yossarian ran right into the hospital, determined to remain there forever rather than fly one mission more thanthe thirty-two missions he had. ten days after he changed his mind and came out, the colonel raised the missionsto forty-five and yossarian ran right back in, determined to remain in the hospital forever rather than fly onemission more than the six missions more he had just flown.
yossarian could run into the hospital whenever he wanted to because of his liver and because of his eyes; thedoctors couldn’t fix his liver condition and couldn’t meet his eyes each time he told them he had a livercondition. he could enjoy himself in the hospital, just as long as there was no one really very sick in the sameward. his system was sturdy enough to survive a case of someone else’s malaria or influenza with scarcely anydiscomfort at all. he could come through other people’s tonsillectomies without suffering any postoperativedistress, and even endure their hernias and hemorrhoids with only mild nausea and revulsion. but that was justabout as much as he could go through without getting sick. after that he was ready to bolt. he could relax in thehospital, since no one there expected him to do anything. all he was expected to do in the hospital was die or getbetter, and since he was perfectly all right to begin with, getting better was easy.
being in the hospital was better than being over bologna or flying over avignon with huple and dobbs at thecontrols and snowden dying in back.
there were usually not nearly as many sick people inside the hospital as yossarian saw outside the hospital, andthere were generally fewer people inside the hospital who were seriously sick. there was a much lower deathrate inside the hospital than outside the hospital, and a much healthier death rate. few people died unnecessarily.
people knew a lot more about dying inside the hospital and made a much neater, more orderly job of it. theycouldn’t dominate death inside the hospital, but they certainly made her behave. they had taught her manners.
they couldn’t keep death out, but while she was in she had to act like a lady. people gave up the ghost withdelicacy and taste inside the hospital. there was none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was socommon outside the hospital. they did not blow up in mid-air like kraft or the dead man in yossarian’s tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret toyossarian in the back of the plane.
“i’m cold,” snowden had whimpered. “i’m cold.”
“there, there,” yossarian had tried to comfort him. “there, there.”
they didn’t take it on the lam weirdly inside a cloud the way clevinger had done. they didn’t explode into bloodand clotted matter. they didn’t drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or crushed in landslides.
they didn’t get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, bludgeoned todeath with axes by parents or children or die summarily by some other act of god. nobody choked to death.
people bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired without comment in an oxygen tent. therewas none of that tricky now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t business so much in vogue outside the hospital, none ofthat now-i-am-and-now-i-ain’t. there were no famines or floods. children didn’t suffocate in cradles or iceboxesor fall under trucks. no one was beaten to death. people didn’t stick their heads into ovens with the gas on, jumpin front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of hotel windows with a whoosh!,accelerating at the rate of sixteen feet per second to land with a hideous plop! on the sidewalk and diedisgustingly there in public like an alpaca sack full of hairy strawberry ice cream, bleeding, pink toes awry.
all things considered, yossarian often preferred the hospital, even though it had its faults. the help tended to beofficious, the rules, if heeded, restrictive, and the management meddlesome. since sick people were apt to bepresent, he could not always depend on a lively young crowd in the same ward with him, and the entertainmentwas not always good. he was forced to admit that the hospitals had altered steadily for the worse as the warcontinued and one moved closer to the battlefront, the deterioration in the quality of the guests becoming mostmarked within the combat zone itself where the effects of booming wartime conditions were apt to makethemselves conspicuous immediately. the people got sicker and sicker the deeper he moved into combat, untilfinally in the hospital that last time there had been the soldier in white, who could not have been any sickerwithout being dead, and he soon was.
the soldier in white was constructed entirely of gauze, plaster and a thermometer, and the thermometer wasmerely an adornment left balanced in the empty dark hole in the bandages over his mouth early each morningand late each afternoon by nurse cramer and nurse duckett right up to the afternoon nurse cramer read thethermometer and discovered he was dead. now that yossarian looked back, it seemed that nurse cramer, ratherthan the talkative texan, had murdered the soldier in white; if she had not read the thermometer and reportedwhat she had found, the soldier in white might still be lying there alive exactly as he had been lying there allalong, encased from head to toe in plaster and gauze with both strange, rigid legs elevated from the hips and bothstrange arms strung up perpendicularly, all four bulky limbs in casts, all four strange, useless limbs hoisted up inthe air by taut wire cables and fantastically long lead weights suspended darkly above him. lying there that waymight not have been much of a life, but it was all the life he had, and the decision to terminate it, yossarian felt,should hardly have been nurse cramer’s.
the soldier in white was like an unrolled bandage with a hole in it or like a broken block of stone in a harborwith a crooked zinc pipe jutting out. the other patients in the ward, all but the texan, shrank from him with a tenderhearted aversion from the moment they set eyes on him the morning after the night he had been sneaked in.
they gathered soberly in the farthest recess of the ward and gossiped about him in malicious, offendedundertones, rebelling against his presence as a ghastly imposition and resenting him malevolently for thenauseating truth of which he was bright reminder. they shared a common dread that he would begin moaning.
“i don’t know what i’ll do if he does begin moaning,” the dashing young fighter pilot with the golden mustachehad grieved forlornly. “it means he’ll moan during the night, too, because he won’t be able to tell time.”
no sound at all came from the soldier in white all the time he was there. the ragged round hole over his mouthwas deep and jet black and showed no sign of lip, teeth, palate or tongue. the only one who ever came closeenough to look was the affable texan, who came close enough several times a day to chat with him about morevotes for the decent folk, opening each conversation with the same unvarying greeting: “what do you say, fella?
how you coming along?” the rest of the men avoided them both in their regulation maroon corduroy bathrobesand unraveling flannel pajamas, wondering gloomily who the soldier in white was, why he was there and whathe was really like inside.
“he’s all right, i tell you,” the texan would report back to them encouragingly after each of his social visits.
