The book shows us the consequences of living by the rules of others, be they friends, family, governments, systems, religions or philosophies. Heller suggests that rules left unchecked will make us treat important matters like trivial issues and trivial matters assume enormous importance. This book tells you that only way to survive in an insane system is to be insane oneself. It shows you the difference between traditional (violence) and modern motives (economic) for war, which seems to generate violence simply as another means to profit, quite independent of geographical or ideological constraints.
As usual, few quotes form the book:
As far back as Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile, somebody was always hatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared for him and people who didn’t, and those who didn’t hate him and were out to get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn’t touch him, he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn’t touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake and Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, and Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247. Chapter 2
Doc Daneeka snickered once and was soon immersed in problems of his own, which included Chief White Halfoat , who had been challenging him all that morning to Indian wrestle, and Yossarian, who decided right then and there to go crazy. ’ You’re wasting your time,’ Doc Daneeka was forced to tell him.
’Can’t you ground someone who’s crazy?’
’Oh, sure. I have to. There’s a rule saying I have to ground anyone who’s crazy.’
“Then why don’t you ground me? I’m crazy”. Ask Clevinger“.
’Clevinger ? Where is Clevinger? You find Clevinger and I’ll ask him.’
’Then ask any of the others. They’ll tell you how crazy I am.”
“They’re crazy.”
“Then why don’t you ground them?’
“Why don’t they ask me to ground them?”
’Because they’re crazy, that’s why.’
’Of course t hey’ r e crazy,’ Doc Daneeka replied. “I just told you they’re crazy, didn’t I? And you can’t let crazy people decide whether you’re crazy or not, can you?’
Yossar ian looked at him soberly and tried another approach. ’ Is Orr crazy?’
’He sure is,’ Doc Daneeka said.
’Can you ground him?’
’I sure can. But first he has to ask me to. That’s part of the rule.’
’Then why doesn’t he ask you to?’
’Because he’s crazy,’ Doc Daneeka said. ’He has to be crazy to keep flying combat missions after all the close calls he’s had. Sure, I can ground Orr . But first he has to ask me to.’
’ That’s all he has to do to be grounded?’
’ That’s all. Let him ask me.’
’ And then you can ground him?’ Yossarian asked.
“No. Then I can’t ground him.’
’ You mean there’s a catch?’
’ Sure there’s a catch,’ Doc Daneeka replied. ’Catch-22’. Anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t really crazy.’
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle."
"That's some catch, that catch-22," he observed.
"It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed. Chapter-5
"I'll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning."
Chapter 8
He was polite to his elders, who disliked him. Whatever his elders told him to do, he did. They told him to look before he leaped, and he always looked before he leaped. They told him never to put off until the next day what he could do the day before, and he never did. He was told to honor his father and his mother, and he honored his father and his mother. He was told that he should not kill, and he did not kill, until he got into the Army. Then he was told to kill, and he killed. He always turned the other cheek on every occasion and always did unto others exactly as he would have had others do unto him. When he gave to charity, his left hand never knew what his right hand was doing. He never took the name of the Lord his God in vain, committed adultery or coveted his neighbour's ass. In fact, he loved his neighbour and never even bore false witness against him. Major Major's elders disliked him because he was such a flagrant nonconformist. Chapter 9
Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Chapter 9
They couldn't dominate Death inside the hospital, but they certainly made her behave. They had taught her manners. They couldn't keep death out, but while she was in she had to act like a lady. People gave up the ghost with delicacy and taste inside the hospital. There was none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was so common outside the hospital. They did not blow up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in Yossarian's tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret to Yossarian in the back of the plane." Chapter 17
In the end, the doctor’s were all in accord. They agreed they had no idea what was wrong with the soldier who saw everything twice, and they rolled him away into a room in the corridor and quarantined everyone else in the ward for four teen days.Thanksgiving Day came and went without any fuss while Yossarian was still in the hospital. The only bad thing about it was the turkey for dinner, and even that was pretty good. It was the most rational Thanksgiving he had ever spent , and he took a sacred oath to spend every future Thanksgiving Day in the cloistered shelter of a hospital. He broke his sacred oath the very next year , when he spent the holiday in a hotel room instead in intellectual conversation with Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife, who had Dori Duz’ s dog tags on for the occasion and who henpecked Yossarian sententiously for being cynical and callous about Thanksgiving, even though she didn’t believe in God just as much as he didn’t .
