飘尘
试着告诉读者，生活是多样的。每一个活着的人，在多元化的人生时空里， 扮演着某种角色，向着不同的方向展现着自己的千姿百态，书写着与众不同的生 命华章。
过了片刻，当他发现科恩中校那矮胖的、单色的身影正无精打采地急匆匆地快步登上黄色石块砌成的宽阔的弧形楼梯向他走过来时，他更无语了。科恩中校从下面那个高大、破败的门厅里走上来。门厅高高的黑色大理石墙壁上满是裂痕，圆形地面上的砖也已破裂，积满污垢。随军牧师虽害怕卡思卡特上校，但更怕科恩中校。这个皮肤黝黑的中年中校戴著一副寒气逼人的无边眼镜，总是不停地张开手用指尖敏感地摸摸他那个凸凹不平的、像个圆形大屋顶似的光脑袋。他不喜欢牧师，常常对他不礼貌。他用粗率无礼、冷嘲热讽的言词和洞悉一切、似笑非笑的目光使牧师常处于一种恐惧状态，除了偶尔刹那间的目光接触，牧师从没有足够的勇气去正视中校片刻。由于牧师在中校面前总是战战兢兢、低头哈腰，因此他的目光总是不可避免地落在科恩中校的腰部，科恩中校的衬衫下摆从凹陷下去的皮带里皱巴地从腰间鼓出来，像只垂挂的气球，使他的腰部显得臃肿、邋遢，看上去比中等身材的实际身高要矮上几英寸。科恩中校是个不修边幅、傲慢无礼的人，皮肤油光光的，几道又深又粗的皱纹几乎一直从鼻子下延伸到灰暗的两颊下的垂肉和似刀削的方下巴之间。他脸色阴沉，与牧师在楼梯上走近擦肩而过时，朝着牧师扫上一眼，象是陌生人。
“你好，神父，”他用平调说，连看都没看牧师一眼。 “过得还好吗？”
“早晨好，长官，”牧师答道，他明白地看出来科恩中校只不过是要他回问一声好。
科恩中校没有放慢脚步，继续朝楼梯上方走，牧师真想再次提醒他，他不是天主教教徒而是再洗礼派教徒，因此没有必要叫他神父，而且这样称呼也不正确，但他忍住了。他几乎可以肯定科恩中校是记得这一点的，他带著一种如此无动于衷的无知神情叫他神父只不过是他嘲弄他的另一种方法，因为他只是一名再洗礼派教徒。
科恩中校几乎已经走过去了，突然又冷不防地停了下来，转过身一阵风似地朝牧师冲过来，眼里露出愤怒、怀疑的目光。牧师吓呆了。
“你拿著那只梅子番茄做什么，牧师？”科恩中校态度粗暴地问道。 牧师惊讶地低头看了看手里那只卡思卡特上校叫他拿的梅子番茄。
“我是在卡思卡特上校办公室里拿的，长官，”他费了很大劲才回答出来。
“上校知道你拿吗？” “知道，长官。是他送给我的。”
“哦，既是这样，我想那就没关系了，”科恩中校说，态度缓和了下来。他毫无热情地笑了笑，一面用大拇指把皱巴巴的衬衫下摆重又塞进裤子里去。他两只眼睛闪烁著刺人的光，流露出一种暗自得意的恶作剧的神色。
“卡思卡特上校召你去干什么，神父？”他突然问。
牧师结结巴巴，一时不知该如何回答。“我并不认为我应该”
“做祷告给《星期六晚邮报》的编辑们看？”
牧师差点笑出来。“是的，长官。”
科恩中校为自己的直觉感到高兴。他轻蔑地大笑起来。“你知道，我担心他一看到这个星期的《星期六晚邮报》，就会觉得这是多么荒谬。我希望你成功地向他表明了这是一个多么糟糕的主意。”
“他已经决定不这么干了，长官。”
“那就好。我很高兴你使他确信《星期六晚邮报》的编辑们不可能为了宣传一个不出名的上校而重复发表同样的故事。在野外过得怎么样，神父？还能应付吧？”
“能，长官。没什么问题。” “很好。我很高兴听到你说没问题。如果你需要点什么让自己过得舒服些，就告诉我们。我们大家都想让你在野外过得愉快。”
“谢谢你，长官。我会的。”
从下面门厅传来一阵越来越大的喧闹声。快到吃午餐的时间了，最先到的人正走进大队部的食堂。士兵和军官分别进入了不同的餐厅，它们设在那个具有古代建筑风格的圆形大厅的四周。科恩中校收住了微笑。 “你前两天曾在这儿和我们共进过午餐，对吗，神父？”他意味深长地问道。
“是的，长官。是前天。”
