Not even Clevinger understood how Milo could do that, and Clevinger knew everything. Clevinger kneweverything about the war except why Yossarian had to die while Corporal Snark was allowed to live, or whyCorporal Snark had to die while Yossarian was allowed to live. It was a vile¹ and muddy war, and Yossariancould have lived without it—lived forever, perhaps. Only a fraction of his countrymen would give up their livesto win it, and it was not his ambition to be among them. To die or not to die, that was the question, and Clevingergrew limp trying to answer it. History did not demand Yossarian’s premature² demise³, justice could be satisfied without it, progress did not hinge upon it, victory did not depend on it. That men would die was a matter ofnecessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be thevictim of anything but circumstance. But that was war. Just about all he could find in its favor was that it paidwell and liberated⁴ children from the pernicious influence of their parents.

　　Clevinger knew so much because Clevinger was a genius with a pounding heart and blanching⁵ face. He was agangling, gawky, feverish⁶, famish-eyed brain. As a Harvard undergraduate he had won prizes in scholarship forjust about everything, and the only reason he had not won prizes in scholarship for everything else was that hewas too busy signing petitions, circulating petitions and challenging petitions, joining discussion groups andresigning from discussion groups, attending youth congresses, picketing⁸ other youth congresses and organizingstudent committees in defense⁹ of dismissed faculty¹⁰ members. Everyone agreed that Clevinger was certain to gofar in the academic world. In short, Clevinger was one of those people with lots of intelligence and no brains, andeveryone knew it except those who soon found it out.

　　In short, he was a dope. He often looked to Yossarian like one of those people hanging around modern museumswith both eyes together on one side of a face. It was an illusion, of course, generated by Clevinger’s predilectionfor staring fixedly¹¹ at one side of a question and never seeing the other side at all. Politically, he was ahumanitarian who did know right from left and was trapped uncomfortably between the two. He was constantlydefending his Communist friends to his right-wing enemies and his right-wing friends to his Communistenemies, and he was thoroughly¹² detested¹³ by both groups, who never defended him to anyone because theythought he was a dope.

　　He was a very serious, very earnest and very conscientious¹⁴ dope. It was impossible to go to a movie with himwithout getting involved afterwards in a discussion on empathy, Aristotle, universals, messages and theobligations of the cinema as an art form in a materialistic¹⁵ society. Girls he took to the theater had to wait until thefirst intermission to find out from him whether or not they were seeing a good or a bad play, and then found outat once. He was a militant¹⁶ idealist who crusaded against racial bigotry¹⁷ by growing faint in its presence. He kneweverything about literature except how to enjoy it.

　　Yossarian tried to help him. “Don’t be a dope,” he had counseled Clevinger when they were both at cadet schoolin Santa Ana, California.

　　“I’m going to tell him,” Clevinger insisted, as the two of them sat high in the reviewing stands looking down onthe auxiliary¹⁸ paradeground at Lieutenant²⁰ Scheisskopf raging back and forth²¹ like a beardless Lear.

　　“Why me?” Lieutenant Scheisskopf wailed²².

　　“Keep still, idiot,” Yossarian advised Clevinger avuncularly.

　　“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clevinger objected.

　　“I know enough to keep still, idiot.”

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf tore his hair and gnashed his teeth. His rubbery cheeks shook with gusts²³ of anguish²⁴. Hisproblem was a squadron of aviation cadets with low morale²⁵ who marched atrociously in the parade competitionthat took place every Sunday afternoon. Their morale was low because they did not want to march in paradesevery Sunday afternoon and because Lieutenant Scheisskopf had appointed cadet officers from their ranksinstead of permitting them to elect their own.

　　“I want someone to tell me,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf beseeched them all prayerfully. “If any of it is my fault, Iwant to be told.”

　　“He wants someone to tell him,” Clevinger said.

　　“He wants everyone to keep still, idiot,” Yossarian answered.

　　“Didn’t you hear him?” Clevinger argued.

　　“I heard him,” Yossarian replied. “I heard him say very loudly and very distinctly that he wants every one of usto keep our mouths shut if we know what’s good for us.”

　　“I won’t punish you,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf swore.

　　“He says he won’t punish me,” said Clevinger.

　　“He’ll castrate you,” said Yossarian.

　　“I swear I won’t punish you,” said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. “I’ll be grateful to the man who tells me the truth.”

　　“He’ll hate you,” said Yossarian. “To his dying day he’ll hate you.”

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf was an R.O.T.C. graduate who was rather glad that war had broken out, since it gave himan opportunity to wear an officer’s uniform every day and say “Men” in a clipped, military voice to the bunchesof kids who fell into his clutches every eight weeks on their way to the butcher’s block. He was an ambitious andhumorless Lieutenant Scheisskopf, who confronted his responsibilities soberly and smiled only when some rivalofficer at the Santa Ana Army Air Force Base came down with a lingering disease. He had poor eyesight andchronic sinus trouble, which made war especially exciting for him, since he was in no danger of going overseas.

　　The best thing about him was his wife and the best thing about his wife was a girl friend named Dori Duz whodid whenever she could and had a Wac uniform that Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife put on every weekend andtook off every weekend for every cadet in her husband’s squadron who wanted to creep into her.

　　Dori Duz was a lively little tart²⁶ of copper²⁷-green and gold who loved doing it best in toolsheds, phone booths,field houses and bus kiosks. There was little she hadn’t tried and less she wouldn’t. She was shameless, slim,nineteen and aggressive. She destroyed egos²⁸ by the score and made men hate themselves in the morning for theway she found them, used them and tossed them aside. Yossarian loved her. She was a marvelous piece of asswho found him only fair. He loved the feel of springy muscle beneath her skin everywhere he touched her the only time she’d let him. Yossarian loved Dori Duz so much that he couldn’t help flinging himself downpassionately on top of Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife every week to revenge himself upon LieutenantScheisskopf for the way Lieutenant Scheisskopf was revenging himself upon Clevinger.

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s wife was revenging herself upon Lieutenant Scheisskopf for some unforgettable crimeof his she couldn’t recall. She was a plump, pink, sluggish²⁹ girl who read good books and kept urging Yossariannot to be so bourgeois³¹ without the r. She was never without a good book close by, not even when she was lyingin bed with nothing on her but Yossarian and Dori Duz’s dog tags. She bored Yossarian, but he was in love withher, too. She was a crazy mathematics major from the Wharton School of Business who could not count totwenty-eight each month without getting into trouble.

　　“Darling, we’re going to have a baby again,” she would say to Yossarian every month.

　　“You’re out of your goddam head,” he would reply.

　　“I mean it, baby,” she insisted.

　　“So do I.”

　　“Darling, we’re going to have a baby again,” she would say to her husband.

