飄塵
試著告訴讀者，生活是多樣的。每一個活著的人，在多元化的人生時空裏， 扮演著某種角色，向著不同的方向展現著自己的千姿百態，書寫著與眾不同的生 命華章。
過了片刻，當他發現科恩中校那矮胖的、單色的身影正無精打采地急匆匆地快步登上黃色石塊砌成的寬闊的弧形樓梯向他走過來時，他更無語了。科恩中校從下麵那個高大、破敗的門廳裏走上來。門廳高高的黑色大理石牆壁上滿是裂痕，圓形地麵上的磚也已破裂，積滿汙垢。隨軍牧師雖害怕卡思卡特上校，但更怕科恩中校。這個皮膚黝黑的中年中校戴著一副寒氣逼人的無邊眼鏡，總是不停地張開手用指尖敏感地摸摸他那個凸凹不平的、像個圓形大屋頂似的光腦袋。他不喜歡牧師，常常對他不禮貌。他用粗率無禮、冷嘲熱諷的言詞和洞悉一切、似笑非笑的目光使牧師常處於一種恐懼狀態，除了偶爾刹那間的目光接觸，牧師從沒有足夠的勇氣去正視中校片刻。由於牧師在中校麵前總是戰戰兢兢、低頭哈腰，因此他的目光總是不可避免地落在科恩中校的腰部，科恩中校的襯衫下擺從凹陷下去的皮帶裏皺巴地從腰間鼓出來，像隻垂掛的氣球，使他的腰部顯得臃腫、邋遢，看上去比中等身材的實際身高要矮上幾英寸。科恩中校是個不修邊幅、傲慢無禮的人，皮膚油光光的，幾道又深又粗的皺紋幾乎一直從鼻子下延伸到灰暗的兩頰下的垂肉和似刀削的方下巴之間。他臉色陰沉，與牧師在樓梯上走近擦肩而過時，朝著牧師掃上一眼，象是陌生人。
“你好，神父，”他用平調說，連看都沒看牧師一眼。 “過得還好嗎？”
“早晨好，長官，”牧師答道，他明白地看出來科恩中校隻不過是要他回問一聲好。
科恩中校沒有放慢腳步，繼續朝樓梯上方走，牧師真想再次提醒他，他不是天主教教徒而是再洗禮派教徒，因此沒有必要叫他神父，而且這樣稱呼也不正確，但他忍住了。他幾乎可以肯定科恩中校是記得這一點的，他帶著一種如此無動於衷的無知神情叫他神父隻不過是他嘲弄他的另一種方法，因為他隻是一名再洗禮派教徒。
科恩中校幾乎已經走過去了，突然又冷不防地停了下來，轉過身一陣風似地朝牧師衝過來，眼裏露出憤怒、懷疑的目光。牧師嚇呆了。
“你拿著那隻梅子番茄做什麽，牧師？”科恩中校態度粗暴地問道。 牧師驚訝地低頭看了看手裏那隻卡思卡特上校叫他拿的梅子番茄。
“我是在卡思卡特上校辦公室裏拿的，長官，”他費了很大勁才回答出來。
“上校知道你拿嗎？” “知道，長官。是他送給我的。”
“哦，既是這樣，我想那就沒關係了，”科恩中校說，態度緩和了下來。他毫無熱情地笑了笑，一麵用大拇指把皺巴巴的襯衫下擺重又塞進褲子裏去。他兩隻眼睛閃爍著刺人的光，流露出一種暗自得意的惡作劇的神色。
“卡思卡特上校召你去幹什麽，神父？”他突然問。
牧師結結巴巴，一時不知該如何回答。“我並不認為我應該”
“做禱告給《星期六晚郵報》的編輯們看？”
牧師差點笑出來。“是的，長官。”
科恩中校為自己的直覺感到高興。他輕蔑地大笑起來。“你知道，我擔心他一看到這個星期的《星期六晚郵報》，就會覺得這是多麽荒謬。我希望你成功地向他表明了這是一個多麽糟糕的主意。”
“他已經決定不這麽幹了，長官。”
“那就好。我很高興你使他確信《星期六晚郵報》的編輯們不可能為了宣傳一個不出名的上校而重複發表同樣的故事。在野外過得怎麽樣，神父？還能應付吧？”
“能，長官。沒什麽問題。” “很好。我很高興聽到你說沒問題。如果你需要點什麽讓自己過得舒服些，就告訴我們。我們大家都想讓你在野外過得愉快。”
“謝謝你，長官。我會的。”
從下麵門廳傳來一陣越來越大的喧鬧聲。快到吃午餐的時間了，最先到的人正走進大隊部的食堂。士兵和軍官分別進入了不同的餐廳，它們設在那個具有古代建築風格的圓形大廳的四周。科恩中校收住了微笑。 “你前兩天曾在這兒和我們共進過午餐，對嗎，神父？”他意味深長地問道。
“是的，長官。是前天。”
“我想也是前天，”科恩中校說，然後停了一下，讓牧師慢慢領會他的意思。“那麽，慢慢來，神父。你下次再到這兒來吃飯的時候再見。”
“謝謝長官。”
軍官餐廳和士兵餐廳各有五個，牧師不清楚那天他被安排在哪個餐廳吃的午餐，因為科恩中校為他製定的輪流就餐製度十分複雜，而他又把記錄本遺忘在帳篷裏了。隨軍牧師是唯一一位隸屬於大隊部編製的軍官，不住在那幢破舊的、紅石頭砌的大隊指揮部大樓裏的，也不住在大樓四周那些獨立的、較小的衛星式建築物裏。牧師住在大約四英裏外的介於軍官俱樂部和四個中隊營區中第一個中隊營區之間的一片林間空地上。這四個中隊的營區排成一線，從大隊部所在地一直延伸到很遠的地方。牧師獨自一人住在一頂寬大的方形帳篷裏，那是他的辦公室。夜晚，從軍官俱樂部那邊傳來的狂歡聲常常使這位過著半是被迫，半是自願的流放生活的隨軍牧師躺在帆布行軍床上翻來覆去難以入眠。偶爾，他吃幾片藥性溫和的藥丸助他入睡，可那些藥丸對他沒有什麽作用，而且事後他還會內疚好幾天。 唯一和隨軍牧師一起住在林間空地上的是他的助手惠特科姆下士。惠特科姆下士是個無神論者、也是個心懷不滿的部下，因為他覺得他做隨軍牧師的工作能比牧師本人做得好得多，因此他把自己看做是被剝奪了基本權利的，社會不公正現象的受害者。他住在一頂同牧師的帳篷一樣寬敞的方形帳篷裏。自從有一次他發現自己做了錯事牧師竟沒有懲罰他之後，他便公開地對牧師采取粗暴、蔑視的態度。空地上的兩頂帳敞間至多不過四五英尺。 是科恩中校為牧師安排了這種生活方式。科恩中校認為，有一條很好的理由讓隨軍牧師住在大隊部大樓之外，那就是，牧師像他的大多數教徒那樣，住在帳篷裏能使他與教徒之間保持更密切的聯係。另一條重要的理由是，讓牧師一天到晚呆在大隊部周圍，會使其他軍官感到不自在。他們都讚同與上帝保持聯係，但讓上帝一天二十四小時都呆在身邊就另當別論了。總之，正如科恩中校向那個極度緊張不安、眼珠突出的大隊作戰參謀丹比少校所描繪的那樣，牧師的日子過得很輕鬆，他隻要聽聽別人訴說一下煩惱，舉行葬禮，看望一下臥床不起的傷病員和主持宗教儀式。科恩中校指出，現在已不再有多少死人需要他去舉行葬禮，因為德國戰鬥機的反擊基本上已經停止，還因為，據他估計，將近百分之九十的現有陣亡人員不是死在敵軍防線之後就是在雲層中失蹤，因此牧師根本用不著去處理屍體。再說，主持宗教儀式也不是什麽太勞累的事，因為每周隻在大隊部大樓裏舉行一次，而且參加的人也很少。 