inhuman prank. He could almost see them waiting on the other side of the canvas wall, bunched up expectantly like a pack of greedy, gloating omnivorous beasts of prey, ready with their barbaric mirth and jeers to pounce on him brutally the moment he reappeared. He cursed himself for his gullibility and wished in panic for something like a mask or a pair of dark glasses and a false mustache to disguise him, or for a forceful, deep voice like Colonel Cathcart’s and broad, muscular shoulders and biceps to enable him to step outside fearlessly and vanquish his malevolent persecutors with an overbearing authority and self-confidence that would make them all quail and slink away cravenly in repentance. He lacked the courage to face them. The only other way out was the window. The coast was clear, and the chaplain jumped out of Major Major’s office through the window, darted swiftly around the corner of the tent, and leaped down inside the railroad ditch to hide.
He scooted away with his body doubled over and his face contorted intentionally into a nonchalant, sociable smile in case anyone chanced to see him. He abandoned the ditch for the forest the moment he saw someone coming toward him from the opposite direction and ran through the cluttered forest frenziedly like someone pursued, his cheeks burning with disgrace. He heard loud, wild peals of derisive laughter crashing all about him and caught blurred glimpses of wicked, beery faces smirking far back inside the bushes and high overhead in the foliage of the trees. Spasms of scorching pains stabbed through his lungs and slowed him to a crippled walk. He lunged and staggered onward until he could go no farther and collapsed all at once against a gnarled apple tree, banging his head hard against the trunk as he toppled forward and holding on with both arms to keep from falling. His breathing was a rasping, moaning din in his ears. Minutes passed like hours before he finally recognized himself as the source of the turbulent roar that was overwhelming him. The pains in his chest abated. Soon he felt strong enough to stand. He cocked his ears craftily. The forest was quiet. There was no demonic laughter, no one was chasing him. He was too tired and sad and dirty to feel relieved. He straightened his disheveled clothing with fingers that were numb and shaking and walked the rest of the way to the clearing with rigid self-control. The chaplain brooded often about the danger of heart attack.
Corporal Whitcomb’s jeep was still parked in the clearing. The chaplain tiptoed stealthily around the back of Corporal Whitcomb’s tent rather than pass the entrance and risk being seen and insulted by him. Heaving a grateful sigh, he slipped quickly inside his own tent and found Corporal Whitcomb ensconced on his cot, his knees propped up. Corporal Whitcomb’s mud-caked shoes were on the chaplain’s blanket, and he was eating one of the chaplain’s candy bars as he thumbed with sneering expression through one of the chaplain’s Bibles.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded rudely and disinterestedly, without looking up.
The chaplain colored and turned away evasively. ‘I went for a walk through the woods.’
‘All right,’ Corporal Whitcomb snapped. ‘Don’t take me into your confidence. But just wait and see what happens to my morale.’ He bit into the chaplain’s candy bar hungrily and continued with a full mouth. ‘You had a visitor while you were gone. Major Major.’ The chaplain spun around with surprise and cried: ‘Major Major? Major Major was here?’
‘That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?’
‘Where did he go?’
‘He jumped down into that railroad ditch and took off like a frightened rabbit.’ Corporal Whitcomb snickered. ‘What a jerk!’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘He said he needed your help in a matter of great importance.’ The chaplain was astounded. ‘Major Major said that?’
‘He didn’t say that,’ Corporal Whitcomb corrected with withering precision. ‘He wrote it down in a sealed personal letter he left on your desk.’ The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable orange-red pear-shaped plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where he had forgotten it like an indestructible and incamadine symbol of his own ineptitude. ‘Where is the letter?’
‘I threw it away as soon as I tore it open and read it.’ Corporal Whitcomb slammed the Bible shut and jumped up. ‘What’s the matter? Won’t you take my word for it?’ He walked out. He walked right back in and almost collided with the chaplain, who was rushing out behind him on his way back to Major Major. ‘You don’t know how to delegate responsibility,’ Corporal Whitcomb informed him sullenly. ‘That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you.’ The chaplain nodded penitently and hurried past, unable to make himself take the time to apologize. He could feel the skillful hand of fate motivating him imperatively. Twice that day already, he realized now, Major Major had come racing toward him inside the ditch; and twice that day the chaplain had stupidly postponed the destined meeting by bolting into the forest. He seethed with self-recrimination as he hastened back as rapidly as he could stride along the splintered, irregularly spaced railroad ties. Bits of grit and gravel inside his shoes and socks were grinding the tops of his toes raw. His pale, laboring face was screwed up unconsciously into a grimace of acute discomfort. The early August afternoon was growing hotter and more humid. It was almost a mile from his tent to Yossarian’s squadron. The chaplain’s summer-tan shirt was soaking with perspiration by the time he arrived there and rushed breathlessly back inside the orderly room tent, where he was halted peremptorily by the same treacherous, soft-spoken staff sergeant with round eyeglasses and gaunt cheeks, who requested him to remain outside because Major Major was inside and told him he would not be allowed inside until Major Major went out. The chaplain looked at him in an uncomprehending daze. Why did the sergeant hate him? he wondered. His lips were white and trembling. He was aching with thirst. What was the matter with people? Wasn’t there tragedy enough? The sergeant put his hand out and held the chaplain steady.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said regretfully in a low, courteous, melancholy voice. ‘But those are Major Major’s orders. He never wants to see anyone.’
‘He wants to see me,’ the chaplain pleaded. ‘He came to my tent to see me while I was here before.’
‘Major Major did that?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Yes, he did. Please go in and ask him.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t go in, sir. He never wants to see me either. Perhaps if you left a note.’
‘I don’t want to leave a note. Doesn’t he ever make an exception?’
‘Only in extreme circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one of the enlisted men. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarian forced—’
‘Yossarian?’ The chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another miracle in the making? ‘But that’s exactly whom I want to speak to him about! Did they talk about the number of missions Yossarian has to fly?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one missions, and he appealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn’t have to fly four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted only fifty-five missions then.’
‘And what did Major Major say?’
‘Major Major told him there was nothing he could do.’ The chaplain’s face fell. ‘Major Major said that?’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, he advised Yossarian to go see you for help. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to leave a note, sir? I have a pencil and paper right here.’ The chaplain shook his head, chewing his clotted dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was still so early in the day, and so much had already happened. The air was cooler in the forest. His throat was parched and sore. He walked slowly and asked himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before the mad hermit in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a mulberry bush. The chaplain screamed at the top of his voice.
The tall, cadaverous stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain’s cry and shrieked, ‘Don’t hurt me!’
‘Who are you?’ the chaplain shouted.
‘Please don’t hurt me!’ the man shouted back.
‘I’m the chaplain!’
‘Then why do you want to hurt me?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you!’ the chaplain insisted with a rising hint of exasperation, even though he was still rooted to the spot. ‘Just tell me who you are and what you want from me.’
‘I just want to find out if Chief White Halfoat died of pneumonia yet,’ the man shouted back. ‘That’s all I want. I live here. My name is Flume. I belong to the squadron, but I live here in the woods. You can ask anyone.’ The chaplain’s composure began trickling back as he studied the queer, cringing figure intently. A pair of captain’s bars ulcerated with rust hung on the man’s ragged shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole on the underside of
