Catch-22 - Heller, Joseph [37]
And all week long he chortled with repressed delight at the officers’ club. Speculation grew rampant among his closest friends.
‘I wonder what that Shithead is up to,’ Lieutenant Engle said.
Lieutenant Scheisskopf responded with a knowing smile to the queries of his colleagues. ‘You’ll find out Sunday,’ he promised. ‘You’ll find out.’ Lieutenant Scheisskopf unveiled his epochal surprise that Sunday with all the aplomb of an experienced impresario. He said nothing while the other squadrons ambled past the reviewing stand crookedly in their customary manner. He gave no sign even when the first ranks of his own squadron hove into sight with their swingless marching and the first stricken gasps of alarm were hissing from his startled fellow officers. He held back even then until the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache whirled upon him savagely with a purpling face, and then he offered the explanation that made him immortal.
‘Look, Colonel,’ he announced. ‘No hands.’ And to an audience stilled with awe, he distributed certified photostatic copies of the obscure regulation on which he had built his unforgettable triumph. This was Lieutenant Scheisskopf’s finest hour. He won the parade, of course, hands down, obtaining permanent possession of the red pennant and ending the Sunday parades altogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good copper wire. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. There were few who did not hail him as a true military genius for his important discovery.
‘That Lieutenant Scheisskopf,’ Lieutenant Travels remarked. ‘He’s a military genius.’
‘Yes, he really is,’ Lieutenant Engle agreed. ‘It’s a pity the schmuck won’t whip his wife.’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with it,’ Lieutenant Travers answered coolly.
‘Lieutenant Bemis whips Mrs. Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse, and he isn’t worth a farthing at parades.’
‘I’m talking about flagellation,’ Lieutenant Engle retorted. ‘Who gives a damn about parades?’ Actually, no one but Lieutenant Scheisskopf really gave a damn about the parades, least of all the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action Board and began bellowing at Clevinger the moment Clevinger stepped gingerly into the room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodged against him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and became so further enraged with Clevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table even harder and hurt his hand some more. Lieutenant Scheisskopf glared at Clevinger with tight lips, mortified by the poor impression Clevinger was making.
‘In sixty days you’ll be fighting Billy Petrolle,’ the colonel with the big fat mustache roared. ‘And you think it’s a big fat joke.’
‘I don’t think it’s a joke, sir,’ Clevinger replied.
‘Don’t interrupt.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And say “sir” when you do,’ ordered Major Metcalf.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Weren’t you just ordered not to interrupt?’ Major Metcalf inquired coldly.
‘But I didn’t interrupt, sir,’ Clevinger protested.
‘No. And you didn’t say “sir,” either. Add that to the charges against him,’ Major Metcalf directed the corporal who could take shorthand. ‘Failure to say “sir” to superior officers when not interrupting them.’
‘Metcalf,’ said the colonel, ‘you’re a goddam fool. Do you know that?’ Major Metcalf swallowed with difficulty. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Then keep your goddam mouth shut. You don’t make sense.’ There were three members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, Lieutenant Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a member of the Action Board, Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who would weigh the merits of the case against Clevinger as presented by the prosecutor. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defending him. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf It was all very