Catch-22

  'Yes, he did. Please go in and ask him.'

  'I'm afraid I can't go in, sir. He never wants to see me either. Perhaps if you left a note.'

  'I don't want to leave a note. Doesn't he ever make an exception?'

  'Only in extreme circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one of the enlisted men. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarian forced--'

  'Yossarian?' The chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another miracle in the making? 'But that's exactly whom I want to speak to him about! Did they talk about the number of missions Yossarian has to fly?'

  'Yes, sir, that's exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one missions, and he appealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn't have to fly four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted only fifty-five missions then.'

  'And what did Major Major say?'

  'Major Major told him there was nothing he could do.' The chaplain's face fell. 'Major Major said that?'

  'Yes, sir. In fact, he advised Yossarian to go see you for help. Are you certain you wouldn't like to leave a note, sir? I have a pencil and paper right here.' The chaplain shook his head, chewing his clotted dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was still so early in the day, and so much had already happened. The air was cooler in the forest. His throat was parched and sore. He walked slowly and asked himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before the mad hermit in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a mulberry bush. The chaplain screamed at the top of his voice.

  The tall, cadaverous stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain's cry and shrieked, 'Don't hurt me!'

  'Who are you?' the chaplain shouted.

  'Please don't hurt me!' the man shouted back.

  'I'm the chaplain!'

  'Then why do you want to hurt me?'

  'I don't want to hurt you!' the chaplain insisted with a rising hint of exasperation, even though he was still rooted to the spot. 'Just tell me who you are and what you want from me.'

  'I just want to find out if Chief White Halfoat died of pneumonia yet,' the man shouted back. 'That's all I want. I live here. My name is Flume. I belong to the squadron, but I live here in the woods. You can ask anyone.' The chaplain's composure began trickling back as he studied the queer, cringing figure intently. A pair of captain's bars ulcerated with rust hung on the man's ragged shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole on the underside of one nostril and a heavy rough mustache the color of poplar bark.

  'Why do you live in the woods if you belong to the squadron?' the chaplain inquired curiously.

  'I have to live in the woods,' the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought to know. He straightened slowly, still watching the chaplain guardedly although he towered above him by more than a full head.

  'Don't you hear everybody talking about me? Chief White Halfoat swore he was going to cut my throat some night when I was fast asleep, and I don't dare lie down in the squadron while he's still alive.' The chaplain listened to the implausible explanation distrustfully. 'But that's incredible,' he replied. 'That would be premeditated murder. Why didn't you report the incident to Major Major?'

  'I did report the incident to Major Major,' said the captain sadly, 'and Major Major said he would cut my throat if I ever spoke to him again.' The man studied the chaplain fearfully. 'Are you going to cut my throat, too?'

  'Oh, no, no, no,' the chaplain assured him. 'Of course not. Do you really live in the forest?' The captain nodded, and the chaplain gazed at his porous gray pallor of fatigue and malnutrition with a mixture of pity and esteem. The man's body was a bony shell inside rumpled clothing that hung on him like a disorderly collection of sacks. Wisps of dried grass were glued all over him; he needed a haircut badly. There were great, dark circles under his eyes. The chaplain was moved almost to tears by the harassed, bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with deference and compassion at the thought of the many severe rigors the poor man had to endure daily. In a voice hushed with humility, he said, 'Who does your laundry?' The captain pursed his lips in a businesslike manner. 'I have it done by a washerwoman in one of the farmhouses down the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak inside once or twice a day for a clean handkerchief or a change of underwear.'

  'What will you do when winter comes?'

  'Oh, I expect to be back in the squadron by then,' the captain answered with a kind of martyred confidence. 'Chief White Halfoat kept promising everyone that he was going to die of pneumonia, and I guess I'll have to be patient until the weather turns a little colder and damper.' He scrutinized the chaplain perplexedly. 'Don't you know all this? Don't you hear all the fellows talking about me?'

  'I don't think I've ever heard anyone mention you.'

  'Well, I certainly can't understand that.' The captain was piqued, but managed to carry on with a pretense of optimism. 'Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess it won't be too long now. The next time any of the boys ask about me, why, just tell them I'll be back grinding out those old publicity releases again as soon as Chief White Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I'll be back in the squadron as soon as winter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Okay?' The chaplain memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric import. 'Do you live on berries, herbs and roots?' he asked.

  'No, of course not,' the captain replied with surprise. 'I sneak into the mess hall through the back and eat in the kitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.'

  'What do you do when it rains?' The captain answered frankly. 'I get wet.'

  'Where do you sleep?' Swiftly the captain ducked down into a crouch and began backing away. 'You too?' he cried frantically.

  'Oh, no,' cried the chaplain. 'I swear to you.'

  'You do want to cut my throat!' the captain insisted.

