“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 29
thousand feet, and one whole week had already passed since Colonel Cathcart had
volunteered to have his men destroy the bridge in twenty-four hours. Kraft was a skinny,
harmless kid from Pennsylvania who wanted only to be liked, and was destined to be
disappointed in even so humble and degrading an ambition. Instead of being liked, he
was dead, a bleeding cinder on the barbarous pile whom nobody had heard 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, when McWatt turned and Yossarian guided him in over the target on a
second bomb run because Aarfy was confused and 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 crashing cannon 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 too dangerous 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-pong table was legendary, and Appleby won every game he started until the
night Orr got tipsy on gin and juice and smashed open Appleby’s forehead with his
paddle after Appleby had smashed back each of Orr’s first five serves. Orr leaped on
top of the table after hurling his paddle and came sailing off the other end in a running
broad jump with both feet planted squarely in Appleby’s face. Pandemonium broke
loose. It took almost a full minute for Appleby to disentangle himself from Orr’s flailing
arms and legs and grope his way to his feet, with Orr held off the ground before him by
the shirt front in one hand and his other arm drawn back in a fist to smite him dead, and
at that moment Yossarian stepped forward and took Orr away from him. It was a night of
surprises for Appleby, who was as large as Yossarian and as strong and who swung at
Yossarian as hard as he could with a punch that flooded Chief White Halfoat with such
joyous excitement that he turned and busted Colonel Moodus in the nose with a punch
that filled General Dreedle with such mellow gratification that he had Colonel Cathcart
throw 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 condition to bust Colonel Moodus in the nose
again whenever General Dreedle wanted him to. Sometimes General Dreedle made
special trips down from Wing Headquarters with Colonel Moodus and his nurse just to
have Chief White Halfoat 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 during the day to be sent out with his
publicity releases. Captain Flume spent as much of each evening as he could working in
his darkroom and then lay down on his cot with his fingers crossed and a rabbit’s foot
around his neck and tried with all his might to stay awake. He lived in mortal fear of
Chief White Halfoat. Captain Flume was 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 White Halfoat
himself, who did tiptoe up to his cot one night as he was dozing off, to hiss portentously
that one night when he, Captain Flume, was sound asleep he, Chief White Halfoat, was
going to slit his throat open for him from ear to ear.
Captain Flume turned to ice, his eyes, flung open wide, staring directly up into Chief