事實上，牧師正努力使自己喜歡在這片林間空地上生活。人們為他和惠特科姆下士兩人提供了一切便利措施，因此他倆誰也不可能以生活不便為依據，要求允許他們回到大隊部大樓裏去。牧師輪流到八個飛行中隊的食堂去和不同的人吃早餐、中餐和晚餐，每五餐最後一餐去大隊部的士兵食堂吃，每十餐最後一餐去那兒的軍官食堂吃。還在威斯康星州家中的時候，牧師非常喜歡栽培花木。每當他陷入沉思，想起那些小樹的低矮、多刺的樹枝和幾乎把他圍起來的、齊腰深的野草和灌木叢的時候，一種土地肥沃、果實累累的美好印象便會湧上心頭。春天，他很想在帳篷四周種上窄窄的一溜秋海棠和百日草，但又害怕惠特科姆下士生氣而未種。牧師非常欣賞自己住的這個青枝綠葉的環境所具有的幽靜和與世隔絕的氣氛，以及生活在那兒所引起的種種遐想和幽思。現在來找他傾吐苦惱的人比以前少多了，他對此也表示幾分感謝，牧師不善與人相處，與人談話也不大自在。他很想念妻子和三個幼小的孩子，他的妻子也想念他。 除了牧師相信上帝這一點之外，惠特科姆下上最討厭牧師的就是他缺乏主動性，做事縮手縮腳。惠特科姆下士認為，這麽少的人參加宗教儀式令人傷心地，反映了牧師本人所處的地位。為點燃偉大的精神複興運動之火，他把自己想象成這一運動的締造者，他頭腦裏狂熱地想出種種具有挑戰性的新主意：午餐盒飯、教堂聯歡會、給戰鬥傷亡人員家屬的通函、信件審查、賓戈賭博遊戲。 但牧師阻止了他。惠特科姆下士對牧師的管束很惱火，因為他發現到處都有改進的餘地。他斷定，正是像牧師這佯的人才使宗教有了那麽一個壞名聲，使他倆淪為被社會遺棄的流浪漢。和牧師不同的是，惠特科姆下士極為討厭在林中空地上的隱居生活。等他讓牧師免職後，他想做的第一件事就是搬回到大隊部大樓裏去，過上熱熱鬧鬧的生活。
當牧師離開科恩中校，開車回到那塊空地的時候，惠特科姆下士正站在外麵悶熱的薄霧裏，用密謀似的聲調同一個圓臉的陌生人談著什麽。那個陌生人穿著一件栗色的燈芯絨浴衣和灰色的法蘭絨睡衣。牧師認出那浴衣和睡衣是醫院的統一服裝。那兩個人誰也沒有以任何形式跟他打招呼。那陌生人的齒齦被塗成了紫色； 他的燈芯絨浴衣後麵有一幅畫，畫著一架B-25轟炸機正穿過桔紅色的高射炮火，浴衣的前麵畫上了整整齊齊的六排小炸彈，表示飛滿了六十次戰鬥任務。牧師被這兩幅圖深深吸引住了，他停住腳步目不轉睛地看著。那兩個人停止了談話，默不作聲地等著他走開。 牧師匆匆走進他的帳篷。他聽見，或者說他想象中聽見他們在竊笑。 過了一會兒，惠特科姆下士走進來問道：“情況怎麽樣？”
“沒什麽新聞，”牧師回答說，眼睛看著其他地方。“剛才有人來這兒找我嗎？”
“還不是那個怪人尤塞瑞恩。他真是個惹事生非的家夥，不是嗎？”
“我倒不那麽肯定他是個怪人，”牧師評論說。
“說得對，你和他站在一邊，”惠特科姆下士用受到傷害的口氣說，然後跺著腳走了出去。
牧師難以相信惠特科姆下士又被惹火，並真的走出去了。剛等他想弄明白，惠特科姆下士又走了進來。 “你總是支持別人，”惠特科姆下士指責他說，“可你不支持你手下的人。這是你的一個過錯。”
“我並不想支持他，”牧師抱歉地說，“我隻是表明一下態度。”
“卡思卡特上校想要幹什麽？”
“不是什麽重要的事。他隻是想商量一下每次飛行任務前是否有可能在簡令下達室裏做一下禱告。” “好吧，不告訴我就算了。”惠特科姆下士怒氣衝衝地說完，又走了出去。
牧師非常難過。他想方設法不去傷害惠特科姆下士的感情，但無論他考慮得多麽周到，卻總好像是在傷害惠特科姆下士的感情。他懊惱地向下凝視著，發現科恩中校硬派來替他打掃帳篷、看管物品的勤務兵又忘了給他擦皮鞋。
惠特科姆下士又回來了。“你從來不把重要的消息告訴我，”他刻薄地抱怨說，“你不信任你手下的人。這是你的又一個過錯。”
“不對，我信任你，”牧師內疚地向他保證說，“我非常非常地信任你。”
“那麽，那些信怎麽辦？”
“不發，現在不發，”牧師畏畏縮縮地懇求說，“別提信的事。請別再提這件事了；如果我改變了主意，我會告訴你的。”
惠特科姆下士大發雷霆。“是這樣嗎？好吧，你倒輕鬆，往那兒一坐，搖搖頭說不行，而所有的工作全得由我去做。你沒看見外麵那個浴衣上畫上了那些圖畫的家夥嗎？”
“他來這兒是找我的嗎？”
“不是，”惠特科姆下士說，然後走了出去。
帳篷裏悶熱、潮濕，牧師覺得自己渾身濕漉漉的。他像個極不情願的偷聽者，聽著帳篷外麵的人壓低嗓門竊竊私語，聲音沉悶低沉，嗡嗡的聽不清楚。他有氣無力地坐在那張作為辦公桌用的搖搖晃晃的正方形橋牌桌前，雙唇緊閉，兩眼露出茫然若失的神色，臉色臘黃。他臉上長著的好幾塊很小的粉刺窩，已有不少年頭了，上麵的顏色和表麵紋理就像完整的杏仁殼。他絞盡腦汁想理出一些頭緒，找到惠特科姆下士怨恨他的根源。他無論如何想不出是什麽，於是，他確信自己對他犯下了不可饒恕的錯誤。如果說惠特科姆下士的那種長期的憤恨是由於牧師拒絕了他的賓戈賭博遊戲和給在戰鬥中陣亡的將士家屬寄通函的主意而產生的，這似乎令人難以置信。牧師垂頭喪氣，自認自己無能。幾個星期以來，他一直打算和惠特科姆下士開誠布公地談一次，以便弄清到底是什麽使他煩惱，但現在他對自己有可能弄清的事情感到害臊了。 帳篷外麵，惠特科姆下士在竊笑，另一個人也在抿著嘴輕聲地笑。有那麽幾秒鍾，牧師頭腦裏迷迷糊糊的，突然產生了一種神秘、離奇的感覺，仿佛似曾相識。他竭力想抓牢並留住這一印象，以便預測，也許甚至能控製下麵將會發生的事情，但正如他事先已知道的那樣，這一靈感沒給他留下什麽印象便消失了。這種在錯覺與現實之間反複微妙出現的混亂是典型的錯構症；牧師被這種症狀迷住了，他對此還頗有了解，比如說，他知道這種症狀叫做錯構症，他對這種推論性的視覺現象很感興趣。 有時，牧師突然感到驚慌失措，那些伴隨他度過了幾乎大半生的事物、想法，甚至人莫名其妙地呈現出一種他以前從未見過的、陌生而又反常的樣子，這種樣子使這些事物、想法或人顯得似乎是完全陌生的。他腦裏幾乎閃過一些十分清晰的景象，他在其中幾乎見過絕對真理。在斯諾登的葬禮上有個赤條條的人在樹上，這個插曲使他迷惑不解，因為當時他沒有以前在斯諾登的葬禮上看見一個赤條條的人在樹上時曾有過的那種感覺。因為那個幽靈不是以一種陌生的外表出現在他麵前的熟悉的人或事。因為牧師確確實實看見了他。 一輛吉普車在帳篷外麵用回火發動起來，然後轟轟地開走了。 在斯諾登葬禮上看見的那個赤條條地呆在樹上的人僅僅是個幻覺呢？還是一件真實的事？牧師一想到這個問題就直打哆嗦。他極想把這個秘密告訴尤塞瑞恩，然而每當他想起那件事的時候，他就決定不再去回想它了，盡管此刻他的確在回憶這件事，但他不能肯定他以前是否真的想到過這件事。