“deep down inside he’s really a regular guy. he’s feeling a little shy and insecure now because he doesn’t knowanybody here and can’t talk. why don’t you all just step right up to him and introduce yourselves? he won’t hurtyou.”
“what the goddam hell are you talking about?” dunbar demanded. “does he even know what you’re talkingabout?”
“sure he knows what i’m talking about. he’s not stupid. there ain’t nothing wrong with him.”
“can he hear you?”
“well, i don’t know if he can hear me or not, but i’m sure he knows what i’m talking about.”
“does that hole over his mouth ever move?”
“now, what kind of a crazy question is that?” the texan asked uneasily.
“how can you tell if he’s breathing if it never moves?”
“how can you tell it’s a he?”
“does he have pads over his eyes underneath that bandage over his face?”
“does he ever wiggle his toes or move the tips of his fingers?”
the texan backed away in mounting confusion. “now, what kind of a crazy question is that? you fellas must allbe crazy or something. why don’t you just walk right up to him and get acquainted? he’s a real nice guy, i tellyou.”
the soldier in white was more like a stuffed and sterilized mummy than a real nice guy. nurse duckett andnurse cramer kept him spick-and-span. they brushed his bandages often with a whiskbroom and scrubbed theplaster casts on his arms, legs, shoulders, chest and pelvis with soapy water. working with a round tin of metalpolish, they waxed a dim gloss on the dull zinc pipe rising from the cement on his groin. with damp dish towelsthey wiped the dust several times a day from the slim black rubber tubes leading in and out of him to the twolarge stoppered jars, one of them, hanging on a post beside his bed, dripping fluid into his arm constantly througha slit in the bandages while the other, almost out of sight on the floor, drained the fluid away through the zincpipe rising from his groin. both young nurses polished the glass jars unceasingly. they were proud of theirhousework. the more solicitous of the two was nurse cramer, a shapely, pretty, sexless girl with a wholesomeunattractive face. nurse cramer had a cute nose and a radiant, blooming complexion dotted with fetching spraysof adorable freckles that yossarian detested. she was touched very deeply by the soldier in white. her virtuous,pale-blue, saucerlike eyes flooded with leviathan tears on unexpected occasions and made yossarian mad.
“how the hell do you know he’s even in there?” he asked her.
“don’t you dare talk to me that way!” she replied indignantly.
“well, how do you? you don’t even know if it’s really him.”
“who?”
“whoever’s supposed to be in all those bandages. you might really be weeping for somebody else. how do youknow he’s even alive?”
“what a terrible thing to say!” nurse cramer exclaimed. “now, you get right into bed and stop making jokesabout him.”
“i’m not making jokes. anybody might be in there. for all we know, it might even be mudd.”
“what are you talking about?” nurse cramer pleaded with him in a quavering voice.
“maybe that’s where the dead man is.”
“what dead man?”
“i’ve got a dead man in my tent that nobody can throw out. his name is mudd.”
nurse cramer’s face blanched and she turned to dunbar desperately for aid. “make him stop saying things likethat,” she begged.
“maybe there’s no one inside,” dunbar suggested helpfully. “maybe they just sent the bandages here for a joke.”
she stepped away from dunbar in alarm. “you’re crazy,” she cried, glancing about imploringly. “you’re bothcrazy.”
nurse duckett showed up then and chased them all back to their own beds while nurse cramer changed thestoppered jars for the soldier in white. changing the jars for the soldier in white was no trouble at all, since thesame clear fluid was dripped back inside him over and over again with no apparent loss. when the jar feeding theinside of his elbow was just about empty, the jar on the floor was just about full, and the two were simplyuncoupled from their respective hoses and reversed quickly so that the liquid could be dripped right back intohim. changing the jars was no trouble to anyone but the men who watched them changed every hour or so andwere baffled by the procedure.
“why can’t they hook the two jars up to each other and eliminate the middleman?” the artillery captain withwhom yossarian had stopped playing chess inquired. “what the hell do they need him for?”
“i wonder what he did to deserve it,” the warrant officer with malaria and a mosquito bite on his ass lamentedafter nurse cramer had read her thermometer and discovered that the soldier in white was dead.
“he went to war,” the fighter pilot with the golden mustache surmised.
“we all went to war,” dunbar countered.
“that’s what i mean,” the warrant officer with malaria continued. “why him? there just doesn’t seem to be anylogic to this system of rewards and punishment. look what happened to me. if i had gotten syphilis or a dose ofclap for my five minutes of passion on the beach instead of this damned mosquito bite, i could see justice. butmalaria? malaria? who can explain malaria as a consequence of fornication?” the warrant officer shook hishead in numb astonishment.
“what about me?” yossarian said. “i stepped out of my tent in marrakech one night to get a bar of candy andcaught your dose of clap when that wac i never even saw before hissed me into the bushes. all i really wantedwas a bar of candy, but who could turn it down?”
“that sounds like my dose of clap, all right,” the warrant officer agreed. “but i’ve still got somebody else’smalaria. just for once i’d like to see all these things sort of straightened out, with each person getting exactlywhat he deserves. it might give me some confidence in this universe.”
“i’ve got somebody else’s three hundred thousand dollars,” the dashing young fighter captain with the goldenmustache admitted. “i’ve been goofing off since the day i was born. i cheated my way through prep school andcollege, and just about all i’ve been doing ever since is shacking up with pretty girls who think i’d make a goodhusband. i’ve got no ambition at all. the only thing i want to do after the war is marry some girl who’s got moremoney than i have and shack up with lots more pretty girls. the three hundred thousand bucks was left to me before i was born by a grandfather who made a fortune selling on an international scale. i know i don’t deserveit, but i’ll be damned if i give it back. i wonder who it really belongs to.”
“maybe it belongs to my father,” dunbar conjectured. “he spent a lifetime at hard work and never could makeenough money to even send my sister and me through college. he’s dead now, so you might as well keep it.”
