'Look, Colonel,' he announced. 'No hands.' And to an audience stilled with awe, he distributed certified photostatic copies of the obscure regulation on which he had built his unforgettable triumph. This was Lieutenant Scheisskopf's finest hour. He won the parade, of course, hands down, obtaining permanent possession of the red pennant and ending the Sunday parades altogether, since good red pennants were as hard to come by in wartime as good copper wire. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was made First Lieutenant Scheisskopf on the spot and began his rapid rise through the ranks. There were few who did not hail him as a true military genius for his important discovery.
'That Lieutenant Scheisskopf,' Lieutenant Travels remarked. 'He's a military genius.'
'Yes, he really is,' Lieutenant Engle agreed. 'It's a pity the schmuck won't whip his wife.'
'I don't see what that has to do with it,' Lieutenant Travers answered coolly.
'Lieutenant Bemis whips Mrs. Bemis beautifully every time they have sexual intercourse, and he isn't worth a farthing at parades.'
'I'm talking about flagellation,' Lieutenant Engle retorted. 'Who gives a damn about parades?' Actually, no one but Lieutenant Scheisskopf really gave a damn about the parades, least of all the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, who was chairman of the Action Board and began bellowing at Clevinger the moment Clevinger stepped gingerly into the room to plead innocent to the charges Lieutenant Scheisskopf had lodged against him. The colonel beat his fist down upon the table and hurt his hand and became so further enraged with Clevinger that he beat his fist down upon the table even harder and hurt his hand some more. Lieutenant Scheisskopf glared at Clevinger with tight lips, mortified by the poor impression Clevinger was making.
'In sixty days you'll be fighting Billy Petrolle,' the colonel with the big fat mustache roared. 'And you think it's a big fat joke.'
'I don't think it's a joke, sir,' Clevinger replied.
'Don't interrupt.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And say "sir" when you do,' ordered Major Metcalf.
'Yes, sir.'
'Weren't you just ordered not to interrupt?' Major Metcalf inquired coldly.
'But I didn't interrupt, sir,' Clevinger protested.
'No. And you didn't say "sir," either. Add that to the charges against him,' Major Metcalf directed the corporal who could take shorthand. 'Failure to say "sir" to superior officers when not interrupting them.'
'Metcalf,' said the colonel, 'you're a goddam fool. Do you know that?' Major Metcalf swallowed with difficulty. 'Yes, Sir.'
'Then keep your goddam mouth shut. You don't make sense.' There were three members of the Action Board, the bloated colonel with the big fat mustache, Lieutenant Scheisskopf and Major Metcalf, who was trying to develop a steely gaze. As a member of the Action Board, Lieutenant Scheisskopf was one of the judges who would weigh the merits of the case against Clevinger as presented by the prosecutor. Lieutenant Scheisskopf was also the prosecutor. Clevinger had an officer defending him. The officer defending him was Lieutenant Scheisskopf It was all very confusing to Clevinger, who began vibrating in terror as the colonel surged to his feet like a gigantic belch and threatened to rip his stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. One day he had stumbled while marching to class; the next day he was formally charged with 'breaking ranks while in formation, felonious assault, indiscriminate behavior, mopery, high treason, provoking, being a smart guy, listening to classical music and so on'. In short, they threw the book at him, and there he was, standing in dread before the bloated colonel, who roared once more that in sixty days he would be fighting Billy Petrolle and demanded to know how the hell he would like being washed out and shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. Clevinger replied with courtesy that he would not like it; he was a dope who would rather be a corpse than bury one. The colonel sat down and settled back, calm and cagey suddenly, and ingratiatingly polite.
'What did you mean,' he inquired slowly, 'when you said we couldn't punish you?'
'When, sir?'
'I'm asking the questions. You're answering them.'
'Yes, sir. I--'
'Did you think we brought you here to ask questions and for me to answer them?'
'No, sir. I--'
'What did we bring you here for?'
'To answer questions.'