惠特科姆下士喜眉笑眼地閑蕩著走了進來，一隻胳膊肘很不禮貌地靠在牧師住的帳篷的中央支柱上。 “你知道那個穿紅浴衣的家夥是誰嗎？”他虛張聲勢地問，“那是鼻梁骨折了的刑事調查部的工作人員。他是因公事從醫院到這兒來的。他正在進行一項調查。”
牧師飛快地揚起雙眼，露出一副討好、同情的神情。“我希望你沒遇到什麽麻煩。有什麽事需要我幫忙的嗎？”
“不是，我沒有什麽麻煩，”惠特科姆下士答道，笑得合不攏嘴。 “是你有麻煩啦。由於你在所有那些你一直在簽華盛頓·歐文的名字的信上簽上了華盛頓·歐文的名字，他們準備對你采取嚴厲的措施。你覺得這事怎麽樣？”
“我從沒有在任何信上簽過華盛頓·歐文的名字，”牧師說。
“你不必對我說謊，”惠特科姆下士回答說，“我不是你要說服的人。”
“但是我沒在說謊。” “你在不在說謊不關我的事。他們還因為你截取巨牛少校的信函要懲辦你呢。他的信函裏有許多東西都是機密情報。”
“什麽信函？”牧師越來越氣憤，滿肚子冤屈地問道，“我連看都沒看到過巨牛少校的任何信函。” “你用不著對我說謊，”惠特科姆下士回答說，“我不是你要說服的人。”
“但是我沒在說謊！”牧師抗議說。
“我不明白你幹嗎非得向我喊叫，”惠特科姆下士帶著受到傷害的表情反擊說。他離開了帳篷中央的那根柱子，朝牧師搖晃著一根手指表示強調。“我剛才幫了你這一輩子最大的忙，而你甚至沒有意識到。每次他企圖向上級打你的小報告時，醫院裏總有人把那些具體內容刪除掉。幾個星期來，他發了瘋似地想告發你。我甚至連看都沒看就在他的信上簽上“已經檢查”的字樣，並簽上保密檢查員的名字。那樣將會為你在刑事調查部總部裏留下個非常好的印象。讓他們知道我們絲毫不害怕把有關你的全部事實真相公布於眾。”
牧師頭腦裏一團亂麻，被搞得暈頭轉向。“可是沒有人授權讓你去檢查信件啊，是嗎？”
“當然沒有，”惠特科姆下士回答說，“隻有軍官才有權做那種工作。我是用你的名義去檢查的。” “但是我也沒被授權去檢查信件啊，是吧？”
“我也替你想到那一點了，”惠特科姆下士寬慰他說，“我代你簽的是其他人的名字。”
“這不是偽造嗎？” “哦，這也不必擔心。唯一可能控告你犯偽造罪的人就是那個你偽造他的簽名的人，於是我為你著想挑了一個死人。我用了華盛頓·歐文的名字。”惠特科姆下士仔細打量著牧師的臉，想看看有沒有反對的跡象，然後隱隱帶著諷刺的口吻輕快而自信地說下去。 “我的腦筋轉得快吧，不是嗎？”
“我不知道。”牧師聲音顫抖地輕輕哀歎了一聲，又痛苦又不明白，蹩眉皺眼，一副怪相。“我想我沒弄明白你說的這一切。如果你簽的是華盛頓·歐文的名字而不是我的名字，那怎麽會為我留個好印象呢？”
“因為他們確信你就是華盛頓·歐文。你明白嗎？他們會知道那就是你。”
“但是我們不正是要讓他們不相信那一點嗎？這樣不是幫助他們相信了嗎？”
“要是我早知道你對這事會這麽呆板教條，我壓根兒就不會試著去幫你了，”惠特科姆下士氣憤地說。然後他走了出去。很快，他又走了進來。“我剛才幫了你這輩子中最大的一個忙，而你甚至不知道。你不知道怎樣表示感謝。這是你的又一個過錯。”
“我很抱歉，”牧師後悔地道歉說，“我真的很抱歉。你跟我說的那一切把我徹底嚇糊塗了，我也搞不清自己在說些什麽。我真的十分感激你。”
“那麽讓我寄那些通函怎麽樣？”惠特科姆下士立即要求說，“我可以開始寫初稿嗎？”
牧師驚愕得嘴都合不攏了。“不，不，”他呻吟著說，“現在不要。”
惠特科姆下士被激怒了。“我是你最好的朋友，而你卻不知道，”他咄咄逼人地說，然後走出了牧師的帳篷。他又走了進來。“我在支持你，你甚至不知道。你不知道你遇到多大的麻煩了嗎？刑事調查部的那個人已經趕回醫院去寫一份新的報告，揭發你拿那隻番茄的事。”
“什麽番茄？”牧師眨著眼睛問。 “就是你剛回到這裏時藏在手裏的那隻紅色梅子番茄。這不是嗎！這隻番茄你直到這一刻還拿在手裏呢！” 牧師吃驚地鬆開了手，發現自己還拿著那隻從卡思卡特上校的辦公室裏得到的紅色梅子番茄。他趕忙把它放在牌桌上。
“我是從卡思卡特上校那兒弄到這隻番茄的，”他說，突然惑到自己的解釋聽起來是多麽荒唐可笑。“他非要讓我拿一隻。”
“你用不著對我說謊，”惠特科姆下士回答說，“你是不是從他那兒偷的不關我的事。” “偷的？”牧師驚詫地叫道，“我於嗎要偷一隻紅色梅子番茄？”
“這正是使我們兩人都迷惑不解的問題，”惠特科姆下士說，“那時，刑事調查部的那個人斷定你也許把什麽重要的秘密文件藏在裏麵了。”
牧師絕望了，在這重如山嶽的心理壓力下、他整個人都癱了。“我沒有什麽重要的秘密文件藏在裏麵，”他坦白地陳述道，“我開始甚至都不想要。喏，你可以拿去。你自己拿去看看吧。”
“我不要。”
“請把它拿走吧，”牧師懇求說，聲音低得幾乎聽不見。“我想擺脫它。”
“我不要，”惠特科姆下士氣衝衝地又說了一遍，怒容滿麵地走了出去、他內心裏卻高興無比，隻是忍著沒笑出來，因為他與刑事調查部的那個人結成了新的強大的聯盟，並且又一次成功地使牧師相信他真的生氣了。
可伶的惠特科姆，牧師歎息道，他為助手心情陰鬱而責備自己。他一聲不吭地坐在那裏，傻傻地陷入了沉思，滿懷期望地等待著惠特科姆下士走回來。當他聽見惠特科姆下士那高傲的步伐聲慢慢消逝在遠方時，他失望了。他接下來什麽事也不想做。他決定不用午餐了，從床腳櫃裏各拿出一塊銀河牌和魯絲寶貝牌巧克力糖吃了，喝了幾白水壺裏的溫水。他覺得自己像是被大霧籠罩，看不見一星半點的光，隨時有可能發生什麽事情。他擔心，一旦有人把他被懷疑成是華盛頓·歐文的消息匯報給卡思卡特上校，上校會怎麽想呢？然後又想到卡思卡特上校曾因他提過六十次飛行任務的事已經對他有看法了，他憂心忡忡。世界上竟有這麽多不幸的事，他思忖著，想到這件令人傷心的事情、他心情憂鬱地低下了頭。他對任何人的不幸都無能為力，尤其是對他自己的不幸更是如此。
