‘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 responsibility to him.
He plodded along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly, clogged with thirst and feeling almost too exhausted to go on.
He was remorseful when he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. He prayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he reached the clearing so that he could undress without embarrassment, wash his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and perhaps even sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and still another shock, for Corporal Whitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain’s chair sewing his new sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain’s needle and thread.
Corporal Whitcomb had been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.
‘Oh, no,’ groaned the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot.
His warm canteen was empty, and he was too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade between the two tents.
‘I can’t believe it.
I just can’t believe that anyone would seriously believe that I’ve been forging Washington Irving’s name.’
‘Not those letters,’ Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain’s chagrin.
‘He wants to see you about the letters home to the families of casualties.’
‘Those letters?’ asked the chaplain with surprise.
‘That’s right,’ Corporal Whitcomb gloated.
‘He’s really going to chew you out for refusing to let me send them.
You should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded him the letters could carry his signature.
That’s why he promoted me.
He’s absolutely sure they’ll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.’
The chaplain’s befuddlement increased.
‘But how did he know we were even considering the idea?’
‘I went to his office and told him.’
‘You did what?’ the chaplain demanded shrilly, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar rage.
‘Do you mean to say that you actually went over my head to the colonel without asking my permission?’
Corporal Whitcomb grinned brazenly with scornful satisfaction.
‘That’s right, Chaplain,’ he answered.
‘And you better not try to do anything about it if you know what’s good for you.’
He laughed quietly in malicious defiance. ‘Colonel Cathcart isn’t going to like it if he finds out you’re getting even with me for bringing him my idea.
You know something, Chaplain?’ Corporal Whitcomb continued, biting the chaplain’s black thread apart contemptuously with a loud snap and buttoning on his shirt. ‘That dumb bastard really thinks it’s one of the greatest ideas he’s ever heard.’
‘It might even get me into The Saturday Evening Post,’ Colonel Cathcart boasted in his office with a smile, swaggering back and forth convivially as he reproached the chaplain. ‘And you didn’t have brains enough to appreciate it.
You’ve got a good man in Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain.