadron, Milo?” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed. “After all, you’re doing all this forthem. They ought to be willing to do something for you in return.”
　　“What’s fair is fair.”
　　“What’s fair is fair.”
　　“They could take turns, sir.”
　　“They might even take turns flying your missions for you, Milo.”
　　“Who gets the credit?”
　　“You get the credit, Milo. And if a man wins a medal flying one of your missions, you get the medal.”
　　“Who dies if he gets killed?”
　　“Why, he dies, of course. After all, Milo, what’s fair is fair. There’s just one thing.”
　　“You’ll have to raise the number of missions.”
　　“I might have to raise the number of missions again, and I’m not sure the men will fly them. They’re still prettysore because I jumped them to seventy. If I can get just one of the regular officers to fly more, the rest willprobably follow.”
　　“Nately will fly more missions, sir,” Milo said. “I was told in strictest confidence just a little while ago that he’lldo anything he has to in order to remain overseas with a girl he’s fallen in love with.”
　　“But Nately will fly more!” Colonel Cathcart declared, and he brought his hands together in a resounding clap ofvictory. “Yes, Nately will fly more. And this time I’m really going to jump the missions, right up to eighty, andreally knock General Dreedle’s eye out. And this is a good way to get that lousy rat Yossarian back into combatwhere he might get killed.”
　　“Yossarian?” A tremor of deep concern passed over Milo’s simple, homespun features, and he scratched thecorner of his reddish-brown mustache thoughtfully.
　　“Yeah, Yossarian. I hear he’s going around saying that he’s finished his missions and the war’s over for him.
　　Well, maybe he has finished his missions. But he hasn’t finished your missions, has he? Ha! Ha! Has he got asurprise coming to him!”
　　“Sir, Yossarian is a friend of mine,” Milo objected. “I’d hate to be responsible for doing anything that would puthim back in combat. I owe a lot to Yossarian. Isn’t there any way we could make an exception of him?”
　　“Oh, no, Milo.” Colonel Cathcart clucked sententiously, shocked by the suggestion. “We must never playfavorites. We must always treat every man alike.”
　　“I’d give everything I own to Yossarian,” Milo persevered gamely on Yossarian’s behalf. “But since I don’t ownanything, I can’t give everything to him, can I? So he’ll just have to take his chances with the rest of the men,won’t he?”
　　“What’s fair is fair, Milo.”
　　“Yes, sir, what’s fair is fair,” Milo agreed. “Yossarian is no better than the other men, and he has no right toexpect any special privileges, has he?”
　　“No, Milo. What’s fair is fair.”
　　And there was no time for Yossarian to save himself from combat once Colonel Cathcart issued hisannouncement raising the missions to eighty late that same afternoon, no time to dissuade Nately from flyingthem or even to conspire again with Dobbs to murder Colonel Cathcart, for the alert sounded suddenly at dawnthe next day and the men were rushed into the trucks before a decent breakfast could be prepared, and they weredriven at top speed to the briefing room and then out to the airfield, where the clitterclattering fuel trucks werestill pumping gasoline into the tanks of the planes and the scampering crews of armorers were toiling as swiftlyas they could at hoisting the thousand-pound demolition bombs into the bomb bays. Everybody was running, andengines were turned on and warmed up as soon as the fuel trucks had finished.
　　Intelligence had reported that a disabled Italian cruiser in drydock at La Spezia would be towed by the Germansthat same morning to a channel at the entrance of the harbor and scuttled there to deprive the Allied armies ofdeep-water port facilities when they captured the city. For once, a military intelligence report proved accurate.
　　The long vessel was halfway across the harbor when they flew in from the west, and broke it apart with directhits from every flight that filled them all with waves of enormously satisfying group pride until they found themselves engulfed in great barrages of flak that rose from guns in every bend of the huge horseshoe ofmountainous land below. Even Havermeyer resorted to the wildest evasive action he could command when hesaw what a vast distance he had still to travel to escape, and Dobbs, at the pilot’s controls in his formation,zigged when he should have zagged, skidding his plane into the plane alongside, and chewed off its tail. Hiswing broke off at the base, and his plane dropped like a rock and was almost out of sight in an instant. There wasno fire, no smoke, not the slightest untoward noise. The remaining wing revolved as ponderously as a grindingcement mixer as the plane plummeted nose downward in a straight line at accelerating speed until it struck thewater, which foamed open at the impact like a white water lily on the dark-blue sea, and washed back in a geyserof apple-green bubbles when the plane sank. It was over in a matter of seconds. There were no parachutes. AndNately, in the other plane, was killed too.
 35、勇敢的米洛
　　约塞连平生头一遭下跪求人了。他双膝跪在内特利面前，求他不要主动要求执行七十次以上的战斗飞行任务，可内特利怎么也不肯听他的话。一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特果然在医院里死于肺炎，内特利己经申请接替他去完成飞行任务。
　　“我非得多飞几次不可，”内特利强词夺理地坚持道，脸上浮现出一丝狡诈的微笑。“不然他们就要送我回国了。”
　　“那又怎么样？”
　　“只有当我能带她跟我一块回去时，我才会愿意回国。”
　　“她对你就这么重要吗？”
　　内特利沮丧地点点头，“我也许永远见不到她了。”
　　“那你就停飞，”约塞连怂恿道，“你已经完成了你的飞行任务，你又不需要飞行津贴。如果替布莱克上尉干活你都能受得了的话，你又何必申请接替一级准尉怀特•哈尔福特的职务呢？”
　　内特利摇了摇头。他又是害臊又是悔恨，脸色沉了下来。“他们不会让我停飞的。我找科思中校谈过，他告诉我说，要么多飞几次，要么送我回国。”
　　约塞连粗野地骂了一句。“这简直卑鄙到了极点。”
　　“我觉得我不在乎。我已经飞了七十次了，还没受过伤呢。我想我还能够再多飞几次。”
　　“在我找人谈谈之前，你什么事都不要干。”约塞连拿定了主意，便去找米洛帮忙。米洛随即向卡思卡特上校请求帮助，要求分配给他更多的战斗任务。
　　米洛一直在为自己赢得一项又一项的荣誉，他曾经无所畏惧地冒着危险和责难，以很好的价钱把石油和滚珠轴承卖给德国，不仅赚了一大笔钱，而且还帮着维持住了交战双方的力量均势。他在炮火下谈笑风生，沉着镇定。为了全力以赴做本职以外的工作，他拼命抬高食堂的伙食价格，弄得全体官兵为了填饱肚子不得不拿出全部薪水支付给他。他们的另一个选择——当然，是有另一个选择的，因为米洛不喜欢强迫别人，言谈之中一向主张自由选择——
　　就是挨饿。当他的提价攻势遭到敌对势力的抵制时，他坚守阵地寸步不让，丝毫没有顾忌到自身的安危和名声，并且果敢地援引供求法则作为自卫武器。当有的地方有人说不行时，他会勉勉强强地退却，但即使在撤退当中，也敢于扞卫自由人所具有的历史性的权利，即为了获得维持生命的必需品，人们必须付出他们应付的钱款。
　　米洛掠夺自己的同胞时，曾经被当场抓获过。作为这种掠夺的结果，他的股份总额到达了前所未有的高度。他说话一向算数。有一回，一个来自明尼苏达州的骨瘦如柴的少校撇着嘴唇向米洛发难，要求退出联营机构，抽回自己的那份股金，因为米洛口口声声说每个人在联营机构里都有股份。面对他的挑战，米洛顺手拿起手边的一张纸条，在上面写上“一股”两个字，鄙夷地递了过去，从而赢得了几乎所有认识他的人的羡慕和钦佩。米洛的荣耀目前正处在顶峰。对于他的战斗业绩，卡思卡特上校既清楚又敬佩，所以，当米洛来到大队部，毕恭毕敬地提出一个荒谬绝伦的请求，要求给他分派更多的危险任务时，卡思卡特上校不禁大吃一惊。
　　“你想多执行几次战斗任务吗？”卡思卡特上校气呼呼地问，“这究竟是为了什么？”
　　米洛恭顺地低下头，故作拘谨地回答道：“我想尽我的一份职责，长官。我们的国家在打仗，我想和其他人一样，为保卫祖国而战斗。”
　　“可是，米洛，你正在尽你的职责呢，”卡思卡特上校快活地哈哈大笑起来。“我想不出还有哪一个人为部队做的事比你做的多。
　　是谁让他们吃上裹着巧克力的棉花糖的？”
　　米洛伤心地慢慢摇了摇头。“可是，在战时仅仅做一名优秀的司务长是不够的，卡思卡特上校。”
　　“当然是够的，米洛，我不知道你这是怎么啦？”
　　“当然是不够的，上校。”米洛颇有几分坚决地表示异议。他恰到好处地抬起充满谄媚的双眼，意味深长地与卡思卡特上校对视了一下。“有些人开始说闲话了。”
　　“噢，就为这个？把他们的名字写给我，米洛，把他们的名字写给我，每逢大队有危险的飞行任务时，我就派他们去，我会做到这一点的。”
　　“不，上校，我想他们是对的。”米洛说着又低下了头，“我是作为飞行员被派到海外来的，我应该完成更多的战斗飞行任务，而在食堂管理的工作上，我应该少花点时间。”
　　卡思卡特上校虽然很吃惊，但还是愿意帮助他。“好吧，米洛，如果你真的这样认为，我敢肯定，无论你要求什么，我们都会作出安排的。你来海外有多长时间了？”
　　“十一个月了，长官。”
　　“你执行过多少次飞行任务了？”
　　“五次。”
　　“五次？”卡思卡特上校问。
　　“五次，长官。”
　　“五次，是吗？”卡思卡特上校沉思地摸了摸自己的面颊。“这不算太好，对吗？”
　　“不算太好？”米洛用刺耳的声音反问道，同时又抬眼扫视了他一下。
　　卡思卡特上校心里一阵慌乱。“不不，相反，这非常好，米洛，”他连忙改口说道，“这确实不错。”
　　“不，上校。”米洛懒洋洋地、愁眉苦脸地长叹一声。“这不算太好，你这么说真是太宽宏大量了。”
　　“但这确实不错，米洛，的的确确不惜，想想你另外的那些宝贵贡献吧。你是说五次吗？就五次吗？”
　　“就五次，长官。”
　　“就五次。”卡思卡特上校弄不清楚米洛究竟是怎么想的，更不知道自己是不是已经被米洛给耍弄了。一时间，他变得非常沮丧。
　　“五次就非常好了，米洛。”他热情洋溢地发着议论，似乎看到了一线希望。“平均起来算，你差不多每两个月执行一次战斗飞行任务。
　　我敢说，你的飞行总次数没有把你袭击我们的那一次包括进去。”
　　“不，长官，包括进去了。”
　　“包括进去了了？”卡思卡特上校略显困惑地问，“执行那一次任务时，你实际上没有飞行，对吗？如果我没记错的话，你是和我一起呆在指挥塔台上的，不是吗？”
　　“但那是我的飞行任务，”米洛分辩道，“那是由我组织的，使用的也是我的飞机和给养，我策划并监督了执行那次任务的全过程。”
　　“噢，当然喽，米洛，当然喽。我不和你争论。我不过是在核对一下数字，以便弄清楚你是不是把你所执行的飞行任务都包括进去了，你把你跟我们签约去轰炸奥尔维那托大桥的那一次也包括进去了吗？”
　　“噢，不，长官，我认为不应当包括进去。因为当时我在奥尔维那托指挥防空炮火。”
　　“我看不出这有什么区别，米洛。这仍然是你的飞行任务，而且我必须指出，这次任务你完成得极为出色。我们没有炸掉大桥，可我们的炸弹散布面非常漂亮。我记得佩克姆将军曾经提到过这件事。不，米洛，我坚持认为你应当把轰炸奥尔维那托也算作你的一次飞行任务。”
　　“如果你坚持认为的话，好吧，长官。”
　　“我坚持认为，米洛。现在，让我们算算看——你总共执行了六次飞行任务，这真是好极了，米洛，的确好极了。就在一两分钟之内，你的飞行次数就增加了百分之二十。这确实不错，米洛，确实不错。”
　　“别的许多人已经执行了七十次飞行任务了，”米洛指出。
　　“但他们从来没有做出过裹了巧克力的棉花糖，不是吗？米洛，你的贡献已经超过你应尽的职责了。”
　　“但他们正在获得各种各样的荣誉和机会，”米洛急红了脸，坚持道，眼泪似乎马上就要掉下来了。“长官，我想参加进来，和其他人一样飞行作战。这就是我今天为什么来这儿的原因，我也想得几枚勋章。”
　　“是啊，米洛，那当然。我们都想把更多的时间花在参加战斗上，可是，像你和我这样的人，服役的方式是跟别人不同的，你看看我的记录吧。”卡思卡特上校不以为然地笑了笑，“我敢说，没有几个人知道，米洛，我本人总共只执行过四次飞行任务。没人知道吧？”
　　“没人知道，长官，”米洛回答道，“一般人只知道你仅仅执行过两次飞行任务，而且其中一次是阿费驾机送你去那不勒斯买黑市冰箱，当时你们一不当心飞进了敌人的领空。”
　　卡思卡特上校窘得面红耳赤，再也不愿意争论下去了。“好吧，米洛，对于你执行飞行任务的愿望，我是非常赞赏的。如果这对你真的这么重要的话，我会叫梅杰少校把其余的六十四次飞行任务派给你，这样你也就可以飞满七十次了。”
　　“谢谢你，上校，谢谢你，长官。你不知道这意味着什么。”
　　“别说了，米洛。这意味着什么，我知道得一清二楚。”
　　“不，上校，我认为你并不知道这意味着什么，”米洛直率地反驳说，“马上就得有个人来替我管理联营机构。这项工作非常复杂，而且，我又随时可能被击落下来。”
　　听到这话，卡思卡特上校顿时容光焕发，两只手开始贪婪地、急不可耐地搓来搓去。“你知道，米洛，我想科恩中校和我将会很愿意从你手里接管联营机构，”他不假思索地建议道，就像闻到了什么美味佳肴似的舔着嘴唇。“我们俩做红色梨形番茄黑市买卖的经验会很有帮助的。我们从哪儿开始交接呢？”
　　米洛露出一副和蔼而又直率的表情，目不转睛地望着卡思卡特上校。“谢谢你，长官，你真是太好了。我们就从佩克姆将军的无盐饮食和德里德尔将军的脱脂饮食开始吧。”
　　“让我拿支铅笔。下一项是什么？”
　　“雪松。”
　　“雪松？”
　　“来自黎巴嫩的雪松。”
　　“来自黎巴嫩的？”
　　“我们从黎巴嫩弄来雪松，打算把它们运到奥斯陆的木材加工厂去加工成木瓦，再卖给科德角的营造商。货到付款。下一项是豌豆。”
　　“豌豆？”
　　“它们在公海上呢。我们现在有好几船豌豆正从亚特兰大运往荷兰，全在公海上呢。我们要拿它们抵付山慈姑的货款。那些山慈姑已经运往日内瓦去抵付必须运往维也纳的乳酪的货款，M•I•F•。”
　　“M•I•F•？”
　　“就是货款预付。哈布斯堡王室不可靠。”
　　“米洛。”
　　“接下来是弗林特仓库里的电镀锌。不要忘记，弗林特的四卡车电镀锌必须在十八号中午以前空运到大马士革的冶炼厂，以离岸价格结算。月底前十天内，再把百分之二的电镀锌运到加尔各答去。接下来是一架满载大麻的梅塞施米特战斗机预定飞往贝尔格莱德，我们将用它们去交换装了一架半C-47型运输机的去核椰枣，这些椰枣是我们从喀土穆运过来硬塞给他们的。接下来的一项是把葡萄牙鳗鱼倒卖回里斯本，再用这钱去支付我们从马马罗内克倒卖回来的埃及棉花的货款。另一项是尽量从西班牙多弄些桔子来。Naranjas一向是用现款支付的，”“Naranjas？”
　　“他们在西班牙就是这样叫桔子的，这些都是西班牙桔子。还有——噢，对了，别忘了辟尔唐人。”
　　“辟尔唐人？”
　　“是的，辟尔唐人。美国国立博物馆眼下出不起我们开出的第二个辟尔唐人化石的价钱，他们正眼巴巴地盼着哪位富有的、受人爱戴的施主早点呜呼哀哉——”
　　“米洛。”
　　“我们能运过去多少欧芹，法国人就想收购多少，我想我们还是尽量多运，因为我们需要用法郎去兑换里拉和芬尼，以便买下被倒卖回来的椰枣。我们还订购了一大批秘鲁轻质木材，将按比例分配给联营机构下属的每一个军人食堂。”
　　“轻质木材？军人食堂要这些轻质木材干什么？”
　　“眼下这种优等轻质木材不容易搞到，上校。我认为放过这个购买机会是很不明智的。”
　　“是的，我也认为不明智，”卡思卡特上校模棱两可地附和道，脸上浮现出晕船人的神情。“我想，价钱挺公道吧。”
　　“价钱嘛，”米洛说，“说来叫人生气——实在是太贵了：但因为我们是从我们自己的一个子公司购买的，我们还是乐意付钱的。下一项是照管好兽皮。”
　　“蜂房。”
　　“兽皮。”
　　“兽皮？”
　　“兽皮。在布宜诺斯艾利斯。必须把它们制成皮革，”“制成皮革？”
　　“在纽芬兰制成皮革，然后在开春冰消雪化之前用船把它们运到赫尔辛基去，N•M•IF。开春冰消雪化之前所有运往芬兰的货物都是N•M•I•F。”
　　“货款不预付吗？”卡思卡特上校猜道。
　　“不错，上校。你有天才，长官。下一项是软木塞。”
　　“软木塞？”
　　“必须把它们运往纽约，还有要运往图卢兹的鞋子，要运往暹罗的火腿，从威尔士运来的钉子，从新奥尔良运来的柑橘。”
　　“米洛。”
　　“还有我们存放在纽卡斯尔的煤，长官。”
　　卡思卡特上校举起双手。“别说了，米洛！”他大叫道，眼泪都快要掉下来了。“说也没有用。你就和我一样——是不可缺少的！”他把铅笔推到一边，怒不可遏地站起身来”“米洛，你不能去执行那六十四次飞行任务，一次都不行。要是你出了什么事，整个系统就算全完了。”
　　米洛平静地点了点头。他感到心满意足洋洋自得。“长官，你是禁止我再去执行任何一次飞行任务咯？”
　　“米洛，我禁止你再去执行任何一次飞行任务，”卡思卡特上校用严厉的、毫无商量余地的长官口吻说道。
　　“但是，这不公平，长官，”米洛说，“我的作战记录怎么办？其他人可是正在获得荣誉、勋章和名声呢。为什么我应当吃这个亏，难道就因为我把司务长的工作干得很好吗？”
　　“是的，米洛，这是不公平。但是我想不出怎么才能解决这个问题。”
　　“也许我们可以找个人替我执行飞行任务。”
　　“对呀，也许我们可以找个人替你执行飞行任务，”卡思卡待上校建议道，“找宾夕法尼亚州或西弗吉尼亚州罢工的矿工怎么样？”
　　米洛摇摇头。“训练他们要花太多的时间，为什么不找中队里的人呢，长官？我毕竟是在为他们干这一切事情。他们应当乐意为我干点事情，作为对我的报答。”
　　“对呀，为什么不找中队里的人呢，米洛？”卡思卡特上校叫道，“不管怎么说，你是在为他们干这一切事情，他们应当乐意为你干点事情，作为对你的报答。”
　　“这才是公平交易。”
　　“这才是公平交易。”
　　“他们可以轮流干，长官。”
　　“他们可以轮流替你执行飞行任务，米洛。”
　　“功劳算在谁的帐上呢？”
　　“功劳当然算在你的帐上，米洛。如果谁在执行你的飞行任务时得了勋章，那勋章就归你。”““如果他送了命，那么死的是谁呢？”
　　“死的当然是他咯。这毕竟是公平交易嘛。这样就只剩下一件事了。”
　　“你必须增加飞行任务的次数。”
　　“也许，我必须再次增加飞行任务的次数，可我拿不准他们是不是愿意执行。就因为我把飞行次数增加到七十次，他们到现在还气得要命呢。要是我能让某一个常备军官再多飞几次，其余的人也许就会跟着飞了。”
　　“内特利愿意多执行几次飞行任务，长官，”米洛说，“刚刚有人私下里对我泄露说，为了想留在海外，跟一个他所爱的姑娘呆在一起，他什么都愿意干。”
　　“对呀，内特利愿意再多飞几次！”卡思卡特上校宣布说。他把双手往一块啪的一拍，以庆贺自己的胜利。“是的，内特利愿意多飞几次。这一回，我可真的要把飞行次数一下子增加到八十次了，这下子准把德里德尔将军的眼珠子气得鼓出来。这也是让约塞连那个下流畜生重新参战的好办法，也许这一次就送了他的命呢。”
　　“约塞连？”米洛那张单纯朴实的脸上闪过一层忧虑的阴影。他若有所思地挠了挠他那红褐色的胡子尖。
　　“是啊，是约塞连。我听说他到处宣扬他已经完成了他的飞行任务，说什么战争对他来说已经结束了。哼，也许他已经完成了他的飞行任务，可是他还没有完成你的飞行任务呢，是吧，哈！哈！这一回他可要大吃一惊啦！”
　　“长官，约塞连是我的一个朋友，”米洛反对道，“我可不愿意承担使他重新参战的罪责。我欠约塞连一大笔人情。我们有没有什么办法可以使他成为一个例外呢？”
　　“噢，不，米洛。”卡思卡特上校故作严肃地啧啧了几声。这个建议使他大为震惊。“我们绝不应该偏心眼。我们应该对所有的人一视同仁。”
　　“我倒是甘愿为约塞连献出一切的。”米洛继续固执地替约塞连说情。“可是既然我并不拥有一切，我也就没法为他献出一切，对吧？所以，他只好跟其他人一样去冒冒险了，对吗？”
　　“这才是公平交易，米洛。”
　　“是的，长官，这才是公平交易。”米洛表示同意。“约塞连并不比别人出色，他没有权利享受任何特权，对吗？”
　　“对的，米洛。这才是公平交易。”
　　卡思卡特上校当天傍晚就宣布把飞行次数增加到八十次。第二天拂晓，警报突然响了起来，空勤人员没来得及等到早饭做好就被赶上卡车，以最快的速度运到简令下达室，接着又运到机场。因此，约塞连根本没有时间逃避战斗任务，更没有时间再次去跟多布斯密谋暗杀卡思卡特上校。机场上，咔哒咔哒的加油车把汽油灌压进飞机油箱，匆匆忙忙的军械士费劲地尽可能快地把一颗颗重这一千磅的爆破炸弹吊起装入飞机炸弹舱。人人忙着跑来跑去。加油车一加完油，引擎马上发动起来，准备起飞。
　　情报部门报告说，就在那天早上，德国人打算把停泊在斯培西亚干船坞里的一艘报废的意大利巡洋舰拖到港湾入口处的水道上炸沉，以使盟军部队攻占该市后无法使用深水港湾设备。这一回，军方的情报倒是准确的。当美国人从西边飞过来时，那艘巡洋舰正好给拖到了港湾水道中间。他们轮番俯冲，每回都直接击中了目标，最后把它炸得七零八落。于是他们一个个全都洋洋得意，为他们的飞行大队感到无比自豪。就在这时，他们突然发现自己陷入了高射炮火力网的包围之中。下面的陆地上层峦叠障，看上去像一个巨大无比的马蹄。炮火呼啸着从这块马蹄形陆地的每一个隐蔽处飞向空中。就连哈弗迈耶也使出浑身解数做起最狂野的规避动作来了，因为他看到自己必须飞很长一段距离才能逃出火力网。多布斯驾机在之字形编队中飞行时，应该往右转时他却突然往左急转，结果他的飞机一下子撞到了旁边的飞机上，把那架飞机的尾翼给撞掉了。他自己飞机的一侧机翼也从根部折断，飞机像一块大石头似的落了下去，一转眼就不见了。没看见火，没看见烟，甚至没听见哪怕最轻微的不祥之声。剩下的那一侧机翼像只水泥搅拌器似的笨重地旋转着，与此同时，飞机正头朝下直直地向下栽去，速度越来越快，最后猛然撞到水面上，激起了一圈圈泡沫，仿佛深蓝色的海面上突然绽开一朵雪白的睡莲。随着飞机的下沉，无数果绿色的水泡向海面喷涌而去。几秒钟之后，飞机便无影无踪了。没有看见降落伞。此时，在刚才被撞的另一架飞机里，内特利也送了命。
Chapter 36 The Cellar
    Nately’s death almost killed the chaplain. Chaplain Shipman was seated in his tent, laboring over his paperworkin his reading spectacles, when his phone rang and news of the mid-air collision was given to him from the field.
　　His insides turned at once to dry clay. His hand was trembling as he put the phone down. His other hand begantrembling. The disaster was too immense to contemplate. Twelve men killed—how ghastly, how very, veryawful! His feeling of terror grew. He prayed instinctively that Yossarian, Nately, Hungry Joe and his otherfriends would not be listed among the victims, then berated himself repentantly, for to pray for their safety was topray for the death of other young men he did not even know. It was too late to pray; yet that was all he knew howto do. His heart was pounding with a noise that seemed to be coming from somewhere outside, and he knew hewould never sit in a dentist’s chair again, never glance at a surgical tool, never witness an automobile accident orhear a voice shout at night, without experiencing the same violent thumping in his chest and dreading that he wasgoing to die. He would never watch another fist fight without fearing he was going to faint and crack his skullopen on the pavement or suffer a fatal heart attack or cerebral hemorrhage. He wondered if he would ever see hiswife again or his three small children. He wondered if he ever should see his wife again, now that Captain Blackhad planted in his mind such strong doubts about the fidelity and character of all women. There were so manyother men, he felt, who could prove more satisfying to her sexually. When he thought of death now, he alwaysthought of his wife, and when he thought of his wife he always thought of losing her.
　　In another minute the chaplain felt strong enough to rise and walk with glum reluctance to the tent next door forSergeant Whitcomb. They drove in Sergeant Whitcomb’s jeep. The chaplain made fists of his hands to keepthem from shaking as they lay in his lap. He ground his teeth together and tried not to hear as SergeantWhitcomb chirruped exultantly over the tragic event. Twelve men killed meant twelve more form letters ofcondolence that could be mailed in one bunch to the next of kin over Colonel Cathcart’s signature, givingSergeant Whitcomb hope of getting an article on Colonel Cathcart into The Saturday Evening Post in time forEaster.
　　At the field a heavy silence prevailed, overpowering motion like a ruthless, insensate spell holding in thrall the only beings who might break it. The chaplain was in awe. He had never beheld such a great, appalling stillnessbefore. Almost two hundred tired, gaunt, downcast men stood holding their parachute packs in a somber andunstirring crowd outside the briefing room, their faces staring blankly in different angles of stunned dejection.
　　They seemed unwilling to go, unable to move. The chaplain was acutely conscious of the faint noise hisfootsteps made as he approached. His eyes searched hurriedly, frantically, through the immobile maze of limpfigures. He spied Yossarian finally with a feeling of immense joy, and then his mouth gaped open slowly inunbearable horror as he noted Yossarian’s vivid, beaten, grimy look of deep, drugged despair. He understood atonce, recoiling in pain from the realization and shaking his head with a protesting and imploring grimace, thatNately was dead. The knowledge struck him with a numbing shock. A sob broke from him. The blood drainedfrom his legs, and he thought he was going to drop. Nately was dead. All hope that he was mistaken was washedaway by the sound of Nately’s name emerging with recurring clarity now from the almost inaudible babble ofmurmuring voices that he was suddenly aware of for the first time. Nately was dead: the boy had been killed. Awhimpering sound rose in the chaplain’s throat, and his jaw began to quiver. His eyes filled with tears, and hewas crying. He started toward Yossarian on tiptoe to mourn beside him and share his wordless grief. At thatmoment a hand grabbed him roughly around the arm and a brusque voice demanded,“Chaplain Shipman?”
　　He turned with surprise to face a stout, pugnacious colonel with a large head and mustache and a smooth, floridskin. He had never seen the man before. “Yes. What is it?” The fingers grasping the chaplain’s arm were hurtinghim, and he tried in vain to squirm loose.
　　“Come along.”
　　The chaplain pulled back in frightened confusion. “Where? Why? Who are you, anyway?”
　　“You’d better come along with us, Father,” a lean, hawk-faced major on the chaplain’s other side intoned withreverential sorrow. “We’re from the government. We want to ask you some questions.”
　　“What kind of questions? What’s the matter?”
　　“Aren’t you Chaplain Shipman?” demanded the obese colonel.
　　“He’s the one,” Sergeant Whitcomb answered.
　　“Go on along with them,” Captain Black called out to the chaplain with a hostile and contemptuous sneer. “Goon into the car if you know what’s good for you.”
　　Hands were drawing the chaplain away irresistibly. He wanted to shout for help to Yossarian, who seemed toofar away to hear. Some of the men nearby were beginning to look at him with awakening curiosity. The chaplainbent his face away with burning shame and allowed himself to be led into the rear of a staff car and seatedbetween the fat colonel with the large, pink face and the skinny, unctuous, despondent major. He automaticallyheld a wrist out to each, wondering for a moment if they wanted to handcuff him. Another officer was already in the front seat. A tall M.P. with a whistle and a white helmet got in behind the wheel. The chaplain did not dareraise his eyes until the closed car had lurched from the area and the speeding wheels were whining on the bumpyblacktop road.
　　“Where are you taking me?” he asked in a voice soft with timidity and guilt, his gaze still averted. The notioncame to him that they were holding him to blame for the mid-air crash and the death of Nately. “What have Idone?”
　　“Why don’t you keep your trap shut and let us ask the questions?” said the colonel.
　　“Don’t talk to him that way,” said the major. “It isn’t necessary to be so disrespectful.”
　　“Then tell him to keep his trap shut and let us ask the questions.”
　　“Father, please keep your trap shut and let us ask the questions,” urged the major sympathetically. “It will bebetter for you.”
　　“It isn’t necessary to call me Father,” said the chaplain. “I’m not a Catholic.”
　　“Neither am I, Father,” said the major. “It’s just that I’m a very devout person, and I like to call all men of GodFather.”
　　“He doesn’t even believe there are atheists in foxholes,” the colonel mocked, and nudged the chaplain in the ribsfamiliarly. “Go on, Chaplain, tell him. Are there atheists in foxholes?”
　　“I don’t know, sir,” the chaplain replied. “I’ve never been in a foxhole.”
　　The officer in front swung his head around swiftly with a quarrelsome expression. “You’ve never been in heaveneither, have you? But you know there’s a heaven, don’t you?”
　　“Or do you?” said the colonel.
　　“That’s a very serious crime you’ve committed, Father,” said the major.
　　“What crime?”
　　“We don’t know yet,” said the colonel. “But we’re going to find out. And we sure know it’s very serious.”
　　The car swung off the road at Group Headquarters with a squeal of tires, slackening speed only slightly, andcontinued around past the parking lot to the back of the building. The three officers and the chaplain got out. Insingle file, they ushered him down a wobbly flight of wooden stairs leading to the basement and led him into adamp, gloomy room with a low cement ceiling and unfinished stone walls. There were cobwebs in all thecorners. A huge centipede blew across the floor to the shelter of a water pipe. They sat the chaplain in a hard, straight-backed chair that stood behind a small, bare table.
　　“Please make yourself comfortable, Chaplain,” invited the colonel cordially, switching on a blinding spotlightand shooting it squarely into the chaplain’s face. He placed a set of brass knuckles and box of wooden matcheson the table. “We want you to relax.”
　　The chaplain’s eyes bulged out incredulously. His teeth chattered and his limbs felt utterly without strength. Hewas powerless. They might do whatever they wished to him, he realized; these brutal men might beat him todeath right there in the basement, and no one would intervene to save him, no one, perhaps, but the devout andsympathetic major with the sharp face, who set a water tap dripping loudly into a sink and returned to the table tolay a length of heavy rubber hose down beside the brass knuckles.
　　“Everything’s going to be all right, Chaplain,” the major said encouragingly. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid ofif you’re not guilty. What are you so afraid of? You’re not guilty, are you?”
　　“Sure he’s guilty,” said the colonel. “Guilty as hell.”
　　“Guilty of what?” implored the chaplain, feeling more and more bewildered and not knowing which of the mento appeal to for mercy. The third officer wore no insignia and lurked in silence off to the side. “What did I do?”
　　“That’s just what we’re going to find out,” answered the colonel, and he shoved a pad and pencil across the tableto the chaplain. “Write your name for us, will you? In your own handwriting.”
　　“My own handwriting?”
　　“That’s right. Anywhere on the page.” When the chaplain had finished, the colonel took the pad back and held itup alongside a sheet of paper he removed from a folder. “See?” he said to the major, who had come to his sideand was peering solemnly over his shoulder.
　　“They’re not the same, are they?” the major admitted.
　　“I told you he did it.”
　　“Did what?” asked the chaplain.
　　“Chaplain, this comes as a great shock to me,” the major accused in a tone of heavy lamentation.
　　“What does?”
　　“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you.”
　　“For what?” persisted the chaplain more fiantically. “What have I done?”
　　“For this,” replied the major, and, with an air of disillusioned disgust, tossed down on the table the pad on whichthe chaplain had signed his name. “This isn’t your handwriting.”
　　The chaplain blinked rapidly with amazement. “But of course it’s my handwriting.”
　　“No it isn’t, Chaplain. You’re lying again.”
　　“But I just wrote it!” the chaplain cried in exasperation. “You saw me write it.”
　　“That’s just it,” the major answered bitterly. “I saw you write it. You can’t deny that you did write it. A personwho’ll lie about his own handwriting will lie about anything.”
　　“But who lied about my own handwriting?” demanded the chaplain, forgetting his fear in the wave of anger andindignation that welled up inside him suddenly. “Are you crazy or something? What are you both talking about?”
　　“We asked you to write your name in your own handwriting. And you didn’t do it.”
　　“But of course I did. In whose handwriting did I write it if not my own?”
　　“In somebody else’s.”
　　“Whose?”
　　“That’s just what we’re going to find out,” threatened the colonel.
　　“Talk, Chaplain.”
　　The chaplain looked from one to the other of the two men with rising doubt and hysteria. “That handwriting ismine,” he maintained passionately. “Where else is my handwriting, if that isn’t it?”
　　“Right here,” answered the colonel. And looking very superior, he tossed down on the table a photostatic copy ofa piece of V mail in which everything but the salutation “Dear Mary” had been blocked out and on which thecensoring officer had written, “I long for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” The colonelsmiled scornfully as he watched the chaplain’s face turn crimson. “Well, Chaplain? Do you know who wrotethat?”
　　The chaplain took a long moment to reply; he had recognized Yossarian’s handwriting. “No.”
　　“You can read, though, can’t you?” the colonel persevered sarcastically. “The author signed his name.”
　　“That’s my name there.”
　　“Then you wrote it. Q.E.D.”
　　“But I didn’t write it. That isn’t my handwriting, either.”
　　“Then you signed your name in somebody else’s handwriting again,” the colonel retorted with a shrug. “That’sall that means.”
　　“Oh, this is ridiculous!” the chaplain shouted, suddenly losing all patience. He jumped to his feet in a blazingfury, both fists clenched. “I’m not going to stand for this any longer! Do you hear? Twelve men were just killed,and I have no time for these silly questions. You’ve no right to keep me here, and I’m just not going to stand forit.”
　　Without saying a word, the colonel pushed the chaplain’s chest hard and knocked him back down into the chair,and the chaplain was suddenly weak and very much afraid again. The major picked up the length of rubber hoseand began tapping it menacingly against his open palm. The colonel lifted the box of matches, took one out andheld it poised against the striking surface, watching with glowering eyes for the chaplain’s next sign of defiance.
　　The chaplain was pale and almost too petrified to move. The bright glare of the spotlight made him turn awayfinally; the dripping water was louder and almost unbearably irritating. He wished they would tell him what theywanted so that he would know what to confess. He waited tensely as the third officer, at a signal from thecolonel, ambled over from the wall and seated himself on the table just a few inches away from the chaplain. Hisface was expressionless, his eyes penetrating and cold.
　　“Turn off the light,” he said over his shoulder in a low, calm voice. “It’s very annoying.”
　　The chaplain gave him a small smile of gratitude. “Thank you, sir. And the drip too, please.”
　　“Leave the drip,” said the officer. “That doesn’t bother me.” He tugged up the legs of his trousers a bit, as thoughto preserve their natty crease. “Chaplain,” he asked casually, “of what religious persuasion are you?”
　　“I’m an Anabaptist, sir.”
　　“That’s a pretty suspicious religion, isn’t it?”
　　“Suspicious?” inquired the chaplain in a kind of innocent daze. “Why, sir?”
　　“Well, I don’t know a thing about it. You’ll have to admit that, won’t you? Doesn’t that make it prettysuspicious?”
　　“I don’t know, sir,” the chaplain answered diplomatically, with an uneasy stammer. He found the man’s lack ofinsignia disconcerting and was not even sure he had to say “sir”. Who was he? And what authority had he tointerrogate him?
　　“Chaplain, I once studied Latin. I think it’s only fair to warn you of that before I ask my next question. Doesn’tthe word Anabaptist simply mean that you’re not a Baptist?”
　　“Oh, no, sir. There’s much more.”
　　“Are you a Baptist?”
　　“No, sir.”
　　“Then you are not a Baptist, aren’t you?”
　　“Sir?”
　　“I don’t see why you’re bickering with me on that point. You’ve already admitted it. Now, Chaplain, to sayyou’re not a Baptist doesn’t really tell us anything about what you are, does it? You could be anything oranyone.” He leaned forward slightly and his manner took on a shrewd and significant air. “You could even be,”
　　he added, “Washington Irving, couldn’t you?”
　　“Washington Irving?” the chaplain repeated with surprise.
　　“Come on, Washington,” the corpulent colonel broke in irascibly. “Why don’t you make a clean breast of it? Weknow you stole that plum tomato.”
　　After a moment’s shock, the chaplain giggled with nervous relief. “Oh, is that it!” he exclaimed. “Now I’mbeginning to understand. I didn’t steal that plum tomato, sir. Colonel Cathcart gave it to me. You can even askhim if you don’t believe me.”
　　A door opened at the other end of the room and Colonel Cathcart stepped into the basement as though from acloset.
　　“Hello, Colonel. Colonel, he claims you gave him that plum tomato. Did you?”
　　“Why should I give him a plum tomato?” answered Colonel Cathcart.
　　“Thank you, Colonel. That will be all.”
　　“It’s a pleasure, Colonel,” Colonel Cathcart replied, and he stepped back out of the basement, closing the doorafter him.
　　“Well, Chaplain? What have you got to say now?”
　　“He did give it to me!” the chaplain hissed in a whisper that was both fierce and fearful. “He did give it to me!”
　　“You’re not calling a superior officer a liar are you, Chaplain?”
　　“Why should a superior officer give you a plum tomato, Chaplain?”
　　“Is that why you tried to give it to Sergeant Whitcomb, Chaplain? Because it was a hot tomato?”
　　“No, no, no,” the chaplain protested, wondering miserably why they were not able to understand. “I offered it toSergeant Whitcomb because I didn’t want it.”
　　“Why’d you steal it from Colonel Cathcart if you didn’t want it?”
　　“I didn’t steal it from Colonel Cathcard”
　　“Then why are you so guilty, if you didn’t steal it?”
　　“I’m not guilty!”
　　“Then why would we be questioning you if you weren’t guilty?”
