Joseph Heller - Catch-22

“Pretty good,” said Yossarian.

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

“Thanks, Appleby.”

“That’s the only reason I started talking to you, to warn you.”

“I appreciate it.”

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

“That’s all right.”

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

“You were beating him.”

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

“I guess not.”

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

“That’s all right, Appleby.”

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

“That’s all right.”

“You know, I said to Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart that I didn’t think they ought to make you fly any more missions if you didn’t want to, and they said they were very disappointed in me.”

Yossarian smiled with rueful amusement. “I’ll bet they are.”

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

“No.”

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

“That’s why they can’t let me get away with it.”

“What do you think they’ll do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think they will try to court-martial you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to fly more missions?”

“No.”

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

“Thanks, Appleby.”

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

“Thanks, Appleby.”

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

“Pretty good.”

“Are you going to fly more missions?”

“No.”

“Suppose they try to make you?”

“I won’t let them.”

“Are you yellow?”

“Yes.”

“Will they court-martial you?”

“They’ll probably try.”

“What did Major Major say?”

“Major Major’s gone.”

“Did they disappear him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What will you do if they decide to disappear you?”

“I’ll try to stop them.”

“Didn’t they offer you any deals or anything if you did fly?”

“Piltchard and Wren said they’d arrange things so I’d only go on milk runs.”

Havermeyer perked up. “Say, that sounds like a pretty good deal. I wouldn’t mind a deal like that myself. I bet you snapped it up.”

“I turned it down.”

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

“No, I’m not blaming you,” said Havermeyer, “even though I don’t like you. You know, I’m not too happy about flying so many missions any more either. Isn’t there some way I can get out of it, too?”

Yossarian snickered ironically and joked, “Put a gun on and start marching with me.”

Havermeyer shook his head thoughtfully. “Nah, I couldn’t do that. I might bring some disgrace on my wife and kid if I acted like a coward. Nobody likes a coward. Besides, I want to stay in the reserves when the war is over. You get five hundred dollars a year if you stay in the reserves.”

“Then fly more missions.”

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

“No.”

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

“Why in the world should they do something like that?”

“I don’t know. But if they do, just remember that I asked you first, will you? And let me know how you’re doing. I’ll wait for you here in these bushes every night. Maybe if they don’t do anything bad to you, I won’t fly any more missions either. Okay?”

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

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