‘You don’t know how to delegate responsibility,’ Corporal Whitcomb informed him sullenly.
‘That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you.’
The chaplain nodded penitently and hurried past, unable to make himself take the time to apologize.
He could feel the skillful hand of fate motivating him imperatively.
Twice that day already, he realized now, Major Major had come racing toward him inside the ditch; and twice that day the chaplain had stupidly postponed the destined meeting by bolting into the forest.
He seethed with self-recrimination as he hastened back as rapidly as he could stride along the splintered, irregularly spaced railroad ties.
Bits of grit and gravel inside his shoes and socks were grinding the tops of his toes raw.
His pale, laboring face was screwed up unconsciously 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.