The original novel Zhuyu was the first, and the short play was changed into this way, and it was quite satisfactory. I just want to take this opportunity to excerpt the most shocking clip in the original book - the death of Chris Snowden, so that everyone can feel the cruelty of war (if this film has not done it already):
Excerpted from Catch-22 Chapter 41: Snowden
Snowden was never his buddy, just a lad he knew a little bit. That time, Dobbs called Yossarian on the intercom to save the bomber, save the bomber. Yossarian climbed over the roof of the bomb bay and into the rear of the plane, where he saw that Snowden was badly wounded and he was about to freeze to death. A blinding ring of golden sunlight shone through the side cannons where he lay, beating across his face. Yossarian's stomach throbbed the first time he saw the horrific sight, and he felt sick. He froze for a few minutes before crawling down, crawling through the narrow passage in the top of the bomb bay, past the sealed corrugated cardboard box containing the first aid kit. Snowden lay on his back on his back on the deck, still wrapped in a bulky body armor, ballistic helmet, parachute harness and flight life jacket. Not far from him lay the unconscious little tailgate gunner. Yossarian saw a wound on the outside of Snowden's thigh that looked the size and depth of a football. Blood soaked through his work clothes, and it was impossible to tell which were rags and which were mushy flesh.
There was no morphine in the first aid kit, or anything else that would help Snowden with pain.
Yossarian could only stare in horror at the open wound. All twelve morphine needles in the medicine chest were stolen. In the place where the needle had been placed was a neatly handwritten note that read: "What's good for the M&M syndicate is what's good for the country. Milo Mindbinder". Yossarian cursed Milo as he grabbed two aspirins and shoved them into Snowden's unresponsive pale lips. First, though, he hurriedly grabbed a tourniquet and tied Snowden's thigh, because during the first few minutes of panic, his mind was a mess, only knowing that he had to take appropriate measures, but thinking for a moment. Not sure what to do. He was so afraid that he would collapse completely. Snowden said nothing, watching him quietly. There was no sign of arterial bleeding, but Yossarian pretended to be preoccupied with tying up a tourniquet because he didn't know how to use it. He fiddled with the tourniquet pretending to be skilled and adept, and he could feel Snowden's dull eyes staring at him. Before the tourniquet was tied, he regained his composure. He immediately loosened the tourniquet to prevent gangrene. At this point, his mind was clear, and he knew what to do. He rummaged through the first aid kit, looking for a pair of scissors.
"I'm cold," Snowden whispered. "I'm cold."
"You'll be all right soon, boy," Yossarian reassured him, smiling. "You'll be all right soon."
"I'm cold," Snowden said weakly, his voice sounding like an innocent child. "I am cold."
"Okay, okay," Yossarian agreed, not knowing what to say.
"alright."
"I'm cold," Snowden whimpered. "I am cold."
"Okay, okay, okay, okay."
Yossarian was frightened and his movements quickened. Finally, he found a pair of scissors. He carefully cut Snowden's overalls up from the wound, all the way to the base of his thigh. Then he made another straight cut around his thigh, cutting the thick gabardine overalls in two. He was cutting when the little cockpit gunner woke up, looked at him, and passed out again. Snowden turned his head to the other side to stare at Yossarian more directly. There was a dim light in his tired, listless eyes. Yossarian felt a little guilty and tried not to look at him. He cut down the inside seam of the overalls again. From the open wound - the rash's muscle tissue was still twitching and throbbing - red blood kept pouring out. Through these, what he saw was a sticky bone tube--the blood flowed out into many small streams like the melting snow on the eaves, but his blood was sticky and red, and it flowed out. It solidified. Yossarian cut all the way down the trouser legs of his overalls, then began to remove the cut legs from Snowden's legs. The trousers fell to the ground with a thud, and the bottom edge of the khaki shorts inside was exposed, and one side was soaked with blood, as if to quench thirst with blood. Yossarian was astonished to see how smooth and pale Snowden's bare thighs were, while his surprisingly white calves, covered with fine, curly yellow hairs, looked repulsive and innocuous. Angry, looks special. At this time he saw clearly that the wound was not the size of a football, but it was as long, as wide as his palm, and very deep. The blood was blurred inside, and only the bloody muscles were twitching constantly, like fresh ground beef. Yossarian, seeing that Snowden was not in danger, let out a long sigh of relief. The blood in the wound has begun to solidify. Just bandage him to keep him calm before the plane lands. Yossarian pulled out a few packets of sulphur brick powder from the first aid kit. Snowden shuddered as he nudged Snowden lightly, trying to get him to turn slightly.
"Did I hurt you?"
"I'm cold," Snowden whimpered. "I am cold."
"Okay, okay," Yossarian said. "Okay, okay."
"I'm cold, I'm cold."
"Okay, okay, okay, okay."
