Catch-22(48)
Yossarian, on the other hand, knew exactly who Mudd was. Mudd was the unknown soldier who had never had a chance, for that was the only thing anyone ever did know about all the unknown soldiers—they never had a chance. They had to be dead. And this dead one was really unknown, even though his belongings still lay in a tumble on the cot in Yossarian’s tent almost exactly as he had left them three months earlier the day he never arrived—all contaminated with death less than two hours later, in the same way that all was contaminated with death the very next week during the Great Big Siege of Bologna when the moldy odor of mortality hung wet in the air with the sulphurous fog and every man scheduled to fly was already tainted.
There was no escaping the mission to Bologna once Colonel Cathcart had volunteered his group for the ammunition dumps there that the heavy bombers on the Italian mainland had been unable to destroy from their higher altitudes. Each day’s delay deepened the awareness and deepened the gloom. The clinging, overpowering conviction of death spread steadily with the continuing rainfall, soaking mordantly into each man’s ailing countenance like the corrosive blot of some crawling disease. Everyone smelled of formaldehyde. There was nowhere to turn for help, not even to the medical tent, which had been ordered closed by Colonel Korn so that no one could report for sick call, as the men had done on the one clear day with a mysterious epidemic of diarrhea that had forced still another postponement. With sick call suspended and the door to the medical tent nailed shut, Doc Daneeka spent the intervals between rain perched on a high stool, wordlessly absorbing the bleak outbreak of fear with a sorrowing neutrality, roosting like a melancholy buzzard below the ominous, hand-lettered sign tacked up on the closed door of the medical tent by Captain Black as a joke and left hanging there by Doc Daneeka because it was no joke. The sign was bordered in dark crayon and read: “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. DEATH IN THE FAMILY.”
The fear flowed everywhere, into Dunbar’s squadron, where Dunbar poked his head inquiringly through the entrance of the medical tent there one twilight and spoke respectfully to the blurred outline of Dr. Stubbs, who was sitting in the dense shadows inside before a bottle of whiskey and a bell jar filled with purified drinking water.
“Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.
“Terrible,” Dr. Stubbs answered.
“What are you doing here?”
“Sitting.”
“I thought there was no more sick call.”
“There ain’t.”
“Then why are you sitting here?”
“Where else should I sit? At the goddam officers’ club with Colonel Cathcart and Korn? Do you know what I’m doing here?”
“Sitting.”
“In the squadron, I mean. Not in the tent. Don’t be such a goddam wise guy. Can you figure out what a doctor is doing here in the squadron?”
“They’ve got the doors to the medical tents nailed shut in the other squadrons,” Dunbar remarked.
“If anyone sick walks through my door I’m going to ground him,” Dr. Stubbs vowed. “I don’t give a damn what they say.”
“You can’t ground anyone,” Dunbar reminded. “Don’t you know the orders?”
“I’ll knock him flat on his ass with an injection and really ground him.” Dr. Stubbs laughed with sardonic amusement at the prospect. “They think they can order sick call out of existence. The bastards. Ooops, there it goes again.” The rain began falling again, first in the trees, then in the mud puddles, then, faintly, like a soothing murmur, on the tent top. “Everything’s wet,” Dr. Stubbs observed with revulsion. “Even the latrines and urinals are backing up in protest. The whole goddam world smells like a charnel house.”
The silence seemed bottomless when he stopped talking. Night fell. There was a sense of vast isolation.
“Turn on the light,” Dunbar suggested.
“There is no light. I don’t feel like starting my generator. I used to get a big kick out of saving people’s lives. Now I wonder what the hell’s the point, since they all have to die anyway.”
“Oh, there’s a point, all right,” Dunbar assured him.
“Is there? What is the point?”
“The point is to keep them from dying for as long as you can.”
“Yeah, but what’s the point, since they all have to die anyway?”
“The trick is not to think about that.”
“Never mind the trick. What the hell’s the point?”
Dunbar pondered in silence for a few moments. “Who the hell knows?”
Dunbar didn’t know. Bologna should have exulted Dunbar, because the minutes dawdled and the hours dragged like centuries. Instead it tortured him, because he knew he was going to be killed.