　　“Oh, I don’t know,” the chaplain groaned, kneading his fingers in his lap and shaking his bowed and anguishedhead. “I don’t know.”
　　“He thinks we have time to waste,” snorted the major.
　　“Chaplain,” resumed the officer without insignia at a more leisurely pace, lifting a typewritten sheet of yellowpaper from the open folder, “I have a signed statement here from Colonel Cathcart asserting you stole that plumtomato from him.” He lay the sheet face down on one side of the folder and picked up a second page from theother side. “And I have a notarized affidavit from Sergeant Whitcomb in which he states that he knew the tomatowas hot just from the way you tried to unload it on him.”
　　“I swear to God I didn’t steal it, sir,” the chaplain pleaded with distress, almost in tears. “I give you my sacredword it was not a hot tomato.”
　　“Chaplain, do you believe in God?”
　　“Yes, sir. Of course I do.”
　　“That’s odd, Chaplain,” said the officer, taking from the folder another typewritten yellow page, “because I havehere in my hands now another statement from Colonel Cathcart in which he swears that you refused to cooperatewith him in conducting prayer meetings in the briefing room before each mission.”
　　After looking blank a moment, the chaplain nodded quickly with recollection. “Oh, that’s not quite true, sir,” heexplained eagerly. “Colonel Cathcart gave up the idea himself once he realized enlisted men pray to the sameGod as officers.”
　　“He did what?” exclaimed the officer in disbelief.
　　“What nonsense!” declared the red-faced colonel, and swung away from the chaplain with dignity andannoyance.
　　“Does he expect us to believe that?” cried the major incredulously.
　　The officer without insignia chuckled acidly. “Chaplain, aren’t you stretching things a bit far now?” he inquiredwith a smile that was indulgent and unfriendly.
　　“But, sir, it’s the truth, sir! I swear it’s the truth.”
　　“I don’t see how that matters one way or the other,” the officer answered nonchalantly, and reached sidewaysagain toward the open folder filled with papers. “Chaplain, did you say you did believe in God in answer to myquestion? I don’t remember.”
　　“Yes, sir. I did say so, sir. I do believe in God.”
　　“Then that really is very odd, Chaplain, because I have here another affidavit from Colonel Cathcart that statesyou once told him atheism was not against the law. Do you recall ever making a statement like that to anyone?”
　　The chaplain nodded without any hesitation, feeling himself on very solid ground now. “Yes, sir, I did make astatement like that. I made it because it’s true. Atheism is not against the law.”
　　“But that’s still no reason to say so, Chaplain, is it?” the officer chided tartly, frowning, and picked up still onemore typewritten, notarized page from the folder. “And here I have another sworn statement from SergeantWhitcomb that says you opposed his plan of sending letters of condolence over Colonel Cathcart’s signature tothe next of kin of men killed or wounded in combat. Is that true?”
　　“Yes, sir, I did oppose it,” answered the chaplain. “And I’m proud that I did. Those letters are insincere anddishonest. Their only purpose is to bring glory to Colonel Cathcart.”
　　“But what difference does that make?” replied the officer. “They still bring solace and comfort to the familiesthat receive them, don’t they? Chaplain, I simply can’t understand your thinking process.”
　　The chaplain was stumped and at a complete loss for a reply. He hung his head, feeling tongue-tied and naive.
　　The ruddy stout colonel stepped forward vigorously with a sudden idea. “Why don’t we knock his goddambrains out?” he suggested with robust enthusiasm to the others.
　　“Yes, we could knock his goddam brains out, couldn’t we?” the hawk-faced major agreed. “He’s only anAnabaptist.”
　　“No, we’ve got to find him guilty first,” the officer without insignia cautioned with a languid restraining wave.
　　He slid lightly to the floor and moved around to the other side of the table, facing the chaplain with both handspressed flat on the surface. His expression was dark and very stern, square and forbidding. “Chaplain,” heannounced with magisterial rigidity, “we charge you formally with being Washington Irving and takingcapricious and unlicensed liberties in censoring the letters of officers and enlisted men. Are you guilty orinnocent?”
　　“Innocent, sir.” The chaplain licked dry lips with a dry tongue and leaned forward in suspense on the edge of hischair.
　　“Guilty,” said the colonel.
　　“Guilty,” said the major.
　　“Guilty it is, then,” remarked the officer without insignia, and wrote a word on a page in the folder. “Chaplain,”
　　he continued, looking up, “we accuse you also of the commission of crimes and infractions we don’t even knowabout yet. Guilty or innocent?”
　　“I don’t know, sir. How can I say if you don’t tell me what they are?”
　　“How can we tell you if we don’t know?”
　　“Guilty,” decided the colonel.
　　“Sure he’s guilty,” agreed the major. “If they’re his crimes and infractions, he must have committed them.”
　　“Guilty it is, then,” chanted the officer without insignia, and moved off to the side of the room. “He’s all yours,Colonel.”
　　“Thank you,” commended the colonel. “You did a very good job.” He turned to the chaplain. “Okay, Chaplain,the jig’s up. Take a walk.”
　　The chaplain did not understand. “What do you wish me to do?”
　　“Go on, beat it, I told you!” the colonel roared, jerking a thumb over his shoulder angrily. “Get the hell out ofhere.”
　　The chaplain was shocked by his bellicose words and tone and, to his own amazement and mystification, deeplychagrined that they were turning him loose. “Aren’t you even going to punish me?” he inquired with queruloussurprise.
　　“You’re damned right we’re going to punish you. But we’re certainly not going to let you hang around while we decide how and when to do it. So get going. Hit the road.”
　　The chaplain rose tentatively and took a few steps away. “I’m free to go?”
　　“For the time being. But don’t try to leave the island. We’ve got your number, Chaplain. Just remember thatwe’ve got you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.”
　　It was not conceivable that they would allow him to leave. The chaplain walked toward the exit gingerly,expecting at any instant to be ordered back by a peremptory voice or halted in his tracks by a heavy blow on theshoulder or the head. They did nothing to stop him. He found his way through the stale, dark, dank corridors tothe flight of stairs. He was staggering and panting when he climbed out into the fresh air. As soon as he hadescaped, a feeling of overwhelming moral outrage filled him. He was furious, more furious at the atrocities of theday than he had ever felt before in his whole life. He swept through the spacious, echoing lobby of the buildingin a temper of scalding and vindictive resentment. He was not going to stand for it any more, he told himself, hewas simply not going to stand for it. When he reached the entrance, he spied, with a feeling of good fortune,Colonel Korn trotting up the wide steps alone. Bracing himself with a deep breath, the chaplain movedcourageously forward to intercept him.
　　“Colonel, I’m not going to stand for it any more,” he declared with vehement determination, and watched indismay as Colonel Korn went trotting by up the steps without even noticing him. “Colonel Korn!”
　　The tubby, loose figure of his superior officer stopped, turned and came trotting back down slowly. “What is it,Chaplain?”
　　“Colonel Korn, I want to talk to you about the crash this morning. It was a terrible thing to happen, terrible!”
　　Colonel Korn was silent a moment, regarding the chaplain with a glint of cynical amusement. “Yes, Chaplain, itcertainly was terrible,” he said finally. “I don’t know how we’re going to write this one up without makingourselves look bad.”
　　“That isn’t what I meant,” the chaplain scolded firmly without any fear at all. “Some of those twelve men hadalready finished their seventy missions.”
　　Colonel Korn laughed. “Would it be any less terrible if they had all been new men?” he inquired caustically.
　　Once again the chaplain was stumped. Immoral logic seemed to be confounding him at every turn. He was lesssure of himself than before when he continued, and his voice wavered. “Sir, it just isn’t right to make the men inthis group fly eighty missions when the men in other groups are being sent home with fifty and fifty-five.”
　　“We’ll take the matter under consideration,” Colonel Korn said with bored disinterest, and started away. “Adios,Padre.”
　　“What does that mean, sir?” the chaplain persisted in a voice turning shrill.
　　Colonel Korn stopped with an unpleasant expression and took a step back down. “It means we’ll think about it,Padre,” he answered with sarcasm and contempt. “You wouldn’t want us to do anything without thinking aboutit, would you?”
　　“No, sir, I suppose not. But you have been thinking about it, haven’t you?”
　　“Yes, Padre, we have been thinking about it. But to make you happy, we’ll think about it some more, and you’llbe the first person we’ll tell if we reach a new decision. And now, adios.” Colonel Korn whirled away again andhurried up the stairs.
　　“Colonel Korn!” The chaplain’s cry made Colonel Korn stop once more. His head swung slowly around towardthe chaplain with a look of morose impatience. Words gushed from the chaplain in a nervous torrent. “Sir, Iwould like your permission to take the matter to General Dreedle. I want to bring my protests to WingHeadquarters.”
　　Colonel Korn’s thick, dark jowls inflated unexpectedly with a suppressed guffaw, and it took him a moment toreply. “That’s all right, Padre,” he answered with mischievous merriment, trying hard to keep a straight face.
　　“You have my permission to speak to General Dreedle.”
　　“Thank you, sir. I believe it only fair to warn you that I think I have some influence with General Dreedle.”
　　“It’s good of you to warn me, Padre. And I believe it only fair to warn you that you won’t find General Dreedleat Wing.” Colonel Korn grinned wickedly and then broke into triumphant laughter. “General Dreedle is out,Padre. And General Peckem is in. We have a new wing commander.”
　　The chaplain was stunned. “General Peckem!”
　　“That’s right, Chaplain. Have you got any influence with him?”
　　“Why, I don’t even know General Peckem,” the chaplain protested wretchedly.
　　Colonel Korn laughed again. “That’s too bad, Chaplain, because Colonel Cathcart knows him very well.”
　　Colonel Korn chuckled steadily with gloating relish for another second or two and then stopped abruptly. “Andby the way, Padre,” he warned coldly, poking his finger once into the chaplain’s chest. “The jig is up betweenyou and Dr. Stubbs. We know very well he sent you up here to complain today.”
　　“Dr. Stubbs?” The chaplain shook his head in baffled protest. “I haven’t seen Dr. Stubbs, Colonel. I was broughthere by three strange officers who took me down into the cellar without authority and questioned and insultedme.”
　　Colonel Korn poked the chaplain in the chest once more. “You know damned well Dr. Stubbs has been tellingthe men in his squadron they didn’t have to fly more than seventy missions.” He laughed harshly. “Well, Padre, they do have to fly more than seventy missions, because we’re transferring Dr. Stubbs to the Pacific. So adios,Padre. Adios.”
 36、地下室
　　听到内特利阵亡的消息，牧师差点死过去。塔普曼牧师当时正坐在自己的帐篷里，戴着老花镜认认真真地处理着日常文件。突然，电话铃响了，机场上的人向他通报了半空中的飞机相撞事件。
　　他顿时感到心如刀割。他的手哆哆嗦嗦地放下电话，另一只手也抖动起来。这真是一场无法想象的灾难。十二个人阵亡——多么令人恐怖，多么令人毛骨悚然！他越想越心惊胆战。他不由自主地祈祷上帝保佑约塞连、内特利、亨格利•乔以及他的其他朋友不在阵亡之列。祈祷完毕，他又懊悔地责备自己，因为祈求他们平安就等于祈求别的他根本不认识的年轻人战死。祈祷也太晚了，可他偏偏只会祈祷。他的心怦怦直跳，那心跳声好像是从外面什么地方传来的。他知道，往后他只要坐上牙科医生的手术椅，只要看到外科手术器械，只要目睹汽车事故，或者只要夜里听见喊声，他的心都会像现在这样怦怦乱跳，并会产生现在这种马上就要死去的可怕感觉。往后他只要看见有人打架斗殴，就要担心自己会被吓昏过去，会在人行道上碰破脑袋，或者会因心脏病发作而毙命，或者突发脑溢血。他不知道自己还能不能见到妻子和三个孩子。他不知道自己应该不应该再去见妻子，因为布莱克上尉对他的劝诱使他在心里对所有女性的贞操和品德产生了强烈的怀疑。他觉得许多别的男人能够给予他妻子更多的性满足。现在，当他考虑死亡问题时，他总是想到他的妻子，而当他想到他的妻子时，他又总是担心会失去她。
　　过了一两分钟，牧师觉得自己有力气站起来了，于是便起身心情沉重地、慢慢吞吞地走到隔壁帐篷去找惠特科姆中士。他俩坐上惠特科姆中士的吉普车。为了不让放在膝盖上的双手颤抖，牧师使劲把它们握成拳头。他咬紧牙关，竭力不去听惠特科姆中士兴致勃勃、喋喋不休地对这次灾难性事件大发议论。十二个人阵亡意味着又要准备十二封由卡思卡特上校签名的吊唁通函。这些信件邮寄给阵亡者亲属时可以捆成一捆。这件事使惠特科姆中士产生了一线希望，也许复活节之前可以在《星期六晚邮报》上发表一篇有关卡思卡特上校的文章。
　　大地笼罩在深深的寂静之中，似乎那些唯一能打破寂静的人全都被一种不可抗拒的、残忍无情的魔力降服住了。牧师油然生出一股敬畏之感。他还从来没有见到过如此阴森可怕的寂静场面。大约两百名精疲力竭、形容枯槁、无精打采的军人手里拎着降落伞袋，沮丧地、一动不动地围在简令下达室外面。他们面无表情，一个个呆若木鸡，目光死死地盯着不同的方向。他们似乎不愿意离去，也不能够移动了。牧师朝他们走过去时，清清楚楚地听到了自己轻微的脚步声。他的眼睛急切而慌乱地在无声无息呆呆站立着的人群中搜寻着。他终于看见了约塞连，心中不禁一阵狂喜。紧接着，他就注意到约塞连满是灰尘的脸上明显地流露着疲惫、迷惘和深深的绝望，他不禁感到惊恐万分，慢慢地张开了嘴。他立刻就明白了，可又痛苦地不敢承认事实：内特利已经死了。他一脸苦相，轻轻地摇着头，像是在抗议，又像是在哀求。这个消息好似一记重量的拳头，打得他手脚发麻。他不由得抽泣起来。他感到双腿瘫软，好像马上就要倒下去。内特利已经死了。他满心希望是自己弄错了，可是这一线希望也破灭了，因为他突然第一次意识到，周围许多人正用几乎听不见的嗓音低低地但清晰地反复念着内特利的名字。内特利已经死了：这个小伙子战死了。牧师从喉咙里发出一阵呜咽声，他的下巴开始颤抖，他的眼中充满泪水，他放声哭了起来。
　　他踮起脚尖朝约塞连走过去，想站到他身边去哀悼内特利，分担他无言的悲伤。就在这时，一只手粗暴地抓住了他的胳膊，有人粗声粗气地问道：
　　“是塔普曼牧师吗？”
　　他吃惊地转过身去，看见面前站着一个又矮又胖、气势汹汹的上校。这个人脑袋很大，面色红润，留着两撇小胡子。他以前从来没有见过此人，“是我，有什么事？”牧师的胳膊被这个人的手指捏得很痛，他使劲地扭动着胳膊，可就是挣脱不出来。
　　“跟我们走。”
　　牧师惊慌地向后退缩着。“去哪儿？为什么、你们到底是什么人？”
　　“你最好跟我们走一趟，神父，”站在牧师另一边的一个身材瘦削、长着一张鹰脸的少校用恭敬而悲伤的语调拖着腔说道，“我们是政府派来的。我们要问你几个问题。”
　　“什么样的问题？出了什么事？”
　　“你是不是塔普曼牧师？”胖上校质问道。
　　“就是他，”惠特科姆中士回答道。
　　“跟他们走吧，”布莱克上尉仇视而轻蔑地冷笑一声，冲着牧师大叫起来。“你要是想不吃苦头，就上车吧。”
　　几只手不容分说就把牧师拖走了。他想向约塞连呼救，可约塞连离得太远，似乎不会听见。附近的一些军人如梦初醒，开始好奇地打量着他。牧师感到脸上火辣辣的，羞愧地转过脸低下头去。他乖乖地被人领进一辆指挥车里，坐到了后座上那个脸盘又大又红的胖上校和那个虚情假意、萎靡不振的瘦少校之间。刚坐下时，他以为他们要给他戴手铐，便自动地向他们一人伸出一只手腕。前排座位上已经坐着一个军官。一个脖上挂着哨子、头上戴白色钢盔的高个宪兵坐到了方向盘的后面。车门关上了，汽车东倒西歪地开出机场，在崎岖不平的柏油马路上飞驰着。直到这时，牧师才敢抬起眼睛来。
　　“你们要把我带到哪里去？”他心虚胆怯地轻声发问，眼睛依然盯着别处。他突然想到，他们是要把飞机空中相撞事件和内特利的阵亡归罪于他，“我做了什么事？”
　　“你就不会闭上嘴，让我们向你提问题吗？”上校问。
　　“别这样对他说话，”少校说，“没有必要那么粗鲁。”
　　“那么叫他闭上嘴，让我们来提问题。”
　　“神父，请你闭上嘴，让我们来提问题，”少校同情地劝道，“这样对你更好些。”
　　“没有必要叫我神父，”牧师说，”我不是天主教徒。”
　　“我也不是，神父，”少校说，“可我恰巧是个非常虔诚的人，我喜欢把所有神职人员都叫做神父。”
　　“他甚至不相信散兵坑里有无神论者，”上校嘲弄地说。他随随便便地用胳膊肘戳了戳牧师的肋骨。“说下去，牧师。告诉他，在散兵坑里有无神论者吗？”
　　“我不知道，长官，”牧师回答道，“我从来没有到过散兵坑。”
　　坐在前排的那个军官猛地转过头来，露出一副找茬吵架的嘴脸。“你不是也从来没有到过天堂吗？可你知道有个天堂，不对吗？”
　　“对吗？”上校说。
　　“这是你犯下的一项严重罪行，神父，”少校说。
　　“什么罪行？”
　　“我们还不知道，”上校说，“但我们会调查出来的。而且我们确信，你的罪行是非常严重的。”
　　在大队司令部门前，汽车拐下了马路。轮胎发出吱吱扭扭的声响，车速稍微减慢了一点。汽车绕过停车场，开到司令部大楼后面停了下来。三个军官把牧师带下了车。他们排成单行，领着牧师沿一道颤悠悠的木制楼梯往下一直走到地下室，把他带到一间潮湿阴暗的房间里。房间的水泥天花板非常低矮，石头墙裸露着，各个墙角里全都布满了蜘蛛网。一只蜈蚣嗖的一下窜过地板，钻到一根水管下面去了。他们叫牧师坐到一张硬邦邦的靠背椅上，椅子前面是一张小桌子，上面什么也没有摆。
　　“你不要客气，牧师。”上校一边亲切地招呼着牧师，一边打开一盏耀眼的聚光灯，把光线直射到牧师的脸上。他又把一套指节铜套和一盒木制火柴放到桌子上。“我们要给你放松放松。”
　　牧师不相信地瞪起眼睛。他的牙齿格格打战，四肢瘫软无力。
　　他感到无能为力。他知道，他们可以想怎么处治他就怎么处治他。
　　这几个残忍的家伙可以就在地下室里活活打死他，没有人会插手救他，没有任何人。也许，那位虔诚、富有同情心的瘦长脸少校是例外，可这位少校正在把一个水龙头打开；让水响亮地滴到水池里。
　　接着，他走回到桌前，把一根长长的、沉甸甸的橡皮管放到指节铜套旁。
　　“现在一切就绪了，牧师，”少校鼓励说，“只要你没有罪，你就一点用不着害怕。你这么害怕是为什么呢？你没有罪，对吗？”
　　“他肯定有罪，”上校说，“罪大着呢。”
　　“我犯的是什么罪呀？”牧师哀求道，他越来越感到困惑不解，弄不清该向这几个人中的哪一个求情。那第三个军官没有佩戴肩章，这会儿默不作声地溜到了一旁。“我干了什么啦？”
　　“这正是我们打算弄清楚的，”上校回答说。他把一本拍纸薄和一枝铅笔从桌子的另一边推到牧师跟前。“给我们写下你的名字，好吗？用你自己的笔迹。”
　　“用我自己的笔迹？”
　　“对。随便写在纸上的什么地方。”牧师写完后，上校把拍纸簿拿了回去，从一个文件夹里取出一页纸，把拍纸簿与这页纸并排放好。“瞧见了吗？”他对走到他身旁的少校说。少校正从他的身后严肃地凝视着这两样东西。
　　“它们不一样，是吗？”少校承认道。
　　“我告诉过你是他干的。”
　　“我干什么啦？”牧师问。
　　“牧师，这件事太使我感到震惊了，”少校用极为悲哀的语调指责道。
　　“什么呀？”
　　“我没法告诉你我对你多么的失望。”
　　“因为什么呀？”牧师更加慌乱地追问道，“我干了什么事情？”
　　“就因为这个，”少校一边回答，一边带着失望、厌恶的神情把牧师方才在上面签过名的拍纸簿扔到桌子上。“这不是你的笔迹。”
　　牧师惊奇得直眨眼睛。“这当然是我的笔迹。”
　　“不，这不是，牧师，你又在说谎了。”
　　“但这是我刚刚写的呀！”牧师恼怒地叫道，“你们看着我写的。”
　　“就是这个问题，”少校愤怒地回答道，“我看着你写的。你不能否认这确实是你写的。一个人在自己的笔迹这件事上都说谎，那他在什么事上都敢说谎。”
　　“但是，谁在我自己的笔迹这件事上说谎了？”牧师质问道。他心里猛地升腾起一股怒火，一时间竟忘了害怕。“你们是疯了还是怎么啦？你们两个都在讲些什么呀？”
　　“我们叫你用你自己的笔迹写下你的名字，可你并没有这么做。”
　　“我当然这样做了。如果不是用我自己的笔迹，那么我是用谁的笔迹？”
　　“用别的什么人的笔迹。”
　　“谁的？”
　　“这正是我们打算弄清楚的，”上校威胁说。
　　“说吧，牧师。”
　　牧师望望这个人，又看看那个人。他越来越疑惧重重，越来越歇斯底里。“那笔迹是我的，”他情绪激昂地坚持道，“如果那不是我的笔迹，那我的笔迹在哪里？”
　　“就在这里，”上校回答道。他神情傲慢地把一份缩印邮递邮件的影印件扔在桌上。那上面除了“亲爱的玛莉”这个称呼外，所有的字迹都被涂抹掉了。军邮检查官在信上写着：“我苦苦地思念着你。
　　美国随军牧师A•T•塔普曼。”上校看到牧师变得面红耳赤，便嘲弄地笑了起来。“怎么样，牧师？你知道这是谁写的吗？”
　　牧师已经认出了约塞连的笔迹。过了好长时间，他才回答道：
　　“不知道。”
　　“可你是认字的，对吧？”上校不依不饶地继续挖苦他。“写信的人签上了自己的姓名。”
　　“那是我的姓名。”
　　“那么是你写的喽。这就是所要证明的。”
　　“但我没有写。这也不是我的笔迹。”
　　“这么说，你又一次用别人的笔迹签上了你自己的名字，”上校耸耸肩反驳道，“就是这个意思。”
　　“天哪，这简直荒谬透顶！”牧师再也忍耐不下去了，大声叫喊起来，他怒气冲冲地跳了起来，两只拳头握得紧紧的。“我再也不能容忍下去了！你们听见了吗？十二个人刚刚阵亡，我没有时间来回答这些愚蠢的问题。你们没有权利把我扣留在这地方。我可是再也不能容忍下去了。”
　　上校一声不吭地朝着牧师的胸部使劲一推，把牧师推倒在椅子上。牧师突然感到浑身软弱无力，又一次心慌意乱起来。少校捡起那根长长的橡皮管，恐吓地在自己摊开的手掌上轻轻抽打着。上校拿起那盒火柴，从里面抽出一根，把它对着火柴盒划火的那面，准备划火。他双眼怒视着牧师，看他还敢做出什么反抗的表示。牧师面容苍白，几乎僵在椅子上不能动弹。聚光灯的强烈光线终于逼得他扭过脸去，水龙头的滴水声越来越响，弄得他心烦意乱，不堪忍受。他真希望他们告诉他，他们究竟需要什么，这样他就知道他应该坦白交待些什么。上校对第三个军官做了个手势，那人便缓步从墙边走到桌子跟前，在离牧师仅仅几英寸的地方坐了下来。牧师紧张不安地等待着。那人的脸上毫无表情，目光阴森逼人。
　　“把灯关掉吧，”他回过头去平静地低声说，“这灯光太刺眼了。”
　　牧师对他感激地微微一笑，“谢谢你，长官。还有那个滴水的龙头，请关上它吧。”
　　“别管那滴水声，”那军官说，“我并不讨厌它。”他往上扯了扯裤腿，好像怕弄皱了那两条整齐的裤缝似的。“牧师，”他随随便便地问，“你是属于哪个教派的？”
　　“我属于再浸礼教派，长官。”
　　“这是个相当可疑的教派，不是吗？”
　　“可疑？”牧师疑惑不解地问，“为什么，长官？”
　　“噢，我对这个教派一点都不了解。你不得不承认这一点，对吧？难道这还不使它显得可疑吗？”
　　“我不知道，长官，”牧师像个外交官似的心神不定、结结巴巴地回答道。这个人没佩戴肩章，这一点使他觉得很为难，他甚至拿不准自己应该不应该称他为“长官”。他是谁？他有什么权力审问他呢？
　　“牧师，我曾经学过拉丁文。在向你提出下一个问题之前我要先让你知道这一点，我认为只有这样做才是公正的。‘再浸礼教徒’这个词是否仅仅意味着你不是浸礼教徒？”
　　“我，不，长官，它的含义更广些。”
　　“你是浸礼教徒吗？”
　　“不是，长官。”
　　“那么你不是个浸礼教徒，不对吗？”
　　“长官？”
　　“我真不明白，你为什么要在这一点上跟我争论不休。你已经承认了这一点。听着，牧师，说你不是浸礼教徒并不等于真正告诉了我们你究竟是什么人，对吗？你可以是任何教派的教徒，任何人。”他把身体微微向前倾斜，摆出一副精明、深沉的样子。“你甚至可能是，”他接着说，“华盛顿•欧文，难道你不是吗？”
　　“华盛顿•欧文？”牧师吃惊地重复着。
　　“承认吧，华盛顿，”胖上校烦躁地插话道，“你究竟为什么不全部交待出来呢？我们知道是你偷了那个红色梨形番茄。”
　　牧师一下子给吓蒙了。过了一会，他才松了一口气，神经质地格格笑了起来。“哦，原来是这样！”他叫道，“现在我开始明白了。我并没有偷那个红色梨形番茄，长官，是卡思卡特上校送给我的。你们要是不相信我，可以去问问他。”
　　房间另一头的一扇门打开了，卡思卡特上校走进了地下室。他好像是从壁橱里钻出来的。
　　“你好，上校。他声称那个红色梨形番茄是你送给他的，上校，你送了吗？”
　　“我为什么要送给他一个红色梨形番茄呢？”卡思卡特上校反问道。
　　“谢谢你，上校，这就够了。”
　　“愿意效劳，上校，”卡思卡特上校回答道，说完便退出了地下室，并随手在身后关上了门。
　　“怎么样，牧师，现在你还有什么可说的？”
　　“就是他送给我的！”牧师色厉内荏地低声抗议道，“就是他送给我的！”
　　“你是在指责一个上级军官说谎吗，牧师？”
　　“为什么一个上级军官会送给你一个番茄，牧师？”
　　“这就是你想把它送给惠特科姆中士的原因，是吗，牧师？就因为这个番茄是偷来的？”
　　“不，不，不，”牧师抗议道。他痛苦地想，他们为什么不能理解呢？“我把番茄送给惠特科姆中士，是因为我不想要它。”
　　“如果你不想要它，为什么要从卡思卡特上校那儿把它偷来呢？”
　　“我不是从卡思卡特上校那儿偷来的！”
　　“如果你没有偷，那你为什么显出这么一副有罪的模样？”
　　“我没有罪。”
　　“如果你没有罪，那我们为什么要审问你？”
　　“天哪，我不知道。”牧师呻吟了一声。他把放在膝盖上的手指互相捏来捏去，极其痛苦地晃动着低垂的脑袋。“我不知道。”
　　“他以为我们有工夫跟他磨蹭。”少校气愤地哼了一声。
　　“牧师，”没佩戴肩章的军官从打开的文件夹里取出一张黄色打印纸，口气更加从容地继续说道，“我这儿有一张卡思卡特上校亲笔签名的证词，证词中声明是你从他那儿偷走了那个番茄。”他把这张纸正面朝下放到文件夹的一边，又从另一边拿起另一张纸。
　　“我这儿还有一份经过公证的惠特科姆中士的宣誓证词。他在证词中说，他当时看到你急着把番茄塞给他的那副样子，就知道那番茄来路不正。”
　　“我向上帝发誓，我没有偷那个番茄，长官，”牧师苦恼地恳求道，眼泪都快要掉下来了。“我郑重地向你起誓，那个番茄不是偷来的。”
　　“牧师，你信仰上帝吗？”
　　“是的，长官，我当然信仰上帝。”
　　“这就很奇怪了，牧师。”那军官说着从公文夹里抽出一张黄色打印纸。“因为我这儿还有一份卡思卡特上校的声明，他发誓说你拒绝跟他合作，不愿意在每次飞行任务之前在简令下达室里主持祈祷仪式。”
　　牧师愣了一下，接着便回忆起来了。他很快地点点头。“哦，这并不完全是事实，长官，”他急切地解释道，“当卡思卡特上校认识到士兵和军官是在向同一个上帝祈祷时，他自己放弃了这一打算。”
　　“他自己干了什么？”那军官不相信地叫道。
　　“简直是一派胡言！”红脸上校斥责道。他威严而气恼地从牧师身边转身走开。
　　“他难道以为我们会相信他这套谎言吗？”少校表示怀疑地喊道。
　　没佩戴肩章的军官尖刻地窃笑着。“牧师，你是不是把事情编得太离奇了？”他宽容而冷漠地笑了笑问道。
　　“但是，长官，这是事实，长官！我发誓这是事实。”
　　“我看不出这跟是不是事实有什么关系，”那军官无动于衷地回答道，又伸手到旁边去拿那个打开着的装满文件的文件夹。“牧师，你在回答我的问题时说过你是信仰上帝的吗？我记不得了。”
　　“是的，长官，我的确这样说过，长官。我的确是信仰上帝的。”
　　“那么，这就的确是非常奇怪的了，牧师，因为我这儿还有一份卡思卡特上校的宣誓证词，那上面说你曾经对他说过，无神论不违犯法律。你记得你的确对什么人说过这样的话吗？”
　　牧师毫不犹豫地点点头。这一回他觉得自己很有把握。“是的，长官，我的确这么说过。我这么说是因为这是事实。无神论并不违犯法律。”
　　“但是，你仍然没有理由这么说，牧师，对吗？”那军官皱着眉刻薄地责备道。他又从文件夹里抽出一份经过公证的打印文件。“我这儿还有一份惠特科姆中士的宣誓证词，上面说他计划给在战斗中阵亡或负伤的军人的亲属邮寄由卡思卡特上校签名的慰问信，你却表示反对。这是真的吗？”
　　“是的，长官，我的确表示过反对，”牧师回答道，“我为自己这么做而感到自豪。这些信是虚伪的，是骗人的。它们的唯一目的是往卡思卡特上校脸上贴金。”
　　“可这又有什么关系呢？”那军官回答道，“它们仍然能给那些收到信的亲属带去一些安慰和问候，不是吗？牧师，我实在无法理解你的思维方式。”
　　牧师一时间给难住了，一句话也回答不上来。他垂下脑袋，觉得自己张口结舌，傻里傻气。
　　那个面色红润的矮胖上校精神抖擞地朝前迈了几步。他突然有了一个想法。“我们为什么不能把他这该死的脑壳敲开呢？”他跃跃欲试地向其他人建议道。
　　“对，我们可以把他这该死的脑壳敲开，不是吗？”长着一张鹰脸的少校表示同意。“他不过是个再浸礼教徒罢了。”
　　“不，我们必须首先确定他有罪，”没佩戴肩章的军官懒洋洋地摆了摆手告诫道。他轻轻站立起来，走到桌子的另一边，双手平展地按在桌面上，脸正对着牧师。他的表情阴沉、严厉、狠毒，令人望而生畏。“牧师，”他专横严厉地宣布道，“我们正式指控你假冒华盛顿•欧文之名，未经许可恣意检查官兵们的信件。你是有罪还是无罪？”
　　“无罪，长官，”牧师用发干的舌头舔了舔发干的嘴唇，忐忑不安地把坐在椅子边沿上的身体往前探了探。
　　“有罪，”上校说。
　　“有罪，”少校说。
　　“那就是有罪。”没佩戴肩章的军官说。他在文件夹里的一页纸上写了个字。“牧师，”他抬起头来继续说，“我们还要指控你犯了目前我们尚未了解的罪行和违法行为。你是有罪还是无罪？”
　　“我不知道，长官。如果你们不告诉我究竟是什么罪行和违法行为，那叫我怎么说呢？”
　　“如果我们不知道，我们怎么能告诉你呢？”
　　“有罪，”上校断然他说。
　　“他肯定有罪。”少校表示同意。“如果那是他的罪行和违法行为的活，那他肯定就是犯罪了。”
　　“那就是有罪，”没佩戴肩章的军官拖着长腔说道，他往房间的另一侧走去。“他就全交给你了，上校。”
　　“谢谢你，”上校称赞他说，“这件事你干得很出色。”他转过身来对着牧师。“好吧，牧师，一切都完了，走吧。”
　　牧师没听明白他的话。“你要我干什么？”
　　“走吧，滚吧，我叫你快滚！”上校咆哮起来，生气地朝肩后扬了扬大拇指。“你***快从这儿滚出去！”
　　牧师被上校挑衅的言辞和语气吓得目瞪口呆。他感到惊奇，感到困惑不解，他们居然要放他走，这使他大为懊恼。“你们不是打算惩治我吗？”他既惊奇又不满地问道。
　　“对极了，我们是打算惩治你的。但是，在我们决定如何惩治你及什么时候惩治你之前，我们当然不会让你跟着我们团团转的。所以，走吧，滚吧。”
　　牧师试探地站起身，往外走了几步。“我可以走了？”
　　“暂时可以走。但是不许有任何离开这个岛的企图。我们记下了你的号码，牧师。你记住，你一天二十四小时全都处在我们的监视之下。”
　　牧师不敢相信他们会真的放他走。他提心吊胆地往出口走去，随时准备被某人专横的声音喝令回去，或者要么肩膀要么脑袋挨上一记重击，倒在半道上爬不起来。他们没做任何事情来阻拦他。
　　他在阴暗潮湿、密不透风的走廊里摸索着走到楼梯口。当他踉踉跄跄地爬到楼梯顶部，呼吸到新鲜空气时，已经是气喘吁吁了。一经脱离险境，他立刻义愤填膺。他这一天所遭遇的暴行气得他怒不可遏，他这辈子还从来没有这样愤怒过。他旋风般冲过宽敞的、回声不断的门厅，胸中怒火燃烧，怨恨难平。他再也不能忍受下去了，他对自己说，他实在无法忍受下去了。当他走到大楼门口时，看到科恩中校独自快步跑上宽阔的台阶，心中不禁感到一阵高兴。他先深深吸了一口气给自己鼓劲，然后勇敢地走上前去拦住科恩中校。
　　“中校，我再也忍受不下去了，”他斩钉截铁地宣布道。可是科恩中校匆匆跑上台阶，根本没有注意到他，这使他大为沮丧。“科恩中校！”
　　他的这位上级军官这才停住脚步，转过他那矮胖难看的身体，慢吞吞地走下台阶。“什么事，牧师？”
　　“科恩中校，我想和你谈谈今天早上的飞机相撞事件。这件事发生得太可怕了，太可怕了！”
　　科恩中校沉默了片刻，露出一丝讥笑，饶有兴致地打量着牧师。“是的，牧师，的确很可怕，”他终于说道，“我不知道我们应该怎样呈文向上级报告才不至于给我们自己丢脸。”
　　“我不是这个意思，”牧师态度坚决、毫无顾忌地反驳道，“这十二个人当中有一些已经完成了他们的七十次飞行任务。”
　　科恩中校笑了。“要是他们都是些新来的，这次事件就不那么可怕了吗？”他挖苦他说。
　　牧师又一次给问住了。不道德的推理似乎时时处处都在刁难他。当他再次开口说话时，他不像方才那样充满自信了，他的嗓音颤抖起来。“长官，要求我们大队的官兵执行八十次飞行任务的做法是完全错误的。别的大队的官兵只要执行五十到五十五次就可以回国了。”
　　“我们会考虑这个问题的，”科恩中校厌烦他说。他抬腿打算离去。“再见，随军牧师。”
　　“这是什么意思，长官？”牧师嗓音尖厉地追问道。
　　科恩中校从台阶上倒退一步，脸上显得很不高兴。“这意思就是我们会考虑的，随军牧师，”他嘲讽而鄙夷地回答道，“难道你是要我们不加考虑就干事情吗？”
　　“不，长官，我没有这样想，但你们一直都在考虑这个问题，不是吗？”
　　“是的，随军牧师，我们一直在考虑这个问题。但是，为了使你开心，我们会对这个问题多加考虑的。如果我们作出新的决定，我们将会首先通知你的。”科恩中校又转过身去，匆匆跑上台阶。
　　“科恩中校！”牧师的喊声又一次使科恩中校停住脚步。他慢慢转过脸来对着牧师，眉头紧锁，显得极不耐烦。牧师内心非常紧张，他滔滔不绝地一口气说下去。“长官，请你允许我把这一事件报告给德里德尔将军。我要向联队司令部提出我的抗议。”
　　科恩中校猛地鼓起他那黑乎乎的胖下巴，好不容易才抑制住一阵大笑。过了一会他才回答。“这很好，随军牧师，”他竭力装出一副一本正经的样子，带着捉弄人寻开心的口气回答说，“我允许你向德里德尔将军报告。”
　　&ld
Chapter 37 General Scheisskopf
    Dreedle was out, and General Peckem was in, and General Peckem had hardly moved inside General Dreedle’soffice to replace him when his splendid military victory began falling to pieces around him.
　　“General Scheisskopf?” he inquired unsuspectingly of the sergeant in his new office who brought him word ofthe order that had come in that morning. “You mean Colonel Scheisskopf, don’t you?”
　　“No, sir, General Scheisskopf He was promoted to general this morning, sir.”
　　“Well, that’s certainly curious! Scheisskopf? A general? What grade?”
　　“Lieutenant general, sir, and—““Lieutenant general!”
　　“Yes, sir, and he wants you to issue no orders to anyone in your command without first clearing them throughhim.”
　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” mused General Peckem with astonishment, swearing aloud for perhaps the first time inhis life. “Cargill, did you hear that? Scheisskopf was promoted way up to lieutenant general. I’ll bet thatpromotion was intended for me and they gave it to him by mistake.”
　　Colonel Cargill had been rubbing his sturdy chin reflectively. “Why is he giving orders to us?”
　　General Peckem’s sleek, scrubbed, distinguished face tightened. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said slowly with anuncomprehending frown. “Why is he issuing orders to us if he’s still in Special Services and we’re in combatoperations?”
　　“That’s another change that was made this morning, sir. All combat operations are now under the jurisdiction ofSpecial Services. General Scheisskopf is our new commanding officer.”
　　General Peckem let out a sharp cry. “Oh, my God!” he wailed, and all his practical composure went up inhysteria. “Scheisskopf in charge? Scheisskopf?” He pressed his fists down on his eyes with horror. “Cargill, getme Wintergreen! Scheisskopf? Not Scheisskopf!”
