Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [142]
‘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