　　“I haven’t the time,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf would grumble³² petulantly³³. “Don’t you know there’s a parade goingon?”

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf cared very deeply about winning parades and about bringing Clevinger up on chargesbefore the Action Board for conspiring³⁴ to advocate the overthrow³⁵ of the cadet officers Lieutenant Scheisskopfhad appointed. Clevinger was a troublemaker³⁶ and a wise guy. Lieutenant Scheisskopf knew that Clevinger mightcause even more trouble if he wasn’t watched. Yesterday it was the cadet officers; tomorrow it might be theworld. Clevinger had a mind, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf had noticed that people with minds tended to get prettysmart at times. Such men were dangerous, and even the new cadet officers whom Clevinger had helped intooffice were eager to give damning testimony³⁷ against him. The case against Clevinger was open and shut. Theonly thing missing was something to charge him with.

　　It could not be anything to do with parades, for Clevinger took the parades almost as seriously as LieutenantScheisskopf himself. The men fell out for the parades early each Sunday afternoon and groped their way intoranks of twelve outside the barracks. Groaning³⁸ with hangovers, they limped in step to their station on the mainparadeground, where they stood motionless in the heat for an hour or two with the men from the sixty or seventyother cadet squadrons until enough of them had collapsed³⁹ to call it a day. On the edge of the field stood a row ofambulances and teams of trained stretcher bearers with walkie-talkies. On the roofs of the ambulances werespotters with binoculars⁴⁰. A tally⁴¹ clerk kept score. Supervising this entire phase of the operation was a medicalofficer with a flair⁴² for accounting⁴³ who okayed pulses and checked the figures of the tally clerk. As soon asenough unconscious men had been collected in the ambulances, the medical officer signaled the bandmaster tostrike up the band and end the parade. One behind the other, the squadrons marched up the field, executed a cumbersome⁴⁴ turn around the reviewing stand and marched down the field and back to their barracks.

　　Each of the parading squadrons was graded as it marched past the reviewing stand, where a bloated colonel witha big fat mustache sat with the other officers. The best squadron in each wing won a yellow pennant⁴⁵ on a polethat was utterly⁴⁶ worthless. The best squadron on the base won a red pennant on a longer pole that was wortheven less, since the pole was heavier and was that much more of a nuisance to lug³⁰ around all week until someother squadron won it the following Sunday. To Yossarian, the idea of pennants⁴⁷ as prizes was absurd. No moneywent with them, no class privileges. Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies⁴⁸, all they signified was that theowner had done something of no benefit to anyone more capably than everyone else.

　　The parades themselves seemed equally absurd. Yossarian hated a parade. Parades were so martial⁴⁹. He hatedhearing them, hated seeing them, hated being tied up in traffic by them. He hated being made to take part inthem. It was bad enough being an aviation cadet without having to act like a soldier in the blistering⁵⁰ heat everySunday afternoon. It was bad enough being an aviation cadet because it was obvious now that the war would notbe over before he had finished his training. That was the only reason he had volunteered for cadet training in thefirst place. As a soldier who had qualified⁵¹ for aviation cadet training, he had weeks and weeks of waiting forassignment to a class, weeks and weeks more to become a bombardier-navigator, weeks and weeks more ofoperational training after that to prepare him for overseas duty. It seemed inconceivable then that the war couldlast that long, for God was on his side, he had been told, and God, he had also been told, could do whatever Hewanted to. But the war was not nearly over, and his training was almost complete.

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf longed desperately⁵² to win parades and sat up half the night working on it while his wifewaited amorously⁵³ for him in bed thumbing through Krafft-Ebing to her favorite passages. He read books onmarching. He manipulated boxes of chocolate soldiers until they melted in his hands and then maneuvered⁵⁴ inranks of twelve a set of plastic cowboys he had bought from a mail-order house under an assumed name and keptlocked away from everyone’s eyes during the day. Leonardo’s exercises in anatomy⁵⁵ proved indispensable. Oneevening he felt the need for a live model and directed his wife to march around the room.

　　“Naked?” she asked hopefully.

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf smacked⁵⁶ his hands over his eyes in exasperation⁵⁷. It was the despair of LieutenantScheisskopf’s life to be chained to a woman who was incapable⁵⁸ of looking beyond her own dirty, sexual desiresto the titanic⁵⁹ struggles for the unattainable in which noble man could become heroically engaged.

　　“Why don’t you ever whip me?” she pouted⁶⁰ one night.

　　“Because I haven’t the time,” he snapped at her impatiently. “I haven’t the time. Don’t you know there’s aparade going on?”

　　And he really did not have the time. There it was Sunday already, with only seven days left in the week to getready for the next parade. He had no idea where the hours went. Finishing last in three successive parades hadgiven Lieutenant Scheisskopf an unsavory reputation, and he considered every means of improvement, evennailing the twelve men in each rank to a long two-by-four beam of seasoned oak to keep them in line. The plan was not feasible, for making a ninety-degree turn would have been impossible without nickel-alloy⁶¹ swivelsinserted in the small of every man’s back, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf was not sanguine⁶² at all about obtainingthat many nickel-alloy swivels from Quartermaster or enlisting⁶³ the cooperation of the surgeons at the hospital.

　　The week after Lieutenant Scheisskopf followed Clevinger’s recommendation and let the men elect their owncadet officers, the squadron won the yellow pennant. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was so elated by his unexpectedachievement that he gave his wife a sharp crack over the head with the pole when she tried to drag him into bedto celebrate by showing their contempt for the sexual mores⁶⁴ of the lower middle classes in Western civilization.

　　The next week the squadron won the red flag, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf was beside himself with rapture⁶⁵. Andthe week after that his squadron made history by winning the red pennant two weeks in a row! Now LieutenantScheisskopf had confidence enough in his powers to spring his big surprise. Lieutenant Scheisskopf haddiscovered in his extensive research that the hands of marchers, instead of swinging freely, as was then thepopular fashion, ought never to be moved more than three inches from the center of the thigh⁶⁶, which meant, ineffect, that they were scarcely to be swung at all.

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s preparations were elaborate and clandestine⁶⁷. All the cadets in his squadron were swornto secrecy⁶⁸ and rehearsed in the dead of night on the auxiliary parade-ground. They marched in darkness that waspitch and bumped into each other blindly, but they did not panic, and they were learning to march withoutswinging their hands. Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s first thought had been to have a friend of his in the sheet metalshop sink pegs⁶⁹ of nickel alloy into each man’s thighbones and link them to the wrists by strands⁷⁰ of copper wirewith exactly three inches of play, but there wasn’t time—there was never enough time—and good copper wirewas hard to come by in wartime. He remembered also that the men, so hampered⁷¹, would be unable to fallproperly during the impressive fainting ceremony preceding the marching and that an inability to faint properlymight affect the unit’s rating as a whole.