第二十章 Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20: CORPORAL WHITCOMB
Summary
The chaplain lives in a clearing in the woods along with his assistant, Corporal Whitcomb. Whitcomb is an atheist and is openly rude and contemptuous to the chaplain. Colonel Korn had decided that the chaplain would live in the woods, not only because the chaplain would be in closer communication with the men, but also because it kept the chaplain far away from the headquarters.
The chaplain relishes the privacy and isolation of the woods. He is an introvert who does not mix freely and misses his wife and children back home. Whitcomb detests the seclusion of the woods. He tells the chaplain that he has been met by a C.I.D man who is conducting an investigation. According to the corporal, the C.I.D man suspects that the chaplain is the one responsible for signing Washington Irvingós name to letters, and also for intercepting Majorós correspondence. Whitcomb tells the unhappy chaplain to be on his guard.
Notes
After having had to face the over-bearing Cathcart, the chaplain now has to face the shocking news that he is a prime suspect in the "Washington Irving" case. Whitcomb, his assistant, is unsympathetic.
We are presented with a study of the chaplain as a recluse, a soft and sensitive person living in a brutal, hard world. He is pushed around by the officers. Colonel Korn treats him with disdain.
The second C.I.D man makes another appearance. There is also a reference to a naked man (Yossarian) in a tree at Snowdenós funeral. The chaplain comes across as something of an idealist trying to set wrongs right, but realizing that there is little he can do.
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.
He choked up even more a second later when he spied Colonel Korn's tubby monochrome figure trotting up the curved， wide， yellow stone staircase toward him in lackadaisical haste from the great dilapidated lobby below with its lofty walls of cracked dark marble and circular floor of cracked grimy tile. The chaplain was even more frightened of Colonel Korn than he was of Colonel Cathcart. The swarthy， middle-aged lieutenant colonel with the rimless， icy glasses and faceted， bald， domelike pate that he was always touching sensitively with the tips of his splayed fingers disliked the chaplain and was impolite to him frequently. He kept the chaplain in a constant state of terror with his curt， derisive tongue and his knowing， cynical eyes that the chaplain was never brave enough to meet for more than an accidental second. Inevitably， the