Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [29]
McWatt
Ordinarily, Yossarian’s pilot was McWatt, who, shaving in loud red, clean pajamas outside his tent each morning, was one of the odd, ironic, incomprehensible things surrounding Yossarian. McWatt was the craziest combat man of them all probably, because he was perfectly sane and still did not mind the war. He was a short-legged, wide-shouldered, smiling young soul who whistled bouncy show tunes continuously and turned over cards with sharp snaps when he dealt at blackjack or poker until Hungry Joe disintegrated into quaking despair finally beneath their cumulative impact and began ranting at him to stop snapping the cards.
‘You son of a bitch, you only do it because it hurts me,’ Hungry Joe would yell furiously, as Yossarian held him back soothingly with one hand. ‘That’s the only reason he does it, because he likes to hear me scream—you goddam son of a bitch!’ McWatt crinkled his fine, freckled nose apologetically and vowed not to snap the cards any more, but always forgot. McWatt wore fleecy bedroom slippers with his red pajamas and slept between freshly pressed colored bedsheets like the one Milo had retrieved half of for him from the grinning thief with the sweet tooth in exchange for none of the pitted dates Milo had borrowed from Yossarian. McWatt was deeply impressed with Milo, who, to the amusement of Corporal Snark, his mess sergeant, was already buying eggs for seven cents apiece and selling them for five cents. But McWatt was never as impressed with Milo as Milo had been with the letter Yossarian had obtained for his liver from Doc Daneeka.
‘What’s this?’ Milo had cried out in alarm, when he came upon the enormous corrugated carton filled with packages of dried fruit and cans of fruit juices and desserts that two of the Italian laborers Major—de Coverley had kidnaped for his kitchen were about to carry off to Yossarian’s tent.
‘This is Captain Yossarian, sir,’ said Corporal Snark with a superior smirk. Corporal Snark was an intellectual snob who felt he was twenty years ahead of his time and did not enjoy cooking down to the masses. ‘He has a letter from Doc Daneeka entitling him to all the fruit and fruit juices he wants.’
‘What’s this?’ cried out Yossarian, as Milo went white and began to sway.
‘This is Lieutenant Milo Minderbinder, sir,’ said Corporal Snark with a derisive wink. ‘One of our new pilots. He became mess officer while you were in the hospital this last time.’
‘What’s this?’ cried out McWatt, late in the afternoon, as Milo handed him half his bedsheet.
‘It’s half of the bedsheet that was stolen from your tent this morning,’ Milo explained with nervous self-satisfaction, his rusty mustache twitching rapidly. ‘I’ll bet you didn’t even know it was stolen.’
‘Why should anyone want to steal half a bedsheet?’ Yossarian asked.
Milo grew flustered. ‘You don’t understand,’ he protested.
And Yossarian also did not understand why Milo needed so desperately to invest in the letter from Doc Daneeka, which came right to the point. ‘Give Yossarian all the dried fruit and fruit juices he wants,’ Doc Daneeka had written. ‘He says he has a liver condition.’
‘A letter like this,’ Milo mumbled despondently, ‘could ruin any mess officer in the world.’ Milo had come to Yossarian’s tent just to read the letter again, following his carton of lost provisions across the squadron like a mourner. ‘I have to give you as much as you ask for. Why, the letter doesn’t even say you have to eat all of it yourself.’
‘And it’s a good thing it doesn’t,’ Yossarian told him, ‘because I never eat any of it. I have a liver condition.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot,’ said Milo, in a voice lowered deferentially. ‘Is it bad?’
‘Just bad enough,’ Yossarian answered cheerfully.
‘I see,’ said Milo. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that it couldn’t be better…’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘…without being worse. Now do you see?’
‘Yes, now I see. But I still don’t think I understand.’
‘Well, don’t let it trouble you. Let it trouble me. You see, I don’t really have a liver condition. I’ve just got the symptoms. I have a Garnett-Fleischaker