Dunbar lounged against the wall, languidly observing as Havermeyer's shot ruptured the clay pigeon in mid air. He was one of the few who approved of Colonel Cathcart's freshly erected skeet-shooting range. Time passed in the range at a wonderfully stagnant pace. He figured if he spent enough time there, he could stretch his life out forever.
Ultimately, the grumbling in his stomach forced Dunbar to vacate the range and make his way towards the mess hall. He wound through the rows of tents , narrowly avoiding a stray ping pong ball from the riotous game in which Appleby and Orr were engaged. Skirting the edge of the dense woods, he had nearly arrived at his destination when he was tackled roughly to the ground.
"Ummf" he groaned, his mouth wedged against the grass. Yossarian's rough hands grappled with Dunbar's uniform and succeeded in flipping him face up, though he was still trapped beneath the captain's larger body.
'At least he's wearing clothes now," Dunbar supposed. "What the hell are you doing?"
Yossarian's lips crashed into his, muffling his questions. Dunbar sputtered in surprise, too shocked to comprehend his friend's amorous attack. Abruptly Yossarian pulled back, grinning at Dunbar. "Nately's coming," he whispered in explanation.
Dunbar's eyes widened with understanding. Reaching up, he curled his fingers through Yossarian's dark hair, pulling him roughly down. Dunbar captured the captain's lips with his own voracious mouth. Yossarian's body was warm against his; Dunbar shifted so they were pressed firmly against each other, a tumble of dueling tongues, wandering hands, and unabashed moans.
"But Yossarian, you wouldn't believe that crazy old man! He actually thinks that America isn't going to win the war! He says Italy-"
Dunbar and Yossarian broke apart, grinning up at Nately. The younger man was frozen five steps away, mouth hanging open in mid-rant. His eyes bugged out at the sight of his two comrades entangled in a passionate embrace on the ground in front of him. Sputtering, he seemed to be trying to form words, but after a moment simply turned sharply and hurried away.
Yossarian laughed heartily at the sight, his purpose achieved. Carefully, he disengaged himself from Dunbar's limbs and rose to his feet. Dunbar did the same. "You're crazy," he informed Yossarian.
"Of course," Yossarian agreed, "Everyone knows that. Just ask Clevinger." He brushed the leaves from his uniform and strolled off to Hungry Joe's tent.
Dunbar had spent all morning in the skeet shooting range doing a fantastic job of slowing down his life. And now here he was, all that work ruined. Something about Yossarian seemed to speed up the hands of time. He could feel his old age closing in on him like an ominous freight train during those exhilarating, heart pounding moments. He's have to spend the rest of the day with Clevinger just to make up for it.