Clevinger was dead. That was the basic flaw in his philosophy. Eighteen planes had let down through a beamingwhite cloud off the coast of Elba one afternoon on the way back from the weekly milk run to Parma; seventeencame out. No trace was ever found of the other, not in the air or on the smooth surface of the jade waters below.

　　There was no debris. Helicopters circled the white cloud till sunset. During the night the cloud blew away, and inthe morning there was no more Clevinger.

　　The disappearance was astounding, as astounding, certainly, as the Grand Conspiracy of Lowery Field, when allsixty-four men in a single barrack vanished one payday and were never heard of again. Until Clevinger wassnatched from existence so adroitly, Yossarian had assumed that the men had simply decided unanimously to goAWOL the same day. In fact, he had been so encouraged by what appeared to be a mass desertion from sacredresponsibility that he had gone running outside in elation to carry the exciting news to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen.

　　“What’s so exciting about it?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen sneered obnoxiously, resting his filthy GI shoe on hisspade and lounging back in a surly slouch against the wall of one of the deep, square holes it was his militaryspecialty to dig.

　　Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen was a snide little punk who enjoyed working at cross-purposes. Each time he wentAWOL, he was caught and sentenced to dig and fill up holes six feet deep, wide and long for a specified lengthof time. Each time he finished his sentence, he went AWOL again. Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen accepted his role ofdigging and filling up holes with all the uncomplaining dedication of a true patriot.

　　“It’s not a bad life,” he would observe philosophically. “And I guess somebody has to do it.”

　　He had wisdom enough to understand that digging holes in Colorado was not such a bad assignment in wartime.

　　Since the holes were in no great demand, he could dig them and fill them up at a leisurely pace, and he wasseldom overworked. On the other hand, he was busted down to buck private each time he was court-martialed.

　　He regretted this loss of rank keenly.

　　“It was kind of nice being a P.F.C.,” he reminisced yearningly. “I had status—you know what I mean? --and Iused to travel in the best circles.” His face darkened with resignation. “But that’s all behind me now,” heguessed. “The next time I go over the hill it will be as a buck private, and I just know it won’t be the same.”

　　There was no future in digging holes. “The job isn’t even steady. I lose it each time I finish serving my sentence.

　　Then I have to go over the hill again if I want it back. And I can’t even keep doing that. There’s a catch. Catch22. The next time I go over the hill, it will mean the stockade. I don’t know what’s going to become of me. Imight even wind up overseas if I’m not careful.” He did not want to keep digging holes for the rest of his life,although he had no objection to doing it as long as there was a war going on and it was part of the war effort.

　　“It’s a matter of duty,” he observed, “and we each have our own to perform. My duty is to keep digging theseholes, and I’ve been doing such a good job of it that I’ve just been recommended for the Good Conduct Medal.

　　Your duty is to screw around in cadet school and hope the war ends before you get out. The duty of the men incombat is to win the war, and I just wish they were doing their duty as well as I’ve been doing mine. It wouldn’tbe fair if I had to go overseas and do their job too, would it?”

　　One day ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen struck open a water pipe while digging in one of his holes and almost drownedto death before he was fished out nearly unconscious. Word spread that it was oil, and Chief White Halfoat waskicked off the base. Soon every man who could find a shovel was outside digging frenziedly for oil. Dirt fleweverywhere; the scene was almost like the morning in Pianosa seven months later after the night Milo bombedthe squadron with every plane he had accumulated in his M & M syndicate, and the airfield, bomb dump andrepair hangars as well, and all the survivors were outside hacking cavernous shelters into the solid ground androofing them over with sheets of armor plate stolen from the repair sheds at the field and with tattered squares ofwaterproof canvas stolen from the side flaps of each other’s tents. Chief White Halfoat was transferred out ofColorado at the first rumor of oil and came to rest finally in Pianosa as a replacement for Lieutenant Coombs,who had gone out on a mission as a guest one day just to see what combat was like and had died over Ferrara inthe plane with Kraft. Yossarian felt guilty each time he remembered Kraft, guilty because Kraft had been killedon Yossarian’s second bomb run, and guilty because Kraft had got mixed up innocently also in the SplendidAtabrine Insurrection that had begun in Puerto Rico on the first leg of their flight overseas and ended in Pianosaten days later with Appleby striding dutifully into the orderly room the moment he arrived to report Yossarianfor refusing to take his Atabrine tablets. The sergeant there invited him to be seated.

　　“Thank you, Sergeant, I think I will,” said Appleby. “About how long will I have to wait? I’ve still got a lot toget done today so that I can be fully prepared bright and early tomorrow morning to go into combat the minutethey want me to.”

　　“Sir?”

　　“What’s that, Sergeant?”

　　“What was your question?”

　　“About how long will I have to wait before I can go in to see the major?”

　　“Just until he goes out to lunch,” Sergeant Towser replied. “Then you can go right in.”

　　“But he won’t be there then. Will he?”

　　“No, sir. Major Major won’t be back in his office until after lunch.”

　　“I see,” Appleby decided uncertainly. “I think I’d better come back after lunch, then.”

　　Appleby turned from the orderly room in secret confusion. The moment he stepped outside, he thought he saw atall, dark officer who looked a little like Henry Fonda come jumping out of the window of the orderly-room tentand go scooting out of sight around the corner. Appleby halted and squeezed his eyes closed. An anxious doubtassailed him. He wondered if he were suffering from malaria, or, worse, from an overdose of Atabrine tablets.

　　Appleby had been taking four times as many Atabrine tablets as the amount prescribed because he wanted to befour times as good a pilot as everyone else. His eyes were still shut when Sergeant Towser tapped him lightly onthe shoulder and told him he could go in now if he wanted to, since Major Major had just gone out. Appleby’sconfidence returned.

　　“Thank you, Sergeant. Will he be back soon?”

　　“He’ll be back right after lunch. Then you’ll have to go right out and wait for him in front till he leaves fordinner. Major Major never sees anyone in his office while he’s in his office.”

　　“Sergeant, what did you just say?”

　　“I said that Major Major never sees anyone in his office while he’s in his office.”

　　Appleby stared at Sergeant Towser intently and attempted a firm tone. “Sergeant, are you trying to make a foolout of me just because I’m new in the squadron and you’ve been overseas a long time?”

　　“Oh, no, sir,” answered the sergeant deferentially. “Those are my orders. You can ask Major Major when you seehim.”

　　“That’s just what I intend to do, Sergeant. When can I see him?”

　　“Never.”

　　Crimson with humiliation, Appleby wrote down his report about Yossarian and the Atabrine tablets on a pad thesergeant offered him and left quickly, wondering if perhaps Yossarian were not the only man privileged to wearan o............