Chapter 22 20. Corporal Whitcomb

The morning sun in late August was scorchingly hot, making the ground steamy, and there was no wind on the balcony.The chaplain walked slowly.When he came quietly out of the colonel's office in his brown rubber-soled rubber-heeled shoes, he was dejected and berating himself.He hated himself for being timid.He had intended to take a tougher line with Colonel Cathcart on the sixty missions, to speak boldly, methodically, and eloquently on an issue that had begun to concern him deeply.But the fact is the opposite, under the objection of a tougher person, he failed miserably, once again at a loss for words.It was a familiar and dishonorable experience, and he really despised himself.

A moment later, when he spotted the squat, monochrome figure of Lieutenant Colonel Korn walking toward him with listless haste and haste up the broad, curved staircase of yellow stone, he was even more at a loss for words. incredible.Colonel Korn came up from the tall, run-down hall below.The high black marble walls of the foyer were cracked, and the bricks on the circular floor were cracked and grime.Although the chaplain was afraid of Colonel Cathcart, he was even more afraid of Colonel Korn.This dark-skinned, middle-aged lieutenant colonel wore a pair of cold rimless glasses, and he kept opening his hands to sensitively touch his uneven, bald head like a large dome with his fingertips. .He disliked the priest and was often rude to him.His rude, sarcastic words and perceptive, half-smiley eyes kept the priest in a constant state of fear, and he never had enough courage to look at the lieutenant colonel for a moment, except for the occasional momentary eye contact.As the chaplain was always trembling and bowing before the lieutenant colonel, his eyes would inevitably fall on the waist of Lieutenant Colonel Korn and see his shirttail bulging out of his sunken belt like a balloon. He seemed to hang down from his waist, giving him a bulky, slovenly waist, so that despite his average height he looked a few inches shorter than he really was.Lieutenant Colonel Korn was a slovenly, insolent man, with oily skin and deep, coarse lines extending almost from under the nose to between the dull gray cheekbones and the square-shaved jaw.His face was sullen, and as the two of them approached on the stairs and were about to pass each other, he glanced at the chaplain without showing any sign of recognition.

"Hello, Father," he greeted in a flat voice, without even looking at the priest. "is it going well?" "Good morning, sir," replied the chaplain, who could see clearly that Colonel Korn was simply asking him to say hello. Colonel Korn did not slow down and continued to walk up the stairs. The priest wanted to remind him again that he was not a Catholic but an Anabaptist, so there was no need to call him a priest, and it was not correct to call him that, but he held back. up.He was almost certain that Colonel Korn remembered that, and calling him priest with such a deadpan ignorance was just another way for him to mock him, since he was only an Anabaptist.

Lieutenant Colonel Korn had almost passed by, then suddenly stopped, turned around and rushed towards the pastor like a gust of wind, with angry and suspicious eyes in his eyes.The pastor was petrified. "What are you doing with that red tomato, Pastor?" Lieutenant Colonel Korn asked roughly. The chaplain looked down in surprise at the red tomato that Colonel Cathcart had told him to take. "I got it in Colonel Cathcart's office, sir," he answered with difficulty. "Does the colonel know you take it?" "Yes, sir. He gave it to me." "Well, if that's the case, I guess that's all right," Colonel Korn said, softening.He smiled wanly, and tucked the crumpled shirttail back into his trousers with his thumbs.There was a stinging gleam in his eyes, and a look of secretly smug mischief. "What did Colonel Cathcart call you for, Father?" he asked suddenly.

The pastor stammered, not knowing how to answer for a while. "I don't think I should—" "A prayer for the editors of The Saturday Evening Post?" The pastor almost laughed. "Yes, sir." Colonel Korn was pleased with his instincts.He laughed contemptuously. "You know, I'm afraid that as soon as he sees this week's Saturday Evening Post, he's going to start thinking about something so ludicrous. I hope you've succeeded in showing him what a bad idea it is." "He's decided not to, sir." "That's good. I'm glad you've convinced him that it's impossible for the editors of the Saturday Evening Post to repeat the same story to promote some unknown Colonel. How's it going in the field, Father?" Can you still handle it?"

