“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 70
You ought to be ashamed! Come on—help me get them out of here before they all die
of pneumonia.’
‘You know, that don’t sound like such a bad idea,’ Chief White Halfoat reflected. ‘I
think I will die of pneumonia.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ answered Chief White Halfoat, and lay back in the mud contentedly with
the bottle of rye cuddled in his arms.
‘Oh, now look what he’s doing!’ Clevinger exclaimed with irritation. ‘Will you get up and
get into the car so we can all go back to the squadron?’
‘We can’t all go back. Someone has to stay here to help the Chief with this car he
signed out of the motor pool.’ Chief White Halfoat settled back in the staff car with an
ebullient, prideful chuckle. ‘That’s Captain Black’s car,’ he informed them jubilantly. ‘I
stole it from him at the officers’ club just now with an extra set of keys he thought he lost
this morning.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned! That calls for a drink.’
‘Haven’t you had enough to drink?’ Clevinger began scolding as soon as McWatt
started the car. ‘Look at you. You don’t care if you drink yourselves to death or drown
yourselves to death, do you?’
‘Just as long as we don’t fly ourselves to death.’
‘Hey, open it up, open it up,’ Chief White Halfoat urged McWatt. ‘And turn off the
headlights. That’s the only way to do it.’
‘Doc Daneeka is right,’ Clevinger went on. ‘People don’t know enough to take care of
themselves. I really am disgusted with all of you.’
‘Okay, fatmouth, out of the car,’ Chief White Halfoat ordered. ‘Everybody get out of the
car but Yossarian. Where’s Yossarian?’
‘Get the hell off me.’ Yossarian laughed, pushing him away. ‘You’re all covered with
mud.’ Clevinger focused on Nately. ‘You’re the one who really surprises me. Do you
know what you smell like? Instead of trying to keep him out of trouble, you get just as
drunk as he is. Suppose he got in another fight with Appleby?’ Clevinger’s eyes opened
wide with alarm when he heard Yossarian chuckle. ‘He didn’t get in another fight with
Appleby, did he?’
‘Not this time,’ said Dunbar.
‘No, not this time. This time I did even better.’
‘This time he got in a fight with Colonel Korn.’
‘He didn’t!’ gasped Clevinger.
‘He did?’ exclaimed Chief White Halfoat with delight. ‘That calls for a drink.’
‘But that’s terrible!’ Clevinger declared with deep apprehension. ‘Why in the world did
you have to pick on Colonel Korn? Say, what happened to the lights? Why is everything
so dark?’
‘I turned them off,’ answered McWatt. ‘You know, Chief White Halfoat is right. It’s
much better with the headlights off.’
‘Are you crazy?’ Clevinger screamed, and lunged forward to snap the headlights on.
He whirled around upon Yossarian in near hysteria. ‘You see what you’re doing? You’ve
got them all acting like you! Suppose it stops raining and we have to fly to Bologna
tomorrow. You’ll be in fine physical condition.’
‘It won’t ever gonna stop raining. No, sir, a rain like this really might go on forever.’
‘It has stopped raining!’ someone said, and the whole car fell silent.
‘You poor bastards,’ Chief White Halfoat murmured compassionately after a few
moments had passed.
‘Did it really stop raining?’ Yossarian asked meekly.
McWatt switched off the windshield wipers to make certain. The rain had stopped. The
sky was starting to clear. The moon was sharp behind a gauzy brown mist.
‘Oh, well,’ sang McWatt soberly. ‘What the hell.’
‘Don’t worry, fellas,’ Chief White Halfoat said. ‘The landing strip is too soft to use
tomorrow. Maybe it’ll start raining again before the field dries out.’