the maid in the lime-colored panties because she seemed to be the only woman left he could make love to without falling in love with. Even the bald-headed girl in Sicily still evoked in him strong sensations of pity, tenderness and regret.
Despite the multiple perils to which Major--de Coverley exposed himself each time he rented apartments, his only injury had occurred, ironically enough, while he was leading the triumphal procession into the open city of Rome, where he was wounded in the eye by a flower fired at him from close range by a seedy, cackling, intoxicated old man, who, like Satan himself, had then bounded up on Major--de Coverley's car with malicious glee, seized him roughly and contemptuously by his venerable white head and kissed him mockingly on each cheek with a mouth reeking with sour fumes of wine, cheese and garlic, before dropping back into the joyous celebrating throngs with a hollow, dry, excoriating laugh. Major--de Coverley, a Spartan in adversity, did not flinch once throughout the whole hideous ordeal. And not until he had returned to Pianosa, his business in Rome completed, did he seek medical attention for his wound.
He resolved to remain binocular and specified to Doc Daneeka that his eye patch be transparent so that he could continue pitching horseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers and renting apartments with unimpaired vision. To the men in the squadron, Major--de Coverley was a colossus, although they never dared tell him so. The only one who ever did dare address him was Milo Minderbinder, who approached the horseshoe-pitching pit with a hard-boiled egg his second week in the squadron and held it aloft for Major--de Coverley to see. Major--de Coverley straightened with astonishment at Milo's effrontery and concentrated upon him the full fury of his storming countenance with its rugged overhang of gullied forehead and huge crag of a humpbacked nose that came charging out of his face wrathfully like a Big Ten fullback. Milo stood his ground, taking shelter behind the hard-boiled egg raised protectively before his face like a magic charm. In time the gale began to subside, and the danger passed.
'What is that?' Major--de Coverley demanded at last.
'An egg,' Milo answered 'What kind of an egg?' Major--de Coverley demanded.
'A hard-boiled egg,' Milo answered.
'What kind of a hard-boiled egg?' Major--de Coverley demanded.
'A fresh hard-boiled egg,' Milo answered.
'Where did the fresh egg come from?' Major--de Coverley demanded.
'From a chicken,' Milo answered.
'Where is the chicken?' Major--de Coverley demanded.
'The chicken is in Malta,' Milo answered.
'How many chickens are there in Malta?'
'Enough chickens to lay fresh eggs for every officer in the squadron at five cents apiece from the mess fund,' Milo answered.
'I have a weakness for fresh eggs,' Major--de Coverley confessed.
'If someone put a plane at my disposal, I could fly down there once a week in a squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need,' Milo answered. 'After all, Malta's not so far away.'
'Malta's not so far away,' Major--de Coverley observed. 'You could probably fly down there once a week in a squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need.'
'Yes,' Milo agreed. 'I suppose I could do that, if someone wanted me to and put a plane at my disposal.'
'I like my fresh eggs fried,' Major--de Coverley remembered. 'In fresh butter.'
'I can find all the fresh butter we need in Sicily for twenty-five cents a pound,' Milo answered. 'Twenty-five cents a pound for fresh butter is a good buy. There's enough money in the mess fund for butter too, and we could probably sell some to the other squadrons at a profit and get back most of what we pay for our own.'
'What's your name, son?' asked Major--de Coverley.
'My name is Milo Minderbinder, sir. I am twenty-seven years old.'
'You're a good mess officer, Milo.'
'I'm not the mess officer, sir.'
'You're a good mess officer, Milo.'
'Thank you, sir. I'll do everything in my power to be a good mess officer.'
'Bless you, my boy. Have a horseshoe.'
'Thank you, sir. What should I do with it?'
'Throw it.'
'Away?'
'At the peg there. Then pick it up and throw it at this peg. It's a game, see? You get the horseshoe back.'
