It was actually all Sergeant Knight’s fault that Yossarian busted Nately in the nose on Thanksgiving Day, aftereveryone in the squadron had given humble thanks to Milo for providing the fantastically opulent meal on whichthe officers and enlisted men had gorged themselves insatiably all afternoon and for dispensing like inexhaustiblelargess the unopened bottles of cheap whiskey he handed out unsparingly to every man who asked. Even beforedark, young soldiers with pasty white faces were throwing up everywhere and passing out drunkenly on theground. The air turned foul. Other men picked up steam as the hours passed, and the aimless, riotous celebrationcontinued. It was a raw, violent, guzzling saturnalia that spilled obstreperously through the woods to the officers’
club and spread up into the hills toward the hospital and the antiaircraft-gun emplacements. There were fist fightsin the squadron and one stabbing. Corporal Kolodny shot himself through the leg in the intelligence tent whileplaying with a loaded gun and had his gums and toes painted purple in the speeding ambulance as he lay on hisback with the blood spurting from his wound. Men with cut fingers, bleeding heads, stomach cramps and brokenankles came limping penitently up to the medical tent to have their gums and toes painted purple by Gus andWes and be given a laxative to throw into the bushes. The joyous celebration lasted long into the night, and thestillness was fractured often by wild, exultant shouts and by the cries of people who were merry or sick. Therewas the recurring sound of retching and moaning, of laughter, greetings, threats and swearing, and of bottlesshattering against rock. There were dirty songs in the distance. It was worse than New Year’s Eve.
Yossarian went to bed early for safety and soon dreamed that he was fleeing almost headlong down an endlesswooden staircase, making a loud, staccato clatter with his heels. Then he woke up a little and realized someonewas shooting at him with a machine gun. A tortured, terrified sob rose in his throat. His first thought was thatMilo was attacking the squadron again, and he rolled of his cot to the floor and lay underneath in a trembling,praying ball, his heart thumping like a drop forge, his body bathed in a cold sweat. There was no noise of planes.
A drunken, happy laugh sounded from afar. “Happy New Year, Happy New Year!” a triumphant familiar voiceshouted hilariously from high above between the short, sharp bursts of machine gun fire, and Yossarianunderstood that some men had gone as a prank to one of the sandbagged machine-gun emplacements Milo hadinstalled in the hills after his raid on the squadron and staffed with his own men.
Yossarian blazed with hatred and wrath when he saw he was the victim of an irresponsible joke that haddestroyed his sleep and reduced him to a whimpering hulk. He wanted to kill, he wanted to murder. He wasangrier than he had ever been before, angrier even than when he had slid his hands around McWatt’s neck tostrangle him. The gun opened fire again. Voices cried “Happy New Year!” and gloating laughter rolled downfrom the hills through the darkness like a witch’s glee. In moccasins and coveralls, Yossarian charged out of histent for revenge with his .45, ramming a clip of cartridges up into the grip and slamming the bolt of the gun backto load it. He snapped off the safety catch and was ready to shoot. He heard Nately running after him to restrainhim, calling his name. The machine gun opened fire once more from a black rise above the motor pool, andorange tracer bullets skimmed like low-gliding dashes over the tops of the shadowy tents, almost clipping thepeaks. Roars of rough laughter rang out again between the short bursts. Yossarian felt resentment boil like acidinside him; they were endangering his life, the bastards! With blind, ferocious rage and determination, he racedacross the squadron past the motor pool, running as fast as he could, and was already pounding up into the hillsalong the narrow, winding path when Nately finally caught up, still calling “Yo-Yo! Yo-Yo!” with pleadingconcern and imploring him to stop. He grasped Yossarian’s shoulders and tried to hold him back. Yossariantwisted free, turning. Nately reached for him again, and Yossarian drove his fist squarely into Nately’s delicateyoung face as hard as he could, cursing him, then drew his arm back to hit him again, but Nately had dropped out of sight with a groan and lay curled up on the ground with his head buried in both hands and blood streamingbetween his fingers. Yossarian whirled and plunged ahead up the path without looking back.
Soon he saw the machine gun. Two figures leaped up in silhouette when they heard him and fled into the nightwith taunting laughter before he could get there. He was too late. Their footsteps receded, leaving the circle ofsandbags empty and silent in the crisp and windless moonlight. He looked about dejectedly. Jeering laughtercame to him again, from a distance. A twig snapped nearby. Yossarian dropped to his knees with a cold thrill ofelation and aimed. He heard a stealthy rustle of leaves on the other side of the sandbags and fired two quickrounds. Someone fired back at him once, and he recognized the shot.
“Dunbar? he called.
“Yossarian?”
The two men left their hiding places and walked forward to meet in the clearing with weary disappointment, theirguns down. They were both shivering slightly from the frosty air and wheezing from the labor of their uphillrush.
“The bastards,” said Yossarian. “They got away.”
“They took ten years off my life,” Dunbar exclaimed. “I thought that son of a bitch Milo was bombing us again.
I’ve never been so scared. I wish I knew who the bastards were.
“One was Sergeant Knight.”
“Let’s go kill him.” Dunbar’s teeth were chattering. “He had no right to scare us that way.”
Yossarian no longer wanted to kill anyone. “Let’s help Nately first. I think I hurt him at the bottom of the hill.”
But there was no sign of Nately along the path, even though Yossarian located the right spot by the blood on thestones. Nately was not in his tent either, and they did not catch up with him until the next morning when theychecked into the hospital as patients after learning he had checked in with a broken nose the night before. Natelybeamed in frightened surprise as they padded into the ward in their slippers and robes behind Nurse Cramer andwere assigned to their beds. Nately’s nose was in a bulky cast, and he had two black eyes. He kept blushinggiddily in shy embarrassment and saying he was sorry when Yossarian came over to apologize for hitting him.
Yossarian felt terrible; he could hardly bear to look at Nately’s battered countenance, even though the sight wasso comical he was tempted to guffaw. Dunbar was disgusted by their sentimentality, and all three were relievedwhen Hungry Joe came barging in unexpectedly with his intricate black camera and trumped-up symptoms ofappendicitis to be near enough to Yossarian to take pictures of him feeling up Nurse Duckett. Like Yossarian, hewas soon disappointed. Nurse Duckett had decided to marry a doctor—any doctor, because they all did so well inbusiness—and would not take chances in the vicinity of the man who might someday be her husband. HungryJoe was irate and inconsolable until—of all people—the chaplain was led in wearing a maroon corduroybathrobe, shining like a skinny lighthouse with a radiant grin of self-satisfaction too tremendous to be concealed.
The chaplain had entered the hospital with a pain in his heart that the doctors thought was gas in his stomach andwith an advanced case of Wisconsin shingles.
“What in the world are Wisconsin shingles?” asked Yossarian.
“That’s just what the doctors wanted to know!” blurted out the chaplain proudly, and burst into laughter. No onehad ever seen him so waggish, or so happy. “There’s no such thing as Wisconsin shingles. Don’t youunderstand? I lied. I made a deal with the doctors. I promised that I would let them know when my Wisconsinshingles went away if they would promise not to do anything to cure them. I never told a lie before. Isn’t itwonderful?”
The chaplain had sinned, and it was good. Common sense told him that telling lies and defecting from duty weresins. On the other hand, everyone knew that sin was evil, and that no good could come from evil. But he did feelgood; he felt positively marvelous. Consequently, it followed logically that telling lies and defecting from dutycould not be sins. The chaplain had mastered, in a moment of divine intuition, the handy technique of protectiverationalization, and he was exhilarated by his discovery. It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw,to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder intophilanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into ju............