A/N: My first Catch-22 fic. Compared to the real book, this is utter garbage but it's my little tribute to Joseph Heller. Brilliant man. The names of the four officers (Yo-Yo's roomies) are not mentioned in the book, so I have given them names. This fic does not actually have a plot of sorts...I just wanted to write it! W00t! If there's any OOCness, I'm sorry.

[Words in these brackets are thoughts].

Disclaimer: I don't own Yossarian (damn) or any aspect of the book. Sad but true.

Don't Call Me Yo-Yo (for lack of a better title)

Night-time over Pianosa...

Yossarian, achy and weary from doing a hellish run over the Italian mainland near Livorno, huddled on his cot and pulled the blankets over him. The stifled giggles, whispers, and hissed banter of his roommates ground against his ears. He was dangerously close to throwing all of his snot- nosed companions out of his tent. Actually, he had already thrown them out, but Sargent Towser had forlornly insisted that there was nothing he could do about them, and so Yossarian had slunk back and for the rest of the time, tried to ignore them as much as possible.

"I gotta a swell girl back at home," piped one young officer, not bothering to keep his voice down, "She's a true-blue Southern Belle. Blue eyes and hair like you all have never seen. That's her picture over there." He pointed proudly over to the rough cement mantelpiece.

"Well, I'm getting engaged next year," proclaimed his friend, loudly enough for Yossarian to hear him through his hands over his ears, "When we're married we're going to move out west to California. That's where all her folks are. A man has to settle down -"

"Marry, shit," sniggered another voice. "Wesley, are you the same boy that I knew, oh, 3 months ago, that had a bet going that he was going to screw all the nurses in the hospital?"

"I'm still going to," Wesley said firmly. "I said I was engaged, not married. Besides, I don't love any of them, and I'm the only one out of all of you that's been to bed with an older woman."

"Enough about Wesley's love-life," interrupted one whom Yossarian thought was named Nate, though on second thought he couldn't give a shit what his name was. Nate lowered his voice. "How about this old war, eh? We're going to see some action. I signed up for the flight school, and I tell you, I can't wait to shoot those German bastards out of the sky –"

"Hell yeah! And let me tell you –"

"And I gotta –"

[And I gotta a gun, kid, right in my boot.] Yossarian screwed his eyes shut. Stupid, naïve, cocky little pricks. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into...that was his only comforting thought, and it was accompanied by little annoying twinges of shame and guilt. Yossarian was not a cold-hearted man. He wanted these kids to die from his own hands, preferably gripping some sort of machine gun, not disappearing in fiery bursts of flak or spiralling down in black plumes of smoke to their all-too- near deaths. On the other hand if at least some of them acquired injuries, the rest might shape up and stop being so fucking cheerful.

[That's right,] Yossarian growled to himself. [Three or four metal bullets in the ass is all they need.]

Just not lying bloodied and blackened in the rubble of some village, hoarsely crying to the cold metal sky for help, those who still had breath, or bobbing ice-lipped in the currents of the cold ocean. He could easily picture their smiling, shiny innocent faces caked with mud and blood, empty- eyed and rotting.

[Just not like Snowden.] Yossarian shut out the echoes of the young radio- gunner's whimpers, but they reverberated in his mind all the same: "I'm cold...I'm cold..."

He remembered Snowden's fading pallor, his chilly, blind eyes, fleshy strips hanging from his body. The sudden, trickling, horrific realization that the boy was bleeding inside his flak suit...and then his innards: all over the floor...all over Yossarian's hands...

"I'm cold...I'm cold..."

The sudden, tight helplessness in his chest: there was nothing he could do to help Snowden. He'd just covered the kid in his parachute as best he could, trying to keep him warm...

"I'm cold...I'm cold..."

"There, there," Yossarian whispered, shivering on his cot. "There, there..."

"What's that you say, Yo-Yo?" Young officer Nate reached over and slapped Yossarian heartily on the back. "You're mumbling in your sleep. Want some whiskey?"

