"He's back!" Dunbar screamed. "He's back! He's back!"
Yossarian froze in his tracks, paralyzed as much by the eerie shrillness in Dunbar's voice as by the familiar, white, morbid sight of the soldier in white covered from head to toe in plaster and gauze. A strange, quavering, involuntary noise came bubbling from Yossarian's throat.
"He's back!" Dunbar screamed again.
"He's back!" a patient delirious with fever echoed in automatic terror.
All at once the ward erupted into bedlam. Mobs of sick and injured men began ranting incoherently and running and jumping in the aisle as though the building were on fire. A patient with one foot and one crutch was hopping back and forth swiftly in panic crying, "What is it? What is it? Are we burning? Are we burning?"
"He's back!" someone shouted at him. "Didn't you hear him? He's back! He's back!"
"Who's back?" shouted someone else. "Who is it?"
"What does it mean? What should we do?"
"Are we on fire?"
"Get up and run, damn it! Everybody get up and run!"
Everybody got out of bed and began running from one end of the ward to the other. One C.I.D. man was looking for a gun to shoot one of the other C.I.D. men who had jabbed his elbow into his eye. The ward had turned into chaos. The patient delirious with the high fever leaped into the aisle and almost knocked over the patient with one foot, who accidentally brought the black rubber tip of his crutch down on the other's bare foot, crushing some toes. The delirious man with the fever and the crushed toes sank to the floor and wept in pain while other men tripped over him and hurt him more in their blind, milling, agonized stampede. "He's back!" all the men kept mumbling and chanting and calling out hysterically as they rushed back and forth. "He's back, he's back!" Nurse Cramer was there in the middle suddenly like a spinning policeman, trying desperately to restore order, dissolving helplessly into tears when she failed. "Be still, please be still," she urged uselessly through her massive sobs. The chaplain, pale as a ghost, had no idea what was going on. Neither did Nately, who kept close to Yossarian's side, clinging to his elbow, or Hungry Joe, who followed dubiously with his scrawny fists clenched and glanced from side to side with a face that was scared.
"Hey, what's going on?" Hungry Joe pleaded. "What the hell is going on?"
"It's the same one!" Dunbar shouted at him emphatically in a voice rising clearly above the raucous commotion. "Don't you understand? It's the same one."
"The same one!" Yossarian heard himself echo, quivering with a deep and ominous excitement that he could not control, and shoved his way after Dunbar toward the bed of the soldier in white.
"Take it easy, fellas," the short patriotic Texan counseled affably, with an uncertain grin. "There's no cause to be upset. Why don't we all just take it easy?"
"The same one!" others began murmuring, chanting and shouting.
Suddenly Nurse Duckett was there, too. "What's going on?" she demanded.
"He's back!" Nurse Cramer screamed, sinking into her arms. "He's back, he's back!"
It was, indeed, the same man. He had lost a few inches and added some weight, but Yossarian remembered him instantly by the two stiff anus and the two stiff, thick, useless legs all drawn upward into the air almost perpendicularly by the taut ropes and the long lead weights suspended from pulleys over him and by the frayed black hole in the bandages over his mouth. He had, in fact, hardly changed at all. There was the same zinc pipe rising from the hard stone mass over his groin and leading to the clear glass jar on the floor. There was the same clear glass jar on a pole dripping fluid into him through the crook of his elbow. Yossarian would recognize him anywhere. He wondered who he was.
"There's no one inside!" Dunbar yelled out at him unexpectedly.
Yossarian felt his heart skip a beat and his legs grow weak. "What are you talking about?" he shouted with dread, stunned by the haggard, sparking anguish in Dunbar's eyes and by his crazed look of wild shock and horror. "Are you nuts or something? What the hell do you mean, there's no one inside?"
"They've stolen him away!" Dunbar shouted back. "He's hollow inside, like a chocolate soldier. They just took him away and left those bandages there."
"Why should they do that?"
"Why do they do anything?"
