Actually, it was not Captain Black but Sergeant Knight who triggered the solemn panic of Bologna, slipping silently off the truck for two extra flak suits as soon as he learned the target and signaling the start of the grimprocession back into the parachute tent that degenerated into a frantic stampede finally before all the extra flaksuits were gone.

　　“Hey, what’s going on?” Kid Sampson asked nervously. “Bologna can’t be that rough, can it?”

　　Nately, sitting trancelike on the floor of the truck, held his grave young face in both hands and did not answerhim.

　　It was Sergeant Knight and the cruel series of postponements, for just as they were climbing up into their planesthat first morning, along came a jeep with the news that it was raining in Bologna and that the mission would bedelayed. It was raining in Pianosa too by the time they returned to the squadron, and they had the rest of that dayto stare woodenly at the bomb line on the map under the awning of the intelligence tent and ruminatehypnotically on the fact that there was no escape. The evidence was there vividly in the narrow red ribbon tackedacross the mainland: the ground forces in Italy were pinned down forty-two insurmountable miles south of thetarget and could not possibly capture the city in time. Nothing could save the men in Pianosa from the mission toBologna. They were trapped.

　　Their only hope was that it would never stop raining, and they had no hope because they all knew it would.

　　When it did stop raining in Pianosa, it rained in Bologna. When it stopped raining in Bologna, it began again inPianosa. If there was no rain at all, there were freakish, inexplicable phenomena like the epidemic of diarrhea orthe bomb line that moved. Four times during the first six days they were assembled and briefed and then sentback. Once, they took off and were flying in formation when the control tower summoned them down. The moreit rained, the worse they suffered. The worse they suffered, the more they prayed that it would continue raining.

　　All through the night, men looked at the sky and were saddened by the stars. All through the day, they looked atthe bomb line on the big, wobbling easel map of Italy that blew over in the wind and was dragged in under theawning of the intelligence tent every time the rain began. The bomb line was a scarlet band of narrow satinribbon that delineated the forwardmost position of the Allied ground forces in every sector of the Italianmainland.

　　The morning after Hungry Joe’s fist fight with Huple’s cat, the rain stopped falling in both places. The landingstrip began to dry. It would take a full twenty-four hours to harden; but the sky remained cloudless. Theresentments incubating in each man hatched into hatred. First they hated the infantrymen on the mainlandbecause they had failed to capture Bologna. Then they began to hate the bomb line itself. For hours they staredrelentlessly at the scarlet ribbon on the map and hated it because it would not move up high enough toencompass the city. When night fell, they congregated in the darkness with flashlights, continuing their macabrevigil at the bomb line in brooding entreaty as though hoping to move the ribbon up by the collective weight oftheir sullen prayers.

　　“I really can’t believe it,” Clevinger exclaimed to Yossarian in a voice rising and falling in protest and wonder.

　　“It’s a complete reversion to primitive superstition. They’re confusing cause and effect. It makes as much senseas knocking on wood or crossing your fingers. They really believe that we wouldn’t have to fly that missiontomorrow if someone would only tiptoe up to the map in the middle of the night and move the bomb line over Bologna. Can you imagine? You and I must be the only rational ones left.”

　　In the middle of the night Yossarian knocked on wood, crossed his fingers, and tiptoed out of his tent to movethe bomb line up over Bologna.

　　Corporal Kolodny tiptoed stealthily into Captain Black’s tent early the next morning, reached inside themosquito net and gently shook the moist shoulder-blade he found there until Captain Black opened his eyes.

　　“What are you waking me up for?” whimpered Captain Black.

　　“They captured Bologna, sir,” said Corporal Kolodny. “I thought you’d want to know. Is the mission canceled?”

　　Captain Black tugged himself erect and began scratching his scrawny long thighs methodically. In a little whilehe dressed and emerged from his tent, squinting, cross and unshaven. The sky was clear and warm. He peeredwithout emotion at the map. Sure enough, they had captured Bologna. Inside the intelligence tent, CorporalKolodny was already removing the maps of Bologna from the navigation kits. Captain Black seated himself witha loud yawn, lifted his feet to the top of his desk and phoned Colonel Korn.

　　“What are you waking me up for?” whimpered Colonel Korn.

　　“They captured Bologna during the night, sir. Is the mission canceled?”

　　“What are you talking about, Black?” Colonel Korn growled. “Why should the mission be canceled?”

　　“Because they captured Bologna, sir. Isn’t the mission canceled?”

　　“Of course the mission is canceled. Do you think we’re bombing our own troops now?”

　　“What are you waking me up for?” Colonel Cathcart whimpered to Colonel Korn.

　　“They captured Bologna,” Colonel Korn told him. “I thought you’d want to know.”

　　“Who captured Bologna?”

　　“We did.”

　　Colonel Cathcart was overjoyed, for he was relieved of the embarrassing commitment to bomb Bologna withoutblemish to the reputation for valor he had earned by volunteering his men to do it. General Dreedle was pleasedwith the capture of Bologna, too, although he was angry with Colonel Moodus for waking him up to tell himabout it. Headquarters was also pleased and decided to award a medal to the officer who captured the city. Therewas no officer who had captured the city, so they gave the medal to General Peckem instead, because GeneralPeckem was the only officer with sufficient initiative to ask for it.