　　And all week long he chortled with repressed delight at the officers’ club. Speculation⁷² grew rampant⁷³ among hisclosest friends.

　　“I wonder what that Shithead is up to,” Lieutenant Engle said.

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf responded with a knowing smile to the queries⁷⁴ of his colleagues. “You’ll find outSunday,” he promised. “You’ll find out.”

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf unveiled his epochal surprise that Sunday with all the aplomb⁷⁵ of an experiencedimpresario. He said nothing while the other squadrons ambled⁷⁶ past the reviewing stand crookedly⁷⁷ in theircustomary manner. He gave no sign even when the first ranks of his own squadron hove into sight with theirswingless marching and the first stricken gasps⁷⁸ of alarm were hissing⁷⁹ from his startled fellow officers. He heldback even then until the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache whirled upon him savagely⁸⁰ with a purplingface, and then he offered the explanation that made him immortal⁸¹.

　　“Look, Colonel,” he announced. “No hands.”

　　And to an audience stilled with awe⁸², he distributed certified⁸³ photostatic copies of the obscure regulation on which he had built his unforgettable triumph. This was Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s finest hour. He won the parade,of course, hands down, obtaining permanent possession of the red pennant and ending the Sunday paradesaltogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good copper wire. LieutenantScheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. Therewere few who did not hail him as a true military genius for his important discovery.

　　“That Lieutenant Scheisskopf,” Lieutenant Travels remarked. “He’s a military genius.”

　　“Yes, he really is,” Lieutenant Engle agreed. “It’s a pity the schmuck won’t whip his wife.”

　　“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Lieutenant Travers answered coolly. “Lieutenant Bemis whips Mrs.

　　Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse⁸⁴, and he isn’t worth a farthing at parades.”

　　“I’m talking about flagellation,” Lieutenant Engle retorted. “Who gives a damn about parades?”

　　Actually, no one but Lieutenant Scheisskopf really gave a damn about the parades, least of all the bloated colonelwith the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action Board and began bellowing⁸⁵ at Clevinger the momentClevinger stepped gingerly into the room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodgedagainst him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and became so further enraged⁸⁶ withClevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table even harder and hurt his hand some more. LieutenantScheisskopf glared at Clevinger with tight lips, mortified⁸⁷ by the poor impression Clevinger was making.

　　“In sixty days you’ll be fighting Billy Petrolle,” the colonel with the big fat mustache roared. “And you think it’sa big fat joke.”

　　“I don’t think it’s a joke, sir,” Clevinger replied.

　　“Don’t interrupt.”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“And say ‘sir’ when you do,” ordered Major Metcalf.

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“Weren’t you just ordered not to interrupt?” Major Metcalf inquired coldly.

　　“But I didn’t interrupt, sir,” Clevinger protested.

　　“No. And you didn’t say ‘sir,’ either. Add that to the charges against him,” Major Metcalf directed the corporalwho could take shorthand. “Failure to say ‘sir’ to superior officers when not interrupting them.”

　　“Metcalf,” said the colonel, “you’re a goddam fool. Do you know that?”

　　Major Metcalf swallowed with difficulty. “Yes, Sir.”

　　“Then keep your goddam mouth shut. You don’t make sense.”

　　There were three members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, LieutenantScheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a member of the Action Board,Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who would weigh the merits of the case against Clevinger aspresented by the prosecutor⁸⁸. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defendinghim. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf.

　　It was all very confusing to Clevinger, who began vibrating in terror as the colonel surged to his feet like agigantic belch⁸⁹ and threatened to rip his stinking⁹⁰, cowardly body apart limb from limb. One day he had stumbledwhile marching to class; the next day he was formally charged with “breaking ranks while in formation,felonious assault, indiscriminate behavior, mopery, high treason, provoking, being a smart guy, listening toclassical music and so on”. In short, they threw the book at him, and there he was, standing⁹¹ in dread⁹² before thebloated colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting Billy Petrolle and demanded toknow how the hell he would like being washed out and shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevingerreplied with courtesy that he would not like it; he was a dope who would rather be a corpse⁹³ than bury one. Thecolonel sat down and settled back, calm and cagey suddenly, and ingratiatingly polite.

　　“What did you mean,” he inquired slowly, “when you said we couldn’t punish you?”

　　“When, sir?”

　　“I’m asking the questions. You’re answering them.”

　　“Yes, sir. I—““Did you think we brought you here to ask questions and for me to answer them?”

　　“No, sir. I—““What did we bring you here for?”

　　“To answer questions.”

　　“You’re goddam right,” roared the colonel. “Now suppose you start answering some before I break your goddamhead. Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard⁹⁴, when you said we couldn’t punish you?”

　　“I don’t think I ever made that statement, sir.”

　　“Will you speak up, please? I couldn’t hear you.”

　　“Yes, sir. I—““Will you speak up, please? He couldn’t hear you.”

　　“Yes, sir. I—““Metcalf.”

　　“Sir?”

　　“Didn’t I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut?”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“Then keep your stupid mouth shut when I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut. Do you understand? Will youspeak up, please? I couldn’t hear you.”

　　“Yes, sir. I—““Metcalf, is that your foot I’m stepping on?”

　　“No, sir. It must be Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s foot.”

　　“It isn’t my foot,” said Lieutenant Scheisskopf.

　　“Then maybe it is my foot after all,” said Major Metcalf.

　　“Move it.”

　　“Yes, sir. You’ll have to move your foot first, colonel. It’s on top of mine.”

　　“Are you telling me to move my foot?”

　　“No, sir. Oh, no, sir.”

　　“Then move your foot and keep your stupid mouth shut. Will you speak up, please? I still couldn’t hear you.”

　　“Yes, sir. I said that I didn’t say that you couldn’t punish me.”

　　“Just what the hell are you talking about?”

　　“I’m answering your question, sir.”

　　“What question?”

　　“’Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn’t punish you?’” said the corporal whocould take shorthand, reading from his steno pad.

　　“All right,” said the colonel. “Just what the hell did you mean?”

　　“I didn’t say you couldn’t punish me, sir.”

　　“When?” asked the colonel.

　　“When what, sir?”

　　“Now you’re asking me questions again.”

　　“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand your question.”

　　“When didn’t you say we couldn’t punish you? Don’t you understand my question?”

　　“No, sir. I don’t understand.”

　　“You’ve just told us that. Now suppose you answer my question.”

　　“But how can I answer it?”

　　“That’s another question you’re asking me.”

　　“I’m sorry, sir. But I don’t know how to answer it. I never said you couldn’t punish me.”

　　“Now you’re telling us when you did say it. I’m asking you to tell us when you didn’t say it.”

　　Clevinger took a deep breath. “I always didn’t say you couldn’t punish me, sir.”

