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第二十二条军规 Catch-22

Chapter 2 Clevinger
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    In a way the C.I.D. man was pretty lucky, because outside the hospital the war was still going on. Men went madand were rewarded with medals. All over the world, boys on every side of the bomb line were laying down theirlives for what they had been told was their country, and no one seemed to mind, least of all the boys who werelaying down their young lives. There was no end in sight. The only end in sight was Yossarian's own, and hemight have remained in the hospital until doomsday had it not been for that patriotic Texan with hisinfundibuliform jowls and his lumpy, rumpleheaded, indestructible smile cracked forever across the front of hisface like the brim of a black ten-gallon hat. The Texan wanted everybody in the ward to be happy but Yossarianand Dunbar. He was really very sick.

    But Yossarian couldn't be happy, even though the Texan didn't want him to be, because outside the hospitalthere was still nothing funny going on. The only thing going on was a war, and no one seemed to notice butYossarian and Dunbar. And when Yossarian tried to remind people, they drew away from him and thought hewas crazy. Even Clevinger, who should have known better but didn't, had told him he was crazy the last timethey had seen each other, which was just before Yossarian had fled into the hospital.

    Clevinger had stared at him with apoplectic rage and indignation and, clawing the table with both hands, hadshouted, “You're crazy!”

    “Clevinger, what do you want from people?” Dunbar had replied wearily above the noises of the officers' club.

    “I'm not joking,” Clevinger persisted.

    “They're trying to kill me,” Yossarian told him calmly.

    “No one's trying to kill you,” Clevinger cried.

    “Then why are they shooting at me?” Yossarian asked.

    “They're shooting at everyone,” Clevinger answered. “They're trying to kill everyone.”

    “And what difference does that make?”

    Clevinger was already on the way, half out of his chair with emotion, his eyes moist and his lips quivering andpale. As always occurred when he quarreled over principles in which he believed passionately, he would end upgasping furiously for air and blinking back bitter tears of conviction. There were many principles in whichClevinger believed passionately. He was crazy.

    “Who's they?” he wanted to know. “Who, specifically, do you think is trying to murder you?”

    “Every one of them,” Yossarian told him.

    “Every one of whom?”

    “Every one of whom do you think?”

    “I haven't any idea.”

    “Then how do you know they aren't?”

    “Because” Clevinger sputtered, and turned speechless with frustration.

    Clevinger really thought he was right, but Yossarian had proof, because strangers he didn't know shot at himwith cannons every time he flew up into the air to drop bombs on them, and it wasn't funny at all. And if thatwasn't funny, there were lots of things that weren't even funnier. There was nothing funny about living like abum in a tent in Pianosa between fat mountains behind him and a placid blue sea in front that could gulp down aperson with a cramp in the twinkling of an eye and ship him back to shore three days later, all charges paid,bloated, blue and putrescent, water draining out through both cold nostrils.

    The tent he lived in stood right smack up against the wall of the shallow, dull-colored forest separating his ownsquadron from Dunbar's. Immediately alongside was the abandoned railroad ditch that carried the pipe thatcarried the aviation gasoline down to the fuel trucks at the airfield. Thanks to Orr, his roommate, it was the mostluxurious tent in the squadron. Each time Yossarian returned from one of his holidays in the hospital or restleaves in Rome, he was surprised by some new orgfort Orr had installed in his absencerunning water, wood-burning fireplace, cement floor. Yossarian had chosen the site, and he and Orr had raised the tent together. Orr,who was a grinning pygmy with pilot's wings and thick, wavy brown hair parted in the middle, furnished all theknowledge, while Yossarian, who was taller, stronger, broader and faster, did most of the work. Just the two ofthem lived there, although the tent was big enough for six. When summer came, Orr rolled up the side flaps toallow a breeze that never blew to flush away the air baking inside.

    Immediately next door to Yossarian was Havermeyer, who liked peanut brittle and lived all by himself in thetwo-man tent in which he shot tiny field mice every night with huge bullets from the .45 he had stolen from thedead man in Yossarian's tent. On the other side of Havermeyer stood the tent McWatt no longer shared withClevinger, who had still not returned when Yossarian came out of the hospital. McWatt shared his tent now withNately, who was away in Rome courting the sleepy whore he had fallen so deeply in love with there who wasbored with her work and bored with him too. McWatt was crazy. He was a pilot and flew his plane as low as hedared over Yossarian's tent as often as he could, just to see how much he could frighten him, and loved to gobuzzing with a wild, close roar over the wooden raft floating on empty oil drums out past the sand bar at theimmaculate white beach where the men went swimming naked. Sharing a tent with a man who was crazy wasn'teasy, but Nately didn't care. He was crazy, too, and had gone every free day to work on the officers' club thatYossarian had not helped build.

