Catch-22(45)

“Yes, sir,” answered Yossarian.

They smacked the gravel from their clothing and walked in constrained silence to the entrance of the orderly room.

“Give me a minute or two to put some Mercurochrome on these cuts. Then have Sergeant Towser send you in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Major strode with dignity to the rear of the orderly room without glancing at any of the clerks and typists working at the desks and filing cabinets. He let the flap leading to his office fall closed behind him. As soon as he was alone in his office, he raced across the room to the window and jumped outside to dash away. He found Yossarian blocking his path. Yossarian was waiting at attention and saluted again.

“Captain Yossarian requests permission to speak to the major at once about a matter of life or death,” he repeated determinedly.

“Permission denied,” Major Major snapped.

“That won’t do it.”

Major Major gave in. “All right,” he conceded wearily. “I’ll talk to you. Please jump inside my office.”

“After you.”

They jumped inside the office. Major Major sat down, and Yossarian moved around in front of his desk and told him that he did not want to fly any more combat missions. What could he do? Major Major asked himself. All he could do was what he had been instructed to do by Colonel Korn and hope for the best.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I’m afraid.”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Major Major counseled him kindly. “We’re all afraid.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Yossarian said. “I’m just afraid.”

“You wouldn’t be normal if you were never afraid. Even the bravest men experience fear. One of the biggest jobs we all face in combat is to overcome our fear.”

“Oh, come on, Major. Can’t we do without that horseshit?”

Major Major lowered his gaze sheepishly and fiddled with his fingers. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“That I’ve flown enough missions and can go home.”

“How many have you flown?”

“Fifty-one.”

“You’ve only got four more to fly.”

“He’ll raise them. Every time I get close he raises them.”

“Perhaps he won’t this time.”

“He never sends anyone home, anyway. He just keeps them around waiting for rotation orders until he doesn’t have enough men left for the crews, and then raises the number of missions and throws them all back on combat status. He’s been doing that ever since he got here.”

“You mustn’t blame Colonel Cathcart for any delay with the orders,” Major Major advised. “It’s Twenty-seventh Air Force’s responsibility to process the orders promptly once they get them from us.”

“He could still ask for replacements and send us home when the orders did come back. Anyway, I’ve been told that Twenty-seventh Air Force wants only forty missions and that it’s only his own idea to get us to fly fifty-five.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Major Major answered. “Colonel Cathcart is our commanding officer and we must obey him. Why don’t you fly the four more missions and see what happens?”

“I don’t want to.”

What could you do? Major Major asked himself again. What could you do with a man who looked you squarely in the eye and said he would rather die than be killed in combat, a man who was at least as mature and intelligent as you were and who you had to pretend was not? What could you say to him?

“Suppose we let you pick your missions and fly milk runs,” Major Major said. “That way you can fly the four missions and not run any risks.”

“I don’t want to fly milk runs. I don’t want to be in the war any more.”

“Would you like to see our country lose?” Major Major asked.

“We won’t lose. We’ve got more men, more money and more material. There are ten million men in uniform who could replace me. Some people are getting killed and a lot more are making money and having fun. Let somebody else get killed.”

“But suppose everybody on our side felt that way.”

“Then I’d certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way. Wouldn’t I?”

What could you possibly say to him? Major Major wondered forlornly. One thing he could not say was that there was nothing he could do. To say there was nothing he could do would suggest he would do something if he could and imply the existence of an error or injustice in Colonel Korn’s policy. Colonel Korn had been most explicit about that. He must never say there was nothing he could do.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But there’s nothing I can do.”