Catch-22 (43 page)

   ‘Because Scheisskopf has experience with parades, and you
haven’t. You can call off U.S.O. shows if you want to. In fact why don’t you?
Just think of all the places that won’t be getting a U.S.O. show on any given
day. Think of all the places each big-name entertainer won’t be visiting. Yes,
Cargill, I think you’ve hit on something. I think you’ve just thrown open a
whole new area of operation for us. Tell Colonel Scheisskopf I want him to work
along under your supervision on this. And send him in to see me when you’re
through giving him instructions.’

   ‘Colonel Cargill says you told him you want me to work along
under his supervision on the U.S.O. project,’ Colonel Scheisskopf complained.

   ‘I told him no such thing,’ answered General Peckem.
‘Confidentially, Scheisskopf, I’m not too happy with Colonel Cargill. He’s
bossy and he’s slow. I’d like you to keep a close eye on what he’s doing and
see if you can’t get a little more work out of him.’

   ‘He keeps butting in,’ Colonel Cargill protested. ‘He won’t
let me get any work done.’

   ‘There’s something very funny about Scheisskopf,’ General
Peckem agreed reflectively. ‘Keep a very close eye on him and see if you can’t
find out what he’s up to.’

   ‘Now he’s butting into my business!’ Colonel Scheisskopf
cried.

   ‘Don’t let it worry you, Scheisskopf,’ said General Peckem,
congratulating himself on how adeptly he had fit Colonel Scheisskopf into his
standard method of operation. Already his two colonels were barely on speaking
terms. ‘Colonel Cargill envies you because of the splendid job you’re doing on
parades. He’s afraid I’m going to put you in charge of bomb patterns.’ Colonel
Scheisskopf was all ears. ‘What are bomb patterns?’

   ‘Bomb patterns?’ General Peckem repeated, twinkling with
self-satisfied good humor. ‘A bomb pattern is a term I dreamed up just several
weeks ago. It means nothing, but you’d be surprised at how rapidly it’s caught
on. Why, I’ve got all sorts of people convinced I think it’s important for the
bombs to explode close together and make a neat aerial photograph. There’s one
colonel in Pianosa who’s hardly concerned any more with whether he hits the
target or not. Let’s fly over and have some fun with him today. It will make
Colonel Cargill jealous, and I learned from Wintergreen this morning that
General Dreedle will be off in Sardinia. It drives General Dreedle insane to
find out I’ve been inspecting one of his installations while he’s been off
inspecting another. We may even get there in time for the briefing. They’ll be
bombing a tiny undefended village, reducing the whole community to rubble. I
have it from Wintergreen—Wintergreen’s an ex-sergeant now, by the way—that the
mission is entirely unnecessary. Its only purpose is to delay German
reinforcements at a time when we aren’t even planning an offensive. But that’s
the way things go when you elevate mediocre people to positions of authority.’
He gestured languidly toward his gigantic map of Italy. ‘Why, this tiny
mountain village is so insignificant that it isn’t even there.’ They arrived at
Colonel Cathcart’s group too late to attend the preliminary briefing and hear
Major Danby insist, ‘But it is there, I tell you. It’s there, it’s there.’

   ‘It’s where?’ Dunbar demanded defiantly, pretending not to
see.

   ‘It’s right there on the map where this road makes this
slight turn. Can’t you see this slight turn on your map?’

   ‘No, I can’t see it.’

   ‘I can see it,’ volunteered Havermeyer, and marked the spot
on Dunbar’s map. ‘And here’s a good picture of the village right on these
photographs. I understand the whole thing. The purpose of the mission is to
knock the whole village sliding down the side of the mountain and create a
roadblock that the Germans will have to clear. Is that right?’

   ‘That’s right,’ said Major Danby, mopping his perspiring
forehead with his handkerchief. ‘I’m glad somebody here is beginning to
understand. These two armored divisions will be coming down from Austria into
Italy along this road. The village is built on such a steep incline that all
the rubble from the houses and other buildings you destroy will certainly
tumble right down and pile upon the road.’

   ‘What the hell difference will it make?’ Dunbar wanted to
know, as Yossarian watched him excitedly with a mixture of awe and adulation.
‘It will only take them a couple of days to clear it.’ Major Danby was trying
to avoid an argument. ‘Well, it apparently makes some difference to
Headquarters,’ he answered in a conciliatory tone. ‘I suppose that’s why they
ordered the mission.’

