“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 153
‘Why do you live in the woods if you belong to the squadron?’ the chaplain inquired
curiously.
‘I have to live in the woods,’ the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought
to know. He straightened slowly, still watching the chaplain guardedly although he
towered above him by more than a full head.
‘Don’t you hear everybody talking about me? Chief White Halfoat swore he was going
to cut my throat some night when I was fast asleep, and I don’t dare lie down in the
squadron while he’s still alive.’ The chaplain listened to the implausible explanation
distrustfully. ‘But that’s incredible,’ he replied. ‘That would be premeditated murder. Why
didn’t you report the incident to Major Major?’
‘I did report the incident to Major Major,’ said the captain sadly, ‘and Major Major said
he would cut my throat if I ever spoke to him again.’ The man studied the chaplain
fearfully. ‘Are you going to cut my throat, too?’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ the chaplain assured him. ‘Of course not. Do you really live in the
forest?’ The captain nodded, and the chaplain gazed at his porous gray pallor of fatigue
and malnutrition with a mixture of pity and esteem. The man’s body was a bony shell
inside rumpled clothing that hung on him like a disorderly collection of sacks. Wisps of
dried grass were glued all over him; he needed a haircut badly. There were great, dark
circles under his eyes. The chaplain was moved almost to tears by the harassed,
bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with deference and compassion
at the thought of the many severe rigors the poor man had to endure daily. In a voice
hushed with humility, he said, ‘Who does your laundry?’ The captain pursed his lips in a
businesslike manner. ‘I have it done by a washerwoman in one of the farmhouses down
the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak inside once or twice a day for a clean
handkerchief or a change of underwear.’
‘What will you do when winter comes?’
‘Oh, I expect to be back in the squadron by then,’ the captain answered with a kind of
martyred confidence. ‘Chief White Halfoat kept promising everyone that he was going to
die of pneumonia, and I guess I’ll have to be patient until the weather turns a little colder
and damper.’ He scrutinized the chaplain perplexedly. ‘Don’t you know all this? Don’t
you hear all the fellows talking about me?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone mention you.’
‘Well, I certainly can’t understand that.’ The captain was piqued, but managed to carry
on with a pretense of optimism. ‘Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess it
won’t be too long now. The next time any of the boys ask about me, why, just tell them
I’ll be back grinding out those old publicity releases again as soon as Chief White
Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I’ll be back in the squadron as
soon as winter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Okay?’ The chaplain
memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric import. ‘Do
you live on berries, herbs and roots?’ he asked.
‘No, of course not,’ the captain replied with surprise. ‘I sneak into the mess hall
through the back and eat in the kitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.’
‘What do you do when it rains?’ The captain answered frankly. ‘I get wet.’
‘Where do you sleep?’ Swiftly the captain ducked down into a crouch and began
backing away. ‘You too?’ he cried frantically.
‘Oh, no,’ cried the chaplain. ‘I swear to you.’
‘You do want to cut my throat!’ the captain insisted.
‘I give my word,’ the chaplain pleaded, but it was too late, for the homely hirsute
specter had already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled,
fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows that the chaplain was already
doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous events were occurring that
he was no longer positive which events were monstrous and which were really taking
place. He wanted to find out about the madman in the woods as quickly as possible, to
check if there ever really had been a Captain Flume, but his first chore, he recalled with
reluctance, was to appease Corporal Whitcomb for neglecting to delegate enough