“我想也是前天，”科恩中校说，然后停了一下，让牧师慢慢领会他的意思。“那么，慢慢来，神父。你下次再到这儿来吃饭的时候再见。”
“谢谢长官。”
军官餐厅和士兵餐厅各有五个，牧师不清楚那天他被安排在哪个餐厅吃的午餐，因为科恩中校为他制定的轮流就餐制度十分复杂，而他又把记录本遗忘在帐篷里了。随军牧师是唯一一位隶属于大队部编制的军官，不住在那幢破旧的、红石头砌的大队指挥部大楼里的，也不住在大楼四周那些独立的、较小的卫星式建筑物里。牧师住在大约四英里外的介于军官俱乐部和四个中队营区中第一个中队营区之间的一片林间空地上。这四个中队的营区排成一线，从大队部所在地一直延伸到很远的地方。牧师独自一人住在一顶宽大的方形帐篷里，那是他的办公室。夜晚，从军官俱乐部那边传来的狂欢声常常使这位过著半是被迫，半是自愿的流放生活的随军牧师躺在帆布行军床上翻来覆去难以入眠。偶尔，他吃几片药性温和的药丸助他入睡，可那些药丸对他没有什么作用，而且事后他还会内疚好几天。 唯一和随军牧师一起住在林间空地上的是他的助手惠特科姆下士。惠特科姆下士是个无神论者、也是个心怀不满的部下，因为他觉得他做随军牧师的工作能比牧师本人做得好得多，因此他把自己看做是被剥夺了基本权利的，社会不公正现象的受害者。他住在一顶同牧师的帐篷一样宽敞的方形帐篷里。自从有一次他发现自己做了错事牧师竟没有惩罚他之后，他便公开地对牧师采取粗暴、蔑视的态度。空地上的两顶帐敞间至多不过四五英尺。 是科恩中校为牧师安排了这种生活方式。科恩中校认为，有一条很好的理由让随军牧师住在大队部大楼之外，那就是，牧师像他的大多数教徒那样，住在帐篷里能使他与教徒之间保持更密切的联系。另一条重要的理由是，让牧师一天到晚呆在大队部周围，会使其他军官感到不自在。他们都赞同与上帝保持联系，但让上帝一天二十四小时都呆在身边就另当别论了。总之，正如科恩中校向那个极度紧张不安、眼珠突出的大队作战参谋丹比少校所描绘的那样，牧师的日子过得很轻松，他只要听听别人诉说一下烦恼，举行葬礼，看望一下卧床不起的伤病员和主持宗教仪式。科恩中校指出，现在已不再有多少死人需要他去举行葬礼，因为德国战斗机的反击基本上已经停止，还因为，据他估计，将近百分之九十的现有阵亡人员不是死在敌军防线之后就是在云层中失踪，因此牧师根本用不着去处理尸体。再说，主持宗教仪式也不是什么太劳累的事，因为每周只在大队部大楼里举行一次，而且参加的人也很少。 事实上，牧师正努力使自己喜欢在这片林间空地上生活。人们为他和惠特科姆下士两人提供了一切便利措施，因此他俩谁也不可能以生活不便为依据，要求允许他们回到大队部大楼里去。牧师轮流到八个飞行中队的食堂去和不同的人吃早餐、中餐和晚餐，每五餐最后一餐去大队部的士兵食堂吃，每十餐最后一餐去那儿的军官食堂吃。还在威斯康星州家中的时候，牧师非常喜欢栽培花木。每当他陷入沉思，想起那些小树的低矮、多刺的树枝和几乎把他围起来的、齐腰深的野草和灌木丛的时候，一种土地肥沃、果实累累的美好印象便会涌上心头。春天，他很想在帐篷四周种上窄窄的一溜秋海棠和百日草，但又害怕惠特科姆下士生气而未种。牧师非常欣赏自己住的这个青枝绿叶的环境所具有的幽静和与世隔绝的气氛，以及生活在那儿所引起的种种遐想和幽思。现在来找他倾吐苦恼的人比以前少多了，他对此也表示几分感谢，牧师不善与人相处，与人谈话也不大自在。他很想念妻子和三个幼小的孩子，他的妻子也想念他。 除了牧师相信上帝这一点之外，惠特科姆下上最讨厌牧师的就是他缺乏主动性，做事缩手缩脚。惠特科姆下士认为，这么少的人参加宗教仪式令人伤心地，反映了牧师本人所处的地位。为点燃伟大的精神复兴运动之火，他把自己想象成这一运动的缔造者，他头脑里狂热地想出种种具有挑战性的新主意：午餐盒饭、教堂联欢会、给战斗伤亡人员家属的通函、信件审查、宾戈赌博游戏。 但牧师阻止了他。惠特科姆下士对牧师的管束很恼火，因为他发现到处都有改进的余地。他断定，正是像牧师这佯的人才使宗教有了那么一个坏名声，使他俩沦为被社会遗弃的流浪汉。和牧师不同的是，惠特科姆下士极为讨厌在林中空地上的隐居生活。等他让牧师免职后，他想做的第一件事就是搬回到大队部大楼里去，过上热热闹闹的生活。