chaplain's attention， as he cowered meekly before him， focused on Colonel Korn's midriff， where the shirttails bunching up from inside his sagging belt and ballooning down over his waist gave him an appearance of slovenly girth and made him seem inches shorter than his middle height. Colonel Korn was an untidy disdainful man with an oily skin and deep， hard lines running almost straight down from his nose between his crepuscular jowls and his square， clefted chin. His face was dour， and he glanced at the chaplain without recognition as the two drew close on the staircase and prepared to pass.
'Hiya， Father，' he said tonelessly without looking at the chaplain. 'How's it going？'
'Good morning， sir，' the chaplain replied， discerning wisely that Colonel Korn expected nothing more in the way of a response.
Colonel Korn was proceeding up the stairs without slackening his pace， and the chaplain resisted the temptation to remind him again that he was not a Catholic but an Anabaptist， and that it was therefore neither necessary nor correct to address him as Father. He was almost certain now that Colonel Korn remembered and that calling him Father with a look of such bland innocence was just another one of Colonel Korn's methods of taunting him because he was only an Anabaptist.
Colonel Korn halted without warning when he was almost by and came whirling back down upon the chaplain with a glare of infuriated suspicion. The chaplain was petrified.
'What are you doing with that plum tomato， Chaplain？' Colonel Korn demanded roughly.
The chaplain looked down his arm with surprise at the plum tomato Colonel Cathcart had invited him to take. 'I got it in Colonel Cathcart's office， sir，' he managed to reply.
'Does the colonel know you took it？'
'Yes， sir. He gave it to me.'
'Oh， in that case I guess it's okay，' Colonel Korn said， mollified. He smiled without warmth， jabbing the crumpled folds of his shirt back down inside his trousers with his thumbs. His eyes glinted keenly with a private and satisfying mischief. 'What did Colonel Cathcart want to see you about， Father？' he asked suddenly.
The chaplain was tongue-tied with indecision for a moment. 'I don't think I ought-'
'Saying prayers to the editors of The Saturday Evening Post？' The chaplain almost smiled. 'Yes， sir.' Colonel Korn was enchanted with his own intuition. He laughed disparagingly. 'You know， I was afraid he'd begin thinking about something so ridiculous as soon as he saw this week's Saturday Evening Post. I hope you succeeded in showing him what an atrocious idea it is.'
