They arrested Yossarian for being in Rome without a pass.
They apologized to Aarfy for intruding and led Yossarian away between them, gripping him under each arm with fingers as hard as steel manacles.
They said nothing at all to him on the way down.
Two more tall M.P.s with clubs and hard white helmets were waiting outside at a closed car.
They marched Yossarian into the back seat, and the car roared away and weaved through the rain and muddy fog to a police station.
The M.P.s locked him up for the night in a cell with four stone walls. At dawn they gave him a pail for a latrine and drove him to the airport, where two more giant M.P.s with clubs and white helmets were waiting at a transport plane whose engines were already warming up when they arrived, the cylindrical green cowlings oozing quivering beads of condensation.
None of the M.P.s said anything to each other either. They did not even nod.
Yossarian had never seen such granite faces.
The plane flew to Pianosa.
Two more silent M.P.s were waiting at the landing strip.
There were now eight, and they filed with precise, wordless discipline into two cars and sped on humming tires past the four squadron areas to the Group Headquarters building, where still two more M.P.s were waiting at the parking area.
All ten tall, strong, purposeful, silent men towered around him as they turned toward the entrance.
Their footsteps crunched in loud unison on the cindered ground.
He had an impression of accelerating haste.
He was terrified.
Every one of the ten M.P.s seemed powerful enough to bash him to death with a single blow.
They had only to press their massive, toughened, boulderous shoulders against him to crush all life from his body.
There was nothing he could do to save himself.
He could not even see which two were gripping him under the arms as they marched him rapidly between the two tight single-file columns they had formed.
Their pace quickened, and he felt as though he were flying along with his feet off the ground as they trotted in resolute cadence up the wide marble staircase to the upper landing, where still two more inscrutable military policemen with hard faces were waiting to lead them all at an even faster pace down the long, cantilevered balcony overhanging the immense lobby.
Their marching footsteps on the dull tile floor thundered like an awesome, quickening drum roll through the vacant center of the building as they moved with even greater speed and precision toward Colonel Cathcart’s office, and violent winds of panic began blowing in Yossarian’s ears when they turned him toward his doom inside the office, where Colonel Korn, his rump spreading comfortably on a corner of Colonel Cathcart’s desk, sat waiting to greet him with a genial smile and said,
‘We’re sending you home.’ CATCH-22 There was, of course, a catch.
‘Catch-22?’ inquired Yossarian.
‘Of course,’ Colonel Korn answered pleasantly, after he had chased the mighty guard of massive M.P.s out with an insouciant flick of his hand and a slightly contemptuous nod—most relaxed, as always, when he could be most cynical.
His rimless square eyeglasses glinted with sly amusement as he gazed at Yossarian.
‘After all, we can’t simply send you home for refusing to fly more missions and keep the rest of the men here, can we?
That would hardly be fair to them.’
‘You’re goddam right!’ Colonel Cathcart blurted out, lumbering back and forth gracelessly like a winded bull, puffing and pouting angrily.
‘I’d like to tie him up hand and foot and throw him aboard a plane on every mission.
That’s what I’d like to do.’
Colonel Korn motioned Colonel Cathcart to be silent and smiled at Yossarian.
‘You know, you really have been making things terribly difficult for Colonel Cathcart,’ he observed with flip good humor, as though the fact did not displease him at all.
‘The men are unhappy and morale is beginning to deteriorate.
And it’s all your fault.’
‘It’s your fault,’ Yossarian argued, ‘for raising the number of missions.’
‘No, it’s your fault for refusing to fly them,’ Colonel Korn retorted.
‘The men were perfectly content to fly as many missions as we asked as long as they thought they had no alternative.
Now you’ve given them hope, and they’re unhappy.
So the blame is all yours.’
‘Doesn’t he know there’s a war going on?’ Colonel Cathcart, still stamping back and forth, demanded morosely without looking at Yossarian.
‘I’m quite sure he does,’ Colonel Korn answered.
‘That’s probably why he refuses to fly them.’
‘Doesn’t it make any difference to him?’
‘Will the knowledge that there’s a war going on weaken your decision to refuse to participate in it?’ Colonel Korn inquired with sarcastic seriousness, mocking Colonel Cathcart.
‘No, sir,’ Yossarian replied, almost returning Colonel Korn’s smile.
‘I was afraid of that,’ Colonel Korn remarked with an elaborate sigh, locking his fingers together comfortably on top of his smooth, bald, broad, shiny brown head.
‘You know, in all fairness, we really haven’t treated you too badly, have we?
We’ve fed you and paid you on time. We gave you a medal and even made you a captain.’
‘I never should have made him a captain,’ Colonel Cathcart exclaimed bitterly.
‘I should have given him a court-martial after he loused up that Ferrara mission and went around twice.’