Catch-22

by Joseph Heller

  'Doesn't he know there's a war going on?' Colonel Cathcart yelled out suddenly, and blew with vigorous disbelief into the open end of his cigarette holder.

  'I'm quite sure he does,' Colonel Korn replied acidly, 'since you brought that identical point to his attention just a moment ago.' Colonel Korn frowned wearily for Yossarian's benefit, his eyes twinkling swarthily with sly and daring scorn. Gripping the edge of Colonel Cathcart's desk with both hands, he lifted his flaccid haunches far back on the corner to sit with both short legs dangling freely. His shoes kicked lightly against the yellow oak wood, his sludge-brown socks, garterless, collapsed in sagging circles below ankles that were surprisingly small and white. 'You know, Yossarian,' he mused affably in a manner of casual reflection that seemed both derisive and sincere, 'I really do admire you a bit. You're an intelligent person of great moral character who has taken a very courageous stand. I'm an intelligent person with no moral character at all, so I'm in an ideal position to appreciate it.'

  'These are very critical times,' Colonel Cathcart asserted petulantly from a far corner of the office, paying no attention to Colonel Korn.

  'Very critical times indeed,' Colonel Korn agreed with a placid nod. 'We've just had a change of command above, and we can't afford a situation that might put us in a bad light with either General Scheisskopf or General Peckem. Isn't that what you mean, Colonel?'

  'Hasn't he got any patriotism?'

  'Won't you fight for your country?' Colonel Korn demanded, emulating Colonel Cathcart's harsh, self-righteous tone. 'Won't you give up your life for Colonel Cathcart and me?' Yossarian tensed with alert astonishment when he heard Colonel Korn's concluding words. 'What's that?' he exclaimed. 'What have you and Colonel Cathcart got to do with my country? You're not the same.'

  'How can you separate us?' Colonel Korn inquired with ironical tranquillity.

  'That's right,' Colonel Cathcart cried emphatically. 'You're either for us or against us. There's no two ways about it.'

  'I'm afraid he's got you,' added Colonel Korn. 'You're either for us or against your country. It's as simple as that.'

  'Oh, no, Colonel. I don't buy that.' Colonel Korn was unrufed. 'Neither do I, frankly, but everyone else will. So there you are.'

  'You're a disgrace to your uniform!' Colonel Cathcart declared with blustering

  wrath, whirling to confront Yossarian for the first time. 'I'd like to know how you ever got to be a captain, anyway.'

  'You promoted him,' Colonel Korn reminded sweetly, stifling a snicker. 'Don't you remember?'

  'Well, I never should have done it.'

  'I told you not to do it,' Colonel Korn said. 'But you just wouldn't listen to me.'

  'Gee whiz, will you stop rubbing it in?' Colonel Cathcart cried. He furrowed his brow and glowered at Colonel Korn through eyes narrow with suspicion, his fists clenched on his hips. 'Say, whose side are you on, anyway?'

  'Your side, Colonel. What other side could I be on?'

  'Then stop picking on me, will you? Get off my back, will you?'

  'I'm on your side, Colonel. I'm just loaded with patriotism.'

  'Well, just make sure you don't forget that.' Colonel Cathcart turned away grudgingly after another moment, incompletely reassured, and began striding the floor, his hands kneading his long cigarette holder. He jerked a thumb toward Yossarian. 'Let's settle with him. I know what I'd like to do with him. I'd like to take him outside and shoot him. That's what I'd like to do with him. That's what General Dreedle would do with him.'

  'But General Dreedle isn't with us any more,' said Colonel Korn, 'so we can't take him outside and shoot him.' Now that his moment of tension with Colonel Cathcart had passed, Colonel Korn relaxed again and resumed kicking softly against Colonel Cathcart's desk. He returned to Yossarian. 'So we're going to send you home instead. It took a bit of thinking, but we finally worked out this horrible little plan for sending you home without causing too much dissatisfaction among the friends you'll leave behind. Doesn't that make you happy?'

  'What kind of plan? I'm not sure I'm going to like it.'

  'I know you're not going to like it.' Colonel Korn laughed, locking his hands contentedly on top of his head again. 'You're going to loathe it. It really is odious and certainly will offend your conscience. But you'll agree to it quickly enough. You'll agree to it because it will send you home safe and sound in two weeks, and because you have no choice. It's that or a court-martial. Take it or leave it.' Yossarian snorted. 'Stop bluffing, Colonel. You can't court-martial me for desertion in the face of the enemy. It would make you look bad and you probably couldn't get a conviction.'

