'Only in extreme circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one of the enlisted men. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarian forced--'
'Yossarian?' The chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another miracle in the making? 'But that's exactly whom I want to speak to him about! Did they talk about the number of missions Yossarian has to fly?'
'Yes, sir, that's exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one missions, and he appealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn't have to fly four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted only fifty-five missions then.'
'And what did Major Major say?'
'Major Major told him there was nothing he could do.' The chaplain's face fell. 'Major Major said that?'
'Yes, sir. In fact, he advised Yossarian to go see you for help. Are you certain you wouldn't like to leave a note, sir? I have a pencil and paper right here.' The chaplain shook his head, chewing his clotted dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was still so early in the day, and so much had already happened. The air was cooler in the forest. His throat was parched and sore. He walked slowly and asked himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before the mad hermit in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a mulberry bush. The chaplain screamed at the top of his voice.
The tall, cadaverous stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain's cry and shrieked, 'Don't hurt me!'
'Who are you?' the chaplain shouted.
'Please don't hurt me!' the man shouted back.
'I'm the chaplain!'
'Then why do you want to hurt me?'
'I don't want to hurt you!' the chaplain insisted with a rising hint of exasperation, even though he was still rooted to the spot. 'Just tell me who you are and what you want from me.'
'I just want to find out if Chief White Halfoat died of pneumonia yet,' the man shouted back. 'That's all I want. I live here. My name is Flume. I belong to the squadron, but I live here in the woods. You can ask anyone.' The chaplain's composure began trickling back as he studied the queer, cringing figure intently. A pair of captain's bars ulcerated with rust hung on the man's ragged shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole on the underside of one nostril and a heavy rough mustache the color of poplar bark.
'Why do you live in the woods if you belong to the squadron?' the chaplain inquired curiously.
'I have to live in the woods,' the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought to know. He straightened slowly, still watching the chaplain guardedly although he towered above him by more than a full head.
'Don't you hear everybody talking about me? Chief White Halfoat swore he was going to cut my throat some night when I was fast asleep, and I don't dare lie down in the squadron while he's still alive.' The chaplain listened to the implausible explanation distrustfully. 'But that's incredible,' he replied. 'That would be premeditated murder. Why didn't you report the incident to Major Major?'
'I did report the incident to Major Major,' said the captain sadly, 'and Major Major said he would cut my throat if I ever spoke to him again.' The man studied the chaplain fearfully. 'Are you going to cut my throat, too?'
'Oh, no, no, no,' the chaplain assured him. 'Of course not. Do you really live in the forest?' The captain nodded, and the chaplain gazed at his porous gray pallor of fatigue and malnutrition with a mixture of pity and esteem. The man's body was a bony shell inside rumpled clothing that hung on him like a disorderly collection of sacks. Wisps of dried grass were glued all over him; he needed a haircut badly. There were great, dark circles under his eyes. The chaplain was moved almost to tears by the harassed, bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with deference and compassion at the thought of the many severe rigors the poor man had to endure daily. In a voice hushed with humility, he said, 'Who does your laundry?' The captain pursed his lips in a businesslike manner. 'I have it done by a washerwoman in one of the farmhouses down the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak inside once or twice a day for a clean handkerchief or a change of underwear.'
'What will you do when winter comes?'
'Oh, I expect to be back in the squadron by then,' the captain answered with a kind of martyred confidence. 'Chief White Halfoat kept promising everyone that he was going to die of pneumonia, and I guess I'll have to be patient until the weather turns a little colder and damper.' He scrutinized the chaplain perplexedly. 'Don't you know all this? Don't you hear all the fellows talking about me?'
'I don't think I've ever heard anyone mention you.'
'Well, I certainly can't understand that.' The captain was piqued, but managed to carry on with a pretense of optimism. 'Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess it won't be too long now. The next time any of the boys ask about me, why, just tell them I'll be back grinding out those old publicity releases again as soon as Chief White Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I'll be back in the squadron as soon as winter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Okay?' The chaplain memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric import. 'Do you live on berries, herbs and roots?' he asked.
'No, of course not,' the captain replied with surprise. 'I sneak into the mess hall through the back and eat in the kitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.'
'What do you do when it rains?' The captain answered frankly. 'I get wet.'
'Where do you sleep?' Swiftly the captain ducked down into a crouch and began backing away. 'You too?' he cried frantically.
'Oh, no,' cried the chaplain. 'I swear to you.'
'You do want to cut my throat!' the captain insisted.
'I give my word,' the chaplain pleaded, but it was too late, for the homely hirsute specter had already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled, fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows that the chaplain was already doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous events were occurring that he was no longer positive which events were monstrous and which were really taking place. He wanted to find out about the madman in the woods as quickly as possible, to check if there ever really had been a Captain Flume, but his first chore, he recalled with reluctance, was to appease Corporal Whitcomb for neglecting to delegate enough responsibility to him. He plodded along the zigzagging path through the forest listlessly, clogged with thirst and feeling almost too exhausted to go on. He was remorseful when he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. He prayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he reached the clearing so that he could undress without embarrassment, wash his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly, drink water, lie down refreshed and perhaps even sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and still another shock, for Corporal Whitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain's chair sewing his new sergeant's stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain's needle and thread. Corporal Whitcomb had been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.
'Oh, no,' groaned the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm canteen was empty, and he was too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade between the two tents. 'I can't believe it. I just can't believe that anyone would seriously believe that I've been forging Washington Irving's name.'
'Not those letters,' Corporal Whitcomb corrected, plainly enjoying the chaplain's chagrin. 'He wants to see you about the letters home to the families of casualties.'