“now, if we can just find out who my malaria belongs to we’d be all set. it’s not that i’ve got anything againstmalaria. i’d just as soon goldbrick with malaria as with anything else. it’s only that i feel an injustice has beencommitted. why should i have somebody else’s malaria and you have my dose of clap?”
“i’ve got more than your dose of clap,” yossarian told him. “i’ve got to keep flying combat missions because ofthat dose of yours until they kill me.”
“that makes it even worse. what’s the justice in that?”
“i had a friend named clevinger two and a half weeks ago who used to see plenty of justice in it.”
“it’s the highest kind of justice of all,” clevinger had gloated, clapping his hands with a merry laugh. “i can’thelp thinking of the hippolytus of euripides, where the early licentiousness of theseus is probably responsiblefor the asceticism of the son that helps bring about the tragedy that ruins them all. if nothing else, that episodewith the wac should teach you the evil of sexual immorality.”
“it teaches me the evil of candy.”
“can’t you see that you’re not exactly without blame for the predicament you’re in?” clevinger had continuedwith undisguised relish. “if you hadn’t been laid up in the hospital with venereal disease for ten days back therein africa, you might have finished your twenty-five missions in time to be sent home before colonel nevers waskilled and colonel cathcart came to replace him.”
“and what about you?” yossarian had replied. “you never got clap in marrakech and you’re in the samepredicament.”
“i don’t know,” confessed clevinger, with a trace of mock concern. “i guess i must have done something verybad in my time.”
“do you really believe that?”
clevinger laughed. “no, of course not. i just like to kid you along a little.”
there were too many dangers for yossarian to keep track of. there was hitler, mussolini and tojo, for example,and they were all out to kill him. there was lieutenant scheisskopf with his fanaticism for parades and there wasthe bloated colonel with his big fat mustache and his fanaticism for retribution, and they wanted to kill him, too.
there was appleby, havermeyer, black and korn. there was nurse cramer and nurse duckett, who he was almost certain wanted him dead, and there was the texan and the c.i.d. man, about whom he had no doubt.
there were bartenders, bricklayers and bus conductors all over the world who wanted him dead, landlords andtenants, traitors and patriots, lynchers, leeches and lackeys, and they were all out to bump him off. that was thesecret snowden had spilled to him on the mission to avignon—they were out to get him; and snowden hadspilled it all over the back of the plane.
there were lymph glands that might do him in. there were kidneys, nerve sheaths and corpuscles. there weretumors of the brain. there was hodgkin’s disease, leukemia, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. there were fertile redmeadows of epithelial tissue to catch and coddle a cancer cell. there were diseases of the skin, diseases of thebone, diseases of the lung, diseases of the stomach, diseases of the heart, blood and arteries. there were diseasesof the head, diseases of the neck, diseases of the chest, diseases of the intestines, diseases of the crotch. thereeven were diseases of the feet. there were billions of conscientious body cells oxidating away day and night likedumb animals at their complicated job of keeping him alive and healthy, and every one was a potential traitorand foe. there were so many diseases that it took a truly diseased mind to even think about them as often as heand hungry joe did.
hungry joe collected lists of fatal diseases and arranged them in alphabetical order so that he could put his fingerwithout delay on any one he wanted to worry about. he grew very upset whenever he misplaced some or whenhe could not add to his list, and he would go rushing in a cold sweat to doc daneeka for help.
“give him ewing’s tumor,” yossarian advised doc daneeka, who would come to yossarian for help in handlinghungry joe, “and follow it up with melanoma. hungry joe likes lingering diseases, but he likes the fulminatingones even more.”
doc daneeka had never heard of either. “how do you manage to keep up on so many diseases like that?” heinquired with high professional esteem.
“i learn about them at the hospital when i study the reader’s digest.”
yossarian had so many ailments to be afraid of that he was sometimes tempted to turn himself in to the hospitalfor good and spend the rest of his life stretched out there inside an oxygen tent with a battery of specialists andnurses seated at one side of his bed twenty-four hours a day waiting for something to go wrong and at least onesurgeon with a knife poised at the other, ready to jump forward and begin cutting away the moment it becamenecessary. aneurisms, for instance; how else could they ever defend him in time against an aneurism of theaorta? yossarian felt much safer inside the hospital than outside the hospital, even though he loathed the surgeonand his knife as much as he had ever loathed anyone. he could start screaming inside a hospital and peoplewould at least come running to try to help; outside the hospital they would throw him in prison if he ever startedscreaming about all the things he felt everyone ought to start screaming about, or they would put him in thehospital. one of the things he wanted to start screaming about was the surgeon’s knife that was almost certain tobe waiting for him and everyone else who lived long enough to die. he wondered often how he would everrecognize the first chill, flush, twinge, ache, belch, sneeze, stain, lethargy, vocal slip, loss of balance or lapse ofmemory that would signal the inevitable beginning of the inevitable end.
he was afraid also that doc daneeka would still refuse to help him when he went to him again after jumping outof major major’s office, and he was right.
“you think you’ve got something to be afraid about?” doc daneeka demanded, lifting his delicate immaculatedark head up from his chest to gaze at yossarian irascibly for a moment with lachrymose eyes. “what about me?
my precious medical skills are rusting away here on this lousy island while other doctors are cleaning up. doyou think i enjoy sitting here day after day refusing to help you? i wouldn’t mind it so much if i could refuse tohelp you back in the states or in some place like rome. but saying no to you here isn’t easy for me, either.”
“then stop saying no. ground me.”
“i can’t ground you,” doc daneeka mumbled. “how many times do you have to be told?”
“yes you can. major major told me you’re the only one in the squadron who can ground me.”
doc daneeka was stunned. “major major told you that? when?”
“when i tackled him in the ditch.”
“major major told you that? in a ditch?”