    Actually, there were many officers' clubs that Yossarian had not helped build, but he was proudest of the one onPianosa. It was a sturdy and orgplex monument to his powers of determination. Yossarian never went there tohelp until it was finished; then he went there often, so pleased was he with the large, fine, rambling, shingledbuilding. It was truly a splendid structure, and Yossarian throbbed with a mighty sense of acorgplishment eachtime he gazed at it and reflected that none of the work that had gone into it was his.

    There were four of them seated together at a table in the officers' club the last time he and Clevinger had calledeach other crazy. They were seated in back near the crap table on which Appleby always managed to win.

    Appleby was as good at shooting crap as he was at playing ping-pong, and he was as good at playing ping-pongas he was at everything else. Everything Appleby did, he did well. Appleby was a fair-haired boy from Iowa whobelieved in God, Motherhood and the American Way of Life, without ever thinking about any of them, andeverybody who knew him liked him.

    “I hate that son of a bitch,” Yossarian growled.

    The argument with Clevinger had begun a few minutes earlier when Yossarian had been unable to find amachine gun. It was a busy night. The bar was busy, the crap table was busy, the ping-gong table was busy. Thepeople Yossarian wanted to machine-gun were busy at the bar singing sentimental old favorites that nobody elseever tired of. Instead of machine-gunning them, he brought his heel down hard on the ping-pong ball that camerolling toward him off the paddle of one of the two officers playing.

    “That Yossarian,” the two officers laughed, shaking their heads, and got another ball from the box on the shelf.

    “That Yossarian,” Yossarian answered them.

    “Yossarian,” Nately whispered cautioningly.

    “You see what I mean?” asked Clevinger.

    The officers laughed again when they heard Yossarian mimicking them. “That Yossarian,” they said moreloudly.

    “That Yossarian,” Yossarian echoed.

    “Yossarian, please,” Nately pleaded.

    “You see what I mean?” asked Clevinger. “He has antisocial aggressions.”

    “Oh, shut up,” Dunbar told Clevinger. Dunbar liked Clevinger because Clevinger annoyed him and made thetime go slow.

    “Appleby isn't even here,” Clevinger pointed out triumphantly to Yossarian.

    “Who said anything about Appleby?” Yossarian wanted to know.

    “Colonel Cathcart isn't here, either.”

    “Who said anything about Colonel Cathcart?”

    “What son of a bitch do you hate, then?”

    “What son of a bitch is here?”

    “I'm not going to argue with you,” Clevinger decided. “You don't know who you hate.”

    “Whoever's trying to poison me,” Yossarian told him.

    “Nobody's trying to poison you.”

    “They poisoned my food twice, didn't they? Didn't they put poison in my food during Ferrara and during theGreat Big Siege of Bologna?”

    “They put poison in everybody's food,” Clevinger explained.

    “And what difference does that make?”

    “And it wasn't even poison!” Clevinger cried heatedly, growing more emphatic as he grew more confused.

    As far back as Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile, somebody was alwayshatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared for him and people who didn't, and those who didn'thated him and were out to get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn't touch him, hetold Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn't touch himbecause he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the FlyingDutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He wasmiracle ingredient Z-247. He was“Crazy!” Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. “That's what you are! Crazy!”

    “immense. I'm a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide supraman.”

    “Superman?” Clevinger cried. “Superman?”

    “Supraman,” Yossarian corrected.

    “Hey, fellas, cut it out,” Nately begged with embarrassment. “Everybody's looking at us.”

    “You're crazy,” Clevinger shouted vehemently, his eyes filling with tears. “You've got a Jehovah orgplex.”

    “I think everyone is Nathaniel.”

    Clevinger arrested himself in mid-declamation, suspiciously. “Who's Nathaniel?”

    “Nathaniel who?” inquired Yossarian innocently.