　　All phones began ringing at once. A corporal ran in and saluted.
　　“Sir, there’s a chaplain outside to see you with news of an injustice in Colonel Cathcart’s squadron.”
　　“Send him away, send him away! We’ve got enough injustices of our own. Where’s Wintergreen?”
　　“Sir, General Scheisskopf is on the phone. He wants to speak to you at once.”
　　“Tell him I haven’t arrived yet. Good Lord!” General Peckem screamed, as though struck by the enormity of thedisaster for the first time. “Scheisskopf? The man’s a moron! I walked all over that blockhead, and now he’s mysuperior officer. Oh, my Lord! Cargill! Cargill, don’t desert me! Where’s Wintergreen?”
　　“Sir, I have an ex-Sergeant Wintergreen on your other telephone. He’s been trying to reach you all morning.”
　　“General, I can’t get Wintergreen,” Colonel Cargill shouted, “His line is busy.”
　　General Peckem was perspiring freely as he lunged for the other telephone.
　　“Wintergreen!”
　　“Peckem, you son of a bitch—““Wintergreen, have you heard what they’ve done?”
　　“—what have you done, you stupid bastard?”
　　“They put Scheisskopf in charge of everything!”
　　Wintergreen was shrieking with rage and panic. “You and your goddam memorandums! They’ve gone andtransferred combat operations to Special Services!”
　　“Oh, no,” moaned General Peckem. “Is that what did it? My memoranda? Is that what made them putScheisskopf in charge? Why didn’t they put me in charge?”
　　“Because you weren’t in Special Services any more. You transferred out and left him in charge. And do youknow what he wants? Do you know what the bastard wants us all to do?”
　　“Sir, I think you’d better talk to General Scheisskopf,” pleaded the sergeant nervously. “He insists on speaking tosomeone.”
　　“Cargill, talk to Scheisskopf for me. I can’t do it. Find out what he wants.”
　　Colonel Cargill listened to General Scheisskopf for a moment and went white as a sheet. “Oh, my God!” he cried, as the phone fell from his fingers. “Do you know what he wants? He wants us to march. He wantseverybody to march!”
 37、沙伊斯科普夫将军
　　德里德尔将军调走了，佩克姆将军调进来了。但是，佩克姆将军刚一搬入德里德尔将军的办公室接替他，就发现自己的辉煌战果开始土崩瓦解。
　　“沙伊斯科普夫将军？”当他新办公室里的中士向他报告当天早晨刚刚收到的命令时，他很有把握地向中士反问道，“你是说沙伊斯科普夫上校，对吧？”
　　“不，长官，是沙伊斯科普夫将军。他今天早晨被提升为将军了，长官。”
　　“天哪，这可太奇怪了！沙伊斯科普夫？将军？什么级别？”
　　“中将，长官，而且——”
　　“中将！”
　　“是的，长官，他要求你未经他审批不得向你手下的任何人发布任何命令。”
　　“哼，真***。”佩克姆将军满怀惊讶地若有所思起来，一边大声骂着，这也许是他平生第一次大声骂人。“卡吉尔，你听到了吗？沙伊斯科普夫居然一下子被提升为中将。我敢打赌，这次提升本来是预备给我的，可他们搞错了，这才提升了他。”
　　卡吉尔上校一直在沉思默想地抚摸着他那刚毅的下巴。“他为什么向我们下命令呢？”
　　佩克姆将军绷紧了他那张光滑洁净、独具特色的面孔。“是啊！
　　中士，”他不理解地皱起眉头，慢吞吞地问道，“他仍然在特种任务兵团里，而我们是战斗部队，他为什么向我们发号施令呢？”
　　“这是今天早晨作出的另一项变动，长官。所有的战斗部队目前全部归特种任务兵团管辖。沙伊斯科普夫将军成了我们的新指挥官。”
　　佩克姆将军尖叫一声。“天哪，我的上帝！”他哀叹道。他多年练就的沉稳风度一下子变成了歇斯底里，“沙伊斯科普夫主管？沙伊斯科普夫？”他惊惶失措地双手握拳捂住眼睛。“卡吉尔，给我接温待格林！沙伊斯科普夫？不，不是沙伊斯科普夫！”
　　所有的电话铃一起响了起来。一个下士跑进来，敬了个礼说道：“长官，外面有个牧师要求见你。他要向你报告发生在卡思卡特上校的一个中队里的不公正事件。”
　　“叫他走，叫他走！我们这儿的不公正事件够多的了。温特格林在哪里？”
　　“长官，沙伊斯科普夫将军的电话。他要马上跟你讲话。”
　　“告诉他我还没来呢。老天爷啊！”佩克姆将军尖叫着。他似乎这才领悟到这场灾难性事件的严重后果。“沙伊斯科普夫？这家伙是个白痴！我以前支使得这个傻瓜团团转，现在他却成了我的上司。唉，我的天哪！卡吉尔！卡吉尔，别扔下我不管！温特格林在哪儿？”
　　“长官，我在这部电话机上接到前中士温特格林的一个电话。
　　他整个上午一直在给你挂电话。”
　　“将军，温特格林的电话打不通，”卡吉尔上校喊道，“他的电话占线。”
　　佩克姆将军满头大汗地扑向另一部电话机。
　　“温特格林！”
　　“佩克姆，你这个狗娘养的——”
　　“温特格林，你听说他们干的好事了吗？”
　　“——你干了什么好事，你这个笨杂种？”
　　“他们让沙伊斯科普夫主管一切！”
　　温特格林愤怒而惊慌地尖叫道：“你和你那些该死的呈文见鬼去吧！他们已经把战斗部队划归特种任务兵团管辖了！”
　　“噢，不，”佩克姆呻吟道，“是因为这个吗？是我的呈文吗？是因为这个他们才委派沙伊斯科普夫主管的吗？他们为什么不委派我主管呢？”
　　“因为你已经不在特种任务兵团了。你调出去了，正好留下他在那儿主管，而且，你知道他要干什么吗？你知道那个杂种要我们全体干什么吗？”
　　“长官，我想最好由你来和沙伊斯科普夫将军通话，”中士紧张不安地恳求道，“他坚持要有人来听他讲话。”
　　“卡吉尔，替我和沙伊斯科普夫通话。我不能接他的电话。看看他想干什么。”
　　卡吉尔听了一下沙伊斯科普夫将军的电话，脸色立刻变得像张白纸。“噢，我的上帝！”他叫了起来。电话筒从他手里滑落下去。
　　“你知道他要我们干什么吗？他要求我们操练。他要求所有人都要参加操练！”
Chapter 38 Kid Sister
    Yossarian marched backward with his gun on his hip and refused to fly any more missions. He marchedbackward because he was continously spinning around as he walked to make certain no one was sneaking up onhim from behind. Every sound to his rear was a warning, every person he passed a potential assassin. He kept hishand on his gun butt constantly and smiled at no one but Hungry Joe. He told Captain Piltchard and CaptainWren that he was through flying. Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren left his name off the flight schedule for thenext mission and reported the matter to Group Headquarters.
　　Colonel Korn laughed cahnly. “What the devil do you mean, he won’t fly more missions?” he asked with asmile, as Colonel Cathcart crept away into a corner to brood about the sinister import of the name Yossarianpopping up to plague him once again. “Why won’t he?”
　　“His friend Nately was killed in the crash over Spezia. Maybe that’s why.”
　　“Who does he think he is—Achilles?” Colonel Korn was pleased with the simile and filed a mental reminder torepeat it the next time he found himself in General Peckem’s presence. “He has to fly more missions. He has nochoice. Go back and tell him you’ll report the matter to us if he doesn’t change his mind.”
　　“We already did tell him that, sir. It made no difference.”
　　“What does Major Major say?”
　　“We never see Major Major. He seems to have disappeared.”
　　“I wish we could disappear him!” Colonel Cathcart blurted out from the corner peevishly. “The way they did thatfellow Dunbar.”
　　“Oh, there are plenty of other ways we can handle this one,” Colonel Korn assured him confidently, andcontinued to Piltchard and Wren, “Let’s begin with the kindest. Send him to Rome for a rest for a few days.
　　Maybe this fellow’s death really did hurt him a bit.”
　　Nately’s death, in fact, almost killed Yossarian too, for when he broke the news to Nately’s whore in Rome sheuttered a piercing, heartbroken shriek and tried to stab him to death with a potato peeler.
　　“Bruto!” she howled at him in hysterical fury as he bent her arm up around behind her back and twisted gradually until the potato peeler dropped from her grasp. “Bruto! Bruto!” She lashed at him swiftly with thelong-nailed fingers of her free hand and raked open his cheek. She spat in his face viciously.
　　“What’s the matter?” he screamed in stinging pain and bewilderment, flinging her away from him all the wayacross the room to the wall. “What do you want from me?”
　　She flew back at him with both fists flailing and bloodied his mouth with a solid punch before he was able tograb her wrists and hold her still. Her hair tossed wildly. Tears were streaming in single torrents from herflashing, hate-filled eyes as she struggled against him fiercely in an irrational frenzy of maddened might, snarlingand cursing savagely and screaming “Bruto! Bruto!” each time he tried to explain. Her great strength caught himoff guard, and he lost his footing. She was nearly as tall as Yossarian, and for a few fantastic, terror-filledmoments he was certain she would overpower him in her crazed determination, crush him to the ground and riphim apart mercilessly limb from limb for some heinous crime he had never committed. He wanted to yell forhelp as they strove against each other frantically in a grunting, panting stalemate, arm against arm. At last sheweakened, and he was able to force her back and plead with her to let him talk, swearing to her that Nately’sdeath had not been his fault. She spat in his face again, and he pushed her away hard in disgusted anger andfrustration. She hurled herself down toward the potato peeler the instant he released her. He flung himself downafter her, and they rolled over each other on the floor several times before he could tear the potato peeler away.
　　She tried to trip him with her hand as he scrambled to his feet and scratched an excruciating chunk out of hisankle. He hopped across the room in pain and threw the potato peeler out the window. He heaved a huge sigh ofrelief once he saw he was safe.
　　“Now, please let me explain something to you,” he cajoled in a mature, reasoning, earnest voice.
　　She kicked him in the groin. Whoosh! went the air out of him, and he sank down on his side with a shrill andululating cry, doubled up over his knees in chaotic agony and retching for breath. Nately’s whore ran from theroom. Yossarian staggered up to his feet not a moment too soon, for she came charging back in from the kitchencarrying a long bread knife. A moan of incredulous dismay wafted from his lips as, still clutching his throbbing,tender, burning bowels in both hands, he dropped his full weight down against her shins and knocked her legsout from under her. She flipped completely over his head and landed on the floor on her elbows with a jarringthud. The knife skittered free, and he slapped it out of sight under the bed. She tried to lunge after it, and heseized her by the arm and yanked her up. She tried to kick him in the groin again, and he slung her away with aviolent oath of his own. She slammed into the wall off balance and smashed a chair over into a vanity tablecovered with combs, hairbrushes and cosmetic jars that all went crashing off. A framed picture fell to the floor atthe other end of the room, the glass front shattering.
　　“What do you want from me?” he yelled at her in whining and exasperated confusion. “I didn’t kill him.”
　　She hurled a heavy glass ash tray at his head. He made a fist and wanted to punch her in the stomach when shecame charging at him again, but he was afraid he might harm her. He wanted to clip her very neatly on the pointof the jaw and run from the room, but there was no clear target, and he merely skipped aside neatly at the lastsecond and helped her along past him with a strong shove. She banged hard against the other wall. Now she wasblocking the door. She threw a large vase at him. Then she came at him with a full wine bottle and struck him squarely on the temple, knocking him down half-stunned on one knee. His ears were buzzing, his whole face wasnumb. More than anything else, he was embarrassed. He felt awkward because she was going to murder him. Hesimply did not understand what was going on. He had no idea what to do. But he did know he had to savehimself, and he catapulted forward off the floor when he saw her raise the wine bottle to clout him again andbarreled into her midriff before she could strike him. He had momentum, and he propelled her before himbackward in his driving rush until her knees buckled against the side of the bed and she fell over onto themattress with Yossarian sprawled on top of her between her legs. She plunged her nails into the side of his neckand gouged as he worked his way up the supple, full hills and ledges of her rounded body until he covered hercompletely and pressed her into submission, his fingers pursuing her thrashing arm persistently until they arrivedat the wine bottle finally and wrenched it free. She was still kicking and cursing and scratching ferociously. Shetried to bite him cruelly, her coarse, sensual lips stretched back over her teeth like an enraged omnivorousbeast’s. Now that she lay captive beneath him, he wondered how he would ever escape her without leavinghimself vulnerable. He could feel the tensed, straddling inside of her buffeting thighs and knees squeezing andchurning around one of his legs. He was stirred by thoughts of sex that made him ashamed. He was conscious ofthe voluptuous flesh of her firm, young-woman’s body straining and beating against him like a humid, fluid,delectable, unyielding tide, her belly and warm, live, plastic breasts thrusting upward against him vigorously insweet and menacing temptation. Her breath was scalding. All at once he realized—though the writhingturbulence beneath him had not diminished one whit—that she was no longer grappling with him, recognizedwith a quiver that she was not fighting him but heaving her pelvis up against him remorselessly in the primal,powerful, rhapsodic instinctual rhythm of erotic ardor and abandonment. He gasped in delighted surprise. Herface—as beautiful as a blooming flower to him now—was distorted with a new kind of torture, the tissuesserenely swollen, her half-closed eyes misty and unseeing with the stultifying languor of desire.
　　“Caro,” she murmured hoarsely as though from the depths of a tranquil and luxurious trance. “Ooooh, caro mio.”
　　He stroked her hair. She drove her mouth against his face with savage passion. He licked her neck. She wrappedher arms around him and hugged. He felt himself falling, falling ecstatically in love with her as she kissed himagain and again with lips that were steaming and wet and soft and hard, mumbling deep sounds to him adoringlyin an incoherent oblivion of rapture, one caressing hand on his back slipping deftly down inside his trouser beltwhile the other groped secretly and treacherously about on the floor for the bread knife and found it. He savedhimself just in time. She still wanted to kill him! He was shocked and astounded by her depraved subteruge as hetore the knife from her grasp and hurled it away. He bounded out of the bed to his feet. His face was agog withbefuddlement and disillusion. He did not know whether to dart through the door to freedom or collapse on thebed to fall in love with her and place himself abjectly at her mercy again. She spared him from doing either bybursting unpredictably into tears. He was stunned again.
　　This time she wept with no other emotion than grief, profound, debilitating, humble grief, forgetting all abouthim. Her desolation was pathetic as she sat with her tempestuous, proud, lovely head bowed, her shoulderssagging, her spirit melting. This time there was no mistaking her anguish. Great racking sobs choked and shookher. She was no longer aware of him, no longer cared. He could have walked from the room safely then. But hechose to remain and console and help her.
　　“Please,” he urged her inarticulately with his arm about her shoulders, recollecting with pained sadness how inarticulate and enfeebled he had felt in the plane coming back from Avignon when Snowden kept whimperingto him that he was cold, he was cold, and all Yossarian could offer him in return was “There, there. There,there.” “Please,” he repeated to her sympathetically. “Please, please.”
　　She rested against him and cried until she seemed too weak to cry any longer, and did not look at him once untilhe extended his handkerchief when she had finished. She wiped her cheeks with a tiny, polite smile and gave thehandkerchief back, murmuring “Grazie, grazie” with meek, maidenly propriety, and then, without any warningwhatsoever of a change in mood, clawed suddenly at his eyes with both hands. She landed with each and let out avictorious shriek.
　　“Ha! Assassino!” she hooted, and raced joyously across the room for the bread knife to finish him off.
　　Half blinded, he rose and stumbled after her. A noise behind him made him turn. His senses reeled in horror atwhat he saw. Nately’s whore’s kid sister, of all people, was coming after him with another long bread knife!
　　“Oh, no,” he wailed with a shudder, and he knocked the knife out of her hand with a sharp downward blow onher wrist. He lost patience entirely with the whole grotesque and incomprehensible melee. There was no tellingwho might lunge at him next through the doorway with another long bread knife, and he lifted Nately’s whore’skid sister off the floor, threw her at Nately’s whore and ran out of the room, out of the apartment and down thestairs. The two girls chased out into the hall after him. He heard their footsteps lag farther and farther behind ashe fled and then cease altogether. He heard sobbing directly overhead. Glancing backward up the stair well, hespied Nately’s whore sitting in a heap on one of the steps, weeping with her face in both hands, while her pagan,irrepressible kid sister hung dangerously over the banister shouting “Bruto! Bruto!” down at him happily andbrandished her bread knife at him as though it were an exciting new toy she was eager to use.
　　Yossarian escaped, but kept looking back over his shoulder anxiously as he retreated through the street. Peoplestared at him strangely, making him more apprehensive. He walked in nervous haste, wondering what there wasin his appearance that caught everyone’s attention. When he touched his hand to a sore spot on his forehead, hisfingers turned gooey with blood, and he understood. He dabbed his face and neck with a handkerchief. Whereverit pressed, he picked up new red smudges. He was bleeding everywhere. He hurried into the Red Cross buildingand down the two steep flights of white marble stairs to the men’s washroom, where he cleansed and nursed hisinnumerable visible wounds with cold water and soap and straightened his shirt collar and combed his hair. Hehad never seen a face so badly bruised and scratched as the one still blinking back at him in the mirror with adazed 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 wallnear the bottom of the staircase and came pouncing down upon him like a hawk with a glittering silver steakknife 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 ofthe building and spent the next three hours hunting through the city for Hungry Joe so that he could get awayfrom Rome before she could find him again. He did not feel really safe until the plane had taken off. When theylanded in Pianosa, Nately’s whore, disguised in a mechanic’s green overalls, was waiting with her steak knifeexactly 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, hauledher up into the plane and held her motionless on the floor in a double armlock while Hungry Joe radioed thecontrol tower for permission to return to Rome. At the airport in Rome, Yossarian dumped her out of the planeon the taxi strip, and Hungry Joe took right off for Pianosa again without even cutting his engines. Scarcelybreathing, Yossarian scrutinized every figure warily as he and Hungry Joe walked back through the squadrontoward 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 sightshe 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 ashe approached his tent. He stopped when he saw her hiding in the bushes around the side, gripping a hugecarving knife and all dressed up to look like a Pianosan farmer. Yossarian tiptoed around the back noiselesslyand seized her from behind.
　　“Caramba!” she exclaimed in a rage, and resisted like a wildcat as he dragged her inside the tent and hurled herdown 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 themall first as Yossarian ran to get Hungry Joe, who was sleeping like a baby. Yossarian lifted Huple’s cat offHungry Joe’s face and shook him awake. Hungry Joe dressed rapidly. This time they flew the plane north andturned in over Italy far behind the enemy lines. When they were over level land, they strapped a parachute onNately’s whore and shoved her out the escape hatch. Yossarian was positive that he was at last rid of her and wasrelieved. As he approached his tent back in Pianosa, a figure reared up in the darkness right beside the path, andhe fainted. He came to sitting on the ground and waited for the knife to strike him, almost welcoming the mortalblow for the peace it would bring. A friendly hand helped him up instead. It belonged to a pilot in Dunbar’ssquadron.
　　“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. “Letme 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. Butthat 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 forgoing around twice over the bridge at Ferrara. I guess you’re just about the biggest hero we’ve got now in thegroup. 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 hewant 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 morewhether 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 catchmalaria, 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 moremissions 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 getaway 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 clumpafter Appleby had gone. Havermeyer was hiding there in a squat. He was eating peanut brittle, and his pimplesand 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 betyou 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 sofair 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 thedangerous 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’tlike that a bit. That’s a real royal screwing they’re getting ready to give me just because you’re too goddamyellow 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 aboutflying 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 andkid 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 youhome?”
　　“No.”
　　“But if they do and let you take one person with you, will you pick me? Don’t pick anyone like Appleby. Pickme.”
　　“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 anymore missions either. Okay?”
　　All the next evening, people kept popping up at him out of the darkness to ask him how he was doing, appealingto him for confidential information with weary, troubled faces on the basis of some morbid and clandestinekinship he had not guessed existed. People in the squadron he barely knew popped into sight out of nowhere ashe passed and asked him how he was doing. Even men from other squadrons came one by one to concealthemselves in the darkness and pop out. Everywhere he stepped after sundown someone was lying in wait to popout 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 poppedout 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 whichhissing shadow would finally turn dishonestly into Nately’s whore or, worse, into some duly constitutedgovernmental authority sent to club him ruthlessly into insensibility. It began to look as if they would have to dosomething like that. They did not want to court-martial him for desertion in the face of the enemy because ahundred and thirty-five miles away from the enemy could hardly be called the face of the enemy, and becauseYossarian was the one who had finally knocked down the bridge at Ferrara by going around twice over the targetand killing Kraft—he was always almost forgetting Kraft when he counted the dead men he knew. But they hadto 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 togetherin daylight than they were alone in the dark. He did not care about them at all as he walked about backward withhis hand on his gun and awaited the latest blandishments, threats and inducements from Group each timeCaptains Piltchard and Wren drove back from another urgent conference with Colonel Cathcart and ColonelKorn. Hungry Joe was hardly around, and the only other person who ever spoke to him was Captain Black, whocalled him “Old Blood and Guts” in a merry, taunting voice each time he hailed him and who came back fromRome toward the end of the week to tell him Nately’s whore was gone. Yossarian turned sorry with a stab ofyearning 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 sproutingas usual with a sparse reddish-blond stubble. He rubbed the bags under his eyes with both fists. “I thought Imight as well give the stupid broad another boff just for old times’ sake as long as I was in Rome anyway. Youknow, 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 andunappeasable attacks.
　　“There’s no one there,” Captain Black exclaimed cheerfully, trying to make Yossarian understand. “Don’t youunderstand? 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’sapple jumped up and down with glee inside his scraggly neck. “The joint’s empty. The M.P.s busted the wholeapartment 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 rightout 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 atYossarian with surprise and with a crafty gleam of prying elation. “Say, what’s the matter? If I knew this wasgoing 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!”
 38、小妹妹
　　约塞连把枪挎在屁股后面，倒退着走路，而且拒绝执行更多的飞行任务。他之所以倒退着走路，是因为他行走时不停地转过身四处看看，以确定真的没有人在他身后偷偷摸摸地跟踪。他身后传来的每一个声响都像是不祥的预兆。从他身边经过的每一个人都可能是刺客。他的手一直握住枪柄。除了亨格利•乔以外，他见了谁都没有笑脸。他告诉皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉，他已经飞完了。皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉把他的名字从下一次飞行任务的日程表上划掉了，并把此事上报到大队部。
　　科恩中校冷静地笑了笑。“你们究竟是什么意思，他不愿意执行更多的飞行任务？”他笑着问道。而卡思卡特上校这时却悄悄躲到一个角落里琢磨起来，约塞连这个名字又一次突然冒出来烦扰他，这究竟是个什么样的不祥之兆呢？“他为什么不愿意？”
　　“他的朋友内特利在斯培西亚上空的相撞事件中阵亡了。也许就因为这个。”
　　“他以为他是谁——阿基里斯吗？”科恩中校对自己的这个比喻很得意，暗暗把它记在心里，预备着下回见到佩克姆将军时拿出来露一手。“他必须执行更多的飞行任务。他没有选择余地。回去告诉他，要是他不改变主意的话，你们就要把这件事上报给我们。”
　　“我们已经这样告诉过他了，长官，可是不起作用。”
　　“梅杰少校怎么说呢？”
　　“我们根本见不到梅杰少校。他似乎已经失踪了。”
　　“我倒希望我们能叫他失踪！”卡思卡特上校从角落里气呼呼地脱口说道，“就像他们对付邓巴那家伙那样。”
　　“哦，我们有其他许多种对付这个家伙的办法。”科恩中校信心十足地安慰卡思卡特上校，然后又对皮尔查德和雷恩说，“首先我们采用最仁慈的手段，把他送到罗马去休息几天。也许那家伙的死确实伤了他的心。”
　　事实上，内特利的死也差点送了约塞连的命。在罗马，当他把这个消息告诉内特利的妓女时，她发出一阵悲痛欲绝的刺耳尖叫，抓起一把削土豆刀就要把他刺死。
　　“畜生！”她愤怒地、歇斯底里地对他吼叫着。他把她的胳膊扭到她的背后，慢慢地扭着，直到那把削土豆刀从她手中落下来。“畜生！畜生！”她敏捷地伸出另一只手去打他，她那长长的手指甲在他的面颊上抓出道道血痕。她气势汹汹地朝他脸上咋了一口唾沫。
　　“这是怎么回事？”他感到火辣辣的疼痛，困惑不解地叫起来。
　　他使劲推了她一把，一下子把她推到房间另一头的墙上。“你要把我怎么样？”
　　她又挥动着两只拳头朝他扑了过来。他尚未来得及抓住她的手腕制服她，嘴上就结结实实地挨了一拳，弄得满嘴血污。她的头发乱蓬蓬地披散着，双眼闪动着仇恨的怒火，眼泪哗哗直淌。她完全处于失去理智的狂乱之中。每当他试图向她解释时，她就一边粗野地吼叫着、咒骂着，尖声大叫着“畜生！畜生！”一边疯狂地、凶残地对他又抓又打。她的力气大得出乎他的意料，差一点把他撞倒在地上。她的身材几乎和他一样高。有那么一会儿，他心惊胆战地想象着，凭她疯狂的决心，她肯定能够制服他。她会把他踩倒在地上，残忍地把他撕成碎片，就为了某一桩其实根本不是他犯下的滔天大罪。他俩拼命地厮打着，呼哧呼哧地喘着粗气，四只胳膊扭在一起，谁也打不过谁。这个时候，约塞连真有点想喊救命了，终于，她的力气不足了。他这才能够推开她，求她让他把话说完，向她发誓说内特利的死根本不是他的过错。她又往他脸上啐起唾沫来，他又气愤又沮丧，厌恶地使劲把她推到一边，他刚一松开手，她立刻冲过去抢那把削土豆刀，他只好跟着扑到她的身上。两个人在地上翻了好几个滚，他才夺下了那把刀，他刚刚吃力地站起来，她又伸出手来想把他绊倒，结果把他的脚踝抓破了一大块，痛得他哇哇叫。他忍住痛，单脚跳到房间的另一头，把那把削土豆刀扔出窗外。
　　他这才觉得自己安全了，宽慰地长舒了一口气。
　　“现在，请让我把事情对你解释一下，”他哄劝道。他的声音慎重、理智而诚恳。
　　她朝他的裤裆里猛踢一脚。哎哟！他尖利地惨叫一声，痛得差点背过气去。他侧身倒在地上，痛苦得膝盖顶住胸口，身体缩成一团。他感到恶心，感到迸不过气来。内特利的妓女从房间里跑了出去。约塞连摇摇摆摆地刚刚站起身，她就从厨房拿了一把长长的切面包刀冲了回来。他不敢相信地惊呼一声，双手仍然紧紧护着软绵绵、热辣辣、抽动个不停的小肚子，把全身的重量朝着她的小腿撞过去，猛地把她撞倒了。她越过他的头顶翻滚过去，胳膊肘砸在地上，发出刺耳的咯咯声，那把刀滑落下来，他抬脚把它踢到床底下看不见的地方去了，她还想扑过去拿刀，他揪住她的胳膊把她拉了起来。她又要朝他的裤裆处踢去，他恶狠狠地骂了一句，使劲把她甩开了。她扑通一声撞到墙上，失去了平衡，把一把椅子踢翻到梳妆台上，结果梳妆台上那些梳子、发刷以及装着化妆品的瓶瓶罐罐全都给摔到地上去了。房间另一头一幅嵌在镜框里的照片也掉到了地上，上面的玻璃摔了个粉碎。
　　“你到底要把我怎么样？”他既哀怨又气恼，慌乱地冲她叫喊道，“又不是我杀的他。”
　　她抓起一个沉甸甸的玻璃烟灰缸砸向他的脑袋，紧接着便又朝他猛扑过去。他握紧拳头，打算朝她的肚子猛击一拳，可又怕会真的打伤了她。他又想对准她的下巴颏狠狠打上一拳，然后趁机逃出门去，可又总是找不准目标。最后，在她朝他冲过来的那一瞬间，他敏捷地闪身让过，顺势猛劲推了她一把，使她结结实实地撞到了另一面墙上。接着，她挡住了门，拎起一个大花瓶朝他扔了过去。随后，她又抄起一个装满了酒的瓶子冲到他面前，对准他的太阳穴猛砸下去，砸得他头晕目眩，单腿跪到了地上。他的耳朵嗡嗡作响，整个脸都麻木了。而最糟糕的是，他觉得左右为难。她竟然打算杀死他，这使他感到很狼狈。他根本弄不明白究竟发生了什么事情，更不知道应该怎么办才好。但是，他清清楚楚地知道他必须保住自己的性命。当他看到她举起酒瓶又要打自己时，他从地板上一跃而起，趁她没来得及打之前，一头撞到她的肚子上。他使的力气很大，顶得她一路往后倒退，直到她的膝盖碰到了床沿，身体跌落到床垫上。而约塞连则夹在她的两腿之间趴到了她的身上。她的指甲深深地抓人了他的颈侧，他则慢慢地爬上她那柔软丰满、胸部如小山般高耸的身躯。直到他完全压到了她的身上，伸出手抓住她狂挥乱舞的胳膊，夺下那个酒瓶扔到一边时，她才被迫屈服下来。她仍在一个劲地又踢又骂又抓。她大咧开粗糙而肉感的嘴唇，龇着牙总想狠命咬他一口，那模样活像一只正在发怒的饥不择食的野兽。现在，她已经被他制服在身底下了，他开始考虑自己应该如何行事才不至于再次遭到她的攻击。她那两条绷得紧紧的大腿向两侧分开着，不停地乱蹬乱踢。他能够感到她的大腿内侧和膝盖把他的一条腿夹得紧紧的，并在上面来回摩擦着。他突然生出一股欲火，不禁羞愧难当。他意识到，她那结实的、撩人情欲的少妇肉体就像一股滋润人心的甜美春潮，不可遏制地激荡着他的心田。她那高高耸起的双乳温暖、充满活力而又富于弹性，和她的肚腹一起紧紧贴在他的身体上，对他形成了一种既宜人又可怕的强烈诱惑力。她的呼吸炽热灼人。突然间，他感觉到——虽然她仍然在他的身底下疯狂地扭动，虽然她的拼劲没有减轻丝毫——她不再对他又抓又打了。他激动地发现，她非但不再打他，反而毫无愧色地高高抬起屁股，出于本能地、颇有节奏地颤动着身体，狂热有力地、淫荡放肆地抵在他的身上。他惊喜交加地喘息着。她的脸蛋——尽管这会儿在他看来就像一朵盛开的鲜花那样美丽——此时因为忍受着一种新的折磨而变了形，她的面部肌肉微微肿胀着，她的眼睛半开半闭，蒙蒙胧胧，她全身心沉浸在渴望之中，好像什么都看不见了。
　　“亲爱的，”她嗓门嘶哑地低声说。她的声音好像来自平静舒适的梦境深处。“噢，我的亲爱的。”
　　他抚摸着她的头发。她狂热地在他的脸上吻来吻去。他舔着她的脖子。她伸出双臂紧紧搂住他，用热烘烘、湿漉漉、柔软而有力的嘴唇一次又一次地亲吻他，一边对他说着那些令人心醉神迷的情话，使他觉得自己越来越疯狂地爱上了她。她那只抚摸着他后背的手熟练地向下伸进他的裤腰，另一只手却狡诈地在地板上偷偷摸寻那把切面包刀。她摸到了那把刀。幸好他及时醒悟，救了自己的命。她居然还是想杀掉他！他被她这种极不道德的骗人花招惊得目瞪口呆。他从她手里夺下刀扔到一旁，然后从床上跳下来站到地上。他的脸看上去困惑又失望。他不知道自己是应该冲出屋去获得自由呢，还是应该倒到床上去跟她做爱，再次低声下气地任凭她处置。就在他正犹豫不决的时候，她突然放声大哭起来，这下又把他给吓呆了。
　　这一回，她的的确确是出于悲伤而痛哭的。她哭得涕泪横流、悲痛欲绝，完全忘记了他的存在。她垂着她那激动、高傲、美丽的脑袋，缩着肩膀，萎靡不振地坐在那儿，那副模样是那么的凄凉、那么的哀婉动人。这一次，她的痛苦是明确无疑的。她痛不欲生地啜泣着，喉咙哽咽，浑身颤抖。她忘了还有他这么个人，对他已经毫不在意了。此时，他完全可以平安无事地从这个房间走出去，可他还是决定留下来安慰她，帮助她。
　　“请别哭了。”他伸开双臂抱住她的肩膀，含糊不清地恳求着她。他痛心地回忆起那回飞机轰炸完阿维尼翁返航的路上，斯诺登不停地鸣咽着对他说，觉得冷，觉得冷。当时，他感到浑身软弱无力，说不出话来，只会翻来覆去地对斯诺登说：“好啦，好啦，好啦，好啦。”现在，他也只会翻来覆去地用一句话对她表示同情。“请别哭了，请别哭了，请别哭了。”
　　她斜倚在他的身上哭泣着，一直哭到她再也没有力气哭下去了。等到她哭完了，他把自己的手帕递过去，她这才抬起头来看了看他。她有礼貌地淡淡一笑，用手帕擦了擦面颊，然后递回给他，并且像个温文尔雅的黄花闺女似的低声说：“谢谢，谢谢。”但是，突然间，她的情绪突变，猛地伸出双手要去剜他的眼睛。她的手刚一抓到他的眼睛上，她就发出一声得意的尖叫。
　　“哈！你这个杀人犯！”她一边怪叫着，一边得意地跑到房间的另一头去拿那把切面包刀来杀他。
　　他慌忙站起身，踉踉跄跄地去追她。他的眼前一片模糊。他听到身后传来一声响，赶快转过身去，只看了一眼，就吓得差点灵魂出窍。不是别人，恰恰是内特利的妓女的小妹妹，正手握着另一把长长的切面包刀朝他冲过来！
　　“噢，不！”他声音颤抖地悲叹一声，对准她的手腕猛地往下一击，把刀打落在地。这种荒谬绝伦、莫名其妙的混战他实在忍受不下去了。天知道接下来还有谁会拿着另一把切面包刀冲进房门朝他刺过来。他把内特利的妓女的小妹妹从地板上举起来，朝内特科的妓女扔过去，随后跑出房间，跑出公寓，跑下楼梯。两个女人追他一直追到门厅里。他拼命往外逃时，听见她们的脚步渐渐落后，最后完全停住了。随后，他听到头顶上传来哭声。他回头从楼梯口往上望去，看见内特利的妓女缩成一团坐在楼梯上，双手捂着脸正哭得伤心呢。而她那个天不怕地不怕的异教徒小妹妹却正十分危险地把身子趴在楼梯扶手上，一边兴高采烈地朝下冲他大叫“畜生！
　　畜生！”一边朝他挥舞着切面包刀，好像那是一件使她兴奋不已的玩具，她正迫不及待地要试试它呢。
　　约塞连逃了出去。可即使当他逃到了大街上时，他仍不时担心地回头望望。街上的行人目光奇怪地打量着他，这就使他更加害怕起来。他紧张不安地快步走着，心里直纳闷，自己外表上有什么地方会吸引住所有人的注意力呢？他觉得前额上有个地方很痛，便伸手去摸，结果手指头沾了粘糊糊的一层血，这下他才算明白了。他用手帕轻轻擦了擦脸和脖子。不管擦到哪个地方，手帕都会沾上一块新的血污。他满头满脸都在流血。他急忙跑进红十字会大楼，奔下两段极陡的白色大理石楼梯，来到男洗手间。在那儿，他用冷水和肥皂擦洗干净裸露在外面的无数处伤口，理平衬衣领子，梳了梳头发。他从来没有见过这样一张青一道紫一道伤痕累累的面孔。此时，这张面孔正从镜子里张皇失措、惊恐不安地冲他眨着眼睛。她究竟要把他怎么样？
　　他走出男洗手间时，内特利的妓女正埋伏在外面等着他呢。她猫腰躲在楼梯底下的墙边，手中紧握着一把闪亮的银制牛排切刀，像只老鹰似的朝他猛扑过来。他敏捷地抬起胳膊肘使劲一顶，正好击中她的下胯。她翻了翻眼睛就要倒下去，他及时拉住了她，轻轻抉她坐到地上。随后，他跑上楼梯，跑出大楼，在城里花了三个小时找到亨格利•乔，这才得以在她再次找到他之前离开罗马。直到飞机起飞后，他才感到自己真正安全了。当他们在皮亚诺萨岛着陆时，内特利的妓女穿着绿色的工作服，假扮成一个机械师，手握着牛排切刀，就在飞机旁边等着他呢。她举刀朝他的胸口刺来，幸好她的皮底高跟鞋在砾石地面上绊了一下，摔了一跤。约塞连吃了一惊，使劲把她拉上飞机，使了招双重锁臂勾腿摔跤法，把她一动不动地制服在地板上。与此同时，亨格利•乔通过无线电要求指挥塔台允许飞机返回罗马。在罗马机场上，亨格利•乔连火都没熄，约塞连把她从飞机上往机场跑道上一推，飞机立刻就起飞了。和亨格利•乔一起步行穿过中队驻地往他们自己的帐篷走时，约塞连屏注呼吸，警惕地盯着每一个人影。亨格利•乔则表情滑稽地一直盯着他。
　　“你能肯定这件事的前前后后不是你想象出来的吗？”过了一会，亨格利•乔犹犹豫豫地问。
　　“想象出来的？你一直和我在一起，不是吗？你不是刚刚把她送回罗马吗？”
　　“也许这也全是我想象出来的。她为什么要杀死你呢？”
　　“她从来就没有喜欢过我。也许是因为我打断了内特利的鼻梁骨，也许是因为她听到这消息时，我是唯一在场的可以供她发泄怨恨的对象。你认为她还会回来吗？”
　　那天晚上，约塞连在军官俱乐部逗留到很晚才回来。他一边往自己的帐篷走，一边机警地用眼睛四下里搜寻内特利的妓女。他看见她乔装成皮亚诺萨岛农夫的模祥，手里握着一把切肉刀，藏在山坡下的灌木丛里，他停住脚步，蹄起脚尖无声无息地绕到她的背后，一把揪住她的后背。
　　“放开我！”她一边愤怒地大叫着，一边像只野猫似的挣扎着。
　　他把她拖进帐篷，扔到地上。
　　“嘿，出了什么事？”他的一个同帐篷伙伴迷迷糊糊地问。
　　“看住她，等我回来。”约塞连把他从行军床上扯下来推到她的身上，吩咐了一声便往外跑。“看住她！”
　　“让我把他杀了，我就让你们每个人都玩一玩，”她提议道。
　　其他几个同帐篷伙伴看到是个姑娘，就都从行军床上跳下来，想让她先跟他们大家玩一玩。约塞连跑去叫亨格利•乔，那家伙正像个娃娃似的呼呼大睡呢。约塞连把赫普尔的猫从亨格利•乔的脸上拿开，把他摇醒过来。亨格利•乔迅速穿好衣服。这一次，他们俩把飞机一直往北开，深入到敌人后方之后再折回进入意大利领空。飞机飞越一片平原时，他们把内特利的妓女绑到降落伞上，从应急出口推了下去。约塞连确信自己终于摆脱了她，这才松了一口气。当他回到皮亚诺萨岛走近自己的帐篷时，从路旁的黑暗中突然跳出一个人影，把他吓得昏了过去。他醒来时发现自己坐在地上，只好引颈待毙，想到那致命的一击即将带来的平静，他几乎有点高兴了。可是，一只友好的手把他搀扶了起来。原来是邓巴中队里的一个飞行员。
　　“你怎么样？”那飞行员轻声问道。
　　“挺好，”约塞连回答道。
　　“刚才我看见你摔倒了，还以为你出了什么事呢。”
　　“我想我是晕过去了。”
　　“我们中队里谣传说你告诉他们你不再执行战斗飞行任务“这是真的。”
　　“可大队部来的人说这不是真的。”
　　“这是谎言，”“你以为他们会放过你吗？”
　　“我不知道，”“他们会把你怎么样？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“你认为他们会对你进行军法审判，指控你在敌人面前临阵脱逃吗？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“我希望你能逃过这一关。”邓巴中队的那个飞行员边说边蹑手蹑脚地躲到黑暗中去了。“别忘了把你的情况告诉我。”
　　约塞连对着他的背影凝视了几秒钟，然后迈步朝自己的帐篷走去。
　　“喂！”前面几步之外传来低低的一声，原来是躲在一棵树后面的阿普尔比，“你好吗？”
　　“挺好，”约塞连说。
　　“我听见别人说，他们威胁说要对你进行军法审判，指控你在敌人面前临阵脱逃。不过他们并没有真的打算这么做，因为在这件事情上指控你的证据是否成立，他们目前还没有把握。再说，要是真这样做了，他们自己在新任指挥官面前也显得不好看。况且，你还是个在弗拉拉大桥上空飞了两圈的大英雄。依我看，到目前为止，你可以算是我们大队里最了不起的英雄了。他们不过是吓唬人罢了。我刚才正在想，你听说了这个消息一定会很高兴的。”
　　“谢谢，阿普尔比。”
　　“就是为了这个，我才过来告诉你的。我想提醒你一声。”
　　“我很感激。”
　　阿普尔比局促不安地在地面上蹭着脚尖。“约塞连，那次我们在军官俱乐部打了一架，对此我很抱歉。”
　　“没有关系。”
　　“但那次不是我挑起来的。依我看，这全怪奥尔，是他先拿乒乓球拍打我的脸的。他为什么要这样做呢？”
　　“因为你就要打败他了。”
　　“难道我不该打败他吗？不就是为了这个才打球的吗？依我看，既然现在他已经死了，我是不是个比他更出色的乒乓球运动员已经无所谓了，对吧？”
　　“我看是无所谓了。”
　　“还有，那一回为了那些阿的平药片，一路上闹得天翻地覆，我也很抱歉。要是你想染上疟疾，我想那是你自己的事，不对吗？”
　　“没有关系，阿普尔比。”
　　“但我不过是在努力尽我的责任，我是在服从命令。人家总是教导我说，必须服从命令。”
　　“没有关系。”
　　“你知道，我曾对科恩中校和卡思卡特上校说，我认为如果你不愿意的话，他们就不应该叫你执行更多的飞行任务。他们说，我使他们感到很失望。”
　　约塞连觉得既懊恼又有趣，笑了笑说：“我想他们肯定会这样说的。”
　　“噢，我不在乎。见鬼，你已经飞了七十一次了，这应该是足够的了。你认为他们会放过你吗？”
　　“不会”“我说，要是他们真的放过了你，他们就会放过我们其余的人，是吗？”
　　“这就是他们不会放过我的原因。”
　　“你认为他们会怎么办呢？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“你认为他们会对你进行军法审判吗？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“你害怕吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　“你打算去执行更多的飞行任务吗？”
　　“不。”
　　“我希望你能逃过这一关，”阿普尔比信心十足他说，“我真是这么希望的。”
　　“谢谢，阿普尔比。”
　　“既然眼下我们似乎已经打赢了这场战争，我也不大乐意再去执行那么多次的飞行任务了。要是我听到别的什么消息，我会告诉你的。”
　　“谢谢，阿普尔比。”
　　“嗨！阿普尔比走了以后，从他帐篷旁边一簇齐腰高的光秃秃的灌木丛中，一个人压低嗓门吆喝了一声。原来是哈弗迈耶蹲着藏在那儿。他正吃着花生薄脆糖，他脸上那些丘疹和油乎乎的粗大毛孔看上去就像暗淡的鳞片。约塞连走到他的面前时，他问道：“你怎么样？”
　　“挺好。”
　　“你打算执行更多的飞行任务吗？”
　　“不。”
　　“要是他们强迫你呢？”
　　“我不会屈服的。”
　　“你害怕吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　“他们会对你进行军法审判吗？”
　　“他们很可能会这样做。”
　　“梅杰少校怎么说？”
　　“梅杰少校不见了。”
　　“是他们把他弄失踪的吗？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“他们要是决定把你弄失踪，你怎么办？”
　　“我将设法阻止他们。”
　　“要是你继续飞行的话，他们有没有提出跟你做笔交易或别的什么？”
　　“皮尔查德和雷恩说，他们将只安排我执行没有危险的例行飞行任务。”
　　哈弗迈耶精神一振。“我说，这听起来是笔挺好的交易。我本人倒是很欢迎这种交易的。我敢说，你痛痛快快地接受了。”
　　“我拒绝了。”
　　“太死心眼了。”哈弗迈耶傻里傻气的脸上出现了一道道惊愕的皱纹。“我说，这样一笔交易对我们其余的人来说可不怎么公平，对吗？要是你只执行没有危险的例行飞行任务，那么我们中的一些人就得承担起你那份危险的飞行任务，不是吗？”
　　“是的。”
　　“嘿，我可不喜欢这个，”哈弗迈耶大声说。他气呼呼地站起来，双手握拳抵在后腰上。“我一点也不喜欢这个。就因为你***吓破了胆，不敢再执行飞行任务，他们将会拼命地逼我多飞，不是吗？”
　　“你该去找他们谈谈这件事。”约塞连边说边警觉地伸手摸枪。
　　“不，我不是责怪你，”哈弗迈耶说，“虽然我不喜欢你。你知道，我也不大乐意去执行那么多次的飞行任务。难道没有办法使我也从中摆脱出来吗？”
　　约塞连讥讽地窃笑着，开玩笑他说：“带上枪跟我走。”
　　哈弗迈耶若有所思地摇摇头。“不，我不能这么干。要是我当了胆小鬼，那会给我的老婆孩子带来耻辱的。没有人喜欢胆小鬼。
　　再说，我打算战争结束后留在预备役部队里。要是那样的话，我每年可以拿到五百块钱呢。”
　　“那就去执行更多的飞行任务吧。”
　　“是的，我想我只好这样做。我说，你认为他们有没有可能撤销你的战斗编制，把你送回国去？”
　　“没有可能。”
　　“可要是他们真的这样做，而且还让你带一个人走，你挑我好吗？别挑阿普尔比那样的人。挑我吧。”
　　“他们怎么可能做这种事情呢？”
　　“我不知道。可要是他们做了，千万记住是我第一个向你提出要求的，好吗？别忘了把你的情况告诉我。我每天晚上都会在这些灌木丛里等你的。也许，他们不会做任何对你不利的事情，那我也不会再执行更多的飞行任务了。行吗？”
　　第二天，整整一个晚上，不断有人突然从黑暗里冒出来，走到他面前问他的情况。这些神色疲惫忧虑的人全都声称跟他有着某种他根本不曾想到过的异常的秘密关系，以此为借口向他打听机密消息。在他路过时，中队里一些他很不熟悉的人不知打哪儿钻出来，向他询问他眼下的情况。甚至别的中队的人也藏在暗处等他，一个接一个地突然在他面前冒出来。太阳落山以后，不论他走到哪儿，都有人隐藏在那儿等着他，突然钻出来询问他眼下的情况。从树林和灌木丛中，从沟渠和高高的野草丛中，从帐篷角和停着的汽车的挡板后面，到处有人突然冒出来站在他的面前。甚至他的一个同帐篷伙伴也突然冒出来询问他的情况如何，并且恳求他别告诉其他几个同帐篷伙伴他曾突然冒出来过。约塞连总是手按在枪上走近每一个谨慎地隐身在黑暗之中朝他打招呼的人影。他害怕其中有诈，害怕那个悄声细气的黑影最后会一下子变成内特利的妓女，或者，更糟糕的是，变成某个政府当局正式指派的官员，奉命前来毫不留情地把他打昏过去。看起来，他们似乎必定会干这种事情的。他们不愿意以在敌人面前临阵脱逃的罪名对他进行军法审判，因为敌人远在一百三十五英里以外，说在敌人面前很难成立；而且，是约塞连在弗拉拉大桥这个目标上空飞了两圈，最终炸掉大桥并送了克拉夫特的性命的——当他计算他所认识的死人时，他几乎总是忘了克拉夫特。然而，他们非得惩治他不可。人人都在冷眼等待着，想看看将会发生什么可怕的事情。
　　白天，他们总是躲避着他，甚至连阿费也是这样。约塞连理解这一点，这些人白天聚在一起时是一种人，黑暗中各自单独呆着时则变成了另一种人。他一只手按在枪上倒退着走路，对这些人毫不在意。每回皮尔查德上尉和雷恩上尉去大队部跟卡思卡特上校和科恩中校开过紧急会议后开车回来时，他都等着他们带来最新的哄骗、威胁和诱惑。亨格利•乔很少来找他，另一个唯一跟他讲话的人就是布莱克上尉。布莱克上尉每回跟他打招呼时都用快乐的调侃口气称他为“老孤胆英雄”。快到周未的时候，他从罗马回来，告诉约塞连，内特利的妓女不见了，约塞连又是思念又是懊恼，难过得心如刀绞。他十分惦记她。
　　“不见了？”他声音空洞地重复着。
　　“是呀，不见了。”布莱克上尉笑了起来。他那双模模糊糊的眼睛疲劳地眯缝着，瘦削的长脸上和平时一样稀稀拉拉地长着红褐色的胡子茬。他用双拳揉着眼睛下面的眼袋。“我原来想，只要我到了罗马，看在老交情的分上，我无论如何也要让那个愚蠢的浪荡女人再笑个够。你知道吗，我就是要让内特利那小子在坟墓里急得直打滚，哈，哈！还记得我从前是怎么捉弄他的吗？可是，那地方已经空荡荡的了。”
　　“她留下什么口信了吗？”约塞连急切地问。他无时无刻不在想着那个女人，想着她不知忍受着多么大的痛苦。这会儿，没有了她那些凶猛的、无法遏制的袭击，他反而生出几分遭人遗弃的孤独感。
　　“那儿一个人也没有了，”布莱克上尉兴高采烈地大声说，努力想使约塞连明白他的意思。“你难道不明白吗？她们全都走了，那儿整个地方都给砸了。”
　　“都走了？”
　　“是呀，都走了，全都给赶到大街上去了。”布莱克上尉又一次开心地格格笑起来，他那突出的喉结也得意地在他那表面疙疙瘩瘩的脖子里面一上一下地跳动着。“那妓院全空了。宪兵们把整个公寓砸了个稀巴烂，把所有的妓女都赶出去了。这不是件很可笑的事情吗？”
　　约塞连吓得哆咳起来。“他们为什么要这么干？”
　　“管他为什么，那又有什么关系呢？”布莱克上尉兴高采烈地挥了挥手说，“他们把妓女全部赶到大街上去了，一个不剩。你觉得怎么样？”
　　“那个小妹妹呢？”
　　“赶走了，”布莱克上尉笑着说，“和其他浪荡女人一块被赶出去了，赶到大街上去了。”
　　“可她还是个孩子！”约塞连激烈地抗议道，“她在整个城里谁也不认识。她会出什么事呢？”
