Catch-22 (49 page)

   ‘I’m an Anabaptist, sir.’

   ‘That’s a pretty suspicious religion, isn’t it?’

   ‘Suspicious?’ inquired the chaplain in a kind of innocent
daze. ‘Why, sir?’

   ‘Well, I don’t know a thing about it. You’ll have to admit
that, won’t you? Doesn’t that make it pretty suspicious?’

   ‘I don’t know, sir,’ the chaplain answered diplomatically,
with an uneasy stammer. He found the man’s lack of insignia disconcerting and
was not even sure he had to say ‘sir’. Who was he? And what authority had he to
interrogate him?

   ‘Chaplain, I once studied Latin. I think it’s only fair to
warn you of that before I ask my next question. Doesn’t the word Anabaptist
simply mean that you’re not a Baptist?’

   ‘Oh, no, sir. There’s much more.’

   ‘Are you a Baptist?’

   ‘No, sir.’

   ‘Then you are not a Baptist, aren’t you?’

   ‘Sir?’

   ‘I don’t see why you’re bickering with me on that point.
You’ve already admitted it. Now, Chaplain, to say you’re not a Baptist doesn’t
really tell us anything about what you are, does it? You could be anything or
anyone.’ He leaned forward slightly and his manner took on a shrewd and
significant air. ‘You could even be,’ he added, ‘Washington Irving, couldn’t
you?’

   ‘Washington Irving?’ the chaplain repeated with surprise.

   ‘Come on, Washington,’ the corpulent colonel broke in
irascibly. ‘Why don’t you make a clean breast of it? We know you stole that
plum tomato.’ After a moment’s shock, the chaplain giggled with nervous relief.
‘Oh, is that it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now I’m beginning to understand. I didn’t
steal that plum tomato, sir. Colonel Cathcart gave it to me. You can even ask
him if you don’t believe me.’ A door opened at the other end of the room and
Colonel Cathcart stepped into the basement as though from a closet.

   ‘Hello, Colonel. Colonel, he claims you gave him that plum
tomato. Did you?’

   ‘Why should I give him a plum tomato?’ answered Colonel
Cathcart.

   ‘Thank you, Colonel. That will be all.’

   ‘It’s a pleasure, Colonel,’ Colonel Cathcart replied, and he
stepped back out of the basement, closing the door after him.

   ‘Well, Chaplain? What have you got to say now?’

   ‘He did give it to me!’ the chaplain hissed in a whisper that
was both fierce and fearful. ‘He did give it to me!’

   ‘You’re not calling a superior officer a liar are you,
Chaplain?’

   ‘Why should a superior officer give you a plum tomato,
Chaplain?’

   ‘Is that why you tried to give it to Sergeant Whitcomb,
Chaplain? Because it was a hot tomato?’

   ‘No, no, no,’ the chaplain protested, wondering miserably why
they were not able to understand. ‘I offered it to Sergeant Whitcomb because I
didn’t want it.’

   ‘Why’d you steal it from Colonel Cathcart if you didn’t want
it?’

   ‘I didn’t steal it from Colonel Cathcard’

   ‘Then why are you so guilty, if you didn’t steal it?’

   ‘I’m not guilty!’

   ‘Then why would we be questioning you if you weren’t guilty?’

   ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the chaplain groaned, kneading his
fingers in his lap and shaking his bowed and anguished head. ‘I don’t know.’

   ‘He thinks we have time to waste,’ snorted the major.

   ‘Chaplain,’ resumed the officer without insignia at a more
leisurely pace, lifting a typewritten sheet of yellow paper from the open
folder, ‘I have a signed statement here from Colonel Cathcart asserting you
stole that plum tomato from him.’ He lay the sheet face down on one side of the
folder and picked up a second page from the other side. ‘And I have a notarized
affidavit from Sergeant Whitcomb in which he states that he knew the tomato was
hot just from the way you tried to unload it on him.’

   ‘I swear to God I didn’t steal it, sir,’ the chaplain pleaded
with distress, almost in tears. ‘I give you my sacred word it was not a hot
tomato.’

   ‘Chaplain, do you believe in God?’

   ‘Yes, sir. Of course I do.’

   ‘That’s odd, Chaplain,’ said the officer, taking from the
folder another typewritten yellow page, ‘because I have here in my hands now
another statement from Colonel Cathcart in which he swears that you refused to
co-operate with him in conducting prayer meetings in the briefing room before
each mission.’ After looking blank a moment, the chaplain nodded quickly with
recollection. ‘Oh, that’s not quite true, sir,’ he explained eagerly. ‘Colonel
Cathcart gave up the idea himself once he realized enlisted men pray to the
same God as officers.’