  'But we can court-martial you now for desertion from duty, since you went to Rome without a pass. And we could make it stick. If you think about it a minute, you'll see that you'd leave us no alternative. We can't simply let you keep walking around in open insubordination without punishing you. All the other men would stop flying missions, too. No, you have my word for it. We will court-martial you if you turn our deal down, even though it would raise a lot of questions and be a terrible black eye for Colonel Cathcart.' Colonel Cathcart winced at the words 'black eye' and, without any apparent premeditation, hurled his slender onyx-and-ivory cigarette holder down viciously on the wooden surface on his desk. 'Jesus Christ!' he shouted unexpectedly. 'I hate this goddam cigarette holder!' The cigarette holder bounced off the desk to the wall, ricocheted across the window sill to the floor and came to a stop almost where he was standing. Colonel Cathcart stared down at it with an irascible scowl. 'I wonder if it's really doing me any good.'

  'It's a feather in your cap with General Peckem, but a black eye for you with General Scheisskopf,' Colonel Korn informed him with a mischievous look of innocence.

  'Well, which one am I supposed to please?'

  'Both.'

  'How can I please them both? They hate each other. How am I ever going to get a feather in my cap from General Scheisskopf without getting a black eye from General Peckem?'

  'March.'

  'Yeah, march. That's the only way to please him. March. March.' Colonel Cathcart grimaced sullenly. 'Some generals! They're a disgrace to their uniforms. If people like those two can make general, I don't see how I can miss.'

  'You're going to go far.' Colonel Korn assured him with a flat lack of conviction, and turned back chuckling to Yossarian, his disdainful merriment increasing at the sight of Yossarian's unyielding expression of antagonism and distrust. 'And there you have the crux of the situation. Colonel Cathcart wants to be a general and I want to be a colonel, and that's why we have to send you home.'

  'Why does he want to be a general?'

  'Why? For the same reason that I want to be a colonel. What else have we got to do? Everyone teaches us to aspire to higher things. A general is higher than a colonel, and a colonel is higher than a lieutenant colonel. So we're both aspiring. And you know, Yossarian, it's a lucky thing for you that we are. Your timing on this is absolutely perfect, but I suppose you took that factor into account in your calculations.'

  'I haven't been doing any calculating,' Yossarian retorted.

  'Yes, I really do enjoy the way you lie,' Colonel Korn answered. 'Won't it make you proud to have your commanding officer promoted to general--to know you served in an outfit that averaged more combat missions per person than any other? Don't you want to earn more unit citations and more oak leaf clusters for your Air Medal? Where's your esprit de corps? Don't you want to contribute further to this great record by flying more combat missions? It's your last chance to answer yes.'

  'No.'

  'In that case, you have us over a barrel--' said Colonel Korn without rancor.

  'He ought to be ashamed of himself!'

  '--and we have to send you home. Just do a few little things for us, and--'

  'What sort of things?' Yossarian interrupted with belligerent misgiving.

  'Oh, tiny, insignificant things. Really, this is a very generous deal we're making with you. We will issue order
s returning you to the States--really, we will--and all you have to do in return is...'

  'What? What must I do?' Colonel Korn laughed curtly. 'Like us.' Yossarian blinked. 'Like you?'

  'Like us.'

  'Like you?'

  'That's right,' said Colonel Korn, nodding, gratified immeasurably by Yossarian's guileless surprise and bewilderment. 'Like us. Join us. Be our pal. Say nice things about us here and back in the States. Become one of the boys. Now, that isn't asking too much, is it?'

  'You just want me to like you? Is that all?'

  'That's all.'

  'That's all?'

  'Just find it in your heart to like us.' Yossarian wanted to laugh confidently when he saw with amazement that Colonel Korn was telling the truth. 'That isn't going to be too easy,' he sneered.