"The wound's starting to hurt," Snowden shrank back suddenly, and cried out mournfully.
Yossarian frantically rummaged through the first aid kit again, looking for a morphine shot: but all he found was Milo's note and a bottle of aspirin. He cursed Milo as he put two aspirins to Snowden's mouth. He has no water to give him his medicine. Snowden shook his head, almost imperceptibly, to show that he didn't want to take acopirin: his face was pale. Yossarian removed Snowden's bulletproof helmet and rested his head on the deck.
"I'm cold," Snowden moaned, eyes half closed. "I'm cold."
His lips began to turn blue. Yossarian panicked a little, wondering if he should rip Snowden's ripcord and put a nylon parachute cloth over him. It was unexpectedly warm in the cabin, and Snowden raised his eyes suddenly, gave him a weary, friendly smile, and shifted his hips so Yossarian could put Sulfonamide powder on his wound. Yossarian regained his confidence and optimism as he worked, and the plane plunged into a vertical draught and jolted violently: Yossarian suddenly remembered that he had forgotten his parachute on the plane. Head over there. However, there is no way to think about it now. He poured bag after bag of crystalline white powder into the bloody oval wound until the blush was completely covered. Then he took a deep, worried breath: gritted his teeth, and dared to reach out with a naked hand, grab the drooping, drying strands of muscle and shove them back into the wound. He hastily covered the wound with a large piece of cotton gauze, and then withdrew his hand. The brief ordeal was over, and he smiled nervously. Direct contact with inanimate flesh was not as disgusting as he expected, so he made excuses to touch the wound with his fingers again and again to make sure he was brave.
Then he started to bind the gauze with a roll of bandage. When he put the bandage around Snowden's thigh a second time, he saw a small hole on the inside of his thigh. It was a round wound the size of a quarter, with bruised edges curled up, and a black hole in the middle, where the blood had coagulated. That's where the shrapnel comes in. Yossarian put a layer of Sulfonamide powder on the wound, and continued to wrap Snowden's thigh with a bandage until the gauze was tightly wrapped. Then he cut the bandage with scissors, stuffed the head of the bandage inside, tied a very neat square knot, and tied the bandage tightly. He thought he was well bandaged and sat smugly on his heels, grinning at Snowden sincerely and friendly as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"I'm cold," Snowden groaned. "I am cold."
"You'll be all right soon, lad," Yossarian assured him, raising his arm reassuringly. "It's all under control."
Snowden shook his head feebly. "I'm cold," he said again. His eyes were dull and dull, like two stones, "I'm cold."
"Okay, okay," Yossarian said. He became increasingly suspicious and panicked. "Okay, okay. We'll be landing in a minute, and Dr. Danica will be there to take care of you."
However, Snowden kept shaking his head. Finally, he lifted his chin a little and gestured towards his armpit. Yossarian bent down and stared, seeing a strange-colored smudge seeping out of his overalls just above the sleeves of the body armor, and he felt his heart stop for a second, then thump violently again. He kept jumping until he couldn't breathe. Snowden still has wounds inside his body armor. Yossarian shrieked as he unbuttoned Snowden's body armor. Snowden's innards gushed out and piled wetly on the floor, with blood still dripping from the wound. A piece of shrapnel more than three inches long happened to shoot through his armpit on the other side.
This piece of shrapnel passed through his abdominal cavity and made a big hole in the rib on this side, taking out all the miscellaneous things in his stomach. Yossarian screamed again, and covered his eyes with his hands. He was shivering with fright, his teeth chattering. He forced himself to look up again. As he watched, he thought bitterly that everything God made was here—liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach, and the simmered tomatoes that Snowden had for lunch that day. Yossarian hates simmering tomatoes. Dazedly, he turned around, put one hand on his warm throat, and vomited. He was throwing up when the aft machine gunner woke up, glanced at him, and passed out again. After Yossarian finished vomiting, he felt exhausted, pained and hopeless. He turned weakly back to Snowden. Snowden's breathing grew weaker and faster, and his face grew paler. Yossarian didn't know what to do to save him.
"I'm cold," Snowden whimpered. "I'm cold."
"Okay, okay," Yossarian muttered mechanically. His voice was too low to be heard.
Yossarian also felt cold, and he shivered involuntarily. Snowden's horrific guts splattered all over the floor. He stared at them, goosebumps all over his body. The implications they contain are easy to grasp. People are matter, and that's Snowden's secret. Throw him out the window and he will fall; set him on fire and he will burn; bury him in the ground and he will rot like every other rubbish. After the soul leaves, people become garbage. That's Snowden's secret. Mature timing is everything.
"I'm cold," Snowden said. "I'm cold."
"Okay, okay," Yossarian said. "Okay, okay." He yanked Snowden's ripcord and draped a white nylon parachute over him.
"I am cold."
"alright."
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