当牧师离开科恩中校，开车回到那块空地的时候，惠特科姆下士正站在外面闷热的薄雾里，用密谋似的声调同一个圆脸的陌生人谈著什么。那个陌生人穿着一件栗色的灯芯绒浴衣和灰色的法兰绒睡衣。牧师认出那浴衣和睡衣是医院的统一服装。那两个人谁也没有以任何形式跟他打招呼。那陌生人的齿龈被涂成了紫色； 他的灯芯绒浴衣后面有一幅画，画著一架B-25轰炸机正穿过桔红色的高射炮火，浴衣的前面画上了整整齐齐的六排小炸弹，表示飞满了六十次战斗任务。牧师被这两幅图深深吸引住了，他停住脚步目不转睛地看着。那两个人停止了谈话，默不作声地等著他走开。 牧师匆匆走进他的帐篷。他听见，或者说他想象中听见他们在窃笑。 过了一会儿，惠特科姆下士走进来问道：“情况怎么样？”
“没什么新闻，”牧师回答说，眼睛看着其他地方。“刚才有人来这儿找我吗？”
“还不是那个怪人尤塞瑞恩。他真是个惹事生非的家伙，不是吗？”
“我倒不那么肯定他是个怪人，”牧师评论说。
“说得对，你和他站在一边，”惠特科姆下士用受到伤害的口气说，然后跺著脚走了出去。
牧师难以相信惠特科姆下士又被惹火，并真的走出去了。刚等他想弄明白，惠特科姆下士又走了进来。 “你总是支持别人，”惠特科姆下士指责他说，“可你不支持你手下的人。这是你的一个过错。”
“我并不想支持他，”牧师抱歉地说，“我只是表明一下态度。”
“卡思卡特上校想要干什么？”
“不是什么重要的事。他只是想商量一下每次飞行任务前是否有可能在简令下达室里做一下祷告。” “好吧，不告诉我就算了。”惠特科姆下士怒气冲冲地说完，又走了出去。
牧师非常难过。他想方设法不去伤害惠特科姆下士的感情，但无论他考虑得多么周到，却总好像是在伤害惠特科姆下士的感情。他懊恼地向下凝视著，发现科恩中校硬派来替他打扫帐篷、看管物品的勤务兵又忘了给他擦皮鞋。
惠特科姆下士又回来了。“你从来不把重要的消息告诉我，”他刻薄地抱怨说，“你不信任你手下的人。这是你的又一个过错。”
“不对，我信任你，”牧师内疚地向他保证说，“我非常非常地信任你。”
“那么，那些信怎么办？”
“不发，现在不发，”牧师畏畏缩缩地恳求说，“别提信的事。请别再提这件事了；如果我改变了主意，我会告诉你的。”
惠特科姆下士大发雷霆。“是这样吗？好吧，你倒轻松，往那儿一坐，摇摇头说不行，而所有的工作全得由我去做。你没看见外面那个浴衣上画上了那些图画的家伙吗？”
“他来这儿是找我的吗？”
“不是，”惠特科姆下士说，然后走了出去。
帐篷里闷热、潮湿，牧师觉得自己浑身湿漉漉的。他像个极不情愿的偷听者，听著帐篷外面的人压低嗓门窃窃私语，声音沉闷低沉，嗡嗡的听不清楚。他有气无力地坐在那张作为办公桌用的摇摇晃晃的正方形桥牌桌前，双唇紧闭，两眼露出茫然若失的神色，脸色腊黄。他脸上长著的好几块很小的粉刺窝，已有不少年头了，上面的颜色和表面纹理就像完整的杏仁壳。他绞尽脑汁想理出一些头绪，找到惠特科姆下士怨恨他的根源。他无论如何想不出是什么，于是，他确信自己对他犯下了不可饶恕的错误。如果说惠特科姆下士的那种长期的愤恨是由于牧师拒绝了他的宾戈赌博游戏和给在战斗中阵亡的将士家属寄通函的主意而产生的，这似乎令人难以置信。牧师垂头丧气，自认自己无能。几个星期以来，他一直打算和惠特科姆下士开诚布公地谈一次，以便弄清到底是什么使他烦恼，但现在他对自己有可能弄清的事情感到害臊了。 帐篷外面，惠特科姆下士在窃笑，另一个人也在抿著嘴轻声地笑。