'You're goddam right,' roared the colonel. 'Now suppose you start answering some before I break your goddam head. Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn't punish you?'
'I don't think I ever made that statement, sir.'
'Will you speak up, please? I couldn't hear you.'
'Yes, sir. I--'
'Will you speak up, please? He couldn't hear you.'
'Yes, sir. I--'
'Metcalf.'
'Sir?'
'Didn't I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then keep your stupid mouth shut when I tell you to keep your stupid mouth shut. Do you understand? Will you speak up, please? I couldn't hear you.'
'Yes, sir. I--'
'Metcalf, is that your foot I'm stepping on?'
'No, sir. It must be Lieutenant Scheisskopf's foot.'
'It isn't my foot,' said Lieutenant Scheisskopf.
'Then maybe it is my foot after all,' said Major Metcalf.
'Move it.'
'Yes, sir. You'll have to move your foot first, colonel. It's on top of mine.'
'Are you telling me to move my foot?'
'No, sir. Oh, no, sir.'
'Then move your foot and keep your stupid mouth shut. Will you speak up, please? I still couldn't hear you.'
'Yes, sir. I said that I didn't say that you couldn't punish me.'
'Just what the hell are you talking about?'
'I'm answering your question, sir.'
'What question?'
' "Just what the hell did you mean, you bastard, when you said we couldn't punish you?" ' said the corporal who could take shorthand, reading from his steno pad.
'All right,' said the colonel. 'Just what the hell did you mean?'
'I didn't say you couldn't punish me, sir.'
'When?' asked the colonel.
'When what, sir?'
'Now you're asking me questions again.'
'I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand your question.'
'When didn't you say we couldn't punish you? Don't you understand my question?'
'No, sir. I don't understand.'
'You've just told us that. Now suppose you answer my question.'
'But how can I answer it?'
'That's another question you're asking me.'
'I'm sorry, sir. But I don't know how to answer it. I never said you couldn't punish me.'
'Now you're telling us when you did say it. I'm asking you to tell us when you didn't say it.' Clevinger took a deep breath. 'I always didn't say you couldn't punish me, sir.'
'That's much better, Mr. Clevinger, even though it is a barefaced lie. Last night in the latrine. Didn't you whisper that we couldn't punish you to that other dirty son of a bitch we don't like? What's his name?'
'Yossarian, sir,' Lieutenant Scheisskopf said.
'Yes, Yossarian. That's right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his name? Yossarian? What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian?' Lieutenant Scheisskopf had the facts at his fingertips. 'It's Yossarian's name, sir,' he explained.
'Yes, I suppose it is. Didn't you whisper to Yossarian that we couldn't punish you?'
'Oh, no, sir. I whispered to him that you couldn't find me guilty--'
'I may be stupid,' interrupted the colonel, 'but the distinction escapes me. I guess I am pretty stupid, because the distinction escapes me.'
'W--'
'You're a windy son of a bitch, aren't you? Nobody asked you for clarification and you're giving me clarification. I was making a statement, not asking for clarification. You are a windy son of a bitch, aren't you?'
'No, Sir.'
'No, sir? Are you ca
lling me a goddam liar?'
'Oh, no, sir.'
'Then you're a windy son of a bitch, aren't you?'
'No, sir.'
'Are you a windy son of a bitch?'
'No, sir.'
'Goddammit, you are trying to pick a fight with me. For two stinking cents I'd jump over this big fat table and rip your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb.'
'Do it! Do it!' cried Major Metcalf 'Metcalf, you stinking son of a bitch. Didn't I tell you to keep your stinking, cowardly, stupid mouth shut?'
'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'
'Then suppose you do it.'
'I was only trying to learn, sir. The only way a person can learn is by trying.'
'Who says so?'
'Everybody says so, sir. Even Lieutenant Scheisskopf says so.'
'Do you say so?'
'Yes, sir,' said Lieutenant Scheisskopf. 'But everybody says so.'