  'Oh, it will be a lot easier than you think,' Colonel Korn taunted in return, undismayed by Yossarian's barb. 'You'll be surprised at how easy you'll find it to like us once you begin.' Colonel Korn hitched up the waist of his loose, voluminous trousers. The deep black grooves isolating his square chin from his jowls were bent again in a kind of jeering and reprehensible mirth. 'You see, Yossarian, we're going to put you on easy street. We're going to promote you to major and even give you another medal. Captain Flume is already working on glowing press releases describing your valor over Ferrara, your deep and abiding loyalty to your outfit and your consummate dedication to duty. Those phrases are all actual quotations, by the way. We're going to glorify you and send you home a hero, recalled by the Pentagon for morale and public-relations purposes. You'll live like a millionaire. Everyone will lionize you. You'll have parades in your honor and make speeches to raise money for war bonds. A whole new world of luxury awaits you once you become our pal. Isn't it lovely?' Yossarian found himself listening intently to the fascinating elucidation of details. 'I'm not sure I want to make speeches.'

  'Then we'll forget the speeches. The important thing is what you say to people here.' Colonel Korn leaned forward earnestly, no longer smiling. 'We don't want any of the men in the group to know that we're sending you home as a result of your refusal to fly more missions. And we don't want General Peckem or General Scheisskopf to get wind of any friction between us, either. That's why we're going to become such good pals.'

  'What will I say to the men who asked me why I refused to fly more missions?'

  'Tell them you had been informed in confidence that you were being returned to the States and that you were unwilling to risk your life for another mission or two. Just a minor disagreement between pals, that's all.'

  'Will they believe it?'

  'Of course they'll believe it, once they see what great friends we've become and when they see the press releases and read the flattering things you have to say about me and Colonel Cathcart. Don't worry about the men. They'll be easy enough to discipline and control when you've gone. It's only while you're still here that they may prove troublesome. You know, one good apple can spoil the rest,' Colonel Korn concluded with conscious irony. 'You know--this would really be wonderful--you might even serve as an inspiration to them to fly more missions.'

  'Suppose I denounce you when I get back to the States?'

  'After you've accepted our medal and promotion and all the fanfare? No one would believe you, the Army wouldn't let you, and why in the world should you want to? You're going to be one of the boys, remember? You'll enjoy a rich, rewarding, luxurious, privileged existence. You'd have to be a fool to throw it all away just for a moral principle, and you're not a fool. Is it a deal?'

  'I don't know.'

  'It's that or a court-martial.'

  'That's a pretty scummy trick I'd be playing on the men in the squadron, isn't it?'

  'Odious,' Colonel Korn agreed amiably, and waited, watching Yossarian patiently with a glimmer of private delight.

  'But what the hell!' Yossarian exclaimed. 'If they don't want to fly more missions, let them stand up and do something about it the way I did. Right?'

  'Of course,' said Colonel Korn.

  'There's no reason I have to risk my life for them, is there?'

  'Of course not.' Yossarian arrived at his decision with a swift grin. 'It's a deal!' he announced jubilantly.

  'Great,' said Colonel Korn with somewhat less cordiality than Yossarian had expected, and he slid himself off Colonel Cathcart's desk to stand on the floor. He tugged the folds of cloth of his pants and undershorts free from his crotch and gave Yossarian a limp hand to shake. 'Welcome aboard.'

  'Thanks, Colonel. I--'

  'Call me Blackie, John. We're pals now.'

  'Sure, Blackie. My friends call me Yo-Yo. Blackie, I--'

  'His friends call him Yo-Yo,' Colonel Korn sang out to Colonel Cathcart. 'Why don't you congratulate Yo-Yo on what a sensible move he's making?'

  'That's a real sensible move you're making, Yo-Yo,' Colonel Cathcart said, pumping Yossarian's hand with clumsy zeal.

  'Thank you, Colonel, I--'

  'Call him Chuck,' said Colonel Korn.

  'Sure, call me Chuck,' said Colonel Cathcart with a laugh that was hearty and awkward. 'We're all pals now.'

  'Sure, Chuck.'

  'Exit smiling,' said Colonel Korn, his hands on both their shoulders as the three of them moved to the door.

  'Come on over for dinner with us some night, Yo-Yo,' Colonel Cathcart invited hospitably. 'How about tonight? In the group dining room.'

  'I'd love to, sir.'

  'Chuck,' Colonel Korn corrected reprovingly.

  'I'm sorry, Blackie. Chuck. I can't get used to it.'

  'That's all right, pal.'

  'Sure, pal.'

  'Thanks, pal.'

