Chapter 4 2. Clevinger

In a sense, the staff member of the Criminal Investigation Department was quite lucky, because the outside of the hospital was still full of gunpowder and smoke.Everyone has become a lunatic, but they are awarded various medals as rewards.All over the world, soldiers are dying on bombing fronts, and they are told it is for their country.But no one seemed to care, let alone the soldiers who were laying down their young lives.There is currently no end in sight.The only thing to hope for was Yossarian's own end.Had it not been for the patriotic Texan--jaw as big as a funnel, hair disheveled, perpetual awkward smile, brim of a fedora hat--Yossarian could have stayed. In the hospital until the end of the world.The Texan wanted everyone in the ward to be happy except Yossarian and Dunbar.He was really sick.

The Texans didn't want to make it easy for Yossarian, and even so, Yossarian couldn't be happy.Because outside the hospital, there is still nothing funny to see.The only thing going on is war.No one seemed to notice this except Yossarian and Dunbar.Whenever Yossarian tried to remind people they ran away from him thinking he was crazy.Even Clevinger, who should have known him well, changed from his usual empathy this time.They had seen each other for the last time, just before Yossarian took refuge in the hospital, when Clevinger had told him he was crazy. Clevinger stared at him angrily, gripped the table with both hands, and shouted angrily, "You're a madman!"

"Clevinger, what do you want from others?" Dunbar raised his voice in the din of the officers' club, and replied impatiently. "I'm not kidding," Clevinger said firmly. "They're trying to kill me," Yossarian told him calmly. "Nobody wants to kill you," Clevinger yelled. "Then why did they shoot me?" Yossarian asked. "They're going to shoot anyone they see," Clevinger replied. "They're trying to kill everybody." "What difference does that make?" Clevinger had already lost control, half of his body was lifted from the chair in excitement, his eyes were full of tears, his lips were pale, and he was trembling.In order to maintain the principles he firmly believes in, he will always have to quarrel with others, but at the end of each quarrel, he is always furious, blinking and holding back sad tears to show his firmness in his beliefs.Clevinger was true to many principles.He's literally lost his mind.

"Who are they?" He wanted to find out. "To be precise, who do you think is trying to kill you?" "Every one of them," Yossarian told him. "Each of those people?" "what do you say?" "I can't say that." "Then how do you know they don't want to kill me?" "Because..." Clevinger spoke incoherently, and then became extremely depressed and remained silent. Clevinger did think he was right, but Yossarian had proof of his own, for every time he went on an aerial bombing mission, he was always being bombarded by strangers, which was no fun at all.If that kind of thing is not very interesting, many other things are not very interesting at all.For example, camping like a vagabond in a tent on Pianosa Island, backed by mountains and facing the blue sea-even if the wind is calm, it can swallow a convulsant in the water in an instant, and after three days, wash him away again. Back to the coast, the person was completely dead, his body was bruised and swollen, and sea water slowly flowed out of his cold nostrils.

The tent in which he had camped, nestled against a thin and dark forest - formed a barrier of its own between him and Dunbar's squadron.Immediately to one side of the tent was an abandoned railway ditch in which a pipeline was laid to deliver aviation gasoline to fuel trucks at the airport.Thanks to Orr, who lived with him, he was lucky enough to live in the most comfortable tent in the entire squadron.Every time Yossarian came back from the hospital or returned to the camp from his vacation in Rome, he was always pleasantly surprised to find that Orr had added new amenities in his absence—running water, a wood-burning fireplace, concrete floors.Yossarian chose the site and worked with Orr to build the tent.

Orr is extremely short, smiling all the time, wearing an Air Force flight badge on his chest, and has thick brown curly hair that is parted from the middle to the sides.He is in charge of planning.Yossarian was taller and broad-shouldered than he was, stronger and quicker, so he did most of the rough work.The tent accommodated just the two of them, although it was large enough to hold six.Whenever the hot summer comes, Orr rolls up the side curtains of the tent to let in a little breeze, even though nothing can dispel the heat in the tent. Yossarian's immediate neighbor was Havermeyer.This person is addicted to peanut brittle, lives alone in a two-person tent, and shoots small field mice every night with large bullets from a 45-caliber pistol.The gun had been stolen from the dead man in Yossarian's tent.Havermeyer's neighbor on the other side was McWatt, who had lived with Clevinger earlier, but when Yossarian was discharged from the hospital and Clevinger hadn't returned, McWatt let Nately live in his tent. .Right now, Nately is in Rome, pursuing the prostitute he loves deeply, but the prostitute has a face that can't wake up all day long. She has long hated her own job and is tired of Nately.McWatt is crazy.