"No," Yossarian snapped, flinching with embarrassment. "I don't want whiskey." He wished Orr was here. Orr would drive them insane. Or better, Chief White Halfoat, to simply drive them out. Yossarian preferred the non- existent company of the dead man in his tent to these four warm-blooded young officers.

"Oh come on, Yo-Yo! You never drink with us! Have a sip!" Yossarian glowered at the expectant faces. Nate gave him a weak grin, not knowing why he looked so angry.

"You want to fight for your country in a blaze of glory, eh?"

This question stopped their conversation short. Wesley gave an uncertain smile. "What?"

"I heard you talking." He sat up. "You college kids want to see some action?"

An officer named Davies nodded his head. "That's the whole reason we joined, Yo-Yo. America's got to be saved from the oppressors, so she can liberate the enslaved of Europe." He sat back, looking pleased.

"Don't call me Yo-Yo," Yossarian told him.

"Besides," Nate continued happily, not hearing him, "it gets you away, doesn't it? Away from your parents, gives you a chance to experience the world...we'll all be war-heroes, won't we, and pinned with medals! Us: me, Davies, Shaw, and Wesley! We'll all be heroes!" Nate and his companions gave themselves a rousing 'hurrah'.

"The only thing you'll be is dead or wishing you were," Yossarian said loudly. "Up in the air with flak exploding all around you, or lying on top of one another in a bloody heap in some foreign land. Shipped home in a coffin with your Purple Heart...if there's enough of you left to bury."

The four young men blinked at him.

"That's his problem!" Davies cried, waving his whiskey flask, "That's why he's so grumpy! Yo-Yo here is too negative-minded and fatalistic. He needs tent-mates like us to cheer him up. He needs to get laid. He needs –"

"Some whiskey!" Shaw crowed, and immediately Yossarian had four whiskey bottles shoved in his direction. He took one, only because he wanted to shut them up and get drunk enough to forget about them, knowing he would regret it in the morning.

The four chattered energetically till the very late hours, interspersed with singing, arguing, laughing, telling jokes, and generally, in Yossarian's view, living up to his perception of them as young, idealistic, arrogant idiots. He gave up telling them to shut up and curled up on his cot, clutching a whiskey bottle to his chest. He listened to their laughter and talk, and felt a pang of sadness. They were so innocent. He wished for innocence. He wished could be carefree and optimistic and blind. Yossarian wasn't even thirty yet, but as he lay there staring at the tent canvas, he felt old beyond measure. The whiskey fumes swirled about his eyelids and they closed, Snowden's voice faded, and he fell into an uneasy sleep

THE NEXT DAY

"Bastards," Yossarian said.

"Bastards," Chief White Halfoat agreed.

"Bastards," mumbled Dunbar. They had no idea who Yossarian was talking about, but no one cared.

"They ruined Orr's birch logs. They dump their kit on my cot. l already have a man sharing my tent, his name's Mudd as far as I know. I don't need four kids to baby-sit."

"Oh. I thought you were talking about Colonel Cathcart and General Dreedle."

"I thought he was talking about Colonel Korn."

"They're bastards too," Yossarian said with feeling.

"I feel sorry for you," Chief White Halfoat said solemnly, looking Yossarian square in the eye. "Having to fly seventy missions. Makes me glad I'm going to be dead soon." He coughed wretchedly.

The three were in Rome. Yossarian had decided he couldn't stand his roommates any longer and the next day had practically threatened Hungry Joe to take him away. Dunbar was there already and Yossarian had dragged the Indian along, for reasons unclear. Chief White Halfoat didn't mind: he all was all set to die of pneumonia. Yossarian made his decision to stay in the city until at least 2 of his roomies were dead, and planned to enjoy himself in the meantime.

"Don't talk to me about missions," he said drunkenly to Chief White Halfoat (of course he was drinking), "Don't talk to me about Colonel Cathcart. Don't talk."

"Don't talk," repeated Dunbar, sniggering. He sagged against the kitchen counter of the apartment. Sunlight spilled in from the curtains.