’I ’m probably just as good an atheist as you are,’ she speculated boastfully. ’ But even I feel that we all have a great deal t o be thankful for and that we shouldn’t be ashamed to show it .’
’Name one thing I’ve got to be thankful for ,’Yossarian challenged her without interest .
’Well...’Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife mused and paused a moment to ponder dubiously.
’Me.’
’Oh, come on ,’he scoffed.
She arched her eyebrows in surprise.’ Aren’t you thankful for me?’ she asked. She see and want in my short lifetime and won’t be able to go to bed with even once.’
’Be thankful you’re healthy.’
’Be bitter you’re not going to stay that way.’
’Be glad you’re even alive.’
’Be furious you’re going to die.’
’Things could be much worse,’ she cried.
’ They could be one hell of a lot better,’ he answered heatedly.
’You’re naming only one thing,’ she protested.’ You said you could name two.’
’And don’t tell me God works in mysterious ways,’ Yossarian continued, hurtling on over her objection.’ There’s nothing so mysterious about it . He’s not working at all. He’s playing. Or else He’s forgotten all about us. That’s the kind of God you people talk about - a country bumpkin, a clumsy, bungling, brainless, conceited, uncouth hayseed. Good God, how much reverence can you have for a Supreme Being who finds it necessary to include such phenomena as phlegm and tooth decay in His divine system of creation? What in the world was running through that warped, evil, scatological mind of His when He robbed old people of the power to control their bowel movements? Why in the world did He ever create pain?’
’Pain?’ Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife pounced upon the word victoriously.’ Pain is a useful symptom. Pain is a warning to us of bodily dangers.’
’And who created the dangers?’ Yossarian demanded. He laughed caustically. ’Oh, He was really being charitable to us when He gave us pain! Why couldn’t He have used a door bell instead to notify us, or one of His celestial choir s? Or a system of blue-and-red neon tubes right in the middle of each person’s forehead. Any jukebox manufacturer worth his salt could have done that. Why couldn’t He?’
’People would certainly look silly walking around wit h red neon tubes in t he middle of their foreheads.’
’They certainly look beautiful now writhing in agony or stupefied with morphine, don’t they? What a colossal, immortal blunderer! When you consider the opportunity and power He had to really do a job, and then look at the stupid, ugly little mess He made of it instead, His sheer incompetence is almost staggering. It’s obvious He never met a payroll. Why, no self-respecting businessman would hire a bungler like Him as even a shipping clerk!’
Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife had turned ashen in disbelief and was ogling him with alarm.’ You’d better not talk that way about Him, honey,’ she warned him reprovingly in a low and hostile voice. ’He might punish you.’
’ Isn’t He punishing me enough?’ Yossarian snorted resentfully. ’ You know, we mustn’t let Him get away with it. Oh, no, we certainly mustn’t let Him get away scot-free for all the sorrow He’s caused us. Someday I’m going to make Him pay. I know when. On the Judgment Day. Yes, That’s t he day I’ll be close enough to reach out and grab that little yokel by His neck and -’
’ Stop it! Stop it!’ Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife screamed suddenly, and began beating him ineffectually about the head with both fists.’ Stop it !’ Yossarian ducked behind his arm for protection while she slammed away at him in feminine fury for a few seconds, and then he caught her determinedly by the wrists and forced her gently back down on the bed.
’What the hell are you getting so upset about?’ he asked her bewilderedly in a tone of contrite amusement. ’ I thought you didn’t believe in God.’
’ I don’t,’ she sobbed, bursting violently into tears.’