“he told me in his office after we left the ditch and jumped inside. he told me not to tell anyone he told me, sodon’t start shooting your mouth off.”
“why that dirty, scheming liar!” doc daneeka cried. “he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. did he tell you how icould ground you?”
“just by filling out a little slip of paper saying i’m on the verge of a nervous collapse and sending it to group.
dr. stubbs grounds men in his squadron all the time, so why can’t you?”
“and what happens to the men after stubbs does ground them?” doc daneeka retorted with a sneer. “they goright back on combat status, don’t they? and he finds himself right up the creek. sure, i can ground you byfilling out a slip saying you’re unfit to fly. but there’s a catch.”
“catch-22?”
“sure. if i take you off combat duty, group has to approve my action, and group isn’t going to. they’ll put youright back on combat status, and then where will i be? on my way to the pacific ocean, probably. no, thank you.
i’m not going to take any chances for you.”
“isn’t it worth a try?” yossarian argued. “what’s so hot about pianosa?”
“pianosa is terrible. but it’s better than the pacific ocean. i wouldn’t mind being shipped someplace civilized where i might pick up a buck or two in abortion money every now and then. but all they’ve got in the pacific isjungles and monsoons, i’d rot there.”
“you’re rotting here.”
doc daneeka flared up angrily. “yeah? well, at least i’m going to come out of this war alive, which is a lot morethan you’re going to do.”
“that’s just what i’m trying to tell you, goddammit. i’m asking you to save my life.”
“it’s not my business to save lives,” doc daneeka retorted sullenly.
“what is your business?”
“i don’t know what my business is. all they ever told me was to uphold the ethics of my profession and nevergive testimony against another physician. listen. you think you’re the only one whose life is in danger? whatabout me? those two quacks i’ve got working for me in the medical tent still can’t find out what’s wrong withme.”
“maybe it’s ewing’s tumor,” yossarian muttered sarcastically.
“do you really think so?” doc daneeka exclaimed with fright.
“oh, i don’t know,” yossarian answered impatiently. “i just know i’m not going to fly any more missions. theywouldn’t really shoot me, would they? i’ve got fifty-one.”
“why don’t you at least finish the fifty-five before you take a stand?” doc daneeka advised. “with all yourbitching, you’ve never finished a tour of duty even once.”
“how the hell can i? the colonel keeps raising them every time i get close.”