　　“我管这个干什么？”布莱克上尉漠不关心地耸了耸肩膀回答道。他惊奇地注视了约塞连一会，然后突然高兴地、狡黠地叫了起来。“我说，怎么回事？要是我知道这消息会使你这么不开心的话，我一回来就会赶来告诉你的，就为了让你伤心得死去活来。嗨，你要上哪儿去？快回来，回到这儿来伤心而死吧！”
Chapter 39 The Eternal City
    Yossarian was going absent without official leave with Milo, who, as the plane cruised toward Rome, shook hishead reproachfully and, with pious lips pulsed, informed Yossarian in ecclesiastical tones that he was ashamed ofhim. Yossarian nodded. Yossarian was making an uncouth spectacle of himself by walking around backwardwith his gun on his hip and refusing to fly more combat missions, Milo said. Yossarian nodded. It was disloyal tohis 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 ownsafety while men like Milo, Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen were willing to doeverything they could to win the war. The men with seventy missions were starring to grumble because they hadto 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 histraditional 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 onhis mind, as were Kraft and Orr and Nately and Dunbar, and Kid Sampson and McWatt, and all the poor andstupid and diseased people he had seen in Italy, Egypt and North Africa and knew about in other areas of theworld, and Snowden and Nately’s whore’s kid sister were on his conscience, too. Yossarian thought he knewwhy 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 everyunnatural tragedy that befell them; just as she, even in her grief, was to blame for every man-made misery thatlanded on her kid sister and on all other children behind her. Someone had to do something sometime. Everyvictim was a culprit, every culprit a victim, and somebody had to stand up sometime to try to break the lousychain of inherited habit that was imperiling them all. In parts of Africa little boys were still stolen away by adultslave traders and sold for money to men who disemboweled them and ate them. Yossarian marveled that childrencould suffer such barbaric sacrifice without evincing the slightest hint of fear or pain. He took it for granted thatthey did submit so stoically. If not, he reasoned, the custom would certainly have died, for no craving for wealthor 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 wayColonel 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 amedal after the last mission to Ferrara and promoted him to captain? Yossarian nodded. Didn’t they feed him andgive him his pay every month? Yossarian nodded again. Milo was sure they would be charitable if he went tothem to apologize and recant and promise to fly eighty missions. Yossarian said he would think it over, and heldhis breath and prayed for a safe landing as Milo dropped his wheels and glided in toward the runway. It wasfunny how he had really come to detest flying.
　　Rome was in ruins, he saw, when the plane was down. The airdrome had been bombed eight months before, andknobby slabs of white stone rubble had been bulldozed into flat-topped heaps on both sides of the entrancethrough the wire fence surrounding the field. The Colosseum was a dilapidated shell, and the Arch ofConstantine had fallen. Nately’s whore’s apartment was a shambles. The girls were gone, and the only one therewas the old woman. The windows in the apartment had been smashed. She was bundled up in sweaters and skirtsand wore a dark shawl about her head. She sat on a wooden chair near an electric hot plate, her arms folded,boiling water in a battered aluminum pot. She was talking aloud to herself when Yossarian entered and beganmoaning as soon as she saw him.
　　“Gone,” she moaned before he could even inquire. Holding her elbows, she rocked back and forth mournfully onher creaking chair. “Gone.”
　　“Who?”
　　“All. All the poor young girls.”
　　“Where?”
　　“Away. Chased away into the street. All of them gone. All the poor young girls.”
　　“Chased away by who? Who did it?”
　　“The mean tall soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. And by our carabinieri. They came with their clubsand chased them away. They would not even let them take their coats. The poor things. They just chased themaway into the cold.”
　　“Did they arrest them?”
　　“They chased them away. They just chased them away.”
　　“Then why did they do it if they didn’t arrest them?”
　　“I don’t know,” sobbed the old woman. “I don’t know. Who will take care of me? Who will take care of me nowthat all the poor young girls are gone? Who will take care of me?”
　　“There must have been a reason,” Yossarian persisted, pounding his fist into his hand. “They couldn’t just bargein here and chase everyone out.”
　　“No reason,” wailed the old woman. “No reason.”
　　“What right did they have?”
　　“Catch-22.”
　　“What?” Yossarian froze in his tracks with fear and alarm and felt his whole body begin to tingle. “What did yousay?”
　　“Catch-22” the old woman repeated, rocking her head up and down. “Catch-22. Catch-22 says they have a right to do anything we can’t stop them from doing.”
　　“What the hell are you talking about?” Yossarian shouted at her in bewildered, furious protest. “How did youknow it was Catch-22? Who the hell told you it was Catch-22?”
　　“The soldiers with the hard white hats and clubs. The girls were crying. ‘Did we do anything wrong?’ they said.
　　The men said no and pushed them away out the door with the ends of their clubs. ‘Then why are you chasing usout?’ the girls said. ‘Catch-22,’ the men said. ‘What right do you have?’ the girls said. ‘Catch-22,’ the men said.
　　All they kept saying was ‘Catch-22, Catch-22.’ What does it mean, Catch-22? What is Catch-22?”
　　“Didn’t they show it to you?” Yossarian demanded, stamping about in anger and distress. “Didn’t you even makethem read it?”
　　“They don’t have to show us Catch-22,” the old woman answered. “The law says they don’t have to.”
　　“What law says they don’t have to?”
　　“Catch-22.”
　　“Oh, God damn!” Yossarian exclaimed bitterly. “I bet it wasn’t even really there.” He stopped walking andglanced about the room disconsolately. “Where’s the old man?”
　　“Gone,” mourned the old woman.
　　“Gone?”
　　“Dead,” the old woman told him, nodding in emphatic lament, pointing to her head with the flat of her hand.
　　“Something broke in here. One minute he was living, one minute he was dead.”
　　“But he can’t be dead!” Yossarian cried, ready to argue insistently. But of course he knew it was true, knew itwas logical and true; once again the old man had marched along with the majority.
　　Yossarian turned away and trudged through the apartment with a gloomy scowl, peering with pessimisticcuriosity into all the rooms. Everything made of glass had been smashed by the men with the clubs. Torn drapesand bedding lay dumped on the floor. Chairs, tables and dressers had been overturned. Everything breakable hadbeen broken. The destruction was total. No wild vandals could have been more thorough. Every window wassmashed, and darkness poured like inky clouds into each room through the shattered panes. Yossarian couldimagine the heavy, crashing footfalls of the tall M.P.s in the hard white hats. He could picture the fiery andmalicious exhilaration with which they had made their wreckage, and their sanctimonious, ruthless sense of rightand dedication. All the poor young girls were gone. Everyone was gone but the weeping old woman in the bulkybrown and gray sweaters and black head shawl, and soon she too would be gone.
　　“Gone,” she grieved, when he walked back in, before he could even speak. “Who will take care of me now?”
　　Yossarian ignored the question. “Nately’s girl friend—did anyone hear from her?” he asked.
　　“Gone.”
　　“I know she’s gone. But did anyone hear from her? Does anyone know where she is?”
　　“Gone.”
　　“The little sister. What happened to her?”
　　“Gone.” The old woman’s tone had not changed.
　　“Do you know what I’m talking about?” Yossarian asked sharply, staring into her eyes to see if she were notspeaking to him from a coma. He raised his voice. “What happened to the kid sister, to the little girl?”
　　“Gone, gone,” the old woman replied with a crabby shrug, irritated by his persistence, her low wail growinglouder. “Chased away with the rest, chased away into the street. They would not even let her take her coat.”
　　“Where did she go?”
　　“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
　　“Who will take care of her?”
　　“Who will take care of me?”
　　“She doesn’t know anybody else, does she?”
　　“Who will take care of me?”
　　Yossarian left money in the old woman’s lap—it was odd how many wrongs leaving money seemed to right—and strode out of the apartment, cursing Catch-22 vehemently as he descended the stairs, even though he knewthere was no such thing. Catch-22 did not exist, he was positive of that, but it made no difference. What didmatter was that everyone thought it existed, and that was much worse, for there was no object or text to ridiculeor refute, to accuse, criticize, attack, amend, hate, revile, spit at, rip to shreds, trample upon or burn up.
　　It was cold outside, and dark, and a leaky, insipid mist lay swollen in the air and trickled down the large,unpolished stone blocks of the houses and the pedestals of monuments. Yossarian hurried back to Milo andrecanted. He said he was sorry and, knowing he was lying, promised to fly as many more missions as ColonelCathcart wanted if Milo would only use all his influence in Rome to help him locate Nately’s whore’s kid sister.
　　“She’s just a twelve-year-old virgin, Milo,” he explained anxiously, “and I want to find her before it’s too late.”
　　Milo responded to his request with a benign smile. “I’ve got just the twelve-year-old virgin you’re looking for,”
　　he announced jubilantly. “This twelve-year-old virgin is really only thirty-four, but she was brought up on a low-protein diet by very strict parents and didn’t start sleeping with men until—““Milo, I’m talking about a little girl!” Yossarian interrupted him with desperate impatience. “Don’t youunderstand? I don’t want to sleep with her. I want to help her. You’ve got daughters. She’s just a little kid, andshe’s all alone in this city with no one to take care of her. I want to protect her from harm. Don’t you know whatI’m talking about?”
　　Milo did understand and was deeply touched. “Yossarian, I’m proud of you,” he exclaimed with profoundemotion. “I really am. You don’t know how glad I am to see that everything isn’t always just sex with you.
　　You’ve got principles. Certainly I’ve got daughters, and I know exactly what you’re talking about. We’ll findthat girl if we have to turn this whole city upside down. Come along.”
　　Yossarian went along in Milo Minderbinder’s speeding M & M staff car to police headquarters to meet aswarthy, untidy police commissioner with a narrow black mustache and unbuttoned tunic who was fiddling witha stout woman with warts and two chins when they entered his office and who greeted Milo with warm surpriseand bowed and scraped in obscene servility as though Milo were some elegant marquis.
　　“Ah, Marchese Milo,” he declared with effusive pleasure, pushing the fat, disgruntled woman out the doorwithout even looking toward her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I would have a big party for you.
　　Come in, come in, Marchese. You almost never visit us any more.”
　　Milo knew that there was not one moment to waste. “Hello, Luigi,” he said, nodding so briskly that he almostseemed rude. “Luigi, I need your help. My friend here wants to find a girl.”
　　“A girl, Marchese?” said Luigi, scratching his face pensively. “There are lots of girls in Rome. For an Americanofficer, a girl should not be too difficult.”
　　“No, Luigi, you don’t understand. This is a twelve-year-old virgin that he has to find right away.”
　　“Ah, yes, now I understand,” Luigi said sagaciously. “A virgin might take a little time. But if he waits at the busterminal where the young farm girls looking for work arrive, I—““Luigi, you still don’t understand,” Milo snapped with such brusque impatience that the police commissioner’sface flushed and he jumped to attention and began buttoning his uniform in confusion. “This girl is a friend, anold friend of the family, and we want to help her. She’s only a child. She’s all alone in this city somewhere, andwe have to find her before somebody harms her. Now do you understand? Luigi, this is very important to me. Ihave a daughter the same age as that little girl, and nothing in the world means more to me right now than savingthat poor child before it’s too late. Will you help?”
　　“Si, Marchese, now I understand,” said Luigi. “And I will do everything in my power to find her. But tonight I have almost no men. Tonight all my men are busy trying to break up the traffic in illegal tobacco.”
　　“Illegal tobacco?” asked Milo.
　　“Milo,” Yossarian bleated faintly with a sinking heart, sensing at once that all was lost.
　　“Si, Marchese,” said Luigi. “The profit in illegal tobacco is so high that the smuggling is almost impossible tocontrol.”
　　“Is there really that much profit in illegal tobacco?” Milo inquired with keen interest, his rust-colored eyebrowsarching avidly and his nostrils sniffing.
　　“Milo,” Yossarian called to him. “Pay attention to me, will you?”
　　“Si, Marchese,” Luigi answered. “The profit in illegal tobacco is very high. The smuggling is a national scandal,Marchese, truly a national disgrace.”
　　“Is that a fact?” Milo observed with a preoccupied smile and started toward the door as though in a spell.
　　“Milo!” Yossarian yelled, and bounded forward impulsively to intercept him. “Milo, you’ve got to help me.”
　　“Illegal tobacco,” Milo explained to him with a look of epileptic lust, struggling doggedly to get by. “Let me go.
　　I’ve got to smuggle illegal tobacco.”
　　“Stay here and help me find her,” pleaded Yossarian. “You can smuggle illegal tobacco tomorrow.”
　　But Milo was deaf and kept pushing forward, nonviolently but irresistibly, sweating, his eyes, as though he werein the grip of a blind fixation, burning feverishly, and his twitching mouth slavering. He moaned calmly asthough in remote, instinctive distress and kept repeating, “Illegal tobacco, illegal tobacco.” Yossarian stepped outof the way with resignation finally when he saw it was hopeless to try to reason with him. Milo was gone like ashot. The commissioner of police unbuttoned his tunic again and looked at Yossarian with contempt.
　　“What do you want here?” he asked coldly. “Do you want me to arrest you?”
　　Yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in the hall the stoutwoman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way back in. There was no sign of Milo outside. Therewere no lights in any of the windows. The deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several blocks. Hecould see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long cobblestone incline. The police station was almost atthe bottom; the yellow bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. A frigid, fine rain wasfalling. He began walking slowly, pushing uphill. Soon he came to a quiet, cozy, inviting restaurant with redvelvet drapes in the windows and a blue neon sign near the door that said: TONY’s RESTAURANT FINEFOOD AND DRINK. KEEP OUT. The words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an instant.
　　Nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted surroundings. The tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic perspective, and the street seemed tilted. He raised the collar of his warm woolencoat and hugged it around him. The night was raw. A boy in a thin shirt and thin tattered trousers walked out ofthe darkness on bare feet. The boy had black hair and needed a haircut and shoes and socks. His sickly face waspale and sad. His feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the wet pavement as he passed,and Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly facewith his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in Italythat same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and socks. He made Yossarian think of cripples and ofcold and hungry men and women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers with catatonic eyes nursinginfants outdoors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly to that same raw rain. Cows. Almoston cue, a nursing mother padded past holding an infant in black rags, and Yossarian wanted to smash her too,because she reminded him of the barefoot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers and of all the shivering,stupefying misery in a world that never yet had provided enough heat and food and justice for all but aningenious and unscrupulous handful. What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were destitute thatsame night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands weredrunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused or abandoned. How many familieshungered for food they could not afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides would takeplace that same night, how many people would go insane? How many cockroaches and landlords wouldtriumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures, rich men poor men? How many wise guys werestupid? How many happy endings were unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave mencowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of trust had soldtheir souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never had souls? How many straight-and-narrow pathswere crooked paths? How many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people?
　　When you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children, and perhaps withAlbert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere. Yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged,and could not wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly cheeks until he turnedthe corner into the avenue finally and came upon an Allied soldier having convulsions on the ground, a younglieutenant with a small, pale, boyish face. Six other soldiers from different countries wrestled with different partsof him, striving to help him and hold him still. He yelped and groaned unintelligibly through clenched teeth, hiseyes rolled up into his head. “Don’t let him bite his tongue off,” a short sergeant near Yossarian advisedshrewdly, and a seventh man threw himself into the fray to wrestle with the ill lieutenant’s face. All at once thewrestlers won and turned to each other undecidedly, for now that they held the young lieutenant rigid they didnot know what to do with him. A quiver of moronic panic spread from one straining brute face to another. “Whydon’t you lift him up and put him on the hood of that car?” a corporal standing in back of Yossarian drawled.
　　That seemed to make sense, so the seven men lifted the young lieutenant up and stretched him out carefully onthe hood of a parked car, still pinning each struggling part of him down. Once they had him stretched out on thehood of the parked car, they stared at each other uneasily again, for they had no idea what to do with him next.
　　“Why don’t you lift him up off the hood of that car and lay him down on the ground?” drawled the same corporalbehind Yossarian. That seemed like a good idea, too, and they began to move him back to the sidewalk, butbefore they could finish, a jeep raced up with a flashing red spotlight at the side and two military policemen inthe front seat.
　　“What’s going on?” the driver yelled.
　　“He’s having convulsions,” one of the men grappling with one of the young lieutenant’s limbs answered. “We’reholding him still.”
　　“That’s good. He’s under arrest.”
　　“What should we do with him?”
　　“Keep him under arrest!” the M.P. shouted, doubling over with raucous laughter at his jest, and sped away in hisjeep.
　　Yossarian recalled that he had no leave papers and moved prudently past the strange group toward the sound ofmuffled voices emanating from a distance inside the murky darkness ahead. The broad, rain-blotched boulevardwas illuminated every half-block by short, curling lampposts with eerie, shimmering glares surrounded by smokybrown mist. From a window overhead he heard an unhappy female voice pleading, “Please don’t. Please don’t.”
　　A despondent young woman in a black raincoat with much black hair on her face passed with her eyes lowered.
　　At the Ministry of Public Affairs on the next block, a drunken lady was backed up against one of the flutedCorinthian columns by a drunken young soldier, while three drunken comrades in arms sat watching nearby onthe steps with wine bottles standing between their legs. “Pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady. “I want to gohome now. Pleeshe don’t.” One of the sitting men cursed pugnaciously and hurled a wine bottle at Yossarianwhen he turned to look up. The bottle shattered harmlessly far away with a brief and muted noise. Yossariancontinued walking away at the same listless, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets. “Come on, baby,” heheard the drunken soldier urge determinedly. “It’s my turn now.” “Pleeshe don’t,” begged the drunken lady.
　　“Pleeshe don’t.” At the very next corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding sidestreet, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow. The measured, labored,evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb tocross the ominous alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left behind. Now heknew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he would come to the dry fountain in the middle ofthe boulevard, then to the officers’ apartment seven blocks beyond. He heard snarling, inhuman voices cuttingthrough the ghostly blackness in front suddenly. The bulb on the corner lamp post had died, spilling gloom overhalf the street, throwing everything visible off balance. On the other side of the intersection, a man was beating adog with a stick like the man who was beating the horse with a whip in Raskolnikov’s dream. Yossarian strainedhelplessly not to see or hear. The dog whimpered and squealed in brute, dumbfounded hysteria at the end of anold Manila rope and groveled and crawled on its belly without resisting, but the man beat it and beat it anywaywith his heavy, flat stick. A small crowd watched. A squat woman stepped out and asked him please to stop.
　　“Mind your own business,” the man barked gruffly, lifting his stick as though he might beat her too, and thewoman retreated sheepishly with an abject and humiliated air. Yossarian quickened his pace to get away, almostran. The night was filled with horrors, and he thought he knew how Christ must have felt as he walked throughthe world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim through a prison full of thieves. What awelcome sight a leper must have been! At the next corner a man was beating a small boy brutally in the midst ofan immobile crowd of adult spectators who made no effort to intervene. Yossarian recoiled with sickeningrecognition. He was certain he had witnessed that same horrible scene sometime before. Déjà vu? The sinistercoincidence shook him and filled him with doubt and dread. It was the same scene he had witnessed a blockbefore, although everything in it seemed quite different. What in the world was happening? Would a squat woman step out and ask the man to please stop? Would he raise his hand to strike her and would she retreat?
　　Nobody moved. The child cried steadily as though in drugged misery. The man kept knocking him down withhard, resounding open-palm blows to the head, then jerking him up to his feet in order to knock him down again.
　　No one in the sullen, cowering crowd seemed to care enough about the stunned and beaten boy to interfere. Thechild was no more than nine. One drab woman was weeping silently into a dirty dish towel. The boy wasemaciated and needed a haircut. Bright-red blood was streaming from both ears. Yossarian crossed quickly to theother side of the immense avenue to escape the nauseating sight and found himself walking on human teeth lyingon the drenched, glistening pavement near splotches of blood kept sticky by the pelting raindrops poking eachone like sharp fingernails. Molars and broken incisors lay scattered everywhere. He circled on tiptoe thegrotesque debris and came near a doorway containing a crying soldier holding a saturated handkerchief to hismouth, supported as he sagged by two other soldiers waiting in grave impatience for the military ambulance thatfinally came clanging up with amber fog lights on and passed them by for an altercation on the next blockbetween a civilian Italian with books and a slew of civilian policemen with armlocks and clubs. The screaming,struggling civilian was a dark man with a face white as flour from fear. His eyes were pulsating in hecticdesperation, flapping like bat’s wings, as the many tall policemen seized him by the arms and legs and lifted himup. His books were spilled on the ground. “Help!” he shrieked shrilly in a voice strangling in its own emotion, asthe policemen carried him to the open doors in the rear of the ambulance and threw him inside. “Police! Help!
　　Police!” The doors were shut and bolted, and the ambulance raced away. There was a humorless irony in theludicrous panic of the man screaming for help to the police while policemen were all around him. Yossariansmiled wryly at the futile and ridiculous cry for aid, then saw with a start that the words were ambiguous,realized with alarm that they were not, perhaps, intended as a call for police but as a heroic warning from thegrave by a doomed friend to everyone who was not a policeman with a club and a gun and a mob of otherpolicemen with clubs and guns to back him up. “Help! Police!” the man had cried, and he could have beenshouting of danger. Yossarian responded to the thought by slipping away stealthily from the police and almosttripped over the feet of a burly woman of forty hastening across the intersection guiltily, darting furtive,vindictive glances behind her toward a woman of eighty with thick, bandaged ankles doddering after her in alosing pursuit. The old woman was gasping for breath as she minced along and muttering to herself in distractedagitation. There was no mistaking the nature of the scene; it was a chase. The triumphant first woman washalfway across the wide avenue before the second woman reached the curb. The nasty, small, gloating smile withwhich she glanced back at the laboring old woman was both wicked and apprehensive. Yossarian knew he couldhelp the troubled old woman if she would only cry out, knew he could spring forward and capture the sturdy firstwoman and hold her for the mob of policemen nearby if the second woman would only give him license with ashriek of distress. But the old woman passed by without even seeing him, mumbling in terrible, tragic vexation,and soon the first woman had vanished into the deepening layers of darkness and the old woman was leftstanding helplessly in the center of the thoroughfare, dazed, uncertain which way to proceed, alone. Yossariantore his eyes from her and hurried away in shame because he had done nothing to assist her. He darted furtive,guilty glances back as he fled in defeat, afraid the old woman might now start following him, and he welcomedthe concealing shelter of the drizzling, drifting, lightless, nearly opaque gloom. Mobs... mobs of policemen—everything but England was in the hands of mobs, mobs, mobs. Mobs with clubs were in control everywhere.
　　The surface of the collar and shoulders of Yossarian’s coat was soaked. His socks were wet and cold. The lighton the next lamppost was out, too, the glass globe broken. Buildings and featureless shapes flowed by himnoiselessly as though borne past immutably on the surface of some rank and timeless tide. A tall monk passed, his face buried entirely inside a coarse gray cowl, even the eyes hidden. Footsteps sloshed toward him steadilythrough a puddle, and he feared it would be another barefoot child. He brushed by a gaunt, cadaverous, tristfulman in a black raincoat with a star-shaped scar in his cheek and a glossy mutilated depression the size of an eggin one temple. On squishing straw sandals, a young woman materialized with her whole face disfigured by aGod-awful pink and piebald burn that started on her neck and stretched in a raw, corrugated mass up both cheekspast her eyes! Yossarian could not bear to look, and shuddered. No one would ever love her. His spirit was sick;he longed to lie down with some girl he could love who would soothe and excite him and put him to sleep. Amob with a club was waiting for him in Pianosa. The girls were all gone. The countess and her daughter-in-lawwere no longer good enough; he had grown too old for fun, he no longer had the time. Luciana was gone, dead,probably; if not yet, then soon enough. Aarfy’s buxom trollop had vanished with her smutty cameo ring, andNurse Duckett was ashamed of him because he had refused to fly more combat missions and would cause ascandal. The only girl he knew nearby was the plain maid in the officers’ apartment, whom none of the men hadever slept with. Her name was Michaela, but the men called her filthy things in dulcet, ingratiating voices, andshe giggled with childish joy because she understood no English and thought they were flattering her and makingharmless jokes. Everything wild she watched them do filled her with enchanted delight. She was a happy,simple-minded, hard-working girl who could not read and was barely able to write her name. Her straight hairwas the color of rotting straw. She had sallow skin and myopic eyes, and none of the men had ever slept with herbecause none of the men had ever wanted to, none but Aarfy, who had raped her once that same evening and hadthen held her prisoner in a clothes closet for almost two hours with his hand over her mouth until the civiliancurfew sirens sounded and it was unlawful for her to be outside.
　　Then he threw her out the window. Her dead body was still lying on the pavement when Yossarian arrived andpushed his way politely through the circle of solemn neighbors with dim lanterns, who glared with venom asthey shrank away from him and pointed up bitterly toward the second-floor windows in their private, grim,accusing conversations. Yossarian’s heart pounded with fright and horror at the pitiful, ominous, gory spectacleof the broken corpse. He ducked into the hallway and bolted up the stairs into the apartment, where he foundAarfy pacing about uneasily with a pompous, slightly uncomfortable smile. Aarfy seemed a bit unsettled as hefidgeted with his pipe and assured Yossarian that everything was going to be all right. There was nothing toworry about.
　　“I only raped her once,” he explained.
　　Yossarian was aghast. “But you killed her, Aarfy! You killed her!”
　　“Oh, I had to do that after I raped her,” Aarfy replied in his most condescending manner. “I couldn’t very well lether go around saying bad things about us, could I?”
　　“But why did you have to touch her at all, you dumb bastard?” Yossarian shouted. “Why couldn’t you getyourself a girl off the street if you wanted one? The city is full of prostitutes.”
　　“Oh, no, not me,” Aarfy bragged. “I never paid for it in my life.”
　　“Aarfy, are you insane?” Yossarian was almost speechless. “You killed a girl. They’re going to put you in jail!”
　　“Oh, no,” Aarfy answered with a forced smile. “Not me. They aren’t going to put good old Aarfy in jail. Not forkilling her.”
　　“But you threw her out the window. She’s lying dead in the street.”
　　“She has no right to be there,” Aarfy answered. “It’s after curfew.”
　　“Stupid! Don’t you realize what you’ve done?” Yossarian wanted to grab Aarfy by his well-fed, caterpillar-softshoulders and shake some sense into him. “You’ve murdered a human being. They are going to put you in jail.
　　They might even hang you!”
　　“Oh, I hardly think they’ll do that,” Aarfy replied with a jovial chuckle, although his symptoms of nervousnessincreased. He spilled tobacco crumbs unconsciously as his short fingers fumbled with the bowl of his pipe. “No,sirree. Not to good old Aarfy.” He chortled again. “She was only a servant girl. I hardly think they’re going tomake too much of a fuss over one poor Italian servant girl when so many thousands of lives are being lost everyday. Do you?”
　　“Listen!” Yossarian cried, almost in joy. He pricked up his ears and watched the blood drain from Aarfy’s faceas sirens mourned far away, police sirens, and then ascended almost instantaneously to a howling, strident,onrushing cacophony of overwhelming sound that seemed to crash into the room around them from every side.
　　“Aarfy, they’re coming for you,” he said in a flood of compassion, shouting to be heard above the noise.
　　“They’re coming to arrest you. Aarfy, don’t you understand? You can’t take the life of another human being andget away with it, even if she is just a poor servant girl. Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?”
　　“Oh, no,” Aarfy insisted with a lame laugh and a weak smile. “They’re not coming to arrest me. Not good oldAarfy.”
　　All at once he looked sick. He sank down on a chair in a trembling stupor, his stumpy, lax hands quaking in hislap. Cars skidded to a stop outside. Spotlights hit the windows immediately. Car doors slammed and policewhistles screeched. Voices rose harshly. Aarfy was green. He kept shaking his head mechanically with a queer,numb smile and repeating in a weak, hollow monotone that they were not coming for him, not for good oldAarfy, no sirree, striving to convince himself that this was so even as heavy footsteps raced up the stairs andpounded across the landing, even as fists beat on the door four times with a deafening, inexorable force. Then thedoor to the apartment flew open, and two large, tough, brawny M.P.s with icy eyes and firm, sinewy, unsmilingjaws entered quickly, strode across the room, and arrested Yossarian.
