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- Джозеф Хеллер
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- Уловка 22
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- Стр. 158/452
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The
breeze
rustled
leaves
in
a
dry
and
diaphanous
distance
.
He
was
restless
,
scared
and
sleepy
.
The
sockets
of
his
eyes
felt
grimy
with
exhaustion
.
Wearily
he
moved
inside
the
parachute
tent
with
its
long
table
of
smoothed
wood
,
a
nagging
bitch
of
a
doubt
burrowing
painlessly
inside
a
conscience
that
felt
perfectly
clear
.
He
left
his
flak
suit
and
parachute
there
and
crossed
back
past
the
water
wagon
to
the
intelligence
tent
to
return
his
map
case
to
Captain
Black
,
who
sat
drowsing
in
his
chair
with
his
skinny
long
legs
up
on
his
desk
and
inquired
with
indifferent
curiosity
why
Yossarian
’
s
plane
had
turned
back
.
Yossarian
ignored
him
.
He
set
the
map
down
on
the
counter
and
walked
out
.
Back
in
his
own
tent
,
he
squirmed
out
of
his
parachute
harness
and
then
out
of
his
clothes
.
Orr
was
in
Rome
,
due
back
that
same
afternoon
from
the
rest
leave
he
had
won
by
ditching
his
plane
in
the
waters
off
Genoa
.
Nately
would
already
be
packing
to
replace
him
,
entranced
to
find
himself
still
alive
and
undoubtedly
impatient
to
resume
his
wasted
and
heartbreaking
courtship
of
his
prostitute
in
Rome
.
When
Yossarian
was
undressed
,
he
sat
down
on
his
cot
to
rest
.
He
felt
much
better
as
soon
as
he
was
naked
.
He
never
felt
comfortable
in
clothes
.
In
a
little
while
he
put
fresh
undershorts
back
on
and
set
out
for
the
beach
in
his
moccasins
,
a
khaki
-
colored
bath
towel
draped
over
his
shoulders
.
The
path
from
the
squadron
led
him
around
a
mysterious
gun
emplacement
in
the
woods
;
two
of
the
three
enlisted
men
stationed
there
lay
sleeping
on
the
circle
of
sand
bags
and
the
third
sat
eating
a
purple
pomegranate
,
biting
off
large
mouthfuls
between
his
churning
jaws
and
spewing
the
ground
roughage
out
away
from
him
into
the
bushes
.
When
he
bit
,
red
juice
ran
out
of
his
mouth
.
Yossarian
padded
ahead
into
the
forest
again
,
caressing
his
bare
,
tingling
belly
adoringly
from
time
to
time
as
though
to
reassure
himself
it
was
all
still
there
.
He
rolled
a
piece
of
lint
out
of
his
navel
.
Along
the
ground
suddenly
,
on
both
sides
of
the
path
,
he
saw
dozens
of
new
mushrooms
the
rain
had
spawned
poking
their
nodular
fingers
up
through
the
clammy
earth
like
lifeless
stalks
of
flesh
,
sprouting
in
such
necrotic
profusion
everywhere
he
looked
that
they
seemed
to
be
proliferating
right
before
his
eyes
.
There
were
thousands
of
them
swarming
as
far
back
into
the
underbrush
as
he
could
see
,
and
they
appeared
to
swell
in
size
and
multiply
in
number
as
he
spied
them
.
He
hurried
away
from
them
with
a
shiver
of
eerie
alarm
and
did
not
slacken
his
pace
until
the
soil
crumbled
to
dry
sand
beneath
his
feet
and
they
had
been
left
behind
.
He
glanced
back
apprehensively
,
half
expecting
to
find
the
limp
white
things
crawling
after
him
in
sightless
pursuit
or
snaking
up
through
the
treetops
in
a
writhing
and
ungovernable
mutative
mass
.
The
beach
was
deserted
.
