Colonel Cathcart was a slick, successful, slipshod, unhappy man of thirty-six who lumbered when he walked andwanted to be a general. He was dashing and dejected, poised and chagrined. He was complacent and insecure,daring in the administrative stratagems he employed to bring himself to the attention of his superiors and cravenin his concern that his schemes might all backfire. He was handsome and unattractive, a swashbuckling, beefy,conceited man who was putting on fat and was tormented chronically by prolonged seizures of apprehension.
Colonel Cathcart was conceited because he was a full colonel with a combat command at the age of only thirty-six; and Colonel Cathcart was dejected because although he was already thirty-six he was still only a full colonel.
Colonel Cathcart was impervious to absolutes. He could measure his own progress only in relationship to others,and his idea of excellence was to do something at least as well as all the men his own age who were doing thesame thing even better. The fact that there were thousands of men his own age and older who had not evenattained the rank of major enlivened him with foppish delight in his own remarkable worth; on the other hand,the fact that there were men of his own age and younger who were already generals contaminated him with anagonizing sense of failure and made him gnaw at his fingernails with an unappeasable anxiety that was evenmore intense than Hungry Joe’s.
Colonel Cathcart was a very large, pouting, broadshouldered man with close-cropped curly dark hair that wasgraying at the tips and an ornate cigarette holder that he purchased the day before he arrived in Pianosa to takecommand of his group. He displayed the cigarette holder grandly on every occasion and had learned tomanipulate it adroitly. Unwittingly, he had discovered deep within himself a fertile aptitude for smoking with acigarette holder. As far as he could tell, his was the only cigarette holder in the whole Mediterranean theater ofoperations, and the thought was both flattering and disquieting. He had no doubts at all that someone as debonairand intellectual as General Peckem approved of his smoking with a cigarette holder, even though the two were ineach other’s presence rather seldom, which in a way was very lucky, Colonel Cathcart recognized with relief,since General Peckem might not have approved of his cigarette holder at all. When such misgivings assailedColonel Cathcart, he choked back a sob and wanted to throw the damned thing away, but he was restrained byhis unswerving conviction that the cigarette holder never failed to embellish his masculine, martial physique with a high gloss of sophisticated heroism that illuminated him to dazzling advantage among all the other full colonelsin the American Army with whom he was in competition. Although how could he be sure?
Colonel Cathcart was indefatigable that way, an industrious, intense, dedicated military tactician who calculatedday and night in the service of himself. He was his own sarcophagus, a bold and infallible diplomat who wasalways berating himself disgustedly for all the chances he had missed and kicking himself regretfully for all theerrors he had made. He was tense, irritable, bitter and smug. He was a valorous opportunist who pouncedhoggishly upon every opportunity Colonel Korn discovered for him and trembled in damp despair immediatelyafterward at the possible consequences he might suffer. He collected rumors greedily and treasured gossip. Hebelieved all the news he heard and had faith in none. He was on the alert constantly for every signal, shrewdlysensitive to relationships and situations that did not exist. He was someone in the know who was always strivingpathetically to find out what was going on. He was a blustering, intrepid bully who brooded inconsolably overthe terrible ineradicable impressions he knew he kept making on people of prominence who were scarcely awarethat he was even alive.
Everybody was persecuting him. Colonel Cathcart lived by his wits in an unstable, arithmetical world of blackeyes and feathers in his cap, of overwhelming imaginary triumphs and catastrophic imaginary defeats. Heoscillated hourly between anguish and exhilaration, multiplying fantastically the grandeur of his victories andexaggerating tragically the seriousness of his defeats. Nobody ever caught him napping. If word reached him thatGeneral Dreedle or General Peckem had been seen smiling, frowning, or doing neither, he could not makehimself rest until he had found an acceptable interpretation and grumbled mulishly until Colonel Korn persuadedhim to relax and take things easy.
