Lieutenant Scheisskopf longed desperately to win parades and sat up half the night working on it while his wife waited amorously for him in bed thumbing through Krafft-Ebing to her favorite passages. He read books on marching. He manipulated boxes of chocolate until they melted in his hands and then maneuvered in ranks of twelve a set of plastic cowboys he bought from a mail-order house under an assumed name and kept locked away from everyone’s eyes during the day. Leonardo’s exercises proved indispensable. One evening he felt the need for a live and directed his wife to march around the room.
“Naked?” she asked hopefully.
Lieutenant Scheisskopf smacked his hands over his eyes in exasperation. It was the despair of Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s life to be chained to a woman who was incapable of looking beyond her dirty, sexual desires to the titanic struggles for the unattainable in which noble man could become heroically engaged.
“Why don’t you ever whip me?” she pouted one night.
“Because I haven’t the time,” he snapped at her impatiently. “I haven’t the time. Don’t you know there’s a parade going on?”
“That Lieutenant Scheisskopf,” Lieutenant Travers remarked. “He’s a military genius.”
“Yes, he really is,” Lieutenant Engle agreed. “It’s a pity the schmuck won’t whip his wife.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Lieutenant Travers answered coolly. “Lieutenant Bemis whips Mrs. Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse, and he isn’t worth a farthing at parades.”
“I’m talkin’ about flaggelation,” Lieutenant Engle retorted. “Who gives a damn about parades?”
From the novel “Catch-22”.
Other blog entries related to the novel (in Turkish):