The
only
sounds
were
hushed
ones
,
the
bloated
gurgle
of
the
stream
,
the
respirating
hum
of
the
tall
grass
and
shrubs
behind
him
,
the
apathetic
moaning
of
the
dumb
,
translucent
waves
.
The
surf
was
always
small
,
the
water
clear
and
cool
.
Yossarian
left
his
things
on
the
sand
and
moved
through
the
knee
-
high
waves
until
he
was
completely
immersed
.
On
the
other
side
of
the
sea
,
a
bumpy
sliver
of
dark
land
lay
wrapped
in
mist
,
almost
invisible
.
He
swam
languorously
out
to
the
raft
,
held
on
a
moment
,
and
swam
languorously
back
to
where
he
could
stand
on
the
sand
bar
.
He
submerged
himself
head
first
into
the
green
water
several
times
until
he
felt
clean
and
wide
-
awake
and
then
stretched
himself
out
face
down
in
the
sand
and
slept
until
the
planes
returning
from
Bologna
were
almost
overhead
and
the
great
,
cumulative
rumble
of
their
many
engines
came
crashing
in
through
his
slumber
in
an
earth
-
shattering
roar
.
He
woke
up
blinking
with
a
slight
pain
in
his
head
and
opened
his
eyes
upon
a
world
boiling
in
chaos
in
which
everything
was
in
proper
order
.
He
gasped
in
utter
amazement
at
the
fantastic
sight
of
the
twelve
flights
of
planes
organized
calmly
into
exact
formation
.
The
scene
was
too
unexpected
to
be
true
.
There
were
no
planes
spurting
ahead
with
wounded
,
none
lagging
behind
with
damage
.
No
distress
flares
smoked
in
the
sky
.
No
ship
was
missing
but
his
own
.
For
an
instant
he
was
paralyzed
with
a
sensation
of
madness
.
Then
he
understood
,
and
almost
wept
at
the
irony
The
explanation
was
simple
:
clouds
had
covered
the
target
before
the
planes
could
bomb
it
,
and
the
mission
to
Bologna
was
still
to
be
flown
.
He
was
wrong
.
There
had
been
no
clouds
.
Bologna
had
been
bombed
.
Bologna
was
a
milk
run
.
There
had
been
no
flak
there
at
all
.
Captain
Piltchard
and
Captain
Wren
,
the
inoffensive
joint
squadron
operations
officers
,
were
both
mild
,
soft
-
spoken
men
of
less
than
middle
height
who
enjoyed
flying
combat
missions
and
begged
nothing
more
of
life
and
Colonel
Cathcart
than
the
opportunity
to
continue
flying
them
.
They
had
flown
hundreds
of
combat
missions
and
wanted
to
fly
hundreds
more
.
They
assigned
themselves
to
every
one
.
Nothing
so
wonderful
as
war
had
ever
happened
to
them
before
;
and
they
were
afraid
it
might
never
happen
to
them
again
.
They
conducted
their
duties
humbly
and
reticently
,
with
a
minimum
of
fuss
,
and
went
to
great
lengths
not
to
antagonize
anyone
.
They
smiled
quickly
at
everyone
they
passed
.
When
they
spoke
,
they
mumbled
.
They
were
shifty
,
cheerful
,
subservient
men
who
were
comfortable
only
with
each
other
and
never
met
anyone
else
’
s
eye
,
not
even
Yossarian
’
s
eye
at
the
open
-
air
meeting
they
called
to
reprimand
him
publicly
for
making
Kid
Sampson
turn
back
from
the
mission
to
Bologna
.
"
Fellas
,
"
said
Captain
Piltchard
,
who
had
thinning
dark
hair
and
smiled
awkwardly
.
"
When
you
turn
back
from
a
mission
,
try
to
make
sure
it
’
s
for
something
important
,
will
you
?
Not
for
something
unimportant
.
.
.
like
a
defective
intercom
.
.
.
or
something
like
that
.
Okay
?
Captain
Wren
has
more
he
wants
to
say
to
you
on
that
subject
.
"