'Well, Metcalf, suppose you try keeping that stupid mouth of yours shut, and maybe that's the way you'll learn how. Now, where were we? Read me back the last line.'
' "Read me back the last line," ' read back the corporal who could take shorthand.
'Not my last line, stupid!' the colonel shouted. 'Somebody else's.'
' "Read me back the last line," ' read back the corporal.
'That's my last line again!' shrieked the colonel, turning purple with anger.
'Oh, no, sir,' corrected the corporal. 'That's my last line. I read it to you just a moment ago. Don't you remember, sir? It was only a moment ago.'
'Oh, my God! Read me back his last line, stupid. Say, what the hell's your name, anyway?'
'Popinjay, sir.'
'Well, you're next, Popinjay. As soon as his trial ends, your trial begins. Get it?'
'Yes, sir. What will I be charged with?'
'What the hell difference does that make? Did you hear what he asked me? You're going to learn, Popinjay--the minute we finish with Clevinger you're going to learn. Cadet Clevinger, what did--You are Cadet Clevinger, aren't you, and not Popinjay?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. What did--'
'I'm Popinjay, sir.'
'Popinjay, is your father a millionaire, or a member of the Senate?'
'No, sir.'
'Then you're up shit creek, Popinjay, without a paddle. He's not a general or a high-ranking member of the Administration, is he?'
'No, sir.'
'That's good. What does your father do?'
'He's dead, sir.'
'That's very good. You really are up the creek, Popinjay. Is Popinjay really your name? Just what the hell kind of a name is Popinjay anyway? I don't like it.'
'It's Popinjay's name, sir,' Lieutenant Scheisskopf explained.
'Well, I don't like it, Popinjay, and I just can't wait to rip your stinking, cowardly body apart limb from limb. Cadet Clevinger, will you please repeat what the hell it was you did or didn't whisper to Yossarian late last night in the latrine?'
'Yes, sir. I said that you couldn't find me guilty--'
'We'll take it from there. Precisely what did you mean, Cadet Clevinger, when you said we couldn't find you guilty?'
'I didn't say you couldn't find me guilty, sir.'
'When?'
'When what, sir?'
'Goddammit, are you going to start pumping me again?'
'No, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'
'Then answer the question. When didn't you say we couldn't find you guilty?'
'Late last night in the latrine, sir.'
'Is that the only time you didn't say it?'
'No, sir. I always didn't say you couldn't find me guilty, sir. What I did say to Yossarian was--'
'Nobody asked you what you did say to Yossarian. We asked you what you didn't say to him. We're not at all interested in what you did say to Yossarian. Is that clear?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then we'll go on. What did you say to Yossarian?'
'I said to him, sir, that you couldn't find me guilty of the offense with which I am charged and still be faithful to the cause of...'
'Of what? You're mumbling.'
'Stop mumbling.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And mumble "sir" when you do.'
'Metcalf, you bastard!'
'Yes, sir,' mumbled Clevinger. 'Of justice, sir. That you couldn't find--'
'Justice?' The colonel was astounded. 'What is justice?'
'Justice, sir--'
'That's not what justice is,' the colonel jeered, and began pounding the table again with his big fat hand. 'That's what Karl Marx is. I'll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That's what justice is when we've all got to be tough enough and rough enough to fight Billy Petrolle. From the hip. Get it?'
'No, sir.'
'Don't sir me!'
'Yes, sir.'
'And say "sir" when you don't,' ordered Major Metcalf.
Clevinger was guilty, of course, or he would not have been accused, and since the only way to prove it was to find him guilty, it was their patriotic duty to do so. He was sentenced to walk fifty-seven punishment tours. Popinjay was locked up to be taught a lesson, and Major Metcalf was shipped to the Solomon Islands to bury bodies. A punishment tour for Clevinger was fifty minutes of a weekend hour spent pacing back and forth before the provost marshal's building with a ton of an unloaded rifle on his shoulder.
