“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 198
Thanksgiving
It was actually all Sergeant Knight’s fault that Yossarian busted Nately in the nose on
Thanksgiving Day, after everyone in the squadron had given humble thanks to Milo for
providing the fantastically opulent meal on which the officers and enlisted men had
gorged themselves insatiably all afternoon and for dispensing like inexhaustible largess
the unopened bottles of cheap whiskey he handed out unsparingly to every man who
asked. Even before dark, young soldiers with pasty white faces were throwing up
everywhere and passing out drunkenly on the ground. The air turned foul. Other men
picked up steam as the hours passed, and the aimless, riotous celebration continued. 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 fights in the squadron and one stabbing. Corporal
Kolodny shot himself through the leg in the intelligence tent while playing with a loaded
gun and had his gums and toes painted purple in the speeding ambulance as he lay on
his back with the blood spurting from his wound. Men with cut fingers, bleeding heads,
stomach cramps and broken ankles came limping penitently up to the medical tent to
have their gums and toes painted purple by Gus and Wes and be given a laxative to
throw into the bushes. The joyous celebration lasted long into the night, and the stillness
was fractured often by wild, exultant shouts and by the cries of people who were merry
or sick. There was the recurring sound of retching and moaning, of laughter, greetings,
threats and swearing, and of bottles shattering 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 endless wooden staircase, making a loud, staccato clatter with his
heels. Then he woke up a little and realized someone was shooting at him with a
machine gun. A tortured, terrified sob rose in his throat. His first thought was that Milo
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 voice shouted
hilariously from high above between the short, sharp bursts of machine gun fire, and
Yossarian understood that some men had gone as a prank to one of the sandbagged
machine-gun emplacements Milo had installed 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 had destroyed his sleep and reduced him to a whimpering hulk.
He wanted to kill, he wanted to murder. He was angrier than he had ever been before,
angrier even than when he had slid his hands around McWatt’s neck to strangle him.
The gun opened fire again. Voices cried ‘Happy New Year!’ and gloating laughter rolled
down from the hills through the darkness like a witch’s glee. In moccasins and coveralls,
Yossarian charged out of his tent for revenge with his.45, ramming a clip of cartridges
up into the grip and slamming the bolt of the gun back to load it. He snapped off the
safety catch and was ready to shoot. He heard Nately running after him to restrain him,
calling his name. The machine gun opened fire once more from a black rise above the
motor pool, and orange tracer bullets skimmed like low-gliding dashes over the tops of
the shadowy tents, almost clipping the peaks. Roars of rough laughter rang out again
between the short bursts. Yossarian felt resentment boil like acid inside him; they were
endangering his life, the bastards! With blind, ferocious rage and determination, he
raced across the squadron past the motor pool, running as fast as he could, and was
already pounding up into the hills along the narrow, winding path when Nately finally
caught up, still calling ‘Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!’ with pleading concern and imploring him to stop.
He grasped Yossarian’s shoulders and tried to hold him back. Yossarian twisted free,
turning. Nately reached for him again, and Yossarian drove his fist squarely into Nately’s
delicate young face as hard as he could, cursing him, then drew his arm back to hit him