有那么几秒钟，牧师头脑里迷迷糊糊的，突然产生了一种神秘、离奇的感觉，仿佛似曾相识。他竭力想抓牢并留住这一印象，以便预测，也许甚至能控制下面将会发生的事情，但正如他事先已知道的那样，这一灵感没给他留下什么印象便消失了。这种在错觉与现实之间反复微妙出现的混乱是典型的错构症；牧师被这种症状迷住了，他对此还颇有了解，比如说，他知道这种症状叫做错构症，他对这种推论性的视觉现象很感兴趣。 有时，牧师突然感到惊慌失措，那些伴随他度过了几乎大半生的事物、想法，甚至人莫名其妙地呈现出一种他以前从未见过的、陌生而又反常的样子，这种样子使这些事物、想法或人显得似乎是完全陌生的。他脑里几乎闪过一些十分清晰的景象，他在其中几乎见过绝对真理。在斯诺登的葬礼上有个赤条条的人在树上，这个插曲使他迷惑不解，因为当时他没有以前在斯诺登的葬礼上看见一个赤条条的人在树上时曾有过的那种感觉。因为那个幽灵不是以一种陌生的外表出现在他面前的熟悉的人或事。因为牧师确确实实看见了他。 一辆吉普车在帐篷外面用回火发动起来，然后轰轰地开走了。 在斯诺登葬礼上看见的那个赤条条地呆在树上的人仅仅是个幻觉呢？还是一件真实的事？牧师一想到这个问题就直打哆嗦。他极想把这个秘密告诉尤塞瑞恩，然而每当他想起那件事的时候，他就决定不再去回想它了，尽管此刻他的确在回忆这件事，但他不能肯定他以前是否真的想到过这件事。
惠特科姆下士喜眉笑眼地闲荡著走了进来，一只胳膊肘很不礼貌地靠在牧师住的帐篷的中央支柱上。 “你知道那个穿红浴衣的家伙是谁吗？”他虚张声势地问，“那是鼻梁骨折了的刑事调查部的工作人员。他是因公事从医院到这儿来的。他正在进行一项调查。”
牧师飞快地扬起双眼，露出一副讨好、同情的神情。“我希望你没遇到什么麻烦。有什么事需要我帮忙的吗？”
“不是，我没有什么麻烦，”惠特科姆下士答道，笑得合不拢嘴。 “是你有麻烦啦。由于你在所有那些你一直在签华盛顿·欧文的名字的信上签上了华盛顿·欧文的名字，他们准备对你采取严厉的措施。你觉得这事怎么样？”
“我从没有在任何信上签过华盛顿·欧文的名字，”牧师说。
“你不必对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“我不是你要说服的人。”
“但是我没在说谎。” “你在不在说谎不关我的事。他们还因为你截取巨牛少校的信函要惩办你呢。他的信函里有许多东西都是机密情报。”
“什么信函？”牧师越来越气愤，满肚子冤屈地问道，“我连看都没看到过巨牛少校的任何信函。” “你用不着对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“我不是你要说服的人。”
“但是我没在说谎！”牧师抗议说。
“我不明白你干吗非得向我喊叫，”惠特科姆下士带著受到伤害的表情反击说。他离开了帐篷中央的那根柱子，朝牧师摇晃著一根手指表示强调。“我刚才帮了你这一辈子最大的忙，而你甚至没有意识到。每次他企图向上级打你的小报告时，医院里总有人把那些具体内容删除掉。几个星期来，他发了疯似地想告发你。我甚至连看都没看就在他的信上签上“已经检查”的字样，并签上保密检查员的名字。那样将会为你在刑事调查部总部里留下个非常好的印象。让他们知道我们丝毫不害怕把有关你的全部事实真相公布于众。”
牧师头脑里一团乱麻，被搞得晕头转向。“可是没有人授权让你去检查信件啊，是吗？”
“当然没有，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“只有军官才有权做那种工作。我是用你的名义去检查的。” “但是我也没被授权去检查信件啊，是吧？”
“我也替你想到那一点了，”惠特科姆下士宽慰他说，“我代你签的是其他人的名字。”
