It was already some time since the chaplain had first begun wondering what everything was all about. Was therea God? How could he be sure? Being an Anabaptist minister in the American Army was difficult enough underthe best of circumstances; without dogma, it was almost intolerable.

　　People with loud voices frightened him. Brave, aggressive men of action like Colonel Cathcart left him feelinghelpless and alone. Wherever he went in the Army, he was a stranger. Enlisted¹ men and officers did not conductthemselves with him as they conducted themselves with other enlisted men and officers, and even otherchaplains were not as friendly toward him as they were toward each other. In a world in which success was theonly virtue³, he had resigned himself to failure. He was painfully aware that he lacked the ecclesiastical aplomband savoir-faire that enabled so many of his colleagues in other faiths and sects⁴ to get ahead. He was just notequipped to excel. He thought of himself as ugly and wanted daily to be home with his wife.

　　Actually, the chaplain was almost good-looking, with a pleasant, sensitive face as pale and brittle⁶ as sandstone.

　　His mind was open on every subject.

　　Perhaps he really was Washington Irving, and perhaps he really had been signing Washington Irving’s name tothose letters he knew nothing about. Such lapses⁷ of memory were not uncommon⁸ in medical annals, he knew.

　　There was no way of really knowing anything. He remembered very distinctly—or was under the impression heremembered very distinctly—his feeling that he had met Yossarian somewhere before the first time he had metYossarian lying in bed in the hospital. He remembered experiencing the same disquieting⁹ sensation almost twoweeks later when Yossarian appeared at his tent to ask to be taken off combat duty. By that time, of course, thechaplain had met Yossarian somewhere before, in that odd, unorthodox ward² in which every patient seemeddelinquent but the unfortunate patient covered from head to toe in white bandages and plaster who was founddead one day with a thermometer in his mouth. But the chaplain’s impression of a prior meeting was of someoccasion far more momentous¹⁰ and occult than that, of a significant encounter with Yossarian in some remote,submerged and perhaps even entirely¹¹ spiritual epoch¹² in which he had made the identical, foredooming admissionthat there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to help him.

　　Doubts of such kind gnawed¹⁴ at the chaplain’s lean, suffering frame insatiably. Was there a single true faith, or alife after death? How many angels could dance on the head of a pin, and with what matters did God occupyhimself in all the infinite aeons before the Creation? Why was it necessary to put a protective seal on the brow ofCain if there were no other people to protect him from? Did Adam and Eve produce daughters? These were thegreat, complex questions of ontology that tormented¹⁵ him. Yet they never seemed nearly as crucial to him as thequestion of kindness and good manners. He was pinched perspinngly in the epistemological dilemma¹⁶ of theskeptic, unable to accept solutions to problems he was unwilling¹⁷ to dismiss as unsolvable. He was never withoutmisery, and never without hope.

　　“Have you ever,” he inquired hesitantly of Yossarian that day in his tent as Yossarian sat holding in both handsthe warm bottle of Coca-Cola with which the chaplain had been able to solace¹⁹ him, “been in a situation whichyou felt you had been in before, even though you knew you were experiencing it for the first time?” Yossariannodded perfunctorily, and the chaplain’s breath quickened in anticipation²⁰ as he made ready to join his will powerwith Yossarian’s in a prodigious²¹ effort to rip away at last the voluminous black folds shrouding²³ the eternal mysteries of existence. “Do you have that feeling now?”

　　Yossarian shook his head and explained that déjà vu was just a momentary²⁴ infinitesimal lag in the operation oftwo coactive sensory²⁵ nerve centers that commonly functioned simultaneously²⁶. The chaplain scarcely heard him.

　　He was disappointed, but not inclined to believe Yossarian, for he had been given a sign, a secret, enigmaticvision that he still lacked the boldness to divulge²⁷. There was no mistaking the awesome²⁸ implications of thechaplain’s revelation: it was either an insight of divine origin or a hallucination; he was either blessed or losinghis mind. Both prospects²⁹ filled him with equal fear and depression. It was neither déjà vu, presque vu nor jamaisvu. It was possible that there were other vus of which he had never heard and that one of these other vus wouldexplain succinctly³⁰ the bafing phenomenon of which he had been both a witness and a part; it was even possiblethat none of what he thought had taken place, really had taken place, that he was dealing³¹ with an aberration³² ofmemory rather than of perception, that he never really had thought he had seen, that his impression now that heonce had thought so was merely the illusion of an illusion, and that he was only now imagining that he had everonce imagined seeing a naked man sitting in a tree at the cemetery³³.