But the God I don’t believe in is a good God, a just God, and a merciful God. He’s not t he mean and stupid God you make Him out to be.’
Yossarian laughed and turned her arms loose. ’Let’s have a little more religious freedom between us,’ he proposed obligingly.
’You don’t believe in the God you want to, and I won’t believe in the God I want to. Is that a deal?’
That was the most illogical Thanksgiving he could ever remember spending, Chapter-18
He was still in good health when the quarantine period was over, and they told him again that he had to get out and go to war . Yossarian sat up in bed when he heard the bad news and shouted.
“I see everything twice!”.
Pandemonium broke loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions and ringed him in a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the humid breath from their various noses blowing uncomfortably upon the different sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beams of light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks, drew blood from his veins, held anything handy up for him to see on the periphery of his vision. The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicit ous gent leman who held one finger up directly in front of Yossarian and demanded,
’How many finger s do you see?’
’Two,’ said Yossarian.
’How many fingers do you see now?’ asked the doctor , holding up two.
’ Two,’ said Yossarian.
’ And how many now?’ asked the doctor, holding up none.
’ Two,’ said Yossarian.
The doctor’s face wreathed with a smile. ’ By Jove, he’s right,’ he declared jubilantly.
’He does see everything twice.’
They rolled Yossarian away on a stretcher into the room with the other soldier who saw everything twice and quarantined everyone else in t he war d f or another fourteen days.
’ I see everything twice!’ the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled Yossarian in.
’ I see everything twice!’ Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink.
’ The walls! The walls!’ the other soldier cried. ’Move back the walls!’
’ The walls! The walls!’ Yossarian cried. ’Move back the walls!’
One of the doctors pretended to shove the wall back. ’ Is that far enough?’
The soldier who saw everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded weakly too, eying his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He knew he was in the presence of a master. His talented roommate was obviously a per son to be studied and emulated. During the night, his talented roommate died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough.
’ I see everything once!’ he cried quickly.
A new group of specialists came pounding up to his bedside with their instruments to find out if it was true.
’How many fingers do you see?’ asked the leader, holding up one.
’One’
The doctor held up two fingers. ’How many fingers do you see now?’
’One’
The doctor held up ten fingers. ’And how many now?’
’One’
The doctor turned to the other doctors with amazement. ’He does see everything once!’
He exclaimed. ’We made him all better.’ Chapter-18
'What is a country? A country is a piece of land surrounded on all sides by boundaries, usually unnatural. Englishmen are dying for England, Americans are dying for America, Germans are dying for Germany, Russians are dying for Russia. There are now fifty or sixty countries fighting in this war. Surely so many countries can't all be worth dying for.' Chapter 23
That's the way things go when you elevate mediocre people to positions of authority. Chapter 29
"Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. And Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father, or brother was killed, wounded, or reported missing in action." Chapter 31
Morale was deteriorating and it was all Yossarian's fault. The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them. Chapter 39
For a few precarious seconds, the chaplain tingled with a weird, occult sensation of having experienced the identical situation before in some prior time or existence. He endeavored to tap and nourish the impression in order to predict , and per haps even control, what incident would occur next , but the afatus melted away unproductively, as he had known beforehand it would. Deja-vu. The subtle, recurring confusion between illusion and reality that was characteristic of par-amnesia ascinated the chaplain, and he knew a number of things about it. He knew, for example, that it was called par-amnesia, and he was arrested as well in such corollary optical phenomena as jamais-vu, never seen, and Presque-vu, almost seen. There were terrifying, sudden moments when objects, concepts and even people that the chaplain had lived with almost all his life inexplicably took on an unfamiliar and irregular aspect that he had never seen before and which made them totally strange: j amais-vu. And there were other moments when he almost saw absolute truth in brilliant flashes of clarity that almost came to him: Presque-vu. The episode of the naked man in the tree at Snowden's funeral mystified him thoroughly. It was not deja-vu, for at the time he had experienced no sensation of ever having seen a naked man in a tree at Snowden's funeral before. It was not jamais-vu, since t he apparition was not of someone, or something, familiar appearing to him in an unfamiliar guise. And it was certainly not presque-vu, for the chaplain did see him.