    Clevinger skirted the trap neatly. “You think everybody is Jehovah. You're no better than Raskolnkov““Who?”

    “yes, Raskolnikov, who““Raskolnikov!”

    “whoI mean itwho felt he could justify killing an old woman““No better than?”

    “yes, justify, that's rightwith an ax! And I can prove it to you!” Gasping furiously for air, Clevingerenumerated Yossarian's symptoms: an unreasonable belief that everybody around him was crazy, a homicidalimpulse to machine-gun strangers, retrospective falsification, an unfounded suspicion that people hated him andwere conspiring to kill him.

    But Yossarian knew he was right, because, as he explained to Clevinger, to the best of his knowledge he hadnever been wrong. Everywhere he looked was a nut, and it was all a sensible young gentleman like himself coulddo to maintain his perspective amid so much madness. And it was urgent that he did, for he knew his life was inperil.

    Yossarian eyed everyone he saw warily when he returned to the squadron from the hospital. Milo was away, too,in Smyrna for the fig harvest. The mess hall ran smoothly in Milo's absence. Yossarian had respondedravenously to the pungent aroma of spicy lamb while he was still in the cab of the ambulance bouncing downalong the knotted road that lay like a broken suspender between the hospital and the squadron. There was shishkabobfor lunch, huge, savory hunks of spitted meat sizzling like the devil over charcoal after marinatingseventy-two hours in a secret mixture Milo had stolen from a crooked trader in the Levant, served with Iranianrice and asparagus tips Parmesan, followed by cherries jubilee for dessert and then steaming cups of fresh coffeewith Benedictine and brandy. The meal was served in enormous helpings on damask tablecloths by the skilledItalian waiters Major —— de Coverley had kidnaped from the mainland and given to Milo.

    Yossarian gorged himself in the mess hall until he thought he would explode and then sagged back in a contentedstupor, his mouth filmy with a succulent residue. None of the officers in the squadron had ever eaten so well asthey ate regularly in Milo's mess hall, and Yossarian wondered awhile if it wasn't perhaps all worth it. But thenhe burped and remembered that they were trying to kill him, and he sprinted out of the mess hall wildly and ranlooking for Doc Daneeka to have himself taken off orgbat duty and sent home. He found Doc Daneeka insunlight, sitting on a high stool outside his tent.

    “Fifty missions,” Doc Daneeka told him, shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”

    “But I've only got forty-four!”

    Doc Daneeka was unmoved. He was a sad, birdlike man with the spatulate face and scrubbed, tapering featuresof a well-groomed rat.

    “Fifty missions,” he repeated, still shaking his head. “The colonel wants fifty missions.”

    02、克莱文杰

    从某种意义上来说,刑事调查部的那名工作人员倒是挺走运的,因为医院外面,依旧是硝烟弥漫。人人都成了疯子,却又被授予种种勋章,作为嘉奖。在世界各地,士兵们正在各轰炸前线捐躯,有人告诉他们,这是为了他们的祖国。但,似乎没人在意,更不用说那些正献出自己年轻生命的士兵了。目下是见不到有什么结局的。唯一可望的,倒是约塞连自己的结局。要不是为了那个爱国的得克萨斯人下颌大得像漏斗,头发凌乱不堪,脸部永远挂着的笨拙的笑容,极似高顶宽边黑呢帽的帽檐约塞连是本可以留在医院的,直到世界未日。那个得克萨斯人希望病房里的每一个人都快快乐乐,唯独约塞连和邓巴除外。他病得实在是很厉害。

    得克萨斯人不想让约塞连好过,尽管如此,约塞连亦是不可能快乐起来的。因为医院外面,还是不见有什么逗人发笑的事情。唯一在进行的,便是战争。除约塞连和邓巴之外,似乎没人注意到这一点。每当约塞连想提醒人们的时候,他们便赶紧躲开他,觉得他是个疯子。就连克莱文杰,本该很了解他的,这次却是一改往常的善解人意。就在约塞连躲进医院之前,他俩曾见过最后一面,当时,克莱文杰便对他说他是个疯子。

    克莱文杰圆睁怒目地盯着他,两手紧抓住桌子,高声忿詈:“你是个疯子!”