  'I give my word,' the chaplain pleaded, but it was too late, for the homely hirsute specter had already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled, fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows that the chaplain was already doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous events were occurring that he was no longer positive which events were monstrous and which were really taking place. He wanted to find out about the madman in the woods as quickly as possible, to check if there ever really had been a Captain Flume, but his first chore, he recalled with reluctance, was to appease Corporal Whitcomb for neglecting to delegate enough responsibility to him. He plodded along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly, clogged with thirst and feeling almost too exhausted to go on. He was remorseful when he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. He prayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he reached the clearing so that he could undress without embarrassment, wash his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and perhaps even sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and still another shock, for Corporal Whitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain's chair sewing his new sergeant's stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain's needle and thread. Corporal Whitcomb had been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.

  'Oh, no,' groaned the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm canteen was empty, and he was too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade between the two tents. 'I can't believe it. I just can't believe that anyone would seriously believe that I've been forging Washington Irving's name.'

  'Not those letters,' Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain's chagrin. 'He wants to see you about the letters home to the families of casualties.'

  'Those letters?' asked the chaplain with surprise.

  'That's right,' Corporal Whitcomb gloated. 'He's really going to chew you out for refusing to let me send them. Y
ou should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded him the letters could carry his signature. That's why he promoted me. He's absolutely sure they'll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.' The chaplain's befuddlement increased. 'But how did he know we were even considering the idea?'

  'I went to his office and told him.'

  'You did what?' the chaplain demanded shrilly, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar rage. 'Do you mean to say that you actually went over my head to the colonel without asking my permission?' Corporal Whitcomb grinned brazenly with scornful satisfaction. 'That's right, Chaplain,' he answered. 'And you better not try to do anything about it if you know what's good for you.' He laughed quietly in malicious defiance. 'Colonel Cathcart isn't going to like it if he finds out you're getting even with me for bringing him my idea. You know something, Chaplain?' Corporal Whitcomb continued, biting the chaplain's black thread apart contemptuously with a loud snap and buttoning on his shirt. 'That dumb bastard really thinks it's one of the greatest ideas he's ever heard.'

  'It might even get me into The Saturday Evening Post,' Colonel Cathcart boasted in his office with a smile, swaggering back and forth convivially as he reproached the chaplain. 'And you didn't have brains enough to appreciate it. You've got a good man in Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain. I hope you have brains enough to appreciate that.'

  'Sergeant Whitcomb,' the chaplain corrected, before he could control himself.

  Colonel Cathcart Oared. 'I said Sergeant Whitcomb,' he replied. 'I wish you'd try listening once in a while instead of always finding fault. You don't want to be a captain all your life, do you?'

  'Sir?'

  'Well, I certainly don't see how you're ever going to amount to anything else if you keep on this way. Corporal Whitcomb feels that you fellows haven't had a fresh idea in nineteen hundred and forty-four years, and I'm inclined to agree with him. A bright boy, that Corporal Whitcomb. Well, it's all going to change.' Colonel Cathcart sat down at his desk with a determined air and cleared a large neat space in his blotter. When he had finished, he tapped his finger inside it. 'Starting tomorrow,' he said, 'I want you and Corporal Whitcomb to write a letter of condolence for me to the next of kin of every man in the group who's killed, wounded or taken prisoner. I want those letters to be sincere letters. I want them filled up with lots of personal details so there'll be no doubt I mean every word you say. Is that clear?' The chaplain stepped forward impulsively to remonstrate. 'But, sir, that's impossible!' he blurted out. 'We don't even know all the men that well.'

  'What difference does that make?' Colonel Cathcart demanded, and then smiled amicably. 'Corporal Whitcomb brought me this basic form letter that takes care of just about every situation. Listen: "Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, or Mr. and Mrs.: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father or brother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action." And so on. I think that opening sentence sums up my sentiments exactly. Listen, maybe you'd better let Corporal Whitcomb take charge of the whole thing if you don't feel up to it.' Colonel Cathcart whipped out his cigarette holder and flexed it between both hands like an onyx and ivory riding crop. 'That's one of the things that's wrong with you, Chaplain. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you don't know how to delegate responsibility. He says you've got no initiative either. You're not going to disagree with me, are you?'

  'No, sir.' The chaplain shook his head, feeling despicably remiss because he did not know how to delegate responsibility and had no initiative, and because he really had been tempted to disagree with the colonel. His mind was a shambles. They were shooting skeet outside, and every time a gun was fired his senses were jarred. He could not adjust to the sound of the shots. He was surrounded by bushels of plum tomatoes and was almost convinced that he had stood in Colonel Cathcart's office on some similar occasion deep in the past and had been surrounded by those same bushels of those same plum tomatoes. Déjà vu again. The setting seemed so familiar; yet it also seemed so distant. His clothes felt grimy and old, and he was deathly afraid he smelled.

  'You take things too seriously, Chaplain,' Colonel Cathcart told him bluntly with an air of adult objectivity. 'That's another one of the things that's wrong with you. That long face of yours gets everybody depressed. Let me see you laugh once in a while. Come on, Chaplain. You give me a belly laugh now and I'll give you a whole bushel of plum tomatoes.' He waited a second or two, watching, and then chortled victoriously. 'You see, Chaplain, I'm right. You can't give me a belly laugh, can you?'

  'No, sir,' admitted the chaplain meekly, swallowing slowly with a visible effort. 'Not right now. I'm very thirsty.'