'He has decided against it， sir.'
'That's good. I'm glad you convinced him that the editors of The Saturday Evening Post were not likely to run that same story twice just to give some publicity to some obscure colonel. How are things in the wilderness， Father？ Are you able to manage out there？'
'Yes， sir. Everything is working out.'
'That's good. I'm happy to hear you have nothing to complain about. Let us know if you need anything to make you comfortable. We all want you to have a good time out there.'
'Thank you， sir. I will.' Noise of a growing stir rose from the lobby below. It was almost lunchtime， and the earliest arrivals were drifting into the headquarters mess halls， the enlisted men and officers separating into different dining halls on facing sides of the archaic rotunda. Colonel Korn stopped smiling.
'You had lunch with us here just a day or so ago， didn't you， Father？' he asked meaningfully.
'Yes， sir. The day before yesterday.'
'That's what I thought，' Colonel Korn said， and paused to let his point sink in. 'Well， take it easy， Father. I'll see you around when it's time for you to eat here again.'
'Thank you， sir.' The chaplain was not certain at which of the five officers' and five enlisted men's mess halls he was scheduled to have lunch that day， for the system of rotation worked out for him by Colonel Korn was complicated， and he had forgotten his records back in his tent. The chaplain was the only officer attached to Group Headquarters who did not reside in the moldering red-stone Group Headquarters building itself or in any of the smaller satellite structures that rose about the grounds in disjuncted relationship. The chaplain lived in a clearing in the woods about four miles away between the officers' club and the first of the four squadron areas that stretched away from Group Headquarters in a distant line. The chaplain lived alone in a spacious， square tent that was also his office. Sounds of revelry traveled to him at night from the officers' club and kept him awake often as he turned and tossed on his cot in passive， half-voluntary exile. He was not able to gauge the effect of the mild pills he took occasionally to help him sleep and felt guilty about it for days afterward.
The only one who lived with the chaplain in his clearing in the woods was Corporal Whitcomb， his assistant. Corporal Whitcomb， an atheist， was a disgruntled subordinate who felt he could do the chaplain's job much better than the chaplain was doing it and viewed himself， therefore， as an underprivileged victim of social inequity. He lived in a tent of his own as spacious and square as the chaplain's. He was openly rude and contemptuous to the chaplain once he discovered that the chaplain would let him get away with it. The borders of the two tents in the clearing stood no more than four or five feet apart.
It was Colonel Korn who had mapped out this way of life for the chaplain. One good reason for making the chaplain live outside the Group Headquarters building was Colonel Korn's theory that dwelling in a tent as most of his parishioners did would bring him into closer communication with them. Another good reason was the fact that having the chaplain around Headquarters all the time made the other officers uncomfortable. It was one thing to maintain liaison with the Lord， and they were all in favor of that； it was something else， though， to have Him hanging around twenty-four hours a day. All in all， as Colonel Korn described it to Major Danby， the jittery and goggle-eyed group operations officer， the chaplain had it pretty soft； he had little more to do than listen to the troubles of others， bury the dead， visit the bedridden and conduct religious services. And there were not so many dead for him to bury any more， Colonel Korn pointed out， since opposition from German fighter planes had virtually ceased and since close to ninety per cent of what fatalities there still were， he estimated， perished behind the enemy lines or disappeared inside the clouds， where the chaplain had nothing to do with disposing of the remains. The religious services were certainly no great strain， either， since they were conducted only once a week at the Group Headquarters building and were attended by very few of the men.
Actually， the chaplain was learning to love it in his clearing in the woods. Both he and Corporal Whitcomb had been provided with every convenience so that neither might ever plead discomfort as a basis for seeking permission to return to the Headquarters building. The chaplain rotated his breakfasts， lunches and dinners in separate sets among the eight squadron mess halls and ate every fifth meal in the enlisted men's mess at Group Headquarters and every tenth meal at the officers' mess there. Back home in Wisconsin the chaplain had been very fond of gardening， and his heart welled with a glorious impression of fertility and fruition each time he contemplated the low， prickly boughs of the stunted trees and the waist-high weeds and thickets by which he was almost walled in. In the spring he had longed to plant begonias and zinnias in a narrow bed around his tent but had been deterred by his fear of Corporal Whitcomb's rancor. The chaplain relished the privacy and isolation of his verdant surroundings and the reverie and meditation that living there fostered. Fewer people came to him with their troubles than formerly， and he allowed himself a measure of gratitude for that too. The chaplain did not mix freely and was not comfortable in conversation. He missed his wife and his three small children， and she missed him.
What displeased Corporal Whitcomb most about the chaplain， apart from the fact that the chaplain believed in God， was his lack of initiative and aggressiveness. Corporal Whitcomb regarded the low attendance at religious services as a sad reflection of his own status. His mind germinated feverishly with challenging new ideas for sparking the great spiritual revival of which he dreamed himself the architect-box lunches， church socials， form letters to the families of men killed and injured in combat， censorship， Bingo. But the chaplain blocked him. Corporal Whitcomb bridled with vexation beneath the chaplain's restraint， for he spied room for improvement everywhere. It was people like the chaplain， he concluded， who were responsible for giving religion such a bad name and making pariahs out of them both. Unlike the chaplain， Corporal Whitcomb detested the seclusion of the clearing in the woods. One of the first things he intended to do after he deposed the chaplain was move back into the Group Headquarters building， where he could be right in the thick of things.