    “克莱文杰,你究竟要别人如何才是?”邓巴在军官俱乐部的喧闹声里,提高嗓门,极不耐烦地回敬了一句。

    “我可不是在开玩笑,”克莱文杰毫不退让。

    “他们是想把我杀了,”约塞连镇定地对他说。

    “没人想杀你,”克莱文杰高声叫道。

    “那他们干吗向我开枪?”约塞连问。

    “他们谁都不放过,见谁便开枪,”克莱文杰回答说,“他们想杀尽所有的人。”

    “那又有什么不同?”

    克莱文杰早已失去了控制,激动得把半个身体从椅子上抬了起来,两眼噙着泪水,嘴唇苍白,直打哆嗦。为了维护自己坚信的原则,他总免不了要跟人大吵一番,可是,每回吵到最后,他总是气急败坏,不住地眨眼,强忍住伤心泪,以示自己对信念的坚定不移。克莱文杰对许多原则信守不渝。他才是实实在在地失去了理智。

    “他们是谁?”他想弄个清楚。“确切点说,你觉得是谁想谋害你?”

    “他们中的每一个人,”约塞连告诉他说。

    “哪些人中的每一个人?”

    “你看呢?”

    “这我可说不上来。”

    “那你又怎么晓得他们不想杀我呢?”

    “因为”克莱文杰语无伦次,随即又沮丧至极,缄口不语。

    克莱文杰确实自以为有理,但约塞连亦有他自己的证据,因为他每次执行空中轰炸任务,总会遭到陌生人的炮火袭击,这实在是毫无趣味的。假如说那种事无甚趣味,那其他许多事情更是没什么乐趣可言了。比如说,像流浪汉似地宿营皮亚诺萨岛上的帐篷,背靠崇山峻岭,面对蓝色大海纵使风平浪静,却能于瞬息间吞噬水中的痉挛者,三天后,再把他冲回海岸,人就此一了百了,遍体青紫浮肿,且有海水慢慢地流出冰冷的鼻孔。

    他宿营的帐篷,依偎一片稀落晦暗的森林于他和邓巴的中队之间自成一道屏障。紧靠帐篷一侧,是一条废弃的铁路壕沟,沟里铺设一根输送管,往机场的燃料卡车上运送航空汽油。多亏了与他同居的奥尔,他才有幸住进这间全中队最舒适的帐篷。约塞连每次从医院疗养回来或是从罗马休假返回营地,总会惊喜地发现,奥尔趁他不在时,又添了些新的生活设施自来水,烧木柴的壁炉,水泥地板。帐篷是由约塞连择定地点,然后与奥尔合作搭建的。

    奥尔个头极矮,成天笑嘻嘻的,胸佩空军飞行徽章,一头浓密的褐色卷发,由正中向两边分开。他负责出谋策划。约塞连较他身高肩宽,强壮迅捷,因而,大部分粗活均由他承当。帐篷仅住他们两人,尽管很大,足以容纳六人。每当炎夏来临,奥尔便卷起帐篷侧帘,透些许清风,纵然,却是怎么也驱散不了帐篷内的暑气。

    约塞连的紧邻是哈弗迈耶。此人嗜食花生薄脆糖,独居一顶双人帐篷,每晚用四五口径手枪的大子弹射杀小田鼠。枪是从约塞连帐篷里那个死人身上窃得的。哈弗迈耶另一侧的邻居是麦克沃特,早先跟克莱文杰同住,但是约塞连出院时,克莱文杰尚未回来,麦克沃特便让内特利住进了自己的帐篷。眼下,内特利正在罗马,追求自己深恋着的那个妓女,可那妓女却是成日一副睡不醒的面容,早已深恶了自己的营生,对内特利亦生了厌倦。麦克沃特很疯狂。

    他是个飞行员,竟时常放大了胆开着飞机,从极低的高度掠过约塞连的帐篷,只是想看看约塞连会被吓成啥样。有时,他又极爱让飞机低飞,发出震耳欲聋的轰鸣声,掠过由空油筒浮载的木筏,再飞过洁白海滩处的沙洲,海滩那儿正有士兵赤裸着下海游泳呢。跟一个疯子合住一顶帐篷,实在不是件易事,但内特利并不在意。他自己也是个疯子,只要哪天有空,便会赶去帮忙建造军官俱乐部

