‘Only what, Chaplain?’
‘Sir,’ said the chaplain, ‘some of the men are very upset since you raised the number of missions to sixty.
They’ve asked me to speak to you about it.’
The colonel was silent.
The chaplain’s face reddened to the roots of his sandy hair as he waited.
The colonel kept him squirming a long time with a fixed, uninterested look devoid of all emotion.
‘Tell them there’s a war going on,’ he advised finally in a flat voice.
‘Thank you, sir, I will,’ the chaplain replied in a flood of gratitude because the colonel had finally said something.
‘They were wondering why you couldn’t requisition some of the replacement crews that are waiting in Africa to take their places and then let them go home.’
‘That’s an administrative matter,’ the colonel said.
‘It’s none of their business.’
He pointed languidly toward the wall. ‘Help yourself to a plum tomato, Chaplain.
Go ahead, it’s on me.’
‘Thank you, sir.
Sir—’
‘Don’t mention it.
How do you like living out there in the woods, Chaplain?
Is everything hunky dory?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s good.
You get in touch with us if you need anything.’
‘Yes, sir.
Thank you, sir.
Sir—’
‘Thanks for dropping around, Chaplain.
I’ve got some work to do now.
You’ll let me know if you can think of anything for getting our names into The Saturday Evening Post, won’t you?’
‘Yes, sir, I will.’
The chaplain braced himself with a prodigious effort of the will and plunged ahead brazenly.
‘I’m particularly concerned about the condition of one of the bombardiers, sir.
Yossarian.’
The colonel glanced up quickly with a start of vague recognition.
‘Who?’ he asked in alarm.
‘Yossarian, sir.’
‘Yossarian?’
‘Yes, sir. Yossarian.
He’s in a very bad way, sir.
I’m afraid he won’t be able to suffer much longer without doing something desperate.’
‘Is that a fact, Chaplain?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.’
The colonel thought about it in heavy silence for a few moments.
‘Tell him to trust in God,’ he advised finally.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the chaplain.
‘I will.’
Corporal Whitcomb The late-August morning sun was hot and steamy, and there was no breeze on the balcony.
The chaplain moved slowly. He was downcast and burdened with self-reproach when he stepped without noise from the colonel’s office on his rubber-soled and rubber-heeled brown shoes.
He hated himself for what he construed to be his own cowardice.
He had intended to take a much stronger stand with Colonel Cathcart on the matter of the sixty missions, to speak out with courage, logic and eloquence on a subject about which he had begun to feel very deeply.
Instead he had failed miserably, had choked up once again in the face of opposition from a stronger personality.
It was a familiar, ignominious experience, and his opinion of himself was low.