Catch-22(3)

The chaplain arrived the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words from the letters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked him how he was feeling. He had placed himself a bit to one side, and the captain’s bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian could see. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that he was either another doctor or another madman.

“Oh, pretty good,” he answered. “I’ve got a slight pain in my liver and I haven’t been the most regular of fellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty good.”

“That’s good,” said the chaplain.

“Yes,” Yossarian said. “Yes, that is good.”

“I meant to come around sooner,” the chaplain said, “but I really haven’t been well.”

“That’s too bad,” Yossarian said.

“Just a head cold,” the chaplain added quickly.

“I’ve got a fever of a hundred and one,” Yossarian added just as quickly.

“That’s too bad,” said the chaplain.

“Yes,” Yossarian agreed. “Yes, that is too bad.”

The chaplain fidgeted. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked after a while.

“No, no.” Yossarian sighed. “The doctors are doing all that’s humanly possible, I suppose.”

“No, no.” The chaplain colored faintly. “I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant cigarettes . . . or books . . . or . . . toys.”

“No, no,” Yossarian said. “Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose—everything but good health.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes,” Yossarian said. “Yes, that is too bad.”

The chaplain stirred again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He drew a deep breath.

“Lieutenant Nately sends his regards,” he said.

Yossarian was sorry to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their conversation after all. “You know Lieutenant Nately?” he asked regretfully.

“Yes, I know Lieutenant Nately quite well.”

“He’s a bit loony, isn’t he?”

The chaplain’s smile was embarrassed. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I don’t think I know him that well.”

“You can take my word for it,” Yossarian said. “He’s as goofy as they come.”

The chaplain weighed the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. “You are Captain Yossarian, aren’t you?”

“Nately had a bad start. He came from a good family.”

“Please excuse me,” the chaplain persisted timorously. “I may be committing a very grave error. Are you Captain Yossarian?”

“Yes,” Captain Yossarian confessed. “I am Captain Yossarian.”

“Of the 256th Squadron?”

“Of the fighting 256th Squadron,” Yossarian replied. “I didn’t know there were any other Captain Yossarians. As far as I know, I’m the only Captain Yossarian I know, but that’s only as far as I know.”

“I see,” the chaplain said unhappily.

“That’s two to the fighting eighth power,” Yossarian pointed out, “if you’re thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron.”

“No,” mumbled the chaplain. “I’m not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron.”

Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain’s collar. He was thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before.

“You’re a chaplain,” he exclaimed ecstatically. “I didn’t know you were a chaplain.”

“Why, yes,” the chaplain answered. “Didn’t you know I was a chaplain?”

“Why, no. I didn’t know you were a chaplain.” Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated grin. “I’ve never really seen a chaplain before.”

The chaplain flushed again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two with tan hair and brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay in the basin of each cheek. Yossarian wanted to help him.

“Can I do anything at all to help you?” the chaplain asked.

Yossarian shook his head, still grinning. “No, I’m sorry. I have everything I need and I’m quite comfortable. In fact, I’m not even sick.”

“That’s good.” As soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into his mouth with a giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and disappointed him. “There are other men in the group I must visit,” he apologized finally. “I’ll come to see you again, probably tomorrow.”