    于此,约塞连可是没曾插过手的。

    其实,许多军官俱乐部营建时,约塞连都不曾帮什么忙,不过,皮亚诺萨岛上的这个俱乐部,倒是最令他得意。这实在是为了他的果断坚毅而竖起的一幢坚实牢固、构造复杂的纪念碑式建筑。俱乐部竣工以前,约塞连从未上工地搭把手,之后,他倒是常去。俱乐部用木瓦盖的屋顶,外观极漂亮,尽管大而无当,他见了,满心欢喜。

    说实话,这幢建筑的确很壮观。每当举目凝望时,约塞连内心总升腾起一股极强的成就感,尽管他意识到自己从未为此流过点滴汗水。

    上一回,他和克莱文杰曾相互谩骂对方是疯子,当时,他们有四人在场,一起围坐在军官俱乐部里的一张桌子旁。他们坐在后面,紧挨那张双骰子赌台,阿普尔比一上这赌台,总会想办法赢钱。

    阿普尔比精于掷骰子,就如他擅长打乒乓一样,而他擅长打乒乓,就如他善于应付其他任何事情一样。阿普尔比每做一件事,都做得相当出色。阿普尔比是个衣阿华年轻人,长一头金发,信奉上帝、母爱和美国人的生活方式,尽管他对这一切从来都不曾做过什么周至的思虑。熟稔他的人,对他都颇有好感。

    “我恨那个狗娘养的,”约塞连怒吼道。

    同克莱文杰吵架,是早几分钟的事。当时,约塞连想找一挺机关枪,但结果没有找到。那天晚上极是热闹。酒吧间熙熙攘攘,双骰子赌台和乒乓台上压根没见空闲的时候,煞是一派繁忙的气象。

    约塞连想用机枪扫射的那帮人,正在酒吧间里劲头十足地吟唱那些百听不厌的古老的感伤歌曲。他没有用机关枪向他们射击,倒是用脚跟狠狠地踩了一下正朝他滚来的那只乒乓球,这球是从两名打球的军官之一的球拍上掉落下来的。

    “约塞连这家伙,”那两个军官摇了摇头笑道,随后便从架上的盒里又取了一只球。

    “约塞连这家伙,”约塞连回了他们一句。

    “约塞连,”内特利向他低声警告。

    “你们懂我的意思?”克莱文杰问。

    听到约塞连学舌,那两个军官又笑道:“约塞连这家伙。”这回,声音更响。

    “约塞连这家伙,”约塞连又照着说了一句。

    “约塞连,你行行好,”内特利恳求道。

    “你们懂我的意思?”克莱文杰问,“他有反社会的敌对心理。”

    “唉呀,你给我闭嘴吧,”邓巴对克莱文杰说。邓巴喜欢克莱文杰,原因是,克莱文杰常惹他恼火,仿佛让时间走慢了些。

    “阿普尔比根本没上这儿来,”克莱文杰洋洋得意地对约塞连说。

    “谁在说阿普尔比?”约塞连想弄个清楚。

    “卡思卡特上校也没来。”

    “谁又在说卡思卡特上校?”

    “那你究竟恨哪个狗娘养的?”

    “哪个狗娘养的在这儿?”

    “我不想跟你吵。”克莱文杰下定了决心。“你自己都不清楚恨谁。”

    “谁想毒死我,我就恨谁,”约塞连告诉他说。

    “没人想毒死你。”

    “他们在我吃的东西里下过两次毒,是不是有这回事?一次是弗拉拉战役,一次是博洛尼亚围攻大战役,他们是不是这么干过?”

    “他们在每个人的食物里都下过毒,”克莱文杰解释道。

    “那又有啥不同?”

    “那根本不是什么毒药!”克莱文杰很激动地大叫道。他愈发慌乱,也就愈发加重了自己说话的语调。

    约塞连耐了性子,微笑着给克莱文杰做解释,就他的记忆所及,有人一直想谋害他。有人喜欢他,也有人不喜欢他;不喜欢他的那些人便恨他,想尽办法害他。他们恨他,就因为他是亚述人。但是,他对克菜文杰说,他们别想碰他一下,因为他的躯体纯洁,灵魂健全,体壮如牛。他们别想碰他一下,因为他是泰山,曼德雷克,霹雳火戈登。他是比尔莎士比亚。他是该隐,尤利西斯,漂泊的荷兰水手。他是所多玛的罗得,忧伤的黛特,树林里夜莺群中的斯威尼。他是神奇人物Z247,他是

    “疯子!”克莱文杰打断他的话,锐声叫喊,“你是个十足的疯子!”