   ‘He did what?’ exclaimed the officer in disbelief.

   ‘What nonsense!’ declared the red-faced colonel, and swung
away from the chaplain with dignity and annoyance.

   ‘Does he expect us to believe that?’ cried the major
incredulously.

   The officer without insignia chuckled acidly. ‘Chaplain,
aren’t you stretching things a bit far now?’ he inquired with a smile that was
indulgent and unfriendly.

   ‘But, sir, it’s the truth, sir! I swear it’s the truth.’

   ‘I don’t see how that matters one way or the other,’ the
officer answered nonchalantly, and reached sideways again toward the open
folder filled with papers. ‘Chaplain, did you say you did believe in God in
answer to my question? I don’t remember.’

   ‘Yes, sir. I did say so, sir. I do believe in God.’

   ‘Then that really is very odd, Chaplain, because I have here
another affidavit from Colonel Cathcart that states you once told him atheism
was not against the law. Do you recall ever making a statement like that to
anyone?’ The chaplain nodded without any hesitation, feeling himself on very
solid ground now. ‘Yes, sir, I did make a statement like that. I made it
because it’s true. Atheism is not against the law.’

   ‘But that’s still no reason to say so, Chaplain, is it?’ the
officer chided tartly, frowning, and picked up still one more typewritten,
notarized page from the folder. ‘And here I have another sworn statement from
Sergeant Whitcomb that says you opposed his plan of sending letters of
condolence over Colonel Cathcart’s signature to the next of kin of men killed
or wounded in combat. Is that true?’

   ‘Yes, sir, I did oppose it,’ answered the chaplain. ‘And I’m
proud that I did. Those letters are insincere and dishonest. Their only purpose
is to bring glory to Colonel Cathcart.’

   ‘But what difference does that make?’ replied the officer. ‘They
still bring solace and comfort to the families that receive them, don’t they?
Chaplain, I simply can’t understand your thinking process.’ The chaplain was
stumped and at a complete loss for a reply. He hung his head, feeling
tongue-tied and naive.

   The ruddy stout colonel stepped forward vigorously with a
sudden idea. ‘Why don’t we knock his goddam brains out?’ he suggested with
robust enthusiasm to the others.

   ‘Yes, we could knock his goddam brains out, couldn’t we?’ the
hawk-faced major agreed. ‘He’s only an Anabaptist.’

   ‘No, we’ve got to find him guilty first,’ the officer without
insignia cautioned with a languid restraining wave. He slid lightly to the
floor and moved around to the other side of the table, facing the chaplain with
both hands pressed flat on the surface. His expression was dark and very stern,
square and forbidding. ‘Chaplain,’ he announced with magisterial rigidity, ‘we
charge you formally with being Washington Irving and taking capricious and
unlicensed liberties in censoring the letters of officers and enlisted men. Are
you guilty or innocent?’

   ‘Innocent, sir.’ The chaplain licked dry lips with a dry
tongue and leaned forward in suspense on the edge of his chair.

   ‘Guilty,’ said the colonel.

   ‘Guilty,’ said the major.

   ‘Guilty it is, then,’ remarked the officer without insignia,
and wrote a word on a page in the folder. ‘Chaplain,’ he continued, looking up,
‘we accuse you also of the commission of crimes and infractions we don’t even
know about yet. Guilty or innocent?’

   ‘I don’t know, sir. How can I say if you don’t tell me what
they are?’

   ‘How can we tell you if we don’t know?’

   ‘Guilty,’ decided the colonel.

   ‘Sure he’s guilty,’ agreed the major. ‘If they’re his crimes
and infractions, he must have committed them.’

   ‘Guilty it is, then,’ chanted the officer without insignia,
and moved off to the side of the room. ‘He’s all yours, Colonel.’

   ‘Thank you,’ commended the colonel. ‘You did a very good
job.’ He turned to the chaplain. ‘Okay, Chaplain, the jig’s up. Take a walk.’
The chaplain did not understand. ‘What do you wish me to do?’

   ‘Go on, beat it, I told you!’ the colonel roared, jerking a
thumb over his shoulder angrily. ‘Get the hell out of here.’ The chaplain was
shocked by his bellicose words and tone and, to his own amazement and
mystification, deeply chagrined that they were turning him loose. ‘Aren’t you
even going to punish me?’ he inquired with querulous surprise.

   ‘You’re damned right we’re going to punish you. But we’re
certainly not going to let you hang around while we decide how and when to do
it. So get going. Hit the road.’ The chaplain rose tentatively and took a few
steps away. ‘I’m free to go?’