　　It was obvious to the chaplain now that he was not particularly well suited to his work, and he often speculatedwhether he might not be happier serving in some other branch of the service, as a private in the infantry³⁴ or fieldartillery, perhaps, or even as a paratrooper. He had no real friends. Before meeting Yossarian, there was no onein the group with whom he felt at ease, and he was hardly at ease with Yossarian, whose frequent rash andinsubordinate outbursts kept him almost constantly on edge and in an ambiguous state of enjoyable trepidation³⁶.

　　The chaplain felt safe when he was at the officers’ club with Yossarian and Dunbar, and even with just Natelyand McWatt. When he sat with them he had no need to sit with anyone else; his problem of where to sit wassolved, and he was protected against the undesired company of all those fellow officers who invariablywelcomed him with excessive cordiality when he approached and waited uncomfortably for him to go away. Hemade so many people uneasy. Everyone was always very friendly toward him, and no one was ever very nice;everyone spoke³⁷ to him, and no one ever said anything. Yossarian and Dunbar were much more relaxed, and thechaplain was hardly uncomfortable with them at all. They even defended him the night Colonel Cathcart tried tothrow him out of the officers’ club again, Yossarian rising truculently³⁸ to intervene and Nately shouting out,“Yossarian!” to restrain him. Colonel Cathcart turned white as a sheet at the sound of Yossarian’s name, and, toeveryone’s amazement³⁹, retreated in horrified⁴⁰ disorder⁴¹ until he bumped into General Dreedle, who elbowed himaway with annoyance⁴² and ordered him right back to order the chaplain to start coming into the officers’ clubevery night again.

　　The chaplain had almost as much trouble keeping track of his status at the officers’ club as he had rememberingat which of the ten mess halls in the group he was scheduled to eat his next meal. He would just as soon haveremained kicked out of the officers’ club, had it not been for the pleasure he was now finding there with his newcompanions. If the chaplain did not go to the officers’ club at night, there was no place else he could go. Hewould pass the time at Yossarian’s and Dunbar’s table with a shy, reticent⁴³ smile, seldom speaking unlessaddressed, a glass of thick sweet wine almost untasted before him as he toyed unfamiliarly with the tiny corncobpipe that he affected⁴⁵ selfconsciously and occasionally stuffed with tobacco and smoked. He enjoyed listening toNately, whose maudlin⁴⁶, bittersweet lamentations mirrored much of his own romantic desolation and never failedto evoke⁴⁷ in him resurgent tides of longing⁴⁸ for his wife and children. The chaplain would encourage Nately withnods of comprehension or assent⁴⁹, amused by his candor⁵⁰ and immaturity⁵¹. Nately did not glory too immodestly that his girl was a prostitute, and the chaplain’s awareness⁵² stemmed mainly from Captain Black, who neverslouched past their table without a broad wink⁵³ at the chaplain and some tasteless, wounding gibe⁵⁴ about her toNately. The chaplain did not approve of Captain Black and found it difficult not to wish him evil.

　　No one, not even Nately, seemed really to appreciate that he, Chaplain Robert Oliver Shipman, was not just achaplain but a human being, that he could have a charming, passionate⁵⁵, pretty wife whom he loved almostinsanely and three small blue-eyed children with strange, forgotten faces who would grow up someday to regardhim as a freak and who might never forgive him for all the social embarrassment⁵⁶ his vocation⁵⁷ would cause them.

　　Why couldn’t anybody understand that he was not really a freak but a normal, lonely adult trying to lead anormal, lonely adult life? If they pricked⁵⁸ him, didn’t he bleed? And if he was tickled⁵⁹, didn’t he laugh? It seemednever to have occurred to them that he, just as they, had eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses and affections,that he was wounded by the same kind of weapons they were, warmed and cooled by the same breezes and fedby the same kind of food, although, he was forced to concede, in a different mess hall for each successive meal.

　　The only person who did seem to realize he had feelings was Corporal Whitcomb, who had just managed tobruise them all by going over his head to Colonel Cathcart with his proposal for sending form letters ofcondolence home to the families of men killed or wounded in combat.

