‘What does?’
‘I can’t tell you how disappointed I am in you.’
‘For what?’ persisted the chaplain more fiantically. ‘What have I done?’
‘For this,’ replied the major, and, with an air of disillusioned disgust, tossed down on the table the pad on which the chaplain had signed his name. ‘This isn’t your handwriting.’ The chaplain blinked rapidly with amazement. ‘But of course it’s my handwriting.’
‘No it isn’t, Chaplain. You’re lying again.’
‘But I just wrote it!’ the chaplain cried in exasperation. ‘You saw me write it.’
‘That’s just it,’ the major answered bitterly. ‘I saw you write it. You can’t deny that you did write it. A person who’ll lie about his own handwriting will lie about anything.’
‘But who lied about my own handwriting?’ demanded the chaplain, forgetting his fear in the wave of anger and indignation that welled up inside him suddenly. ‘Are you crazy or something? What are you both talking about?’
‘We asked you to write your name in your own handwriting. And you didn’t do it.’
‘But of course I did. In whose handwriting did I write it if not my own?’
‘In somebody else’s.’
‘Whose?’
‘That’s just what we’re going to find out,’ threatened the colonel.
‘Talk, Chaplain.’ The chaplain looked from one to the other of the two men with rising doubt and hysteria. ‘That handwriting is mine,’ he maintained passionately. ‘Where else is my handwriting, if that isn’t it?’
‘Right here,’ answered the colonel. And looking very superior, he tossed down on the table a photostatic copy of a piece of V mail in which everything but the salutation ‘Dear Mary’ had been blocked out and on which the censoring officer had written, ‘I long for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.’ The colonel smiled scornfully as he watched the chaplain’s face turn crimson. ‘Well, Chaplain? Do you know who wrote that?’ The chaplain took a long moment to reply; he had recognized Yossarian’s handwriting. ‘No.’
‘You can read, though, can’t you?’ the colonel persevered sarcastically. ‘The author signed his name.’
‘That’s my name there.’
‘Then you wrote it. Q.E.D.’
‘But I didn’t write it. That isn’t my handwriting, either.’
‘Then you signed your name in somebody else’s handwriting again,’ the colonel retorted with a shrug. ‘That’s all that means.’
‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ the chaplain shouted, suddenly losing all patience. He jumped to his feet in a blazing fury, both fists clenched. ‘I’m not going to stand for this any longer! Do you hear? Twelve men were just killed, and I have no time for these silly questions. You’ve no right to keep me here, and I’m just not going to stand for it.’ Without saying a word, the colonel pushed the chaplain’s chest hard and knocked him back down into the chair, and the chaplain was suddenly weak and very much afraid again. The major picked up the length of rubber hose and began tapping it menacingly against his open palm. The colonel lifted the box of matches, took one out and held it poised against the striking surface, watching with glowering eyes for the chaplain’s next sign of defiance. The chaplain was pale and almost too petrified to move. The bright glare of the spotlight made him turn away finally; the dripping water was louder and almost unbearably irritating. He wished they would tell him what they wanted so that he would know what to confess. He waited tensely as the third officer, at a signal from the colonel, ambled over from the wall and seated himself on the table just a few inches away from the chaplain. His face was expressionless, his eyes penetrating and cold.
‘Turn off the light,’ he said over his shoulder in a low, calm voice. ‘It’s very annoying.’ The chaplain gave him a small smile of gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir. And the drip too, please.’
‘Leave the drip,’ said the officer. ‘That doesn’t bother me.’ He tugged up the legs of his trousers a bit, as though to preserve their natty crease. ‘Chaplain,’ he asked casually, ‘of what religious persuasion are you?’
‘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
