By the time of the mission to Bologna, Yossarian was brave enough not to go around over the target even once,and when he found himself aloft finally in the nose of Kid Sampson’s plane, he pressed in the button of his throatmike and asked,“Well? What’s wrong with the plane?”

　　Kid Sampson let out a shriek. “Is something wrong with the plane? What’s the matter?”

　　Kid Sampson’s cry turned Yossarian to ice. “Is something the matter?” he yelled in horror. “Are we bailing out?”

　　“I don’t know!” Kid Sampson shot back in anguish, wailing excitedly. “Someone said we’re bailing out! Who isthis, anyway? Who is this?”

　　“This is Yossarian in the nose! Yossarian in the nose. I heard you say there was something the matter. Didn’t yousay there was something the matter?”

　　“I thought you said there was something wrong. Everything seems okay. Everything is all right.”

　　Yossarian’s heart sank. Something was terribly wrong if everything was all right and they had no excuse for turning back. He hesitated gravely.

　　“I can’t hear you,” he said.

　　“I said everything is all right.”

　　The sun was blinding white on the porcelain-blue water below and on the flashing edges of the other airplanes.

　　Yossarian took hold of the colored wires leading into the jackbox of the intercom system and tore them loose.

　　“I still can’t hear you,” he said.

　　He heard nothing. Slowly he collected his map case and his three flak suits and crawled back to the maincompartment. Nately, sitting stiffly in the co-pilot’s seat, spied him through the corner of his eye as he steppedup on the flight deck behind Kid Sampson. He smiled at Yossarian wanly, looking frail and exceptionally youngand bashful in the bulky dungeon of his earphones, hat, throat mike, flak suit and parachute. Yossarian bent closeto Kid Sampson’s ear.

　　“I still can’t hear you,” he shouted above the even drone of the engines.

　　Kid Sampson glanced back at him with surprise. Kid Sampson had an angular, comical face with archedeyebrows and a scrawny blond mustache.

　　“What?” he called out over his shoulder.

　　“I still can’t hear you,” Yossarian repeated.

　　“You’ll have to talk louder,” Kid Sampson said. “I still can’t hear you.”

　　“I said I still can’t hear you!” Yossarian yelled.

　　“I can’t help it,” Kid Sampson yelled back at him. “I’m shouting as loud as I can.”

　　“I couldn’t hear you over my intercom,” Yossarian bellowed in mounting helplessness. “You’ll have to turnback.”

　　“For an intercom?” asked Kid Sampson incredulously.

　　“Turn back,” said Yossarian, “before I break your head.”

　　Kid Sampson looked for moral support toward Nately, who stared away from him pointedly. Yossarianoutranked them both. Kid Sampson resisted doubtfully for another moment and then capitulated eagerly with atriumphant whoop.

　　“That’s just fine with me,” he announced gladly, and blew out a shrill series of whistles up into his mustache.

　　“Yes sirree, that’s just fine with old Kid Sampson.” He whistled again and shouted over the intercom, “Now hearthis, my little chickadees. This is Admiral Kid Sampson talking. This is Admiral Kid Sampson squawking, thepride of the Queen’s marines. Yessiree. We’re turning back, boys, by crackee, we’re turning back!”

　　Nately ripped off his hat and earphones in one jubilant sweep and began rocking back and forth happily like ahandsome child in a high chair. Sergeant Knight came plummeting down from the top gun turret and beganpounding them all on the back with delirious enthusiasm. Kid Sampson turned the plane away from theformation in a wide, graceful arc and headed toward the airfield. When Yossarian plugged his headset into one ofthe auxiliary jackboxes, the two gunners in the rear section of the plane were both singing “La Cucaracha.”

　　Back at the field, the party fizzled out abruptly. An uneasy silence replaced it, and Yossarian was sober and self-conscious as he climbed down from the plane and took his place in the jeep that was already waiting for them.

　　None of the men spoke at all on the drive back through the heavy, mesmerizing quiet blanketing mountains, seaand forests. The feeling of desolation persisted when they turned off the road at the squadron. Yossarian got outof the car last. After a minute, Yossarian and a gentle warm wind were the only things stirring in the hauntingtranquillity that hung like a drug over the vacated tents. The squadron stood insensate, bereft of everythinghuman but Doc Daneeka, who roosted dolorously like a shivering turkey buzzard beside the closed door of themedical tent, his stuffed nose jabbing away in thirsting futility at the hazy sunlight streaming down around him.

　　Yossarian knew Doc Daneeka would not go swimming with him. Doc Daneeka would never go swimmingagain; a person could swoon or suffer a mild coronary occlusion in an inch or two of water and drown to death,be carried out to sea by an undertow, or made vulnerable to poliomyelitis or meningococcus infection throughchilling or over-exertion. The threat of Bologna to others had instilled in Doc Daneeka ............