　　The chaplain’s wife was the one thing in the world he could be certain of, and it would have been sufficient, ifonly he had been left to live his life out with just her and the children. The chaplain’s wife was a reserved,diminutive, agreeable woman in her early thirties, very dark and very attractive, with a narrow waist, calmintelligent eyes, and small, bright, pointy teeth in a childlike face that was vivacious⁶⁰ and petite; he kept forgettingwhat his children looked like, and each time he returned to their snapshots it was like seeing their faces for thefirst time. The chaplain loved his wife and children with such tameless intensity⁶¹ that he often wanted to sink tothe ground helplessly and weep like a castaway cripple. He was tormented inexorably by morbid⁶² fantasiesinvolving them, by dire⁶³, hideous⁶⁴ omens⁶⁵ of illness and accident. His meditations⁶⁶ were polluted with threats ofdread diseases like Ewing’s tumor⁶⁷ and leukemia; he saw his infant son die two or three times every weekbecause he had never taught his wife how to stop arterial bleeding; watched, in tearful, paralyzed silence, hiswhole family electrocuted, one after the other, at a baseboard socket⁶⁸ because he had never told her that a humanbody would conduct electricity; all four went up in flames almost every night when the water heater explodedand set the two-story wooden house afire; in ghastly, heartless, revolting detail he saw his poor dear wife’s trimand fragile body crushed to a viscous⁶⁹ pulp⁷⁰ against the brick wall of a market building by a half-wined drunkenautomobile driver and watched his hysterical⁷¹ five-year-old daughter being led away from the grisly scene by akindly middle-aged⁷² gentleman with snow-white hair who raped⁷³ and murdered her repeatedly as soon as he haddriven her off to a deserted⁷⁴ sandpit, while his two younger children starved to death slowly in the house after hiswife’s mother, who had been baby-sitting, dropped dead from a heart attack when news of his wife’s accidentwas given to her over the telephone. The chaplain’s wife was a sweet, soothing⁷⁵, considerate woman, and heyearned to touch the warm flesh of her slender arm again and stroke her smooth black hair, to hear her intimate,comforting voice. She was a much stronger person than he was. He wrote brief, untroubled letters to her once aweek, sometimes twice. He wanted to write urgent love letters to her all day long and crowd the endless pageswith desperate, uninhibited confessions⁷⁶ of his humble⁷⁷ worship and need and with careful instructions foradministering artificial respiration⁷⁸. He wanted to pour out to her in torrents⁷⁹ of self-pity all his unbearableloneliness and despair and warn her never to leave the boric acid or the aspirin⁸⁰ in reach of the children or to crossa street against the traffic light. He did not wish to worry her. The chaplain’s wife was intuitive, gentle, compassionate⁸² and responsive. Almost inevitably⁸³, his reveries of reunion with her ended in explicit⁸⁴ acts of lovemaking.

　　The chaplain felt most deceitful presiding at funerals, and it would not have astonished him to learn that theapparition in the tree that day was a manifestation⁸⁵ of the Almighty⁸⁶’s censure⁸⁷ for the blasphemy⁸⁸ and prideinherent in his function. To simulate gravity, feign⁸⁹ grief and pretend supernatural intelligence of the hereafter inso fearsome and arcane⁹⁰ a circumstance as death seemed the most criminal of offenses⁹¹. He recalled—or wasalmost convinced he recalled—the scene at the cemetery perfectly⁹². He could still see Major Major and MajorDanby standing⁹³ somber⁹⁴ as broken stone pillars on either side of him, see almost the exact number of enlistedmen and almost the exact places in which they had stood, see the four unmoving men with spades, the repulsivecoffin and the large, loose, triumphant⁹⁶ mound⁹⁷ of reddish-brown earth, and the massive, still, depthless, mufflingsky, so weirdly⁹⁸ blank and blue that day it was almost poisonous. He would remember them forever, for theywere all part and parcel of the most extraordinary event that had ever befallen him, an event perhaps marvelous,perhaps pathological—the vision of the naked man in the tree. How could he explain it? It was not already seenor never seen, and certainly not almost seen; neither déjà vu, jamais vu nor presque vu was elastic⁹⁹ enough tocover it. Was it a ghost, then? The dead man’s soul? An angel from heaven or a minion¹⁰⁰ from hell? Or was thewhole fantastic episode merely the figment of a diseased imagination, his own, of a deteriorating¹⁰¹ mind, a rottingbrain? The possibility that there really had been a naked man in the tree—two men, actually, since the first hadbeen joined shortly by a second man clad in a brown mustache and sinister¹⁰² dark garments from head to toe whobent forward ritualistically along the limb of the tree to offer the first man something to drink from a browngoblet—never crossed the chaplain’s mind.