　　“That’s much better, Mr. Clevinger, even though it is a barefaced⁹⁵ lie. Last night in the latrine. Didn’t youwhisper that we couldn’t punish you to that other dirty son of a bitch we don’t like? What’s his name?”

　　“Yossarian, sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf said.

　　“Yes, Yossarian. That’s right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his name? Yossarian? What the hell kind of a nameis Yossarian?”

　　Lieutenant Scheisskopf had the facts at his fingertips. “It’s Yossarian’s name, sir,” he explained.

　　“Yes, I suppose it is. Didn’t you whisper to Yossarian that we couldn’t punish you?”

　　“Oh, no, sir. I whispered to him that you couldn’t find me guilty—““I may be stupid,” interrupted the colonel, “but the distinction escapes me. I guess I am pretty stupid, because thedistinction escapes me.”

　　“W-““You’re a windy son of a bitch, aren’t you? Nobody asked you for clarification and you’re giving meclarification. I was making a statement, not asking for clarification. You are a windy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

　　“No, Sir.”

　　“No, sir? Are you calling me a goddam liar¹⁹?”

　　“Oh, no, sir.”

　　“Then you’re a windy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

　　“No, sir.”

　　“Are you a windy son of a bitch?”

　　“No, sir.”

　　“Goddammit, you are trying to pick a fight with me. For two stinking cents I’d jump over this big fat table andrip your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb.”

　　“Do it! Do it!” cried Major Metcalf“Metcalf, you stinking son of a bitch. Didn’t I tell you to keep your stinking, cowardly, stupid mouth shut?”

　　“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

　　“Then suppose you do it.”

　　“I was only trying to learn, sir. The only way a person can learn is by trying.”

　　“Who says so?”

　　“Everybody says so, sir. Even Lieutenant Scheisskopf says so.”

　　“Do you say so?”

　　“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. “But everybody says so.”

　　“Well, Metcalf, suppose you try keeping that stupid mouth of yours shut, and maybe that’s the way you’ll learnhow. Now, where were we? Read me back the last line.”

　　“’Read me back the last line,’” read back the corporal who could take shorthand.

　　“Not my last line, stupid!” the colonel shouted. “Somebody else’s.”

　　“’Read me back the last line,’” read back the corporal.

　　“That’s my last line again!” shrieked⁹⁶ the colonel, turning purple with anger.

　　“Oh, no, sir,” corrected the corporal. “That’s my last line. I read it to you just a moment ago. Don’t youremember, sir? It was only a moment ago.”

　　“Oh, my God! Read me back his last line, stupid. Say, what the hell’s your name, anyway?”

　　“Popinjay, sir.”

　　“Well, you’re next, Popinjay. As soon as his trial ends, your trial begins. Get it?”

　　“Yes, sir. What will I be charged with?”

　　“What the hell difference does that make? Did you hear what he asked me? You’re going to learn, Popinjay—theminute we finish with Clevinger you’re going to learn. Cadet Clevinger, what did—You are Cadet Clevinger,aren’t you, and not Popinjay?”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“Good. What did—““I’m Popinjay, sir.”

　　“Popinjay, is your father a millionaire, or a member of the Senate?”

　　“No, sir.”

　　“Then you’re up shit creek⁹⁷, Popinjay, without a paddle. He’s not a general or a high-ranking member of theAdministration, is he?”

　　“No, sir.”

　　“That’s good. What does your father do?”

　　“He’s dead, sir.”

　　“That’s very good. You really are up the creek, Popinjay. Is Popinjay really your name? Just what the hell kindof a name is Popinjay anyway? I don’t like it.”

　　“It’s Popinjay’s name, sir,” Lieutenant Scheisskopf explained.

　　“Well, I don’t like it, Popinjay, and I just can’t wait to rip your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb.

　　Cadet Clevinger, will you please repeat what the hell it was you did or didn’t whisper to Yossarian late last nightin the latrine?”

　　“Yes, sir. I said that you couldn’t find me guilty—““We’ll take it from there. Precisely⁹⁸ what did you mean, Cadet Clevinger, when you said we couldn’t find youguilty?”

　　“I didn’t say you couldn’t find me guilty, sir.”

　　“When?”

　　“When what, sir?”

　　“Goddammit, are you going to start pumping me again?”

　　“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

　　“Then answer the question. When didn’t you say we couldn’t find you guilty?”

　　“Late last night in the latrine, sir.”

　　“Is that the only time you didn’t say it?”

　　“No, sir. I always didn’t say you couldn’t find me guilty, sir. What I did say to Yossarian was—““Nobody asked you what you did say to Yossarian. We asked you what you didn’t say to him. We’re not at allinterested in what you did say to Yossarian. Is that clear?”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“Then we’ll go on. What did you say to Yossarian?”

　　“I said to him, sir, that you couldn’t find me guilty of the offense⁹⁹ with which I am charged and still be faithful tothe cause of...”

　　“Of what? You’re mumbling¹⁰⁰.”

　　“Stop mumbling.”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“And mumble¹⁰¹ ‘sir’ when you do.”

　　“Metcalf, you bastard!”

　　“Yes, sir,” mumbled¹⁰² Clevinger. “Of justice, sir. That you couldn’t find—““Justice?” The colonel was astounded¹⁰³. “What is justice?”

　　“Justice, sir—““That’s not what justice is,” the colonel jeered¹⁰⁴, and began pounding the table again with his big fat hand. “That’swhat Karl Marx is. I’ll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut¹⁰⁵ from the floor on the chin at nightsneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the darkwithout a word of warning. Garroting. That’s what justice is when we’ve all got to be tough enough and roughenough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the hip⁷. Get it?”

　　“No, sir.”

　　“Don’t sir me!”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　“And say ‘sir’ when you don’t,” ordered Major Metcalf.

　　Clevinger was guilty, of course, or he would not have been accused, and since the only way to prove it was tofind him guilty, it was their patriotic¹⁰⁶ duty to do so. He was sentenced to walk fifty-seven punishment tours.

　　Popinjay was locked up to be taught a lesson, and Major Metcalf was shipped to the Solomon Islands to burybodies. A punishment tour for Clevinger was fifty minutes of a weekend hour spent pacing back and forth beforethe provost marshal’s building with a ton of an unloaded rifle on his shoulder.

　　It was all very confusing to Clevinger. There were many strange things taking place, but the strangest of all, to Clevinger, was the hatred¹⁰⁷, the brutal¹⁰⁸, uncloaked, inexorable hatred of the members of the Action Board, glazingtheir unforgiving expressions with a hard, vindictive¹⁰⁹ surface, glowing in their narrowed eyes malignantly¹¹⁰ likeinextinguishable coals. Clevinger was stunned¹¹¹ to discover it. They would have lynched him if they could. Theywere three grown men and he was a boy, and they hated him and wished him dead. They had hated him before hecame, hated him while he was there, hated him after he left, carried their hatred for him away malignantly likesome pampered¹¹² treasure after they separated from each other and went to their solitude¹¹³.