“you never finish your missions because you keep running into the hospital or going off to rome. you’d be in amuch, stronger position if you had your fifty-five finished and then refused to fly. then maybe i’d see what icould do.”
“do you promise?”
“i promise.”
“what do you promise?”
“i promise that maybe i’ll think about doing something to help if you finish your fifty-five missions and if youget mcwatt to put my name on his flight log again so that i can draw my flight pay without going up in a plane.
i’m afraid of airplanes. did you read about that airplane crash in idaho three weeks ago? six people killed. it wasterrible. i don’t know why they want me to put in four hours’ flight time every month in order to get my flightpay. don’t i have enough to worry about without worrying about being killed in an airplane crash too?”
“i worry about the airplane crashes also,” yossarian told him. “you’re not the only one.”
“yeah, but i’m also pretty worried about that ewing’s tumor,” doc daneeka boasted. “do you think that’s whymy nose is stuffed all the time and why i always feel so chilly? take my pulse.”
yossarian also worried about ewing’s tumor and melanoma. catastrophes were lurking everywhere, toonumerous to count. when he contemplated the many diseases and potential accidents threatening him, he waspositively astounded that he had managed to survive in good health for as long as he had. it was miraculous.
each day he faced was another dangerous mission against mortality. and he had been surviving them for twenty-eight years.
17、浑身雪白的士兵
约塞连直接跑进了医院，决心永远呆在那儿。他已完成了三十二次飞行任务，他决定不再多飞一次。当他改变了主意从医院出来后的第十天，上校又把飞行任务提高到四十五次，于是约塞连又跑回医院，决定永远呆在医院里，除了他刚刚又多飞的六次之外，不再多飞一次。
由于他的肝脏和眼睛的缘故，约塞连只要愿意，随时都可以住进医院；那些医生由于不能确诊他的肝病，因此每次约塞连跟他们说他的肝有毛病时，他们都不敢正视他的目光。只要他的病房里没有人真的病得很厉害，他在医院里就能自得其乐。他的身体还真够结实，别人得疟疾或流感，他几乎连一点不舒服的感觉都没有。他能忍受别人进行扁桃体切除术，并且他们手术后他也不会有任何苦恼。他甚至能忍受他们的疝气和痔疮，只是稍有点作呕和厌恶。
不过，他也只能到这个地步而不生病。超过这个地步，他随时要逃走。他可以在医院里休息，因为在那儿没有人指望他做什么。人们期望他在医院里不是死掉就是好起来。既然他一开始就没病，好起来是很容易的。
呆在医院里要比在博洛尼亚上空或飞越阿维尼翁上空时的情景好多了，当时赫普尔和多布斯在操纵飞机，斯诺登奄奄一息地躺在后面。
通常，医院里面的病人没有约塞连在医院外面见到的多，而且医院里一般很少有人是病得很严重的。医院里的死亡率远比医院外的低，是一种健康得多的死亡率。很少有人死得没有必要。人们对死在医院里这种事知道得要多得多，因而死得更加干净，更加井然有序。他们虽然在医院里还无法支配死神，但却肯定可以让她乖乖听话。他们教她举止得体。他们虽不能把死神挡在医院之外，但当她进来时，她得像位贵妇人一样温文尔雅。在医院里，人们死得文雅而得体。这儿没有医院外边十分常见的那种耸人听闻、野蛮丑陋的死法。他们不会像克拉夫特那样在半空中被炸得身首异处，不会像约塞连帐篷里的那个死人，也不会像斯诺登那样在飞机的后舱里向约塞连吐露了他的秘密之后，在骄阳似火的夏季被活活冻死。
“我冷。”斯诺登当时低声呻吟着。“我冷。”
“好了，好了。”约塞连极力安慰他。“好了，好了。”
