‘Nothing ever happened before.’
‘You were never the squadron commander before.’
‘Major Duluth was the squadron commander and he always ate at the same table with the rest of the men.’
‘It was different with Major Duluth, Sir.’
‘In what way was it different with Major Duluth?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t ask me that, sir,’ said Milo.
‘Is it because I look like Henry Fonda?’ Major Major mustered the courage to demand.
‘Some people say you are Henry Fonda,’ Milo answered.
‘Well, I’m not Henry Fonda,’ Major Major exclaimed, in a voice quavering with exasperation.
‘And I don’t look the least bit like him.
And even if I do look like Henry Fonda, what difference does that make?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference.
That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sir.
It’s just not the same with you as it was with Major Duluth.’
And it just wasn’t the same, for when Major Major, at the next meal, stepped from the food counter to sit with the others at the regular tables, he was frozen in his tracks by the impenetrable wall of antagonism thrown up by their faces and stood petrified with his tray quivering in his hands until Milo glided forward wordlessly to rescue him, by leading him tamely to his private table.
Major Major gave up after that and always ate at his table alone with his back to the others.
He was certain they resented him because he seemed too good to eat with them now that he was squadron commander.
There was never any conversation in the mess tent when Major Major was present.
He was conscious that other officers tried to avoid eating at the same time, and everyone was greatly relieved when he stopped coming there altogether and began taking his meals in his trailer.
Major Major began forging Washington Irving’s name to official documents the day after the first C.I.D. man showed up to interrogate him about somebody at the hospital who had been doing it and gave him the idea.
He had been bored and dissatisfied in his new position.
He had been made squadron commander but had no idea what he was supposed to do as squadron commander, unless all he was supposed to do was forge Washington Irving’s name to official documents and listen to the isolated clinks and thumps of Major—de Coverley’s horseshoes falling to the ground outside the window of his small office in the rear of the orderly-room tent.
He was hounded incessantly by an impression of vital duties left unfulfilled and waited in vain for his responsibilities to overtake him.
He seldom went out unless it was absolutely necessary, for he could not get used to being stared at. Occasionally, the monotony was broken by some officer or enlisted man Sergeant Towser referred to him on some matter that Major Major was unable to cope with and referred right back to Sergeant Towser for sensible disposition.
Whatever he was supposed to get done as squadron commander apparently was getting done without any assistance from him.
He grew moody and depressed.
At times he thought seriously of going with all his sorrows to see the chaplain, but the chaplain seemed so overburdened with miseries of his own that Major Major shrank from adding to his troubles.
Besides, he was not quite sure if chaplains were for squadron commanders.
He had never been quite sure about Major—de Coverley, either, who, when he was not away renting apartments or kidnaping foreign laborers, had nothing more pressing to do than pitch horseshoes.
Major Major often paid strict attention to the horseshoes falling softly against the earth or riding down around the small steel pegs in the ground.
He peeked out at Major—de Coverley for hours and marveled that someone so august had nothing more important to do.
He was often tempted to join Major—de Coverley, but pitching horseshoes all day long seemed almost as dull as signing ‘Major Major Major’ to official documents, and Major– de Coverley’s countenance was so forbidding that Major Major was in awe of approaching him.
Major Major wondered about his relationship to Major—de Coverley and about Major—de Coverley’s relationship to him.
He knew that Major—de Coverley was his executive officer, but he did not know what that meant, and he could not decide whether in Major—de Coverley he was blessed with a lenient superior or cursed with a delinquent subordinate.
He did not want to ask Sergeant Towser, of whom he was secretly afraid, and there was no one else he could ask, least of all Major—de Coverley.
Few people ever dared approach Major—de Coverley about anything and the only officer foolish enough to pitch one of his horseshoes was stricken the very next day with the worst case of Pianosan crud that Gus or Wes or even Doc Daneeka had ever seen or even heard about.
Everyone was positive the disease had been inflicted upon the poor officer in retribution by Major—de Coverley, although no one was sure how.
Most of the official documents that came to Major Major’s desk did not concern him at all.
The vast majority consisted of allusions to prior communications which Major Major had never seen or heard of.
There was never any need to look them up, for the instructions were invariably to disregard.
In the space of a single productive minute, therefore, he might endorse twenty separate documents each advising him to pay absolutely no attention to any of the others.
From General Peckem’s office on the mainland came prolix bulletins each day headed by such cheery homilies as
‘Procrastination is the Thief of Time’ and ‘Cleanliness is Next to Godliness.’
General Peckem’s communications about cleanliness and procrastination made Major Major feel like a filthy procrastinator, and he always got those out of the way as quickly as he could.
The only official documents that interested him were those occasional ones pertaining to the unfortunate second lieutenant who had been killed on the mission over Orvieto less than two hours after he arrived on Pianosa and whose partly unpacked belongings were still in Yossarian’s tent.
Since the unfortunate lieutenant had reported to the operations tent instead of to the orderly room, Sergeant Towser had decided that it would be safest to report him as never having reported to the squadron at all, and the occasional documents relating to him dealt with the fact that he seemed to have vanished into thin air, which, in one way, was exactly what did happen to him.
In the long run, Major Major was grateful for the official documents that came to his desk, for sitting in his office signing them all day long was a lot better than sitting in his office all day long not signing them.
They gave him something to do.
Inevitably, every document he signed came back with a fresh page added for a new signature by him after intervals of from two to ten days.
They were always much thicker than formerly, for in between the sheet bearing his last endorsement and the sheet added for his new endorsement were the sheets bearing the most recent endorsements of all the other officers in scattered locations who were also occupied in signing their names to that same official document.