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'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 Wh

ite Halfoat said. 'The landing strip is too soft to use tomorrow. Maybe it'll start raining again before the field dries out.'

'You goddam stinking lousy son of a bitch,' Hungry Joe screamed from his tent as they sped into the squadron.

'Jesus, is he back here tonight? I thought he was still in Rome with the courier ship.'

'Oh! Ooooh! Oooooooh!' Hungry Joe screamed.

Chief White Halfoat shuddered. 'That guy gives me the willies,' he confessed in a grouchy whisper. 'Hey, whatever happened to Captain Flume?'

'There's a guy that gives me the willies. I saw him in the woods last week eating wild berries. He never sleeps in his trailer any more. He looked like hell.'

'Hungry Joe's afraid he'll have to replace somebody who goes on sick call, even though there is no sick call. Did you see him the other night when he tried to kill Havermeyer and fell into Yossarian's slit trench?'

'Ooooh!' screamed Hungry Joe. 'Oh! Ooooh! Ooooooh!'

'It sure is a pleasure not having Flume around in the mess hall any more. No more of that "Pass the salt, Walt." '

'Or "Pass the bread, Fred." '

'Or "Shoot me a beet, Pete." '

'Keep away, keep away,' Hungry Joe screamed. 'I said keep away, keep away, you goddam stinking lousy son of a bitch.'

'At least we found out what he dreams about,' Dunbar observed wryly. 'He dreams about goddam stinking lousy sons of bitches.' Late that night Hungry Joe dreamed that Huple's cat was sleeping on his face, suffocating him, and when he woke up, Huple's cat was sleeping on his face. His agony was terrifying, the piercing, unearthly howl with which he split the moonlit dark vibrating in its own impact for seconds afterward like a devastating shock. A numbing silence followed, and then a riotous din rose from inside his tent.

Yossarian was among the first ones there. When he burst through the entrance, Hungry Joe had his gun out and was struggling to wrench his arm free from Huple to shoot the cat, who kept spitting and feinting at him ferociously to distract him from shooting Huple. Both humans were in their GI underwear. The unfrosted light bulb overhead was swinging crazily on its loose wire, and the jumbled black shadows kept swirling and bobbing chaotically, so that the entire tent seemed to be reeling. Yossarian reached out instinctively for balance and then launched himself forward in a prodigious dive that crushed the three combatants to the ground beneath him. He emerged from the melee with the scruff of a neck in each hand--Hungry Joe's neck and the cat's. Hungry Joe and the cat glared at each other savagely. The cat spat viciously at Hungry Joe, and Hungry Joe tried to hit it with a haymaker.

'A fair fight,' Yossarian decreed, and all the others who had come running to the uproar in horror began cheering ecstatically in a tremendous overflow of relief. 'We'll have a fair fight,' he explained officially to Hungry Joe and the cat after he had carried them both outside, still holding them apart by the scruffs of their necks. 'Fists, fangs and claws. But no guns,' he warned Hungry Joe. 'And no spitting,' he warned the cat sternly. 'When I turn you both loose, go. Break clean in the clinches and come back fighting. Go!' There was a huge, giddy crowd of men who were avid for any diversion, but the cat turned chicken the moment Yossarian released him and fled from Hungry Joe ignominiously like a yellow dog. Hungry Joe was declared the winner. He swaggered away happily with the proud smile of a champion, his shriveled head high and his emaciated chest out. He went back to bed victorious and dreamed again that Huple's cat was sleeping on his face, suffocating him.

Catch-22

Major--De Coverley

Moving the bomb line did not fool the Germans, but it did fool Major--de Coverley, who packed his musette bag, commandeered an airplane and, under the impression that Florence too had been captured by the Allies, had himself flown to that city to rent two apartments for the officers and the enlisted men in the squadron to use on rest leaves. He had still not returned by the time Yossarian jumped back outside Major Major's office and wondered whom to appeal to next for help.

Major--de Coverley was a splendid, awe-inspiring, grave old man with a massive leonine head and an angry shock of wild white hair that raged like a blizzard around his stern, patriarchal face. His duties as squadron executive officer did consist entirely, as both Doc Daneeka and Major Major had conjectured, of pitching horseshoes, kidnaping Italian laborers, and renting apartments for the enlisted men and officers to use on rest leaves, and he excelled at all three.

Each time the fall of a city like Naples, Rome or Florence seemed imminent, Major--de Coverley would pack his musette bag, commandeer an airplane and a pilot, and have himself flown away, accomplishing all this without uttering a word, by the sheer force of his solemn, domineering visage and the peremptory gestures of his wrinkled finger. A day or two after the city fell, he would be back with leases on two large and luxurious apartments there, one for the officers and one for the enlisted men, both already staffed with competent, jolly cooks and maids. A few days after that, newspapers would appear throughout the world with photographs of the first American soldiers bludgeoning their way into the shattered city through rubble and smoke. Inevitably, Major--de Coverley was among them, seated straight as a ramrod in a jeep he had obtained from somewhere, glancing neither right nor left as the artillery fire burst about his invincible head and lithe young infantrymen with carbines went loping up along the sidewalks in the shelter of burning buildings or fell dead in doorways. He seemed eternally indestructible as he sat there surrounded by danger, his features molded firmly into that same fierce, regal, just and forbidding countenance which was recognized and revered by every man in the squadron.