It was all very confusing to Clevinger. There were many strange things taking place, but the strangest of all, to Clevinger, was the hatred, the brutal, uncloaked, inexorable hatred of the members of the Action Board, glazing their unforgiving expressions with a hard, vindictive surface, glowing in their narrowed eyes malignantly like inextinguishable coals. Clevinger was stunned to discover it. They would have lynched him if they could. They were three grown men and he was a boy, and they hated him and wished him dead. They had hated him before he came, hated him while he was there, hated him after he left, carried their hatred for him away malignantly like some pampered treasure after they separated from each other and went to their solitude.
Yossarian had done his best to warn him the night before. 'You haven't got a chance, kid,' he told him glumly. 'They hate Jews.'
'But I'm not Jewish,' answered Clevinger.
'It will make no difference,' Yossarian promised, and Yossarian was right. 'They're after everybody.' Clevinger recoiled from their hatred as though from a blinding light. These three men who hated him spoke his language and wore his uniform, but he saw their loveless faces set immutably into cramped, mean lines of hostility and understood instantly that nowhere in the world, not in all the fascist tanks or planes or submarines, not in the bunkers behind the machine guns or mortars or behind the blowing flame throwers, not even among all the expert gunners of the crack Hermann Goering Antiaircraft Division or among the grisly connivers in all the beer halls in Munich and everywhere else, were there men who hated him more.
Catch-22
Major Major Major Major
Major Major Major Major had had a difficult time from the start.
Like Minniver Cheevy, he had been born too late--exactly thirty-six hours too late for the physical well-being of his mother, a gentle, ailing woman who, after a full day and a half's agony in the rigors of childbirth, was depleted of all resolve to pursue further the argument over the new child's name. In the hospital corridor, her husband moved ahead with the unsmiling determination of someone who knew what he was about. Major Major's father was a towering, gaunt man in heavy shoes and a black woolen suit. He filled out the birth certificate without faltering, betraying no emotion at all as he handed the completed form to the floor nurse. The nurse took it from him without comment and padded out of sight. He watched her go, wondering what she had on underneath.
Back in the ward, he found his wife lying vanquished beneath the blankets like a
desiccated old vegetable, wrinkled, dry and white, her enfeebled tissues absolutely still. Her bed was at the very end of the ward, near a cracked window thickened with grime. Rain splashed from a moiling sky and the day was dreary and cold. In other parts of the hospital chalky people with aged, blue lips were dying on time. The man stood erect beside the bed and gazed down at the woman a long time.
'I have named the boy Caleb,' he announced to her finally in a soft voice. 'In accordance with your wishes.' The woman made no answer, and slowly the man smiled. He had planned it all perfectly, for his wife was asleep and would never know that he had lied to her as she lay on her sickbed in the poor ward of the county hospital.
From this meager beginning had sprung the ineffectual squadron commander who was now spending the better part of each working day in Pianosa forging Washington Irving's name to official documents. Major Major forged diligently with his left hand to elude identification, insulated against intrusion by his own undesired authority and camouflaged in his false mustache and dark glasses as an additional safeguard against detection by anyone chancing to peer in through the dowdy celluloid window from which some thief had carved out a slice. In between these two low points of his birth and his success lay thirty-one dismal years of loneliness and frustration.
Major Major had been born too late and too mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Even among men lacking all distinction he inevitably stood out as a man lacking more distinction than all the rest, and people who met him were always impressed by how unimpressive he was.
Major Major had three strikes on him from the beginning--his mother, his father and Henry Fonda, to whom he bore a sickly resemblance almost from the moment of his birth. Long before he even suspected who Henry Fonda was, he found himself the subject of unflattering comparisons everywhere he went. Total strangers saw fit to deprecate him, with the result that he was stricken early with a guilty fear of people and an obsequious impulse to apologize to society for the fact that he was not Henry Fonda. It was not an easy task for him to go through life looking something like Henry Fonda, but he never once thought of quitting, having inherited his perseverance from his father, a lanky man with a good sense of humor.