"I don't like it here," Chief White Halfoat announced, "It's too warm. Dunbar, close those damn curtains –the sun might make my lungs feel better."

"You might get melanoma instead," Dunbar suggested.

"I don't want to die of melanoma. What the hell is melanoma? I want to die of pneumonia."

"I want a girl," Yossarian said wistfully, thinking of Nurse Duckett. "Where's Luciana?"

"Probably doing ficky-fick with a soldier. Why don't you grab Orr's whore? I've seen her around with other men."

"I wouldn't do that," Yossarian replied with a rare burst of pride. "Orr was my friend. He made my tent liveable and you bastards know it's the best tent on the island. With the stove and everything."

"God rest his soul, wherever the little buck-toothed fuck is," Dunbar said respectfully, a miracle for him.

"There is no God," Chief White Halfoat began, when Hungry Joe stumbled into the kitchen, flushed by his encounter with a local slattern, rattling his camera nervously. He swayed over to Yossarian and plucked the beer bottle out of his hand, drinking deeply.

Yossarian felt like he ought to say something. "That's my beer."

"Is that right?" Hungry Joe set the bottle down and leaned forward unsteadily. "Are those punks with Luciana friends of yours too?"

Yossarian shot to his feet. "What?! What did you say?"

"There's," Hungry Joe hiccuped, "Some enlisted kids with Luciana...they're trying to get her to screw 'em. Good job, too, because I was planning on taking a pic -"

Yossarian shoved him against the counter. "You son of a bitch! Luciana isn't like the other women! She's got- "

"- Long legs, dark hair, and a sexy scar she won't let anyone see, yeah, we know. Hell of a piece." Hungry Joe chuckled.

"Don't you dare talk about her like that!"

"You're starting to sound like Nately." Hungry Joe grinned at him. "What's wrong? Falling in love?"

"No!"

"Then you won't mind her – "

Yossarian shoved past him with a growl and walked out into the hallway. A giggle of laughter reached his ears and he turned. Luciana was leaning sensually against an open doorway, clothed in a revealing dress, mockingly resisting all attempts of the young men around her to drag her through into the room. The young men were laughing too, delighted at this game of hard- to-get. They had boyish faces and charming grins. They took her arms and kissed them, one leaning against her, whispering words into Luciana's ear. She giggled and shook her head, giving her dark lashes an enticing flutter.

"No no, boys," she purred, "I'm too tired..."

The young men laughed, and continued their affections. One looked in Yossarian's direction, his face lighting up.

"Hey, look! It's our tent-mate Yo-Yo!"

Yossarian was struck dumb with anger and shock as Nate, Davies, Wesley and Shaw called cheerful greetings to him. He gripped his palms so tightly he drew blood.

"Get away from them," he croaked. Luciana looked at him, puzzled. "Perche?"

"Because they're idiots! I love you!" he shouted, feeling confused. "Remember? I love you...and...and..."

"You wanted to marry me, si," she giggled. "And you're drunk! Tu sei pazzo! And I am not a virgin!" She wagged a slender finger at him.

"Yo-Yo's getting married?" Davies spoke up brightly. "Really?" The other three looked up.

"Are we invited?"

"Is this a church ceremony?"

"Is there going to be wine?"

"Shut up!" Yossarian screeched at them, "I'm not getting married! And why the hell are you here?!"

Nate blinked, surprised at his outburst. "Don't be upset, Yo-Yo. We heard that General Dreedle rented some apartments here for the troops and we decided to check them out and get a taste of the Roman street life, if you know what I mean..."

"Don't call me Yo-Yo," Yossarian growled.

"You are crazy," Luciana repeated, rolling her dark eyes at him. "Crazy Americans. Think they can order everyone about. Crazy, crazy. I can sleep with any man I want."

"That's the way," came Hungry Joe's voice from behind Yossarian. "You tell them, lady. She can sleep with any man she wants."

"You stay out of this," Yossarian told him. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."

"Come have some fun with us, Yo-Yo...if she is your fiancée and all..."