"Yes, sir. No problem." "Fine. I'm glad to hear you said it's all right. Let us know if you need anything to make yourself more comfortable. We all want you to have a good time in the wild." "Thank you, sir. I will." From the hall below came a growing uproar.It was almost time for lunch, and the first to arrive were entering the canteen of the brigade headquarters.Soldiers and officers went into different dining rooms, which were set up around the circular hall with ancient architectural style.Colonel Korn suppressed his smile. "You lunched with us here a day or two ago, didn't you, Father?" he asked meaningfully.

"Yes, sir. The day before yesterday." "It was the day before yesterday, I think," said Colonel Korn, and then paused to let the chaplain take in his meaning. "Well, take it easy, Father. I'll think of you when you come here to dine again." "Thank you sir." There were five officers' dining rooms and five soldiers' dining rooms. The chaplain didn't know which restaurant he was arranged to have lunch on any given day, because Lieutenant Colonel Korn had established a very complicated meal rotation system for him, and he had forgotten the record book in the tent.The chaplain was the only officer attached to the Group Headquarters establishment who did not live in the dilapidated, redstone Group Headquarters building, nor in the separate, smaller satellite buildings surrounding it. things.The chaplain lived about four miles away in a glade between the officers' club and the first of the four squadron quarters.The barracks of these four squadrons lined up from the location of the group headquarters to a long distance.The pastor lived alone in a large square tent that also served as his office.At night, the carousing sounds from the officers' club often made the chaplain toss and turn on his camp cot in exile, half forced, half voluntary.He occasionally takes a few mild pills to help him fall asleep, but they don't do much for him, and he feels guilty for days afterwards.

The only person living in the glade with the chaplain was his assistant, Corporal Whitcomb.Corporal Whitcomb was an atheist and a disgruntled subordinate because he felt he could do a much better job as a chaplain than the chaplain himself, and he therefore saw himself as a disenfranchised member of society. Victims of justice.He lived in a square tent as spacious as the priest's.Ever since he once discovered that he had done something wrong and the priest had not punished him, he had been openly rude and contemptuous towards the priest.The space between the two tents in the clearing was no more than four or five feet apart.

It was Lieutenant Colonel Korn who arranged this way of life for the Chaplain.Colonel Korn believed there was a good reason for the chaplain to live outside the GQ building, and that was that the chaplain's presence in a tent like most of his congregation would allow him to maintain a closer bond with his congregation.Another important reason was that having the Chaplain around Group Headquarters all day would make the other officers feel uncomfortable.It was one thing to be in touch with God, they all agreed, but quite another to have God around 24 hours a day.In short, as Lieutenant Colonel Korn described to the jittery, bulging-eyed group operations officer, Major Danby, the chaplain had an easy life of listening to troubles, holding funerals, and visiting the bedridden wounded. patients and preside over religious ceremonies.Lieutenant Colonel Korn pointed out that there were not many dead men he needed to go to for funerals now, because German fighter counterattacks had largely stopped, and because, he estimated, nearly 90 percent of the existing dead were not killed by enemy forces. After the military defense line, it disappeared in the clouds, so the priest didn't have to deal with the corpse at all.Besides, presiding over the religious service was not too tiring, since it was only held once a week in the Group Headquarters building and attended by very few people.

In fact, the priest was trying to make himself happy in this glade.Every facility was afforded to both him and Corporal Whitcomb, so that neither of them could plead, on the grounds of inconvenience, to be allowed to return to the Group Headquarters building.The chaplain went to the mess halls of the eight squadrons in turn to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with different people, the last meal of every fifth meal was eaten in the soldiers' mess hall at Group Headquarters, and the last meal of every ten meals was eaten in the officers' mess hall there.While still at home in Wisconsin, the pastor was very fond of gardening.Whenever he was lost in thought, and thought of the low, prickly branches of the little trees, and the waist-deep grass and bushes which surrounded him almost all around him, a pleasant impression of a fertile and fruitful land came over him. heart.In the spring he longed to plant narrow strips of begonias and zinnias all around the perimeter of the tent, but feared that Corporal Whitcomb would resent him.The pastor appreciated the quiet and secluded atmosphere of living in this green and leafy environment, and the various reveries and contemplations that living there aroused.There are far fewer people who come to him to confide their troubles than before, and he is somewhat grateful for that. The pastor is not good at getting along with people, and he is not comfortable talking with them.He misses his wife and three young children, and his wife misses him.