"They've stolen him away!" screamed someone else, and people all over the ward began screaming, "They've stolen him away. They've stolen him away!"
"Go back to your beds," Nurse Duckett pleaded with Dunbar and Yossarian, pushing feebly against Yossarian's chest. "Please go back to your beds."
"You're crazy!" Yossarian shouted angrily at Dunbar. "What the hell makes you say that?"
"Did anyone see him?" Dunbar demanded with sneering fervor.
"You saw him, didn't you?" Yossarian said to Nurse Duckett. "Tell Dunbar there's someone inside."
"Lieutenant Schmulker is inside," Nurse Duckett said. "He's burned all over."
"Did she see him?"
"You saw him, didn't you?"
"The doctor who bandaged him saw him."
"Go get him, will you? Which doctor was it?"
Nurse Duckett reacted to the question with a startled gasp. "The doctor isn't even here!" she exclaimed. "The patient was brought to us that way from a field hospital."
"You see?" cried Nurse Cramer. "There's no one inside!"
"There's no one inside!" yelled Hungry Joe, and began stamping on the floor.
Dunbar broke through and leaped up furiously on the soldier in white's bed to see for himself, pressing his gleaming eye down hungrily against the tattered black hole in the shell of white bandages. He was still bent over staring with one eye into the lightless, unstirring void of the soldier in white's mouth when the doctors and the M.P.s came running to help Yossarian pull him away. The doctors wore guns at the waist. The guards carried carbines and rifles with which they shoved and jolted the crowd of muttering patients back. A stretcher on wheels was there, and the solder in white was lifted out of bed skillfully and rolled out of sight in a matter of seconds. The doctors and M.P.s moved through the ward assuring everyone that everything was all right.
Nurse Duckett plucked Yossarian's arm and whispered to him furtively to meet her in the broom closet outside in the corridor. Yossarian rejoiced when he heard her. He thought Nurse Duckett finally wanted to get laid and pulled her skirt up the second they were alone in the broom closet, but she pushed him away. She had urgent news about Dunbar.
"They're going to disappear him," she said.
Yossarian squinted at her uncomprehendingly. "They're what?" he asked in surprise, and laughed uneasily. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know. I heard them talking behind a door."
"Who?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see them. I just heard them say they were going to disappear Dunbar."
"Why are they going to disappear him?"
"I don't know."
"It doesn't make sense. It isn't even good grammar. What the hell does it mean when they disappear somebody?"
"I don't know."
"Jesus, you're a great help!"
"Why are you picking on me?" Nurse Duckett protested with hurt feelings, and began sniffing back tears. "I'm only trying to help. It isn't my fault they're going to disappear him, is it? I shouldn't even be telling you."
Yossarian took her in his arms and hugged her with gentle, contrite affection. "I'm sorry," he apologized, kissing her cheek respectfully, and hurried away to warn Dunbar, who was nowhere to be found.
35 MILO THE MILITANT
For the first time in his life, Yossarian prayed. He got down on his knees and prayed to Nately not to volunteer to fly more than seventy missions after Chief White Halfoat did die of pneumonia in the hospital and Nately had applied for his job. But Nately just wouldn't listen.
"I've got to fly more missions," Nately insisted lamely with a crooked smile. "Otherwise they'll send me home."
"So?"
"I don't want to go home until I can take her back with me."
"She means that much to you?"
Nately nodded dejectedly. "I might never see her again."
"Then get yourself grounded," Yossarian urged. "You've finished your missions and you don't need the flight pay. Why don't you ask for Chief White Halfoat's job, if you can stand working for Captain Black?"
Nately shook his head, his cheeks darkening with shy and regretful mortification. "They won't give it to me. I spoke to Colonel Korn, and he told me I'd have to fly more missions or be sent home."
Yossarian cursed savagely. "That's just plain meanness."
"I don't mind, I guess. I've flown seventy missions without getting hurt. I guess I can fly a few more."
