You never answered my question.’
‘You see?
I told you he was here.’
‘What question?’
‘Whatever it was we were talking about.’
‘Was it important?’
‘I don’t remember if it was important or not.
I wish to God I knew what it was.’
‘There is no God.’
‘That’s what we were talking about,’ Yossarian cried.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Hey, are you sure your headlights are on?’ Nately called out.
‘They’re on, they’re on.
What does he want from me?
It’s all this rain on the windshield that makes it look dark from back there.’
‘Beautiful, beautiful rain.’
‘I hope it never stops raining.
Rain, rain, go a—’ ‘—way. Come a—’ ‘—again some oth—’ ‘—er day. Little Yo-Yo wants—’ ‘—to play. In—’ ‘—the meadow, in—’ Chief White Halfoat missed the next turn in the road and ran the jeep all the way up to the crest of a steep embankment.
Rolling back down, the jeep turned over on its side and settled softly in the mud.
There was a frightened silence.
‘Is everyone all right?’ Chief White Halfoat inquired in a hushed voice.
No one was injured, and he heaved a long sigh of relief.
‘You know, that’s my trouble,’ he groaned. ‘I never listen to anybody.
Somebody kept telling me to put my headlights on, but I just wouldn’t listen.’
‘I kept telling you to put your headlights on.’
‘I know, I know.
And I just wouldn’t listen, would I?
I wish I had a drink.
I do have a drink.
Look. It’s not broken.’ ‘It’s raining in,’ Nately noticed. ‘I’m getting wet.’
Chief White Halfoat got the bottle of rye open, drank and handed it off.
Lying tangled up on top of each other, they all drank but Nately, who kept groping ineffectually for the door handle.
The bottle fell against his head with a clunk, and whiskey poured down his neck.
He began writhing convulsively. ‘Hey, we’ve got to get out of here!’ he cried.
‘We’ll all drown.’
‘Is anybody in there?’ asked Clevinger with concern, shining a flashlight down from the top.
‘It’s Clevinger!’ they shouted, and tried to pull him in through the window as he reached down to aid them.
‘Look at them!’ Clevinger exclaimed indignantly to McWatt, who sat grinning at the wheel of the staff car.
‘Lying there like a bunch of drunken animals.
You too, Nately?
You ought to be ashamed!
Come on—help me get them out of here before they all die of pneumonia.’
‘You know, that don’t sound like such a bad idea,’ Chief White Halfoat reflected.
‘I think I will die of pneumonia.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ answered Chief White Halfoat, and lay back in the mud contentedly with the bottle of rye cuddled in his arms.
‘Oh, now look what he’s doing!’ Clevinger exclaimed with irritation.
‘Will you get up and get into the car so we can all go back to the squadron?’
‘We can’t all go back.
Someone has to stay here to help the Chief with this car he signed out of the motor pool.’