He was a pilot, and he often had the guts to fly the plane over Yossarian's tent from a very low altitude, just to see how scared Yossarian would be.At other times he was fond of flying the plane low and roaring deafeningly over rafts floated by empty tanks and over the sandbars of the white beaches where naked soldiers were swimming in the sea.It wasn't easy sharing a tent with a madman, but Nately didn't mind.He is also a lunatic himself, as long as he is free, he will rush to help build the officers' club—— Yossarian had no hand in this. In fact, Yossarian had done little to help in the construction of many officers' clubs, but this one on Pianosa Island was the one he was most proud of.It is indeed a solid, complex monument to his determination.Yossarian never helped on the construction site until the club was finished, but he did after that.He was delighted to see the shingled roof of the club, which had a very handsome appearance, though large and unsuitable.

To be honest, this building is indeed magnificent.Yossarian always felt a great sense of accomplishment whenever he looked up, even though he realized he never broke a sweat for it. The last time he and Clevinger had called each other mad, there were four of them sitting around a table in the officers' club.They sat in the back, next to the craps table where Appleby always found a way to win money. Appleby was as good at craps as he was at ping-pong, and he was as good at ping-pong as he was at anything else.Everything Appleby did was brilliant.Appleby was a fair-haired young Iowa man who believed in God, motherhood, and the American way of life, though he never gave them much thought.Those who know him well have a good impression of him.

"I hate that son of a bitch," Yossarian growled. The quarrel with Clevinger was a few minutes earlier.Yossarian was looking for a machine gun, but couldn't find it.It was a very lively night.The bar room was bustling with people, and the craps and ping-pong tables were never free. It was a busy scene. The gang that Yossarian wanted to machine-gun were singing the old sentimental songs they couldn't get enough of in the bar room.Instead of firing at them with the machine gun, he stomped hard with his heel on the ping-pong ball that was rolling toward him, which had fallen from the racket of one of the two officers playing.

"Yossarian," said the two officers, shaking their heads and laughing, and took another ball from the box on the shelf. "Yossarian the guy," Yossarian said back to them. "Yossarian," Nately warned him in a low voice. "You know what I mean?" Clevinger asked. Hearing Yossarian learn his tongue, the two officers laughed again, "Yossarian." This time, the voice was louder. "Yossarian the guy," Yossarian repeated. "Yossarian, please do me a favor," Nately begged. "You know what I mean?" Clevinger asked. "He's antisocial and hostile."