Apart from his belief in God, the thing Whitcomb's men hated most about the chaplain was his lack of initiative and timidity.Corporal Whitcomb believed that so few people attended religious services was a sad reflection of the priest's own status.To light the fire of the great spiritual revival movement, of which he imagined himself to be the founder, he feverishly conjures up challenging new ideas—lunch packs, church gatherings, gifts for the families of combat casualties. Circulars, letter reviews, bingo games. But the priest stopped him.Corporal Whitcomb was annoyed by the chaplain's restraint, for he saw room for improvement everywhere.He decided that it was people like the priest who gave religion such a bad name and reduced them both to social outcasts.Unlike the chaplain, Corporal Whitcomb loathed the seclusion of the glade.The first thing he wanted to do when he got the chaplain out of office was to move back into the GROUP HQ building and live a lively life. When the chaplain left Colonel Korn and drove back to the clearing, Corporal Whitcomb was standing outside in the sweltering mist, talking conspiratorially to a round-faced stranger.The stranger was wearing a maroon corduroy bathrobe and gray flannel pajamas.The priest recognized the bathrobe and pajamas as hospital uniform.Neither of the two men greeted him in any way.The stranger's gums were painted purple; On the back of his corduroy bathrobe was a painting of a B-25 bomber flying through orange-red anti-aircraft fire, and on the front of the bathrobe was a painting of six neat rows of small bombs, representing sixty combat flights Task.The pastor was deeply attracted by these two pictures, he stopped and stared at them intently.The two men stopped talking and waited in silence for him to go away. The priest hurried into his tent.He heard, or rather he imagined he heard them snickering. After a while Corporal Whitcomb came in and asked, "How's the situation?" "No news," replied the pastor, looking away. "Did someone come here to see me just now?" "Not that weird Yossarian. He's a real troublemaker, isn't he?" "I'm not so sure he's a freak," the priest remarked. "That's right, you sided with him," Corporal Whitcomb said in a hurt tone, and stomped out. The chaplain could not believe that Corporal Whitcomb had been annoyed again and actually walked out.Just as he had figured it out, Corporal Whitcomb walked in again. "You've always stood up for people," Corporal Whitcomb rebuked him, "but you don't stand up for your men. That's one of your faults." "I'm not trying to support him," the pastor said apologetically, "I'm just making a point." "What does Colonel Cathcart want?" "Nothing important. He just wanted to discuss the possibility of praying in the briefing room before each mission." "Well, just don't tell me." Corporal Whitcomb said angrily, and went out again. The pastor was very sad.He tried his best, but no matter how thoughtful he was, it always seemed to be trying to hurt Corporal Whitcomb's feelings.He gazed down annoyedly, and found that the orderly ordered by Colonel Korn to clean his tent and take care of his belongings forgot to shine his shoes again. Corporal Whitcomb was back again. "You never give me important news," he complained bitterly. "You don't trust your people. This is another mistake on your part." "No, I trust," the pastor assured him guiltily, "I trust you very, very much." "And what about the letters?" "No, not now," pleaded the vicar timidly. "Don't mention the letter. Please don't mention it again; if I change my mind, I'll tell you." Corporal Whitcomb was furious. "Is that so? Well, it's easy for you to sit there and shake your head and say no, and I'll do all the work. Don't you see that guy out there with those pictures on his bathrobe?" "Is he here looking for me?" "No," said Corporal Whitcomb, and walked out. It was stuffy and humid in the tent, and the pastor felt himself dripping wet.Like a reluctant eavesdropper, he listened to the low-pitched whispers of the people outside the tent.He sat limply at the rickety square bridge table that served as a desk, his lips tightly shut, his eyes vacant, his face sallow.His face had several small acne pockets over the years that had the color and texture of a whole almond shell.He racked his brains for some clue as to the source of Corporal Whitcomb's resentment against him.He couldn't figure out what the problem was anyway, so he was convinced that he had made an unforgivable mistake on him.It seems implausible that Corporal Whitcomb's chronic resentment arose when the chaplain rejected his ideas for bingo