   ‘Have the people in the village been warned?’ asked McWatt.

   Major Danby was dismayed that McWatt too was registering
opposition. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

   ‘Haven’t we dropped any leaflets telling them that this time
we’ll be flying over to hit them?’ asked Yossarian. ‘Can’t we even tip them off
so they’ll get out of the way?’

   ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Major Danby was swearing some more
and still shifting his eyes about uneasily. ‘The Germans might find out and
choose another road. I’m not sure about any of this. I’m just making
assumptions.’

   ‘They won’t even take shelter,’ Dunbar argued bitterly.
‘They’ll pour out into the streets to wave when they see our planes coming, all
the children and dogs and old people. Jesus Christ! Why can’t we leave them
alone?’

   ‘Why can’t we create the roadblock somewhere else?’ asked McWatt.
‘Why must it be there?’

   ‘I don’t know,’ Major Danby answered unhappily. ‘I don’t
know. Look, fellows, we’ve got to have some confidence in the people above us
who issue our orders. They know what they’re doing.’

   ‘The hell they do,’ said Dunbar.

   ‘What’s the trouble?’ inquired Colonel Korn, moving leisurely
across the briefing room with his hands in his pockets and his tan shirt baggy.

   ‘Oh, no trouble, Colonel,’ said Major Danby, trying nervously
to cover up. ‘We’re just discussing the mission.’

   ‘They don’t want to bomb the village,’ Havermeyer snickered,
giving Major Danby away.

   ‘You prick!’ Yossarian said to Havermeyer.

   ‘You leave Havermeyer alone,’ Colonel Korn ordered Yossarian
curtly. He recognized Yossarian as the drunk who had accosted him roughly at
the officers’ club one night before the first mission to Bologna, and he swung
his displeasure prudently to Dunbar. ‘Why don’t you want to bomb the village?’

   ‘It’s cruel, that’s why.’

   ‘Cruel?’ asked Colonel Korn with cold good humor, frightened
only momentarily by the uninhibited vehemence of Dunbar’s hostility. ‘Would it
be any less cruel to let those two German divisions down to fight with our
troops? American lives are at stake, too, you know. Would you rather see American
blood spilled?’

   ‘American blood is being spilled. But those people are living
up there in peace. Why can’t we leave them the hell alone?’

   ‘Yes, it’s easy for you to talk,’ Colonel Korn jeered.
‘You’re safe here in Pianosa. It won’t make any difference to you when these
German reinforcements arrive, will it?’ Dunbar turned crimson with
embarrassment and replied in a voice that was suddenly defensive. ‘Why can’t we
create the roadblock somewhere else? Couldn’t we bomb the slope of a mountain
or the road itself?’

   ‘Would you rather go back to Bologna?’ The question, asked
quietly, rang out like a shot and created a silence in the room that was
awkward and menacing. Yossarian prayed intensely, with shame, that Dunbar would
keep his mouth shut. Dunbar dropped his gaze, and Colonel Korn knew he had won.
‘No, I thought not,’ he continued with undisguised scorn. ‘You know, Colonel
Cathcart and I have to go to a lot of trouble to get you a milk run like this.
If you’d sooner fly missions to Bologna, Spezia and Ferrara, we can get those
targets with no trouble at all.’ His eyes gleamed dangerously behind his
rimless glasses, and his muddy jowls were square and hard. ‘Just let me know.’

   ‘I would,’ responded Havermeyer eagerly with another boastful
snicker. ‘I like to fly into Bologna straight and level with my head in the
bombsight and listen to all that flak pumping away all around me. I get a big
kick out of the way the men come charging over to me after the mission and call
me dirty names. Even the enlisted men get sore enough to curse me and want to
take socks at me.’ Colonel Korn chucked Havermeyer under the chin jovially,
ignoring him, and then addressed himself to Dunbar and Yossarian in a dry
monotone. ‘You’ve got my sacred word for it. Nobody is more distressed about
those lousy wops up in the hills than Colonel Cathcart and myself. Mais c’est
la guerre. Try to remember that we didn’t start the war and Italy did. That we
weren’t the aggressors and Italy was. And that we couldn’t possibly inflict as
much cruelty on the Italians, Germans, Russians and Chinese as they’re already
inflicting on themselves.’ Colonel Korn gave Major Danby’s shoulder a friendly
squeeze without changing his unfriendly expression. ‘Carry on with the
briefing, Danby. And make sure they understand the importance of a tight bomb
pattern.’

