Catch-22(39)

Major Major fared even more lamentably at the mess hall, where Milo, his face fluttery with smiles, was waiting to usher him proudly to a small table he had set up in front and decorated with an embroided tablecloth and a nosegay of posies in a pink cut-glass vase. Major Major hung back with horror, but he was not bold enough to resist with all the others watching. Even Havermeyer had lifted his head from his plate to gape at him with his heavy, pendulous jaw. Major Major submitted meekly to Milo’s tugging and cowered in disgrace at his private table throughout the whole meal. The food was ashes in his mouth, but he swallowed every mouthful rather than risk offending any of the men connected with its preparation. Alone with Milo later, Major Major felt protest stir for the first time and said he would prefer to continue eating with the other officers. Milo told him it wouldn’t work.

“I don’t see what there is to work,” Major Major argued. “Nothing ever happened before.”

“You were never the squadron commander before.”

“Major Duluth was the squadron commander and he always ate at the same table with the rest of the men.”

“It was different with Major Duluth, sir.”

“In what way was it different with Major Duluth?”

“I wish you wouldn’t ask me that, sir,” said Milo.

“Is it because I look like Henry Fonda?” Major Major mustered the courage to demand.

“Some people say you are Henry Fonda,” Milo answered.

“Well, I’m not Henry Fonda,” Major Major exclaimed, in a voice quavering with exasperation. “And I don’t look the least bit like him. And even if I do look like Henry Fonda, what difference does that make?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir. It’s just not the same with you as it was with Major Duluth.”

And it just wasn’t the same, for when Major Major, at the next meal, stepped from the food counter to sit with the others at the regular tables, he was frozen in his tracks by the impenetrable wall of antagonism thrown up by their faces and stood petrified with his tray quivering in his hands until Milo glided forward wordlessly to rescue him, by leading him tamely to his private table. Major Major gave up after that and always ate at his table alone with his back to the others. He was certain they resented him because he seemed too good to eat with them now that he was squadron commander. There was never any conversation in the mess tent when Major Major was present. He was conscious that other officers tried to avoid eating at the same time, and everyone was greatly relieved when he stopped coming there altogether and began taking his meals in his trailer.

Major Major began forging Washington Irving’s name to official documents the day after the first C.I.D. man showed up to interrogate him about somebody at the hospital who had been doing it and gave him the idea. He had been bored and dissatisfied in his new position. He had been made squadron commander but had no idea what he was supposed to do as squadron commander, unless all he was supposed to do was forge Washington Irving’s name to official documents and listen to the isolated clinks and thumps of Major —— de Coverley’s horseshoes falling to the ground outside the window of his small office in the rear of the orderly-room tent. He was hounded incessantly by an impression of vital duties left unfulfilled and waited in vain for his responsibilities to overtake him. He seldom went out unless it was absolutely necessary, for he could not get used to being stared at. Occasionally, the monotony was broken by some officer or enlisted man Sergeant Towser referred to him on some matter that Major Major was unable to cope with and referred right back to Sergeant Towser for sensible disposition. Whatever he was supposed to get done as squadron commander apparently was getting done without any assistance from him. He grew moody and depressed. At times he thought seriously of going with all his sorrows to see the chaplain, but the chaplain seemed so overburdened with miseries of his own that Major Major shrank from adding to his troubles. Besides, he was not quite sure if chaplains were for squadron commanders.

He had never been quite sure about Major —— de Coverley, either, who, when he was not away renting apartments or kidnapping foreign laborers, had nothing more pressing to do than pitch horseshoes. Major Major often paid strict attention to the horseshoes falling softly against the earth or riding down around the small steel pegs in the ground. He peeked out at Major —— de Coverley for hours and marveled that someone so august had nothing more important to do. He was often tempted to join Major —— de Coverley, but pitching horseshoes all day long seemed almost as dull as signing “Major Major Major” to official documents, and Major —— deCoverley’s countenance was so forbidding that Major Major was in awe of approaching him.