Уловка 22

Snowden

           Yossarian,puzzled,triednottolookathim.Hebegancuttingdownwardthroughthecoverallsalongtheinsideseam.Theyawningwoundwasthatatubeofslimybonehesawrunningdeepinsidethegoryscarletflowbehindthetwitching,startlingfibersofweirdmuscle?wasdrippingbloodinseveraltrickles,likesnowmeltingoneaves,butviscousandred,alreadythickeningasitdropped.Yossariankeptcuttingthroughthecoverallstothebottomandpeeledopentheseveredlegofthegarment.Itfelltothefloorwithaplop,exposingthehemofkhakiundershortsthatweresoakingupblotchesofbloodononesideasthoughinthirst.YossarianwasstunnedathowwaxenandghastlySnowden’sbareleglooked,howloathsome,howlifelessandesotericthedowny,fine,curledblondhairsonhisoddwhiteshinandcalf.Thewound,hesawnow,wasnotnearlyaslargeasafootball,butaslongandwideashishandandtoorawanddeeptoseeintoclearly.Therawmusclesinsidetwitchedlikelivehamburgermeat.AlongsighofreliefescapedslowlythroughYossarian’smouthwhenhesawthatSnowdenwasnotindangerofdying.Thebloodwasalreadycoagulatinginsidethewound,anditwassimplyamatterofbandaginghimupandkeepinghimcalmuntiltheplanelanded.Heremovedsomepacketsofsulfanilamidefromthefirst-aidkit.SnowdenquiveredwhenYossarianpressedagainsthimgentlytoturnhimupslightlyonhisside.

           "DidIhurtyou?"

           "I’mcold,"Snowdenwhimpered."I’mcold.

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