   ‘Oh, no, Colonel,’ Major Danby blurted out, blinking upward.
‘Not for this target. I’ve told them to space their bombs sixty feet apart so
that we’ll have a roadblock the full length of the village instead of in just
one spot. It will be a much more effective roadblock with a loose bomb
pattern.’

   ‘We don’t care about the roadblock,’ Colonel Korn informed
him. ‘Colonel Cathcart wants to come out of this mission with a good clean
aerial photograph he won’t be ashamed to send through channels. Don’t forget
that General Peckem will be here for the full briefing, and you know how he
feels about bomb patterns. Incidentally, Major, you’d better hurry up with
these details and clear out before he gets here. General Peckem can’t stand
you.’

   ‘Oh, no, Colonel,’ Major Danby corrected obligingly. ‘It’s
General Dreedle who can’t stand me.’

   ‘General Peckem can’t stand you either. In fact, no one can
stand you. Finish what you’re doing, Danby, and disappear. I’ll conduct the
briefing.’

   ‘Where’s Major Danby?’ Colonel Cathcart inquired, after he
had driven up for the full briefing with General Peckem and Colonel
Scheisskopf.

   ‘He asked permission to leave as soon as he saw you driving
up,’ answered Colonel Korn. ‘He’s afraid General Peckem doesn’t like him. I was
going to conduct the briefing anyway. I do a much better job.’

   ‘Splendid!’ said Colonel Cathcart. ‘No!’ Colonel Cathcart
countermanded himself an instant later when he remembered how good a job
Colonel Korn had done before General Dreedle at the first Avignon briefing.
‘I’ll do it myself.’ Colonel Cathcart braced himself with the knowledge that he
was one of General Peckem’s favorites and took charge of the meeting, snapping
his words out crisply to the attentive audience of subordinate officers with
the bluff and dispassionate toughness he had picked up from General Dreedle. He
knew he cut a fine figure there on the platform with his open shirt collar, his
cigarette holder, and his close-cropped, gray-tipped curly black hair. He
breezed along beautifully, even emulating certain characteristic
mispronunciations of General Dreedle’s, and he was not the least bit
intimidated by General Peckem’s new colonel until he suddenly recalled that
General Peckem detested General Dreedle. Then his voice cracked, and all
confidence left him. He stumbled ahead through instinct in burning humiliation.
He was suddenly in terror of Colonel Scheisskopf. Another colonel in the area
meant another rival, another enemy, another person who hated him. And this one
was tough! A horrifying thought occurred to Colonel Cathcart: Suppose Colonel
Scheisskopf had already bribed all the men in the room to begin moaning, as
they had done at the first Avignon mission. How could he silence them? What a
terrible black eye that would be! Colonel Cathcart was seized with such fright
that he almost beckoned to Colonel Korn. Somehow he held himself together and
synchronized the watches. When he had done that, he knew he had won, for he could
end now at any time. He had come through in a crisis. He wanted to laugh in
Colonel Scheisskopf’s face with triumph and spite. He had proved himself
brilliantly under pressure, and he concluded the briefing with an inspiring
peroration that every instinct told him was a masterful exhibition of eloquent
tact and subtlety.

   ‘Now, men,’ he exhorted. ‘We have with us today a very
distinguished guest, General Peckem from Special Services, the man who gives us
all our softball bats, comic books and U.S.O. shows. I want to dedicate this
mission to him. Go on out there and bomb—for me, for your country, for God, and
for that great American, General P. P. Peckem. And let’s see you put all those
bombs on a dime!’

   Yossarian no longer gave a damn where his
bombs fell, although he did not go as far as Dunbar, who dropped his bombs
hundreds of yards past the village and would face a court-martial if it could
ever be shown he had done it deliberately. Without a word even to Yossarian,
Dunbar had washed his hands of the mission. The fall in the hospital had either
shown him the light or scrambled his brains; it was impossible to say which.