Chapter 20
There were four of them, and they were having a whale of a good time as they helped each other set up their cots. They were horsing around. The moment he saw them, Yossarian knew they were impossible. They were frisky, eager and exuberant, and they had all been friends in the States. They were plainly unthinkable. They were noisy, over confident, empty-headed kids of twenty-one. They had gone to college and were engaged to pretty, clean girls whose pictures were already standing on the rough cement mantelpiece of Orr’s fireplace. They had ridden in speedboats and played tennis. They had been horseback riding. One had once been to bed with an older woman. They knew the same people in different parts of the country and had gone to school with each other’s cousins. They had listened to the World Series and really cared who won foot ball games. They were obtuse; their morale was good. They were glad that the war had lasted long enough for them to find out what combat was really like.
Chapter 32
The middle-aged big shot s would not let Nately’s whore leave until they made her say uncle.
’ Say uncle,’ they said t o her.
’Uncle,’ she said.
’No, no. Say uncle.’
’Uncle,’ she said.
’ She still doesn’t understand.’
’ You still don’t under stand, do you? We can’t really make you say uncle unless you don’t want to say uncle. Don’t you see? Don’t say uncle when I tell you to say uncle. Okay? Say uncle.’
’Uncle,’ she said.
’No, don’t say uncle. Say uncle.’
She didn’t say uncle.
’ That’s good!’
’ That’s very good.’
’ It’s a start. Now say uncle.’
’Uncle,’ she said.
’ It’s no good.’
’No, it’s no good that way either. She just isn’t impressed with us. There’s just no fun making her say uncle when she doesn’t care whet her we make her say uncle or not .’ ’No, she really doesn’t care, does she? Say "foot." ’
’Foot’
’You see? She doesn’t care about anything we do. She doesn’t care about us. We don’t mean a thing to you, do we?’
’Uncle,’ she said.
She didn’t care about them a bit, and it upset them terribly. They shook her roughly each time she yawned. She did not seem to care about anything, not even when they threatened to throw her out the window. They were utterly demoralized men of distinction. She was bored and indifferent and wanted very much to sleep. She had been on the job for twenty-two hours, and she was sorry that these men had not permitted
Her to leave with the other two girls with whom the orgy had begun. She wondered vaguely why they wanted her to laugh when they laughed, and why they wanted her to enjoy it when they made love to her. It was all very mysterious to her, and very uninteresting. She was not sure what they wanted from her. Each time she slumped over with her eyes closed they shook her awake and made her say’ uncle’ again. Each time she said ’uncle,’ they were disappointed. She wondered what’ uncle’ meant. She sat on t he sofa in a passive, phlegmatic stupor, her mouth open and all her clothing crumpled in a corner on t he floor , and wondered how much longer they would sit around naked with her and make her say uncle in the elegant hotel suite. Chapter 33
Yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in the hall the stout woman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way back in. There was no sign of Milo out side. There were no lights in any of the windows. The deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several blocks. He could see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long cobble stone incline. The police station was almost at the bottom; the yellow bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. A frigid, fine rain was falling. He began walking slowly, pushing uphill. Soon he came to a quiet , cozy, inviting restaurant with red velvet drapes in the windows and a blue neon sign near the door that said:
TONY’S RESTAURANT FINE FOOD AND DRINK.KEEP OUT.
The words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an instant. Nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted surroundings. The tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic perspective, and the street seemed tilted. He raised the collar of his warm woolen coat and hugged it around him.