'Yes, sir. I see. How much are horseshoes selling for?' The smell of a fresh egg snapping exotically in a pool of fresh butter carried a long way on the Mediterranean trade winds and brought General Dreedle racing back with a voracious appetite, accompanied by his nurse, who accompanied him everywhere, and his son-in-law, Colonel Moodus. In the beginning General Dreedle devoured all his meals in Milo's mess hall. Then the other three squadrons in Colonel Cathcart's group turned their mess halls over to Milo and gave him an airplane and a pilot each so that he could buy fresh eggs and fresh butter for them too. Milo's planes shuttled back and forth seven days a week as every officer in the four squadrons began devouring fresh eggs in an insatiable orgy of fresh-egg eating. General Dreedle devoured fresh eggs for breakfast, lunch and dinner--between meals he devoured more fresh eggs--until Milo located abundant sources of fresh veal, beef, duck, baby lamb chops, mushroom caps, broccoli, South African rock lobster tails, shrimp, hams, puddings, grapes, ice cream, strawberries and artichokes. There were three other bomb groups in General Dreedle's combat wing, and they each jealously dispatched their own planes to Malta for fresh eggs, but discovered that fresh eggs were selling there for seven cents apiece. Since they could buy them from Milo for five cents apiece, it made more sense to turn over their mess halls to his syndicate, too, and give him the planes and pilots needed to ferry in all the other good food he promised to supply as well.
Everyone was elated with this turn of events, most of all Colonel Cathcart, who was convinced he had won a feather in his cap. He greeted Milo jovially each time they met and, in an excess of contrite generosity, impulsively recommended Major Major for promotion. The recommendation was rejected at once at Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters by ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who scribbled a brusque, unsigned reminder that the Army had only one Major Major Major Major and did not intend to lose him by promotion just to please Colonel Cathcart. Colonel Cathcart was stung by the blunt rebuke and skulked guiltily about his room in smarting repudiation. He blamed Major Major for this black eye and decided to bust him down to lieutenant that very same day.
'They probably won't let you,' Colonel Korn remarked with a condescending smile, savoring the situation. 'For precisely the same reasons that they wouldn't let you promote him. Besides, you'd certainly look foolish trying to bust him down to lieutenant right after you tried to promote him to my rank.' Colonel Cathcart felt hemmed in on every side. He had been much more successful in obtaining a medal for Yossarian after the debacle of Ferrara, when the bridge spanning the Po was still standing undamaged seven days after Colonel Cathcart had volunteered to destroy it. Nine missions his men had flown there in six days, and the bridge was not demolished until the tenth mission on the seventh day, when Yossarian killed Kraft and his crew by taking his flight of six planes in over the target a second time. Yossarian came in carefully on his second bomb run because he was brave then. He buried his head in his bombsight until his bombs were away; when he looked up, everything inside the ship was suffused in a weird orange glow. At first he thought that his own plane was on fire. Then he spied the plane with the burning engine directly above him and screamed to McWatt through the intercom to turn left hard. A second later, the wing of Kraft's plane blew off. The flaming wreck dropped, first the fuselage, then the spinning wing, while a shower of tiny metal fragments began tap dancing on the roof of Yossarian's own plane and the incessant cachung! cachung! cachung! of the flak was still thumping all around him.
Back on the ground, every eye watched grimly as he walked in dull dejection up to Captain Black outside the green clapboard briefing room to make his intelligence report and learned that Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn were waiting to speak to him inside. Major Danby stood barring the door, waving everyone else away in ashen silence. Yossarian was leaden with fatigue and longed to remove his sticky clothing. He stepped into the briefing room with mixed emotions, uncertain how he was supposed to feel about Kraft and the others, for they had all died in the distance of a mute and secluded agony at a moment when he was up to his own ass in the same vile, excruciating dilemma of duty and damnation.
Colonel Cathcart, on the other hand, was all broken up by the event. 'Twice?' he asked.
'I would have missed it the first time,' Yossarian replied softly, his face lowered.
Their voices echoed slightly in the long, narrow bungalow.
'But twice?' Colonel Cathcart repeated, in vivid disbelief.
'I would have missed it the first time,' Yossarian repeated.
'But Kraft would be alive.'
'And the bridge would still be up.'
'A trained bombardier is supposed to drop his bombs the first time,' Colonel Cathcart reminded him. 'The other five bombardiers dropped their bombs the first time.'
'And missed the target,' Yossarian said. 'We'd have had to go back there again.'
'And maybe you would have gotten it the first time then.'
'And maybe I wouldn't have gotten it at all.'
