“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 32
corrugated carton filled with packages of dried fruit and cans of fruit juices and desserts
that two of the Italian laborers Major—de Coverley had 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 intellectual snob who felt he was twenty years ahead of his time and did
not enjoy cooking down to the masses. ‘He has a letter 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 had written. ‘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 to Yossarian’s tent just to read the letter again, following his
carton of lost provisions across the squadron like a mourner. ‘I have to give you as
much as you ask for. Why, the letter doesn’t even say you have to eat all of it yourself.’
‘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 the symptoms. 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 continued finally, ‘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 I don’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 to fling 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 his ashen face. He tugged on his unfortunate mustache absently,
his whole body trembling.