The night was raw. A boy in a thin shirt and thin tattered trousers walked out of the darkness on bare feet. The boy had black hair and needed a hair cut and shoes and socks. His sickly face was pale and sad. His feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the wet pavement as he passed, and Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly face with his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in Italy that same night who needed hair cuts and needed shoes and socks. He made Yossarian think of cripples and of cold and hungry men and women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers wit h catatonic eyes nursing infants out doors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly to that same raw rain. Cows. Almost on cue, a single mother padded past holding an infant in black rags, and Yossarian wanted to smash her too, because she reminded him of the bare foot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers and of all the shivering, stupefying misery in a world t hat never yet had provided enough heat and food and justice for all but an ingenious and unscrupulous handful. What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were destitute that same night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands were drunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused or abandoned. How many families hungered for food they could afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides would take place that same night, how many people would go insane? How many cockroaches and landlords would triumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures, and rich men poor men? How many wise guys were stupid? How many happy endings were unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave men cowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt , how many people in positions of trust had sold their souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never had souls? How many straight-and-narrow paths were crooked paths? How many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people? When you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children and per haps with Albert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere.
Yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged, and could not wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly cheeks until he turned the corner into the avenue finally and came upon an Allied soldier having convulsions on the ground, a young lieutenant with a small, pale, boyish face. Six other soldiers from different countries wrestled with different parts of him, striving to help him and hold him still. He yelped and groaned unintelligibly through clenched teeth, his eyes rolled up into his head. ’Don’t let him bite his tongue off,’ a short sergeant near Yossarian advised shrewdly, and a seventh man threw himself into the fray to wrestle with the ill lieutenant’s f ace. All at once the wrestlers won and turned to each other un-decidedly, for now that they held the young lieutenant rigid they did not know what to do wit h him. A quiver of moronic panic spread from one straining brute face to another. ’Why don’t you lift him up and put him on the hood of that car?’ a corporal standing in back of Yossarian drawled. That seemed to make sense, so the seven men lifted the young lieutenant up and stretched him out carefully on the hood of a parked car, still pinning each struggling part of him down. Once they had him stretched out on the hood of the parked car, they stared at each other uneasily again, for they had no idea what to do with him next. ’Why don’t you lift him up off the hood of that car and lay him down on the ground?’ drawled the same corporal behind Yossarian. That seemed like a good idea, too, and they began to move him back to the sidewalk, but before they could finish, a jeep raced up with a flashing red spot light at the side and two military policemen in the front seat. ’What‘s going on?’ the driver yelled. ’He’s having convulsions,’ one of the men grappling with one of the young lieutenant’s limbs answered. ’We’re holding him still”.’ That’s good. He’s under arrest.’ ’What should we do with him?’ ’ Keep him under arrest!’ the M.P. shouted, doubling over with raucous laughter at his jest, and sped away in his jeep.
Yossarian recalled that he had no leave papers and moved prudently past the strange group toward the sound of muffled voices emanating from a distance inside the murky darkness ahead. The broad, rain-blotched boulevard was illuminated every half -block by short, curling lampposts with eerie, shimmering glares surrounded by smoky brown mist. From a window over head he heard an unhappy female voice pleading, ’Please don’t. Please don’t.’ A despondent young woman in a black raincoat wit h much black hair on her face passed with her eyes lowered. At the Ministry of Public Affairs on the next block, a drunken lady was backed up against one of the fluted Corinthian columns by a drunken young soldier , while three drunken comrades in arms sat watching near by on the steps with wine bottles standing between their legs. ’Pleeshe don’t ,’ begged the drunken lady. ’ I want to go home now. Pleeshe don’t.’ One of the sitting men cursed pugnaciously and hurled a wine bottle at Yossarian when he turned to look up. The bottle shattered harmlessly far away with a brief and muted noise. Yossarian continued walking away at the same list less, unhurried pace, hands buried in his pockets. ’Come on, baby,’ he heard the drunken soldier urge determinedly. ’ It’s my turn now.’ ’ Pleeshe don’t ,’ begged the drunken lady. ’ Pleeshe don’t.’