and circular letters to the families of those killed in battle.The pastor was dejected and considered himself incompetent.For weeks he had been planning to have a frank talk with Corporal Whitcomb to find out what was bothering him, but now he was ashamed of what he might be able to find out. Outside the tent, Corporal Whitcomb was snickering, and another man was chuckling softly, too.For a few seconds the chaplain was bewildered, and suddenly had a mysterious, unearthly feeling, as if he had experienced this exact same situation before in his life.He tried to hold onto and hold on to this impression in order to predict, perhaps even control what was going to happen next, but, as he had known beforehand, the inspiration faded away without leaving any impression on him.This subtle recurring inner confusion between fantasy and reality is typical of misconstruction; the priest is fascinated by this symptom, and he knows it well, for example, he knows that this symptom is called misconstruction. syndrome, he was interested in this speculative visual phenomenon. Sometimes, the pastor suddenly felt dismayed. Those things, ideas, and even people who had been with him for almost half of his life inexplicably took on a strange and abnormal appearance that he had never seen before. To make these things, ideas, or people seem completely foreign.Some very clear visions almost flashed through his mind, in which he almost saw the absolute truth.The episode with a naked man in a tree at Snowden's funeral puzzled him, because at the time he was not as he had been when he saw a naked man in a tree at Snowden's funeral. feeling.Because that ghost was not a familiar person or thing that appeared before him in a strange appearance.Because the pastor actually saw him. A jeep backfired outside the tent and roared away. Was the naked man in the tree seen at Snowden's funeral just a hallucination?Or a real thing?The pastor shuddered at the thought of the question.He wanted so badly to tell Yossarian the secret, but whenever he thought of it, he decided not to think about it any more, and though he did think about it now, he couldn't be sure he hadn't Have you really thought about it. Corporal Whitcomb sauntered in, beaming, leaning one elbow impolitely on the central pillar of the vicar's tent. "Do you know who that guy in the red bathrobe is?" he asked bravado. "That's the CID guy with the broken nose. He's here from the hospital on business. He's doing an investigation." .” The chaplain raised his eyes quickly in a flattering, sympathetic expression. "I hope you're not in any trouble. Can I help you with anything?" "No, I'm all right," replied Corporal Whitcomb, grinning from ear to ear. "It's you who's in trouble. They're going to take some serious action against you for signing Washington Irving's name on all those letters you've been signing Washington Irving's name on. What do you think of that?" "I never signed Washington Irving's name on any letter," said the pastor. "You don't have to lie to me," replied Corporal Whitcomb, "I'm not the one you're trying to convince." "But I'm not lying." "Whether you're lying or not is none of my business. They're going to punish you for intercepting Major Major's letters. A lot of his letters are classified information." "What letter?" asked the chaplain, more and more angry, full of grievances. "I haven't even seen any of Major Major's letters." "You don't have to lie to me," replied Corporal Whitcomb, "I'm not the one you're trying to convince." "But I'm not lying!" the priest protested. "I don't see why you have to shout at me," Corporal Whitcomb shot back with a hurt look on his face.He moved away from the central pole of the tent, waving a finger at the priest for emphasis. "I just did you the biggest favor of your life, and you didn't even realize it. Every time he tried to report you to his superiors, someone at the hospital deleted the details. For weeks, he sent Wanted to denounce you like crazy. I signed his letter "censored" without even reading it, and signed the confidentiality inspector's name. That would set you up in Criminal Investigations Headquarters Make a really good impression. Let them know that we're not afraid at all to get the whole truth about you out." The chaplain's mind was in a mess and he was bewildered. "But you're not authorized to examine letters, are you?" "Of course not," replied Corporal Whitcomb. "Only officers are authorized to do that kind of work. I'm checking in your name." "But I'm not authorized to check letters either, am I?" "I thought of that for you, too," said Corporal Whitcomb