“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 67
suddenly seized his arm. ‘Couldn’t you forge some official orders on that mimeograph
machine of yours and get us out of flying to Bologna?’ Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen pulled
away slowly with a look of scorn. ‘Sure I could,’ he explained with pride. ‘But I would
never dream of doing anything like that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s your job. We all have our jobs to do. My job is to unload these Zippo
lighters at a profit if I can and pick up some cotton from Milo. Your job is to bomb the
ammunition dumps at Bologna.’
‘But I’m going to be killed at Bologna,’ Yossarian pleaded. ‘We’re all going to be killed.’
‘Then you’ll just have to be killed,’ replied ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen. ‘Why can’t you be a
fatalist about it the way I am? If I’m destined to unload these lighters at a profit and pick
up some Egyptian cotton cheap from Milo, then that’s what I’m going to do. And if you’re
destined to be killed over Bologna, then you’re going to be killed, so you might just as
well go out and die like a man. I hate to say this, Yossarian, but you’re turning into a
chronic complainer.’ Clevinger agreed with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen that it was
Yossarian’s job to get killed over Bologna and was livid with condemnation when
Yossarian confessed that it was he who had moved the bomb line and caused the
mission to be canceled.
‘Why the hell not?’ Yossarian snarled, arguing all the more vehemently because he
suspected he was wrong. ‘Am I supposed to get my ass shot off just because the
colonel wants to be a general?’
‘What about the men on the mainland?’ Clevinger demanded with just as much
emotion. ‘Are they supposed to get their asses shot off just because you don’t want to
go? Those men are entitled to air support!’
‘But not necessarily by me. Look, they don’t care who knocks out those ammunition
dumps. The only reason we’re going is because that bastard Cathcart volunteered us.’
‘Oh, I know all that,’ Clevinger assured him, his gaunt face pale and his agitated brown
eyes swimming in sincerity. ‘But the fact remains that those ammunition dumps are still
standing. You know very well that I don’t approve of Colonel Cathcart any more than
you do.’ Clevinger paused for emphasis, his mouth quivering, and then beat his fist
down softly against his sleeping-bag. ‘But it’s not for us to determine what targets must
be destroyed or who’s to destroy them or—’
‘Or who gets killed doing it? And why?’
‘Yes, even that. We have no right to question—’
‘You’re insane!’
‘—no right to question—’
‘Do you really mean that it’s not my business how or why I get killed and that it is
Colonel Cathcart’s? Do you really mean that?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. ‘There are men entrusted with winning
the war who are in a much better position than we are to decide what targets have to be
bombed.’
‘We are talking about two different things,’ Yossarian answered with exaggerated
weariness. ‘You are talking about the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry, and I
am talking about the relationship of me to Colonel Cathcart. You are talking about
winning the war, and I am talking about winning the war and keeping alive.’
‘Exactly,’ Clevinger snapped smugly. ‘And which do you think is more important?’
‘To whom?’ Yossarian shot back. ‘Open your eyes, Clevinger. It doesn’t make a
damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who’s dead.’ Clevinger sat for a
moment as though he’d been slapped. ‘Congratulations!’ he exclaimed bitterly, the
thinnest milk-white line enclosing his lips tightly in a bloodless, squeezing ring. ‘I can’t
think of another attitude that could be depended upon to give greater comfort to the
enemy.’
‘The enemy,’ retorted Yossarian with weighted precision, ‘is anybody who’s going to
get you killed, no matter which side he’s on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And
don’t you forget that, because the longer you remember it, the longer you might live.’ But