Joseph Heller - Catch-22

The chaplain nodded without any hesitation, feeling himself on very solid ground now. “Yes, sir, I did make a statement like that. I made it because it’s true. Atheism is not against the law.”

“But that’s still no reason to say so, Chaplain, is it?” the officer chided tartly, frowning, and picked up still one more typewritten, notarized page from the folder. “And here I have another sworn statement from Sergeant Whitcomb that says you opposed his plan of sending letters of condolence over Colonel Cathcart’s signature to the next of kin of men killed or wounded in combat. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir, I did oppose it,” answered the chaplain. “And I’m proud that I did. Those letters are insincere and dishonest. Their only purpose is to bring glory to Colonel Cathcart.”

“But what difference does that make?” replied the officer. “They still bring solace and comfort to the families that receive them, don’t they? Chaplain, I simply can’t understand your thinking process.”

The chaplain was stumped and at a complete loss for a reply. He hung his head, feeling tongue-tied and naive.

The ruddy stout colonel stepped forward vigorously with a sudden idea. “Why don’t we knock his goddam brains out?” he suggested with robust enthusiasm to the others.

“Yes, we could knock his goddam brains out, couldn’t we?” the hawk-faced major agreed. “He’s only an Anabaptist.”

“No, we’ve got to find him guilty first,” the officer without insignia cautioned with a languid restraining wave. He slid lightly to the floor and moved around to the other side of the table, facing the chaplain with both hands pressed flat on the surface. His expression was dark and very stern, square and forbidding. “Chaplain,” he announced with magisterial rigidity, “we charge you formally with being Washington Irving and taking capricious and unlicensed liberties in censoring the letters of officers and enlisted men. Are you guilty or innocent?”

“Innocent, sir.” The chaplain licked dry lips with a dry tongue and leaned forward in suspense on the edge of his chair.

“Guilty,” said the colonel.

“Guilty,” said the major.

“Guilty it is, then,” remarked the officer without insignia, and wrote a word on a page in the folder. “Chaplain,” he continued, looking up, “we accuse you also of the commission of crimes and infractions we don’t even know about yet. Guilty or innocent?”

“I don’t know, sir. How can I say if you don’t tell me what they are?”

“How can we tell you if we don’t know?”

“Guilty,” decided the colonel.

“Sure he’s guilty,” agreed the major. “If they’re his crimes and infractions, he must have committed them.”

“Guilty it is, then,” chanted the officer without insignia, and moved off to the side of the room. “He’s all yours, Colonel.”

“Thank you,” commended the colonel. “You did a very good job.” He turned to the chaplain. “Okay, Chaplain, the jig’s up. Take a walk.”

The chaplain did not understand. “What do you wish me to do?”

“Go on, beat it, I told you!” the colonel roared, jerking a thumb over his shoulder angrily. “Get the hell out of here.”

The chaplain was shocked by his bellicose words and tone and, to his own amazement and mystification, deeply chagrined that they were turning him loose. “Aren’t you even going to punish me?” he inquired with querulous surprise.

“You’re damned right we’re going to punish you. But we’re certainly not going to let you hang around while we decide how and when to do it. So get going. Hit the road.”

The chaplain rose tentatively and took a few steps away. “I’m free to go?”

“For the time being. But don’t try to leave the island. We’ve got your number, Chaplain. Just remember that we’ve got you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.”

It was not conceivable that they would allow him to leave. The chaplain walked toward the exit gingerly, expecting at any instant to be ordered back by a peremptory voice or halted in his tracks by a heavy blow on the shoulder or the head. They did nothing to stop him. He found his way through the stale, dark, dank corridors to the flight of stairs. He was staggering and panting when he climbed out into the fresh air. As soon as he had escaped, a feeling of overwhelming moral outrage filled him. He was furious, more furious at the atrocities of the day than he had ever felt before in his whole life. He swept through the spacious, echoing lobby of the building in a temper of scalding and vindictive resentment. He was not going to stand for it any more, he told himself, he was simply not going to stand for it. When he reached the entrance, he spied, with a feeling of good fortune, Colonel Korn trotting up the wide steps alone. Bracing himself with a deep breath, the chaplain moved courageously forward to intercept him.

“Colonel, I’m not going to stand for it any more,” he declared with vehement determination, and watched in dismay as Colonel Korn went trotting by up the steps without even noticing him. “Colonel Korn!”

The tubby, loose figure of his superior officer stopped, turned and came trotting back down slowly. “What is it, Chaplain?”

“Colonel Korn, I want to talk to you about the crash this morning. It was a terrible thing to happen, terrible!”

Colonel Korn was silent a moment, regarding the chaplain with a glint of cynical amusement. “Yes, Chaplain, it certainly was terrible,” he said finally. “I don’t know how we’re going to write this one up without making ourselves look bad.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” the chaplain scolded firmly without any fear at all. “Some of those twelve men had already finished their seventy missions.”

Colonel Korn laughed. “Would it be any less terrible if they had all been new men?” he inquired caustically.

Once again the chaplain was stumped. Immoral logic seemed to be confounding him at every turn. He was less sure of himself than before when he continued, and his voice wavered. “Sir, it just isn’t right to make the men in this group fly eighty missions when the men in other groups are being sent home with fifty and fifty-five.”

“We’ll take the matter under consideration,” Colonel Korn said with bored disinterest, and started away. “Adios, Padre.”

“What does that mean, sir?” the chaplain persisted in a voice turning shrill.

Colonel Korn stopped with an unpleasant expression and took a step back down. “It means we’ll think about it, Padre,” he answered with sarcasm and contempt. “You wouldn’t want us to do anything without thinking about it, would you?”

“No, sir, I suppose not. But you have been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Padre, we have been thinking about it. But to make you happy, we’ll think about it some more, and you’ll be the first person we’ll tell if we reach a new decision. And now, adios .” Colonel Korn whirled away again and hurried up the stairs.

“Colonel Korn!” The chaplain’s cry made Colonel Korn stop once more. His head swung slowly around toward the chaplain with a look of morose impatience. Words gushed from the chaplain in a nervous torrent. “Sir, I would like your permission to take the matter to General Dreedle. I want to bring my protests to Wing Headquarters.”

Colonel Korn’s thick, dark jowls inflated unexpectedly with a suppressed guffaw, and it took him a moment to reply. “That’s all right, Padre,” he answered with mischievous merriment, trying hard to keep a straight face. “You have my permission to speak to General Dreedle.”

“Thank you, sir. I believe it only fair to warn you that I think I have some influence with General Dreedle.”