reassuringly. "I signed for you in someone else's name." "Isn't this a fake?" "Oh, don't worry about that. The only person you could possibly be charged with forgery is the man whose signature you forged, so I picked a dead man for your sake. I used Washington Irving's name." Whitko Corporal Mu carefully scrutinized the pastor's face for signs of disapproval, and then spoke briskly and confidently with a hint of sarcasm. "I've got a quick brain, don't I?" "I don't know." The pastor sighed softly with a trembling voice, suffering and not understanding, with crooked brows and eyes, and a strange look. "I don't think I understand all this. If you're signing Washington Irving's name instead of mine, how's that going to make a good impression on me?" "Because they're sure you're Washington Irving. Do you understand? They'll know it's you." "But aren't we trying to make them not believe that? Isn't that helping them believe?" "If I'd known you'd be so dogmatic about the matter, I wouldn't have tried to help you at all," said Corporal Whitcomb angrily.Then he walked out.A second later he came in again. "I just did you the greatest favor of your life, and you didn't even know it. You don't know how to say thank you. Another mistake on your part." "I'm sorry," the pastor apologized regretfully, "I'm really sorry. I'm completely confused by what you've said to me, and I can't make out what I'm talking about. I really appreciate you .” "So how about letting me send those circulars?" Corporal Whitcomb demanded immediately. "May I start writing the first draft?" The pastor couldn't close his mouth in astonishment. "No, no," he moaned, "not now." Corporal Whitcomb was enraged. "I'm your best friend and you don't know it," he said aggressively, before stepping out of the pastor's tent.He came in again. "I'm rooting for you and you don't even know it. Don't you know how much trouble you're in? The guy from CID has rushed back to the hospital to write a new report on you taking that tomato. " "What tomato?" the pastor asked, blinking. "It's the red pear-shaped tomato you hid in your hand when you first came back here. Isn't it! You still have this tomato in your hand until this moment!" Surprised, the chaplain let go, and found himself still holding the red pear tomato he'd gotten from Colonel Cathcart's office.He hurriedly put it on the card table. "I got this tomato from Colonel Cathcart," he said, suddenly wondering how ridiculous his explanation sounded. "He insisted on letting me take one." "You needn't lie to me," replied Corporal Whitcomb, "whether you stole from him or not is none of my business." "Stole it?" exclaimed the pastor in amazement. "Why should I steal a red pear tomato?" "That's the question that baffled both of us," said Corporal Whitcomb, "and that's when the guy from CID decided you might have hidden some important secret document in there." The pastor was hopeless. Under the psychological pressure as heavy as a mountain, his whole body was paralyzed. "I don't have any important secret papers hidden in there," he stated frankly. "I didn't even want to at first. Here, you can take it. Take it and see for yourself." "I do not want." "Please take it away," pleaded the priest, his voice almost inaudible. "I want to get rid of it." "I don't want it," Whitcomb repeated in a spirited tone, and walked out with a scowling face, but inside he was so happy that he couldn't laugh because he'd teamed up with the man from the Criminal Investigation Department. Forged a new and powerful alliance, and once again succeeded in convincing the priest that he was really angry. Poor Whitcomb, sighed the chaplain, blaming himself for the aide's gloomy mood.He sat there in silence, lost in foolish thought, waiting expectantly for Corporal Whitcomb to return.He was disappointed when he heard Corporal Whitcomb's haughty stride fade away into the distance.He doesn't want to do anything next.He decided to skip lunch and ate a Milky Way and a Baby Ruth chocolate candy from the footstand, and drank some lukewarm water from the pitcher.He felt like he was surrounded by a thick fog covering everything, he couldn't see a single light, and something might happen at any time.What, he feared, would the Colonel think if someone reported to him that he was suspected of being Washington Irving?Then it worried him to think that Colonel Cathcart had already thought of him because he had mentioned sixty missions.There is so much unhappiness in the world, he thought, bowing his head sadly at the thought of this sad event.He is powerless against anyone's misfortune, least of all his own.