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- Джозеф Хеллер
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- Уловка 22
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- Стр. 163/452
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"
Will
you
look
at
this
?
"
he
murmured
,
waggling
two
of
his
stubby
fingers
playfully
into
Yossarian
’
s
face
through
the
hole
in
one
of
his
maps
.
"
Will
you
look
at
this
?
"
Yossarian
was
dumbfounded
by
his
state
of
rapturous
contentment
.
Aarfy
was
like
an
eerie
ogre
in
a
dream
,
incapable
of
being
bruised
or
evaded
,
and
Yossarian
dreaded
him
for
a
complex
of
reasons
he
was
too
petrified
to
untangle
.
Wind
whistling
up
through
the
jagged
gash
in
the
floor
kept
the
myriad
bits
of
paper
circulating
like
alabaster
particles
in
a
paperweight
and
contributed
to
a
sensation
of
lacquered
,
waterlogged
unreality
.
Everything
seemed
strange
,
so
tawdry
and
grotesque
.
His
head
was
throbbing
from
a
shrill
clamor
that
drilled
relentlessly
into
both
ears
.
It
was
McWatt
,
begging
for
directions
in
an
incoherent
frenzy
.
Yossarian
continued
staring
in
tormented
fascination
at
Aarfy
’
s
spherical
countenance
beaming
at
him
so
serenely
and
vacantly
through
the
drifting
whorls
of
white
paper
bits
and
concluded
that
he
was
a
raving
lunatic
just
as
eight
bursts
of
flak
broke
open
successively
at
eye
level
off
to
the
right
,
then
eight
more
,
and
then
eight
more
,
the
last
group
pulled
over
toward
the
left
so
that
they
were
almost
directly
in
front
.
"
Turn
left
hard
!
"
he
hollered
to
McWatt
as
Aarfy
kept
grinning
,
and
McWatt
did
turn
left
hard
,
but
the
flak
turned
left
hard
with
them
,
catching
up
fast
,
and
Yossarian
hollered
,
"
I
said
hard
,
hard
,
hard
,
hard
,
you
bastard
,
hard
!
"
And
McWatt
bent
the
plane
around
even
harder
still
,
and
suddenly
,
miraculously
,
they
were
out
of
range
.
The
flak
ended
.
The
guns
stopped
booming
at
them
.
And
they
were
alive
.
Behind
him
,
men
were
dying
.
Strung
out
for
miles
in
a
stricken
,
tortuous
,
squirming
line
,
the
other
flights
of
planes
were
making
the
same
hazardous
journey
over
the
target
,
threading
their
swift
way
through
the
swollen
masses
of
new
and
old
bursts
of
flak
like
rats
racing
in
a
pack
through
their
own
droppings
.
One
was
on
fire
,
and
flapped
lamely
off
by
itself
,
billowing
gigantically
like
a
monstrous
blood
-
red
star
.
As
Yossarian
watched
,
the
burning
plane
floated
over
on
its
side
and
began
spiraling
down
slowly
in
wide
,
tremulous
,
narrowing
circles
,
its
huge
flaming
burden
blazing
orange
and
flaring
out
in
back
like
a
long
,
swirling
cape
of
fire
and
smoke
.
There
were
parachutes
,
one
,
two
,
three
.
.
.
four
,
and
then
the
plane
gyrated
into
a
spin
and
fell
the
rest
of
the
way
to
the
ground
,
fluttering
insensibly
inside
its
vivid
pyre
like
a
shred
of
colored
tissue
paper
.
One
whole
flight
of
planes
from
another
squadron
had
been
blasted
apart
.
Yossarian
sighed
barrenly
,
his
day
’
s
work
done
.
He
was
listless
and
sticky
.
The
engines
crooned
mellifluously
as
McWatt
throttled
back
to
loiter
and
allow
the
rest
of
the
planes
in
his
flight
to
catch
up
.
The
abrupt
stillness
seemed
alien
and
artificial
,
a
little
insidious
.
Yossarian
unsnapped
his
flak
suit
and
took
off
his
helmet
.
He
sighed
again
,
restlessly
,
and
closed
his
eyes
and
tried
to
relax
.
"
Where
’
s
Orr
?
"
someone
asked
suddenly
over
his
intercom
.
Yossarian
bounded
up
with
a
one
-
syllable
cry
that
crackled
with
anxiety
and
provided
the
only
rational
explanation
for
the
whole
mysterious
phenomenon
of
the
flak
at
Bologna
:
Orr
!
He
lunged
forward
over
the
bombsight
to
search
downward
through
the
Plexiglas
for
some
reassuring
sign
of
Orr
,
who
drew
flak
like
a
magnet
and
who
had
undoubtedly
attracted
the
crack
batteries
of
the
whole
Hermann
Goering
Division
to
Bologna
overnight
from
wherever
the
hell
they
had
been
stationed
the
day
before
when
Orr
was
still
in
Rome
.
Aarfy
launched
himself
forward
an
instant
later
and
cracked
Yossarian
on
the
bridge
of
the
nose
with
the
sharp
rim
of
his
flak
helmet
.
Yossarian
cursed
him
as
his
eyes
flooded
with
tears
.
