Doc Daneeka declared dead

Doc Daneeka's death was a bureaucratic fiction that became official reality, a triumph of paperwork over the living man. When McWatt flew his plane into a mountain after killing Kid Sampson, Doc Daneeka's name was on the pilot's manifest as a passenger. Though he had never boarded the flight, the record was enough. Sergeant Towser, learning the news from the control tower, struck Doc Daneeka's name from the roster of squadron personnel with a tear and trudged outside to break the bad news to Gus and Wes, deliberately avoiding any conversation with Doc Daneeka himself, who sat on his stool in the late-afternoon sunlight between the orderly room and the medical tent, a slight sepulchral figure roosting despondently. Sergeant Towser's heart was heavy; he now had two dead men on his hands—Mudd, the dead man in Yossarian's tent who was not even there, and Doc Daneeka, the new dead man in the squadron, who most certainly was there and gave every indication of proving a still thornier administrative problem for him.

The Medical Corps Declares Him Dead

Gus and Wes listened to Sergeant Towser with stoic surprise and said nothing about their bereavement until Doc Daneeka himself came in about an hour later to have his temperature taken for the third time that day and his blood pressure checked. The thermometer registered a half degree lower than his usual subnormal temperature of 96.8. Doc Daneeka was alarmed. The fixed, vacant, wooden stares of his two enlisted men were even more irritating than always. He expostulated politely in an uncommon excess of exasperation, complaining that it was not right for a person to have a low temperature all the time and walk around with a stuffed nose. He emitted a glum, self-pitying sniff and strolled disconsolately across the tent to help himself to some aspirin and sulphur pills and paint his own throat with Argyrol. His downcast face was fragile and forlorn as a swallow's, and he rubbed the back of his arms rhythmically. "Just look how cold I am right now," he said. "You're sure you're not holding anything back?" One of his enlisted men explained, "You're dead, sir." The other added, "That's probably the reason you always feel so cold." Doc Daneeka jerked his head up with resentful distrust, then cried shrilly with a surging, petrifying sensation of onrushing unavoidable disaster. The enlisted men insisted the records showed he had gone up in McWatt's plane to collect flight time and had not come down in a parachute, so he must have been killed in the crash. "You ought to be glad you've got any temperature at all," one said. Doc Daneeka's mind reeled in confusion. He demanded if they had both gone crazy and threatened to report the insubordinate incident to Sergeant Towser. "Sergeant Towser's the one who told us about it," replied either Gus or Wes. "The War Department's even going to notify your wife." Doc Daneeka yelped and ran out of the medical tent to remonstrate with Sergeant Towser, who edged away from him with repugnance and advised him to remain out of sight as much as possible until some decision could be reached relating to the disposition of his remains. One of his enlisted men grieved in a low, respectful voice that he was going to miss him, calling him a pretty wonderful guy. The other mourned in agreement but added, "I'm glad the little fuck is gone. I was getting sick and tired of taking his blood pressure all the time."