  'Don't mention it, pal.'

  'So long, pal.' Yossarian waved goodbye fondly to his new pals and sauntered out onto the balcony corridor, almost bursting into song the instant he was alone. He was home free: he had pulled it off; his act of rebellion had succeeded; he was safe, and he had nothing to be ashamed of to anyone. He started toward the staircase with a jaunty and exhilarated air. A private in green fatigues saluted him. Yossarian returned the salute happily, staring at the private with curiosity. He looked strangely familiar. When Yossarian returned the salute, the private in green fatigues turned suddenly into Nately's whore and lunged at him murderously with a bone-handled kitchen knife that caught him in the side below his upraised arm. Yossarian sank to the floor with a shriek, shutting his eyes in overwhelming terror as he saw the girl lift the knife to strike at him again. He was already unconscious when Colonel Korn and Colonel Cathcart dashed out of the office and saved his life by frightening her away.

  Catch-22

  Snowden

  'Cut,' said a doctor.

  'You cut,' said another.

  'No cuts,' said Yossarian with a thick, unwieldy tongue.

  'Now look who's butting in,' complained one of the doctors. 'Another county heard from. Are we going to operate or aren't we?'

  'He doesn't need an operation,' complained the other. 'It's a small wound. All we have to do is stop the bleeding, clean it out and put a few stitches in.'

  'But I've never had a chance to operate before. Which one is the scalpel? Is this one the scalpel?'

  'No, the other one is the scalpel. Well, go ahead and cut already if you're going to. Make the incision.'

  'Like this?'

  'Not there, you dope!'

  'No incisions,' Yossarian said, perceiving through the lifting fog of insensibility that the two strangers were ready to begin cutting him.

  'Another county heard from,' complained the first doctor sarcastically. 'Is he going to keep talking that way while I operate on him?'

  'You can't operate on him until I admit him,' said a clerk.

  'You can't admit him until I clear him,' said a fat, gruff colonel with a mustache and an enormous pink face that pressed down very close to Yossarian and radiated scorching heat like the bottom of a huge frying pan. 'Where were you born?' The fat, gruff colonel reminded Yossarian of
the fat, gruff colonel who had interrogated the chaplain and found him guilty. Yossarian stared up at him through a glassy film. The cloying scents of formaldehyde and alcohol sweetened the air.

  'On a battlefield,' he answered.

  'No, no. In what state were you born?'

  'In a state of innocence.'

  'No, no, you don't understand.'

  'Let me handle him,' urged a hatchet-faced man with sunken acrimonious eyes and a thin, malevolent mouth. 'Are you a smart aleck or something?' he asked Yossarian.

  'He's delirious,' one of the doctors said. 'Why don't you let us take him back inside and treat him?'

  'Leave him right here if he's delirious. He might say something incriminating.'

  'But he's still bleeding profusely. Can't you see? He might even die.'

  'Good for him!'

  'It would serve the finky bastard right,' said the fat, gruff colonel. 'All right, John, let's speak out. We want to get to the truth.'

  'Everyone calls me Yo-Yo.'

  'We want you to co-operate with us, Yo-Yo. We're your friends and we want you to trust us. We're here to help you. We're not going to hurt you.'

  'Let's jab our thumbs down inside his wound and gouge it,' suggested the hatchet-faced man.

  Yossarian let his eyes fall closed and hoped they would think he was unconscious.

  'He's fainted,' he heard a doctor say. 'Can't we treat him now before it's too late? He really might die.'

  'All right, take him. I hope the bastard does die.'

  'You can't treat him until I admit him,' the clerk said.

  Yossarian played dead with his eyes shut while the clerk admitted him by shuffling some papers, and then he was rolled away slowly into a stuffy, dark room with searing spotlights overhead in which the cloying smell of formaldehyde and sweet alcohol was even stronger. The pleasant, permeating stink was intoxicating. He smelled ether too and heard glass tinkling. He listened with secret, egotistical mirth to the husky breathing of the two doctors. It delighted him that they thought he was unconscious and did not know he was listening. It all seemed very silly to him until one of the doctors said, 'Well, do you think we should save his life? They might be sore at us if we do.'

  'Let's operate,' said the other doctor. 'Let's cut him open and get to the inside of things once and for all. He keeps complaining about his liver. His liver looks pretty small on this X ray.'