When the chaplain drove back into the clearing after leaving Colonel Korn， Corporal Whitcomb was outside in the muggy haze talking in conspiratorial tones to a strange chubby man in a maroon corduroy bathrobe and gray flannel pajamas. The chaplain recognized the bathrobe and pajamas as official hospital attire. Neither of the two men gave him any sign of recognition. The stranger's gums had been painted purple； his corduroy bathrobe was decorated in back with a picture of a B-25 nosing through orange bursts of flak and in front with six neat rows of tiny bombs signifying sixty combat missions flown. The chaplain was so struck by the sight that he stopped to stare. Both men broke off their conversation and waited in stony silence for him to go. The chaplain hurried inside his tent. He heard， or imagined he heard， them tittering.
Corporal Whitcomb walked in a moment later and demanded， 'What's doing？'
'There isn't anything new，' the chaplain replied with averted eyes. 'Was anyone here to see me？'
'Just that crackpot Yossarian again. He's a real troublemaker， isn't he？'
'I'm not so sure he's a crackpot，' the chaplain observed.
'That's right， take his part，' said Corporal Whitcomb in an injured tone， and stamped out.
The chaplain could not believe that Corporal Whitcomb was offended again and had really walked out. As soon as he did realize it， Corporal Whitcomb walked back in.
'You always side with other people，' Corporal Whitcomb accused. 'You don't back up your men. That's one of the things that's wrong with you.'
'I didn't intend to side with him，' the chaplain apologized. 'I was just making a statement.'
'What did Colonel Cathcart want？'
'It wasn't anything important. He just wanted to discuss the possibility of saying prayers in the briefing room before each mission.'
'All right， don't tell me，' Corporal Whitcomb snapped and walked out again.
The chaplain felt terrible. No matter how considerate he tried to be， it seemed he always managed to hurt Corporal Whitcomb's feelings. He gazed down remorsefully and saw that the orderly forced upon him by Colonel Korn to keep his tent clean and attend to his belongings had neglected to shine his shoes again.
Corporal Whitcomb came back in. 'You never trust me with information，' he whined truculently. 'You don't have confidence in your men. That's another one of the things that's wrong with you.'
'Yes， I do，' the chaplain assured him guiltily. 'I have lots of confidence in you.'
'Then how about those letters？'
'No， not now，' the chaplain pleaded， cringing. 'Not the letters. Please don't bring that up again. I'll let you know if I have a change of mind.' Corporal Whitcomb looked furious. 'Is that so？ Well， it's all right for you to just sit there and shake your head while I do all the work. Didn't you see the guy outside with all those pictures painted on his bathrobe？'
'Is he here to see me？'
'No，' Corporal Whitcomb said， and walked out.
It was hot and humid inside the tent， and the chaplain felt himself turning damp. He listened like an unwilling eavesdropper to the muffled， indistinguishable drone of the lowered voices outside. As he sat inertly at the rickety bridge table that served as a desk， his lips were closed， his eyes were blank， and his face， with its pale ochre hue and ancient， confined clusters of minute acne pits， had the color and texture of an uncracked almond shell. He racked his memory for some clue to the origin of Corporal Whitcomb's bitterness toward him. In some way he was unable to fathom， he was convinced he had done him some unforgivable wrong. It seemed incredible that such lasting ire as Corporal Whitcomb's could have stemmed from his rejection of Bingo or the form letters home to the families of the men killed in combat. The chaplain was despondent with an acceptance of his own ineptitude. He had intended for some weeks to have a heart-to-heart talk with Corporal Whitcomb in order to find out what was bothering him， but was already ashamed of what he might find out.
Outside the tent， Corporal Whitcomb snickered. The other man chuckled. For a few precarious seconds， the chaplain tingled with a weird， occult sensation of having experienced the identical situation before in some prior time or existence. He endeavored to trap and nourish the impression in order to predict， and perhaps even control， what incident would occur next， but the afatus melted away unproductively， as he had known beforehand it would. Dé；jà； vu. The subtle， recurring confusion between illusion and reality that was characteristic of paramnesia fascinated the chaplain， and he knew a number of things about it. He knew， for example， that it was called paramnesia， and he was interested as well in such corollary optical phenomena as jamais vu， never seen， and presque vu， almost seen. There were terrifying， sudden moments when objects， concepts and even people that the chaplain had lived with almost all his life inexplicably took on an unfamiliar and irregular aspect that he had never seen before and which made them totally strange： jamais vu. And there were other moments when he almost saw absolute truth in brilliant flashes of clarity that almost came to him： presque vu. The episode of the naked man in the tree at Snowden's funeral mystified him thoroughly. It was not dé；jà； vu， for at the time he had experienced no sensation of ever having seen a naked man in a tree at Snowden's funeral before. It was not jamais vu， since the apparition was not of someone， or something， familiar appearing to him in an unfamiliar guise. And it was certainly not presque vu， for the chaplain did see him.
A jeep started up with a backfire directly outside and roared away. Had the naked man in the tree at Snowden's funeral been merely a hallucination？ Or had it been a true revelation？ The chaplain trembled at the mere idea. He wanted desperately to confide in Yossarian， but each time he thought about the occurrence he decided not to think about it any further， although now that he did think about it he could not be sure that he ever really had thought about it.
Corporal Whitcomb sauntered back in wearing a shiny new smirk and leaned his elbow impertinently against the center pole of the chaplain's tent.
'Do you know who that guy in the red bathrobe was？' he asked boastfully. 'That was a C.I.D. man with a fractured nose. He came down here from the hospital on official business. He's conducting an investigation.' The chaplain raised his eyes quickly in obsequious commiseration. 'I hope you're not in any trouble. Is there anything I can do？'
'No， I'm not in any trouble，' Corporal Whitcomb replied with a grin. 'You are. They're going to crack down on you for signing Washington Irving's name to all those letters you've been signing Washington Irving's name to. How do you like that？'
'I haven't been signing Washington Irving's name to any letters，' said the chaplain.