　　As soon as General Peckem had received his medal, he began asking for increased responsibility. It was GeneralPeckem’s opinion that all combat units in the theater should be placed under the jurisdiction of the SpecialService Corps, of which General Peckem himself was the commanding officer. If dropping bombs on the enemywas not a special service, he reflected aloud frequently with the martyred smile of sweet reasonableness that washis loyal confederate in every dispute, then he could not help wondering what in the world was. With amiableregret, he declined the offer of a combat post under General Dreedle.

　　“Flying combat missions for General Dreedle is not exactly what I had in mind,” he explained indulgently with asmooth laugh. “I was thinking more in terms of replacing General Dreedle, or perhaps of something aboveGeneral Dreedle where I could exercise supervision over a great many other generals too. You see, my mostprecious abilities are mainly administrative ones. I have a happy facility for getting different people to agree.”

　　“He has a happy facility for getting different people to agree what a prick he is,” Colonel Cargill confidedinvidiously to ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen in the hope that ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen would spread the unfavorable reportalong through Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters. “If anyone deserves that combat post, I do. It was evenmy idea that we ask for the medal.”

　　“You really want to go into combat?” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen inquired.

　　“Combat?” Colonel Cargill was aghast. “Oh, no—you misunderstand me. Of course, I wouldn’t actually mindgoing into combat, but my best abilities are mainly administrative ones. I too have a happy facility for gettingdifferent people to agree.”

　　“He too has a happy facility for getting different people to agree what a prick he is,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreenconfided with a laugh to Yossarian, after he had come to Pianosa to learn if it was really true about Milo and theEgyptian cotton. “If anyone deserves a promotion, I do.” Actually, he had risen already to ex-corporal, havingshot through the ranks shortly after his transfer to Twenty-seventh Air Force Headquarters as a mail clerk andbeen busted right down to private for making odious audible comparisons about the commissioned officers forwhom he worked. The heady taste of success had infused him further with morality and fired him with ambitionfor loftier attainments. “Do you want to buy some Zippo lighters?” he asked Yossarian. “They were stolen rightfrom quartermaster.”

　　“Does Milo know you’re selling cigarette lighters?”

　　“What’s it his business? Milo’s not carrying cigarette lighters too now, is he?”

　　“He sure is,” Yossarian told him. “And his aren’t stolen.”

　　“That’s what you think,” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen answered with a laconic snort. “I’m selling mine for a buckapiece. What’s he getting for his?”

　　“A dollar and a penny.”

　　Ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen snickered triumphantly. “I beat him every time,” he gloated. “Say, what about all thatEgyptian cotton he’s stuck with? How much did he buy?”

　　“All.”

　　“In the whole world? Well, I’ll be damned!” ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen crowed with malicious glee. “What a dope!

　　You were in Cairo with him. Why’d you let him do it?”

　　“Me?” Yossarian answered with a shrug. “I have no influence on him. It was those teletype machines they havein all the good restaurants there. Milo had never seen a stock ticker before, and the quotation for Egyptian cottonhappened to be coming in just as he asked the headwaiter to explain it to him. ‘Egyptian cotton?’ Milo said withthat look of his. ‘How much is Egyptian cotton selling for?’ The next thing I knew he had bought the wholegoddam harvest. And now he can’t unload any of it.”

　　“He has no imagination. I can unload plenty of it in the black market if he’ll make a deal.”

　　“Milo knows the black market. There’s no demand for cotton.”

　　“But there is a demand for medical supplies. I can roll the cotton up on wooden toothpicks and peddle them assterile swabs. Will he sell to me at a good price?”

　　“He won’t sell to you at any price,” Yossarian answered. “He’s pretty sore at you for going into competition withhim. In fact, he’s pretty sore at everybody for getting diarrhea last weekend and giving his mess hall a bad name.

　　Say, you can help us.” Yossarian suddenly seized his arm. “Couldn’t you forge some official orders on thatmimeograph 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 Iwould 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 andpick 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 wayI am? If I’m destined to unload these lighters at a profit and pick up some Egyptian cotton cheap from Milo, thenthat’s what I’m going to do. And if you’re destined to be killed over Bologna, then you’re going to be killed, soyou might just as well go out and die like a man. I hate to say this, Yossarian, but you’re turning into a chroniccomplainer.”

　　Clevinger agreed with ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen that it was Yossarian’s job to get killed over Bologna and was lividwith condemnation when Yossarian confessed that it was he who had moved the bomb line and caused themission 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 toget 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 reasonwe’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 insincerity. “But the fact remains that those ammunition dumps are still standing. You know very well that I don’tapprove of Colonel Cathcart any more than you do.” Clevinger paused for emphasis, his mouth quivering, andthen beat his fist down softly against his sleeping-bag. “But it’s not for us to determine what targets must bedestroyed 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 youreally mean that?”

　　“Yes, I do,” Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. “There are men entrusted with winning the war who are in amuch 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 talkingabout the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry, and I am talking about the relationship of me to ColonelCathcart. 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 whowins 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 thatcould 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 matterwhich side he’s on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don’t you forget that, because the longer youremember it, the longer you might live.”

　　But Clevinger did forget it, and now he was dead. At the time, Clevinger was so upset by the incident thatYossarian did not dare tell him he had also been responsible for the epidemic of diarrhea that had caused theother unnecessary postponement. Milo was even more upset by the possibility that someone had poisoned hissquadron again, and he came bustling fretfully to Yossarian for assistance.

　　“Please find out from Corporal ............