他们没有像克莱文杰那样神奇地逃入一片云层。他们没有被炸成血乎乎的肉块。他们没有被淹死，没有遭到雷击，没有被机器轧得血肉模糊或在山崩中被砸得粉身碎骨。他们没有在拦路抢劫中被击毙，没有在强奸中被扼死，没有在酒吧里被捅死，没有被父母和孩子用斧头劈死，或遭上帝的某个天条的惩罚而一命呜呼。没有人窒息而死。人们因流血过多在手术室里像绅士一般死去，或者在氧气帐里断了气而未吭一声。完全没有医院外边流行的那种“这会儿你见到我过会儿就见不到我”的变戏法似的事情，也没有“这会儿我还在过会儿就完蛋”那种事情。这里没有饥荒或洪水。孩子们不会闷死在摇篮里或冰箱里，也不会跌倒在卡车轮下。没有人被活活打死。没有人把他们的脑袋伸进开着煤气的烤箱里，或跳到疾驶的地铁列车前方，或像大铅锤似的带着呼呼声从旅馆窗户里骤然跌落，以每秒三十二英尺的加速度垂直向下，最后令人胆寒地扑通一声，像只装满草莓冰淇淋的羊驼呢口袋摔在人行道上，鲜血淋淋，粉红色的脚趾还在抽动，令人恶心地死于众目睽睽之下。
权衡再三，约塞连常常还是宁愿呆在医院里，尽管医院有医院的毛病。那里的护士往往好管闲事，那里的规定，如果执行的话，很有约束性，那里的管理也常常干预病人的事情。由于病人随时有可能住进来，他也不能总指望有一群活泼的年轻人跟他住在同一间病房里，而且，文娱活动也常常没什么意思。他不得不承认，随着战争的继续，人们越来越靠近战场，医院的情况已在逐步变坏。在战区内住院的病员情况恶化得十分明显，这立即说明了战争变得越来越激烈。他越深入到战斗中心去，那儿病员的情况也就越糟，直到最后医院里来了那位浑身雪白的士兵，除了死之外，他不可能病得再厉害了，而他很快就死了。
那个浑身雪白的士兵全身上下缠着纱布，绑着石膏，外加一只体温表。那体温表只不过是件装饰品，每天清晨和傍晚由克拉默护士和达克特护士平稳地放在他嘴巴上缠着的绷带中一个小黑洞里，直到那天下午克拉默护士来看体温表时才发现他已经死了。此刻约塞连回想起来，觉得好橡是克拉默护士而不是那个得克萨斯人谋害了那个浑身雪白的士兵。假如她那天没来察看体温表并报告她发现的情况，那个浑身雪白的士兵也许还像往常那样一直活着躺在那儿，从头到脚裹在石膏和纱布里，两条奇形怪状的僵硬的腿从臀部被吊起来，两只奇形怪状的膀子也笔直地吊在那里，四肢都绑着石膏，又粗又大，这些奇形怪状的、无用的四肢用拉紧的电缆线吊在半空中，一些长得出奇的铅块黑乎乎地悬在他上方。那个样子躺在那儿说明他的性命也许不多了，不过那可是他最后的全部生命，因此约塞连觉得似乎不应该由克拉默护士来作出结束他的性命的决定。
那个浑身雪白的士兵像块展开的、上面有个洞的绷带，或者像港口里一块破碎的石块，上面有一根扭曲了的锌管突出来，除了那个得克萨斯人之外，病房里其他的病人都是软心肠。他是那天晚上被悄悄送进病房里来的，从第二天早晨他门看见他那一刻起，大家就厌恶地避开他。他们神情庄重地聚集在病房的另一角，用恶毒的话语和受到冒犯的口吻低声议论着他；他们反对硬把他这令人恐怖的模样塞到他们面前，怨恨他那极为醒目的模样，活生生地向他们提醒了那令人作呕的现实，他们都害怕同一件事情：他将开始呻吟。
“如果他真的开始呻吟，我不知道我该怎么办，”那个打扮漂亮的、留着金黄色小胡子的年轻的战斗机飞行员可怜兮兮地哀叹道，“那意味着他晚上也要呻吟啦，因为他辨不出白天黑夜。”
那个浑身雪白的士兵一直躺在那儿，没有一点声音。他嘴巴上方那个边缘参差不齐的圆洞又深又黑，一点没露出嘴唇、牙齿、上腭或舌头的迹象。唯一走到足够近的地方去看他的人就是那个和蔼可亲的得克萨斯人。他每天好几次走到离他比较近的地方，同他闲谈关于多给那些正派的人投票的事。他每次开始谈话都这么一成不变地先打招呼：“你说什么，伙计？感觉怎么样？”其他病人都穿着规定的栗色灯芯绒浴衣和敞开着的法兰绒睡衣，避开他俩呆在一旁，神情优郁地在猜想那个浑身雪白的士兵到底是谁，他为什么会在这儿，那纱布和石膏里面的他到底是个什么样子。
“我跟你们说，他没问题。”每次结束他的社交访问之后，那个得克萨斯人总是这样鼓舞人心地向他们汇报。“他内部完全是个正常的家伙。只不过是他现在还有点儿怯生，有点儿不踏实，因为他不认识我们这儿的任何人，而且也不能说话。你们干吗不都走到他面前去介绍一下自己？他不会把你们吃掉的。”
“你***到底在说些什么？”邓巴问道，“他知道你在说些什么吗？”
“他肯定知道我在说什么。他并不傻。他没什么问题。”
“他能听得见你说话吗？”
“嗯，我不清楚他能不能听见我说话，但我肯定他知道我在说什么。”
“他嘴巴上的那个洞有没有动过？”
“咳，这是个什么怪问题啊？”那个得克萨斯人不大自在地问道。
“如果那个洞根本不动，你怎么知道他在呼吸呢？”
“你怎么知道那是个男的？”
“他脸上的绷带下有没有纱布块盖在眼睛上？”
“他有没有动过脚趾头或手指尖？”
那个得克萨斯人退却了，自己也越来越糊涂了。“好了，这是些什么怪问题啊。你们这些家伙肯定都疯了或傻了。你们为什么不走到他跟前和他认识一下？他真的是个挺好的家伙，我跟你们说。”
那个浑身雪白的士兵与其说是个活生生的人，还不如说更像个已制成标本、消过毒的木乃伊。达克特护士和克拉默护士使他保持得干干净净。她们常用一只短柄小刷轻刷他的绷带，用肥皂水擦洗他手臂上、腿上、肩膀上、胸脯上和骨盆上的石膏。她们用装在一个圆听里的金属抛光剂，给一根从他的腹股沟处的石膏板上伸出来的暗淡的锌管涂上淡淡的一层光。她们还用湿抹布每天几次擦去两条细细的黑橡胶管上的灰尘。这两条管子从他身上一进一出，连着两只塞住的大口瓶，其中一只吊在他床旁边的一根柱子上，瓶中的药液通过他手臂上的绷带中的一个缝隙不断地滴进他的体内；另一只瓶则放在地板上几乎看不见的地方，通过那根从他腹股沟处伸出来的锌管把液体排掉。这两个年轻的护士一刻不停地擦着那两只玻璃瓶。她俩为自己所做的杂务活而感到自豪。在她们两人中，克拉默护士更为细心。她是位身材修长的姑娘，漂亮但不性感，长着一张健康却不迷人的脸庞。克拉默护士的鼻子娇小可爱，脸上的皮肤光泽耀人，透露出青春的气息，脸上星星点点地生着一些动人、然而却让约塞连讨厌的小雀斑。她被那个浑身雪白的士兵深深打动了。她那双善良的、淡蓝色的、又大又圆的眼睛常在意想不到的时候涌出巨大的泪珠，那眼睛真让约塞连受不了。
“你怎么知道他在那里面？”他问她。
“你怎么敢这样跟我说话！”她气冲冲地回答。
“嗯，你怎么知道，你甚至不知道那是不是真的是他。”
“谁？”