　　They arrested Yossarian for being in Rome without a pass.
　　They apologized to Aarfy for intruding and led Yossarian away between them, gripping him under each arm withfingers as hard as steel manacles. They said nothing at all to him on the way down. Two more tall M.P.s withclubs and hard white helmets were waiting outside at a closed car. They marched Yossarian into the back seat,and the car roared away and weaved through the rain and muddy fog to a police station. The M.P.s locked him up for the night in a cell with four stone walls. At dawn they gave him a pail for a latrine and drove him to theairport, where two more giant M.P.s with clubs and white helmets were waiting at a transport plane whoseengines were already warming up when they arrived, the cylindrical green cowlings oozing quivering beads ofcondensation. None of the M.P.s said anything to each other either. They did not even nod. Yossarian had neverseen such granite faces. The plane flew to Pianosa. Two more silent M.P.s were waiting at the landing strip.
　　There were now eight, and they filed with precise, wordless discipline into two cars and sped on humming tirespast the four squadron areas to the Group Headquarters building, where still two more M.P.s were waiting at theparking area. All ten tall, strong, purposeful, silent men towered around him as they turned toward the entrance.
　　Their footsteps crunched in loud unison on the cindered ground. He had an impression of accelerating haste. Hewas terrified. Every one of the ten M.P.s seemed powerful enough to bash him to death with a single blow. Theyhad only to press their massive, toughened, boulderous shoulders against him to crush all life from his body.
　　There was nothing he could do to save himself. He could not even see which two were gripping him under thearms as they marched him rapidly between the two tight single-file columns they had formed. Their pacequickened, and he felt as though he were flying along with his feet off the ground as they trotted in resolutecadence up the wide marble staircase to the upper landing, where still two more inscrutable military policemenwith hard faces were waiting to lead them all at an even faster pace down the long, cantilevered balconyoverhanging the immense lobby. Their marching footsteps on the dull tile floor thundered like an awesome,quickening drum roll through the vacant center of the building as they moved with even greater speed andprecision toward Colonel Cathcart’s office, and violent winds of panic began blowing in Yossarian’s ears whenthey turned him toward his doom inside the office, where Colonel Korn, his rump spreading comfortably on acorner of Colonel Cathcart’s desk, sat waiting to greet him with a genial smile and said,“We’re sending you home.”
 39、不朽之城
　　约塞连未经上司许可就擅自离队，搭乘米洛的飞机跟他一块飞往罗马。在飞机上，米洛责备地晃着脑袋，虔诚地咂起嘴唇，以教士的口吻对他说，他为他感到羞愧。约塞连点点头，米洛接着说，约塞连把枪挎在屁股后面倒退着走路，并拒绝执行更多的飞行任务，这是自己给自己出丑。约塞连点点头。米洛又说，这种做法是对他自己中队的背叛，既让他的上司感到为难，又使米洛处于一种极为难堪的境地。约塞连又点点头。米洛又说，官兵们已经开始抱怨了。约塞连仅仅考虑他自身的安全，而像米洛、卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和前一等兵温特格林这样的人却都在全力以赴打赢这场战争，这未免太不公平了。已经执行了七十次飞行任务的人也开始抱怨了，因为他们不得不飞满八十次。危险的是，他们中的某些人可能也会挎上枪，开始倒退着走路。士气正变得越来越低落，这全都是约塞连一手造成的。国家正处在生死存亡的关头，他却胆敢滥用自由、独立等等传统权利，从而危及到这些权利本身。
　　米洛没完没了地唠叨着，约塞连坐在副驾驶员的座位上，一边不住地点着头，一边却竭力不去听他的唠叨。约塞连满脑子想的全是内特利的妓女，还有克拉夫特、奥尔、内特利、邓巴、基德•桑普森、麦克沃特，以及他在意大利、埃及和北非见到过的那些贫穷、愚笨、疾病缠身的人。他知道，在世界上别的地区也有这样的人。斯诺登和内特利的妓女的小妹妹也使他感到良心不安。约塞连觉得，他现在明白了内特利的妓女为什么认为他对内特利的死负有责任，为什么要杀死他。她为什么不应该这样做呢？这是一个男人的世界，各种非自然的灾祸全都降临到她和其他所有年纪较轻的人的头上，为此，她们每个人都有充分的权利谴责他和其他所有年纪较大的人，正如她自己，即使她正处于悲伤之中，也应当为降临到她的小妹妹和其他所有孩子头上的种种人为的苦难而受谴责一样。某人某时总得做某件事。每个受害者都是犯罪者，每个犯罪者又都是受害者。总得有某个人在某个时候站出来打碎那条危及所有人的传统习俗的可恶锁链。在非洲的某些地方，幼小的男孩子仍然被成年的奴隶贩子偷去卖掉赚钱。那些买主把他们开膛破肚，然后吃掉他们。约塞连感到不可思议，这些孩子怎么能够身受如此野蛮的残害却未曾流露出丝毫的惧怕和痛苦呢？他认定这是他们的忍受力特别强的缘故。他想，要不然的话，这种习俗肯定早已消亡，因为，他觉得，无论人们对财富或长生不老的渴望多么强烈，都不至于使他们拿孩子们的痛苦去换取这些。
　　米洛说，约塞连是在捣乱。约塞连又一次点点头。米洛说，约塞连不是队里的一个好成员。约塞连点点头，听着米洛告诉他，如果他不喜欢卡思卡特上校和科恩中校管理大队的方式，那么他应该做的是离队去俄国，而不是留在这儿兴风作浪。约塞连本来想说，如果卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和米洛不喜欢他在这儿兴风作浪的话，他们可以统统去俄国，但他还是忍住了没说出口。米洛说，卡思卡特上校和科恩中校两个人一直对约塞连很好，上一次执行轰炸弗拉拉的任务之后，他们不是还发给他一枚勋章并提拔他为上尉吗？约塞连点点头。难道不是他们供给他吃的并按月发给他军饷的吗？约塞连又点点头。米洛确信，如果他前去向他们赔罪认错，答应执行八十次飞行任务，他们肯定会宽大为怀的。约塞连说，这件事他会考虑的。当米洛放下飞机轮子，朝着跑道滑降下去时，约塞连屏住呼吸，祈求上帝保佑平安降落。真是可笑，他怎么竟会变得这么厌恶飞行呢？
　　飞机降落后，他看到罗马已是一片废墟。飞机场八个月前曾遭到轰炸。在机场入口的两侧可以看见一个个推土机推成的平顶白色碎石瓦砾堆，机场周围的铁丝网也全给推土机推倒了。圆形剧场只剩下残垣断壁，君士但丁拱门也已经倒塌了。内待利的妓女的公寓墙倒屋塌，窗玻璃全都砸破了。妓女们都不在了，只剩下那个老太婆守在那儿。她身上左一层右一层地裹着毛线衣和裙子，头上蒙着一条深色的围巾。她双臂抱拢在胸前，坐在电炉旁边的一张木头椅子上，正用一只破铝锅烧开水呢。约塞连进门时，她正在大声地自言自语。一看见他，她就呜咽开了。
　　“走了，”他还没开口问话，她就呜咽着说。她抱住自己的胳膊时，在那张吱嘎作响的椅子上悲伤地前后摇晃着。“走了。”
　　“谁走了？”
　　“全都走了。所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。”
　　“去哪儿了？”
　　“外面。全都被赶到外面大街上去了。她们全都走了，所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。”
　　“被谁赶走了？是谁干的？”
　　“是那些下流的高个子士兵，他们戴着硬邦邦的白帽子，手里拿着棍子。还有我们的宪兵。他们拿着棍子把她们往外赶，连外衣也不让她们穿。可怜的姑娘们。他们就这么把她们全都赶到外面去挨冻。”
　　“他们逮捕她们了吗？”
　　“他们把她们赶走了，他们就这么把她们赶走了。”
　　“如果他们没有逮捕她们，那为什么要把她们赶走呢？”
　　“我不知道，”老太婆抽泣着说道，“我不知道。谁来照顾我呢？
　　现在所有那些可怜的年轻姑娘都走了，还有谁来照顾我呢？谁来照顾我呢？”
　　“这总得有个理由，”约塞连固执地说。他用一只拳头使劲捶着另一只手掌。“他们总不能就这么闯进来把所有的人都赶出去吧。”
　　“没有理由，”老太婆呜咽道，“没有理由。”
　　“那他们有什么权利这么做？”
　　“第二十二条军规。”
　　“什么？”约塞连惊恐万状，一下子愣住了。他感到自己浑身上下针扎般地疼痛。“你刚才说什么？”
　　“第二十二条军规。”老太婆晃着脑袋又说了一遍。“第二十二条军规。第二十二条军规说，他们有权利做任何事情，我们不能阻止他们，”“你到底在讲些什么？”约塞连困惑不解，怒气冲冲地朝她喊叫道，“你怎么知道是第二十二条军规？到底是谁告诉你是第二十二条军规的？”
　　“是那些戴着硬邦邦的白帽子、拿着棍子的大兵。姑娘们在哭泣。‘我们做错了什么事？’她们问。那些兵一边说没做错什么，一边用棍子尖把她们往门外推。‘那你们为什么把我们赶出去呢？’姑娘们问。‘第二十二条军规，’那些兵说。他们只是一遍又一遍地说‘第二十二条军规，第二十二条军规’。这是什么意思，第二十二条军规？什么是第二十二条军规？”
　　“他们没有给你看看第二十二条军规吗？”约塞连问。他恼火地跺着脚走来走去。“你们就没有叫他们念一念吗？”
　　“他们没有必要给我们看第二＋条军规，”老太婆回答道。
　　“法律说，他们没有必要这么做。”
　　“什么法律说他们没有必要这么做？”
　　“第二十二条军规。”
　　“唉，真该死！”约塞连恶狠狠地嚷道，“我敢打赌，它根本就不存在。”他停住步，闷闷不乐地环顾了一下房间。“那个老头在哪？”
　　“不在了，”老太婆悲伤地说。
　　“不在了？”
　　“死了，”老太婆对他说。她极为悲哀地点点头，又把手掌朝着自己的脑袋挥了挥。“这里面有什么东西破裂了。一分钟前他还活着，一分钟后他就死了。”
　　“但他不可能死！”约塞连叫道。他很想坚持自己的观点，可他当然知道那是真的，知道那是合乎逻辑的，是符合事实的：这个老头和大多数人走的是一条路。
　　约塞连转身出去，步履沉重地在公寓里转了一圈，他阴沉着脸，既悲观又好奇地把所有的房间窥视了一遍。玻璃制品全都被那些兵用棍子砸碎了。撕成一条条的窗帘和被单乱七八糟扔了一地。
　　椅子、桌子和梳妆台全都给打翻了。所有能砸碎的东西全部给砸碎了。这场破坏真是干净彻底，野蛮的汪达尔人也只能干到如此地步。所有的窗子都打破了，乌云般的黑暗穿过破碎的窗格玻璃涌入每个房间。约塞连能够想象得出那些戴着硬邦邦的白色钢盔的高个子宪兵砰砰的沉重脚步声，能够想象得出他们乱砸乱摔时那副狠毒而又兴致勃勃的样子，以及他们那种伪善的、冷酷的所谓正义感和献身精神。所有可怜的年轻姑娘都走了。所有人都走了，只剩下这个穿着一层层肥大的褐色和灰色的毛线衣、戴着黑色围巾的老太婆。她很快也会走的。
　　“走了，”约塞连走了回来，还没来得及开口讲话，她就悲伤他说道，“现在谁来照顾我呢？”
　　约塞连没有理会她的问话。“内特利的女朋友——有人听到过她的消息吗？”他问。
　　“走了，”“我知道她走了。可有人听到过她的消息吗？有人知道她在哪儿吗？”
　　“走了。”
　　“还有她那个小妹妹，她怎么样了呢？”
　　“走了。”老太婆的声调没有任何变化。
　　“你知道我在说什么吗？”约塞连严厉地问道。他逼视着她的眼睛，想弄清楚她对他讲话时头脑是否清醒。他提高了嗓门。“那个小妹妹怎么样了，那个小姑娘？”
　　“走了，走了，”老大婆被他的追问惹火了，生气地耸了耸肩回答道。她低低的呜咽声变得越来越高。“和其他人一块被赶出去了，赶到大街上去了。他们甚至不让她带上自己的外衣。”
　　“她到哪儿去了？”
　　“我不知道，我不知道。”
　　“谁来照顾她呢？”
　　“谁来照顾我呢？”
　　“她不认识别的什么人，是吗？”
　　“谁来照顾我呢？”
　　约塞连往老太婆膝盖上扔了些钱——说来可笑，留下钱又能补救多少过失呢——便大踏步地走出了公寓。他一边走下楼梯，一边在心里狠狠地诅咒第二十二条军规，尽管他心里明白，根本不存在这么条军规。第二十二条军规不存在，对此他确信无疑，可那又有什么用呢？问题在于每个人都认为它存在，而更糟糕的是，它没有什么实实在在的内容或条文可以让人们嘲笑、驳斥、指责、批评、攻击、修正、憎恨、谩骂、啐唾沫、撕成碎片、踩在脚下或者烧成灰烬。
　　外面又冷又黑，空气中弥漫着死气沉沉的薄雾，四处渗透，把一排排用粗糙大石块建成的房子和一座座纪念碑的底座笼罩得严严实实。约塞连急急忙忙赶回米洛那儿认错。他明知故犯地撒谎说，他很抱歉，并答应米洛，只要米洛愿意利用他在罗马的全部影响，帮助找出内特利的妓女的小妹妹在哪里，那么，卡思卡特上校叫他再执行多少次飞行任务他就执行多少次。
　　“她还只是个十二岁的小处女，米洛，”他焦虑地解释道，“我想立刻找到她，不然就太晚了。”
　　听了他的请求，米洛宽厚地笑了笑。“我这儿正好有个你正在寻找的十二岁的小处女，”他眉开眼笑地说，“这个十二岁的小处女其实刚刚三十四岁，但她是靠吃低蛋白饮食长大的，她的父母又非常严厉，她一直没有跟男人睡过觉，直到——”
　　“米洛，我说的是一个小姑娘！”约塞连极不耐烦地打断他的话。“你难道不明白吗？我不是想跟她睡觉。我是想帮助她。你也有女儿吧。她还是个小孩子，她在这座城市里举目无亲，没有任何人照顾她。我是要保护她不受伤害。你难道不明白我在说什么吗？”
　　米洛终于明白了，而且深受感动。“约塞连，我为你而骄做，”他大为激动地叫道，“我真的为你而骄做。当我看到你并不总是一门心思考虑性生活时，你不知道我是多么地高兴。你是个讲义气的人。我当然有女儿，我完全明白你在说些什么。我们一定要找到那个女孩。你别着急。你跟我来，哪怕把这座城市翻个底朝天，我们也要找到那个女孩。来吧！”
　　约塞连坐着米洛•明德宾德开得飞快的M&M指挥车来到警察总部，会见一个警察专员。那人皮肤黝黑，长着两撇细细的小胡子，上衣敞开着，显得邋里邋遢。他们走进他的办公室时，他正跟一个长着肉赘和双下巴的矮胖女人调情呢。看到米洛，他喜出望外，奴颜婢膝地朝着米洛又是鞠躬又是作揖，好像米洛是什么高官显贵似的。
　　“啊，米洛侯爵，”他热情洋溢地叫道，看也不看一眼就把那个满脸不高兴的矮胖女人推出了门。“你为什么不早告诉我你要来呢？如果我事先知道，我会为你举行一个盛大宴会的。请进，请进，侯爵，你怎么这么长时间都不到我们这里来了呢？”
　　米洛知道眼下一分钟都不能浪费。“喂，卢吉，”他边说边急匆匆地点点头，几乎显得有些粗暴无礼。“卢吉，我需要你的帮助。我这个朋友要找个女孩。”
　　“找个女孩，侯爵？”卢吉问。他用手抓了抓脸，沉思了一下。
　　“罗马有这么多的女孩。对一个美国军官来说，找一个女孩不会是很困难的。”
　　“不，卢吉，你没明白。是个十二岁的小处女，他必须马上找到她。”
　　“噢，是这样，我明白了，”卢吉领悟地说，“找个处女也许要花点时间。不过，在公共汽车终点站那儿有许多进城来找工作的年轻农村姑娘，如果他在那儿等的话，我——”
　　“卢吉，你还是没明白。”米洛烦躁而粗暴地打断了警察专员的活，后者不禁面红耳赤，急忙跳起来立正站好，胡乱地系上制服的扣子。“这小姑娘是一个朋友，是家人的一个老朋友。我们要帮助她。她还是个孩子。她眼下在这座城市里的某一个地方，无依无靠的。我们得在她受到伤害之前找到她。现在你明白了吗？卢吉，这件事对我极为重要。我有个女儿跟这个小姑娘一样大。眼下对我来说，世界上再也没有比及早救出这个可怜的孩子更为重要的事情了，你愿意帮忙吗？”
　　“是的，侯爵，现在我明白了，”卢吉说，“我将尽我所能去寻找她。不过，今晚我这儿没有什么人了。今晚所有的人都忙着去打击非法烟草买卖了。”
　　“非法烟草买卖？”米洛问。
　　“米洛。”约塞连声音微弱地叫了一声。他的心沉下去了，他当时就明白一切全完了。
　　“是的，侯爵，”卢吉说，“非法烟草买卖的利润非常高，所以走私活动几乎无法控制。”
　　“非法烟草买卖的利润真的这么高吗？”米洛极感兴趣地问。他贪婪地高高挑起铁锈色的眉毛，直往鼻孔里吸气。
　　“米洛，”约塞连冲他叫道，“听我说，好吗？”
　　“是的，侯爵，”卢吉回答道，“非法烟草买卖的利润非常高。走私引起了全民的公愤，侯爵，这真是国人的耻辱。”
　　“这是事实吗？”米洛出神地笑着说，着魔似地迈步朝门口走去。
　　“米洛！”约塞连大叫道，冲动地奔上去拦住他。“米洛，你必须帮助我。”
　　“非法烟草买卖，”米洛露出癫痫患者般的贪婪神色对他解释道，倔强地甩开他往外走。“让我走，我必须去非法走私烟草。”
　　“留在这儿帮我找到她吧，”约塞连恳求道，“你可以明天再去非法走私烟草。”
　　但是，米洛根本没听见他的恳求。他大步流星地往外冲去，虽然算不上来势凶猛，可也无法阻拦。他满头大汗，双眼闪闪发光，嘴唇抽搐，口水直淌，仿佛他已经深深陷入某种盲目的情结之中了。
　　他平静地呻吟着，好像处在某种出自本能的、模糊不清的痛苦感觉之中。他一遍又一遍地重复道：“非法烟草，非法烟草。”约塞连最后终于看出来了，和他根本讲不通道理，只好无可奈何地给他让开条路。米洛像出膛的子弹猛冲了出去。警察专员又解开了制服的扣子，轻蔑地看了看约塞连。
　　“你还在这儿干什么？”他冷冷地问，“你是要等我逮捕你吗？”
　　约塞连走出办公室，走下楼梯，来到昏暗的、墓地般的街道上。
　　经过门厅时，他遇上那个长着肉赘和双下巴的矮胖女人进门往里走。外面根本没有米洛的影子。所有的窗子里面都没有灯光。空无一人的人行道形成一个陡峭的斜坡，向前延伸了好几个街区。他能够看见，在长长的鹅卵石斜坡的顶端，有一条灯火通明的宽阔大道。警察总部差不多位于这斜坡的最低处，人口处的黄色灯泡像湿火把似的在潮湿的夜晚里噬噬作响。空中飘洒着寒冷的细雨。他慢慢地顺着斜坡往上走，不一会便来到一家安静、舒适、诱人的餐厅前面。餐厅的窗户上挂着大红天鹅绒窗帘，门旁有块天蓝霓虹灯招牌，上面写着：“托尼餐厅，佳肴美酒，请勿入内。”有那么一瞬间，天蓝霓虹灯招牌上的这几个字使他稍稍有点惊讶。在他身处的这个不可思议的畸形世界里，无论什么反常的东西都不再显得稀奇古怪了。那些矗立在街道两侧的建筑物的顶部全都以一种奇特的、超现实主义的比例修建成斜面，结果使得街道本身看上去也是倾斜的。他翻起暖和的羊毛外套的衣领，让它紧紧地裹住自己。这个夜晚阴湿寒冷。一个穿着薄薄的衬衫和薄薄的破裤子的男孩赤着脚从黑暗中走了出来。他长着黑黑的头发，他需要理发了，他还需要鞋子和袜子。他面带病容，脸色苍白，一副凄惨的模样。他走在湿漉漉的人行道上。他的脚踩在雨水坑里，发出吮吸般的轻微声响，听起来十分可怖。这男骇的穷困深深地打动了约塞连，他从心底里同情他，他真想一拳把男孩那张苍白、凄惨、面带病容的脸打个满脸开花，真想一拳把他打出人世间，因为，看见这男孩使他想起所有生活在意大利、生活在这同一个夜晚的苍白、凄惨、面带病容的孩子，想起他们全部需要理发，需要鞋子和袜子。这男孩还使约塞连想起那些残废人，想起那些饥寒交迫的男男女女，想起那些寡言少语、逆来顺受的虔诚母亲，她们在这同一个夜晚目光紧张地坐在户外，毫不在乎地在阴冷的雨中袒露前胸，用冻得冰凉的动物般的乳房给婴儿喂奶。奶牛。恰恰在这个时候，一个正在喂奶的母亲抱着用黑色破布裹着的婴儿缓步走过。约塞连真想也把她打得满脸开花，因为她使他想起了刚才那个穿着薄薄的衬衣和薄薄的裤子的男孩，以及这个世界上所有令人不寒而栗、目瞪口呆的悲惨事件。在这个世界上，除了那些擅长权术、卑鄙无耻的一小撮人之外，其他所有的人全都得不到温饱和公正的待遇。这是一个多么令人憎恶的世界啊！他想知道，即使在他自己那个繁荣的国度里，在这同一个夜晚，有多少人缺吃少穿，有多少住房四壁透风，有多少丈夫喝得烂醉，有多少妻子遭受毒打，有多少孩子被欺侮、被辱骂、被遗弃。有多少家庭忍饥挨饿买不起食物？有多少人伤心欲绝？在这同一个夜晚，发生了多少起自杀事件，又有多少人精神失常？有多少奸商和店老板欣喜若狂？有多少赢家变为输家，多少成功者变为失败者，多少富人变为穷人？有多少聪明人其实愚蠢透顶？有多少美满的结局其实充满了不幸？有多少老实人其实是骗子，多少勇敢的人其实是胆小鬼，多少忠心耿耿的人其实是叛徒，多少圣徒其实道德败坏，多少身居要职的人为了几个小钱向恶魔出卖灵魂？又有多少人根本没有灵魂？有多少笔直的窄道其实弯弯曲曲？有多少最美好的家庭其实是最糟糕的家庭，多少好人其实是坏人？你要是把这些人全都加起来，然后再把他们从总人数中减掉，剩下的也许就只有孩子们了，或者还有个艾尔伯特•爱因斯但，再加上什么地方的一个老提琴手或雕刻家。约塞连孤零零地走着，内心非常痛苦。他觉得自己似乎与世隔绝了。他心里老是想着那个面带病容的赤脚男孩。直到他拐了个弯走到大道上时，他才终于把男孩那令人惨不忍睹的形象从脑海里摆脱掉。在大道上，他碰到一个盟军士兵躺在地上抽搐。这是个年轻的中尉，长着一张小小的、苍白的、孩子气的脸。六个来自不同国家的士兵使劲按住他身体的不同部位，努力想帮他平静下来。他咬紧牙关，语无伦次地喊叫着、呻吟着，一个劲地翻白眼。“别让他把舌头咬掉了，”约塞连身旁一个矮个中士机灵地提醒道。又一个
Chapter 40 Catch-22
    There was, of course, a catch.
　　“Catch-22?” inquired Yossarian.
　　“Of course,” Colonel Korn answered pleasantly, after he had chased the mighty guard of massive M.P.s out withan insouciant flick of his hand and a slightly contemptuous nod—most relaxed, as always, when he could bemost cynical. His rimless square eyeglasses glinted with sly amusement as he gazed at Yossarian. “After all, wecan’t simply send you home for refusing to fly more missions and keep the rest of the men here, can we? Thatwould hardly be fair to them.”
　　“You’re goddam right!” Colonel Cathcart blurted out, lumbering back and forth gracelessly like a winded bull,puffing and pouting angrily. “I’d like to tie him up hand and foot and throw him aboard a plane on everymission. That’s what I’d like to do.”
　　Colonel Korn motioned Colonel Cathcart to be silent and smiled at Yossarian. “You know, you really have beenmaking things terribly difficult for Colonel Cathcart,” he observed with flip good humor, as though the fact didnot displease him at all. “The men are unhappy and morale is beginning to deteriorate. And it’s all your fault.”
　　“It’s your fault,” Yossarian argued, “for raising the number of missions.”
　　“No, it’s your fault for refusing to fly them,” Colonel Korn retorted. “The men were perfectly content to fly asmany missions as we asked as long as they thought they had no alternative. Now you’ve given them hope, andthey’re unhappy. So the blame is all yours.”
　　“Doesn’t he know there’s a war going on?” Colonel Cathcart, still stamping back and forth, demanded moroselywithout looking at Yossarian.
　　“I’m quite sure he does,” Colonel Korn answered. “That’s probably why he refuses to fly them.”
　　“Doesn’t it make any difference to him?”
　　“Will the knowledge that there’s a war going on weaken your decision to refuse to participate in it?” ColonelKorn inquired with sarcastic seriousness, mocking Colonel Cathcart.
　　“No, sir,” Yossarian replied, almost returning Colonel Korn’s smile.
　　“I was afraid of that,” Colonel Korn remarked with an elaborate sigh, locking his fingers together comfortably ontop of his smooth, bald, broad, shiny brown head. “You know, in all fairness, we really haven’t treated you toobadly, have we? We’ve fed you and paid you on time. We gave you a medal and even made you a captain.”
　　“I never should have made him a captain,” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed bitterly. “I should have given him acourt-martial after he loused up that Ferrara mission and went around twice.”
　　“I told you not to promote him,” said Colonel Korn, “but you wouldn’t listen to me.”
　　“No you didn’t. You told me to promote him, didn’t you?”
　　“I told you not to promote him. But you just wouldn’t listen.”
　　“I should have listened.”
　　“You never listen to me,” Colonel Korn persisted with relish. “That’s the reason we’re in this spot.”
　　“All right, gee whiz. Stop rubbing it in, will you?”
　　Colonel Cathcart burrowed his fists down deep inside his pockets and turned away in a slouch. “Instead of picking on me, why don’t you figure out what we’re going to do about him?”
　　“We’re going to send him home, I’m afraid.” Colonel Korn was chuckling triumphantly when he turned awayfrom Colonel Cathcart to face Yossarian. “Yossarian, the war is over for you. We’re going to send you home.
　　You really don’t deserve it, you know, which is one of the reasons I don’t mind doing it. Since there’s nothingelse we can risk doing to you at this time, we’ve decided to return you to the States. We’ve worked out this littledeal to—““What kind of deal?” Yossarian demanded with defiant mistrust.
　　Colonel Korn tossed his head back and laughed. “Oh, a thoroughly despicable deal, make no mistake about that.
　　It’s absolutely revolting. But you’ll accept it quickly enough.”
　　“Don’t be too sure.”
　　“I haven’t the slightest doubt you will, even though it stinks to high heaven. Oh, by the way. You haven’t toldany of the men you’ve refused to fly more missions, have you?”
　　“No, sir,” Yossarian answered promptly.
　　Colonel Korn nodded approvingly. “That’s good. I like the way you lie. You’ll go far in this world if you everacquire some decent ambition.”
　　“Doesn’t he know there’s a war going on?” Colonel Cathcart yelled out suddenly, and blew with vigorousdisbelief into the open end of his cigarette holder.
　　“I’m quite sure he does,” Colonel Korn replied acidly, “since you brought that identical point to his attention justa moment ago.” Colonel Korn frowned wearily for Yossarian’s benefit, his eyes twinkling swarthily with sly anddaring scorn. Gripping the edge of Colonel Cathcart’s desk with both hands, he lifted his flaccid haunches farback on the corner to sit with both short legs dangling freely. His shoes kicked lightly against the yellow oakwood, his sludge-brown socks, garterless, collapsed in sagging circles below ankles that were surprisingly smalland white. “You know, Yossarian,” he mused affably in a manner of casual reflection that seemed both derisiveand sincere, “I really do admire you a bit. You’re an intelligent person of great moral character who has taken avery courageous stand. I’m an intelligent person with no moral character at all, so I’m in an ideal position toappreciate it.”
　　“These are very critical times,” Colonel Cathcart asserted petulantly from a far corner of the office, paying noattention to Colonel Korn.
　　“Very critical times indeed,” Colonel Korn agreed with a placid nod. “We’ve just had a change of commandabove, and we can’t afford a situation that might put us in a bad light with either General Scheisskopf or GeneralPeckem. Isn’t that what you mean, Colonel?”
　　“Hasn’t he got any patriotism?”
　　“Won’t you fight for your country?” Colonel Korn demanded, emulating Colonel Cathcart’s harsh, self-righteoustone. “Won’t you give up your life for Colonel Cathcart and me?”
　　Yossarian tensed with alert astonishment when he heard Colonel Korn’s concluding words. “What’s that?” heexclaimed. “What have you and Colonel Cathcart got to do with my country? You’re not the same.”
　　“How can you separate us?” Colonel Korn inquired with ironical tranquillity.
　　“That’s right,” Colonel Cathcart cried emphatically. “You’re either for us or against us. There’s no two waysabout it.”
　　“I’m afraid he’s got you,” added Colonel Korn. “You’re either for us or against your country. It’s as simple asthat.”
　　“Oh, no, Colonel. I don’t buy that.”
　　Colonel Korn was unrufed. “Neither do I, frankly, but everyone else will. So there you are.”
　　“You’re a disgrace to your uniform!” Colonel Cathcart declared with blustering wrath, whirling to confrontYossarian for the first time. “I’d like to know how you ever got to be a captain, anyway.”
　　“You promoted him,” Colonel Korn reminded sweetly, stifling a snicker. “Don’t you remember?”
　　“Well, I never should have done it.”
　　“I told you not to do it,” Colonel Korn said. “But you just wouldn’t listen to me.”
　　“Gee whiz, will you stop rubbing it in?” Colonel Cathcart cried. He furrowed his brow and glowered at ColonelKorn through eyes narrow with suspicion, his fists clenched on his hips. “Say, whose side are you on, anyway?”
　　“Your side, Colonel. What other side could I be on?”
　　“Then stop picking on me, will you? Get off my back, will you?”
　　“I’m on your side, Colonel. I’m just loaded with patriotism.”
　　“Well, just make sure you don’t forget that.” Colonel Cathcart turned away grudgingly after another moment,incompletely reassured, and began striding the floor, his hands kneading his long cigarette holder. He jerked athumb toward Yossarian. “Let’s settle with him. I know what I’d like to do with him. I’d like to take him outsideand shoot him. That’s what I’d like to do with him. That’s what General Dreedle would do with him.”
　　“But General Dreedle isn’t with us any more,” said Colonel Korn, “so we can’t take him outside and shoot him.”
　　Now that his moment of tension with Colonel Cathcart had passed, Colonel Korn relaxed again and resumedkicking softly against Colonel Cathcart’s desk. He returned to Yossarian. “So we’re going to send you homeinstead. It took a bit of thinking, but we finally worked out this horrible little plan for sending you home withoutcausing too much dissatisfaction among the friends you’ll leave behind. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
　　“What kind of plan? I’m not sure I’m going to like it.”
　　“I know you’re not going to like it.” Colonel Korn laughed, locking his hands contentedly on top of his headagain. “You’re going to loathe it. It really is odious and certainly will offend your conscience. But you’ll agree toit quickly enough. You’ll agree to it because it will send you home safe and sound in two weeks, and becauseyou have no choice. It’s that or a court-martial. Take it or leave it.”
　　Yossarian snorted. “Stop bluffing, Colonel. You can’t court-martial me for desertion in the face of the enemy. Itwould make you look bad and you probably couldn’t get a conviction.”
　　“But we can court-martial you now for desertion from duty, since you went to Rome without a pass. And wecould make it stick. If you think about it a minute, you’ll see that you’d leave us no alternative. We can’t simplylet you keep walking around in open insubordination without punishing you. All the other men would stop flyingmissions, too. No, you have my word for it. We will court-martial you if you turn our deal down, even though itwould raise a lot of questions and be a terrible black eye for Colonel Cathcart.”
　　Colonel Cathcart winced at the words “black eye” and, without any apparent premeditation, hurled his slenderonyx-and-ivory cigarette holder down viciously on the wooden surface on his desk. “Jesus Christ!” he shoutedunexpectedly. “I hate this goddam cigarette holder!” The cigarette holder bounced off the desk to the wall,ricocheted across the window sill to the floor and came to a stop almost where he was standing. Colonel Cathcartstared down at it with an irascible scowl. “I wonder if it’s really doing me any good.”
　　“It’s a feather in your cap with General Peckem, but a black eye for you with General Scheisskopf,” ColonelKorn informed him with a mischievous look of innocence.
　　“Well, which one am I supposed to please?”
　　“Both.”
　　“How can I please them both? They hate each other. How am I ever going to get a feather in my cap fromGeneral Scheisskopf without getting a black eye from General Peckem?”
　　“March.”
　　“Yeah, march. That’s the only way to please him. March. March.” Colonel Cathcart grimaced sullenly. “Somegenerals! They’re a disgrace to their uniforms. If people like those two can make general, I don’t see how I canmiss.”
　　“You’re going to go far.” Colonel Korn assured him with a flat lack of conviction, and turned back chuckling toYossarian, his disdainful merriment increasing at the sight of Yossarian’s unyielding expression of antagonismand distrust. “And there you have the crux of the situation. Colonel Cathcart wants to be a general and I want tobe a colonel, and that’s why we have to send you home.”
　　“Why does he want to be a general?”
　　“Why? For the same reason that I want to be a colonel. What else have we got to do? Everyone teaches us toaspire to higher things. A general is higher than a colonel, and a colonel is higher than a lieutenant colonel. Sowe’re both aspiring. And you know, Yossarian, it’s a lucky thing for you that we are. Your timing on this isabsolutely perfect, but I suppose you took that factor into account in your calculations.”
　　“I haven’t been doing any calculating,” Yossarian retorted.
　　“Yes, I really do enjoy the way you lie,” Colonel Korn answered. “Won’t it make you proud to have yourcommanding officer promoted to general—to know you served in an outfit that averaged more combat missionsper person than any other? Don’t you want to earn more unit citations and more oak leaf clusters for your AirMedal? Where’s your ‘sprit de corps?’ Don’t you want to contribute further to this great record by flying morecombat missions? It’s your last chance to answer yes.”
　　“No.”
　　“In that case, you have us over a barrel—“ said Colonel Korn without rancor.
　　“He ought to be ashamed of himself!”
　　“—and we have to send you home. Just do a few little things for us, and—““What sort of things?” Yossarian interrupted with belligerent misgiving.
　　“Oh, tiny, insignificant things. Really, this is a very generous deal we’re making with you. We will issue ordersreturning you to the States—really, we will—and all you have to do in return is...”
　　“What? What must I do?”
　　Colonel Korn laughed curtly. “Like us.”
　　Yossarian blinked. “Like you?”
　　“Like us.”
　　“Like you?”
　　“That’s right,” said Colonel Korn, nodding, gratified immeasurably by Yossarian’s guileless surprise andbewilderment. “Like us. Join us. Be our pal. Say nice things about us here and back in the States. Become one ofthe boys. Now, that isn’t asking too much, is it?”
　　“You just want me to like you? Is that all?”
　　“That’s all.”
　　“That’s all?”
　　“Just find it in your heart to like us.”
　　Yossarian wanted to laugh confidently when he saw with amazement that Colonel Korn was telling the truth.
　　“That isn’t going to be too easy,” he sneered.
　　“Oh, it will be a lot easier than you think,” Colonel Korn taunted in return, undismayed by Yossarian’s barb.
　　“You’ll be surprised at how easy you’ll find it to like us once you begin.” Colonel Korn hitched up the waist ofhis loose, voluminous trousers. The deep black grooves isolating his square chin from his jowls were bent againin a kind of jeering and reprehensible mirth. “You see, Yossarian, we’re going to put you on easy street. We’regoing to promote you to major and even give you another medal. Captain Flume is already working on glowingpress releases describing your valor over Ferrara, your deep and abiding loyalty to your outfit and yourconsummate dedication to duty. Those phrases are all actual quotations, by the way. We’re going to glorify youand send you home a hero, recalled by the Pentagon for morale and public-relations purposes. You’ll live like amillionaire. Everyone will lionize you. You’ll have parades in your honor and make speeches to raise money forwar bonds. A whole new world of luxury awaits you once you become our pal. Isn’t it lovely?”
　　Yossarian found himself listening intently to the fascinating elucidation of details. “I’m not sure I want to makespeeches.”
　　“Then we’ll forget the speeches. The important thing is what you say to people here.” Colonel Korn leanedforward earnestly, no longer smiling. “We don’t want any of the men in the group to know that we’re sendingyou home as a result of your refusal to fly more missions. And we don’t want General Peckem or GeneralScheisskopf to get wind of any friction between us, either. That’s why we’re going to become such good pals.”
　　“What will I say to the men who asked me why I refused to fly more missions?”
　　“Tell them you had been informed in confidence that you were being returned to the States and that you wereunwilling to risk your life for another mission or two. Just a minor disagreement between pals, that’s all.”
　　“Will they believe it?”
　　“Of course they’ll believe it, once they see what great friends we’ve become and when they see the press releases and read the flattering things you have to say about me and Colonel Cathcart. Don’t worry about the men.
　　They’ll be easy enough to discipline and control when you’ve gone. It’s only while you’re still here that theymay prove troublesome. You know, one good apple can spoil the rest,” Colonel Korn concluded with consciousirony. “You know—this would really be wonderful—you might even serve as an inspiration to them to fly moremissions.”
　　“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 Armywouldn’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 justfor 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 privatedelight.
　　“But what the hell!” Yossarian exclaimed. “If they don’t want to fly more missions, let them stand up and dosomething about it the way I did. Right?”
　　“Of course,” said Colonel Korn.
　　“There’s no reason I have to risk my life for them, is there?”
　　“Of course not.”
　　Yossarian arrived at his decision with a swift grin. “It’s a deal!” he announced jubilantly.
　　“Great,” said Colonel Korn with somewhat less cordiality than Yossarian had expected, and he slid himself offColonel Cathcart’s desk to stand on the floor. He tugged the folds of cloth of his pants and undershorts free fromhis 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-Yoon 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 withclumsy zeal.
　　“Thank you, Colonel, I—““Call him Chuck,” said Colonel Korn.
　　“Sure, call me Chuck,” said Colonel Cathcart with a laugh that was hearty and awkward. “We’re all pals now.”
　　“Sure, Chuck.”
　　“Exit smiling,” said Colonel Korn, his hands on both their shoulders as the three of them moved to the door.
　　“Come on over for dinner with us some night, Yo-Yo,” Colonel Cathcart invited hospitably. “How abouttonight? In the group dining room.”
　　“I’d love to, sir.”
　　“Chuck,” Colonel Korn corrected reprovingly.
　　“I’m sorry, Blackie. Chuck. I can’t get used to it.”
　　“That’s all right, pal.”
　　“Sure, pal.”
　　“Thanks, pal.”
