“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 108
‘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.’ The colonel thought about it in heavy silence for a few
moments. ‘Tell him to trust in God,’ he advised finally.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the chaplain. ‘I will.’
Corporal Whitcomb
The late-August morning sun was hot and steamy, and there was no breeze on the
balcony. The chaplain moved slowly. He was downcast and burdened with self-reproach
when he stepped without noise from the colonel’s office on his rubber-soled and rubberheeled
brown shoes. He hated himself for what he construed to be his own cowardice.
He had intended to take a much stronger stand with Colonel Cathcart on the matter of
the sixty missions, to speak out with courage, logic and eloquence on a subject about
which he had begun to feel very deeply. Instead he had failed miserably, had choked up
once again in the face of opposition from a stronger personality. It was a familiar,
ignominious experience, and his opinion of himself was low.
He choked up even more a second later when he spied Colonel Korn’s tubby
monochrome figure trotting up the curved, wide, yellow stone staircase toward him in
lackadaisical haste from the great dilapidated lobby below with its lofty walls of cracked
dark marble and circular floor of cracked grimy tile. The chaplain was even more
frightened of Colonel Korn than he was of Colonel Cathcart. The swarthy, middle-aged
lieutenant colonel with the rimless, icy glasses and faceted, bald, domelike pate that he
was always touching sensitively with the tips of his splayed fingers disliked the chaplain
and was impolite to him frequently. He kept the chaplain in a constant state of terror with
his curt, derisive tongue and his knowing, cynical eyes that the chaplain was never
brave enough to meet for more than an accidental second. Inevitably, the chaplain’s