   ‘For the time being. But don’t try to leave the island. We’ve
got your number, Chaplain. Just remember that we’ve got you under surveillance
twenty-four hours a day.’ It was not conceivable that they would allow him to
leave. The chaplain walked toward the exit gingerly, expecting at any instant
to be ordered back by a peremptory voice or halted in his tracks by a heavy
blow on the shoulder or the head. They did nothing to stop him. He found his
way through the stale, dark, dank corridors to the flight of stairs. He was
staggering and panting when he climbed out into the fresh air. As soon as he
had escaped, a feeling of overwhelining moral outrage filled him. He was
furious, more furious at the atrocities of the day than he had ever felt before
in his whole life. He swept through the spacious, echoing lobby of the building
in a temper of scalding and vindictive resentment. He was not going to stand
for it any more, he told himself, he was simply not going to stand for it. When
he reached the entrance, he spied, with a feeling of good fortune, Colonel Korn
trotting up the wide steps alone. Bracing himself with a deep breath, the
chaplain moved courageously forward to intercept him.

   ‘Colonel, I’m not going to stand for it any more,’ he
declared with vehement determination, and watched in dismay as Colonel Korn
went trotting by up the steps without even noticing him. ‘Colonel Korn!’ The
tubby, loose figure of his superior officer stopped, turned and came trotting
back down slowly. ‘What is it, Chaplain?’

   ‘Colonel Korn, I want to talk to you about the crash this
morning. It was a terrible thing to happen, terrible!’ Colonel Korn was silent
a moment, regarding the chaplain with a glint of cynical amusement. ‘Yes,
Chaplain, it certainly was terrible,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t know how we’re
going to write this one up without making ourselves look bad.’

   ‘That isn’t what I meant,’ the chaplain scolded firmly
without any fear at all. ‘Some of those twelve men had already finished their
seventy missions.’ Colonel Korn laughed. ‘Would it be any less terrible if they
had all been new men?’ he inquired caustically.

   Once again the chaplain was stumped. Immoral logic seemed to
be confounding him at every turn. He was less sure of himself than before when
he continued, and his voice wavered. ‘Sir, it just isn’t right to make the men
in this group fly eighty missions when the men in other groups are being sent
home with fifty and fifty-five.’

   ‘We’ll take the matter under consideration,’ Colonel Korn
said with bored disinterest, and started away. ‘Adios, Padre.’

   ‘What does that mean, sir?’ the chaplain persisted in a voice
turning shrill.

   Colonel Korn stopped with an unpleasant expression and took a
step back down. ‘It means we’ll think about it, Padre,’ he answered with
sarcasm and contempt. ‘You wouldn’t want us to do anything without thinking
about it, would you?’

   ‘No, sir, I suppose not. But you have been thinking about it,
haven’t you?’

   ‘Yes, Padre, we have been thinking about it. But to make you
happy, we’ll think about it some more, and you’ll be the first person we’ll
tell if we reach a new decision. And now, adios.’ Colonel Korn whirled away
again and hurried up the stairs.

   ‘Colonel Korn!’ The chaplain’s cry made Colonel Korn stop
once more. His head swung slowly around toward the chaplain with a look of
morose impatience. Words gushed from the chaplain in a nervous torrent. ‘Sir, I
would like your permission to take the matter to General Dreedle. I want to
bring my protests to Wing Headquarters.’ Colonel Korn’s thick, dark jowls
inflated unexpectedly with a suppressed guffaw, and it took him a moment to
reply. ‘That’s all right, Padre,’ he answered with mischievous merriment,
trying hard to keep a straight face. ‘You have my permission to speak to
General Dreedle.’

   ‘Thank you, sir. I believe it only fair to warn you that I
think I have some influence with General Dreedle.’

   ‘It’s good of you to warn me, Padre. And I believe it only
fair to warn you that you won’t find General Dreedle at Wing.’ Colonel Korn
grinned wickedly and then broke into triumphant laughter. ‘General Dreedle is
out, Padre. And General Peckem is in. We have a new wing commander.’ The
chaplain was stunned. ‘General Peckem!’

   ‘That’s right, Chaplain. Have you got any influence with
him?’

   ‘Why, I don’t even know General Peckem,’ the chaplain
protested wretchedly.

   Colonel Korn laughed again. ‘That’s too bad, Chaplain,
because Colonel Cathcart knows him very well.’ Colonel Korn chuckled steadily
with gloating relish for another second or two and then stopped abruptly. ‘And
by the way, Padre,’ he warned coldly, poking his finger once into the
chaplain’s chest. ‘The jig is up between you and Dr. Stubbs. We know very well
he sent you up here to complain today.’