Catch-22 by Joseph Heller Page A

off the
other end in a running broad jump with both feet planted squarely in Appleby’s
face. Pandemonium broke loose. It took almost a full minute for Appleby to
disentangle himself from Orr’s flailing arms and legs and grope his way to his
feet, with Orr held off the ground before him by the shirt front in one hand
and his other arm drawn back in a fist to smite him dead, and at that moment
Yossarian stepped forward and took Orr away from him. It was a night of
surprises for Appleby, who was as large as Yossarian and as strong and who
swung at Yossarian as hard as he could with a punch that flooded Chief White
Halfoat with such joyous excitement that he turned and busted Colonel Moodus in
the nose with a punch that filled General Dreedle with such mellow
gratification that he had Colonel Cathcart throw the chaplain out of the
officers’ club and ordered Chief White Halfoat moved into Doc Daneeka’s tent,
where he could be under a doctor’s care twenty-four hours a day and be kept in
good enough physical condition to bust Colonel Moodus in the nose again
whenever General Dreedle wanted him to. Sometimes General Dreedle made special
trips down from Wing Headquarters with Colonel Moodus and his nurse just to
have Chief White Halfoat bust his son-in-law in the nose.
       Chief White Halfoat would much rather have remained in the
trailer he shared with Captain Flume, the silent, haunted squadron
public-relations officer who spent most of each evening developing the pictures
he took during the day to be sent out with his publicity releases. Captain
Flume spent as much of each evening as he could working in his darkroom and
then lay down on his cot with his fingers crossed and a rabbit’s foot around
his neck and tried with all his might to stay awake. He lived in mortal fear of
Chief White Halfoat. Captain Flume was obsessed with the idea that Chief White
Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night when he was sound asleep and slit
his throat open for him from ear to ear. Captain Flume had obtained this idea
from Chief White Halfoat himself, who did tiptoe up to his cot one night as he
was dozing off, to hiss portentously that one night when he, Captain Flume, was
sound asleep he, Chief White Halfoat, was going to slit his throat open for him
from ear to ear.
       Captain Flume turned to ice, his eyes, flung open wide,
staring directly up into Chief White Halfoat’s, glinting drunkenly only inches
away.
       ‘Why?’ Captain Flume managed to croak finally.
       ‘Why not?’ was Chief White Halfoat’s answer.
       Each night after that, Captain Flume forced himself to keep
awake as long as possible. He was aided immeasurably by Hungry Joe’s
nightmares. Listening so intently to Hungry Joe’s maniacal howling night after
night, Captain Flume grew to hate him and began wishing that Chief White
Halfoat would tiptoe up to his cot one night and slit his throat open for him
from ear to ear. Actually, Captain Flume slept like a log most nights and
merely dreamed he was awake. So convincing were these dreams of lying awake
that he woke from them each morning in complete exhaustion and fell right back
to sleep.
       Chief White Halfoat had grown almost fond of Captain Flume
since his amazing metamorphosis. Captain Flume had entered his bed that night a
buoyant extrovert and left it the next morning a brooding introvert, and Chief
White Halfoat proudly regarded the new Captain Flume as his own creation. He
had never intended to slit Captain Flume’s throat open for him from ear to ear.
Threatening to do so was merely his idea of a joke, like dying of pneumonia,
busting Colonel Moodus in the nose or challenging Doc Daneeka to Indian
wrestle. All Chief White Halfoat wanted to do when he staggered in drunk each
night was go right to sleep, and Hungry Joe often made that impossible. Hungry
Joe’s nightmares gave Chief White Halfoat the heebie-jeebies, and he often
wished that someone would tiptoe into Hungry Joe’s