Lieutenant Colonel Korn was a loyal, indispensable ally who got on Colonel Cathcart’s nerves. Colonel Cathcartpledged eternal gratitude to Colonel Korn for the ingenious moves he devised and was furious with himafterward when he realized they might not work. Colonel Cathcart was greatly indebted to Colonel Korn and didnot like him at all. The two were very close. Colonel Cathcart was jealous of Colonel Korn’s intelligence and hadto remind himself often that Colonel Korn was still only a lieutenant colonel, even though he was almost tenyears older than Colonel Cathcart, and that Colonel Korn had obtained his education at a state university.
Colonel Cathcart bewailed the miserable fate that had given him for an invaluable assistant someone as commonas Colonel Korn. It was degrading to have to depend so thoroughly on a person who had been educated at a stateuniversity. If someone did have to become indispensable to him, Colonel Cathcart lamented, it could just aseasily have been someone wealthy and well groomed, someone from a better family who was more mature thanColonel Korn and who did not treat Colonel Cathcart’s desire to become a general as frivolously as ColonelCathcart secretly suspected Colonel Korn secretly did.
Colonel Cathcart wanted to be a general so desperately he was willing to try anything, even religion, and hesummoned the chaplain to his office late one morning the week after he had raised the number of missions tosixty and pointed abruptly down toward his desk to his copy of The Saturday Evening Post. The colonel wore hiskhaki shirt collar wide open, exposing a shadow of tough black bristles of beard on his egg-white neck, and had aspongy hanging underlip. He was a person who never tanned, and he kept out of the sun as much as possible toavoid burning. The colonel was more than a head taller than the chaplain and over twice as broad, and hisswollen, overbearing authority made the chaplain feel frail and sickly by contrast.
“Take a look, Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart directed, screwing a cigarette into his holder and seating himselfaffluently in the swivel chair behind his desk. “Let me know what you think.”
The chaplain looked down at the open magazine compliantly and saw an editorial spread dealing with anAmerican bomber group in England whose chaplain said prayers in the briefing room before each mission. Thechaplain almost wept with happiness when he realized the colonel was not going to holler at him. The two hadhardly spoken since the tumultuous evening Colonel Cathcart had thrown him out of the officers’ club at GeneralDreedle’s bidding after Chief White Halfoat had punched Colonel Moodus in the nose. The chaplain’s initial fearhad been that the colonel intended reprimanding him for having gone back into the officers’ club withoutpermission the evening before. He had gone there with Yossarian and Dunbar after the two had comeunexpectedly to his tent in the clearing in the woods to ask him to join them. Intimidated as he was by ColonelCathcart, he nevertheless found it easier to brave his displeasure than to decline the thoughtful invitation of histwo new friends, whom he had met on one of his hospital visits just a few weeks before and who had worked soeffectively to insulate him against the myriad social vicissitudes involved in his official duty to live on closestterms of familiarity with more than nine hundred unfamiliar officers and enlisted men who thought him an oddduck.
The chaplain glued his eyes to the pages of the magazine. He studied each photograph twice and read thecaptions intently as he organized his response to the colonel’s question into a grammatically complete sentencethat he rehearsed and reorganized in his mind a considerable number of times before he was able finally tomuster the courage to reply.
“I think that saying prayers before each mission is a very moral and highly laudatory procedure, sir,” he offeredtimidly, and waited.
“Yeah,” said the colonel. “But I want to know if you think they’ll work here.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the chaplain after a few moments. “I should think they would.”
“Then I’d like to give it a try.” The colonel’s ponderous, farinaceous cheeks were tinted suddenly with glowingpatches of enthusiasm. He rose to his feet and began walking around excitedly. “Look how much good they’vedone for these people in England. Here’s a picture of a colonel in The Saturday Evening Post whose chaplainconducts prayers before each mission. If the prayers work for him, they should work for us. Maybe if we sayprayers, they’ll put my picture in The Saturday Evening Post.”
