"Look, they don't care who knocks out those ammunition dumps. The only reason we're going is because that bastard Cathcart volunteered us."
"Oh I know all that," Clevinger assured him, he gaunt face pale and his agitated eyes swimming in sincerity. "But the fact remains that the ammunition dumps are still standing. You know very well that I don't approve of Colonel Cathcart any more than you do. But it's not for us to determine what targets must be destroyed or who's to destroy them or -"
"Or who gets killed doing it? And why?"
"Yes, even that. We have no right to question -"
"You're insane!"
"- no right to question -"
"Do you really mean that it's not my business how or why I get killed and that it is Colonel Cathcart's? Do you really mean that?"
"Yes, I do," Clevinger insisted, seeming unsure. "There are men entrusted with winning the war who are in a much better position than we are to decide what targets have to be bombed."
"We are talking about two different things," Yossarian answered with exaggerated weariness. "You are talking about the relationship of the Air Corps to the infantry. You are talking about winning the war, and I am talking about winning the war and keeping alive."
"Exactly," Clevinger snapped smugly. "And which do you think is more important?"
"To whom?" Yossarian shot back. "Open your eyes, Clevinger. It doesn't make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who's dead."
- Catch 22