Dobbs was the worst pilot in the world and knew it, a shattered wreck of a virile young man who was continually striving to convince his superiors that he was no longer fit to pilot a plane. None of his superiors would listen, and it was the day the number of missions was raised to sixty that Dobbs stole into Yossarian's tent while Orr was out looking for gaskets and disclosed the plot he had formulated to murder Colonel Cathcart. He needed Yossarian's assistance.
'You want us to kill him in cold blood?' Yossarian objected.
'That's right,' Dobbs agreed with an optimistic smile, encouraged by Yossarian's ready grasp of the situation. 'We'll shoot him to death with the Luger I brought back from Sicily that nobody knows I've got.'
'I don't think I could do it,' Yossarian concluded, after weighing the idea in silence awhile.
Dobbs was astonished. 'Why not?'
'Look. Nothing would please me more than to have the son of a bitch break his neck or get killed in a crash or to find out that someone else had shot him to death. But I don't think I could kill him.'
'He'd do it to you,' Dobbs argued. 'In fact, you're the one who told me he is doing it to us by keeping us in combat so long.'
'But I don't think I could do it to him. He's got a right to live, too, I guess.'
'Not as long as he's trying to rob you and me of our right to live. What's the matter with you?' Dobbs was flabbergasted. 'I used to listen to you arguing that same thing with Clevinger. And look what happened to him. Right inside that cloud.'
'Stop shouting, will you?' Yossarian shushed him.
&nbs
p; 'I'm not shouting!' Dobbs shouted louder, his face red with revolutionary fervor. His eyes and nostrils were running, and his palpitating crimson lower lip was splattered with a foamy dew. 'There must have been close to a hundred men in the group who had finished their fifty-five missions when he raised the number to sixty. There must have been at least another hundred like you with just a couple more to fly. He's going to kill us all if we let him go on forever. We've got to kill him first.' Yossarian nodded expressionlessly, without committing himself. 'Do you think we could get away with it?'
'I've got it all worked out. I--'
'Stop shouting, for Christ's sake!'
'I'm not shouting. I've got it--'
'Will you stop shouting!'
'I've got it all worked out,' Dobbs whispered, gripping the side of Orr's cot with white-knuckled hands to constrain them from waving. 'Thursday morning when he's due back from that goddam farmhouse of his in the hills, I'll sneak up through the woods to that hairpin turn in the road and hide in the bushes. He has to slow down there, and I can watch the road in both directions to make sure there's no one else around. When I see him coming, I'll shove a big log out into the road to make him stop his jeep. Then I'll step out of the bushes with my Luger and shoot him in the head until he's dead. I'll bury the gun, come back down through the woods to the squadron and go about my business just like everybody else. What could possibly go wrong?' Yossarian had followed each step attentively. 'Where do I come in?' he asked in puzzlement.
'I couldn't do it without you,' Dobbs explained. 'I need you to tell me to go ahead.' Yossarian found it hard to believe him. 'Is that all you want me to do? Just tell you to go ahead?'
'That's all I need from you,' Dobbs answered. 'Just tell me to go ahead and I'll blow his brains out all by myself the day after tomorrow.' His voice was accelerating with emotion and rising again. 'I'd like to shoot Colonel Korn in the head, too, while we're at it, although I'd like to spare Major Danby, if that's all right with you. Then I'd murder Appleby and Havermeyer also, and after we finish murdering Appleby and Havermeyer I'd like to murder McWatt.'
'McWatt?' cried Yossarian, almost jumping up in horror. 'McWatt's a friend of mine. What do you want from McWatt?'
'I don't know,' Dobbs confessed with an air of floundering embarrassment. 'I just thought that as long as we were murdering Appleby and Havermeyer we might as well murder McWatt too. Don't you want to murder McWatt?' Yossarian took a firm stand. 'Look, I might keep interested in this if you stop shouting it all over the island and if you stick to killing Colonel Cathcart. But if you're going to turn this into a blood bath, you can forget about me.'
'All right, all right,' Dobbs sought to placate him. 'Just Colonel Cathcart. Should I do it? Tell me to go ahead.' Yossarian shook his head. 'I don't think I could tell you to go ahead.' Dobbs was frantic. 'I'm willing to compromise,' he pleaded vehemently. 'You don't have to tell me to go ahead. Just tell me it's a good idea. Okay? Is it a good idea?' Yossarian still shook his head. 'It would have been a great idea if you had gone ahead and done it without even speaking to me. Now it's too late. I don't think I can tell you anything. Give me some more time. I might change my mind.'