“谁在那些绷带里就是谁。你也许真的在哭其他什么人。你怎么知道他还活着。”
“你怎么能说出这么可怕的话来！”克拉默护士嚷道，“好了，快回到床上去，别再拿他开玩笑啦。”
“我可不是在开玩笑。任何人都可能在那里面。因为我都知道，那甚至有可能是马德。”
“你在说什么呀？”克拉默护士声音颤抖地恳求他说。
“也许那就是死人呆的地方。”
“什么死人？”
“我的帐篷里就有个死人，没有人能把他扔出去。他的名字叫马德。”
克拉默护士的脸一下子变得苍白，眼巴巴地转向邓巴求助。
“叫他不要再说这样的话吧，”她乞求道。
“也许里面没有人，”邓已帮腔似地暗示说，“也许他们只是把这些绷带送到这儿来开个玩笑。”
她惊恐地从邓巴身边退开。“你疯了，”她一边喊着，一边用哀求的目光四下张望。“你们两个都疯了。”
这时达克特护士出现了，把他们都赶回到他们自己的床上去，而克拉默护士则为那个浑身雪白的士兵更换了塞住口的瓶子。为那个浑身雪白的士兵换瓶子是件毫不费力的事，因为那些相同的、清澈的液体一遍又一遍地滴进他的体内，没有明显的损耗。当那只盛着滴入他手臂内的液体的瓶子差不多要空了的时候，那只放在地板上的瓶子就快要满了，只要把那两只瓶子从它们各自的管子上拿开并很快换个位置，这样液体就又能滴入他的体内。换瓶子这件事对其他人来说并没有什么，但却使那些看着这些瓶子大约每小时被更换一次的人受不了，他们对这一程序感到迷惑不解。
“他们干吗不把两只瓶子连起来，去掉那个中间的人呢？”那个刚同约塞连下完棋的炮兵上尉问，“他们到底需要他干什么？”
“我不晓得他做了些什么要受这份罪，”那个得了疟疾、屁股上曾被蚊子叮过一口的二级准尉，在克拉默护士察看过体温表并发现那个浑身雪白的士兵已经死了之后这样哀叹道。
“他打过仗，”那个留着金黄色小胡子的战斗机飞行员猜测说。
“我们都打过仗，”邓巴反驳说。
“我就是那个意思，”那个得疟疾的二级准尉继续说，“为什么是他？这种奖惩制度好像没什么逻辑。看看我的遭遇。要是我那次在海滩上放纵五分钟之后得了梅毒或淋病而不是被那该死的蚊子叮了一口，我倒觉得还有点公平。可怎么会得疟疾？疟疾？谁能解释私通的结果会是疟疾？”那个二级准尉摇了摇头，惊讶得无话可说。
“我的情况怎么样呢？”约塞连说，“在马拉喀什，我有天晚上从帐篷里出来去买块糖，不想那个我以前从未见过的陆军妇女队队员悄悄把我引进树丛里，于是就得了该你得的那种淋病。我的的确确是想去买块糖，但谁能拒绝那种事呢？”
“那听起来是像该我得的淋病，不错，”那准尉赞同他说，“可是我还是得了别人的疟疾。就这一次，我真想看到所有这些事情都能改正过来，每个人该得到什么就得到什么。这也许能使我对这个世界有几分信心。”
“我得到了别人的三十万元钱，”那个留着金黄色小胡子的年轻、漂亮的上尉战斗机飞行员承认说，“我从生下来的那天起就开始混日子。我靠欺骗的方法从预备学校一直混到大学毕业；从那以后我所做的一切就是跟漂亮妞睡觉，她们还以为我会做个好丈夫呢。我压根儿就没什么雄心大志。战争结束之后我想做的唯一的一件事就是找个比我还有钱的姑娘结婚，同更多的漂亮妞睡觉。那三十万块钱是在我出生前由我的一个祖父辈的亲戚留给我的，他做国际生意发了财。我知道我不配得到这笔钱，但我要是不拿，我就不是人。我不知道这钱真正该归谁。”
“也许该归我父亲，”邓巴推测说，“他辛辛苦苦干了一辈子，也没有挣到足够的钱来送我姐姐和我上大学。他现在已经死了，所以你完全可以留着这笔钱啦。”
“现在只要我们能找到我得的疟疾应当归谁，我们的问题就都解决了；这并不是因为我要跟疟疾作对，只要能尽快逃避工作，得疟疾跟得其他病都一样。只是我觉得这事不公平。干吗要我患上别人的疟疾，而你又染上我的淋病呢？”
“我还不止得了该你得的淋病呢，”约塞连跟他说，“由于你那个淋病，我不得不一直执行战斗飞行任务，直到他们把我打死为止。”
“那这事就更糟了。这件事情里有什么公正可言？”
“两个半星期之前，我有个朋友叫克莱文杰，他总认为这事挺公正的。”
“这是最公正的事啦。”克莱文杰当时得意扬扬地拍着手，高兴地笑着。“我不禁想起欧里庇得斯的《希波吕托斯》。在那个剧里，由于忒修斯早年生活放荡，他儿子便信奉禁欲主义，这便导致了把他们都毁灭掉了的悲剧。即使没有别的事，那件与陆军妇女队员的插曲也该让你知道风流好色的恶果。”
“它让我知道了糖果的恶果。”
“你难道看不出，你现在处境尴尬，你自己并非完全没有责任吗？”克莱文杰接着说，一点也不掩盖他的兴致。“如果不是你染上花柳病在非洲那边的医院里躺了十天的话，你也许在内弗斯上校被打死之前，也就是说在卡思卡特上校来接替他之前就按时完成了你的二十五次飞行任务，现在已被送回家了。”
“你怎么样？”约塞连以问代答，“你在马拉喀什从未染上淋病，而你也一样处境尴尬嘛。”
“我不知道，”克莱文杰假装有点关切地招认说，“我想我这一生中一定干了什么非常坏的事。”
“你真的相信那种事情吗？”
克莱文杰笑了起来。“不，当然不相信。我只是想和你逗逗乐。”
对约塞连来说，危险多得数不胜数。比如说，有希特勒、墨索里尼和东条，他们都极力想杀掉他；还有那个队列狂沙伊斯科普夫少尉和那个留着两撇粗大的八字胡、狂热地盲目相信因果报应的胖上校，他们也都想弄死他；还有阿普尔比、哈弗迈耶、布莱克和科恩；还有克拉默护士和达克特护士，他几乎可以肯定她们都盼他死；还有那个得克萨斯人和那个罪犯调查部的官员，对这两人他也毫无疑问；还有世界各地的酒吧招待、砖瓦匠和公共汽车售票员，他们也都希望他死；还有那些房东和房客、叛徒和爱国者、行私刑的人、吸血鬼和走狗，他们全部一心想谋害他。就是在执行飞往阿维尼翁的任务时斯诺登向他泄露了秘密——他们千方百计想杀死他：而斯诺登当时是在飞机的后舱里把这个秘密泄露出来的。
还有淋巴腺也有可能要他的命；还有肾脏、神经束膜和神经膜细胞；还有脑瘤；还有何杰金氏病、白血病、肌萎缩性侧索硬化；还有上皮组织再生性红斑滋生癌细胞；还有皮肤病、骨科病、肺病、胃病、心脏病、血液病和动脉血管病；还有头部疾病、颈部疾病、胸部疾病、大小肠疾病、胯部疾病，甚至还有脚病；还有几十亿个勤劳的人体细胞，在维持他的生命和庭康的复杂的工作中，像默默无闻的牲口一样不分昼夜地进行氧化作用，而它们中任何一个都是潜在的叛徒和敌人。疾病是如此之多，如果有谁像他和亨格利·乔那样经常去考虑它们，那这个人的脑袋瓜一定是有毛病了。