'But maybe there wouldn't have been any losses.'
'And maybe there would have been more losses, with the bridge still left standing. I thought you wanted the bridge destroyed.'
'Don't contradict me,' Colonel Cathcart said. 'We're all in enough trouble.'
'I'm not contradicting you, sir.'
'Yes you are. Even that's a contradiction.'
'Yes, sir. I'm sorry.' Colonel Cathcart cracked his knuckles violently. Colonel Korn, a stocky, dark, flaccid man with a shapeless paunch, sat completely relaxed on one of the benches in the front row, his hands clasped comfortably over the top of his bald and swarthy head. His eyes were amused behind his glinting rimless spectacles.
'We're trying to be perfectly objective about this,' he prompted Colonel Cathcart.
'We're trying to be perfectly objective about this,' Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian with the zeal of sudden inspiration. 'It's not that I'm being sentimental or anything. I don't give a damn about the men or the airplane. It's just that it looks so lousy on the report. How am I going to cover up something like this in the report?'
'Why don't you give me a medal?' Yossarian suggested timidly.
'For going around twice?'
'You gave one to Hungry Joe when he cracked up that airplane by mistake.' Colonel Cathcart snickered ruefully. 'You'll be lucky if we don't give you a court-martial.'
'But I got the bridge the second time around,' Yossarian protested. 'I thought you wanted the bridge destroyed.'
'Oh, I don't know what I wanted,' Colonel Cathcart cried out in exasperation. 'Look, of course I wanted the bridge destroyed. That bridge has been a source of trouble to me ever since I decided to send you men out to get it. But why couldn't you do it the first time?'
'I didn't have enough time. My navigator wasn't sure we had the right city.'
'The right city?' Colonel Cathcart was baffled. 'Are you trying to blame it all on Aarfy now?'
'No, sir. It was my mistake for letting him distract me. All I'm trying to say is that I'm not infallible.'
'Nobody is infallible,' Colonel Cathcart said sharply, and then continued vaguely, with an afterthought: 'Nobody is indispensable, either.' There was no rebuttal. Colonel Korn stretched sluggishly. 'We've got to reach a decision,' he observed casually to Colonel Cathcart.
'We've got to reach a decision,' Colonel Cathcart said to Yossarian. 'And it's all your fault. Why did you have to go around twice? Why couldn't you drop your bombs the first time like all the others?'
'I would have missed the first time.'
'It seems to me that we're going around twice,' Colonel Korn interrupted with a chuckle.
'But what are we going to do?' Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with distress. 'The others are all waiting outside.'
'Why don't we give him a medal?' Colonel Korn proposed.
'For going around twice? What can we give him a medal for?'
'For going around twice,' Colonel Korn answered with a reflective, self-satisfied smile. 'After all, I suppose it did take a lot of courage to go over that target a second time with no other planes around to divert the antiaircraft fire. And he did hit the bridge. You know, that might be the answer--to act boastfully about something we ought to be ashamed of. That's a trick that never seems to fail.'
'Do you think it will work?'
'I'm sure it will. And let's promote him to captain, too, just to make certain.'
'Don't you think that's going a bit farther than we have to?'
'No, I don't think so. It's best to play safe. And a captain's not much difference.'
'All right,' Colonel Cathcart decided. 'We'll give him a medal for being brave enough to go around over the target twice. And we'll make him a captain, too.' Colonel Korn reached for his hat.
'Exit smiling,' he joked, and put his arm around Yossarian's shoulders as they stepped outside the door.
Catch-22
Kid Sampson
By the time of the mission to Bologna, Yossarian was brave enough not to go around over the target even once, and when he found himself aloft finally in the nose of Kid Sampson's plane, he pressed in the button of his throat mike and asked, 'Well? What's wrong with the plane?' Kid Sampson let out a shriek. 'Is something wrong with the plane? What's the matter?' Kid Sampson's cry turned Yossarian to ice. 'Is something the matter?' he yelled in horror. 'Are we bailing out?'
'I don't know!' Kid Sampson shot back in anguish, wailing excitedly. 'Someone said we're bailing out! Who is this, anyway? Who is this?'
