Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [151]
‘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.’