Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [205]
‘He doesn’t even believe there are atheists in foxholes,’ the colonel mocked, and nudged the chaplain in the ribs familiarly. ‘Go on, Chaplain, tell him. Are there atheists in foxholes?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the chaplain replied. ‘I’ve never been in a foxhole.’ The officer in front swung his head around swiftly with a quarrelsome expression. ‘You’ve never been in heaven either, have you? But you know there’s a heaven, don’t you?’
‘Or do you?’ said the colonel.
‘That’s a very serious crime you’ve committed, Father,’ said the major.
‘What crime?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said the colonel. ‘But we’re going to find out. And we sure know it’s very serious.’ The car swung off the road at Group Headquarters with a squeal of tires, slackening speed only slightly, and continued around past the parking lot to the back of the building. The three officers and the chaplain got out. In single file, they ushered him down a wobbly flight of wooden stairs leading to the basement and led him into a damp, gloomy room with a low cement ceiling and unfinished stone walls. There were cobwebs in all the corners. A huge centipede blew across the floor to the shelter of a water pipe. They sat the chaplain in a hard, straight-backed chair that stood behind a small, bare table.
‘Please make yourself comfortable, Chaplain,’ invited the colonel cordially, switching on a blinding spotlight and shooting it squarely into the chaplain’s face. He placed a set of brass knuckles and box of wooden matches on the table. ‘We want you to relax.’ The chaplain’s eyes bulged out incredulously. His teeth chattered and his limbs felt utterly without strength. He was powerless. They might do whatever they wished to him, he realized; these brutal men might beat him to death right there in the basement, and no one would intervene to save him, no one, perhaps, but the devout and sympathetic major with the sharp face, who set a water tap dripping loudly into a sink and returned to the table to lay a length of heavy rubber hose down beside the brass knuckles.
‘Everything’s going to be all right, Chaplain,’ the major said encouragingly. ‘You’ve got nothing to be afraid of if you’re not guilty. What are you so afraid of? You’re not guilty, are you?’
‘Sure he’s guilty,’ said the colonel. ‘Guilty as hell.’
‘Guilty of what?’ implored the chaplain, feeling more and more bewildered and not knowing which of the men to appeal to for mercy. The third officer wore no insignia and lurked in silence off to the side. ‘What did I do?’
‘That’s just what we’re going to find out,’ answered the colonel, and he shoved a pad and pencil across the table to the chaplain. ‘Write your name for us, will you? In your own handwriting.’
‘My own handwriting?’
‘That’s right. Anywhere on the page.’ When the chaplain had finished, the colonel took the pad back and held it up alongside a sheet of paper he removed from a folder. ‘See?’ he said to the major, who had come to his side and was peering solemnly over his shoulder.
‘They’re not the same, are they?’ the major admitted.
‘I told you he did it.’
‘Did what?’ asked the chaplain.
‘Chaplain, this comes as a great shock to me,’ the major accused in a tone of heavy lamentation.
‘What does?’
‘I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you.’
‘For what?’ persisted the chaplain more fiantically. ‘What have I done?’
‘For this,’ replied the major, and, with an air of disillusioned disgust, tossed down on the table the pad on which the chaplain had signed his name. ‘This isn’t your handwriting.’ The chaplain blinked rapidly with amazement. ‘But of course it’s my handwriting.’
‘No it isn’t, Chaplain. You’re lying again.’
‘But I just wrote it!’ the chaplain cried in exasperation. ‘You saw me write it.’
‘That’s just it,’ the major answered bitterly. ‘I saw you write it. You can’t deny that you did write it. A person who’ll lie about his own handwriting will lie about anything.’
‘But who lied about my own handwriting?’ demanded the chaplain, forgetting his fear in the wave