Catch-22(88)

It was all very perplexing, all very discouraging. Colonel Cathcart took the cigarette holder out of his mouth, stood it on end inside the pocket of his shirt, and began gnawing on the fingernails of both hands grievously. Everybody was against him, and he was sick to his soul that Colonel Korn was not with him in this moment of crisis to help him decide what to do about the prayer meetings. He had almost no faith at all in the chaplain, who was still only a captain. “Do you think,” he asked, “that keeping the enlisted men out might interfere with our chances of getting results?”

The chaplain hesitated, feeling himself on unfamiliar ground again. “Yes, sir,” he replied finally. “I think it’s conceivable that such an action could interfere with your chances of having the prayers for a tighter bomb pattern answered.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about that!” cried the colonel, with his eyes blinking and splashing like puddles. “You mean that God might even decide to punish me by giving us a looser bomb pattern?”

“Yes, sir,” said the chaplain. “It’s conceivable He might.”

“The hell with it, then,” the colonel asserted in a huff of independence. “I’m not going to set these damned prayer meetings up just to make things worse than they are.” With a scornful snicker, he settled himself behind his desk, replaced the empty cigarette holder in his mouth and lapsed into parturient silence for a few moments. “Now that I think about it,” he confessed, as much to himself as to the chaplain, “having the men pray to God probably wasn’t such a hot idea anyway. The editors of The Saturday Evening Post might not have cooperated.”

The colonel abandoned his project with remorse, for he had conceived it entirely on his own and had hoped to unveil it as a striking demonstration to everyone that he had no real need for Colonel Korn. Once it was gone, he was glad to be rid of it, for he had been troubled from the start by the danger of instituting the plan without first checking it out with Colonel Korn. He heaved an immense sigh of contentment. He had a much higher opinion of himself now that his idea was abandoned, for he had made a very wise decision, he felt, and, most important, he had made this wise decision without consulting Colonel Korn.

“Will that be all, sir?” asked the chaplain.

“Yeah,” said Colonel Cathcart. “Unless you’ve got something else to suggest.”

“No, sir. Only . . .”

The colonel lifted his eyes as though affronted and studied the chaplain with aloof distrust. “Only what, Chaplain?”

“Sir,” said the chaplain, “some of the men are very upset since you raised the number of missions to sixty. They’ve asked me to speak to you about it.”

The colonel was silent. The chaplain’s face reddened to the roots of his sandy hair as he waited. The colonel kept him squirming a long time with a fixed, uninterested look devoid of all emotion.

“Tell them there’s a war going on,” he advised finally in a flat voice.

“Thank you, sir, I will,” the chaplain replied in a flood of gratitude because the colonel had finally said something. “They were wondering why you couldn’t requisition some of the replacement crews that are waiting in Africa to take their places and then let them go home.”

“That’s an administrative matter,” the colonel said. “It’s none of their business.” He pointed languidly toward the wall. “Help yourself to a plum tomato, Chaplain. Go ahead, it’s on me.”

“Thank you, sir. Sir—”

“Don’t mention it. How do you like living out there in the woods, Chaplain? Is everything hunky-dory?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s good. You get in touch with us if you need anything.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Sir—”

“Thanks for dropping around, Chaplain. I’ve got some work to do now. You’ll let me know if you can think of anything for getting our names into The Saturday Evening Post, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I will.” The chaplain braced himself with a prodigious effort of the will and plunged ahead brazenly. “I’m particularly concerned about the condition of one of the bombardiers, sir. Yossarian.”

The colonel glanced up quickly with a start of vague recognition. “Who?” he asked in alarm.

“Yossarian, sir.”

“Yossarian?”

“Yes, sir. Yossarian. He’s in a very bad way, sir. I’m afraid he won’t be able to suffer much longer without doing something desperate.”

“Is that a fact, Chaplain?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”