　　Yossarian had done his best to warn him the night before. “You haven’t got a chance, kid,” he told him glumly¹¹⁴.

　　“They hate Jews.”

　　“But I’m not Jewish,” answered Clevinger.

　　“It will make no difference,” Yossarian promised, and Yossarian was right. “They’re after everybody.”

　　Clevinger recoiled¹¹⁵ from their hatred as though from a blinding light. These three men who hated him spoke¹¹⁶ hislanguage and wore his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces set immutably¹¹⁷ into cramped¹¹⁸, mean lines ofhostility and understood instantly that nowhere in the world, not in all the fascist¹¹⁹ tanks or planes or submarines,not in the bunkers behind the machine guns or mortars¹²⁰ or behind the blowing flame throwers, not even among allthe expert gunners of the crack Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all thebeer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.

 08、沙伊斯科普夫少尉
　　七分钱一只买进的鸡蛋，又以每只五分钱的价格售出，最终还赚了钱，米洛何以能做到这一点，就连万事通克莱文杰也犯了难。
　　有关战争的一切，克莱文杰了如指掌，惟独一事他不甚明白：为何一旦斯纳克下士可以活下去，约塞连就非死不可，抑或，为何一旦约塞连可以活下去，斯纳克下士便只有死路一条。这是一场卑鄙肮脏的战争。假定没有这场战争，约塞连是本可以活下去的——或许能长寿。他的同胞中，只有极少数人甘愿为赢得这场战争的胜利而捐躯，至于约塞连自己，他实在是没有这个奢望成为其中的一分子。是死还是生，这是需要深思的问题，而克莱文杰倒是越发懒得回答这个问题了。历史并没有要求约塞连英年早逝；没有他的早逝，正义同样会得到伸张；无论是人类的进步，抑或是战争的胜败，都不取决于这一点。凡人皆难免一死，这是必然的事；但，哪些人该死，却全在天命。无论怎么个死法，约塞连都心甘情愿，但他就是不甘做天命的牺牲品。然而，这是战争。依他看，付出了巨大的血的代价，同时又把孩子们从父母有害的影响中解救出来，这便是这场战争唯一的可取之处。
　　克莱文杰之所以通晓那么多事，是因为他是个天才。他心跳剧烈，脸色苍白。尽管长得瘦长难看，可他浑身是劲，两眼射出渴求的光芒，是个聪明绝顶的人。当年在哈佛上学时，他差不多所有科目都得过学术奖，至于另外几门功课没得奖，唯一的原因是，他实在太忙了：既要在请愿书上签名，又要分发请愿书，还得就请愿书内容提出质疑；一会儿参加小组讨论，一会儿又退了出来；不是参加青年代表大会，就是替别的青年代表大会担任纠察，或是组织学生委员会，保护被开除的教员。克莱文杰日后必定在学术界大有作为，这是大家一致公认的。说到底，克莱文杰属于那种聪颖绝顶却全无智谋的人。这一点谁都知道，而那些过不多久才会发现这一点的人，是不会明白的。
　　总而言之，克莱文杰是个傻子。在约塞连眼里，他往往就跟那些整日在现代博物馆门前东荡西逛的人一样，两只眼睛都长在一张脸的同一侧。这自然是一种错觉，而这种错觉则完全是因克莱文杰本人而起，因为他偏好死盯着问题的一面，一向忽视其另一面。
　　政治上，他是一个人道主义者，很能识别左翼和右翼，却又极不自在地夹在两者之间。他时常当着右翼敌人的面，替左翼朋友辩护；
　　又当着左翼敌人的面，替右翼朋友辩护。可是，无论是左翼还是右翼，都对他深恶痛绝，从来就不愿在任何人面前替他辩护，因为，在他们看来，他实在是个傻子。
　　不过，他是个极严肃认真且专心一意的傻子。假如同他去看一场电影，散场后他非缠住你不可，同你讨论什么移情啦，什么亚里士多德啦，什么全称命题啦，什么寓意啦，还有作为艺术形式的电影在物质第一的社会中应尽的责任，等等。他每次带女孩子上剧院看戏，总得让人家等到第一次幕间休息，才肯说出看的戏是好是坏，而且用不着她们多费口舌，他就一下子和盘托出。此外，他还是一个战斗性颇强的理想主义者，投身于消灭种族歧视的斗争，其斗争方式是，凡遇到这种事例，他便当即昏厥。他于文学颇是精通，却不懂得怎么欣赏。
　　约塞连曾设法开导他。“别做傻子啦。”他这样劝过克莱文杰。
　　当时，他俩还在加利福尼亚州圣安娜的一所军校学习。
　　“我去跟他说。”克莱文杰一再坚持。当时，他和约塞连正高高地坐在检阅台上，俯视辅助阅兵场上的沙伊斯科普夫少尉——活像没长胡须的李尔，正怒气冲冲地来回走动。
　　“干吗是我？”沙伊斯科普夫少尉悲叹道。
　　“别作声，傻瓜。”约塞连长辈似地劝说克菜文杰。
　　“你不知道自己在说什么。”克莱文杰很是反感。
　　“我当然知道，所以才不作声的，傻瓜。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉咬牙切齿地撕扯着自己的头发；橡胶似的两颊因阵阵极度的痛苦而不时地颤动。令他如此苦恼的是，一中队航空学校学员士气消沉，在每周日下午举标的阅兵比赛中；表现极其恶劣。他们之所以士气消沉，一是因为他们讨厌每周日下午列队接受检阅，二是因为沙伊斯科普夫少尉不允许他们选自己的学员军官，而是由他从他们中间任命。