　　“Don’t mention it, pal.”
　　“So long, pal.”
　　Yossarian waved goodbye fondly to his new pals and sauntered out onto the balcony corridor, almost burstinginto song the instant he was alone. He was home free: he had pulled it off; his act of rebellion had succeeded; hewas safe, and he had nothing to be ashamed of to anyone. He started toward the staircase with a jaunty andexhilarated air. A private in green fatigues saluted him. Yossarian returned the salute happily, staring at theprivate with curiosity. He looked strangely familiar. When Yossarian returned the salute, the private in greenfatigues turned suddenly into Nately’s whore and lunged at him murderously with a bone-handled kitchen knifethat caught him in the side below his upraised arm. Yossarian sank to the floor with a shriek, shutting his eyes inoverwhelming 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.
 40、第二十二条军规
　　当然，这里面有个圈套。
　　“第二十二条军规？”约塞连问。
　　“当然。”科恩中校轻轻挥了挥手，又略带轻蔑的神情点了点头，便把那帮押送约塞连的膀大腰圆的宪兵赶了出去，随后，他愉快地回答了约塞连的问话——和往常一样，他最轻松的时候也就是他最刻薄的时候。“毕竟，我们不能因为你拒绝执行更多的飞行任务就把你送回国去，而让其余的人留在这儿，对吧？那样对他们很难说是公平的。”
　　“你说得太正确了！”卡思卡特上校突然说道。他像一头气喘吁吁的公牛那样来来回回定着，生气地板着面孔，不停地喘粗气。“我真想每回执行任务时都把他手脚捆起来扔到机舱里去。这就是我想做的事。”
　　科恩中校示意卡思卡特上校保持沉默，然后又对约塞连笑了笑。“你知道，你把事情弄成这个样子，的确使卡思卡特上校感到十分难办，”他漫不经心他说，好像这件事一点也不惹他生气似的。
　　“官兵们都很不乐意，士气越来越低落。这全都是你的过错。”
　　“这是你们的过错，”约塞连争辩道，“因为你们一再增加飞行任务的次数。”
　　“不，这是你的过铬，因为你拒绝执行飞行任务，”科恩中校反驳道，“以前，当他们觉得自己别无选择的时候，不管我们要求他们执行多少次飞行任务，他们都心甘情愿地执行了。可现在，你使他们有了选择的希望，他们就开始不乐意了。所以，这全都怪你。”
　　“难道他不知道眼下正在进行战争吗？”卡思卡特上校愤愤地质问道。他仍然跺着脚来回地走动着，看也不看约塞连一眼。
　　“我敢肯定他是知道的，”科恩中校回答说，“也许这就是他拒绝执行飞行任务的原因。”
　　“难道那对他有什么影响吗？”
　　“知道现在正在进行战争会动摇你拒绝参战的决定吗？”科恩中校嘲弄地模仿着卡思卡特上校的口吻，严肃而讥讽地问道。
　　“不会的，长官，”约塞连回答道。他差点冲着科恩中校笑起来。
　　“我也担心这个，”科恩中校字斟句酌地说。他悠闲地抬起双手搁到他那光滑闪亮的褐色秃顶上，把十个手指头对插到一起。“你当然明白，公平他讲，我们待你还算不错，对吧？我们供给你吃的，并且按时发给你军饷。我们奖给你一枚勋章，甚至还提拔你当了上尉。”
　　“我根本就不该提拔他当上尉，”卡思卡特上校抱怨地大声说，“那次执行轰炸弗拉拉的任务时，他竟然飞了两圈，结果把事情搞得一团糟。我真应该送他上军事法庭的。”
　　“我告诉过你不要提拔他，”科恩中校说，“可你不肯听我的。”
　　“不，你没说。是你叫我提拔他的，不是吗？”
　　“我告诉你不要提拔他，可你就是不肯听。”
　　“我真应该听你的。”
　　“你从来也不听我的，”科恩中校意味深长地坚持道，“就因为这个，我们才落到这步田地。”
　　“唉，行了，别磨牙了，好吗？”卡思卡特上校把两个拳头深深地插进衣袋里，懒洋洋地转过身去。“别老找我的碴了，你为什么不好好考虑一下我们该拿他怎么办呢？”
　　“恐怕我们只能送他回国了，”科恩中校一边得意洋洋地窃笑道，一边从卡思卡特上校那边转过脸来对着约塞连。“约塞连，对你来说战争已经结束了。我们将要送你回国。你当然知道，你实在是不配被送回国的，可这正是我乐意送你回国的原因之一。既然眼下没有什么别的好办法可供我们一试，我们只好决定把你送回合众国去。我们已经盘算好了这笔交易——”
　　“什么样的交易？”约塞连满腹狐疑，挑衅地质问道。
　　科恩中校仰面大笑。“噢，是一笔不折不扣的卑鄙交易，这一点毫无疑问。绝对令人恶心。不过，你很快就会接受下来的。”
　　“别那么有把握。”
　　“即使这笔交易臭气熏天，你也会接受的，对此我没有丝毫的怀疑。哦，顺便问一句，你还没有告诉任何人你拒绝执行更多的飞行任务，是吗？”
　　“没有，长官，”约塞连毫不迟疑地回答道。
　　科恩中校赞许地点点头。“这很好，我喜欢你这种说谎的方式。
　　如果你有几分雄心壮志的话，你在这个世界上一定会飞黄腾达的。”
　　“难道他不知道眼下正在进行战争吗？”卡思卡特上校突然大叫起来，接着又满脸疑虑地对着烟嘴吹了一口气。
　　“我敢肯定他是知道的，”科恩中校尖刻地回答道，“因为你刚才已经向他提出过这一问题了。”科恩中校不耐烦地皱起眉头帮约塞连讲话，他的黑眼睛里闪烁着狡黠而放肆的嘲弄目光。他用双手抓住卡思卡特上校的桌子边，抬起他那软绵绵的屁股从桌角往里坐去，只剩下两条短短的小腿悬垂着自由摆动。他用鞋跟轻轻踢着黄色的橡木桌子。他的脚上穿着上褐色的袜子，因为没系吊袜带，袜筒一圈一圈直褪落到异常苍白小巧的脚踝下面。“你知道，约塞连，”他和颜悦色地沉思片刻，流露出一种漫不经心的神情，看上去既像是嘲笑又显得非常真诚，“我真的有点佩服你。你是个道德高尚的聪明人，你采取了一种极为勇敢的立场。而我却是个毫无道德观念的人，因此，我正好处在评价你的道德品格的理想位置上。”
　　“现在是关键时刻。”站在办公室一个角落里的卡思卡特上校气呼呼地插话说。他看也没看科恩中校一眼。
　　“的确是关键时刻。”科恩中校心平气和地点点头表示同意。
　　“我们刚刚换了指挥官。要是出现某种局面，使我们在沙伊斯科普夫将军或者佩克姆将军面前出丑的话，那我们可受不了。你是这个意思吧，上校？”
　　“他难道就没有一点爱国精神吗？”
　　“难道你不愿意为你的祖国而战吗？”科恩中校模仿着卡思卡特上校自以为是的刺耳腔调质问道，“难道你不愿意为卡思卡特上校和我而献出你的生命吗？”
　　听到科恩中校这最后一句话，约塞连十分惊讶，不由得紧张起来。“这是什么意思？”他大叫道，“你和卡思卡特上校跟我的祖国有什么关系？你们完全是另一回事。”
　　“你怎么能把我们和祖国分开呢？”科恩中校神色安祥，讥讽地反问道。
　　“对啊，”卡思卡特上校使劲地喊道，“你要么为我们而战，要么对抗你的祖国，这两条路你只能选一条。”
　　“恐怕这下子他把你难住了。”科恩中校加上一句。“你要么为我们而战，要么对抗你的祖国，事情就是这么简单。”
　　“噢，得啦，中校，我可不吃这一套。”
　　科恩中校依然很沉着。“坦率地说，我也不信这一套，可别人都会相信的。你瞧，事情就是这么简单。”
　　“你真给这身军装丢脸！”卡思卡特上校怒气冲冲地喊叫着。他猛地转过身来，头一回正面对着约塞连。“我倒很想知道你究竟是怎么当上上尉的。”
　　“是你提拔他的，”科恩中校强忍住笑，亲切地提醒道。
　　“唉，我真不应该提拔他。”
　　“我告诉过你别这么做，”科恩中校说，“可你就是不肯听我的。”
　　“得啦，你别再跟我磨牙了，行吗？”卡思卡特上校叫了起来。他皱起眉头，怀疑地眯起眼睛盯着科恩中校，把两只握紧的拳头抵在后腰上。“你说，你究竟站在哪一边？”
　　“站在你这一边呀，上校。我还能站在哪一边呢？”
　　“那就别再老是找我的碴了，行吗？别再拿我开心了，行吗？”
　　“我是站在你这一边的，上校。我满怀爱国热情。”
　　“那么，你要保证不忘记这一点。”卡思卡特上校仍然没有完全放下心来。他停了一下才犹犹豫豫地转过身去，双手揉搓着长长的香烟烟嘴，重又开始踱起步来。他用一个大拇指朝约塞连猛地一指，说道：“让我们跟他了结了吧。我知道我应该怎么处置他。我想把他拉到外面去枪毙。我就打算这么处置他。德里德尔将军也准会这么处置他。”
　　“可是德里德尔将军已经不再指挥我们了，”科恩中校说，“所以我们不能把他拉到外面去枪毙。”此时，科恩中校和卡思卡特上校之间的紧张时刻已经过去，他又变得轻松愉快起来，又开始拿脚轻轻踢着卡思卡特上校的桌子。“所以，我们不打算枪毙你而是打算送你回国。这事费了我们不少脑筋，可我们最后还是想出了这个小小的、糟透了的计划。这样一来，你的回国就不会在那些被你撇在身后的朋友当中引起太大的怨言。这难道不使你开心吗？”
　　“这是个什么样的计划？我不能肯定我会喜欢它。”
　　“我知道，你不会喜欢它的。”科恩中校哈哈一笑，重又心满意足地把双手举到头顶，手指对插到一起。“你会憎恨这个计划的。它的确令人作呕，而且肯定会使你良心不安。但是，你很快就会同意这个计划。你会同意的，不但因为这计划会在两周之内把你安全送回国去，而且因为你别无选择。你要么接受这个计划，要么接受军法审判。你可以接受，也可以不接受。”
　　约塞连哼了一声。“别吓唬我了，中校。你们不会用在敌人面前临阵脱逃的罪名对我进行军法审判的。那样一来，你们的面子不好看，而且你们大概也没有办法证明我有罪。”
　　“可是我们可以指控你擅离职守，根据这个罪名对你进行军法审判，因为你没有通行证就跑到罗马去了。我们可以使这一罪名成立。你只要稍微想一想就会明白的，你逼得我们没有别的路可走了。我们不能就这么眼睁睁地看着你违抗命令到处乱跑而不对你加以惩罚。要是那样，其他所有的人也都会拒绝执行飞行任务的。
　　这样是不行的，这一点你相信我的话好啦。你要是拒绝我们提出的这笔交易，我们就要对你进行军法审判，哪怕这样一来会引起许多问题，会叫卡思卡特上校当众出丑，我们也顾不上了。”
　　听到“出丑”这两个字，卡思卡特上校吓得一哆嗦。随后，他似乎想也没想便气势汹汹地把他那个镶有条纹玛瑚和象牙的细长烟嘴往办公桌的木制桌面上猛地一摔。“耶稣基督啊！”他出人意料地叫了一声。“我恨透了这个该死的烟嘴！”烟嘴在桌面上蹦了两下，弹到了墙壁上，接着又飞过窗台，落到地上，最后滚到卡思卡特上校的脚边上不动了。卡思卡特上校恶狠狠地低头怒视着烟嘴说：
　　“我不知道这对我是不是真的有好处。”
　　“这在佩克姆将军看来是你的荣耀，而在沙伊斯科普夫将军看来却是你的丑事，”科恩中校装出一副天真无邪的调皮模样对他说。
　　“那么，我应该讨哪一个人的欢心呢？”
　　“应该同时讨他们两个人的欢心。”
　　“我怎么能够同时讨他们两个人的欢心呢？他们互相憎恨。我要怎么做才能既从沙伊斯科普夫将军那里获取荣耀，又不至于在佩克姆将军面前丢人现眼呢？”
　　“操练。”
　　“对啦，操练。这是唯一能讨他欢心的方法。操练，操练。”卡思卡特上校温怒地做了个鬼脸。“那些将军！他们真给那身军装丢脸。
　　要是像这两个家伙这样的人都能当上将军的话，我看不出为什么我就当不上。”
　　“你会飞黄腾达的，”科恩中校以一种毫无把握的语调安慰他说，说完就转脸对着约塞连格格笑了起来。当约塞连流露出敌视、怀疑的固执表情时，他越发轻蔑地开怀大笑起来。“现在你知道问题的关键了吧。卡思卡特上校想当将军，我想当上校，这就是我们必须送你回国的原因。”
　　“他为什么想当将军呢？”
　　“为什么？这跟我想当上校的原因是一样的。我们还能做什么呢？人人都教导我们要有更高的追求。将军比上校的地位高，上校又比中校的地位高，所以，我们俩都在往上爬。你知道，约塞连，我们的这种追求对你来说是件幸运的事情。你的时机选择得再恰当不过了，可我觉得，你事前策划时就把这一因素考虑进去了。”
　　“我根本没策划什么，”约塞连反驳道。
　　“是的，我的确欣赏你这种说谎的方式，”科恩中校说，“当你的指挥官被提拔为将军——当你知道你所在的部队平均每人完成的战斗飞行任务比任何别的部队都多时——难道你不为此而感到骄傲吗？难道你不愿意获得更多的通令嘉奖和更多的橡叶簇铜质奖章吗？你的集体主义精神哪儿去了？难道你不愿意执行更多的飞行任务以对这一伟大的纪录做出自己的贡献吗？说‘愿意’吧，这是你的最后一次机会了。”
　　“不。”
　　“要是这样的话，你可就逼得我们走投无路了——”科恩中校客客气气地说。
　　“他应该为自己而感到惭愧！”
　　“——我们只好送你回国啦。只是，你要为我们做几件小事情，而且——”
　　“做什么事情？”约塞连以怀疑和敌对的态度打断了他的话。
　　“噢，很小的事情，无关紧要的事情。真的，我们跟你做的这笔交易十分慷慨。我们将发布送你回国的命令——真的，我们会的——而作为报答，你得做的不过是……”
　　“是什么，我得做什么？”
　　科恩中校假惺惺地笑了笑。“喜欢我们。”
　　约塞连惊愕地眨了眨眼睛。“喜欢你们？”
　　“喜欢我们。”
　　“喜欢你们？”
　　“不错，”科恩中校点点头说。约塞连那副不加掩饰的惊奇神态和那种手足无措的样子使他十分得意。“喜欢我们，加入到我们中来，做我们的伙伴。不论是在这里，还是回国以后，都要替我们说好活，成为我们中的一员。怎么样，这个要求不算过分，是吧？”
　　“你们只是要我喜欢你们，就这些吗？”
　　“就这些。”
　　“就这些。”
　　“只要你从心眼里喜欢我们。”
　　约塞连终于明白了，科恩中校讲的是实话，他大为惊奇，真想自信地放声大笑一通。“这并不是太容易，”他冷笑着说。
　　“噢，这比你想象的要容易多了，”科恩中校反唇相讥道。约寒连这句讽刺的话并没有使他灰心丧气。“你只要开了头，准会吃惊地发现喜欢我们是件多么容易的事情。”科恩中校往上扯了扯他那宽松的裤腰。他露出一个讨人嫌的嘲讽笑容，他那方下巴和两颧骨之间的深深的黑色纹路又一次弯曲了起来。“你瞧，约塞连，我们打算让你过舒服日子，我们打算提拔你当少校，我们甚至打算再发给你一枚勋章。弗卢姆上尉正在构思几篇热情洋溢的通讯，打算把你在弗拉拉大桥上空的英勇事迹，你对自己部队的深厚持久的忠诚，以及你格尽职责的崇高献身精神大大描绘一番。顺便说一句，这些都是通讯里的原话。我们打算表彰你，把你作为英雄送回国去。我们就说是五角大楼为了鼓舞士气和协调与公众的关系而把你召回国的。你将像个百万富翁那样生活，你将成为所有人的宠儿。人们将列队欢迎你，你将发表演说号召大家筹款购买战争债券。只要你成为我们的伙伴，一个奢侈豪华的崭新世界就将出现在你的面前。这难道不迷人吗？”
　　约塞连发现自己正聚精会神地倾听着这一番详尽而动听的长篇大论。“我可拿不准我想不想发表演说，”“那么我们就不提演说的事啦。重要的是你对这儿的人讲些什么。”科恩中校收敛笑容，满脸诚恳地往前探了探身体。“我们不想让大队里任何人知道，我们送你回国是因为你拒绝执行更多的飞行任务。我们也不想让佩克姆将军或者沙伊斯科普夫将军听到风声说，我们之间不和，就是为了这个，我们才打算跟你结成好伙伴的。”
　　“要是有人问我为什么拒绝执行更多的飞行任务，我对他们说什么呢？”
　　“告诉他们，有人已经私下向你透露就要送你回国了，所以你不愿意为了一两次飞行任务而去冒生命危险，只不过是好伙伴之间的一个小小分歧，就这么回事。”
　　“他们会相信吗？”
　　“等到他们看到我们成了多么亲密的朋友，读到那些通讯，读到那些你吹捧我和卡思卡特上校的话时，他们自然就会相信了。别为这些人操心。你走了以后，他们是很容易管教和控制的。只有当你仍然呆在这里时，他们才会惹事生非。你知道，一只坏苹果能毁了其它所有苹果。”科恩中校故意用讽刺的口气结束了他的这番话。“你知道——这办法真是太棒了——你也许能成为激励他们执行更多飞行任务的动力呢。”
　　“要是我国国以后谴责你们呢？”
　　“在你接受了我们的勋章、提拔和全部的吹捧之后吗？没有人会相信你的话的，军方不会允许你这样做。再说，你倒是为了什么竟想这样做呢？你将成为我们中的一员，记住了吗？你将过上富裕、豪华的生活，你将得到奖赏和特权。如果你仅仅为了某条道德准则而抛弃这一切的话，那你就是个大傻瓜，可你不是个傻瓜。成交吗？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“要么接受这笔交易，要么接受军法审判。”
　　“这样一来我就对中队里的弟兄们玩弄了一个极为卑鄙的骗局，不是吗？”
　　“令人作呕的骗局。”科恩中校和蔼可亲地表示同意。他眼中闪烁着暗自高兴的微光，耐心地望着约塞连，等待着他的答复。
　　“见鬼去吧！”约塞连大叫道，“如果他们不想执行更多的飞行任务，那就叫他们像我这样站出来采取行动，对吗？”
　　“当然对，”科恩中校说。
　　“我没有理由为了他们去冒生命危险，对吗？”
　　“当然没有。”
　　约塞连迅速地咧嘴一笑，做出了决定。“成交了！”他喜气洋洋地宣布。
　　“好极了，”科恩中校说。他表现得并没有像约塞连指望的那么热情。他从卡思卡特上校的办公桌上滑下来站到地板上，先扯了扯裤子和衬裤裆部的皱纹，随后才伸出一只软绵绵的手来让约塞连握住。“欢迎你入伙。”
　　“谢谢，中校。我——”
　　“叫我布莱基，约翰。我们现在是伙伴了。”
　　“当然啦，布莱基。我的朋友叫我约•约。布莱基，我——”
　　“他的朋友叫他约•约，”科恩中校大声对卡思卡特上校说，“约•约迈出了多么明智的一步，你为什么不祝贺他呢？”
　　“你迈出的这一步的确非常明智，约•约，”卡思卡特上校边说边笨拙而热情地使劲握住约塞连的手。
　　“谢谢你，上校。我——”
　　“叫他查克，”科恩中校说。
　　“当然啦，叫我查克。”卡思卡特上校热诚而局促地哈哈一笑。
　　“我们现在是伙伴了。”
　　“当然啦，查克。”
　　“笑着出门吧。”科恩中损说着把两只手分别搭在了他们两个人的肩膀上，三个人一起朝门口走去。
　　“哪天晚上过来跟我们一块吃顿饭吧，约•约，”卡思卡特上校殷勤地邀请道，“今天晚上怎么样？就在大队部的餐厅里。”
　　“我非常乐意，长官。”
　　“叫查克，”科恩中校责备地纠正道。
　　“对不起，布莱基。查克。我还没有叫习惯。”
　　“这没关系，伙计。”
　　“当然啦，伙计。”
　　“谢谢，伙计。”
　　“别客气，伙计。”
　　“再见，伙计。”
　　约塞连亲亲热热地挥手向他的新伙伴告别，溜达着朝楼厅走廊走过去。等到剩下他一个人时，他差一点高声唱了起来。他自由了，可以回国了。他达到了目的，他的反抗成功了，他平安无事了。
　　再说，他并没有做任何对不起别人的事情。他逍遥自在、兴高采烈地朝楼梯走去。一个身穿绿色工作制服的士兵朝他行了个礼，约塞连快活地还了一个礼。出于好奇，他看了那个士兵一眼。他感到奇怪，这个士兵看上去十分面熟，就在约塞连还礼时，这个身穿绿色工作制服的士兵突然变成了内特利的妓女。她手里拿着一把骨柄厨刀凶神恶煞般地朝他劈了下来，一刀砍在他扬起的那只胳膊下面的腰上。约塞连尖叫一声，倒在了地上。他看到那女人又举刀朝他砍下来，便惊骇地闭上了很睛，就在这时，科恩中校和卡思卡特上校从办公室里冲了出来，把那个女人吓跑了，这才救了他的命。
　　不过，他已经失去了知觉。
Chapter 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 tooperate 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 thebleeding, 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 wereready to begin cutting him.
　　“Another county heard from,” complained the first doctor sarcastically. “Is he going to keep talking that waywhile 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 thatpressed down very close to Yossarian and radiated scorching heat like the bottom of a huge frying pan. “Wherewere you born?”
　　The fat, gruff colonel reminded Yossarian of the fat, gruff colonel who had interrogated the chaplain and foundhim guilty. Yossarian stared up at him through a glassy film. The cloying scents of formaldehyde and alcoholsweetened the air.
　　“On a battlefield,” he answered.
　　“No, no. In what state were you born?”
　　“In a state of innocence.”
　　“No, no, you don’t understand.”
　　“Let me handle him,” urged a hatchet-faced man with sunken acrimonious eyes and a thin, malevolent mouth.
　　“Are you a smart aleck or something?” he asked Yossarian.
　　“He’s delirious,” one of the doctors said. “Why don’t you let us take him back inside and treat him?”
　　“Leave him right here if he’s delirious. He might say something incriminating.”
　　“But he’s still bleeding profusely. Can’t you see? He might even die.”
　　“Good for him!”
　　“It would serve the finky bastard right,” said the fat, gruff colonel. “All right, John, let’s speak out. We want toget 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 helpyou. 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 hewas rolled away slowly into a stuffy, dark room with searing spotlights overhead in which the cloying smell offormaldehyde and sweet alcohol was even stronger. The pleasant, permeating stink was intoxicating. He smelledether too and heard glass tinkling. He listened with secret, egotistical mirth to the husky breathing of the twodoctors. 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. Hekeeps 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 Iwash my hands first?”
　　“No operations,” Yossarian said, opening his eyes and trying to sit up.
　　“Another county heard from,” scoffed one of the doctors indignantly. “Can’t we make him shut up?”
　　“We could give him a total. The ether’s right here.”
　　“No totals,” said Yossarian.
　　“Another county heard from,” said a doctor.
　　“Let’s give him a total and knock him out. Then we can do what we want with him.”
　　They gave Yossarian total anesthesia and knocked him out. He woke up thirsty in a private room, drowning inether fumes. Colonel Korn was there at his bedside, waiting calmly in a chair in his baggy, wool, olive-drab shirtand trousers. A bland, phlegmatic smile hung on his brown face with its heavy-bearded cheeks, and he wasbuffing the facets of his bald head gently with the palms of both hands. He bent forward chuckling whenYossarian awoke, and assured him in the friendliest tones that the deal they had made was still on if Yossariandidn’t die. Yossarian vomited, and Colonel Korn shot to his feet at the first cough and fled in disgust, so itseemed indeed that there was a silver lining to every cloud, Yossarian reflected, as he drifted back into asuffocating daze. A hand with sharp fingers shook him awake roughly. He turned and opened his eyes and saw astrange man with a mean face who curled his lip at him in a spiteful scowl and bragged,“We’ve got your pal, buddy. We’ve got your pal.”
　　Yossarian turned cold and faint and broke into a sweat.
　　“Who’s my pal?” he asked when he saw the chaplain sitting where Colonel Korn had been sitting.
　　“Maybe I’m your pal,” the chaplain answered.
　　But Yossarian couldn’t hear him and closed his eyes. Someone gave him water to sip and tiptoed away. He slept and woke up feeling great until he turned his head to smile at the chaplain and saw Aarfy there instead.
　　Yossarian moaned instinctively and screwed his face up with excruciating irritability when Aarfy chortled andasked how he was feeling. Aarfy looked puzzled when Yossarian inquired why he was not in jail. Yossarian shuthis eyes to make him go away. When he opened them, Aarfy was gone and the chaplain was there. Yossarianbroke into laughter when he spied the chaplain’s cheerful grin and asked him what in the hell he was so happyabout.
　　“I’m happy about you,” the chaplain replied with excited candor and joy. “I heard at Group that you were veryseriously injured and that you would have to be sent home if you lived. Colonel Korn said your condition wascritical. But I’ve just learned from one of the doctors that your wound is really a very slight one and that you’llprobably be able to leave in a day or two. You’re in no danger. It isn’t bad at all.”
　　Yossarian listened to the chaplain’s news with enormous relief. “That’s good.”
　　“Yes,” said the chaplain, a pink flush of impish pleasure creeping into his cheeks. “Yes, that is good.”
　　Yossarian laughed, recalling his first conversation with the chaplain. “You know, the first time I met you was inthe hospital. And now I’m in the hospital again. Just about the only time I see you lately is in the hospital.
　　Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
　　The chaplain shrugged. “I’ve been praying a lot,” he confessed. “I try to stay in my tent as much as I can, and Ipray every time Sergeant Whitcomb leaves the area, so that he won’t catch me.”
　　“Does it do any good?”
　　“It takes my mind off my troubles,” the chaplain answered with another shrug. “And it gives me something todo.”
　　“Well that’s good, then, isn’t it?”
　　“Yes,” agreed the chaplain enthusiastically, as though the idea had not occurred to him before. “Yes, I guess thatis good.” He bent forward impulsively with awkward solicitude. “Yossarian, is there anything I can do for youwhile you’re here, anything I can get you?”
　　Yossarian teased him jovially. “Like toys, or candy, or chewing gum?”
　　The chaplain blushed again, grinning self-consciously, and then turned very respectful. “Like books, perhaps, oranything at all. I wish there was something I could do to make you happy. You know, Yossarian, we’re all veryproud of you.”
　　“Proud?”
　　“Yes, of course. For risking your life to stop that Nazi assassin. It was a very noble thing to do.”
　　“What Nazi assassin?”
　　“The one that came here to murder Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. And you saved them. He might havestabbed you to death as you grappled with him on the balcony. It’s a lucky thing you’re alive!”
　　Yossarian snickered sardonically when he understood. “That was no Nazi assassin.”
　　“Certainly it was. Colonel Korn said it was.”
　　“That was Nately’s girl friend. And she was after me, not Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. She’s been tryingto kill me ever since I broke the news to her that Nately was dead.”
　　“But how could that be?” the chaplain protested in livid and resentful confusion. “Colonel Cathcart and ColonelKorn both saw him as he ran away. The official report says you stopped a Nazi assassin from killing them.”
　　“Don’t believe the official report,” Yossarian advised dryly. “It’s part of the deal.”
　　“What deal?”
　　“The deal I made with Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. They’ll let me go home a big hero if I say nice thingsabout them to everybody and never criticize them to anyone for making the rest of the men fly more missions.”
　　The chaplain was appalled and rose halfway out of his chair. He bristled with bellicose dismay. “But that’sterrible! That’s a shameful, scandalous deal, isn’t it?”
　　“Odious,” Yossarian answered, staring up woodenly at the ceiling with just the back of his head resting on thepillow. “I think ‘odious’ is the word we decided on.”
　　“Then how could you agree to it?”
　　“It’s that or a court-martial, Chaplain.”
　　“Oh,” the chaplain exclaimed with a look of stark remorse, the back of his hand covering his mouth. He loweredhimself into his chair uneasily. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
　　“They’d lock me in prison with a bunch of criminals.”
　　“Of course. You must do whatever you think is right, then.” The chaplain nodded to himself as though decidingthe argument and lapsed into embarrassed silence.
　　“Don’t worry,” Yossarian said with a sorrowful laugh after several moments had passed. “I’m not going to doit.”
　　“But you must do it,” the chaplain insisted, bending forward with concern. “Really, you must. I had no right toinfluence you. I really had no right to say anything.”
　　“You didn’t influence me.” Yossarian hauled himself over onto his side and shook his head in solemn mockery.
　　“Christ, Chaplain! Can you imagine that for a sin? Saving Colonel Cathcart’s life! That’s one crime I don’t wanton my record.”
　　The chaplain returned to the subject with caution. “What will you do instead? You can’t let them put you inprison.”
　　“I’ll fly more missions. Or maybe I really will desert and let them catch me. They probably would.”
　　“And they’d put you in prison. You don’t want to go to prison.”
　　“Then I’ll just keep flying missions until the war ends, I guess. Some of us have to survive.”
　　“But you might get killed.”
　　“Then I guess I won’t fly any more missions.”
　　“What will you do?”
　　“I don’t know.”
　　“Will you let them send you home?”
　　“I don’t know. Is it hot out? It’s very warm in here.”
　　“It’s very cold out,” the chaplain said.
　　“You know,” Yossarian remembered, “a very funny thing happened—maybe I dreamed it. I think a strange mancame in here before and told me he’s got my pal. I wonder if I imagined it.”
　　“I don’t think you did,” the chaplain informed him. “You started to tell me about him when I dropped in earlier.”
　　“Then he really did say it. ‘We’ve got your pal, buddy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got your pal.’ He had the mostmalignant manner I ever saw. I wonder who my pal is.”
　　“I like to think that I’m your pal, Yossarian,” the chaplain said with humble sincerity. “And they certainly havegot me. They’ve got my number and they’ve got me under surveillance, and they’ve got me right where theywant me. That’s what they told me at my interrogation.”
　　“No, I don’t think it’s you he meant,” Yossarian decided. “I think it must be someone like Nately or Dunbar.
　　You know, someone who was killed in the war, like Clevinger, Orr, Dobbs, Kid Sampson or McWatt.”
　　Yossarian emitted a startled gasp and shook his head. “I just realized it,” he exclaimed. “They’ve got all my pals,haven’t they? The only ones left are me and Hungry Joe.” He tingled with dread as he saw the chaplain’s face gopale. “Chaplain, what is it?”
　　“Hungry Joe was killed.”
　　“God, no! On a mission?”
　　“He died in his sleep while having a dream. They found a cat on his face.”
　　“Poor bastard,” Yossarian said, and began to cry, hiding his tears in the crook of his shoulder. The chaplain leftwithout saying goodbye. Yossarian ate something and went to sleep. A hand shook him awake in the middle ofthe night. He opened his eyes and saw a thin, mean man in a patient’s bathrobe and pajamas who looked at himwith a nasty smirk and jeered.
　　“We’ve got your pal, buddy. We’ve got your pal.”
　　Yossarian was unnerved. “What the hell are you talking about?” he pleaded in incipient panic.
　　“You’ll find out, buddy. You’ll find out.”
　　Yossarian lunged for his tormentor’s throat with one hand, but the man glided out of reach effortlessly andvanished into the corridor with a malicious laugh. Yossarian lay there trembling with a pounding pulse. He wasbathed in icy sweat. He wondered who his pal was. It was dark in the hospital and perfectly quiet. He had nowatch to tell him the time. He was wide-awake, and he knew he was a prisoner in one of those sleepless,bedridden nights that would take an eternity to dissolve into dawn. A throbbing chill oozed up his legs. He wascold, and he thought of Snowden, who had never been his pal but was a vaguely familiar kid who was badlywounded and freezing to death in the puddle of harsh yellow sunlight splashing into his face through the sidegunport when Yossarian crawled into the rear section of the plane over the bomb bay after Dobbs had beseechedhim on the intercom to help the gunner, please help the gunner. Yossarian’s stomach turned over when his eyesfirst beheld the macabre scene; he was absolutely revolted, and he paused in fright a few moments beforedescending, crouched on his hands and knees in the narrow tunnel over the bomb bay beside the sealedcorrugated carton containing the first-aid kit. Snowden was lying on his back on the floor with his legs stretchedout, still burdened cumbersomely by his flak suit, his flak helmet, his parachute harness and his Mae West. Notfar away on the floor lay the small tail-gunner in a dead faint. The wound Yossarian saw was in the outside ofSnowden’s thigh, as large and deep as a football, it seemed. It was impossible to tell where the shreds of hissaturated coveralls ended and the ragged flesh began.
　　There was no morphine in the first-aid kit, no protection for Snowden against pain but the numbing shock of thegaping wound itself. The twelve syrettes of morphine had been stolen from their case and replaced by a cleanlylettered note that said: “What’s good for M & M Enterprises is good for the country. Milo Minderbinder.”
　　Yossarian swore at Milo and held two aspirins out to ashen lips unable to receive them. But first he hastily drewa tourniquet around Snowden’s thigh because he could not think what else to do in those first tumultuousmoments when his senses were in turmoil, when he knew he must act competently at once and feared he mightgo to pieces completely. Snowden watched him steadily, saying nothing. No artery was spurting, but Yossarianpretended to absorb himself entirely into the fashioning of a tourniquet, because applying a tourniquet wassomething he did know how to do. He worked with simulated skill and composure, feeling Snowden’s lacklustergaze resting upon him. He recovered possession of himself before the tourniquet was finished andloosened it immediately to lessen the danger of gangrene. His mind was clear now, and he knew how to proceed.
　　He rummaged through the first-aid kit for scissors.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden said softly. “I’m cold.”
　　“You’re going to be all right, kid,” Yossarian reassured him with a grin. “You’re going to be all right.”
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden said again in a frail, childlike voice. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” Yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. “There, there.”
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there. There, there.”
　　Yossarian was frightened and moved more swiftly. He found a pair of scissors at last and began cutting carefullythrough Snowden’s coveralls high up above the wound, just below the groin. He cut through the heavy gabardinecloth all the way around the thigh in a straight line. The tiny tailgunner woke up while Yossarian was cuttingwith the scissors, saw him, and fainted again. Snowden rolled his head to the other side of his neck in order tostare at Yossarian more directly. A dim, sunken light glowed in his weak and listless eyes. Yossarian, puzzled,tried not to look at him. He began cutting downward through the coveralls along the inside seam. The yawningwound—was that a tube of slimy bone he saw running deep inside the gory scarlet flow behind the twitching,startling fibers of weird muscle? --was dripping blood in several trickles, like snow melting on eaves, butviscous and red, already thickening as it dropped. Yossarian kept cutting through the coveralls to the bottom andpeeled open the severed leg of the garment. It fell to the floor with a plop, exposing the hem of khaki undershortsthat were soaking up blotches of blood on one side as though in thirst. Yossarian was stunned at how waxen andghastly Snowden’s bare leg looked, how loathsome, how lifeless and esoteric the downy, fine, curled blond hairson his odd white shin and calf. The wound, he saw now, was not nearly as large as a football, but as long andwide as his hand and too raw and deep to see into clearly. The raw muscles inside twitched like live hamburgermeat. A long sigh of relief escaped slowly through Yossarian’s mouth when he saw that Snowden was not indanger of dying. The blood was already coagulating inside the wound, and it was simply a matter of bandaginghim up and keeping him calm until the plane landed. He removed some packets of sulfanilamide from the first-aid kit. Snowden quivered when Yossarian pressed against him gently to turn him up slightly on his side.
　　“Did I hurt you?”
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” Yossarian said. “There, there.”
　　“I’m cold. I’m cold.”
　　“There, there. There, there.”
　　“It’s starting to hurt me,” Snowden cried out suddenly with a plaintive, urgent wince.
　　Yossarian scrambled frantically through the first-aid kit in search of morphine again and found only Milo’s noteand a bottle of aspirin. He cursed Milo and held two aspirin tablets out to Snowden. He had no water to offer.
　　Snowden rejected the aspirin with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His face was pale and pasty.
　　Yossarian removed Snowden’s flak helmet and lowered his head to the floor.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden moaned with half-closed eyes. “I’m cold.”
　　The edges of his mouth were turning blue. Yossarian was petrified. He wondered whether to pull the rip cord ofSnowden’s parachute and cover him with the nylon folds. It was very warm in the plane. Glancing upunexpectedly, Snowden gave him a wan, co-operative smile and shifted the position of his hips a bit so thatYossarian could begin salting the wound with sulfanilamide. Yossarian worked with renewed confidence andoptimism. The plane bounced hard inside an air pocket, and he remembered with a start that he had left his ownparachute up front in the nose. There was nothing to be done about that. He poured envelope after envelope ofthe white crystalline powder into the bloody oval wound until nothing red could be seen and then drew a deep,apprehensive breath, steeling himself with gritted teeth as he touched his bare hand to the dangling shreds ofdrying flesh to tuck them up inside the wound. Quickly he covered the whole wound with a large cottoncompress and jerked his hand away. He smiled nervously when his brief ordeal had ended. The actual contactwith the dead flesh had not been nearly as repulsive as he had anticipated, and he found an excuse to caress thewound with his fingers again and again to convince himself of his own courage.
　　Next he began binding the compress in place with a roll of gauze. The second time around Snowden’s thigh withthe bandage, he spotted the small hole on the inside through which the piece of flak had entered, a round,crinkled wound the size of a quarter with blue edges and a black core inside where the blood had crusted.
　　Yossarian sprinkled this one with sulfanilamide too and continued unwinding the gauze around Snowden’s leguntil the compress was secure. Then he snipped off the roll with the scissors and slit the end down the center. Hemade the whole thing fast with a tidy square knot. It was a good bandage, he knew, and he sat back on his heelswith pride, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and grinned at Snowden with spontaneous friendliness.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden moaned. “I’m cold.”
　　“You’re going to be all right, kid,” Yossarian assured him, patting his arm comfortingly. “Everything’s undercontrol.”
　　Snowden shook his head feebly. “I’m cold,” he repeated, with eyes as dull and blind as stone. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” said Yossarian, with growing doubt and trepidation. “There, there. In a little while we’ll be backon the ground and Doc Daneeka will take care of you.”
　　But Snowden kept shaking his head and pointed at last, with just the barest movement of his chin, down towardhis armpit. Yossarian bent forward to peer and saw a strangely colored stain seeping through the coveralls justabove the armhole of Snowden’s flak suit. Yossarian felt his heart stop, then pound so violently he found itdifficult to breathe. Snowden was wounded inside his flak suit. Yossarian ripped open the snaps of Snowden’sflak suit and heard himself scream wildly as Snowden’s insides slithered down to the floor in a soggy pile andjust kept dripping out. A chunk of flak more than three inches big had shot into his other side just underneath thearm and blasted all the way through, drawing whole mottled quarts of Snowden along with it through thegigantic hole in his ribs it made as it blasted out. Yossarian screamed a second time and squeezed both handsover his eyes. His teeth were chattering in horror. He forced himself to look again. Here was God’s plenty, allright, he thought bitterly as he stared—liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach and bits of the stewed tomatoesSnowden had eaten that day for lunch. Yossarian hated stewed tomatoes and turned away dizzily and began tovomit, clutching his burning throat. The tail gunner woke up while Yossarian was vomiting, saw him, and faintedagain. Yossarian was limp with exhaustion, pain and despair when he finished. He turned back weakly toSnowden, whose breath had grown softer and more rapid, and whose face had grown paler. He wondered how inthe world to begin to save him.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” Yossarian mumbled mechanically in a voice too low to be heard. “There, there.”