   Dunbar seldom laughed any more and seemed to be wasting away.
He snarled belligerently at superior officers, even at Major Danby, and was
crude and surly and profane even in front of the chaplain, who was afraid of
Dunbar now and seemed to be wasting away also. The chaplain’s pilgrimage to
Wintergreen had proved abortive; another shrine was empty. Wintergreen was too
busy to see the chaplain himself. A brash assistant brought the chaplain a
stolen Zippo cigarette lighter as a gift and informed him condescendingly that
Wintergreen was too deeply involved with wartime activities to concern himself
with matters so trivial as the number of missions men had to fly. The chaplain
worried about Dunbar and brooded more over Yossarian now that Orr was gone. To
the chaplain, who lived by himself in a spacious tent whose pointy top sealed
him in gloomy solitude each night like the cap of a tomb, it seemed incredible
that Yossarian really preferred living alone and wanted no roommates.

   As a lead bombardier again, Yossarian had McWatt for a pilot,
and that was one consolation, although he was still so utterly undefended.
There was no way to fight back. He could not even see McWatt and the co-pilot
from his post in the nose. All he could ever see was Aarfy, with whose fustian,
moon-faced ineptitude he had finally lost all patience, and there were minutes
of agonizing fury and frustration in the sky when he hungered to be demoted
again to a wing plane with a loaded machine gun in the compartment instead of
the precision bombsight that he really had no need for, a powerful, heavy
fifty-caliber machine gun he could seize vengefully in both hands and turn
loose savagely against all the demons tyrannizing him: at the smoky black puffs
of the flak itself; at the German antiaircraft gunners below whom he could not
even see and could not possibly harm with his machine gun even if he ever did
take the time to open fire, at Havermeyer and Appleby in the lead plane for
their fearless straight and level bomb run on the second mission to Bologna
where the flak from two hundred and twenty-four cannons had knocked out one of
Orr’s engines for the very last time and sent him down ditching into the sea
between Genoa and La Spezia just before the brief thunderstorm broke.

   Actually, there was not much he could do with that powerful
machine gun except load it and test-fire a few rounds. It was no more use to him
than the bombsight. He could really cut loose with it against attacking German
fighters, but there were no German fighters any more, and he could not even
swing it all the way around into the helpless faces of pilots like Huple and
Dobbs and order them back down carefully to the ground, as he had once ordered
Kid Sampson back down, which is exactly what he did want to do to Dobbs and
Huple on the hideous first mission to Avignon the moment he realized the
fantastic pickle he was in, the moment he found himself aloft in a wing plane
with Dobbs and Huple in a flight headed by Havermeyer and Appleby. Dobbs and
Huple? Huple and Dobbs? Who were they? What preposterous madness to float in
thin air two miles high on an inch or two of metal, sustained from death by the
meager skill and intelligence of two vapid strangers, a beardless kid named
Huple and a nervous nut like Dobbs, who really did go nuts right there in the
plane, running amuck over the target without leaving his copilot’s seat and
grabbing the controls from Huple to plunge them all down into that chilling
dive that tore Yossarian’s headset loose and brought them right back inside the
dense flak from which they had almost escaped. The next thing he knew, another
stranger, a radio-gunner named Snowden, was dying in back. It was impossible to
be positive that Dobbs had killed him, for when Yossarian plugged his headset
back in, Dobbs was already on the intercom pleading for someone to go up front
and help the bombardier. And almost immediately Snowden broke in, whimpering,
‘Help me. Please help me. I’m cold. I’m cold.’ And Yossarian crawled slowly out
of the nose and up on top of the bomb bay and wriggled back into the rear
section of the plane—passing the first-aid kit on the way that he had to return
for—to treat Snowden for the wrong wound, the yawning, raw, melon-shaped hole
as big as a football in the outside of his thigh, the unsevered, blood-soaked
muscle fibers inside pulsating weirdly like blind things with lives of their
own, the oval, naked wound that was almost a foot long and made Yossarian moan
in shock and sympathy the instant he spied it and nearly made him vomit. And
the small, slight tail-gunner was lying on the floor beside Snowden in a dead
faint, his face as white as a handkerchief, so that Yossarian sprang forward
with revulsion to help him first.