“这不是伪造吗？” “哦，这也不必担心。唯一可能控告你犯伪造罪的人就是那个你伪造他的签名的人，于是我为你着想挑了一个死人。我用了华盛顿·欧文的名字。”惠特科姆下士仔细打量著牧师的脸，想看看有没有反对的迹象，然后隐隐带著讽刺的口吻轻快而自信地说下去。 “我的脑筋转得快吧，不是吗？”
“我不知道。”牧师声音颤抖地轻轻哀叹了一声，又痛苦又不明白，蹩眉皱眼，一副怪相。“我想我没弄明白你说的这一切。如果你签的是华盛顿·欧文的名字而不是我的名字，那怎么会为我留个好印象呢？”
“因为他们确信你就是华盛顿·欧文。你明白吗？他们会知道那就是你。”
“但是我们不正是要让他们不相信那一点吗？这样不是帮助他们相信了吗？”
“要是我早知道你对这事会这么呆板教条，我压根儿就不会试著去帮你了，”惠特科姆下士气愤地说。然后他走了出去。很快，他又走了进来。“我刚才帮了你这辈子中最大的一个忙，而你甚至不知道。你不知道怎样表示感谢。这是你的又一个过错。”
“我很抱歉，”牧师后悔地道歉说，“我真的很抱歉。你跟我说的那一切把我彻底吓糊涂了，我也搞不清自己在说些什么。我真的十分感激你。”
“那么让我寄那些通函怎么样？”惠特科姆下士立即要求说，“我可以开始写初稿吗？”
牧师惊愕得嘴都合不拢了。“不，不，”他呻吟著说，“现在不要。”
惠特科姆下士被激怒了。“我是你最好的朋友，而你却不知道，”他咄咄逼人地说，然后走出了牧师的帐篷。他又走了进来。“我在支持你，你甚至不知道。你不知道你遇到多大的麻烦了吗？刑事调查部的那个人已经赶回医院去写一份新的报告，揭发你拿那只番茄的事。”
“什么番茄？”牧师眨着眼睛问。 “就是你刚回到这里时藏在手里的那只红色梅子番茄。这不是吗！这只番茄你直到这一刻还拿在手里呢！” 牧师吃惊地松开了手，发现自己还拿著那只从卡思卡特上校的办公室里得到的红色梅子番茄。他赶忙把它放在牌桌上。
“我是从卡思卡特上校那儿弄到这只番茄的，”他说，突然惑到自己的解释听起来是多么荒唐可笑。“他非要让我拿一只。”
“你用不着对我说谎，”惠特科姆下士回答说，“你是不是从他那儿偷的不关我的事。” “偷的？”牧师惊诧地叫道，“我于吗要偷一只红色梅子番茄？”
“这正是使我们两人都迷惑不解的问题，”惠特科姆下士说，“那时，刑事调查部的那个人断定你也许把什么重要的秘密文件藏在里面了。”
牧师绝望了，在这重如山岳的心理压力下、他整个人都瘫了。“我没有什么重要的秘密文件藏在里面，”他坦白地陈述道，“我开始甚至都不想要。喏，你可以拿去。你自己拿去看看吧。”
“我不要。”
“请把它拿走吧，”牧师恳求说，声音低得几乎听不见。“我想摆脱它。”
“我不要，”惠特科姆下士气冲冲地又说了一遍，怒容满面地走了出去、他内心里却高兴无比，只是忍著没笑出来，因为他与刑事调查部的那个人结成了新的强大的联盟，并且又一次成功地使牧师相信他真的生气了。
可伶的惠特科姆，牧师叹息道，他为助手心情阴郁而责备自己。他一声不吭地坐在那里，傻傻地陷入了沉思，满怀期望地等待著惠特科姆下士走回来。当他听见惠特科姆下士那高傲的步伐声慢慢消逝在远方时，他失望了。他接下来什么事也不想做。他决定不用午餐了，从床脚柜里各拿出一块银河牌和鲁丝宝贝牌巧克力糖吃了，喝了几白水壶里的温水。他觉得自己像是被大雾笼罩，看不见一星半点的光，随时有可能发生什么事情。他担心，一旦有人把他被怀疑成是华盛顿·欧文的消息汇报给卡思卡特上校，上校会怎么想呢？然后又想到卡思卡特上校曾因他提过六十次飞行任务的事已经对他有看法了，他忧心忡忡。世界上竟有这么多不幸的事，他思忖著，想到这件令人伤心的事情、他心情忧郁地低下了头。他对任何人的不幸都无能为力，尤其是对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.
