Catch-22(198)
“Don’t believe the official report,” Yossarian advised dryly. “It’s part of the deal.”
“What deal?”
“The deal I made with Colonel Cathcart and Colonel Korn. They’ll let me go home a big hero if I say nice things about them to everybody and never criticize them to anyone for making the rest of the men fly more missions.”
The chaplain was appalled and rose halfway out of his chair. He bristled with bellicose dismay. “But that’s terrible! That’s a shameful, scandalous deal, isn’t it?”
“Odious,” Yossarian answered, staring up woodenly at the ceiling with just the back of his head resting on the pillow. “I think ‘odious’ is the word we decided on.”
“Then how could you agree to it?”
“It’s that or a court-martial, Chaplain.”
“Oh,” the chaplain exclaimed with a look of stark remorse, the back of his hand covering his mouth. He lowered himself into his chair uneasily. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“They’d lock me in prison with a bunch of criminals.”
“Of course. You must do whatever you think is right, then.” The chaplain nodded to himself as though deciding the argument and lapsed into embarrassed silence.
“Don’t worry,” Yossarian said with a sorrowful laugh after several moments had passed. “I’m not going to do it.”
“But you must do it,” the chaplain insisted, bending forward with concern. “Really, you must. I had no right to influence you. I really had no right to say anything.”
“You didn’t influence me.” Yossarian hauled himself over onto his side and shook his head in solemn mockery. “Christ, Chaplain! Can you imagine that for a sin? Saving Colonel Cathcart’s life! That’s the one crime I don’t want on my record.”
The chaplain returned to the subject with caution. “What will you do instead? You can’t let them put you in prison.”
“I’ll fly more missions. Or maybe I really will desert and let them catch me. They probably would.”
“And they’d put you in prison. You don’t want to go to prison.”
“Then I’ll just keep flying missions until the war ends, I guess. Some of us have to survive.”
“But you might get killed.”
“Then I guess I won’t fly any more missions.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you let them send you home?”
“I don’t know. Is it hot out? It’s very warm in here.”
“It’s very cold out,” the chaplain said.
“You know,” Yossarian remembered, “a very funny thing happened—maybe I dreamed it. I think a strange man came in here before and told me he’s got my pal. I wonder if I imagined it.”
“I don’t think you did,” the chaplain informed him. “You started to tell me about him when I dropped in earlier.”
“Then he really did say it. ‘We’ve got your pal, buddy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got your pal.’ He had the most malignant manner I ever saw. I wonder who my pal is.”
“I like to think that I’m your pal, Yossarian,” the chaplain said with humble sincerity. “And they certainly have got me. They’ve got my number and they’ve got me under surveillance, and they’ve got me right where they want me. That’s what they told me at my interrogation.”
“No, I don’t think it’s you he meant,” Yossarian decided. “I think it must be someone like Nately or Dunbar. You know, someone who was killed in the war, like Clevinger, Orr, Dobbs, Kid Sampson or McWatt.” Yossarian emitted a startled gasp and shook his head. “I just realized it,” he exclaimed. “They’ve got all my pals, haven’t they? The only ones left are me and Hungry Joe.” He tingled with dread as he saw the chaplain’s face go pale. “Chaplain, what is it?”
“Hungry Joe was killed.”
“God, no! On a mission?”
“He died in his sleep while having a dream. They found a cat on his face.”
“Poor bastard,” Yossarian said, and began to cry, hiding his tears in the crook of his shoulder. The chaplain left without saying goodbye. Yossarian ate something and went to sleep. A hand shook him awake in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes and saw a thin, mean man in a patient’s bathrobe and pajamas who looked at him with a nasty smirk and jeered,
“We’ve got your pal, buddy. We’ve got your pal.”
Yossarian was unnerved. “What the hell are you talking about?” he pleaded in incipient panic.