"Get out," Yossarian snapped, "All of you go back to Pianosa...and stay away from my tent!"

The four looked at each other.

"Oh, well, that's another reason we came here –"

"- to tell you that.."

"Your tent..."

"...Is sort of...damaged."

"Yes."

"We were roasting some chestnuts. The stove was probably overheated a little."

Wilkes brightened. "You should have seen the fire, Yo-Yo! Like nothing you ever have seen..."

Nate gave an appreciative whistle. "And the stove. Ka-boom! It was Orr's, wasn't it?"

"Yo-Yo...? Why's he going all red?"

PIANOSA

"Cheer up," Chief White Halfoat grunted amiably, nursing a rum in the officer's club. He put a brown hand on Yossarian's shoulder. "It could have been worse." He drank.

Yossarian's head was lying on his arms. "Oh yeah, Chief? How?"

"You could have been in there." Dunbar patted his other shoulder.

"I know who I would've LIKED to be in there."

"It's not that bad...I mean, your tent was the best tent on the island, thanks to Orr. It was liveable..." Dunbar paused then plunged on, "It had a stove...a mantelpiece...a gas-line with faucet...oh God, you son of a bitch, I'm sorry."

Yossarian gave a muffled groan.

"Where are you staying now?"

"Hungry Joe's tent."

"You sad sorry son of a bitch."

"I can't get any sleep with him yelling all the time..."

"Poor Yo-Yo. Have a drink."

"Thanks, Chief."

The Indian nodded thoughtfully. "And when I die, you can stay with Captain Flume."

Yossarian spat his drink out.

"Ackpth! You have pneumonia!" He wiped his mouth.

"Sorry..."

"No." Yossarian sighed wearily. "That's ok. I don't want to die...but hell, I'd rather die from your pneumonia then flak or bombs."

"That's nicest thing that anyone's ever said to me."

"Huple's damn cat pissed on my sleeping bag."

"I thought you smelt funny."

"Thanks." Yossarian watched the rowdy officers around the ping-pong table gloomily. After a while Dunbar and Chief White Halfoat got up to buy more drinks, leaving him temporarily alone. He was wishing fervently for the warm company of Nurse Duckett in the hospital when a hand slapped him on the back so heartily his teeth rattled.

"Well, look who it is! I'll be goddamned! Yo-Yo!"

Yossarian did a slow burn. "Nate."

"That's right..." The young man paused. "Say, you smell like a urinal. Don't know if anyone ever told you. Want a drink?"

"No," Yossarian replied softly. His fists itched. "What are you doing in here?"

"Thought I'd check it out," Nate said brightly, surveying the place. "I'm waiting for a fight to break out. They're always fun to watch. You started a fight here, didn't you, Yo-Yo?"

"Don't call me Yo-Yo."

"Some guy punched Colonel Moodus in the nose...oh and broke someone named Appleby's forehead open with a ping-pong paddle! Wish I could've seen it." He paused. "You flew in the Great Siege of Bologna, didn't you? Wish I could've." Nate gazed at Yossarian with a sort of helpless admiration. "Two runs! Unbelievable!"

Yossarian thought of Kraft, the young pilot who'd flown to his death over Bologna: the spiraling trail of black smoke in the rubble. He thought of Orr and his buck-toothed grin, tinkering with the stove, and his rosy apple- cheeks. The image of Kid Sampson's bleached, skinny, putrefying legs crawled into his mind and he gagged suddenly, tears pricking his eyes. Not wanting the other men to see he buried his head in his arms.

"Yo-Yo?"

"Shut up!" Yossarian raised his head and glared at the young officer. "Do me a favor, kid. The next time you start wishing you could fly more missions, look at the faces of the experienced men around you. Do they look like they want to be shot down in flak with nothing but glass and metal separating them from the empty sky and hard ground? We're stuck on an island with lunatics as commanders! Logic is dead. Faith lies ruined. Insanity breeds like flies; flies that hover and swarm over the bodies of men...my friends. Face it, kid. The only thing real in this world is death."