The colonel sat down again and smiled distantly in lavish contemplation. The chaplain had no hint of what hewas expected to say next. With a pensive expression on his oblong, rather pale face, he allowed his gaze to settleon several of the high bushels filled with red plum tomatoes that stood in rows against each of the walls. Hepretended to concentrate on a reply. After a while he realized that he was staring at rows and rows of bushels ofred plum tomatoes and grew so intrigued by the question of what bushels brimming with red plum tomatoes weredoing in a group commander’s office that he forgot completely about the discussion of prayer meetings untilColonel Cathcart, in a genial digression, inquired:
“Would you like to buy some, Chaplain? They come right off the farm Colonel Korn and I have up in the hills. Ican let you have a bushel wholesale.”
“Oh, no, sir. I don’t think so.”
“That’s quite all right,” the colonel assured him liberally. “You don’t have to. Milo is glad to snap up all we canproduce. These were picked only yesterday. Notice how firm and ripe they are, like a young girl’s breasts.”
The chaplain blushed, and the colonel understood at once that he had made a mistake. He lowered his head inshame, his cumbersome face burning. His fingers felt gross and unwieldy. He hated the chaplain venomously forbeing a chaplain and making a coarse blunder out of an observation that in any other circumstances, he knew,would have been considered witty and urbane. He tried miserably to recall some means of extricating them bothfrom their devastating embarrassment. He recalled instead that the chaplain was only a captain, and hestraightened at once with a shocked and outraged gasp. His cheeks grew tight with fury at the thought that he hadjust been duped into humiliation by a man who was almost the same age as he was and still only a captain, andhe swung upon the chaplain avengingly with a look of such murderous antagonism that the chaplain began totremble. The colonel punished him sadistically with a long, glowering, malignant, hateful, silent stare.
“We were speaking about something else,” he reminded the chaplain cuttingly at last. “We were not speakingabout the firm, ripe breasts of beautiful young girls but about something else entirely. We were speaking aboutconducting religious services in the briefing room before each mission. Is there any reason why we can’t?”
“No, sir,” the chaplain mumbled.
“Then we’ll begin with this afternoon’s mission.” The colonel’s hostility softened gradually as he appliedhimself to details. “Now, I want you to give a lot of thought to the kind of prayers we’re going to say. I don’twant anything heavy or sad. I’d like you to keep it light and snappy, something that will send the boys outfeeling pretty good. Do you know what I mean? I don’t want any of this Kingdom of God or Valley of Deathstuff. That’s all too negative. What are you making such a sour face for?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the chaplain stammered. “I happened to be thinking of the Twenty-third Psalm just as you saidthat.”
“How does that one go?”
“That’s the one you were just referring to, sir. ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I—‘”
“That’s the one I was just referring to. It’s out. What else have you got?”
“’Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto—‘”
“No waters,” the colonel decided, blowing ruggedly into his cigarette holder after flipping the butt down into his combed-brass ash tray. “Why don’t we try something musical? How about the harps on the willows?”
“That has the rivers of Babylon in it, sir,” the chaplain replied. “’...there we sat down, yea, we wept, when weremembered Zion.’”
“Zion? Let’s forget about that one right now. I’d like to know how that one even got in there. Haven’t you gotanything humorous that stays away from waters and valleys and God? I’d like to keep away from the subject ofreligion altogether if we can.”
The chaplain was apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, but just about all the prayers I know are rather somber in tone andmake at least some passing reference to God.”
“Then let’s get some new ones. The men are already doing enough bitching about the missions I send them onwithout our rubbing it in with any sermons about God or death or Paradise. Why can’t we take a more positiveapproach? Why can’t we all pray for something good, like a tighter bomb pattern, for example? Couldn’t wepray for a tighter bomb pattern?”
“Well, yes, sir, I suppose so,” the chaplain answered hesitantly. “You wouldn’t even need me if that’s all youwanted to do. You could do that yourself.”
