Doc Daneeka lived in a splotched gray tent with Chief White Halfoat, whom he feared and despised.
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“I can just picture his liver,” Doc Daneeka grumbled.
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“Picture my liver,” Yossarian advised him.
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“There’s nothing wrong with your liver.”
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“That shows how much you don’t know,” Yossarian bluffed, and told Doc Daneeka about the troublesome painin his liver that had troubled Nurse Duckett and Nurse Cramer and all the doctors in the hospital because itwouldn’t become jaundice and wouldn’t go away.
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Doc Daneeka wasn’t interested. “You think you’ve got troubles?” he wanted to know. “What about me? Youshould’ve been in my office the day those newlyweds walked in.”
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“What newlyweds?”
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“Those newlyweds that walked into my office one day. Didn’t I ever tell you about them? She was lovely.”
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So was Doc Daneeka’s office. He had decorated his waiting room with goldfish and one of the finest suites ofcheap furniture. Whatever he could he bought on credit, even the goldfish. For the rest, he obtained money fromgreedy relatives in exchange for shares of the profits. His office was in Staten Island in a two-family firetrap justfour blocks away from the ferry stop and only one block south of a supermarket, three beauty parlors, and twocorrupt druggists. It was a corner location, but nothing helped. Population turnover was small, and people clungthrough habit to the same physicians they had been doing business with for years. Bills piled up rapidly, and hewas soon faced with the loss of his most precious medical instruments: his adding machine was repossessed, andthen his typewriter. The goldfish died. Fortunately, just when things were blackest, the war broke out.
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“It was a godsend,” Doc Daneeka confessed solemnly. “Most of the other doctors were soon in the service, andthings picked up overnight. The corner location really started paying off, and I soon found myself handling morepatients than I could handle competently. I upped my kickback fee with those two drugstores. The beauty parlorswere good for two, three abortions a week. Things couldn’t have been better, and then look what happened. Theyhad to send a guy from the draft board around to look me over. I was Four-F. I had examined myself prettythoroughly and discovered that I was unfit for military service. You’d think my word would be enough, wouldn’tyou, since I was a doctor in good standing with my county medical society and with my local Better BusinessBureau. But no, it wasn’t, and they sent this guy around just to make sure I really did have one leg amputated atthe hip and was helplessly bedridden with incurable rheumatoid arthritis. Yossarian, we live in an age of distrustand deteriorating spiritual values. It’s a terrible thing,” Doc Daneeka protested in a voice quavering with strongemotion. “It’s a terrible thing when even the word of a licensed physician is suspected by the country he loves.”
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Doc Daneeka had been drafted and shipped to Pianosa as a flight surgeon, even though he was terrified of flying.
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“I don’t have to go looking for trouble in an airplane,” he noted, blinking his beady, brown, offended eyesmyopically. “It comes looking for me. Like that virgin I’m telling you about that couldn’t have a baby.”
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“What virgin?” Yossarian asked. “I thought you were telling me about some newlyweds.”
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“That’s the virgin I’m telling you about. They were just a couple of young kids, and they’d been married, oh, alittle over a year when they came walking into my office without an appointment. You should have seen her. Shewas so sweet and young and pretty. She even blushed when I asked about her periods. I don’t think I’ll ever stoploving that girl. She was built like a dream and wore a chain around her neck with a medal of Saint Anthonyhanging down inside the most beautiful bosom I never saw. ‘It must be a terrible temptation for Saint Anthony,’ Ijoked—just to put her at ease, you know. ‘Saint Anthony?’ her husband said. ‘Who’s Saint Anthony?’ ‘Ask yourwife,’ I told him. ‘She can tell you who Saint Anthony is.’ ‘Who is Saint Anthony?’ he asked her. ‘Who?’ shewanted to know. ‘Saint Anthony,’ he told her. ‘Saint Anthony?’ she said. ‘Who’s Saint Anthony?’ When I got agood look at her inside my examination room I found she was still a virgin. I spoke to her husband alone whileshe was pulling her girdle back on and hooking it onto her stockings. ‘Every night,’ he boasted. A real wise guy,you know. ‘I never miss a night,’ he boasted. He meant it, too. ‘I even been puttin’ it to her mornings before thebreakfasts she makes me before we go to work,’ he boasted. There was only one explanation. When I had themboth together again I gave them a demonstration of intercourse with the rubber models I’ve got in my office. I’vegot these rubber models in my office with all the reproductive organs of both sexes that I keep locked up inseparate cabinets to avoid a scandal. I mean I used to have them. I don’t have anything any more, not even apractice. The only thing I have now is this low temperature that I’m really starting to worry about. Those twokids I’ve got working for me in the medical tent aren’t worth a damn as diagnosticians. All they know how to dois complain. They think they’ve got troubles? What about me? They should have been in my office that day withthose two newlyweds looking at me as though I were telling them something nobody’d ever heard of before. Younever saw anybody so interested. ‘You mean like this?’ he asked me, and worked the models for himself awhile.