Mrs. Daneeka's Prosperous Widowhood

Mrs. Daneeka, Doc Daneeka's wife, was not glad that Doc Daneeka was gone and split the peaceful Staten Island night with woeful shrieks of lamentation when she learned by War Department telegram that her husband had been killed in action. Women came to comfort her, and their husbands paid condolence calls, hoping inwardly she would soon move away. The poor woman was totally distraught for almost a full week. Slowly, heroically, she found the strength to contemplate a future filled with dire problems for herself and her children. Just as she was growing resigned to her loss, the postman rang with a bolt from the blue—a letter from overseas signed with her husband's signature urging her frantically to disregard any bad news concerning him. Mrs. Daneeka was dumbfounded. The handwriting throughout was shaky and hurried, but the style resembled her husband's and the melancholy, self-pitying tone was familiar, although more dreary than usual. She was overjoyed and wept irrepressibly with relief, kissing the crinkled, grubby tissue of V-mail stationery a thousand times. She dashed a grateful note off to her husband pressing for details and sent a wire informing the War Department of its error. The War Department replied touchily that there had been no error and that she was undoubtedly the victim of some sadistic and psychotic forger in her husband's squadron. The letter to her husband was returned unopened, stamped KILLED IN ACTION. Mrs. Daneeka had been widowed cruelly again, but this time her grief was mitigated by a notification from Washington that she was sole beneficiary of her husband's $10,000 GI insurance policy, obtainable on demand. The realization that she and the children were not faced immediately with starvation brought a brave smile to her face and marked the turning point in her distress. The Veterans Administration informed her by mail the very next day that she would be entitled to pension benefits for the rest of her natural life because of her husband's demise, and to a burial allowance of $250. A government check for $250 was enclosed. Gradually, inexorably, her prospects brightened. A letter arrived that same week from the Social Security Administration stating that, under the provisions of the Old Age and Survivors Insurance Act of 1935, she would receive monthly support for herself and her dependent children until they reached the age of eighteen, and a burial allowance of $250. With these government letters as proof of death, she applied for payment on three life insurance policies Doc Daneeka had carried, with a value of $50,000 each; her claim was honored and processed swiftly. Each day brought new unexpected treasures. A key to a safe-deposit box led to a fourth life insurance policy with a face value of $50,000, and to $18,000 in cash on which income tax had never been paid and need never be paid. A fraternal lodge to which he had belonged gave her a cemetery plot. A second fraternal organization of which he had been a member sent her a burial allowance of $250. His county medical association gave her a burial allowance of $250. The husbands of her closest friends began to flirt with her. Mrs. Daneeka was simply delighted with the way things were turning out and had her hair dyed. Her fantastic wealth just kept piling up, and she had to remind herself daily that all the hundreds of thousands of dollars she was acquiring were not worth a single penny without her husband to share this good fortune with her.

The Living Dead Man on Pianosa

Back on Pianosa, Doc Daneeka was having a terrible time trying to keep his head above the ground and wondered with dismal apprehension why his wife did not answer the letter he had written. He found himself ostracized in the squadron by men who cursed his memory foully for having supplied Colonel Cathcart with provocation to raise the number of combat missions. Records attesting to his death were pullulating like insect eggs and verifying each other beyond all contention. He drew no pay or PX rations and depended for life on the charity of Sergeant Towser and Milo, who both knew he was dead. Colonel Cathcart refused to see him, and Colonel Korn sent word through Major Danby that he would have Doc Daneeka cremated on the spot if he ever showed up at Group Headquarters. Major Danby confided that Group was incensed with all flight surgeons because of Dr. Stubbs, the bushy-haired, baggy-chinned, slovenly flight surgeon in Dunbar's squadron who was deliberately and defiantly brewing insidious dissension there by grounding all men with sixty missions on proper forms that were rejected by Group indignantly with orders restoring the confused pilots, navigators, bombardiers and gunners to combat duty. Morale there was ebbing rapidly, and Dunbar was under surveillance. Group was glad Doc Daneeka had been killed and did not intend to ask for a replacement. Not even the chaplain could bring Doc Daneeka back to life under the circumstances. Alarm changed to resignation, and more and more Doc Daneeka acquired the look of an ailing rodent. The sacks under his eyes turned hollow and black, and he padded through the shadows fruitlessly like a ubiquitous spook. Even Captain Flume recoiled when Doc Daneeka sought him out in the woods for help. Heartlessly, Gus and Wes turned him away from their medical tent without even a thermometer for comfort, and only then did he realize that, to all intents and purposes, he really was dead, and that he had better do something damned fast if he ever hoped to save himself. There was nowhere else to turn but to his wife, and he scribbled an impassioned letter begging her to bring his plight to the attention of the War Department and urging her to communicate at once with his group commander, Colonel Cathcart, for assurances that—no matter what else she might have heard—it was indeed he, her husband, Doc Daneeka, who was pleading with her, and not a corpse or some impostor. Mrs. Daneeka was stunned by the depth of emotion in the almost illegible appeal. She was torn with compunction and tempted to comply, but the very next letter she opened that day was from that same Colonel Cathcart, her husband's group commander, and began: "Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs. Daneeka: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action." Mrs. Daneeka moved with her children to Lansing, Michigan, and left no forwarding address.