'This is Yossarian in the nose! Yossarian in the nose. I heard you say there was something the matter. Didn't you say there was something the matter?'
'I thought you said there was something wrong. Everything seems okay. Everything is all right.' Yossarian's heart sank. Something was terribly wrong if everything was all right and they had no excuse for turning back. He hesitated gravely.
'I can't hear you,' he said.
'I said everything is all right.' The sun was blinding white on the porcelain-blue water below and on the flashing edges of the other airplanes. Yossarian took hold of the colored wires leading into the jackbox of the intercom system and tore them loose.
'I still can't hear you,' he said.
He heard nothing. Slowly he collected his map case and his three flak suits and crawled back to the main compartment. Nately, sitting stiffly in the co-pilot's seat, spied him through the corner of his eye as he stepped up on the flight deck behind Kid Sampson. He smiled at Yossarian wanly, looking frail and exceptionally young and bashful in the bulky dungeon of his earphones, hat, throat mike, flak suit and parachute. Yossarian bent close to Kid Sampson's ear.
'I still can't hear you,' he shouted above the even drone of the engines.
Kid Sampson glanced back at him with surprise. Kid Sampson had an angular, comical face with arched eyebrows and a scrawny blond mustache.
'What?' he called out over his shoulder.
'I still can't hear you,' Yossarian repeated.
'You'll have to talk louder,' Kid Sampson said. 'I still can't hear you.'
'I said I still can't hear you!' Yossarian yelled.
'I can't help it,' Kid Sampson yelled back at him. 'I'm shouting as loud as I can.'
'I couldn't hear you over my intercom,' Yossarian bellowed in mounting helplessness. 'You'll have to turn back.'
'For an intercom?' asked Kid Sampson incredulously.
'Turn back,' said Yossarian, 'before I break your head.' Kid Sampson looked for moral support toward Nately, who stared away from him pointedly. Yossarian outranked them both. Kid Sampson resisted doubtfully for another moment and then capitulated eagerly with a triumphant whoop.
'That's just fine with me,' he announced gladly, and blew out a shrill series of whistles up into his mustache. 'Yes sirree, that's just fine with old Kid Sampson.' He whistled again and shouted over the intercom, 'Now hear this, my little chickadees. This is Admiral Kid Sampson talking. This is Admiral Kid Sampson squawking, the pride of the Queen's marines. Yessiree. We're turning back, boys, by crackee, we're turning back!' Nately ripped off his hat and earphones in one jubilant sweep and began rocking back and forth happily like a handsome child in a high chair. Sergeant Knight came plummeting down from the top gun turret and began pounding them all on the back with delirious enthusiasm. Kid Sampson turned the plane away from the formation in a wide, graceful arc and headed toward the airfield. When Yossarian plugged his headset into one of the auxiliary jackboxes, the two gunners in the rear section of the plane were both singing 'La Cucaracha.' Back at the field, the party fizzled out abruptly. An uneasy silence replaced it, and Yossarian was sober and self-conscious as he climbed down from the plane and took his place in the jeep that was already waiting for them. None of the men spoke at all on the drive back through the heavy, mesmerizing quiet blanketing mountains, sea and forests. The feeling of desolation persisted when they turned off the road at the squadron. Yossarian got out of the car last. After a minute, Yossarian and a gentle warm wind were the only things stirring in the haunting tranquillity that hung like a drug over the vacated tents. The squadron stood insensate, bereft of everything human but Doc Daneeka, who roosted dolorously like a shivering turkey buzzard beside the closed door of the medical tent, his stuffed nose jabbing away in thirsting futility at the hazy sunlight streaming down around him. Yossarian knew Doc Daneeka would not go swimming with him. Doc Daneeka would never go swimming again; a person could swoon or suffer a mild coronary occlusion in an inch or two of water and drown to death, be carried out to sea by an undertow, or made vulnerable to poliomyelitis or meningococcus infection through chilling or over-exertion. The threat of Bologna to others had instilled in Doc Daneeka an even more poignant solicitude for his own safety. At night now, he heard burglars.
Through the lavender gloom clouding the entrance of the operations tent, Yossarian glimpsed Chief White Halfoat, diligently embezzling whiskey rations, forging the signatures of nondrinkers and pouring off the al