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You know, I can see where a certain type of person might get a big kick out of doing just that. ‘That’s it,’ I toldhim. ‘Now, you go home and try it my way for a few months and see what happens. Okay?’ ‘Okay,’ they said,and paid me in cash without any argument. ‘Have a good time,’ I told them, and they thanked me and walked outtogether. He had his arm around her waist as though he couldn’t wait to get her home and put it to her again. Afew days later he came back all by himself and told my nurse he had to see me right away. As soon as we werealone, he punched me in the nose.”
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“He did what?”
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“He called me a wise guy and punched me in the nose. ‘What are you, a wise guy?’ he said, and knocked me flaton my ass. Pow! Just like that. I’m not kidding.”
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“I know you’re not kidding,” Yossarian said. “But why did he do it?”
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“How should I know why he did it?” Doc Daneeka retorted with annoyance.
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“Maybe it had something to do with Saint Anthony?”
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Doc Daneeka looked at Yossarian blankly. “Saint Anthony?” he asked with astonishment. “Who’s SaintAnthony?”
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“How should I know?” answered Chief White Halfoat, staggering inside the tent just then with a bottle ofwhiskey cradled in his arm and sitting himself down pugnaciously between the two of them.
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Doc Daneeka rose without a word and moved his chair outside the tent, his back bowed by the compact kit ofinjustices that was his perpetual burden. He could not bear the company of his roommate.
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Chief White Halfoat thought he was crazy. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that guy,” he observedreproachfully. “He’s got no brains, that’s what’s the matter with him. If he had any brains he’d grab a shovel andstart digging. Right here in the tent, he’d start digging, right under my cot. He’d strike oil in no time. Don’t heknow how that enlisted man struck oil with a shovel back in the States? Didn’t he ever hear what happened tothat kid—what was the name of that rotten rat bastard pimp of a snotnose back in Colorado?”
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“Wintergreen.”
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“Wintergreen.”
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“He’s afraid,” Yossarian explained.
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“Oh, no. Not Wintergreen.” Chief White Halfoat shook his head with undisguised admiration. “That stinkinglittle punk wise-guy son of a bitch ain’t afraid of nobody.”
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“Doc Daneeka’s afraid. That’s what’s the matter with him.”
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“What’s he afraid of?”
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“He’s afraid of you,” Yossarian said. “He’s afraid you’re going to die of pneumonia.”
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“He’d better be afraid,” Chief White Halfoat said. A deep, low laugh rumbled through his massive chest. “I will,too, the first chance I get. You just wait and see.”
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Chief White Halfoat was a handsome, swarthy Indian from Oklahoma with a heavy, hard-boned face and tousledblack hair, a half-blooded Creek from Enid who, for occult reasons of his own, had made up his mind to die ofpneumonia. He was a glowering, vengeful, disillusioned Indian who hated foreigners with names like Cathcart,Korn, Black and Havermeyer and wished they’d all go back to where their lousy ancestors had come from.
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“You wouldn’t believe it, Yossarian,” he ruminated, raising his voice deliberately to bait Doc Daneeka, “but thisused to be a pretty good country to live in before they loused it up with their goddam piety.”
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Chief White Halfoat was out to revenge himself upon the white man. He could barely read or write and had beenassigned to Captain Black as assistant intelligence officer.