亨格利·乔搜集了一大堆不治之症的名称，并把它们按字母顺序排列起来，这样他就能很快找到他想要担心的任何疾病。每当他把某种疾病的名称摆错了位置或当他无法把它加进他的疾病名单里去时，他就会变得心神不安，浑身冷汗地跑去向丹尼卡医生求援。
丹尼卡医生在处理亨格利·乔的事情时总会来向约塞连求援。
“说他得了尤因氏瘤，”约塞连向医生建议说，“还说他得了黑素瘤。
亨格利·乔喜欢旷日持久的病，不过他更喜欢暴发性疾病。”
丹尼卡医生从未听说过这两种病。“你怎么能记得住这么多那样的病？”他带着职业性的崇高的敬慕问道。
“我在医院里读《读者文摘》知道的。”
约塞连有那么多疾病要担心，有时他真想永远呆在医院里度过余生：四肢平展地躺在氧气帐里，一群专家和护士一天二十四小时坐在他的病床的一边，等待着病情发生恶化；在病床的另一边至少有一名外科医生拿着刀，做好了准备，一旦需要随时准备冲上前来开始手术。比如说动脉瘤，要是他得了主动脉瘤，不采取这样的措施，他们又怎能及时医治他呢？尽管约塞连像讨厌任何人一样讨厌外科医生和他的手术刀，他还是觉得呆在医院里面要比呆在医院外面安全得多。在医院里，他可以随时大声叫喊，人们至少会跑过来想办法帮他；而在医院外面，如果他对所有他认为每个人都该大声叫喊的事情大叫大喊，人们会把他关进监狱或者把他送进医院。他想对其大声叫喊的东西之一就是外科医生的手术刀，那刀几乎肯定在等待着他和其他所有活得够长的、可以死去的人。他常常想弄明白他怎样才能辨认出初起的风寒、发烧、剧痛、隐痛、打嗝、打喷嚏、色斑、嗜眠症、失语、失去平衡或者记忆力衰退，那预示着不可避免的结局的不可避免的开始。
他还担心当他跳出梅杰少校的办公室再去找丹尼卡医生时，丹尼卡医生仍旧拒绝帮助他。他的担心是对的。
“你以为你得了什么可以担心的病了吗？”丹尼卡医生问道，说话间抬起他那低垂在胸前、黑发梳得一尘不染的头，两只满是泪水的眼睛愤怒地盯了约塞连一会儿。“我怎么样呢？我的宝贵的医疗技术在这个该死的岛上白白地荒废了，而其他的医生却在挣大钱。
你以为我喜欢日复一日地坐在这儿拒绝帮助你吗？如果我是在国内或在像罗马这样的地方拒绝帮助你，我倒不特别在乎。但在这儿向你说不，对我来说也不是件容易的事。”
“那么就别说不。让我停止飞行。”
“我不能让你停飞，”丹尼卡医生嘟嚷道，“这话得告诉你多少遍？”
“你能。梅杰少校跟我说你是飞行中队里唯一能让我停飞的人。”
丹尼卡医生惊得瞠目结舌。“梅杰少校跟你那么说的？什么时”候？”
“我在壕沟里同他交涉的时候。”
“梅杰少校是那么跟你说的？在一个壕沟里？”
“他是在我们离开壕沟，跳进他的办公室后跟我说的。他叫我不要跟任何人说是他告诉我的，所以请你不要乱嚷嚷。”
“为什么是那个卑鄙、诡计多端的骗子！”丹尼卡医生喊道，“他不应该告诉任何人。他有没有告诉你我怎样才能让你停飞？”
“只要填写一张小纸条，说我已处于精神崩溃的边缘，把它送到大队部就行了。斯塔布斯医生一直让他的中队里的人停飞，你为什么不能呢？”
“斯塔布斯让那些人停飞之后，他们的情况又怎么样呢？”丹尼卡医生冷笑着反驳说，“他们马上被恢复战斗状态，不是吗？而他也发现他自己处于困境。当然，我也可以填写一张说你不适合飞行的纸条，让你停飞。但是有一条规定。”
“第二十二条军规？”
“是的。假如我取消你的战斗任务，还得大队部批准，而大队部是不会批准的。他们会立即让你回到战斗岗位上去。那么，我又会在什么地方呢？也许在去太平洋的路上，不行，多谢你啦，我不想为你去冒险。”
“难道这不值得一试吗？”约塞连争辩道，“皮亚诺萨岛有什么好呢？”
“皮亚诺萨岛糟透了，但它却比太平洋好。要是用船把我运到某个文明发达的地方，在那儿我时不时可以赚一二块打胎的钱，我倒不会在乎。然而在太平洋却只有丛林和季风。我在那儿会烂掉的。”
“你在这儿也会烂掉的。”
丹尼卡医生突然发起怒来。“是吗？不过，至少我会活着走出这场战争，这比你所要做的一切都强。”
“那正是我想跟你说的，嘿。我求你救我一命。”
“救命不是我的职责，”丹尼卡医生绷着脸驳斥道。
“什么是你的职责？”
“我不知道我的职责是什么。他们告诉我的就是要坚持我的职业道德，决不作证去反对另一个医生。听着，你以为你是唯一有生命危险的人吗？我怎么样呢？医疗帐篷里那两个为我工作的庸医至今还查不出我有什么病。”
“可能是尤因氏瘤，”约塞连嘲讽地咕哝说。
“你真的那么认为？”丹尼卡医生害怕得嚷起来。
“噢，我不知道，”约塞连不耐烦地回答，“我只知道我不想再执行任务了。他们不会真的枪毙我吧，是吗，我已经飞了五十一次。”
“你为什么不至少完成五十五次飞行任务再做决定呢？”丹尼卡医生劝告说，“你成天抱怨，可你一次也未完成过任务。”
“我怎么能完成呢？每次我快要完成的时候，上校又把飞行次数提高了。”
“你从未完成任务，是因为你老是不断地进医院或者离队去罗马。假如你完成了五十五次飞行任务，然后再拒绝飞行，你的处境就会有利得多。那样，我也许会考虑我能做点什么。”
“你能保证吗？”
“我保证。”
“你保证什么呢？”
“如果你完成你的五十五次飞行任务，再让麦克沃特把我的名字登入他的飞行日志中，让我不用上飞机就可以拿到我的飞行津贴，我保证我也许会考虑做点什么帮助你。我害怕飞机。你有没有看到三周前发生在爱达荷州的那次飞机坠毁的报道，六个人送了命。太可怕了。我不知道他们为什么非要我每月飞行四小时才能拿到飞行津贴。难道用不着担心死在飞机坠毁中，我要担忧的事就不够多吗？”
“我也担心飞机坠毁事故，”约塞连跟他说，“你不是唯一担忧的人。”
“是啊，不过我还很担心那个尤因氏瘤，”丹尼卡医生虚夸道，“你看我的鼻子一直不通，身体总觉得冷，是不是就是这个原因？搭搭我的脉。”
约塞连也担心尤因氏瘤和黑素瘤。到处都潜伏着灾难，多得数不胜数。当他想到有那么多疾病和可能发生的事故时刻威胁着他，而他却能安然无恙地活到今天，他着实吃惊不小。每一天他所面临的都是新的一次战胜死亡的危险使命。他已经这样活了二十八年了。