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combat missions later when Doc Daneeka still shook his
melancholy head and refused to ground him.
       ‘You think you’ve got troubles?’ Doc Daneeka rebuked him
grievingly. ‘What about me? I lived on peanuts for eight years while I learned
how to be a doctor. After the peanuts, I lived on chicken feed in my own office
until I could build up a practice decent enough to even pay expenses. Then,
just as the shop was finally starting to show a profit, they drafted me. I
don’t know what you’re complaining about.’ Doc Daneeka was Yossarian’s friend
and would do just about nothing in his power to help him. Yossarian listened
very carefully as Doc Daneeka told him about Colonel Cathcart at Group, who
wanted to be a general, about General Dreedle at Wing and General Dreedle’s
nurse, and about all the other generals at Twenty-seventh Air Force
Headquarters, who insisted on only forty missions as a completed tour of duty.
       ‘Why don’t you just smile and make the best of it?’ he
advised Yossarian glumly. ‘Be like Havermeyer.’ Yossarian shuddered at the
suggestion. Havermeyer was a lead bombardier who never took evasive action
going in to the target and thereby increased the danger of all the men who flew
in the same formation with him.
       ‘Havermeyer, why the hell don’t you ever take evasive
action?’ they would demand in a rage after the mission.
       ‘Hey, you men leave Captain Havermeyer alone,’ Colonel
Cathcart would order. ‘He’s the best damned bombardier we’ve got.’ Havermeyer
grinned and nodded and tried to explain how he dumdummed the bullets with a
hunting knife before he fired them at the field mice in his tent every night.
Havermeyer was the best damned bombardier they had, but he flew straight and
level all the way from the I.P. to the target, and even far beyond the target
until he saw the falling bombs strike ground and explode in a darting spurt of
abrupt orange that flashed beneath the swirling pall of smoke and pulverized
debris geysering up wildly in huge, rolling waves of gray and black. Havermeyer
held mortal men rigid in six planes as steady and still as sitting ducks while
he followed the bombs all the way down through the plexiglass nose with deep
interest and gave the German gunners below all the time they needed to set
their sights and take their aim and pull their triggers or lanyards or switches
or whatever the hell they did pull when they wanted to kill people they didn’t
know.
       Havermeyer was a lead bombardier who never missed. Yossarian
was a lead bombardier who had been demoted because he no longer gave a damn
whether he missed or not. He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt,
and his only mission each time he went up was to come down alive.
       The men had loved flying behind Yossarian, who used to come
barreling in over the target from all directions and every height, climbing and
diving and twisting and turning so steeply and sharply that it was all the
pilots of the other five planes could do to stay in formation with him,
leveling out only for the two or three seconds it took for the bombs to drop
and then zooming off again with an aching howl of engines, and wrenching his
flight through the air so violently as he wove his way through the filthy
barrages of flak that the six planes were soon flung out all over the sky like
prayers, each one a pushover for the German fighters, which was just fine with
Yossarian, for there were no German fighters any more and he did not want any
exploding planes near his when they exploded. Only when all the Sturm und Drang
had been left far behind would he tip his flak helmet back wearily on his
sweating head and stop barking directions to McWatt at the controls, who had
nothing better to wonder about at a time like that than where the bombs had
fallen.
       ‘Bomb bay clear,’ Sergeant Knight in the back would announce.
       ‘Did we hit the bridge?’ McWatt would ask.
       ‘I