Catch-22 (35 page)

   The chaplain was sincerely a very helpful person who was
never able to help anyone, not even Yossarian when he finally decided to seize
the bull by the horns and visit Major Major secretly to learn if, as Yossarian
had said, the men in Colonel Cathcart’s group really were being forced to fly
more combat missions than anyone else. It was a daring, impulsive move on which
the chaplain decided after quarreling with Corporal Whitcomb again and washing
down with tepid canteen water his joyless lunch of Milky Way and Baby Ruth. He
went to Major Major on foot so that Corporal Whitcomb would not see him leaving,
stealing into the forest noiselessly until the two tents in his clearing were
left behind, then dropping down inside the abandoned railroad ditch, where the
footing was surer. He hurried along the fossilized wooden ties with
accumulating mutinous anger. He had been browbeaten and humiliated successively
that morning by Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and Corporal Whitcomb. He just
had to make himself felt in some respect! His slight chest was soon puffing for
breath. He moved as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run, fearing
his resolution might dissolve if he slowed. Soon he saw a uniformed figure
coming toward him between the rusted rails. He clambered immediately up the
side of the ditch, ducked inside a dense copse of low trees for concealment and
sped along in his original direction a narrow, overgrown mossy path he found
winding deep inside the shaded forest. It was tougher going there, but he
plunged ahead with the same reckless and consuming determination, slipping and
stumbling often and stinging his unprotected hands on the stubborn branches
blocking his way until the bushes and tall ferns on both sides spread open and
he lurched past an olive-drab military trailer on cinder blocks clearly visible
through the thinning underbrush. He continued past a tent with a luminous
pearl-gray cat sunning itself outside and past another trailer on cinder blocks
and then burst into the clearing of Yossarian’s squadron. A salty dew had
formed on his lips. He did not pause, but strode directly across the clearing
into the orderly room, where he was welcomed by a gaunt, stoop-shouldered staff
sergeant with prominent cheekbones and long, very light blond hair, who
informed him graciously that he could go right in, since Major Major was out.

   The chaplain thanked him with a curt nod and proceeded alone
down the aisle between the desks and typewriters to the canvas partition in the
rear. He bobbed through the triangular opening and found himself inside an
empty office. The flap fell closed behind him. He was breathing hard and
sweating profusely. The office remained empty. He thought he heard furtive
whispering. Ten minutes passed. He looked about in stern displeasure, his jaws
clamped together indomitably, and then turned suddenly to water as he
remembered the staff sergeant’s exact words: he could go right in, since Major
Major was out. The enlisted men were playing a practical joke! The chaplain
shrank back from the wall in terror, bitter tears springing to his eyes. A
pleading whimper escaped his trembling lips. Major Major was elsewhere, and the
enlisted men in the other room had made him the butt of an inhuman prank. He
could almost see them waiting on the other side of the canvas wall, bunched up
expectantly like a pack of greedy, gloating omnivorous beasts of prey, ready
with their barbaric mirth and jeers to pounce on him brutally the moment he
reappeared. He cursed himself for his gullibility and wished in panic for
something like a mask or a pair of dark glasses and a false mustache to
disguise him, or for a forceful, deep voice like Colonel Cathcart’s and broad,
muscular shoulders and biceps to enable him to step outside fearlessly and
vanquish his malevolent persecutors with an overbearing authority and
self-confidence that would make them all quail and slink away cravenly in
repentance. He lacked the courage to face them. The only other way out was the
window. The coast was clear, and the chaplain jumped out of Major Major’s
office through the window, darted swiftly around the corner of the tent, and leaped
down inside the railroad ditch to hide.

   He scooted away with his body doubled over and his face
contorted intentionally into a nonchalant, sociable smile in case anyone
chanced to see him. He abandoned the ditch for the forest the moment he saw someone
coming toward him from the opposite direction and ran through the cluttered
forest frenziedly like someone pursued, his cheeks burning with disgrace. He
heard loud, wild peals of derisive laughter crashing all about him and caught
blurred glimpses of wicked, beery faces smirking far back inside the bushes and
high overhead in the foliage of the trees. Spasms of scorching pains stabbed
through his lungs and slowed him to a crippled walk. He lunged and staggered
onward until he could go no farther and collapsed all at once against a gnarled
apple tree, banging his head hard against the trunk as he toppled forward and
holding on with both arms to keep from falling. His breathing was a rasping,
moaning din in his ears. Minutes passed like hours before he finally recognized
himself as the source of the turbulent roar that was overwhelming him. The
pains in his chest abated. Soon he felt strong enough to stand. He cocked his
ears craftily. The forest was quiet. There was no demonic laughter, no one was
chasing him. He was too tired and sad and dirty to feel relieved. He
straightened his disheveled clothing with fingers that were numb and shaking
and walked the rest of the way to the clearing with rigid self-control. The
chaplain brooded often about the danger of heart attack.