　　Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazeddown despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read themessage in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Setfire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage.
　　That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness was all.
　　“I’m cold,” Snowden said. “I’m cold.”
　　“There, there,” said Yossarian. “There, there.” He pulled the rip cord of Snowden’s parachute and covered hisbody with the white nylon sheets.
　　“I’m cold.”
　　“There, there.”
 41、斯诺登
　　“切开，”一个医生说。
　　“你切开吧，”另一个说。
　　“别切开，”约塞连舌头僵硬、口齿不清地说。
　　“这是谁在乱插嘴，”一个医生抱怨道，“这儿没你说话的地方。
　　我们是动手术还是不动手术？”
　　“他不需要动手术，”另一个医生抱怨他说，“这不过是个小伤口，我们只要止住血，清洗一下伤口，再缝几针就行了。”
　　“可我还从来没有过动手术的机会呢。哪一把是手术刀？这一把是手术刀吗？”
　　“不，那一把才是手术刀。好吧，要是你想动手术，就下手吧。切开吧。”
　　“就这样切开吗？”
　　“不是切开那儿，你这个笨蛋！”
　　“不要切开。”约塞连昏昏沉沉地感觉到有两个陌生人要把自己切开，急忙喊叫起来。
　　“这儿没你说话的地方，”头一个医生挖苦地抱怨道，“我们给他动手术时，他要一直这么不停地唠叨下去吗？”
　　“你们得等我收他住院后才器给他动手术，”一个职员说。
　　“你得等我把他审查清楚了才能收他住院，”一个口气生硬的胖上校说。他留着小胡了，长着一张红润的硕大脸盘。这张脸几乎快要贴到约塞连的脸上了，就像一只大煎锅的平锅底似的，散发着烤人的热气。“你出生在什么地方？”
　　见到这个口气生硬的胖上校，约塞连联想起那个审问牧师并裁决他有罪的口气生硬的胖上校。他瞪大眼睛，透过眼前的一层簿雾，盯着胖上校。空气中弥漫着甲醛和乙醇的清香气味。
　　“我出生在战场上，”他回答说。
　　“不，不，你出生在哪一个州？”
　　“我出生在清白无辜的情况下。”
　　“不，不，你没听明白。”
　　“让我来对付他吧，”另一个人急不可耐他说。这个人瘦长脸，深眼窝，薄嘴唇，显得刻薄歹毒。“你大概是个机灵鬼吧？”他问约塞连。
　　“他已经精神错乱了，”其中一个医生说，“你们为什么不让我们把他带回到里面去治疗呢？”
　　“如果他精神错乱，就让他这么呆在这儿吧。他或许会说出什么能证明他有罪的话来呢。”
　　“可他仍在流血不止，你难道看不见吗？他甚至会死掉的。”
　　“那对他才好呢！”
　　“那是这个下流杂种应得的报应，”口气生硬的胖上校说，“好吧，约翰，全都交待出来吧。我们要知道事实。”
　　“大家都叫我约•约。”
　　“我们要求你和我们合作，约•约。我们是你的朋友，你要信任我们。我们是到这儿来帮助你的。我们不会伤害你。”
　　“我们把大拇指伸到他的伤口里戳几下，挖出点肉来，”那个瘦长脸的家伙提议道。
　　约塞连闭上眼睛，好让他们以为他失去知觉了。
　　“他昏过去了，”他听见一个医生说，“能不能让我们先给他治疗，要不然就太晚了。他也许会死的。”
　　“好吧，带他进去吧。我真希望这杂种死掉。”
　　“你得等我收他住院后才能给他治疗，”那职员说。
　　当那个职员翻弄着一张张表格给他办住院手续时，约塞连闭上眼睛假装昏死了过去。随后，他被慢慢推到一间又闷又黑的房间里。房间的上空悬挂着许多灼热的聚光灯，在这里，清香的甲醛和乙醇味更加浓重了，沁人心脾的香气熏得人昏昏沉沉的。他还闻到了乙醚的气味，听到玻璃器皿的了当响声。他听见两个医生的沙哑呼吸声，心中一阵窃喜。叫他高兴的是，他们以为他失去了知觉，根本不知道他在偷听。在他听来，他们的那些对话全都无聊透顶，直到后来一个医生说：
　　“喂，你认为我们应该救活他吗？我们要是救了他，他们也许会对我们怀恨在心的。”
　　“我们动手术吧，”另一个医生说，“我们把他切开，看看里面究竟是怎么回事。他一直抱怨说，他的肝有毛病，可在这张调光照片上，他的肝看上去挺好的。”
　　“那是他的胰腺，你这笨蛋，这儿才是他的肝呢。”
　　“不，这不是，这是他的心脏。我敢拿一个五分硬币跟你打赌，这才是他的肝。我要开刀把它找出来，我应该先洗手吗？”
　　“别动手术，”约塞连说、他睁开眼睛，挣扎着要坐起来。
　　“这儿没你说话的地方，”其中一个医生愤愤地训斥道，“难道我们就不能叫他住嘴吗？”
　　“我们可以给他来个全身麻醉。乙醚就在这里。”
　　“不要全身麻醉。”约塞连说。
　　“我们给他来个全身麻醉，叫他昏睡过去，那样我们想把他怎么样就怎么样。”
　　“他们给约塞连做了全身麻醉，使他昏睡过去。他醒来时发现自己躺在一个弥漫着乙醚气味的僻静房间里、直觉得口干舌燥；科恩中校坐在他床边的一张椅子上，正安安静静地等着约塞连醒来呢。
　　他穿着宽松肥大的橄榄绿衬衣和裤子，胡须密匝匝的棕色脸庞上挂着人丝和蔼而淡漠的微笑：他正用双手轻轻抚摸着自己的秃脑门呢。约塞连一醒过来，他便俯下身格格笑着，语气极为友好地向约塞连保证说，只要约塞连不死，他们之间的那笔交易就仍然有效。约塞连哇的一声呕吐起来。科恩中校一听到声音马上跳起身，厌恶地逃了出去。约塞连心想，乌云之中总还是有一线光明的。随后，他觉得透不过气来，便又昏昏沉沉地睡过去了，一只长着尖指甲的手粗暴地把他摇醒了。他翻过身，睁开眼睛，看见一个面容猥琐的陌生人轻蔑地撇着嘴，不怀好意地瞪着他。那人得意地说：
　　“我们抓到你的伙伴了，老弟。我们抓到你的伙伴了。”
　　约塞连顿时浑身冰凉，一阵晕眩。他出了一身冷汗。
　　“谁是我的伙伴？”当他看到牧师坐在刚才科恩中校坐的地方时，他问道。
　　“也许我是你的伙伴，”牧师回答道。
　　但是，约塞连没能听见他的话。他又闭上了眼睛。有人拿过水来喂他喝了几口，又踮着脚尖走开了。他睡了一阵，醒来时觉得情绪很好，便转过头去想对牧师笑笑，却发现换了阿费坐在那里。约塞连不由自主地叹了口气。阿费哈哈大笑，问他眼下感觉如何。约塞连异常烦恼地沉下脸，反问阿费为什么不在监狱里呆着，一下子把阿费给问糊涂了，约塞连闭上眼睛，想赶阿费走，等到他再睁开眼睛时，阿费已经走了，牧师又坐在那里了。他一眼瞥见牧师兴高采烈的笑模样，不由哈哈大笑起来，一边笑一边问牧师到底为了什么这么高兴。
　　“我为你高兴呀，”牧师激动、快活而又坦率地回答道。“我在大队部里听说你受了重伤，如果你活下来的话，就送你回国。”科恩中校说，你的情况很危险。可我刚刚从一位医生那儿得知、你受的伤非常非常轻，过一两天你大概就可以出院了。你一点危险都没有，情况好得很。”
　　听了牧师带来的这个消息，约塞连大大地松了一口气。“这好极了。”
　　“是啊，”牧师说。两片绊红悄悄爬上他的面颊，使他看上去显得既顽皮又快乐。“是啊；这好极了。”
　　约塞连回想起自己第一次与牧师谈话的情景，不由哈哈大笑起来。“瞧，我第一次遇见你是在医院里，现在我又在医院里了。最近一次我见到你也是在医院里。你这一向呆在哪儿？”
　　牧师耸了耸肩。“我一直在祷告，”他坦白道，“我尽可能呆在自己的帐篷里。每一回惠特科姆中士离开这个地区时我都要祷告，这样他就不会抓住我了。”
　　“这样做有用处吗？”
　　“这样做可以减轻我的烦恼，”牧师又耸了耸肩回答道，“再说，这样的话，我也有事可干了。”
　　“噢，这很不错，不是吗？”
　　“是呀，”牧师热烈地赞同道，好像他原先从来没有想到过这一点，“是呀，依我看，这确实不错。”他兴奋地俯下身来，显得既尴尬又焦虑。“约塞连，在你住院期间，有没有什么我可以帮忙的地方，需要我为你带些什么东西来吗？”
　　约塞连快活地取笑他说：“像玩具、糖果或者口香糖之类吗？”
　　牧师的脸又红了。他不自然地咧嘴笑笑，然后又变得恭恭敬敬的。“像书籍啦，也许别的什么东西。我希望我能做点什么让你高兴的事。你知道，约塞连，我们大伙都很为你感到骄傲。”
　　“骄傲？”
　　“是啊，当然啦。是你冒着生命危险拦住了那个纳粹刺客。这是非常崇高的行为。”
　　“什么纳粹刺客？”
　　“就是那个来这儿暗杀卡思卡特上校和科恩中校的家伙呀。是你救了他们的命。你在楼厅上跟他扭打成一团时，他差一点把你刺死。你能活下来真是命大。”
　　约塞连弄明白是怎么回事后，不由得冷笑起来。”那人根本不是什么纳粹刺客。”
　　“没错，是的。科恩中校说他是的。”
　　“那人是内特利的女朋友。她是来找我的，不是来找卡思卡特上校和科恩中校的。自从我把内特利的死告诉她以后，她就一直想杀我。”
　　“可这怎么可能呢？”牧师脸色发青地愤然反驳道。他给弄得有点糊涂了。“他逃走时，卡思卡特上校和科恩中校两个人全都看见了。官方的报告说，你拦住了一个前来暗杀他们的纳粹刺客。”
　　“别相信官方的报告。”约塞连冷冰冰地提醒他。“那是这笔交易的一部分。”
　　“什么交易？”
　　“是我跟卡思卡特上校和科恩中校做的一笔交易。如果我见人就讲他们的好话，并且永远不在任何人面前批评他们叫其余的官兵执行更多的飞行任务的话，他们就把我当做一个大英雄送回国去。”
　　牧师大吃一惊，差点从椅子上跳起来。他既恼怒又沮丧，摆出一副好斗的架势嚷嚷起来。“但这太可怕了！这是一笔见不得人的丑恶交易，难道不是吗？”
　　“令人作呕，”约塞连回答说。他把后脑勺靠在枕头上，毫无表情地盯着天花板。“我想，我们都同意用‘令人作呕’这个字眼来形容它。”
　　“那你干吗要同意这笔交易呢？”
　　“要么接受这笔交易，要么接受军法审判。”
　　“噢，”牧师露出一副懊悔不已的神情，用手捂着嘴叫道。他局促不安地欠身坐回到椅子上。“我真不应该说刚才那番活的。”
　　“他们会把我关到监狱里，让我和一帮罪犯呆在一起。”
　　“当然啦。凡是你认为正确的，你就应当做。”牧师点点头，好像就此了结了这场争论，随即便陷入了窘迫的沉默之中。
　　“别担心，”过了几分钟，约塞连凄惨地笑了笑说，“我并不打算这么做。”
　　“但你必须这么做，”牧师关心地俯下身来坚持道，“真的，你必须这么做。我没有权利影响你。我真的没有权利说三道四。”
　　“你没有影响我。”约塞连吃力地翻过去侧身躺着，既庄重又嘲讽地摇了摇头。“耶稣啊，牧师！你难道不认为那是一种罪孽吗？救了卡思卡特上校的命！我决不允许在自己的档案里出现这桩罪行。”
　　牧师小心翼翼地回到原先的话题上；“那你将怎么办呢？你不能让他们把你关进监狱。”
　　“我要执行更多的飞行任务。要么，我也许真的会临阵脱逃，让他们抓住我。他们大概会的。”
　　“那样他们就会把你关进监狱。你不想进监狱吧。”
　　“那么，我想我只好继续执行飞行任务，直到战争结束。我们中总有些人会活下来的。”
　　“可你也许会送命的。”
　　“那么，我想我还是不执行飞行任务吧。”
　　“那你将怎么办呢？”
　　“我不知道。”
　　“你会让他们送你回国吗？”
　　“我不知道。外面热吗？这儿倒是很暖和的。”
　　“外面很冷，”牧师说。
　　“你知道，”约塞连回忆说，发生了一件希奇古怪的事——也许是我做梦吧。我觉得刚才来过一个陌生人，他告诉我他抓住了我的伙伴。不知道这是不是我想象出来的。”
　　“依我看，这不是你想象出来的，”牧师对他说，“我上一次来的时候，你就把这件事讲给我听了。”
　　“那么，那个人真的说过这话了。‘我们抓到你的伙伴了，老弟，’他说，‘我们抓到你的伙伴了。’我以前还从来没有见到过像他那么凶恶的样子。我很想知道谁是我的伙伴。”
　　“我倒认为我是你的伙伴，约塞连，”牧师既谦卑又诚恳地说，“他们肯定是抓住我了。他们记下了我的号码，一直在监视着我。他们要叫我到哪儿去，我立刻就得到哪儿去。他们审问我的时候就是这么说的。”
　　“不，我不认为他们指的是你，”约塞连肯定地说，“我认为他们准是指内特利或者邓巴这一类的人。你知道，是指某一个在这场战争中送命的人，像克莱文杰、奥尔、多布斯、基德•桑普森或者麦克沃特。”约塞连突然吃惊地长叹一声，摇了摇脑袋。“我这才明白，”他叫道，“他们抓走了我所有的伙伴，不是吗？剩下的只有我和亨格利•乔了。”当他看见牧师的脸色变得煞白时，他不由得惊慌起来。
　　“牧师，出了什么事？”
　　“亨格利•乔死了。”
　　“上帝啊，不！是执行任务时死的吗？”
　　“他是睡觉时做梦死去的，他们看见一只猫趴在他的脸上。
　　“可怜的家伙。”约塞连说着便哭了起来，他把脸伏在臂膀里，不想让人看见他的眼泪。牧师没说再见就走了。约塞连吃了点东西后睡着了。半夜里，一只手把他摇醒过来、他睁开眼睛，看见一个面容猥琐的瘦子。那人穿着病员的浴衣和睡衣裤，一边狞笑着，一边嘲弄地对他说。
　　“我们抓到你的伙伴了，老弟。我们抓到你的伙伴了。”
　　约塞连心烦意乱起来、“你***到底在说些什么？”他略显恐慌地追问道。
　　“你会发现的，老弟，你会发现的。”
　　约塞连伸出一只手去掐那个折磨自己的人的脖子，可那人毫不费劲地避开了他的手，怪笑一声逃到走廊里不见了。约塞连躺在床上一个劲地哆嗦，脉搏直跳个不停，他出了一身的冷汗。他很想知道谁是他的伙伴。医院笼罩在黑暗之中，一片寂静。他没戴手表，不知道几点了。他已经完全清醒了。他知道，自己是个整夜卧床不起却又无法入睡的囚徒，在永无尽头的黑夜里企盼着黎明的到来。
　　阵阵寒气从他的双腿直往上逼来，他想起了斯诺登。斯诺登从来都不是他的伙伴，只不过是个他稍微有点熟悉的小伙子罢了。那一回，多布斯在内部对讲机里向约塞连呼叫，救救轰炸手、救救轰炸手。约塞连从炸弹舱的舱顶上爬过去，爬到机尾舱里，看见斯诺登受了重伤，眼看就要冻死了。一圈刺眼的金色阳光透过侧炮眼照射到他躺着的地方，在他的脸上跳动着。约塞连第一眼看见那种令人毛骨悚然的情景时，胃里就立刻翻腾起来了，他觉得恶心。他心惊胆战地愣了几分钟才往下爬，匍匐着穿过炸弹舱顶上的狭窄通道，从装着急救药箱的密封皱纹纸板箱旁边爬过去。斯诺登双腿叉开仰面躺在舱板上，身上仍然裹着笨重的防弹衣、防弹钢盔、降落伞背带和飞行救生衣。离他不远处躺着那个不省人事的小个子尾舱机枪手。约塞连看见斯诺登的大腿外侧有一个伤口，看上去足有一只橄榄球那么大，那么深。鲜血浸透了他的工作服，根本分不清楚哪些是碎布条，哪些是烂糊糊的血肉。
　　急救药箱里没有吗啡，也没有别的可以帮斯诺登止痛的药品。
　　约塞连只好眼睁睁地、心惊胆战地盯着那个裂开了的伤口。药箱里的十二支吗啡针全被人偷走了。在原来放针的地方有一张字迹工整的纸条，上面写着：“有益于M&M辛迪加联合体就是有益于国家。米洛•明德宾德”。约塞连一边诅咒米洛，一边拿起两片阿司匹林硬往斯诺登那两片毫无反应的苍白嘴唇里塞。不过，他先是匆匆忙忙地抓起一条止血带绑住斯诺登的大腿，因为在最初几分钟的慌乱之中，他的脑子里一片混乱，只知道自己必须采取适当的措施，却一时想不出具体应该做些什么。他真怕自己会完全垮掉。斯诺登一声不吭，静静地看着他。并没有动脉出血的迹象，可约塞连却装出一副全神贯注绑扎止血带的模样，因为他根本不懂得如何使用止血带。他假装成熟练和内行的样子摆弄着止血带，他能够感觉出斯诺登那暗淡无光的眼睛正盯着自己。止血带还没绑扎好，他就恢复了镇定。他立即把止血带松开，以防产生坏疽。此时，他的头脑已经清楚，他知道该怎么办了。他在急救药箱里翻来翻去，想找一把剪刀。
　　“我冷，”斯诺登轻声说，“我冷。”
　　“你很快就没事了，小伙子，”约塞连笑着安慰他说，“你很快就没事了。”
　　“我冷，”斯诺登又虚弱无力他说，他的嗓音听起来像个天真的孩子。“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦。”约塞连不知道再说什么好，只得这样答应着。
　　“好啦，好啦。”
　　“我冷。”斯诺登鸣咽着。“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，好啦，好啦。”
　　约塞连害怕起来，动作也加快了。终于，他找到了一把剪刀。他小心翼翼地把斯诺登的工作服从伤口处往上剪开，一直剪到他的大腿根。随后，他又绕着他的大腿笔直地剪了一圈，把那件厚厚的华达呢工作服一截为二。他正剪着，那个小个子尾舱机枪手醒了过来，看了看他，便又昏过去了。斯诺登把头扭到另一边，以便更加直接地盯着约塞连。他那疲倦、无精打采的眼睛里闪动着一丝暗淡的光。约塞连心里有点发虚，竭力不去看他。他又顺着工作服的内侧接缝往下剪。从那个裂开的伤口里——那些疹人的肌肉组织仍在抽搐着、跳动着——殷红的鲜血不停地往外涌。透过这些，他看到的是不是一根粘糊糊的骨管呢，——鲜血就像房檐上融化的雪水那样分成许多细流往外流淌，不过，他的血又粘又红，一流出来就凝固住了。约塞连沿着工作服的裤管一直剪到底，又动手把剪断下来的裤管从斯诺登的腿上褪下来。裤管扑的一声落在地上，里面的卡其布短衬裤的底边露了出来，其中一侧浸透了血污，好像要用鲜血解渴似的。约塞连吃惊地看见，斯诺登赤裸的大腿是那样光滑而苍白，而他那白得出奇的小腿则毛茸茸地长满细细的、卷曲的淡黄汗毛，看上去令人厌恶又毫无生气，显得很特别。这时他看清了，这个伤口并没有橄榄球那么大，但却有他的手掌那么长、那么宽，而且非常深，里面血肉模糊，只能看见血淋淋的肌肉不停地抽搐着，就像新鲜的碎牛肉。约塞连看出斯诺登没有生命危险，长长地舒了一口气，放下心来。伤口内的鲜血已经开始凝固了。在飞机降落之前，只要给他包扎一下，使他保持镇静就可以了。约塞连从急救药箱里拿出几包磺砖药粉来。当他轻轻地推着斯诺登，想叫他稍微侧一侧身子时，斯诺登哆嗦起来。
　　“我弄痛你了吗？”
　　“我冷。”斯诺登呜咽着。“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，”约塞连说，“好啦，好啦。”
　　“我冷，我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，好啦，好啦。”
　　“伤口开始痛了，”斯诺登猛地缩了一下，突然哀怨地叫了起来。
　　约塞连又发疯似地在急救药箱里乱翻一通，想找支吗啡针：可是只找到了米洛的纸条和一瓶阿司匹林。他一边诅咒着米洛，一边把两片阿司匹林递到斯诺登的嘴边。他没有水给他服药。斯诺登几乎令人察觉不出地轻轻摇了摇头，表示他不愿意吃阿可匹林：他的脸苍白苍白的。约塞连摘下斯诺登的防弹钢盔，让他的头枕在舱板上。
　　“我冷。”斯诺登半闭着眼睛呻吟道，“我冷。”
　　他的嘴唇开始发青。约塞连有点惊慌失措了，他不知道该不该扯开斯诺登的开伞索、把尼龙降落伞布盖在他的身上。机舱里非常暖和、出乎他的意料，斯诺登突然抬了抬眼睛，疲倦而友好地冲他微微一笑，随后挪了挪屁股，好让约塞连给他的伤口敷上磺安药粉。约塞连干着干着便恢复了信心，重新变得乐观起来，飞机闯进一股垂直气流之中、剧烈地颠簸起来：约塞连突然吃惊地想起来，他把自己的降落伞忘在机头那边了。但是，这会儿已经没有什么办法好想了。他一包接一包地把结晶状的白色药粉倒入那个血肉模糊的椭圆形伤口里，直到把殷红色全部盖住。接着，他忧心忡忡地深吸一口气：咬紧牙关，壮起胆子伸出一只赤裸的手抓起那些垂在外面的、渐渐变干巴了的缕缕肌肉，把它们塞回到伤口中去。他急急忙忙地用一大块药棉纱布盖住伤口，随即把手缩了回去。这场短暂的严峻考验总算过去了，他神经质地笑了笑。直接接触无生命的肉体并不像他所预料的那么令人恶心，于是，他一再找借口一次次用手指头去抚摸那个伤口，以确认自己是勇敢的。
　　然后，他动手用一卷绷带绑住那块纱布。当他第二次把绷带绕过斯诺登的大腿时，他看见在他的大腿内侧还有个小洞。这是个圆圆的、有两角五分硬币那么大的伤口，青紫的边缘卷缩着，中间黑洞洞的，血已经凝固了。弹片就是从这儿穿进去的。约塞连在这个伤口上也敷上一层磺安药粉，又继续往斯诺登的大腿上缠绷带，直到把那块纱布包扎紧为止。接着，他用剪刀剪断绷带，把绷带头塞到里面，打了个十分整齐的方结，紧紧系住绷带。他觉得自己包扎得很好，得意地跪坐在自己的后脚跟上，一边擦着额头上的汗珠，一边真诚而友好地对斯诺登咧嘴笑着。
　　“我冷。”斯诺登呻吟着。“我冷。”
　　“你很快就没事了，小伙子，”约塞连安慰地抬了抬他的胳膊，向他保证道，“一切全都控制住了。”
　　斯诺登无力地摇了摇头。“我冷。”他又说。他的眼睛呆滞、暗淡，就像两块石头，“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，”约塞连说。他越来越感到疑虑和惊慌。“好啦，好啦。不一会儿我们就着陆了，丹尼卡医生会来照料你的。”
　　可是，斯诺登还是不停地摇头。最后，他稍微扬了扬下巴，朝自己的腋窝示意了一下。约塞连弯下腰盯住那儿，看见就在防弹衣的袖筒上方，一片颜色奇怪的污迹从工作服里渗透出来、他觉得自己的心一下子停住不跳了，接着又激烈地咚咚跳个不停、跳得他透不过气来。斯诺登的防弹衣里面还有伤口。约塞连一把扯开斯诺登防弹衣的扣子，不由得尖声叫了起来。斯诺登的内脏涌了出来，湿漉漉地堆在地板上，而且伤口里面的血仍然滴滴答答地往外流淌着。一块三英寸多长的弹片正巧从他另一侧的腋窝处射了进去。
　　这块弹片穿过他的腹腔，又在这边的肋骨处打通一个大洞，把他肚子里杂六杂八的东西全都带了出来。约塞连又尖叫了一声，伸出双手使劲捂住眼睛。他吓得浑身战栗，牙齿格格打战。他强迫自己再次抬眼看过去。他一边看一边痛苦地想，上帝造出的一切都在这儿了——肝、肺、肾、肋骨、胃，还有斯诺登那天午饭吃的煨番茄。约塞连最讨厌煨番茄。他头晕目眩地转过身去，一手按住热乎乎的喉咙，大口大口呕吐起来。他正吐着，那个尾舱机枪手醒了过来，看了他一眼，就又昏过去了。约塞连吐完之后，感到浑身疲乏无力，内心既痛苦又绝望。他虚弱地转回身对着斯诺登。斯诺登的呼吸变得越来越微弱、急促，他的脸也变得越来越苍白。约塞连不知道到底该怎么做才能够救活他。
　　“我冷，”斯诺登呜咽着说，“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，”约塞连机械地嘟哝着。他的声音小得根本听不见。
　　约塞连也感到冷，他不由自主地哆嗦起来。斯诺登那可怕的五脏六腑脏兮兮地淌了一地。他死死盯住它们，浑身起了一层鸡皮疙瘩。它们所包含的寓意是很容易领会的。人是物质，这就是斯诺登的秘密。把他从窗口扔出去，他就会摔下去；把他点燃了，他就会烧起来；把他埋入地下，他就会和别的各种垃圾一样腐烂。灵魂离去之后，人就变成了垃圾。这就是斯诺登的秘密。成熟的时机决定一切。
　　“我冷，”斯诺登说，“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦，”约塞连说，“好啦，好啦。”他扯开斯诺登的开伞索，把白色的尼龙降落伞布盖在他的身上。
　　“我冷。”
　　“好啦，好啦。”
Chapter 42 Yossarian
    “Colonel Korn says,” said Major Danby to Yossarian with a prissy, gratified smile, “that the deal is still on.
　　Everything is working out fine.”
　　“No it isn’t.”
　　“Oh, yes, indeed,” Major Danby insisted benevolently. “In fact, everything is much better. It was really a strokeof luck that you were almost murdered by that girl. Now the deal can go through perfectly.”
　　“I’m not making any deals with Colonel Korn.”
　　Major Danby’s effervescent optimism vanished instantly, and he broke out all at once into a bubbling sweat.
　　“But you do have a deal with him, don’t you?” he asked in anguished puzzlement. “Don’t you have anagreement?”
　　“I’m breaking the agreement.”
　　“But you shook hands on it, didn’t you? You gave him your word as a gentleman.”
　　“I’m breaking my word.”
　　“Oh, dear,” sighed Major Danby, and began dabbing ineffectually at his careworn brow with a folded whitehandkerchief. “But why, Yossarian? It’s a very good deal they’re offering you.”
　　“It’s a lousy deal, Danby. It’s an odious deal.”
　　“Oh, dear,” Major Danby fretted, running his bare hand over his dark, wiry hair, which was already soaked withperspiration to the tops of the thick, close-cropped waves. “Oh dear.”
　　“Danby, don’t you think it’s odious?”
　　Major Danby pondered a moment. “Yes, I suppose it is odious,” he conceded with reluctance. His globular,exophthalmic eyes were quite distraught. “But why did you make such a deal if you didn’t like it?”
　　“I did it in a moment of weakness,” Yossarian wisecracked with glum irony. “I was trying to save my life.”
　　“Don’t you want to save your life now?”
　　“That’s why I won’t let them make me fly more missions.”
　　“Then let them send you home and you’ll be in no more danger.”
　　“Let them send me home because I flew more than fifty missions,” Yossarian said, “and not because I wasstabbed by that girl, or because I’ve turned into such a stubborn son of a bitch.”
　　Major Danby shook his head emphatically in sincere and bespectacled vexation. “They’d have to send nearlyevery man home if they did that. Most of the men have more than fifty missions. Colonel Cathcart couldn’tpossibly requisition so many inexperienced replacement crews at one time without causing an investigation. He’scaught in his own trap.”
　　“That’s his problem.”
　　“No, no, no, Yossarian,” Major Danby disagreed solicitously. “It’s your problem. Because if you don’t gothrough with the deal, they’re going to institute court-martial proceedings as soon as you sign out of thehospital.”
　　Yossarian thumbed his nose at Major Danby and laughed with smug elation. “The hell they will! Don’t lie to me,Danby. They wouldn’t even try.”
　　“But why wouldn’t they?” inquired Major Danby, blinking with astonishment.
　　“Because I’ve really got them over a barrel now. There’s an official report that says I was stabbed by a Naziassassin trying to kill them. They’d certainly look silly trying to court-martial me after that.”
　　“But, Yossarian!” Major Danby exclaimed. “There’s another official report that says you were stabbed by aninnocent girl in the course of extensive black-market operations involving acts of sabotage and the sale ofmilitary secrets to the enemy.”
　　Yossarian was taken back severely with surprise and disappointment. “Another official report?”
　　“Yossarian, they can prepare as many official reports as they want and choose whichever ones they need on anygiven occasion. Didn’t you know that?”
　　“Oh, dear,” Yossarian murmured in heavy dejection, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, dear.”
　　Major Danby pressed forward avidly with a look of vulturous well-meaning. “Yossarian, do what they want andlet them send you home. It’s best for everyone that way.”
　　“It’s best for Cathcart, Korn and me, not for everyone.”
　　“For everyone,” Major Danby insisted. “It will solve the whole problem.”
　　“Is it best for the men in the group who will have to keep flying more missions?”
　　Major Danby flinched and turned his face away uncomfortably for a second. “Yossarian,” he replied, “it willhelp nobody if you force Colonel Cathcart to court-martial you and prove you guilty of all the crimes with whichyou’ll be charged. You will go to prison for a long time, and your whole life will be ruined.”
　　Yossarian listened to him with a growing feeling of concern. “What crimes will they charge me with?”
　　“Incompetence over Ferrara, insubordination, refusal to engage the enemy in combat when ordered to do so, anddesertion.”
　　Yossarian sucked his cheeks in soberly. “They could charge me with all that, could they? They gave me a medalfor Ferrara. How could they charge me with incompetence now?”
　　“Aarfy will swear that you and McWatt lied in your official report.”
　　“I’ll bet the bastard would!”
　　“They will also find you guilty,” Major Danby recited, “of rape, extensive black-market operations, acts ofsabotage and the sale of military secrets to the enemy.”
　　“How will they prove any of that? I never did a single one of those things.”
　　“But they have witnesses who will swear you did. They can get all the witnesses they need simply by persuadingthem that destroying you is for the good of the country. And in a way, it would be for the good of the country.”
　　“In what way?” Yossarian demanded, rising up slowly on one elbow with bridling hostility.
　　Major Danby drew back a bit and began mopping his forehead again. “Well, Yossarian,” he began with anapologetic stammer, “it would not help the war effort to bring Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn into disreputenow. Let’s face it, Yossarian—in spite of everything, the group does have a very good record. If you were courtmartialedand found innocent, other men would probably refuse to fly missions, too. Colonel Cathcart would bein disgrace, and the military efficiency of the unit might be destroyed. So in that way it would be for the good ofthe country to have you found guilty and put in prison, even though you are innocent.”
　　“What a sweet way you have of putting things!” Yossarian snapped with caustic resentment.
　　Major Danby turned red and squirmed and squinted uneasily. “Please don’t blame me,” he pleaded with a look ofanxious integrity. “You know it’s not my fault. All I’m doing is trying to look at things objectively and arrive ata solution to a very difficult situation.”
　　“I didn’t create the situation.”
　　“But you can resolve it. And what else can you do? You don’t want to fly more missions.”
　　“I can run away.”
　　“Run away?”
　　“Desert. Take off I can turn my back on the whole damned mess and start running.”
　　Major Danby was shocked. “Where to? Where could you go?”
　　“I could get to Rome easily enough. And I could hide myself there.”
　　“And live in danger every minute of your life that they would find you? No, no, no, no, Yossarian. That wouldbe a disastrous and ignoble thing to do. Running away from problems never solved them. Please believe me. Iam only trying to help you.”
　　“That’s what that kind detective said before he decided to jab his thumb into my wound,” Yossarian retortedsarcastically.
　　“I am not a detective,” Major Danby replied with indignation, his cheeks flushing again. “I’m a universityprofessor with a highly developed sense of right and wrong, and I wouldn’t try to deceive you. I wouldn’t lie toanyone.”
　　“What would you do if one of the men in the group asked you about this conversation?”
　　“I would lie to him.”
　　Yossarian laughed mockingly, and Major Danby, despite his blushing discomfort, leaned back with relief, asthough welcoming the respite Yossarian’s changing mood promised. Yossarian gazed at him with a mixture ofreserved pity and contempt. He sat up in bed with his back resting against the headboard, lit a cigarette, smiledslightly with wry amusement, and stared with whimsical sympathy at the vivid, pop-eyed horror that hadimplanted itself permanently on Major Danby’s face the day of the mission to Avignon, when General Dreedlehad ordered him taken outside and shot. The startled wrinkles would always remain, like deep black scars, andYossarian felt sorry for the gentle, moral, middle-aged idealist, as he felt sorry for so many people whoseshortcomings were not large and whose troubles were light.
　　With deliberate amiability he said, “Danby, how can you work along with people like Cathcart and Korn?
　　Doesn’t it turn your stomach?”
　　Major Danby seemed surprised by Yossarian’s question. “I do it to help my country,” he replied, as though theanswer should have been obvious. “Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn are my superiors, and obeying theirorders is the only contribution I can make to the war effort. I work along with them because it’s my duty. Andalso,” he added in a much lower voice, dropping his eyes, “because I am not a very aggressive person.”
　　“Your country doesn’t need your help any more,” Yossarian reasoned with antagonism. “So all you’re doing ishelping them.”
　　“I try not to think of that,” Major Danby admitted frankly. “But I try to concentrate on only the big result and toforget that they are succeeding, too. I try to pretend that they are not significant.”
　　“That’s my trouble, you know,” Yossarian mused sympathetically, folding his arms. “Between me and everyideal I always find Scheisskopfs, Peckems, Korns and Cathcarts. And that sort of changes the ideal.”
　　“You must try not to think of them,” Major Danby advised affirmatively. “And you must never let them changeyour values. Ideals are good, but people are sometimes not so good. You must try to look up at the big picture.”
　　Yossarian rejected the advice with a skeptical shake of his head. “When I look up, I see people cashing in. Idon’t see heaven or saints or angels. I see people cashing in on every decent impulse and every human tragedy.”
　　“But you must try not to think of that, too,” Major Danby insisted. “And you must try not to let it upset you.”
　　“Oh, it doesn’t really upset me. What does upset me, though, is that they think I’m a sucker. They think thatthey’re smart, and that the rest of us are dumb. And, you know, Danby, the thought occurs to me right now, forthe first time, that maybe they’re right.”
　　“But you must try not to think of that too,” argued Major Danby. “You must think only of the welfare of yourcountry and the dignity of man.”
　　“Yeah,” said Yossarian.
　　“I mean it, Yossarian. This is not World War One. You must never forget that we’re at war with aggressors whowould not let either one of us live if they won.”
　　“I know that,” Yossarian replied tersely, with a sudden surge of scowling annoyance. “Christ, Danby, I earnedthat medal I got, no matter what their reasons were for giving it to me. I’ve flown seventy goddam combatmissions. Don’t talk to me about fighting to save my country. I’ve been fighting all along to save my country.
　　Now I’m going to fight a little to save myself. The country’s not in danger any more, but I am.”
　　“The war’s not over yet. The Germans are driving toward Antwerp.”
　　“The Germans will be beaten in a few months. And Japan will be beaten a few months after that. If I were to giveup my life now, it wouldn’t be for my country. It would be for Cathcart and Korn. So I’m turning my bombsightin for the duration. From now on I’m thinking only of me.”
　　Major Danby replied indulgently with a superior smile, “But, Yossarian, suppose everyone felt that way.”
　　“Then I’d certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way, wouldn’t I?” Yossarian sat up straighter with aquizzical expression. “You know, I have a queer feeling that I’ve been through this exact conversation beforewith someone. It’s just like the chaplain’s sensation of having experienced everything twice.”
　　“The chaplain wants you to let them send you home,” Major Danby remarked.
　　“The chaplain can jump in the lake.”
　　“Oh, dear.” Major Danby sighed, shaking his head in regretful disappointment. “He’s afraid he might haveinfluenced you.”
　　“He didn’t influence me. You know what I might do? I might stay right here in this hospital bed and vegetate. Icould vegetate very comfortably right here and let other people make the decisions.”
　　“You must make decisions,” Major Danby disagreed. “A person can’t live like a vegetable.”
　　“Why not?”
　　A distant warm look entered Major Danby’s eyes. “It must be nice to live like a vegetable,” he concededwistfully.
　　“It’s lousy,” answered Yossarian.
　　“No, it must be very pleasant to be free from all this doubt and pressure,” insisted Major Danby. “I think I’d liketo live like a vegetable and make no important decisions.”
　　“What kind of vegetable, Danby?”
　　“A cucumber or a carrot.”
　　“What kind of cucumber? A good one or a bad one?”
　　“Oh, a good one, of course.”
　　“They’d cut you off in your prime and slice you up for a salad.”
　　Major Danby’s face fell. “A poor one, then.”
　　“They’d let you rot and use you for fertilizer to help the good ones grow.”
　　“I guess I don’t want to live like a vegetable, then,” said Major Danby with a smile of sad resignation.
　　“Danby, must I really let them send me home?” Yossarian inquired of him seriously.
　　Major Danby shrugged. “It’s a way to save yourself.”
　　“It’s a way to lose myself, Danby. You ought to know that.”
　　“You could have lots of things you want.”
　　“I don’t want lots of things I want,” Yossarian replied, and then beat his fist down against the mattress in anoutburst of rage and frustration. “Goddammit, Danby! I’ve got friends who were killed in this war. I can’t makea deal now. Getting stabbed by that bitch was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
　　“Would you rather go to jail?”
　　“Would you let them send you home?”
　　“Of course I would!” Major Danby declared with conviction. “Certainly I would,” he added a few moments later,in a less positive manner. “Yes, I suppose I would let them send me home if I were in your place,” he decideduncomfortably, after lapsing into troubled contemplation. Then he threw his face sideways disgustedly in agesture of violent distress and blurted out, “Oh, yes, of course I’d let them send me home! But I’m such a terriblecoward I couldn’t really be in your place.”