　　“我希望有人当面跟我说。”沙伊斯科普夫少尉极诚恳地请求全体学员。“假如我有什么过错，我希望你们直接跟我说。”
　　“他希望有人当面跟他说，”克莱文杰说。
　　“他是希望谁都不要吭气，傻爪，”约塞连回答说。
　　“难道你没听见他说？”克莱文杰反驳道。
　　“当然听见，”约塞连答道，“我听见他说得很响，很清楚，假如我们知道什么对我们有利，他希望我们每个人都把嘴闭起来。”
　　“我决不惩罚你们，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉向全体学员保证道。
　　“他说他不会惩罚我的。”克莱文杰说。
　　“他会阉割了你。”约塞连说。
　　“我保证决不惩罚你们，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉说，“谁要是跟我说了实话，我一定会很感激的。”
　　“他会恨你的，”约塞连说，“到死都会恨你。”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉是后备军官训练队的毕业生。战争的爆发，于他颇是桩喜事，因为这一来，他便有机会天天穿上军官制服、冲着一群群小伙子——上战场送命之前，每八周便有一批落入他的手掌，以军人特有的清脆快速的嗓音，喊道：“弟兄们！”沙伊斯科普夫少尉极有野心，一向不苟言笑，从来都是极谨慎持重地面对自己的职责。只有当圣安娜陆军航空基地某个与他对立的军官，染上了什么缠绵的疾病，他才会露一丝笑容。他视力极差，又患有慢性瘘管病，然而，这反倒让他觉得战争格外刺激，因为他不可能去海外作战，也就没有了丝毫的危险。沙伊斯科普夫少尉唯一令人满意之处是他的太太，而他太太最让人称心的，是有一个名叫多丽.达兹的女友。多丽.达兹只要有机会，便要与人风流快活。她有一套陆军妇女队的制服，沙伊斯科普夫少尉的太太一到周未，便穿上这套制服；假如一到周未，她丈夫中队里的学员，无论是谁，想跟她上床，她便会为他脱了这套制服。
　　多丽.达兹是个活泼的浪荡少女，紫铜色的皮肤，金黄色的头发。工具房、公用电话亭、更衣室和公共汽车候车亭，都是她最喜欢的做爱场所。几乎没什么事她不曾尝试过，而她不愿尝试的事则更是少有。她年方十九，体形苗条，却淫荡不羁，不知羞耻。不少男人让她给弄得全无了自尊心，到了早晨便憎恶自己，因为她揭破了他们的真面目，利用了他们，却又把他们弃置一旁。约塞连倒是挺爱她。作为性交对象，她实在是个绝妙的女人，不过，依她看，约塞连也就如此而已。多丽.达兹只让约塞连碰过她一次，她浑身上下的肌肤极富弹性，那种感觉着实令约塞连爱不释手。约塞连很爱多丽.达兹，因此，他总是控制不住自己，每个星期必定会感情热烈地扑到沙伊斯科普夫少尉的太太身上，以此报复沙伊斯科普夫少尉，就像沙伊斯科普夫少尉报复克莱文杰一样。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉曾造下一桩难忘的孽，他太太倒是记不得了，不过，她还是为此在报复自己的丈夫。她丰满、肌肤白皙、不好动，喜读好书，又不时地力劝约塞连，不要太庸俗，连书都不读。她自己手边从来是少不了一本好书的，即便赤条条躺在床上，身上只有约塞连及多丽.达兹的身份识别牌时，也不例外。她让约塞连感到厌倦，可他也照样爱上了她。她毕业于沃顿商业学校，主修的是数学，可笨得出奇，每个月竟连二十八都数不清。
　　“亲爱的，我们再生个孩子吧，”她月月都这么跟约塞连说。
　　“你在说胡话吧，”他总这么回答。
　　“我可是当真的，宝贝，”她坚持说。
　　“我也一样。”
　　“亲爱的，我们再生个孩子吧，”她常跟自己的丈夫说。
　　“我没时间，”沙伊斯科普夫少尉老是没好气地咕哝道，“难道你不知道在进行阅兵吗？”
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉最为关心的，是如何在阅兵比赛中获胜，如何把克莱文杰送至裁定委员会，指控他密谋打倒由他任命的学员军官。克莱文杰专爱闹事，又自命不凡。沙伊斯科普夫少尉知道，假如对他不小心防范，这家伙很有可能闹出更大的乱子来。昨天是想阴谋打倒学员军官，明天或许企图颠覆整个世界。克莱文杰颇有头脑，而沙伊斯科普夫少尉发现，凡是有头脑的人往往相当精明。这种人很危险，就连那些由克莱文杰扶掖的新上任的学员军官，也急不可耐地想出来作证，指控克莱文杰，欲置他于死地。指控克莱文杰一案，显然是成立的。唯一缺少的，就是以什么罪控告他。
　　但无论如何不能牵涉阅兵比赛，因为克莱文杰几乎同沙伊斯科普夫少尉本人一样，极为重视那些阅兵比赛。每周日下午，学员们早早便出来参加阅兵比赛，摸索着在营房外排成十二人一列的队伍。于是，他们宿酒未醒地哼唧着，深一脚浅一脚地走向大阅兵场各就各位。然后，他们就和其他六七十支中队的学员纹丝不动地站在烈日下，一站便是一两个小时，直到不少学员支持不住晕倒在地，队伍才被解散。阅兵场边上，停放了一排救护车，还站着一队队担架兵，他们手持步话机，个个训练有素。救护车车顶上，是手持望远镜的观察员。一名记分员负责记录比分。这一阶段比赛的全过程，由一名精通会计的军医负责监督。每分钟脉搏跳多少次可视作晕厥，必须得到军医的认可，记分员记录的比分，也必须经他核实。
　　一旦救护车载满了昏迷的学员，军医便示意乐队指挥开始奏乐，结束比赛。于是，所有中队一个紧跟着一个，向前走去，绕检阅台拐个大弯，退出阅兵场，返回各自的营房。
　　所有参加检阅的中队齐步走过检阅台时，都被打了分。检阅台上，坐着一名上校——留着两撇又浓又粗的八字须，摆出一副狂妄自大的尊容——和其他几位军官。各联队的最佳中队得一面插上旗杆的黄色锦旗——实在是毫无用处。基地的最佳中队则获一面红色锦旗，旗杆略长一些——更是没什么价值，因为旗杆的分量重了，下周日由其他中队夺走之前，足足一个星期他们必须得扛东扛西，实在很是令人头疼。在约塞连看来，以锦旗代奖品是颇有些滑稽可笑的。锦旗不代表金钱，也不代表等级特权。它们就跟奥林匹克运动会奖章和网球赛奖杯一样，仅仅表明，获奖者做了一桩于谁都无甚益处的事情，只不过比任何别的人做得出色罢了。