   Yes, in the long run, he was much safer flying with McWatt,
and he was not even safe with McWatt, who loved flying too much and went
buzzing boldly inches off the ground with Yossarian in the nose on the way back
from the training flight to break in the new bombardier in the whole
replacement crew Colonel Cathcart had obtained after Orr was lost. The practice
bomb range was on the other side of Pianosa, and, flying back, McWatt edged the
belly of the lazing, slow-cruising plane just over the crest of mountains in
the middle and then, instead of maintaining altitude, jolted both engines open
all the way, lurched up on one side and, to Yossarian’s astonishment, began
following the falling land down as fast as the plane would go, wagging his
wings gaily and skimming with a massive, grinding, hammering roar over each
rocky rise and dip of the rolling terrain like a dizzy gull over wild brown
waves. Yossarian was petrified. The new bombardier beside him sat demurely with
a bewitched grin and kept whistling ‘Whee!’ and Yossarian wanted to reach out
and crush his idiotic face with one hand as he flinched and flung himself away
from the boulders and hillocks and lashing branches of trees that loomed up
above him out in front and rushed past just underneath in a sinking, streaking
blur. No one had a right to take such frightful risks with his life.

   ‘Go up, go up, go up!’ he shouted frantically at McWatt,
hating him venomously, but McWatt was singing buoyantly over the intercom and
probably couldn’t hear. Yossarian, blazing with rage and almost sobbing for
revenge, hurled himself down into the crawlway and fought his way through
against the dragging weight of gravity and inertia until he arrived at the main
section and pulled himself up to the flight deck, to stand trembling behind
McWatt in the pilot’s seat. He looked desperately about for a gun, a
gray-black.45 automatic that he could cock and ram right up against the base of
McWatt’s skull. There was no gun. There was no hunting knife either, and no
other weapon with which he could bludgeon or stab, and Yossarian grasped and
jerked the collar of McWatt’s coveralls in tightening fists and shouted to him
to go up, go up. The land was still swimming by underneath and flashing by
overhead on both sides. McWatt looked back at Yossarian and laughed joyfully as
though Yossarian were sharing his fun. Yossarian slid both hands around
McWatt’s bare throat and squeezed. McWatt turned stiff: ‘Go up,’ Yossarian ordered
unmistakably through his teeth in a low, menacing voice. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’
Rigid with caution, McWatt cut the motors back and climbed gradually.
Yossarian’s hands weakened on McWatt’s neck and slid down off his shoulders to
dangle inertly. He was not angry any more. He was ashamed. When McWatt turned,
he was sorry the hands were his and wished there were someplace where he could
bury them. They felt dead.

   McWatt gazed at him deeply. There was no friendliness in his
stare. ‘Boy,’ he said coldly, ‘you sure must be in pretty bad shape. You ought
to go home.’

   ‘They won’t let me.’ Yossarian answered with averted eyes,
and crept away.

   Yossarian stepped down from the flight deck and seated
himself on the floor, hanging his head with guilt and remorse. He was covered
with sweat.

   McWatt set course directly back toward the field. Yossarian
wondered whether McWatt would now go to the operations tent to see Piltchard
and Wren and request that Yossarian never be assigned to his plane again, just
as Yossarian had gone surreptitiously to speak to them about Dobbs and Huple
and Orr and, unsuccessfully, about Aarfy. He had never seen McWatt look
displeased before, had never seen him in any but the most lighthearted mood,
and he wondered whether he had just lost another friend.

   But McWatt winked at him reassuringly as he climbed down from
the plane and joshed hospitably with the credulous new pilot and bombardier
during the jeep ride back to the squadron, although he did not address a word
to Yossarian until all four had returned their parachutes and separated and the
two of them were walking side by side toward their own row of tents. Then
McWatt’s sparsely freckled tan Scotch-Irish face broke suddenly into a smile
and he dug his knuckles playfully into Yossarian’s ribs, as though throwing a
punch.

   ‘You louse,’ he laughed. ‘Were you really going to kill me up
there?’ Yossarian grinned penitently and shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think
so.’

   ‘I didn’t realize you got it so bad. Boy! Why don’t you talk
to somebody about it?’

   ‘I talk to everybody about it. What the hell’s the matter
with you? Don’t you ever hear me?’

   ‘I guess I never really believed you.’

   ‘Aren’t you ever afraid?’

   ‘Maybe I ought to be.’

   ‘Not even on the missions?’

   ‘I guess I just don’t have brains enough.’ McWatt laughed
sheepishly.

   ‘There are so many ways for me to get killed,’ Yossarian
commented, ‘and you had to find one more.’ McWatt smiled again. ‘Say, I bet it
must really scare you when I buzz your tent, huh?’

   ‘It scares me to death. I’ve told you that.’

