“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 112
ancient, confined clusters of minute acne pits, had the color and texture of an uncracked
almond shell. He racked his memory for some clue to the origin of Corporal Whitcomb’s
bitterness toward him. In some way he was unable to fathom, he was convinced he had
done him some unforgivable wrong. It seemed incredible that such lasting ire as
Corporal Whitcomb’s could have stemmed from his rejection of Bingo or the form letters
home to the families of the men killed in combat. The chaplain was despondent with an
acceptance of his own ineptitude. He had intended for some weeks to have a heart-toheart
talk with Corporal Whitcomb in order to find out what was bothering him, but was
already ashamed of what he might find out.
Outside the tent, Corporal Whitcomb snickered. The other man chuckled. For a few
precarious seconds, the chaplain tingled with a weird, occult sensation of having
experienced the identical situation before in some prior time or existence. He
endeavored to trap and nourish the impression in order to predict, and perhaps even
control, what incident would occur next, but the afatus melted away unproductively, as
he had known beforehand it would. Déjà vu. The subtle, recurring
confusion between illusion and reality that was characteristic of paramnesia fascinated
the chaplain, and he knew a number of things about it. He knew, for example, that it was
called paramnesia, and he was interested as well in such corollary optical phenomena
as jamais vu, never seen, and presque vu, almost seen. There were terrifying, sudden
moments when objects, concepts and even people that the chaplain had lived with
almost all his life inexplicably took on an unfamiliar and irregular aspect that he had
never seen before and which made them totally strange: jamais vu. And there were
other moments when he almost saw absolute truth in brilliant flashes of clarity that
almost came to him: presque vu. The episode of the naked man in the tree at
Snowden’s funeral mystified him thoroughly. It was not déjà vu, for at the
time he had experienced no sensation of ever having seen a naked man in a tree at
Snowden’s funeral before. It was not jamais vu, since the apparition was not of
someone, or something, familiar appearing to him in an unfamiliar guise. And it was
certainly not presque vu, for the chaplain did see him.
A jeep started up with a backfire directly outside and roared away. Had the naked man
in the tree at Snowden’s funeral been merely a hallucination? Or had it been a true
revelation? The chaplain trembled at the mere idea. He wanted desperately to confide in
Yossarian, but each time he thought about the occurrence he decided not to think about
it any further, although now that he did think about it he could not be sure that he ever
really had thought about it.
Corporal Whitcomb sauntered back in wearing a shiny new smirk and leaned his
elbow impertinently against the center pole of the chaplain’s tent.
‘Do you know who that guy in the red bathrobe was?’ he asked boastfully. ‘That was a
C.I.D. man with a fractured nose. He came down here from the hospital on official
business. He’s conducting an investigation.’ The chaplain raised his eyes quickly in
obsequious commiseration. ‘I hope you’re not in any trouble. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, I’m not in any trouble,’ Corporal Whitcomb replied with a grin. ‘You are. They’re
going to crack down on you for signing Washington Irving’s name to all those letters
you’ve been signing Washington Irving’s name to. How do you like that?’
‘I haven’t been signing Washington Irving’s name to any letters,’ said the chaplain.
‘You don’t have to lie to me,’ Corporal Whitcomb answered. ‘I’m not the one you have
to convince.’
‘But I’m not lying.’
‘I don’t care whether you’re lying or not. They’re going to get you for intercepting Major
Major’s correspondence, too. A lot of that stuff is classified information.’
‘What correspondence?’ asked the chaplain plaintively in rising exasperation. ‘I’ve
never even seen any of Major Major’s correspondence.’
‘You don’t have to lie to me,’ Corporal Whitcomb replied. ‘I’m not the one you have to
convince.’
‘But I’m not lying!’ protested the chaplain.