"Don't do anything at all about it until I talk to someone," Yossarian decided, and went looking for help from Milo, who went immediately afterward to Colonel Cathcart for help in having himself assigned to more combat missions.
Milo had been earning many distinctions for himself. He had flown fearlessly into danger and criticism by selling petroleum and ball bearings to Germany at good prices in order to make a good profit and help maintain a balance of power between the contending forces. His nerve under fire was graceful and infinite. With a devotion to purpose above and beyond the line of duty, he had then raised the price of food in his mess halls so high that all officers and enlisted men had to turn over all their pay to him in order to eat. Their alternative -- there was an alternative, of course, since Milo detested coercion and was a vocal champion of freedom of choice -- was to starve. When he encountered a wave of enemy resistance to this attack, he stuck to his position without regard for his safety or reputation and gallantly invoked the law of supply and demand. And when someone somewhere said no, Milo gave ground grudgingly, valiantly defending, even in retreat, the historic right of free men to pay as much as they had to for the things they needed in order to survive.
Milo had been caught red-handed in the act of plundering his countrymen, and, as a result, his stock had never been higher. He proved good as his word when a rawboned major from Minnesota curled his lip in rebellious disavowal and demanded his share of the syndicate Milo kept saying everybody owned. Milo met the challenge by writing the words "A Share" on the nearest scrap of paper and handing it away with a virtuous disdain that won the envy and admiration of almost everyone who knew him. His glory was at a peak, and Colonel Cathcart, who knew and admired his war record, was astonished by the deferential humility with which Milo presented himself at Group Headquarters and made his fantastic appeal for more hazardous assignments.
"You want to fly more combat missions?" Colonel Cathcart gasped. "What in the world for?"
Milo answered in a demure voice with his face lowered meekly. "I want to do my duty, sir. The country is at war, and I want to fight to defend it like the rest of the fellows."
"But, Milo, you are doing your duty," Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with a laugh that thundered jovially. "I can't think of a single person who's done more for the men than you have. Who gave them chocolate-covered cotton?"
Milo shook his head slowly and sadly. "But being a good mess officer in wartime just isn't enough, Colonel Cathcart."
"Certainly it is, Milo. I don't know what's come over you."
"Certainly it isn't, Colonel," Milo disagreed in a somewhat firm tone, raising his subservient eyes significantly just far enough to arrest Colonel Cathcart's. "Some of the men are beginning to talk."
"Oh, is that it? Give me their names, Milo. Give me their names and I'll see to it that they go on every dangerous mission the group flies."
"No, Colonel, I'm afraid they're right," Milo said, with his head drooping again. "I was sent overseas as a pilot, and I should be flying more combat missions and spending less time on my duties as a mess officer."
Colonel Cathcart was surprised but co-operative. "Well, Milo, if you really feel that way, I'm sure we can make whatever arrangements you want. How long have you been overseas now?"
"Eleven months, sir."
"And how many missions have you flown?"
"Five."
"Five?" asked Colonel Cathcart.
"Five, sir."
"Five, eh?" Colonel Cathcart rubbed his cheek pensively. "That isn't very good, is it?"
"Isn't it?" asked Milo in a sharply edged voice, glancing up again.
Colonel Cathcart quailed. "On the contrary, that's very good, Milo," he corrected himself hastily. "It isn't bad at all."
"No, Colonel," Milo said, with a long, languishing, wistful sigh, "it isn't very good. Although it's very generous of you to say so."
"But it's really not bad, Milo. Not bad at all, when you consider all your other valuable contributions. Five missions, you say? Just five?"
"Just five, sir."
"Just five." Colonel Cathcart grew awfully depressed for a moment as he wondered what Milo was really thinking, and whether he had already got a black eye with him. "Five is very good, Milo," he observed with enthusiasm, spying a ray of hope. "That averages out to almost one combat mission every two months. And I'll bet your total doesn't include the time you bombed us."