At the very next corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding side street, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow. The measured, labored, evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb to cross the ominous alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left behind. Now he knew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he would come to the dry fountain in the middle of the boulevard, then to the officers’ apartment seven blocks beyond. He heard snarling, inhuman voices cutting through the ghostly blackness in front suddenly. The bulb on the corner lamp post had died, spilling gloom over half the street, throwing everything visible off balance. On the other side of the inter section, a man was beating a dog with a stick like the man who was beating the horse with a whip in Raskolnikov’s dream. Yossarian strained helplessly not to see or hear. The dog whimpered and squealed in brute, dumbfounded hysteria at the end of an old Manila rope and groveled and crawled on it s belly without resisting, but the man beat it and beat it anyway with his heavy, flat stick. A small crowd watched. A squat woman stepped out and asked him please to stop. ’Mind your own business,’ the man barked gruffly, lifting his stick as though he might be at her too, and the woman retreated sheepishly with an abject and humiliated air . Yossarian quickened his pace to get away, almost ran.
The night was filled with horrors, and he though the knew how Christ must have felt as he walked through the world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim through a prison full of thieves. What a welcome sight a leper must have been! At the next corner a man was beating a small boy brutally in the midst of an immobile crowd of adult spectators who made no effort to intervene. Yossarian recoiled with sickening recognition. He was certain he had witnessed that same horrible scene sometime before. Deja-vu? The sinister coincidence shook him and filled him with doubt and dread. It was the same scene he had witnessed a block before, although everything in it seemed quite different. What in the world was happening? Would a squat woman step out and ask the man to please stop? Would he raise his hand to strike her and would she retreat? Nobody moved. The child cried steadily as though in drugged misery. The man kept knocking him down with hard, resounding open-palm blows to the head, and then jerking him up to his feet in order to knock him down again. No one in the sullen, cowering crowd seemed to care enough about the stunned and beaten boy to interfere. The child was no more than nine. One drab woman was weeping silently into a dirty dish towel. The boy was emaciated and needed a hair cut. Bright -red blood was streaming from both ears. Yossarian crossed quickly to the other side of the immense avenue to escape the nauseating sight and found himself walking on human teeth lying on the drenched, glistening pavement near splotches of blood kept sticky by the pelting rain drops poking each one like sharp finger nails.
Molars and broken incisor slay scattered every where. He circled on tiptoe the grotesque debris and came near a doorway containing a crying soldier holding a saturated handkerchief to his mouth, supported as he sagged by two other soldiers waiting in grave impatience for the military ambulance that finally came clanging up with amber fog lights on and passed them by for an altercation on the next block between a civilian Italian with books and a slew of civilian policemen with arm locks and clubs. The screaming, struggling civilian was a dark man with a face white as flour from fear. His eyes were pulsating in hectic desperation, flapping like bat's wings, as the many t all policemen seized him by the arms and legs and lifted him up. His books were spilled on the ground. 'Help!' he shrieked shrilly in a voice strangling in its own emotion, as the policemen carried him to the open doors in the rear of the ambulance and threw him inside. ’ Police! Help! Police!’ The doors were shut and bolted, and the ambulance r aced away. There was a humor less irony in the ludicrous panic of the man screaming for help to the police while policemen were all around him. Yossarian smiled wryly at the futile and ridiculous cry for aid, then saw with a start that the words were ambiguous, realized with alarm t hat they were not , per haps, intended as a call for police but as a heroic warning from the grave by a doomed friend to everyone who was not a policeman with a club and a gun and a mob of other policemen with clubs and guns to back him up. ’Help! Police!’ the man had cried, and he could have been shouting of danger. Yossarian responded to the thought by slipping away stealthily from the police and almost tripped over the feet of a burly woman of forty hastening across the intersection guiltily, darting furtive, vindictive glances behind her to ward a woman of eighty with thick, bandaged ankles doddering after her in a losing pursuit. Chapter 39
To Yossarian, the idea of pennants as prizes was absurd. No money went with them, no class privileges. Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they signified was that the owner had done something of no benefit to anyone more capably than everyone else.
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