When Colonel Cathcart learned that Doc Daneeka too had been killed in McWatt’s plane, he increased thenumber of missions to seventy.

　　The first person in the squadron to find out that Doc Daneeka was dead was Sergeant Towser, who had beeninformed earlier by the man in the control tower that Doc Daneeka’s name was down as a passenger on the pilot’s manifest McWatt had filed before taking off. Sergeant Towser brushed away a tear and struck DocDaneeka’s name from the roster of squadron personnel. With lips still quivering, he rose and trudged outsidereluctantly to break the bad news to Gus and Wes, discreetly avoiding any conversation with Doc Daneekahimself as he moved by the flight surgeon’s slight sepulchral figure roosting despondently on his stool in thelate-afternoon sunlight between the orderly room and the medical tent. Sergeant Towser’s heart was heavy; nowhe had two dead men on his hands—Mudd, the dead man in Yossarian’s tent who wasn’t even there, and DocDaneeka, the new dead man in the squadron, who most certainly was there and gave every indication of provinga still thornier administrative problem for him.

　　Gus and Wes listened to Sergeant Towser with looks of stoic surprise and said not a word about theirbereavement to anyone else until Doc Daneeka himself came in about an hour afterward to have his temperaturetaken for the third time that day and his blood pressure checked. The thermometer registered a half degree lowerthan his usual subnormal temperature of 96.8. Doc Daneeka was alarmed. The fixed, vacant, wooden stares of histwo enlisted men were even more irritating than always.

　　“Goddammit,” he expostulated politely in an uncommon excess of exasperation, “what’s the matter with you twomen anyway? It just isn’t right for a person to have a low temperature all the time and walk around with a stuffednose.” Doc Daneeka emitted a glum, self-pitying sniff and strolled disconsolately across the tent to help himselfto some aspirin and sulphur pills and paint his own throat with Argyrol. His downcast face was fragile andforlorn as a swallow’s, and he rubbed the back of his arms rhythmically. “Just look how cold I am right now.

　　You’re sure you’re not holding anything back?”

　　“You’re dead, sir,” one of his two enlisted men explained.

　　Doc Daneeka jerked his head up quickly with resentful distrust. “What’s that?”

　　“You’re dead, sir,” repeated the other. “That’s probably the reason you always feel so cold.”

　　“That’s right, sir. You’ve probably been dead all this time and we just didn’t detect it.”

　　“What the hell are you both talking about?” Doc Daneeka cried shrilly with a surging, petrifying sensation ofsome onrushing unavoidable disaster.

　　“It’s true, sir,” said one of the enlisted men. “The records show that you went up in McWatt’s plane to collectsome flight time. You didn’t come down in a parachute, so you must have been killed in the crash.”

　　“That’s right, sir,” said the other. “You ought to be glad you’ve got any temperature at all.”

　　Doc Daneeka’s mind was reeling in confusion. “Have you both gone crazy?” he demanded. “I’m going to reportthis whole insubordinate incident to Sergeant Towser.”

　　“Sergeant Towser’s the one who told us about it,” said either Gus or Wes. “The War Department’s even going tonotify your wife.”

　　Doc Daneeka yelped and ran out of the medical tent to remonstrate with Sergeant Towser, who edged away fromhim with repugnance and advised Doc Daneeka to remain out of sight as much as possible until some decisioncould be reached relating to the disposition of his remains.

　　“Gee, I guess he really is dead,” grieved one of his enlisted men in a low, respectful voice. “I’m going to misshim. He was a pretty wonderful guy, wasn’t he?”

　　“Yeah, he sure was,” mourned the other. “But I’m glad the little fuck is gone. I was getting sick and tired oftaking his blood pressure all the time.”

　　Mrs. Daneeka, Doc Daneeka’s wife, was not glad that Doc Daneeka was gone and split the peaceful StatenIsland night with woeful shrieks of lamentation when she learned by War Department telegram that her husbandhad been killed in action. Women came to comfort her, and their husbands paid condolence calls and hopedinwardly that she would soon move to another neighborhood and spare them the obligation of continuoussympathy. The poor woman was totally distraught for almost a full week. Slowly, heroically, she found thestrength to contemplate a future filled with dire problems for herself and her children. Just as she was growingresigned to her loss, the postman rang with a bolt from the blue—a letter from overseas that was signed with herhusband’s signature and urged her frantically to disregard any bad news concerning him. Mrs. Daneeka wasdumbfounded. The date on the letter was illegible. The handwriting throughout was shaky and hurried, but thestyle resembled her husband’s and the melancholy, self-pitying tone was familiar, although more dreary thanusual. Mrs. Daneeka was overjoyed and wept irrepressibly with relief and kissed the crinkled, grubby tissue ofV-mail stationery a thousand times. She dashed a grateful note off to her husband pressing him for deta............