'Then it will be too late.' Yossarian kept shaking his head. Dobbs was disappointed. He sat for a moment with a hangdog look, then spurted to his feet suddenly and stamped away to have another impetuous crack at persuading Doc Daneeka to ground him, knocking over Yossarian's washstand with his hip when he lurched around and tripping over the fuel line of the stove Orr was still constructing. Doc Daneeka withstood Dobbs's blustering and gesticulating attack with a series of impatient nods and sent him to the medical tent to describe his symptoms to Gus and Wes, who painted his gums purple with gentian-violet solution the moment he started to talk. They painted his toes purple, too, and forced a laxative down his throat when he opened his mouth again to complain, and then they sent him away.
Dobbs was in even worse shape than Hungry Joe, who could at least fly missions when he was not having nightmares. Dobbs was almost as bad as Orr, who seemed happy as an undersized, grinning lark with his deranged and galvanic giggle and shivering warped buck teeth and who was sent along for a rest leave with Milo and Yossarian on the trip to Cairo for eggs when Milo bought cotton instead and took off at dawn for Istanbul with his plane packed to the gun turrets with exotic spiders and unripened red bananas. Orr was one of the homeliest freaks Yossarian had ever encountered, and one of the most attractive. He had a raw bulgy face, with hazel eyes squeezing from their sockets like matching brown halves of marbles and thick, wavy particolored hair sloping up to a peak on the top of his head like a pomaded pup tent. Orr was knocked down into the water or had an engine shot out almost every time he went up, and he began jerking on Yossarian's arm like a wild man after they had taken off for Naples and come down in Sicily to find the scheming, cigar-smoking, ten-year-old pimp with the two twelve-year-old virgin sisters waiting for them in town in front of the hotel in which there was room for only Milo. Yossarian pulled back from Orr adamantly, gazing with some concern and bewilderment at Mt. Etna instead of Mt. Vesuvius and wondering what they were doing in Sicily instead of Naples as Orr kept entreating him in a tittering, stuttering, concupiscent turmoil to go along with him behind the scheming ten-year-old pimp to his two twelve-year-old virgin sisters who were not really virgins and not really sisters and who were really only twenty-eight.
'Go with him,' Milo instructed Yossarian laconically. 'Remember your mission.'
'All right,' Yossarian yielded with a sigh, remembering his mission. 'But at least let me try to find a hotel room first so I can get a good night's sleep afterward.'
'You'll get a good night's sleep with the girls,' Milo replied with the same air of intrigue. 'Remember your mission.' But they got no sleep at all, for Yossarian and Orr found themselves jammed into the same double bed with the two twelve -year-old twenty-eight-year-old prostitutes, who turned out to be oily and obese and who kept waking them up all night long to ask them to switch partners. Yossarian's perceptions were soon so fuzzy that he paid no notice to the beige turban the fat one crowding into him kept wearing until late the next morning when the scheming ten-year-old pimp with the Cuban panatella snatched it off in public in a bestial caprice that exposed in the brilliant Sicilian daylight her shocking, misshapen and denudate skull. Vengeful neighbors had shaved her hair to the gleaming bone because she had slept with Germans. The girl screeched in feminine outrage and waddled comically after the scheming ten-year-old pimp, her grisly, bleak, violated scalp slithering up and down ludicrously around the queer darkened wart of her face like something bleached and obscene. Yossarian had never laid eyes on anything so bare before. The pimp spun the turban high on his finger like a trophy and kept himself skipping inches ahead of her finger tips as he led her in a tantalizing circle around the square congested with people who were howling with laughter and pointing to Yossarian with derision when Milo strode up with a grim look of haste and puckered his lips reprovingly at the unseemly spectacle of so much vice and frivolity. Milo insisted on leaving at once for Malta.
'We're sleepy,' Orr whined.
'That's your own fault,' Milo censured them both selfrighteously. 'If you had spent the night in your hotel room instead of with these immoral girls, you'd both feel as good as I do today.'
'You told us to go with them,' Yossarian retorted accusingly. 'And we didn't have a hotel room. You were the only one who could get a hotel room.'