   Corporal Whitcomb’s jeep was still parked in the clearing.
The chaplain tiptoed stealthily around the back of Corporal Whitcomb’s tent
rather than pass the entrance and risk being seen and insulted by him. Heaving
a grateful sigh, he slipped quickly inside his own tent and found Corporal
Whitcomb ensconced on his cot, his knees propped up. Corporal Whitcomb’s
mud-caked shoes were on the chaplain’s blanket, and he was eating one of the
chaplain’s candy bars as he thumbed with sneering expression through one of the
chaplain’s Bibles.

   ‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded rudely and disinterestedly,
without looking up.

   The chaplain colored and turned away evasively. ‘I went for a
walk through the woods.’

   ‘All right,’ Corporal Whitcomb snapped. ‘Don’t take me into
your confidence. But just wait and see what happens to my morale.’ He bit into
the chaplain’s candy bar hungrily and continued with a full mouth. ‘You had a
visitor while you were gone. Major Major.’ The chaplain spun around with surprise
and cried: ‘Major Major? Major Major was here?’

   ‘That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?’

   ‘Where did he go?’

   ‘He jumped down into that railroad ditch and took off like a
frightened rabbit.’ Corporal Whitcomb snickered. ‘What a jerk!’

   ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

   ‘He said he needed your help in a matter of great
importance.’ The chaplain was astounded. ‘Major Major said that?’

   ‘He didn’t say that,’ Corporal Whitcomb corrected with
withering precision. ‘He wrote it down in a sealed personal letter he left on
your desk.’ The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk
and saw only the abominable orange-red pear-shaped plum tomato he had obtained
that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had
forgotten it like an indestructible and incamadine symbol of his own
ineptitude. ‘Where is the letter?’

   ‘I threw it away as soon as I tore it open and read it.’
Corporal Whitcomb slammed the Bible shut and jumped up. ‘What’s the matter?
Won’t you take my word for it?’ He walked out. He walked right back in and
almost collided with the chaplain, who was rushing out behind him on his way
back to Major Major. ‘You don’t know how to delegate responsibility,’ Corporal
Whitcomb informed him sullenly. ‘That’s another one of the things that’s wrong
with you.’ The chaplain nodded penitently and hurried past, unable to make
himself take the time to apologize. He could feel the skillful hand of fate
motivating him imperatively. Twice that day already, he realized now, Major
Major had come racing toward him inside the ditch; and twice that day the
chaplain had stupidly postponed the destined meeting by bolting into the
forest. He seethed with self-recrimination as he hastened back as rapidly as he
could stride along the splintered, irregularly spaced railroad ties. Bits of
grit and gravel inside his shoes and socks were grinding the tops of his toes
raw. His pale, laboring face was screwed up unconsciously into a grimace of
acute discomfort. The early August afternoon was growing hotter and more humid.
It was almost a mile from his tent to Yossarian’s squadron. The chaplain’s
summer-tan shirt was soaking with perspiration by the time he arrived there and
rushed breathlessly back inside the orderly room tent, where he was halted
peremptorily by the same treacherous, soft-spoken staff sergeant with round
eyeglasses and gaunt cheeks, who requested him to remain outside because Major
Major was inside and told him he would not be allowed inside until Major Major
went out. The chaplain looked at him in an uncomprehending daze. Why did the
sergeant hate him? he wondered. His lips were white and trembling. He was
aching with thirst. What was the matter with people? Wasn’t there tragedy
enough? The sergeant put his hand out and held the chaplain steady.

   ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said regretfully in a low, courteous,
melancholy voice. ‘But those are Major Major’s orders. He never wants to see
anyone.’

   ‘He wants to see me,’ the chaplain pleaded. ‘He came to my
tent to see me while I was here before.’

   ‘Major Major did that?’ the sergeant asked.

   ‘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.’