   ‘I thought it was just the noise you were complaining about.’
McWatt made a resigned shrug. ‘Oh, well, what the hell,’ he sang. ‘I guess I’ll
just have to give it up.’ But McWatt was incorrigible, and, while he never
buzzed Yossarian’s tent again, he never missed an opportunity to buzz the beach
and roar like a fierce and low-flying thunderbolt over the raft in the water
and the secluded hollow in the sand where Yossarian lay feeling up Nurse
Duckett or playing hearts, poker or pinochle with Nately, Dunbar and Hungry
Joe. Yossarian met Nurse Duckett almost every afternoon that both were free and
came with her to the beach on the other side of the narrow swell of
shoulder-high dunes separating them from the area in which the other officers
and enlisted men went swimming nude. Nately, Dunbar and Hungry Joe would come
there, too. McWatt would occasionally join them, and often Aarfy, who always
arrived pudgily in full uniform and never removed any of his clothing but his
shoes and his hat; Aarfy never went swimming. The other men wore swimming
trunks in deference to Nurse Duckett, and in deference also to Nurse Cramer,
who accompanied Nurse Duckett and Yossarian to the beach every time and sat
haughtily by herself ten yards away. No one but Aarfy ever made reference to
the naked men sun-bathing in full view farther down the beach or jumping and
diving from the enormous white-washed raft that bobbed on empty oil drums out
beyond the silt sand. Nurse Cramer sat by herself because she was angry with
Yossarian and disappointed in Nurse Duckett.

   Nurse Sue Ann Duckett despised Aarfy, and that was another
one of the numerous fetching traits about Nurse Duckett that Yossarian enjoyed.
He enjoyed Nurse Sue Ann Duckett’s long white legs and supple, callipygous ass;
he often neglected to remember that she was quite slim and fragile from the
waist up and hurt her unintentionally in moments of passion when he hugged her
too roughly. He loved her manner of sleepy acquiescence when they lay on the
beach at dusk. He drew solace and sedation from her nearness. He had a craving
to touch her always, to remain always in physical communication. He liked to
encircle her ankle loosely with his fingers as he played cards with Nately,
Dunbar and Hungry Joe, to lightly and lovingly caress the downy skin of her
fair, smooth thigh with the backs of his nails or, dreamily, sensuously, almost
unconsciously, slide his proprietary, respectful hand up the shell-like ridge
of her spine beneath the elastic strap of the top of the two-piece bathing suit
she always wore to contain and cover her tiny, long-nippled breasts. He loved
Nurse Duckett’s serene, flattered response, the sense of attachment to him she
displayed proudly. Hungry Joe had a craving to feel Nurse Duckett up, too, and
was restrained more than once by Yossarian’s forbidding glower. Nurse Duckett
flirted with Hungry Joe just to keep him in heat, and her round light-brown
eyes glimmered with mischief every time Yossarian rapped her sharply with his
elbow or fist to make her stop.

   The men played cards on a towel, undershirt, or blanket, and
Nurse Duckett mixed the extra deck of cards, sitting with her back resting
against a sand dune. When she was not shuffling the extra deck of cards, she
sat squinting into a tiny pocket mirror, brushing mascara on her curling
reddish eyelashes in a birdbrained effort to make them longer permanently.
Occasionally she was able to stack the cards or spoil the deck in a way they
did not discover until they were well into the game, and she laughed and glowed
with blissful gratification when they all hurled their cards down disgustedly
and began punching her sharply on the arms or legs as they called her filthy
names and warned her to stop fooling around. She would prattle nonsensically
when they were striving hardest to think, and a pink flush of elation crept
into her cheeks when they gave her more sharp raps on the arms and legs with
their fists and told her to shut up. Nurse Duckett reveled in such attention
and ducked her short chestnut bangs with joy when Yossarian and the others
focused upon her. It gave her a peculiar feeling of warm and expectant
well-being to know that so many naked boys and men were idling close by on the
other side of the sand dunes. She had only to stretch her neck or rise on some
pretext to see twenty or forty undressed males lounging or playing ball in the
sunlight. Her own body was such a familiar and unremarkable thing to her that
she was puzzled by the convulsive ecstasy men could take from it, by the
intense and amusing need they had merely to touch it, to reach out urgently and
press it, squeeze it, pinch it, rub it. She did not understand Yossarian’s
lust; but she was willing to take his word for it.