Уловка 22

Thanksgiving

           Yossarianwhirledandplungedaheadupthepathwithoutlookingback.

           Soonhesawthemachinegun.Twofiguresleapedupinsilhouettewhentheyheardhimandfledintothenightwithtauntinglaughterbeforehecouldgetthere.Hewastoolate.Theirfootstepsreceded,leavingthecircleofsandbagsemptyandsilentinthecrispandwindlessmoonlight.Helookedaboutdejectedly.Jeeringlaughtercametohimagain,fromadistance.Atwigsnappednearby.Yossariandroppedtohiskneeswithacoldthrillofelationandaimed.Heheardastealthyrustleofleavesontheothersideofthesandbagsandfiredtwoquickrounds.Someonefiredbackathimonce,andherecognizedtheshot.

           "Dunbar?hecalled.

           "Yossarian?"Thetwomenlefttheirhidingplacesandwalkedforwardtomeetintheclearingwithwearydisappointment,theirgunsdown.Theywerebothshiveringslightlyfromthefrostyairandwheezingfromthelaboroftheiruphillrush.

           "Thebastards,"saidYossarian."Theygotaway."

           "Theytooktenyearsoffmylife,"Dunbarexclaimed."IthoughtthatsonofabitchMilowasbombingusagain.I’veneverbeensoscared.IwishIknewwhothebastardswere.

           "OnewasSergeantKnight."

           "Let’sgokillhim."Dunbar’steethwerechattering."Hehadnorighttoscareusthatway."Yossariannolongerwantedtokillanyone."Let’shelpNatelyfirst.IthinkIhurthimatthebottomofthehill.

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