“I know I could,” the colonel responded tartly. “But what do you think you’re here for? I could shop for my ownfood, too, but that’s Milo’s job, and that’s why he’s doing it for every group in the area. Your job is to lead us inprayer, and from now on you’re going to lead us in a prayer for a tighter bomb pattern before every mission. Isthat clear? I think a tighter bomb pattern is something really worth praying for. It will be a feather in all our capswith General Peckem. General Peckem feels it makes a much nicer aerial photograph when the bombs explodeclose together.”
“General Peckem, sir?”
“That’s right, Chaplain,” the colonel replied, chuckling paternally at the chaplain’s look of puzzlement. “Iwouldn’t want this to get around, but it looks like General Dreedle is finally on the way out and that GeneralPeckem is slated to replace him. Frankly, I’m not going to be sorry to see that happen. General Peckem is a verygood man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him. On the other hand, it might never take place, andwe’d still remain under General Dreedle. Frankly, I wouldn’t be sorry to see that happen either, because GeneralDreedle is another very good man, and I think we’ll all be much better off under him too. I hope you’re going tokeep all this under your hat, Chaplain. I wouldn’t want either one to get the idea I was throwing my support onthe side of the other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s good,” the colonel exclaimed, and stood up jovially. “But all this gossip isn’t getting us into TheSaturday Evening Post, eh, Chaplain? Let’s see what kind of procedure we can evolve. Incidentally, Chaplain,not a word about this beforehand to Colonel Korn. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Cathcart began tramping back and forth reflectively in the narrow corridors left between his bushels ofplum tomatoes and the desk and wooden chairs in the center of the room. “I suppose we’ll have to keep youwaiting outside until the briefing is over, because all that information is classified. We can slip you in whileMajor Danby is synchronizing the watches. I don’t think there’s anything secret about the right time. We’llallocate about a minute and a half for you in the schedule. Will a minute and a half be enough?”
“Yes, sir. If it doesn’t include the time necessary to excuse the atheists from the room and admit the enlistedmen.”
Colonel Cathcart stopped in his tracks. “What atheists?” he bellowed defensively, his whole manner changing ina flash to one of virtuous and belligerent denial. “There are no atheists in my outfit! Atheism is against the law,isn’t it?”
“No, sir.”
“It isn’t?” The colonel was surprised. “Then it’s un-American, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” answered the chaplain.
“Well, I am!” the colonel declared. “I’m not going to disrupt our religious services just to accommodate a bunchof lousy atheists. They’re getting no special privileges from me. They can stay right where they are and pray withthe rest of us. And what’s all this about enlisted men? Just how the hell do they get into this act?”
The chaplain felt his face flush. “I’m sorry, sir. I just assumed you would want the enlisted men to be present,since they would be going along on the same mission.”
“Well, I don’t. They’ve got a God and a chaplain of their own, haven’t they?”
“No, sir.”
“What are you talking about? You mean they pray to the same God we do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And He listens?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” remarked the colonel, and he snorted to himself in quizzical amusement. His spiritsdrooped suddenly a moment later, and he ran his hand nervously over his short, black, graying curls. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to let the enlisted men in?” he asked with concern.
“I should think it only proper, sir.”
“I’d like to keep them out,” confided the colonel, and began cracking his knuckles savagely as he wandered backand forth. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, Chaplain. It isn’t that I think the enlisted men are dirty, common andinferior. It’s that we just don’t have enough room. Frankly, though, I’d just as soon the officers and enlisted mendidn’t fraternize in the briefing room. They see enough of each other during the mission, it seems to me. Some ofmy very best friends are enlisted men, you understand, but that’s about as close as I care to let them come.
Honestly now, Chaplain, you wouldn’t want your sister to marry an enlisted man, would you?”
“My sister is an enlisted man, sir,” the chaplain replied.
The colonel stopped in his tracks again and eyed the chaplain sharply to make certain he was not being ridiculed.
“Just what do you mean by that remark, Chaplain? Are you trying to be funny?”
“Oh, no, sir,” the chaplain hastened to explain with a look of excruciating discomfort. “She’s a master sergeantin the Marines.”
