“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 152
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 one nostril and a heavy rough mustache the color of poplar bark.