　　阅兵比赛这件事本身看来也同样滑稽可笑。约塞连讨厌受人检阅。阅兵大过军事化。他讨厌听到有关阅兵的消息；讨厌看到阅兵的场面，讨厌让接受检阅的队伍给困在半途，动身不得；也讨厌被迫参加阅兵活动。当一名航空学校学员已经是触尽了楣头，每星期天下午还得跟士兵一样，在炎炎的赤日下接受检阅。当一名航空学校学员确实是桩相当倒霉的事，因为现在看来，军训结束之前，战争显然是打不完的。而约塞连之所以自愿报名进航空学校接受训练，唯一的原因就是他以前一直以为，战争必定先他的军校训练而结束。约塞连作为一名大兵，早具备了条件进航空学校接受训练，但得等上若干星期，才会被选派到某个班：再等上若干星期，便做一名轰炸领航员；之后，又得接受若干星期的作战训练，为执行海外任务做准备。当时，似乎根本就想不到，战争竟会打那么长时间。有人曾跟他说，上帝和他站在一边；有人还跟他说，上帝无事不成。可是，战争根本就没个结局，而他的训练倒是差不多近了尾声。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉一心想在阅兵比赛中获胜，于是，熬了大半个晚上、琢磨来琢磨去。他妻子躺在床上，含情脉脉地企盼着他，一边迅速翻阅克拉夫特.埃宾的书，找自己最爱读的章节。沙伊斯科普夫看的则是有关行进方面的书。他拿了一盒盒小兵巧克力糖摆弄来摆弄去，直到所有的巧克力糖都化在了他的手里，于是，又取出一套塑料牧童，极熟练地把它们排成若干十二人一列的队伍。
　　这套塑料玩具是他以化名从一家邮购商店买来的，为了不让人看见，白天他总是把它锁藏起来。列奥纳多的解剖练习原来也是不可或缺的。一天晚上，他觉得少了个活模特儿，于是，就命令夫人在房里飞步行走。
　　“光着身走吗？”她满怀希望地问道。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉极为恼怒，两手啪地捂住了眼睛。他太太只晓得满足自己肮脏的肉欲，根本就无法理解高尚的人为实现无法达到的目标所做出的艰苦卓绝的伟大斗争。
　　“你到底为啥不跟我做爱？”一天晚上，她撅着嘴问。
　　“因为我没时间，”他很是不耐烦，冲着她厉声说道，“我没那工夫。难道你不知道在进行阅兵比赛吗？”
　　他确实没时间。又到星期天了，只有七天的时间为下一次阅兵比赛做准备。他实在不明白，时间究竟是怎么过的。接连三次比赛，沙伊斯科普夫少尉的中队都是最后一名，搞得他名声极坏。为了改进目前的这种状况，他考虑了各种办法，甚至想到用一根长长的二英寸厚、四英寸宽且风干了的栎木桁，把每列的十二人一直线钉在上面。显然，这是行不通的，因为假如用这种办法，就必须在每个人的腰背部嵌入一个镍合金旋转轴承，不然，他们就无法作九十度转体。再说，能否从军需主任那里要到那么多镍合金旋转轴承，或者，能否争取医院外科医生的合作，对此，沙伊斯科普夫少尉实在没有丝毫把握。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉采纳了克莱文杰的建议，让学员们选出了他们自己的学员军官。随后的那个星期，这个中队便夺得了那面黄色锦旗。这突如其来的胜利，让沙伊斯科普夫少尉心花怒放。当他妻子想拖他上床庆贺——以此表示他们蔑视西方文明中中产阶级下层的性风俗——时，他竟抡起旗杆，对着她的脑袋狠狠地打了下去。又过一个星期，中队夺得了那面红色锦旗。沙伊斯科普夫少尉简直是欣喜若狂。之后的又一个星期，他的中队创下了历史记录，连续两个星期夺得红色锦旗。现在，沙伊斯科普夫少尉坚信自己有能力一鸣惊人。经过广泛的研究，他发现，行进时，两只手不应像时下流行的那样自由摆动，而应该自始至终与大腿正中保持不超过三英寸的摆距，其实也就是说，两手几乎就不用摆动。
　　沙伊斯科普夫少尉的准备工作周详充分，且又相当秘密。中队全体学员发誓保守秘密。夜深人静的时候，他们就在辅助阅兵场上进行演习。他们在漆黑的夜晚里行进，漫无目的地彼此瞎撞，但他们并不惊慌。他们是在练习不摆动双手行进。起初，沙伊斯科普夫少尉倒是考虑过让金属薄板店的一位朋友把镍合金钉嵌入每个学员的股骨，然后，再用恰好三英寸长的铜丝把钉子和手腕接起来，可是，时间来不及——时间老是不够用——再说，战争期间实在不大容易搞到手。他还考虑到，假如学员们受了这样的束缚，那么，齐步行进前，参加令人肃然的检阅仪式时，万一晕厥，他们便不能以规范的姿势倒下去，而昏倒的姿势若不合乎规范，便有可能影响中队的团体总分。
　　整整一个星期，沙伊斯科普夫少尉强压住内心的喜悦，每次到了军官俱乐部，总是咯咯地欢笑。他的密友中便开始有了种种的猜测。
　　“真不知那白痴在搞什么鬼，”恩格尔中尉说。
　　每逢同事提问时，沙伊斯科普夫少尉总是会意地一笑。“到了星期日你们就会知道的。”他向大伙儿保证。“你们会知道的。”
　　那个星期日，沙伊斯科普夫少尉以一名经验丰富的乐队指挥所特有的沉着自信，向公众揭露了他的划时代的惊人秘密。他一声不吭地目睹着其他中队用惯常的轻松步伐，从容却颇别扭地走过检阅台。即便当自己中队的前几排学员手臂一动不动地齐步走入视线，先是让他那些受惊的同僚个个吁吁地倒抽气，直为他担心，沙伊斯科普夫少尉依旧镇定得很。就是在那种时候，他也还是声色不露。后来，那名留了粗浓八字须的傲气十足的上校，猛地转过身来，恶狠狠地对着他，脸色铁青，这时，他才作出了解释——致使他名垂千古的解释。
　　“您瞧，上校，”他说，“不用动手。”
　　随后，他把自己那套费解的行进规则——他取得这令人难忘的成功，便是以此作为基础——的直接影印件，散发给了在场的观众——惊愕得鸦雀无声。这可是沙伊斯科普夫少尉生平最荣耀的时刻。他取得了阅兵比赛的胜利，自然是轻而易举的，从此便永久保持了那面红色锦旗，也就彻底结束了每星期日必定举行的阅兵比赛，因为优质的红色绵旗和优质铜丝一样，在战时都是极难到手的。沙伊斯科普夫少尉当即晋升为中尉，自此，便平步青云。因为他的重大发现，差不多每个人都把他视为真正的军事天才。
　　“那个沙伊斯科普夫中尉，”特拉弗斯中尉说，“他可是个军事天才。”
　　“没错，的确是个天才。”恩格尔中尉表示赞同。“可惜的是，这蠢驴不愿鞭打自己的老婆。”
　　“我看不出这两者之间有什么关系，”特拉弗斯中尉很冷淡他说，“比米斯中尉每次跟太太做爱，总要狠狠地给她一顿鞭打，可在阅兵比赛中，他却是一点都不中用。”