The colonel had never liked the chaplain and now he loathed and distrusted him. He experienced a keenpremonition of danger and wondered if the chaplain too were plotting against him, if the chaplain’s reticent,unimpressive manner were really just a sinister disguise masking a fiery ambition that, way down deep, wascrafty and unscrupulous. There was something funny about the chaplain, and the colonel soon detected what itwas. The chaplain was standing stiffly at attention, for the colonel had forgotten to put him at ease. Let him staythat way, the colonel decided vindictively, just to show him who was boss and to safeguard himself against anyloss of dignity that might devolve from his acknowledging the omission.
Colonel Cathcart was drawn hypnotically toward the window with a massive, dull stare of moody introspection.
The enlisted men were always treacherous, he decided. He looked downward in mournful gloom at the skeet-shooting range he had ordered built for the officers on his headquarters staff, and he recalled the mortifyingafternoon General Dreedle had tongue-lashed him ruthlessly in front of Colonel Korn and Major Danby andordered him to throw open the range to all the enlisted men and officers on combat duty. The skeet-shootingrange had been a real black eye for him, Colonel Cathcart was forced to conclude. He was positive that GeneralDreedle had never forgotten it, even though he was positive that General Dreedle didn’t even remember it, whichwas really very unjust, Colonel Cathcart lamented, since the idea of a skeet-shooting range itself should havebeen a real feather in his cap, even though it had been such a real black eye. Colonel Cathcart was helpless toassess exactly how much ground he had gained or lost with his goddam skeet-shooting range and wished thatColonel Korn were in his office right then to evaluate the entire episode for him still one more time and assuagehis fears.
It was all very perplexing, all very discouraging. Colonel Cathcart took the cigarette holder out of his mouth,stood it on end inside the pocket of his shirt, and began gnawing on the fingernails of both hands grievously.
Everybody was against him, and he was sick to his soul that Colonel Korn was not with him in this moment of crisis to help him decide what to do about the prayer meetings. He had almost no faith at all in the chaplain, whowas still only a captain. “Do you think,” he asked, “that keeping the enlisted men out might interfere with ourchances of getting results?”
The chaplain hesitated, feeling himself on unfamiliar ground again. “Yes, sir,” he replied finally. “I think it’sconceivable that such an action could interfere with your chances of having the prayers for a tighter bomb patternanswered.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about that!” cried the colonel, with his eyes blinking and splashing like puddles. “Youmean that God might even decide to punish me by giving us a looser bomb pattern?”
“Yes, sir,” said the chaplain. “It’s conceivable He might.”
“The hell with it, then,” the colonel asserted in a huff of independence. “I’m not going to set these damnedprayer meetings up just to make things worse than they are.” With a scornful snicker, he settled himself behindhis desk, replaced the empty cigarette holder in his mouth and lapsed into parturient silence for a few moments.
“Now I think about it,” he confessed, as much to himself as to the chaplain, “having the men pray to Godprobably wasn’t such a hot idea anyway. The editors of The Saturday Evening Post might not have co-operated.”
The colonel abandoned his project with remorse, for he had conceived it entirely on his own and had hoped tounveil it as a striking demonstration to everyone that he had no real need for Colonel Korn. Once it was gone, hewas glad to be rid of it, for he had been troubled from the start by the danger of instituting the plan without firstchecking it out with Colonel Korn. He heaved an immense sigh of contentment. He had a much higher opinion ofhimself now that his idea was abandoned, for he had made a very wise decision, he felt, and, most important, hehad made this wise decision without consulting Colonel Korn.
“Will that be all, sir?” asked the chaplain.
“Yeah,” said Colonel Cathcart. “Unless you’ve got something else to suggest.”
“No, sir. Only...”
The colonel lifted his eyes as though affronted and studied the chaplain with aloof distrust. “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 kepthim 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 saidsomething. “They were wondering why you couldn’t requisition some of the replacement crews that are waitingin 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 thewall. “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 ofanything 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 doingsomething 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.”