Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [149]
‘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