　　“我说的是鞭打自己的老婆，”恩格尔中尉反驳道，“谁在乎什么阅兵比赛？”
　　说实话，除沙伊斯科普夫中尉之外，根本就没人真把阅兵比赛这事放在心上，那个留两撇浓粗八字须的上校更不用说了。这家伙是裁定委员会主席，克莱文杰刚战战兢兢地跨进委员会办公室，准备替自己申辩，不承认沙伊斯科普夫中尉对他提出的指控，他便对着他大声咆哮。上校握着拳头，猛击桌面，反倒痛了自己的手，于是，对克莱文杰更是暴怒，再又狠狠地捶了一下桌子，这次使的劲更猛，手也因此就更痛得厉害。克莱文杰留下了极坏的印象，这很让沙伊斯科普夫中尉丢脸，他恶狠狠地朝克莱文杰直瞪眼。
　　“再过六十天，你就要跟意大利人打仗了，”留着粗浓八字胡的上校大声吼道，“可你还以为这是个天大的玩笑呢。”
　　“我没这么想，长官，”克莱文杰答道。
　　“别插嘴。”
　　“是，长官。”
　　“说话时得叫一声‘长官’，”梅特卡夫少校下令道。
　　“是，长官。”
　　“刚才不是让你别插嘴吗？”梅特卡夫少校冷冷地问了一句。
　　“可是我没插嘴，长官，”克莱文杰抗辩道。
　　“不错，你没插嘴，但你也没叫一声‘长官’。对他的指控加上这一条。”梅特卡夫少校命令那个会速记的下士。“尽管没有打断上级军官的说话，但没能向他们报告一声‘长官’。”
　　“梅特卡夫，”上校说，“你真是头讨厌的蠢驴。你自己知道吗？”
　　梅特卡夫少校好不容易把这口怨气咽了下去。“知道，长官。”
　　“那就闭上你那张该死的嘴。老是胡说八道。”
　　裁定委员会由三人组成，他们是，留着粗浓八字胡的傲气十足的上校，沙伊斯科普夫中尉和梅特卡夫少校。梅特卡夫少校正设法用冷冰冰的目光来审视别人。沙伊斯科普夫中尉身为裁定委员会的一名成员，同时也是其中的一个法官，必须对起诉人控告克莱文杰一案的是非曲直，进行认真的考虑。而沙伊斯科普夫中尉本人又是起诉人。克莱文杰有一名军官替他辩护，那个军官便是沙伊斯科普夫中尉。
　　这一切把克莱文杰弄得实在是稀里糊涂。当上校猛地跳起身——酷似放肆地大声打嗝，扬言要肢解他那具散发恶臭的卑怯的躯体时，克莱文杰害怕得浑身直打战。一天，在列队齐步走去上课途中，克莱文杰绊了一跤。第二天，他便正式受到指控：“编队行进时打乱队形、行凶殴打、行为失检、吊儿郎当、叛国、煽动闹事、自作聪明、听古典音乐，等等。”一句话，他们一古脑儿把各种罪名加到他身上，于是，他便来到了裁定委员会，胆战心惊地站在这位傲气十足的上校跟前。上校又一次大声吼着，说再过六十天，他就要去跟意大利人打仗了，接着又问他，假如开除他，送他去所罗门群岛埋尸体，他究竟是否愿意。克莱文杰极是恭敬地回答说，他不愿意；他是个笨蛋，宁愿是一具尸体，也不甘埋一具尸体。上校坐了下去，身体往后一靠，态度一下子镇静了下来，变得谨小慎微，且又献殷勤一般地客气了起来。
　　“你说我们不能惩罚你，这是什么意思？”上校慢悠悠地问道。
　　“我什么时候说过这话，长官？”
　　“是我在问你，你回答。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“你以为我们带你来这里，是请你提问题，叫我来回答吗？”
　　“不是的，长官。我一”“我们干吗带你来这儿？”
　　“让我回答问题。”
　　“你说得千真万确，”上校大声吼道，“好，你就先回答几个问题吧，免得我砸了你的狗头。你说我们不能惩罚你，你这狗杂种，究竟是什么意思？”
　　“我想我从来就没有说过这样的话，长官。”
　　“请你说得响一些，行不行？我听不见你的话。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“梅特卡夫？”
　　“什么事，长官？”
　　“我刚才不是让你闭上你那张笨嘴吗？”
　　“是，长官。”
　　“我让你闭上你那张笨嘴，你就给我闭起来。明白没有，请你说得响一些，好不好？我听不见你的话。”
　　“是，长官。我——”
　　“梅特卡夫，是不是我踩了你的脚？”
　　“不是，长官。一定是沙伊斯科普夫中尉的脚。”
　　“不是我的脚，”沙伊斯科普夫中尉说。
　　“那或许还是我的脚吧，”梅特卡夫少校说。
　　“挪开点。”
　　“是，长官。您得先把您的脚挪开，上校。您的脚踩在了我的脚上面。”
　　“你让我把我的脚挪开？”
　　“不是，长官。嗬，不是，长官。”
　　“那就把你的脚挪开，然后，闭上你那张笨嘴。请你说响一些，好吗？我听不见你说的话。”
　　“是，长官。我说了，我没说你们不能惩罚我。”
　　“你到底在说什么？”
　　“我在回答您的问题，长官？”
　　“什么问题？”
　　“‘你说我们不能惩罚你，你这狗杂种，究竟是什么意思？’”那个会速记的下士看着速记本读了一遍。
　　“没错，”上校说，“你说这话究竟是什么意思？”
　　“我没说你们不能惩罚我，长官。”
　　“什么时候？”上校问。
　　“什么什么时候，长官？”
　　“嗨，你又在向我提问了。”
　　“对不起，长官。恐怕我没听懂您提的问题。”
　　“你什么时候没说过我们不能惩罚你？我的问题难道你听不懂？”
　　“不懂，长官。我听不懂。”
　　“你才跟我们说过。好，你就回答我的问题吧。”
　　“可是这个问题我该怎么答呢？”
　　“你这又是在问我一个问题了。”
　　“对不起，长官。可我实在是不知道该怎么回答您的问题。我绝对没说过你们不能惩罚我。”
　　“现在你告诉我们，你什么时候的确说过这话。我是在请你告诉我们，你什么时候没说过这话。”
　　克莱文杰深吸了一口气。“我一直就没说过你们不能惩罚我，长官。”
　　“这样回答可是好多了，克莱文杰先生，尽管你是在当面撒谎。
　　昨天晚上在厕所里。难道你没悄声跟我们讨厌的另一个狗杂种说过，我们不能惩罚你吗？那家伙叫什么来着？”
　　“约塞连，长官。”沙伊斯科普夫中尉说。
　　“没错，是约塞连。一点没错。约塞连。约塞连？他是叫约塞连吗？约塞连究竟算是什么样的名字？”
　　对所有的实情，沙伊斯科普夫中尉可是了如指掌。“这是约塞连的名字，长官。”他给上校作了解释。
　　“没错，我猜想是这么回事儿。难道你私下没跟约塞连说，我们不能惩罚你？”
　　“嗬，没有，长官。我私下跟他说过，你