"Oh, shut up," Dunbar said to Clevinger.The reason Dunbar liked Clevinger was that Clevinger annoyed him so much that it seemed to slow down time. "Appleby's not here at all," Clevinger said triumphantly to Yossarian. "Who's talking about Appleby?" Yossarian wanted to find out. "Colonel Cathcart wasn't here either." "Who's talking about Colonel Cathcart?" "Then which son of a bitch do you hate?" "Which son of a bitch is here?" "I don't want to quarrel with you." Clevinger made up his mind. "You don't even know who you hate." "I hate whoever tries to poison me," Yossarian told him. "Nobody wants to poison you." "Is it true that they poisoned my food twice? Once at Ferrara, and once at the Siege of Bologna. Did they do that?" "They put poison in everyone's food," Clevinger explained. "What's the difference?" "That's not poison at all!" Clevinger exclaimed excitedly.The more flustered he became, the more he accentuated his tone of voice. Yossarian took it easy and smiled as he explained to Clevinger that, as far as he could remember, someone had been trying to kill him.Some people like him, some people don't like him; those who don't like him hate him and try their best to harm him.They hated him because he was an Assyrian.But, he told Clevinger, they shouldn't try to touch him, because he was pure in body, sound in soul, and strong as an ox.They don't want to touch him, because he's Tarzan, Mandrake, Gordon the Human Torch.He is Bill Shakespeare.He is Cain, Ulysses, the wandering Dutch sailor.He is Lot of Sodom, Detter of sorrow, Sweeney of the nightingales in the woods.He's the amazing Z-247, he's- "Crazy!" Clevinger cut him off, shouting sharply, "You're a complete lunatic!" "—out of the ordinary, I am indeed an extraordinary, remarkable figure with three heads and six arms. I am a real oddity." "Superman?" Clevinger yelled. "Superman?" "Wonderful man," Yossarian corrected. "Hey, guys, stop arguing," Nately begged them both awkwardly. "Everyone is watching us." "You're crazy!" Clevinger yelled, tears welling up in his eyes. "You're psychotic and want to be Jehovah." "I think everyone is Nathanael." Clevinger abruptly stopped his impassioned statement, looking suspicious. "Who is Nathanael?" "Who is Nathanael?" Yossarian asked with feigned ignorance. Clevinger knew it was a trap, so he dodged it obediently. "You think everyone is Jehovah. Honestly, you're no different than Raskolnikov." "Who?" "—Yes, Raskolnikov, he—" "Raskolnikov!" "--he--I'm telling the truth--he thought he killed an old woman justly and legally." "I'm no different from him." "—That's right, kill someone, and then justify yourself, it's absolutely true—kill with an axe! I can prove it with facts to convince you." Clevinger panted and listed the appointments one by one. Symptoms of Selen: Seeing everyone around him as crazy for no reason; As soon as he sees a stranger, he suddenly becomes murderous and wants to shoot with a machine gun; he is very nostalgic, but he often turns the past into black and white; he suspects that others hate him out of thin air, and has been conspiring to kill him. But Yossarian knew he was right because, as he had explained to Clevinger, he knew very well that he had never been wrong.Everywhere he looked, there were madmen, and in a world full of madmen, only a wise and educated young man like himself could see things clearly.He had to because he knew his life was at stake. When Yossarian was discharged from the hospital and returned to the regiment, he always scrutinized everyone he encountered with vigilance.Milo also left the squadron and went to Smyrna, where he was busy harvesting figs.Despite Milo's absence, the canteen was functioning as usual, and between the hospital and the squadron quarters a rough road snaked like a broken garter.Yossarian was still sitting in the cab of the ambulance, and as he bumped along that road, he smelled the tangy aroma of lamb, and his body fluid and appetite whetted.For lunch, they ate barbecue, big and fragrant pieces of meat that were skewered on charcoal and sizzled.Before the meat was roasted, it was marinated for seventy-two hours in a marinade prepared by a secret recipe that Milo had stolen from a cunning businessman in the Levant.Grilled meats are served with Iranian rice and asparagus tips Parmesan, followed by cherry sweets and steaming cups of freshly ground coffee with Benedict sweeteners. Wine and brandy.Lunch is served in portions and served to tables covered with lace tablecloths by skilled Italian waiters.These waiters had been kidnapped from the Continent by Major de Coverley and delivered to Milo. Yossarian ate desperately in the cafeteria until he felt that his stomach was going to burst, and he was satisfied, slumped on the chair motionless, with a thin layer of leftovers in his mouth. In Jiaomiluo's canteen, all the officers of the squadron often tasted delicacies, and no one else had such a hearty feast.Maybe, Yossarian thought for a moment, it was a good deal.But then he hiccups and remembers: they've been trying to kill him.So he stormed out of the mess hall, ran to Doc Daneeka, and begged to be released from combat duty and sent home.He found Daneeka, where the doctor was sitting on a high stool outside his tent, basking in the sun. "Fifty missions," Doc Daneeka told him, shaking his head. "The colonel asked for fifty missions." "But I've only flown forty-four times!" Dr. Daneeka was unmoved.This guy looks like a bird and always looks sad.That face resembled a scraper, wide at the top and pointed at the bottom, shaved smooth, very much like a scrubbed mouse. "Fifty missions," he said again, still shaking his head. "The colonel wants to fly fifty times."