Snowden's Secret

"I'm cold," Snowden moaned. "I'm cold."
"You're going to be all right kid," Yossarian assured him, patting his arm comfortingly. "Everything's under control."
"I'm cold," he repeated, with eyes as dull as stone.
"There, there. In a little while we'll be back on the ground and Doc Daneeka will take care of you."

Snowden then managed, with the barest movement of his chin, to point towards his armpit. Yossarian bent forward to peer and saw a strangely colored stain seeping through Snowden's flak suit. Yossarian felt his heart stop, then pound so violently he found it difficult to breathe. Snowden was wounded inside his flak suit. Yossarian ripped open the straps of the suit and heard himself scream wildly as Snowden's insides slithered down onto the floor in a pile and just kept dripping out. A chunk of flak three inches big had shot into his chest and blasted all the way through him. Yossarian screamed a second time as he squeezed both hands over his eyes.

He forced himself to look again. Here was God's plenty, he thought bitterly as he stared - liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach and bits of the fried tomatoes Snowden had eaten for lunch. Yossarian hated tomatoes and turned away and began to vomit. The tail gunner came round while Yossarian was vomiting, then passed out again. Weak and in despair Yossarian turned back to Snowden and wondered how in the world to begin to save him.
"I'm cold," whimpered Snowden softly.
"There, there," Yossarian mumbled mechanically. He was cold too now and shivering uncontrollably as he gazed down at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message. Man was matter...Drop him out the window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all.