　　“But suppose you weren’t a coward?” Yossarian demanded, studying him closely. “Suppose you did have thecourage to defy somebody?”
　　“Then I wouldn’t let them send me home,” Major Danby vowed emphatically with vigorous joy and enthusiasm.
　　“But I certainly wouldn’t let them court-martial me.”
　　“Would you fly more missions?”
　　“No, of course not. That would be total capitulation. And I might be killed.”
　　“Then you’d run away?”
　　Major Danby started to retort with proud spirit and came to an abrupt stop, his half-opened jaw swinging closeddumbly. He pursed his lips in a tired pout. “I guess there just wouldn’t be any hope for me, then, would there?”
　　His forehead and protuberant white eyeballs were soon glistening nervously again. He crossed his limp wrists inhis lap and hardly seemed to be breathing as he sat with his gaze drooping toward the floor in acquiescent defeat.
　　Dark, steep shadows slanted in from the window. Yossarian watched him solemnly, and neither of the two menstirred at the rattling noise of a speeding vehicle skidding to a stop outside and the sound of racing footstepspounding toward the building in haste.
　　“Yes, there’s hope for you,” Yossarian remembered with a sluggish flow of inspiration. “Milo might help you.
　　He’s bigger than Colonel Cathcart, and he owes me a few favors.”
　　Major Danby shook his head and answered tonelessly. “Milo and Colonel Cathcart are pals now. He madeColonel Cathcart a vice-president and promised him an important job after the war.”
　　“Then ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen will help us,” Yossarian exclaimed. “He hates them both, and this will infuriatehim.”
　　Major Danby shook his head bleakly again. “Milo and ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen merged last week. They’re allpartners now in M & M Enterprises.”
　　“Then there is no hope for us, is there?”
　　“No hope.”
　　“No hope at all, is there?”
　　“No, no hope at all,” Major Danby conceded. He looked up after a while with a half-formed notion. “Wouldn’t itbe nice if they could disappear us the way they disappeared the others and relieve us of all these crushingburdens?”
　　Yossarian said no. Major Danby agreed with a melancholy nod, lowering his eyes again, and there was no hopeat all for either of them until footsteps exploded in the corridor suddenly and the chaplain, shouting at the top ofhis voice, came bursting into the room with the electrifying news about Orr, so overcome with hilariousexcitement that he was almost incoherent for a minute or two. Tears of great elation were sparkling in his eyes,and Yossarian leaped out of bed with an incredulous yelp when he finally understood.
　　“Sweden?” he cried.
　　“Orr!” cried the chaplain.
　　“Orr?” cried Yossarian.
　　“Sweden!” cried the chaplain, shaking his head up and down with gleeful rapture and prancing aboutuncontrollably from spot to spot in a grinning, delicious frenzy. “It’s a miracle, I tell you! A miracle! I believe inGod again. I really do. Washed ashore in Sweden after so many weeks at sea! It’s a miracle.”
　　“Washed ashore, hell!” Yossarian declared, jumping all about also and roaring in laughing exultation at thewalls, the ceiling, the chaplain and Major Danby. “He didn’t wash ashore in Sweden. He rowed there! He rowedthere, Chaplain, he rowed there.”
　　“Rowed there?”
　　“He planned it that way! He went to Sweden deliberately.”
　　“Well, I don’t care!” the chaplain flung back with undiminished zeal. “It’s still a miracle, a miracle of humanintelligence and human endurance. Look how much he accomplished!” The chaplain clutched his head with bothhands and doubled over in laughter. “Can’t you just picture him?” he exclaimed with amazement. “Can’t you justpicture him in that yellow raft, paddling through the Straits of Gibraltar at night with that tiny little blue oar—““With that fishing line trailing out behind him, eating raw codfish all the way to Sweden, and serving himself teaevery afternoon—““I can just see him!” cried the chaplain, pausing a moment in his celebration to catch his breath. “It’s a miracle ofhuman perseverance, I tell you. And that’s just what I’m going to do from now on! I’m going to persevere. Yes,I’m going to persevere.”
　　“He knew what he was doing every step of the way!” Yossarian rejoiced, holding both fists aloft triumphantly asthough hoping to squeeze revelations from them. He spun to a stop facing Major Danby. “Danby, you dope!
　　There is hope, after all. Can’t you see? Even Clevinger might be alive somewhere in that cloud of his, hidinginside until it’s safe to come out.”
　　“What are you talking about?” Major Danby asked in confusion. “What are you both talking about?”
　　“Bring me apples, Danby, and chestnuts too. Run, Danby, run. Bring me crab apples and horse chestnuts beforeit’s too late, and get some for yourself.”
　　“Horse chestnuts? Crab apples? What in the world for?”
　　“To pop into our cheeks, of course.” Yossarian threw his arms up into the air in a gesture of mighty anddespairing selfrecrimination. “Oh, why didn’t I listen to him? Why wouldn’t I have some faith?”
　　“Have you gone crazy?” Major Danby demanded with alarm and bewilderment. “Yossarian, will you please tellme what you are talking about?”
　　“Danby, Orr planned it that way. Don’t you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning. He evenpracticed getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he flew. And I wouldn’t go with him! Oh, whywouldn’t I listen? He invited me along, and I wouldn’t go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valveto fix and a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness. I’ll need them all. Oh,why wouldn’t I listen to him. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me. I even understand why that girlwas hitting him on the head with her shoe.”
　　“Why?” inquired the chaplain sharply.
　　Yossarian whirled and seized the chaplain by the shirt front in an importuning grip. “Chaplain, help me! Pleasehelp me. Get my clothes. And hurry, will you? I need them right away.”
　　The chaplain started away alertly. “Yes, Yossarian, I will. But where are they? How will I get them?”
　　“By bullying and browbeating anybody who tries to stop you. Chaplain, get me my uniform! It’s around thishospital somewhere. For once in your life, succeed at something.”
　　The chaplain straightened his shoulders with determination and tightened his jaw. “Don’t worry, Yossarian. I’llget your uniform. But why was that girl hitting Orr over the head with her shoe? Please tell me.”
　　“Because he was paying her to, that’s why! But she wouldn’t hit him hard enough, so he had to row to Sweden.
　　Chaplain, find me my uniform so I can get out of here. Ask Nurse Duckett for it. She’ll help you. She’ll doanything she can to be rid of me.”
　　“Where are you going?” Major Danby asked apprehensively when the chaplain had shot from the room. “Whatare you going to do?”
　　“I’m going to run away,” Yossarian announced in an exuberant, clear voice, already tearing open the buttons ofhis pajama tops.
　　“Oh, no,” Major Danby groaned, and began patting his perspiring face rapidly with the bare palms of both hands.
　　“You can’t run away. Where can you run to? Where can you go?”
　　“To Sweden.”
　　“To Sweden?” Major Danby exclaimed in astonishment. “You’re going to run to Sweden? Are you crazy?”
　　“Orr did it.”
　　“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” Major Danby pleaded. “No, Yossarian, you’ll never get there. You can’t run away toSweden. You can’t even row.”
　　“But I can get to Rome if you’ll keep your mouth shut when you leave here and give me a chance to catch a ride.
　　Will you do it?”
　　“But they’ll find you,” Major Danby argued desperately, “and bring you back and punish you even moreseverely.”
　　“They’ll have to try like hell to catch me this time.”
　　“They will try like hell. And even if they don’t find you, what kind of way is that to live? You’ll always bealone. No one will ever be on your side, and you’ll always live in danger of betrayal.”
　　“I live that way now.”
　　“But you can’t just turn your back on all your responsibilities and run away from them,” Major Danby insisted.
　　“It’s such a negative move. It’s escapist.”
　　Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. “I’m not running away from my responsibilities. I’mrunning to them. There’s nothing negative about running away to save my life. You know who the escapists are,don’t you, Danby? Not me and Orr.”
　　“Chaplain, please talk to him, will you? He’s deserting. He wants to run away to Sweden.”
　　“Wonderful!” cheered the chaplain, proudly throwing on the bed a pillowcase full of Yossarian’s clothing. “Runaway to Sweden, Yossarian. And I’ll stay here and persevere. Yes. I’ll persevere. I’ll nag and badger ColonelCathcart and Colonel Korn every time I see them. I’m not afraid. I’ll even pick on General Dreedle.”
　　“General Dreedle’s out,” Yossarian reminded, pulling on his trousers and hastily stuffing the tails of his shirtinside. “It’s General Peckem now.”
　　The chaplain’s babbling confidence did not falter for an instant. “Then I’ll pick on General Peckem, and even onGeneral Scheisskopf. And do you know what else I’m going to do? I’m going to punch Captain Black in the nosethe very next time I see him. Yes, I’m going to punch him in the nose. I’ll do it when lots of people are around sothat he may not have a chance to hit me back.”
　　“Have you both gone crazy?” Major Danby protested, his bulging eyes straining in their sockets with torturedawe and exasperation. “Have you both taken leave of your senses? Yossarian, listen—““It’s a miracle, I tell you,” the chaplain proclaimed, seizing Major Danby about the waist and dancing himaround with his elbows extended for a waltz. “A real miracle. If Orr could row to Sweden, then I can triumphover Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn, if only I persevere.”
　　“Chaplain, will you please shut up?” Major Danby entreated politely, pulling free and patting his perspiring browwith a fluttering motion. He bent toward Yossarian, who was reaching for his shoes. “What about Colonel—““I couldn’t care less.”
　　“But this may actua-““To hell with them both!”
　　“This may actually help them,” Major Danby persisted stubbornly. “Have you thought of that?”
　　“Let the bastards thrive, for all I care, since I can’t do a thing to stop them but embarrass them by running away.
　　I’ve got responsibilities of my own now, Danby. I’ve got to get to Sweden.”
　　“You’ll never make it. It’s impossible. It’s almost a geographical impossibility to get there from here.”
　　“Hell, Danby, I know that. But at least I’ll be trying. There’s a young kid in Rome whose life I’d like to save if Ican find her. I’ll take her to Sweden with me if I can find her, so it isn’t all selfish, is it?”
　　“It’s absolutely insane. Your conscience will never let you rest.”
　　“God bless it.” Yossarian laughed. “I wouldn’t want to live without strong misgivings. Right, Chaplain?”
　　“I’m going to punch Captain Black right in the nose the next time I see him,” gloried the chaplain, throwing twoleft jabs in the air and then a clumsy haymaker. “Just like that.”
　　“What about the disgrace?” demanded Major Danby.
　　“What disgrace? I’m more in disgrace now.” Yossarian tied a hard knot in the second shoelace and sprang to hisfeet. “Well, Danby, I’m ready. What do you say? Will you keep your mouth shut and let me catch a ride?”
　　Major Danby regarded Yossarian in silence, with a strange, sad smile. He had stopped sweating and seemedabsolutely calm. “What would you do if I did try to stop you?” he asked with rueful mockery. “Beat me up?”
　　Yossarian reacted to the question with hurt surprise. “No, of course not. Why do you say that?”
　　“I will beat you up,” boasted the chaplain, dancing up very close to Major Danby and shadowboxing. “You andCaptain Black, and maybe even Corporal Whitcomb. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I found I didn’t have to beafraid of Corporal Whitcomb any more?”
　　“Are you going to stop me?” Yossarian asked Major Danby, and gazed at him steadily.
　　Major Danby skipped away from the chaplain and hesitated a moment longer. “No, of course not!” he blurtedout, and suddenly was waving both arms toward the door in a gesture of exuberant urgency. “Of course I won’tstop you. Go, for God sakes, and hurry! Do you need any money?”
　　“I have some money.”
　　“Well, here’s some more.” With fervent, excited enthusiasm, Major Danby pressed a thick wad of Italiancurrency upon Yossarian and clasped his hand in both his own, as much to still his own trembling fingers as togive encouragement to Yossarian. “It must be nice to be in Sweden now,” he observed yearningly. “The girls areso sweet. And the people are so advanced.”
　　“Goodbye, Yossarian,” the chaplain called. “And good luck. I’ll stay here and persevere, and we’ll meet againwhen the fighting stops.”
　　“So long, Chaplain. Thanks, Danby.”
　　“How do you feel, Yossarian?”
　　“Fine. No, I’m very frightened.”
　　“That’s good,” said Major Danby. “It proves you’re still alive. It won’t be fun.”
　　Yossarian started out. “Yes it will.”
　　“I mean it, Yossarian. You’ll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They’ll bend heaven andearth to catch you.”
　　“I’ll keep on my toes every minute.”
　　“You’ll have to jump.”
　　“I’ll jump.”
　　“Jump!” Major Danby cried.
　　Yossarian jumped. Nately’s whore was hiding just outside the door. The knife came down, missing him byinches, and he took off.
 42、约塞连
　　“科恩中校说，”丹比少校既谨慎又满意地笑着告诉约塞连，“那笔交易仍然有效。一切都正在顺利进展之中。”
　　“不，不是的。”
　　“噢，是的，的确是的，”丹比少校关切地坚持道，“事实上，一切都比以前好多了。你真是交了好运，差一点就叫那个女人给杀死了。现在，这笔交易可以顺利进行了。”
　　“我没跟科恩中校做任何交易。”
　　丹比少校兴致勃勃的乐观劲头突然间全没了，顿时冒出一身冷汗。“可你确实跟他谈过一笔交易，不是吗？”他苦恼而困惑地问道，“你们难道没有达成协议吗？”
　　“我撕毁了协议。”
　　“可你们达成协议时是握了手的，不是吗？你像个正人君子那样答应了他。”
　　“现在我改主意了。”
　　“哦，唉。”丹比少校叹了口气。他用一块折叠起来的白手帕徒劳无益地擦拭着他那忧郁的前额。“可为什么呢，约塞连？他们向你提出的是一笔很好的交易。”
　　“是一笔卑鄙下流的交易，丹比。是一笔令人作呕的交易。”
　　“哦，唉，”丹比少校烦躁地叹气道。他抬起一只光溜溜的手，抹了抹自己金属丝般的黑头发，他那一头又粗又短的卷发早已让汗水给浸透了。“哦，唉。”
　　“丹比，你难道不认为这笔交易令人作呕吗？”
　　丹比少校思索了一下。“是的，我是觉得它令人作呕，”他勉勉强强地承认道。他那双眼球突出的圆眼睛里流露出困惑不解的神情。“可既然你不喜欢，那又为什么要做这笔交易呢？”
　　“我是一时软弱才这样做的，”约塞连阴郁地、嘲讽地打趣道，“我是想救自己的命。”
　　“难道你现在就不想救自己的命了吗？”
　　“正是为了这个，我才不让他们派我去执行更多的飞行任务。”
　　“那么，让他们送你回国，你就不会再有任何危险了。”
　　“我让他们送我回国，是因为我已经执行了五十次以上的飞行任务，”约塞连说，“并不是因为我被那个姑娘捅了一刀，也不是因为我变成了这么个顽固不化的狗杂种。”
　　戴着眼镜的丹比少校使劲摇了摇头，一脸诚恳的苦恼神情。
　　“那样一来，他们就不得不把几乎所有人送回国去。大多数人都已经执行了五十次以上的飞行任务。如果卡思卡特上校一下子要求增派这么多毫无经验的补充机组人员的话，上头不可能不派人来调查的：那样一来，他就掉进他自己设的陷阱里去了。”
　　“那是他的问题。”
　　“不，不不，约塞连，”丹比少校焦虑地反对道，“这是你的问题。
　　因为；如果你不履行这笔交易的话，只要你办好手续出了医院，他们马上就会对你进行军法审判。”
　　约塞连把大拇指搁在鼻尖上朝丹比少校做了个蔑视的手势，沾沾自喜；洋洋得意地哈哈一笑。“叫他们见鬼去吧：别骗我啦，丹比、他们根本不会这样做。”
　　“可他们为什么不会？”丹比少校惊奇地眨着眼睛问道。
　　“因为我眼下已经把他们握在手心里了。有份官方报告说，我是被一个前来暗杀他们的纳粹刺客刺伤的。在这种情况下，他们要是再对我进行军法审判的话，那不是出他们自己的洋相嘛。”
　　“可是，约塞连！”丹比少校叫道，“还有另一份官方报告说，你是在从事黑市交易时被一个单纯的姑娘刺伤的。那上面说，你参与的黑市交易范围广泛，你甚至还卷入了破坏活动以及向敌方出售军事秘密的勾当。”
　　约塞连不由得大吃一惊，又是诧异又是失望，“另一份官方报告？”
　　“约塞连，他们想准备多少份官方报告就可以准备多少份，这样一来，在任何一种特定情况下，他们需要哪人份就可以选用哪一份；这儿点你难道不知道吗？”
　　“哦，唉，”约塞连垂头丧气地嘟哝着，脸上一点血色都没有了。
　　“哦，唉。”
　　丹比少校露出一副出于好意的急切神情，热心地劝说者他。
　　“约塞连，他们叫你做什么你就做什么，让他们送你回国吧，这样做对每个人都有好处。”
　　“是对卡思卡特、科恩和我有好处，并不是对每个人。”
　　“是对每个人。”丹比少校坚持道，“这样做整个问题全都解决了。”
　　“对大队里那些将不得不执行更多飞行任务的人也有好处吗？”
　　丹比少校畏缩了一下，不安地把脸转过去了一会儿。“约塞连，”他回答道，“如果你逼得卡思卡特上校对你进行军法审判，并证明你犯有他们指控你的所有罪行的话，那对任何人都没有好处，你会坐很长一段时间牢的，你的一生就全给毁了。”
　　约塞连越往下听心里越着急。“他们会指控我犯了什么罪呢？”
　　“在弗拉拉上空作战失利；违抗上级，拒绝执行与敌方交战的命令，以及开小差等等。”
　　约塞连严肃地吸了吸两颊，“他们能指控我犯了这么一大堆罪状吗？在弗拉拉的那场空战后，他们还发给我一枚勋章呢。现在他们又怎么能够指控我作战失利呢？”
　　“阿费将宣誓作证，说你和麦克沃特在你们给上级的报告中说了假话。”
　　“我敢打赌，那个杂种准会这么干的。”
　　“他们还将证明你犯有下列罪行，”丹比少校一件一件地列举着，“强奸，参与范围广泛的黑市交易，从事破坏活动，以及向敌方出售军事秘密等等。”
　　“他们将如何证明这些呢？这些事情我一样也没有干过。”
　　“可是他们手里有证人，那些人会宣誓作证说你干过。他们只需说服人家相信，除掉你对国家有好处，就可以找到他们所需要的全部证人。从某一方面说，除掉你对国家会有好处的。”
　　“从哪方面呢？”约塞连追问道。他强压住心头的敌意，用一只胳膊肘撑着慢慢抬起身子来。
　　丹比少校往后缩了缩身体，又擦拭起额头来。“唉，约塞连，”他结结巴巴地争辩道，“在目前这个时候，把卡思卡特上校和科恩中校搞得声名狼藉，对我们的作战行动是没有好处的。让我们面对现实，约塞连——不管怎么说，我们大队的战绩确实出色。如果对你进行军法审判而最后又证实你无罪的话，其他人很可能也会拒绝执行更多的飞行任务，卡思卡特上校就会当众丢脸，部队的作战能力也许就全部丧失了。所以，从这方面讲，证明你有罪并把你关进监狱，对国家是会有好处的，即使你没罪也得这样做。”
　　“你把事情说得多么动听啊！”约塞连刻薄而怨恨地厉声说道。
　　丹比少校的脸红了。他局促不安地扭动着身体，不敢正眼看约塞连。“请不要怪我，”他带着焦虑而诚恳的神情恳求道，“你也知道这不是我的过错。我现在所做的不过是试图客观地看问题，并且找出办法来解决一个极为困难的局面。”
　　“这个局面又不是我造成的。”
　　“可你能够解决它。要不你还能干些什么呢？你又不愿意执行更多的飞行任务。”
　　“我可以逃走。”
　　“逃走？”
　　“开小差，溜之大吉。我可以甩开眼前这个乌七八糟的局面，掉头就跑。”
　　丹比少校大吃一惊。“往哪儿跑？你能去哪儿呢？”
　　“我可以轻而易举地跑到罗马去，在那儿藏起来。”
　　“那样你的生命就无时无刻不处在危险之中，他们随时会找到你的。不，不，不，不，约塞连。那样做是卑鄙可耻的，会带来灾难。
　　逃避问题是永远解决不了问题的。请相信我，我是想尽力帮助你的。”
　　“那个好心的密探把大拇指戳进我的伤口之前就是这么说的，”约塞连嘲讽地反驳道。
　　“我不是密探，”丹比少校愤怒地回答道。他的双颊又涨红了。
　　“我是个大学教授，我具有极强的是非感，我决不会欺骗你，也决不会对任何人撒谎。”
　　“要是大队里有谁向你问起我们的这次谈话，那你怎么办？”
　　“那我就对他撒个谎。”
　　约塞连嘲讽地大笑起来。丹比少校虽然面红耳赤，浑身不自在，却也松了口气，靠坐到椅背上。约塞连情绪上的变化预示着短暂的缓和气氛的出现，这似乎正是丹比少校希望看见的，约塞连凝视着丹比少校，神情中既流露出淡淡的怜悯又包含着轻蔑。他背靠着床头坐了起来，点燃一支香烟，露出一副苦中取乐的神情微笑着，怀着一种奇特的同情盯着丹比少校的脸。自从执行轰炸阿维尼翁的任务那一天德里德尔将军下令把丹比少校拖出去枪毙时起，丹比少校的脸上就流露出一种强烈的惊恐表情来，而且再也无法抹去。那些给惊吓出来的皱纹也像深深的黑色伤疤一样永久地留在了他的脸上。约塞连为这位文雅正派的中年理想主义者感到惋惜，正像他总是为许多有着这样或那样的小毛病、遇到这种或那种小麻烦的人感到惋惜一样。
　　他故作亲热地说：“丹比，你怎么能够跟卡思卡特和科恩这样的人一块共事呢？这难道不使你倒胃口吗？”
　　约塞连的这个问题似乎使丹比少校感到惊奇。“我跟他们共事是为了帮助我的祖国，”他回答说，好像这个回答是不言而喻的。
　　“卡思卡特上校和科恩中校是我的上级，执行他们的命令是我能对我们所进行的这场战争作出的唯一贡献。我和他们共事，是因为这是我的职责，而且，”他垂下眼睛，压低嗓门补充说，也因为我不是个富于进取心的人。”
　　“你的祖国已经不再需要你的帮助了，”约塞连心平气和地开导他说，“所以你现在所做的一切只不过是在帮助他们。”
　　“我尽量不这么考虑问题，”丹比少校坦率地承认道，“我极力把注意力只集中在已取得的巨大成果上，极力忘掉他们也在获得成功这一事实。我极力骗自己说，他们不过是些微不足道的小人物而已。”
　　“你知道，我的麻烦也就在这里，”约塞连抱拢双臂，摆出一副沉思的模样说道，“在我和我的全部理想之间，我总是发现许多个沙伊斯科普夫、佩克姆、科恩、卡思卡特那样的人，而这种人又多多少少改变了我的理想。”
　　“你应当尽量不去想他们，”丹比少校口气肯定地劝告说，“你决不能让他们改变你的行为准则。理想是美好的，但人有时却不是那么美好、你应当尽量抬起头来看大局。”
　　约塞连怀疑地摇了摇头，拒绝接受丹比的劝告。“当我抬起头来时，我看到人们全在设法赚钱。我看不见天堂，看不见圣人，也看不见天使。我只看见人们利用每一次正当的冲动和每一场人类的悲剧大把大把地捞钱。”
　　“可你应当尽量不去想这类事情。”丹比少校坚持道，“你应当尽量不让这类事情弄得你心烦意乱。”
　　“噢，我倒也没有真的心烦意乱。不过，叫我心烦意乱的是，他们把我当成了傻瓜。他们以为自己很聪明，而我们其余的人都笨得很，你知道，丹比，我刚才突然头一回冒出这么个念头，也许他们是对的。”
　　“可你也应当尽量不去想这种事。”丹比少校争辩道，“你应当只考虑国家的利益和人类的尊严。”
　　“是啊，”约塞连说。
　　“我真的是这个意思，约塞连。这不是第一次世界大战。你千万不要忘了，我们现在是在跟侵略者作战。如果他们打赢了，他们不会让我们俩中的任何一个活下去。”
　　“这我知道，”约塞连硬邦邦地回答道。他突然恼怒地板起了脸。“哼，丹比，无论他们发给我那枚勋章的理由是什么，那勋章反正是我自己挣来的。我已经执行了七十次该死的飞行任务，别再对我讲那些为拯救祖国而战斗的废话啦。我一直在为拯救祖国而战斗，现在我要为救我自己而战斗一下。祖国已经没有什么危险了，而我却正处在危险之中呢。”
　　“战争还没有结束呢。德国人正朝安特卫普推进。”
　　“几个月之内，德国人就会被打败。那之后再过几个月，日本人也会被打败。如果我现在战死了，那就不是为国捐躯，而是替卡思卡特和科恩送死。所以，在此期间，我要交回我的轰炸瞄准器。从现在起，我只考虑我自己。”
　　丹比少校高傲地笑笑，颇为宽容地反问道，“可是，约塞连，要是每个人都这么想呢？”
　　“要是那样，如果我不这么想，我不就成了个头号大傻瓜了吗？”约塞连露出一副嘲讽的表情，身体坐得更直了。“你知道吗？我有一种奇怪的感觉，好像我以前也和什么人进行过一次跟这次一模一样的谈话。这跟牧师的感觉一样，他觉得每件事他都经历过两次。”
　　“牧师希望你让他们把你送回国去。”
　　“牧师希望什么，我才不在乎呢。”
　　“哦，唉。”丹比少校叹了口气，遗憾而失望地摇了摇头，“他担心自己可能影响了你。”
　　“他没有影响我。你知道我可能会干什么吗？我可能会一直呆在医院的这张病床上，像株植物那样生活。我在这儿可以舒舒服服地过植物般的生活，让别人去拿主意吧。”
　　“你必须自己拿主意，”丹比少校反驳道，“一个人不能像一株植物那样生活。”
　　“为什么不能？”
　　丹比少校眼中出现了一丝淡淡的热情。“像一株植物那样生活必定是很愉快的，”他若有所思地承认道。
　　“是糟糕透顶的，”约塞连说。
　　“不，摆脱了所有这些疑虑和压力的生活必定是非常舒适的，”丹比少校坚持道，“我觉得我很愿意像一株植物那样生活，那样就不必为大事情操心拿主意了。”
　　“什么样的植物呢，丹比？”
　　“黄瓜，或者胡萝卜。”
　　“什么样的黄瓜？是好黄瓜还是坏黄瓜？”
　　“噢，当然是好黄瓜咯。”
　　“那么，你只要一成熟，他们就会把你摘下来，切成片做色拉。”
　　丹比少校沉下脸来。“那只能是坏黄瓜啦。”
　　“那么，他们会让你腐烂掉，把你拿去给好黄瓜当肥料，好让它们快些成熟。”
　　“要是那样的话，恐怕我不会愿意像一株植物那样生活的，”丹比少校无可奈何地微微一笑，伤感地说。
　　“丹比，我真的必须让他们送我回国吗？”约塞连严肃地问他。
　　丹比少校耸了耸肩。“这是救你自己的一种方法。”
　　“这是毁掉我自己的一种方法，丹比。这个道理你应该明白的。”
　　“你可以得到许多你想要的东西。”
　　“没有多少我想要的东西，”约塞连回答道。他内心突然涌起一股愤怒和失望，举起拳头狠狠地捶着床垫。“真***，丹比！我有不少朋友在这场战争中送了命。这笔交易我不能做。让那个娼妇捅了一刀，这算是我所经历过的最好的事情了。”
　　“那你宁愿进监狱吗？”
　　“你会愿意让他们送你回国吗？”
　　“我当然愿意！”丹比少校斩钉截铁地说，“我肯定愿意。”过了一会，他又用不那么肯定的口气加上了一句。“不错，要是我处在你的地位，我想我会让他们送我回国的。”他忧虑不安地思索了片刻之后，很不自在地拿定了主意。接着，他流露出极为痛苦的神情，厌恶地猛然把脸扭向一边，脱口叫道，“噢，是的，当然啦，我会让他们送我回国的！可我是一个最最胆小的人，我根本不可能处在你的位置上。”
　　“可假如你不是个胆小的人呢？”约塞连目不转睛地打量着他问道，“假如你的确有勇气跟某个人作对呢？”
　　“要真是那样，我是不会让他们送我回国的，”丹比少校断然发誓说。他的声音强劲有力，欢快热情。“可我肯定不会让他们对我进行军法审判的。”
　　“你愿意执行更多的飞行任务吗？”
　　“不，当然不愿意。那样做无异于全面投降。再说，我可能会送命的。”
　　“那你会逃走吗？”
　　丹比少校露出高傲的神色，刚要反驳，又突然停住了，他那半张开的嘴巴也默默地闭上了。他厌烦地噘起了嘴唇。“我想，我根本就没有什么希望，不是吗？”
　　不一会，他的前额和暴出的白眼球又显出了紧张不安。他把两只软绵绵的手腕交叉着放在膝盖上，坐在那儿屏住呼吸，垂下眼睛盯着地板，默默地承认了自己的失败。陡斜的暗影从窗外映了进来。约塞连神情严肃地看着他。一辆疾驶而来的汽车在外面猛然刹住，发出一阵嘎的声响。随后，传来了什么人匆匆跑进大楼的咯咯脚步声。可是他们俩谁也没有动一动。
　　“不，你还有希望。”约塞连愣了好一会，才想出一个主意来。
　　“米洛也许会帮助你。他比卡思卡特上校有来头，他还欠我几桩人情呢。”
　　丹比摇了摇头，语调平淡地回答道：“米洛和卡思卡特上校现在是伙伴啦。他让卡思卡特上校当上了副总裁，还答应他战争结束后给他安排一个重要的职务。”
　　“那么，前一等兵温特格林会帮助我们的，”约塞连叫道。“他恨他们两个，这件事准会把他惹火的。”
　　丹比少校又一次悲哀地摇了摇头。“米洛和前一等兵温特格林上个星期合伙了，他们现在全都是MM辛迪加联合体的合伙人了。”
　　“这么说我们没有希望了，是吗？”
　　“没有希望了。”
　　“没有一点希望了，是吗？”
　　“没有，没有一点希望了，”丹比少校承认道。过了一会，他抬起脸，说出一个尚未成熟的想法来。“如果他们能够像使其他人失踪那样让我们失踪，使我们摆脱这些沉重的负担，那不是件好事情吗？”
　　约塞连认为那不是好事。丹比少校忧郁地点点头，表示同意，随后便又垂下了眼睛。两个人全都觉得毫无希望了。突然，走廊里传来一阵很响的脚步声，牧师可着嗓门嚷嚷着冲进门来。他带来了一个令人振奋的消息，是关于奥尔的。他又高兴又激动、有那么一两分钟连话都说不成句了。他的眼睛里闪动着喜悦的泪花、当约塞连终于听明白牧师的话时，他不敢相信地大叫一声，抬腿从床上跳了下来。
　　“瑞典？”他大声问。
　　“奥尔！”牧师大声说。
　　“奥尔？”约塞连大声问。
　　“瑞典！”牧师叫道。他兴高采烈地不住地点着头，开心地、兴奋地咧嘴笑着，得意洋洋地满屋子走个不停。“我告诉你，这是个奇迹！奇迹，我又信仰上帝啦！真的。在海上漂了这么多个星期，最后竟被冲到瑞典海岸上去啦！这是个奇迹！”
　　“冲到岸上去的？见鬼！”约塞连大声说，他在屋里蹦来蹦去，欣喜若狂地冲着墙壁、冲着天花板、冲着牧师和丹比少校吼叫着。
　　“他不是被冲到瑞典海岸上去的。他是划到那儿去的。他是划到那儿去的，牧师，他是划到那儿去的。”
　　“划到那儿去的？”
　　“他预先就这么计划好的！他是存心去瑞典的。”
　　“噢，这我不管。”牧师依旧热情洋溢地回答说，“这仍然是个奇迹，这是人类智慧和忍耐力所创造的奇迹；瞧瞧，他干出了什么事情来！”牧师伸出双手捂往脑袋，笑得弯下了腰，“你们难道想象不出来他的样子吗？”他惊奇地叫道，“你们难道想象不出来他的样子？坐在黄色的救生艇里，握着那把小小的蓝色船桨，趁着黑夜划过直布罗陀海峡——”
　　“身后拖着那根钓鱼线，一路上吃着生鳕鱼划到瑞典，每天下午还给自己泡茶喝。”
　　“我甚至能看见他的样子！”牧师大叫道，他停了一下，趁机喘了口气，接着又赞叹下去。“我告诉你们，这是人类不屈不挠的毅力所创造的奇迹；这也正是我从现在起要做的事情。我也要不屈不挠，是的，我要不屈不挠。”
　　“奥尔自始至终都知道自己在干什么！”约塞连欣喜若狂地叫道；他得意洋洋地高高举起两个拳头，似乎想从拳头里面挤压出什么启示来。他猛地转过身面对着丹比少校。“丹比，你这个笨蛋，到底还是有希望的、你难道没看出来吗？甚至克莱文杰也可能还活在那片云彩里面呢，他就藏在那里面一个什么地方，要一直等到安全了才出来。”
　　“你们在说些什么呀？”丹比少校困惑地问，“你们两个在说些什么呀？”
　　“给我弄些酸苹果来，丹比，还有坚果。快去呀，丹比，快去呀。
　　趁着这会儿还来得及，给我弄些酸苹果和七叶树坚果来，给你自己也弄一些。”
　　“七叶树坚果？酸苹果？要这些做什么？”
　　“当然是塞到我们的腮帮子里去咯。”约塞连自责而又绝望地高高扬起两只手臂。“唉，我为什么不听他的呢？我为什么就没有信心呢？”
　　“你疯了吗？”丹比少校惊恐而困惑地问道，“约塞连，请你告诉我你们在讲些什么，好吗？”
　　“丹比，奥尔预先就这么计划好的。你难道不明白吗？他从一开始就是这么打算的。他甚至演习过如何让自己的飞机被击落下来。每次执行飞行任务时，他都要演习一遍。可我竟然不愿意跟他一起飞！唉，我为什么不听他的呢？他叫我跟他一起飞，可我竟然不愿意！丹比，再给我弄些龅牙来，还有装牙的牙套。只要装成一副愚蠢无知的傻瓜模样，就没有人会怀疑你其实是个机灵鬼。所有这些东西我都需要。唉，我为什么不听他的话呢？现在我明白他一直想跟我说什么了，我甚至明白了那个姑娘为什么拿鞋砸他的脑袋。”
　　“为什么？”牧师追问道。
　　约塞连猛地转过身，一把抓住牧师衬衣的前襟，恳求道：“牧师，帮帮我吧！请帮帮我。把我的衣服找来。赶快去找，行吗？我现在就需要它们。”
　　牧师抬起腿就往外走。“好吧，约塞连，我去找。可你的衣服在哪儿呢？我怎么才能拿到它们呢？”
　　“谁要是拦住你不让拿，你就吓唬他们，对他们吹胡子瞪眼睛。
　　牧师，给我把制服拿来！我的衣服肯定在这医院里的某个地方。你这辈子就这么一次，干成件事情吧。”
　　牧师坚定地挺了挺肩膀，又咬了咬牙。“别着急，约塞连。我会给你把制服拿来的。可那个姑娘为什么拿她的鞋砸奥尔的脑袋呢？
　　求你告诉我吧。”
　　“因为是他出钱叫她干的，就为这个！可她打得还不够狠，所以他只好划到瑞典去了。牧师，给我把制服找来，我好离开这个地方。
　　问问达克特护士吧，她会帮你找到的。只要能甩开我，她什么都愿意干的。”
　　“你要去哪儿呀？”牧师冲出房间后，丹比少校担心地问道，“你打算干什么呀？”
　　“我打算逃走，”约塞连用欢快而清晰的嗓音宣布道。他已经拉开了睡衣领口处的扣子。
　　“噢，不。”丹比少校叹息了一声，用两只手掌来来口口地轻轻拍着自己那张汗淋淋的脸。“你不能逃走。你能逃到哪儿去？你能到哪儿去呢？”
　　“去瑞典。”
　　“去瑞典？”丹比少校惊奇地叫道，“你要跑到瑞典去？你疯了吗？”
　　“奥尔已经去了。”
　　“噢，不不，不不，不，”丹比少校恳求道，“不，约塞连，你永远也到不了那儿。你不能跑到瑞典去。你连船都不会划。”
　　“可是，只要你离开这儿后闭上嘴不吭气，找个机会让我搭上一架飞机，我就可以到罗马去。”
　　“可他们会找到你的，”丹比少校固执地争辩道，“会把你抓回来，会更加严厉地惩罚你的。”
　　“这一回，他们要想抓住我可得使出吃奶的力气来。”
　　“他们会使出吃奶的力气来的。就算他们找不到你，你过的将会是一种什么样的日子呀？你永远只能孤零零地一个人呆着，没有任何人会跟你在一起，而且，你随时随地可能会被人出卖。”
　　“我现在就是过的这种日子。”
　　“可你不能就这么背弃你的职责一走了之，”丹比坚持道，“这是一种十分消极的行为，是逃避现实。”
　　约塞连轻快而蔑视地哈哈一笑，又摇了摇头。“我并没有逃离我的职责，我正冲着它跑过去呢，为了救自己的性命而逃走，这根本算不上消极。你当然知道是谁在逃避现实，丹比，对吗？不是我，也不是奥尔。”
　　“牧师，请你跟他谈谈，好吗？他要开小差，他想逃到瑞典去。”
　　“太棒了！”牧师欢呼起来。他得意地把一个装满约塞连衣服的枕套扔到床上。“逃到瑞典去吧，约塞连。我要留在这儿，不屈不挠地坚持下去，是的，我要不屈不挠地坚持下去。每次我遇到卡思卡特上校和科恩中校时，我都要找他们的碴儿，跟他们胡搅蛮缠。我不怕他们，就连德里德尔将军我也敢找他闹事。”
　　“德里德尔将军调走了。”约塞连一边提醒他，一边套上裤子；
　　匆匆忙忙地把衬衣下摆塞进裤腰里。“现在是佩克姆将军当指挥官了。”
　　牧师依旧信心十足地唠叨着，“那么，我就找佩克姆将军闹事，甚至找沙伊斯科普夫将军闹事。你知道我还要于什么吗？我下回见到布莱克上尉时要朝他的鼻子狠揍一拳。是的，我要朝他的鼻子狠揍一拳。我要找个周围有许多人的时候揍他，这样他就没有机会还手了。”
　　“你们两个都疯了吗？”丹比少校抗议道。他内心充满了痛苦、敬畏和恼怒，两只突出的眼球楞睁着。“你们两个是不是都失去理智了？约塞连，听着——”
　　“我告诉你，这是个奇迹，”牧师宣布道，他一手抓住丹比少校的手腕，拾起胳膊肘，拖着他转着圈子跳起华尔兹舞来。“一个真正的奇迹。如果奥尔能划到瑞典去，那我只要不屈不挠地坚持下去、就一定能战胜卡思卡特上校和科恩中校。”
　　“牧师，请你住嘴好吗？”丹比少校一边有礼貌地恳求着，一边从牧师手里挣脱出来，焦虑不安地轻轻拍了几下自己那汗淋淋的前额。随后，他俯下身去对正在伸手拿鞋子的约塞连说，“可上校那儿——”
　　“他那儿怎么样我才不管呢。”
　　“但这实际上可能会——”
　　“叫他们两人全都见鬼去吧！”
　　“但这实际上可能会帮他们的忙，”丹比少校固执地