  'Then get yourself a drink. Colonel Korn keeps some bourbon in his desk. You ought to try dropping around the officers' club with us some evening just to have yourself a little fun. Try getting lit once in a while. I hope you don't feel you're better than the rest of us just because you're a professional man.'

  'Oh, no, sir,' the chaplain assured him with embarrassment. 'As a matter of fact, I have been going to the officers' club the past few evenings.'

  'You're only a captain, you know,' Colonel Cathcart continued, paying no attention to the chaplain's remark. 'You may be a professional man, but you're still only a captain.'

  'Yes, sir. I know.'

  'That's fine, then. It's just as well you didn't laugh before. I wouldn't have given you the plum tomatoes anyway. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you took a plum tomato when you were in here this morning.'

  'This morning? But, sir! You gave it to me.' Colonel Cathcart cocked his head with suspicion. 'I didn't say I didn't give it to you, did I? I merely said you took it. I don't see why you've got such a guilty conscience if you really didn't steal it. Did I give it to you?'

  'Yes, sir. I swear you did.'

  'Then I'll just have to take your word for it. Although I can't imagine why I'd want to give you a plum tomato.' Colonel Cathcart transferred a round glass paperweight competently from the right edge of his desk to the left edge and picked up a sharpened pencil. 'Okay. Chaplain, I've got a lot of important work to do now if you're through. You let me know when Corporal Whitcomb has sent out about a dozen of those letters and we'll get in touch with the editors of The Saturday Evening Post.' A sudden inspiration made his face brighten. 'Say! I think I'll volunteer the group for Avignon again. That should speed things up!'

  'For Avignon?' The chaplain's heart missed a beat, and all his flesh began to prickle and creep.

  'That's right,' the colonel explained exuberantly. 'The sooner we get some casualties, the sooner we can make some progress on this. I'd like to get in the Christmas issue if we can. I imagine the circulation is higher then.' And to the chaplain's horror, the colonel lifted the phone to volunteer the group for Avignon and tried to kick him out of the officers' club again that very same night a moment before Yossarian rose up drunkenly, knocking over his chair, to start an avenging punch that made Nately call out his name and made Colonel Cathcart blanch and retreat prudently smack into General Dreedle, who shoved him off his bruised foot disgustedly and order him forward to kick the chaplain right back into the officers' club. It was all very upsetting to Colonel Cathcart, first the dreaded name Yossarian! tolling out again clearly like a warning of doom and then General Dreedle's bruised foot, and that was another fault Colonel Cathcart found in the chaplain, the fact that it was impossible to predict how General Dreedle would react each time he saw him. Colonel Cathcart would never forget the first evening General Dreedle took notice of the chaplain in the officers' club, lifting his ruddy, sweltering, intoxicated face to stare ponderously through the yellow pall of cigarette smoke at the chaplain lurking near the wall by himself.

  'Well, I'll be damned,' General Dreedle had exclaimed hoarsely, his shaggy gray menacing eyebrows beetling in recognition. 'Is that a chaplain I see over there? That's really a fine thing when a man of God begins hanging around a place like this with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.' Colonel Cathcart compressed his lips primly and started
to rise. 'I couldn't agree with you more, sir,' he assented briskly in a tone of ostentatious disapproval. 'I just don't know what's happening to the clergy these days.'

  'They're getting better, that's what's happening to them,' General Dreedle growled emphatically.

  Colonel Cathcart gulped awkwardly and made a nimble recovery. 'Yes, sir. They are getting better. That's exactly what I had in mind, sir.'

  'This is just the place for a chaplain to be, mingling with the men while they're out drinking and gambling so he can get to understand them and win their confidence. How the hell else is he ever going to get them to believe in God?'

  'That's exactly what I had in mind, sir, when I ordered him to come here,' Colonel Cathcart said carefully, and threw his arm familiarly around the chaplain's shoulders as he walked him off into a corner to order him in a cold undertone to start reporting for duty at the officers' club every evening to mingle with the men while they were drinking and gambling so that he could get to understand them and win their confidence.

  The chaplain agreed and did report for duty to the officers' club every night to mingle with men who wanted to avoid him, until the evening the vicious fist fight broke out at the ping-pong table and Chief White Halfoat whirled without provocation and punched Colonel Moodus squarely in the nose, knocking Colonel Moodus down on the seat of his pants and making General Dreedle roar with lusty, unexpected laughter until he spied the chaplain standing close by gawking at him grotesquely in tortured wonder. General Dreedle froze at the sight of him. He glowered at the chaplain with swollen fury for a moment, his good humor gone, and turned back toward the bar disgruntedly, rolling from side to side like a sailor on his short bandy legs. Colonel Cathcart cantered fearfully along behind, glancing anxiously about in vain for some sign of help from Colonel Korn.

  'That's a fine thing,' General Dreedle growled at the bar, gripping his empty shot glass in his burly hand. 'That's really a fine thing, when a man of God begins hanging around a place like this with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.' Colonel Cathcart sighed with relief. 'Yes, sir,' he exclaimed proudly. 'It certainly is a fine thing.'