Joseph Heller - Catch-22

“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.”

“Yo u 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. You 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?”