'You don't have to lie to me，' Corporal Whitcomb answered. 'I'm not the one you have to convince.'
'But I'm not lying.'
'I don't care whether you're lying or not. They're going to get you for intercepting Major Major's correspondence， too. A lot of that stuff is classified information.'
'What correspondence？' asked the chaplain plaintively in rising exasperation. 'I've never even seen any of Major Major's correspondence.'
'You don't have to lie to me，' Corporal Whitcomb replied. 'I'm not the one you have to convince.'
'But I'm not lying！' protested the chaplain.
'I don't see why you have to shout at me，' Corporal Whitcomb retorted with an injured look. He came away from the center pole and shook his finger at the chaplain for emphasis. 'I just did you the biggest favor anybody ever did you in your whole life， and you don't even realize it. Every time he tries to report you to his superiors， somebody up at the hospital censors out the details. He's been going batty for weeks trying to turn you in. I just put a censor's okay on his letter without even reading it. That will make a very good impression for you up at C.I.D. headquarters. It will let them know that we're not the least bit afraid to have the whole truth about you come out.' The chaplain was reeling with confusion. 'But you aren't authorized to censor letters， are you？'
'Of course not，' Corporal Whitcomb answered. 'Only officers are ever authorized to do that. I censored it in your name.'
'But I'm not authorized to censor letters either. Am I？'
'I took care of that for you， too，' Corporal Whitcomb assured him. 'I signed somebody else's name for you.'
'Isn't that forgery？'
'Oh， don't worry about that either. The only one who might complain in a case of forgery is the person whose name you forged， and I looked out for your interests by picking a dead man. I used Washington Irving's name.' Corporal Whitcomb scrutinized the chaplain's face closely for some sign of rebellion and then breezed ahead confidently with concealed irony. 'That was pretty quick thinking on my part， wasn't it？'
'I don't know，' the chaplain wailed softly in a quavering voice， squinting with grotesque contortions of anguish and incomprehension. 'I don't think I understand all you've been telling me. How will it make a good impression for me if you signed Washington Irving's name instead of my own？'
'Because they're convinced that you are Washington Irving. Don't you see？ They'll know it was you.'
'But isn't that the very belief we want to dispel？ Won't this help them prove it？'
'If I thought you were going to be so stuffy about it， I wouldn't even have tried to help，' Corporal Whitcomb declared indignantly， and walked out. A second later he walked back in. 'I just did you the biggest favor anybody ever did you in your whole life and you don't even know it. You don't know how to show your appreciation. That's another one of the things that's wrong with you.'
'I'm sorry，' the chaplain apologized contritely. 'I really am sorry. It's just that I'm so completely stunned by all you're telling me that I don't even realize what I'm saying. I'm really very grateful to you.'
'Then how about letting me send out those form letters？' Corporal Whitcomb demanded immediately. 'Can I begin working on the first drafts？' The chaplain's jaw dropped in astonishment. 'No， no，' he groaned. 'Not now.' Corporal Whitcomb was incensed. 'I'm the best friend you've got and you don't even know it，' he asserted belligerently， and walked out of the chaplain's tent. He walked back in. 'I'm on your side and you don't even realize it. Don't you know what serious trouble you're in？ That C.I.D. man has gone rushing back to the hospital to write a brand-new report on you about that tomato.'
'What tomato？' the chaplain asked， blinking.
'The plum tomato you were hiding in your hand when you first showed up here. There it is. The tomato you're still holding in your hand right this very minute！' The captain unclenched his fingers with surprise and saw that he was still holding the plum tomato he had obtained in Colonel Cathcart's office. He set it down quickly on the bridge table. 'I got this tomato from Colonel Cathcart，' he said， and was struck by how ludicrous his explanation sounded. 'He insisted I take it.'
'You don't have to lie to me，' Corporal Whitcomb answered. 'I don't care whether you stole it from him or not.'
'Stole it？' the chaplain exclaimed with amazement. 'Why should I want to steal a plum tomato？'
'That's exactly what had us both stumped，' said Corporal Whitcomb. 'And then the C.I.D. man figured out you might have some important secret papers hidden away inside it.' The chaplain sagged limply beneath the mountainous weight of his despair. 'I don't have any important secret papers hidden away inside it，' he stated simply. 'I didn't even want it to begin with. Here， you can have it and see for yourself.'
'I don't want it.'
'Please take it away，' the chaplain pleaded in a voice that was barely audible. 'I want to be rid of it.'
'I don't want it，' Corporal Whitcomb snapped again， and stalked out with an angry face， suppressing a smile of great jubilation at having forged a powerful new alliance with the C.I.D. man and at having succeeded again in convincing the chaplain that he was really displeased.
Poor Whitcomb， sighed the chaplain， and blamed himself for his assistant's malaise. He sat mutely in a ponderous， stultifying melancholy， waiting expectantly for Corporal Whitcomb to walk back in. He was disappointed as he heard the peremptory crunch of Corporal Whitcomb's footsteps recede into silence. There was nothing he wanted to do next. He decided to pass up lunch for a Milky Way and a Baby Ruth from his foot locker and a few swallows of luke-warm water from his canteen. He felt himself surrounded by dense， overwhelming fogs of possibilities in which he could perceive no glimmer of light. He dreaded what Colonel Cathcart would think when the news that he was suspected of being Washington Irving was brought to him， then fell to fretting over what Colonel Cathcart was already thinking about him for even having broached the subject of sixty missions. There was so much unhappiness in the world， he reflected， bowing his head dismally beneath the tragic thought， and there was nothing he could do about anybody's， least of all his own.