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“How could I learn to read or write?” Chief White Halfoat demanded with simulated belligerence, raising hisvoice again so that Doc Daneeka would hear. “Every place we pitched our tent, they sank an oil well. Every timethey sank a well, they hit oil. And every time they hit oil, they made us pack up our tent and go someplace else.
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We were human divining rods. Our whole family had a natural affinity for petroleum deposits, and soon everyoil company in the world had technicians chasing us around. We were always on the move. It was one hell of away to bring a child up, I can tell you. I don’t think I ever spent more than a week in one place.”
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His earliest memory was of a geologist.
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“Every time another White Halfoat was born,” he continued, “the stock market turned bullish. Soon wholedrilling crews were following us around with all their equipment just to get the jump on each other. Companiesbegan to merge just so they could cut down on the number of people they had to assign to us. But the crowd inback of us kept growing. We never got a good night’s sleep. When we stopped, they stopped. When we moved,they moved, chuckwagons, bulldozers, derricks, generators. We were a walking business boom, and we began toreceive invitations from some of the best hotels just for the amount of business we would drag into town with us.
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Some of those invitations were mighty generous, but we couldn’t accept any because we were Indians and all thebest hotels that were inviting us wouldn’t accept Indians as guests. Racial prejudice is a terrible thing, Yossarian.
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It really is. It’s a terrible thing to treat a decent, loyal Indian like a nigger, kike, wop or spic.” Chief WhiteHalfoat nodded slowly with conviction.
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“Then, Yossarian, it finally happened—the beginning of the end. They began to follow us around from in front.
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They would try to guess where we were going to stop next and would begin drilling before we even got there, sowe couldn’t stop. As soon as we’d begin to unroll our blankets, they would kick us off. They had confidence inus. They wouldn’t even wait to strike oil before they kicked us off. We were so tired we almost didn’t care theday our time ran out. One morning we found ourselves completely surrounded by oilmen waiting for us to cometheir way so they could kick us off. Everywhere you looked there was an oilman on a ridge, waiting there likeIndians getting ready to attack. It was the end. We couldn’t stay where we were because we had just been kickedoff. And there was no place left for us to go. Only the Army saved me. Luckily, the war broke out just in the nickof time, and a draft board picked me right up out of the middle and put me down safely in Lowery Field,Colorado. I was the only survivor.”
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Yossarian knew he was lying, but did not interrupt as Chief White Halfoat went on to claim that he had neverheard from his parents again. That didn’t bother him too much, though, for he had only their word for it that theywere his parents, and since they had lied to him about so many other things, they could just as well have beenlying to him about that too. He was much better acquainted with the fate of a tribe of first cousins who hadwandered away north in a diversionary movement and pushed inadvertently into Canada. When they tried toreturn, they were stopped at the border by American immigration authorities who would not let them back intothe country. They could not come back in because they were red.
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It was a horrible joke, but Doc Daneeka didn’t laugh until Yossarian came to him one mission later and pleaded again, without any real expectation of success, to be grounded. Doc Daneeka snickered once and was soonimmersed in problems of his own, which included Chief White Halfoat, who had been challenging him all thatmorning to Indian wrestle, and Yossarian, who decided right then and there to go crazy.
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“You’re wasting your time,” Doc Daneeka was forced to tell him.
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“Can’t you ground someone who’s crazy?”
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“Oh, sure. I have to. There’s a rule saying I have to ground anyone who’s crazy.”
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“Then why don’t you ground me? I’m crazy. Ask Clevinger.”
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“Clevinger? Where is Clevinger? You find Clevinger and I’ll ask him.”
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“Then ask any of the others. They’ll tell you how crazy I am.”
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“They’re crazy.”
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“Then why don’t you ground them?”
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“Why don’t they ask me to ground them?”
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“Because they’re crazy, that’s why.”
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“Of course they’re crazy,” Doc Daneeka replied. “I just told you they’re crazy, didn’t I? And you can’t let crazypeople decide whether you’re crazy or not, can you?”
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Yossarian looked at him soberly and tried another approach. “Is Orr crazy?”
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“He sure is,” Doc Daneeka said.
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“Can you ground him?”
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“I sure can. But first he has to ask me to. That’s part of the rule.”