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“Catch-22” <strong>By</strong> <strong>Joseph</strong> Heller 154<br />
responsibility to him. He plodded along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly,<br />
clogged with thirst and feeling almost too exhausted to go on. He was remorseful when<br />
he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. He prayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone<br />
when he reached the clearing so that he could undress without embarrassment, wash<br />
his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and<br />
perhaps even sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and<br />
still another shock, for Corporal Whitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he<br />
arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain’s chair sewing his new sergeant’s<br />
stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain’s needle and thread. Corporal Whitcomb had<br />
been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the<br />
letters.<br />
‘Oh, no,’ groaned the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm<br />
canteen was empty, and he was too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging<br />
outside in the shade between the two tents. ‘I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe that<br />
anyone would seriously believe that I’ve been forging Washington Irving’s name.’<br />
‘Not those letters,’ Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain’s<br />
chagrin. ‘He wants to see you about the letters home to the families of casualties.’<br />
‘Those letters?’ asked the chaplain with surprise.<br />
‘That’s right,’ Corporal Whitcomb gloated. ‘He’s really going to chew you out for<br />
refusing to let me send them. You should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded<br />
him the letters could carry his signature. That’s why he promoted me. He’s absolutely<br />
sure they’ll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.’ The chaplain’s befuddlement<br />
increased. ‘But how did he know we were even considering the idea?’<br />
‘I went to his office and told him.’<br />
‘You did what?’ the chaplain demanded shrilly, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar<br />
rage. ‘Do you mean to say that you actually went over my head to the colonel without<br />
asking my permission?’ Corporal Whitcomb grinned brazenly with scornful satisfaction.<br />
‘That’s right, Chaplain,’ he answered. ‘And you better not try to do anything about it if<br />
you know what’s good for you.’ He laughed quietly in malicious defiance. ‘Colonel<br />
Cathcart isn’t going to like it if he finds out you’re getting even with me for bringing him<br />
my idea. You know something, Chaplain?’ Corporal Whitcomb continued, biting the<br />
chaplain’s black thread apart contemptuously with a loud snap and buttoning on his<br />
shirt. ‘That dumb bastard really thinks it’s one of the greatest ideas he’s ever heard.’<br />
‘It might even get me into The Saturday Evening Post,’ Colonel Cathcart boasted in<br />
his office with a smile, swaggering back and forth convivially as he reproached the<br />
chaplain. ‘And you didn’t have brains enough to appreciate it. You’ve got a good man in<br />
Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain. I hope you have brains enough to appreciate that.’<br />
‘Sergeant Whitcomb,’ the chaplain corrected, before he could control himself.<br />
Colonel Cathcart Oared. ‘I said Sergeant Whitcomb,’ he replied. ‘I wish you’d try<br />
listening once in a while instead of always finding fault. You don’t want to be a captain<br />
all your life, do you?’<br />
‘Sir?’<br />
‘Well, I certainly don’t see how you’re ever going to amount to anything else if you<br />
keep on this way. Corporal Whitcomb feels that you fellows haven’t had a fresh idea in<br />
nineteen hundred and forty-four years, and I’m inclined to agree with him. A bright boy,<br />
that Corporal Whitcomb. Well, it’s all going to change.’ Colonel Cathcart sat down at his<br />
desk with a determined air and cleared a large neat space in his blotter. When he had<br />
finished, he tapped his finger inside it. ‘Starting tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I want you and<br />
Corporal Whitcomb to write a letter of condolence for me to the next of kin of every man<br />
in the group who’s killed, wounded or taken prisoner. I want those letters to be sincere<br />
letters. I want them filled up with lots of personal details so there’ll be no doubt I mean<br />
every word you say. Is that clear?’ The chaplain stepped forward impulsively to<br />
remonstrate. ‘But, sir, that’s impossible!’ he blurted out. ‘We don’t even know all the men<br />
that well.’<br />
‘What difference does that make?’ Colonel Cathcart demanded, and then smiled