Nate blinked at him. "It's true. You ARE crazy. I've never known a madman before..."

Yossarian began to laugh. He was still laughing when Dunbar and Chief White Halfoat returned with their drinks. He was chuckling as some other officers gave him suspicious glances. And he was grinning at Nate when he walked away hurriedly, anxious to be away from his ex-tent-mate's insanity.

"You're crazy," Dunbar had remarked.

Five days later Nate was dead; shot over the ocean near Pisa. Wesley had been the radio-gunner. Yossarian said nothing about it. The other young officers –only two left now- grew quiet after that day, and averted Yossarian's eyes when they passed him.

Yossarian padded along the beach, waiting for the end he knew would come. It had been a week since he had laughed at Nate in the officer's club. Raising his eyes he saw that the clouds had gathered, a wind was sifting the sand around his toes, and he watched the sullen waves writhe and foam, and waited.

"You watch," he announced to the listening sea, "If I die, I want it to be an honest death. Not by some crazy man with a gun."

Crash, went the waves.

"Yo...Yossarian?"

He turned. Davies was watching him sadly. The young man brushed his wind- swept feathery blond hair out of his eyes and sat down next to Yossarian's feet. He looked at the turbulent sea, then looked up.

"D'you think they're out there?"

Yossarian sat. "Who?"

"Nate." The other's voice quavered lightly. "And Wesley."

"Yes." Yossarian saw no point in lying.

"Cold."

"Yes."

"And dead."

"Yes."

"O-oh." Davies swallowed hard. They sat in silence for a while. Davies bit his lip and hugged his knees to his chest. [He's a goddamned kid,] Yossarian thought, [Really. A boy in a uniform. Jesus.]

It struck him on just how vulnerable Davies looked. Yossarian gritted his teeth. He hated the world all in one instant. He hated Colonel Cathcart the most.

Davies' voice was hushed. "Is this...what it feels like?"

"What?"

"Grief. Tight. Smothering. Saddening."

"Yes." Yossarian picked up a broken shell and began examining its spirals and edges.

"You've lost friends, haven't you?" Davies played nervously with his toes, a childish habit that he'd grown out of.

"Sure. Orr. Clevinger. Kid Sampson. Soon Chief White Halfoat. And others." [Snowden.]

"You're used to it?"

"Do you ever grow used to dying? No. It's harder every time. It's how you deal with it that matters."

He received no reply. Davies kept his head bowed, now tracing patterns in the sand. Yossarian saw his shoulders begin to shake.

"I-I guess I thought...because y-you know what it feels like to lose s- someone...you could h-help m-me..."

"Aw, Jesus..." Yossarian let the younger man fall against his shoulder, sobbing. He held him awkwardly, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. No one else was about on the beach.

"Hey, kid...it's ok..." Yossarian winced. He wasn't very good at comforting people. Soon his shirt was sticking damp to his shoulder, a mop of blond hair under his chin. He sat stiffly and stared at the waves, holding the shuddering boy. Salty trickles pooled in his collar bone.

"T-they w-w-were m-muh friends...I knew t-them in s-school...oh G-God!"

Yossarian didn't know what to say. In this situation he was helpless. He remembered Snowden's whimpers and felt cold. But this was different: he could help this boy. Davies sniffled as strong sun-bronzed arms tightened their grip. "There, there."

After a minute Davies pulled away, snivelling. "Oh G-God I'm s-sorry..." He wiped his eyes furiously.

"That's ok," Yossarian said gruffly. "It happens."

"Yeah. B-but, you know –"Davies looked away. "Thanks, Yo-Yo."

"Let's go back."

"Yeah."

"Play some cards with Dunbar. Cheers you up, huh? Come on."

"Ok."

"Oh, kid? One more thing."

"What's that?"

"Don't call me Yo-Yo."

Davies grinned. Yossarian laughed. The two figures disappeared into the jungle, leaving the sea behind.

A/N: ...Right. This fic did not make sense. Yay randomness! :)

YOSSARIAN LIVES! W00t! :D