    “与众不同,我的的确确是个非同寻常、长了三头六臂的了不起的人物。我是个真正的奇人。”

    “超人?”克莱文杰嚷道,“超人?”

    “奇人,”约塞连纠正道。

    “嘿,伙计们,别争啦。”内特利很是尴尬地恳求他俩。“大伙儿都瞧着咱们哩。”

    “你是个疯子!”克莱文杰大叫,激动得热泪盈眶。”你心理变态,想做耶和华。”

    “我想人人都是拿但业。”

    克莱文杰突然中止了自己的慷慨陈词,面露猜疑状。“谁是拿但业?”

    “拿但业是谁?”约塞连故作无知地问道。

    克莱文杰知道是圈套,极乖觉地避了过去。“你觉得人人都是耶和华。说实话,你跟拉斯柯尔尼科夫没什么不同。”

    “谁?”

    “没错,拉斯柯尔尼科夫,他”

    “拉斯柯尔尼科夫!”

    “他我说的是实话一他以为自己杀了个老太婆,是正当合法的。”

    “我跟他没什么不同。”

    “是这样的,杀了人,再替自己开脱,千真万确用斧头砍死!我可以用事实证明,让你心服口服。”克莱文杰喘吁吁地一一列数了约塞连的种种症状:无缘无故地把周围所有的人视作疯子;

    一见陌生人,便顿生杀机,想用机枪扫射;好怀旧,却又时常颠倒过去的黑白;凭空猜疑别人憎恨他,一直合谋着想害他。

    但约塞连知道自己没错,因为正如他曾给克莱文杰解释的那样,他很清楚自己从来就没错过。他目光所及,处处是疯子,而在这疯子充塞的世界里,唯有像他自己这样明智而有教养的年轻人,方能明察事理。他必须如此,因为他明白他的生命危在旦夕。

    约塞连出院归队时,不管遇见谁,总要警惕地审视一番。米洛亦离开中队,去了士麦那,忙着收获无花果。尽管米洛不在,但食堂照常运转,医院和中队驻地之间,蜿蜒了一条崎岖的道路,恰似断裂的吊袜带。约塞连人还坐在救护车的驾驶室里,沿那条路颠簸前行时,便闻到了羔羊肉的扑鼻香味,顿生津液,食欲大起。午餐吃的是烤肉,一块块又大又香的肉用炙叉串着搁在木炭上,烤得咝咝直响。这肉烤前需在一种用秘方配制的卤汁里浸泡七十二小时,而秘方是米洛从黎凡特的一个刁滑奸商那里窃取来的。食用烤肉时,需拌上伊朗大米和芦笋尖帕尔马干酪,接着上的便是樱桃甜食,再来是一杯杯热气腾腾的用新磨的咖啡豆煮出来的咖啡,里面还掺了本尼迪克特甜酒和白兰地。午餐分成若干份,由熟练的意大利侍者端上铺着织花台布的餐桌。这些侍者,由德科弗利少校从欧洲大陆诱拐得来后,交送给米洛。

    约塞连在食堂里拼命大吃,直到觉得肚子快要胀破,方才心满意足,一动不动地瘫靠在坐椅上,嘴里还含着薄薄的一层残菜渣。

    交米洛的食堂里,中队所有的军官时常品尝珍馐美味,除此之外,谁也不曾如此畅快地大饱口福。约塞连思忖片刻,或许还真划得来呢。可是,他接着打了嗝,想了起来:他们一直想杀他。于是,他猛冲出食堂,跑着去找丹尼卡医生,请求免除自己的作战任务,把他遣送回家。他找到了丹尼卡,医生正坐在自己帐篷外的一只高凳上晒太阳。

    “完成五十次飞行任务,”丹尼卡医生摇着头跟他说,“上校要求飞满五十次。”

    “可我才飞了四十四次!”

    丹尼卡医生却无动于衷。这家伙长得像只鸟,老是愁眉苦脸的模样。那张脸酷似一柄刮刀,上宽下尖,修刮得光溜溜的,极像一只刷洗干净的耗子。

    “完成五十次飞行任务,”他还是摇了摇头,又说了一遍。“上校要求飞满五十次。”
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