　　The chaplain was sincerely a very helpful person who was never able to help anyone, not even Yossarian whenhe finally decided¹⁰³ to seize the bull by the horns and visit Major Major secretly to learn if, as Yossarian had said,the men in Colonel Cathcart’s group really were being forced to fly more combat missions than anyone else. Itwas a daring, impulsive¹⁰⁴ move on which the chaplain decided after quarreling with Corporal Whitcomb again andwashing down with tepid¹⁰⁵ canteen water his joyless lunch of Milky¹⁰⁶ Way and Baby Ruth. He went to Major Majoron foot so that Corporal Whitcomb would not see him leaving, stealing into the forest noiselessly until the twotents in his clearing were left behind, then dropping down inside the abandoned railroad ditch, where the footingwas surer. He hurried along the fossilized wooden ties with accumulating mutinous¹⁰⁷ anger. He had beenbrowbeaten and humiliated¹⁰⁸ successively that morning by Colonel Cathcart, Colonel Korn and CorporalWhitcomb. He just had to make himself felt in some respect! His slight chest was soon puffing¹⁰⁹ for breath. Hemoved as swiftly as he could without breaking into a run, fearing his resolution might dissolve if he slowed.

　　Soon he saw a uniformed figure coming toward him between the rusted¹¹⁰ rails. He clambered immediately up theside of the ditch, ducked inside a dense¹¹² copse of low trees for concealment¹¹³ and sped along in his originaldirection a narrow, overgrown mossy path he found winding¹¹⁴ deep inside the shaded forest. It was tougher goingthere, but he plunged¹¹⁵ ahead with the same reckless and consuming determination, slipping and stumbling oftenand stinging his unprotected hands on the stubborn branches blocking his way until the bushes and tall ferns onboth sides spread open and he lurched past an olive-drab military trailer on cinder¹¹⁶ blocks clearly visible throughthe thinning underbrush. He continued past a tent with a luminous²² pearl-gray cat sunning itself outside and pastanother trailer on cinder blocks and then burst into the clearing of Yossarian’s squadron. A salty dew had formedon his lips. He did not pause, but strode directly across the clearing into the orderly room, where he waswelcomed by a gaunt, stoop-shouldered staff sergeant¹¹⁷ with prominent cheekbones and long, very light blond hair, who informed him graciously that he could go right in, since Major Major was out.

　　The chaplain thanked him with a curt¹¹⁸ nod and proceeded alone down the aisle¹¹⁹ between the desks and typewritersto the canvas partition in the rear. He bobbed through the triangular¹²⁰ opening and found himself inside an emptyoffice. The flap fell closed behind him. He was breathing hard and sweating profusely¹²¹. The office remainedempty. He thought he heard furtive¹²² whispering. Ten minutes passed. He looked about in stern displeasure, hisjaws clamped together indomitably, and then turned suddenly to water as he remembered the staff sergeant’sexact words: he could go right in, since Major Major was out. The enlisted men were playing a practical joke!

　　The chaplain shrank back from the wall in terror, bitter tears springing to his eyes. A pleading whimper escapedhis trembling lips. Major Major was elsewhere, and the enlisted men in the other room had made him the butt¹²³ ofan inhuman¹²⁴ prank¹²⁵. He could almost see them waiting on the other side of the canvas wall, bunched upexpectantly like a pack of greedy, gloating omnivorous¹²⁶ beasts of prey¹²⁷, ready with their barbaric mirth and jeersto pounce¹²⁸ on him brutally¹²⁹ the moment he reappeared. He cursed himself for his gullibility¹³⁰ and wished in panicfor something like a mask or a pair of dark glasses and a false mustache to disguise him, or for a forceful, deepvoice like Colonel Cathcart’s and broad, muscular shoulders and biceps to enable him to step outside fearlesslyand vanquish¹³¹ his malevolent¹³² persecutors with an overbearing authority and self-confidence that would makethem all quail¹³³ and slink away cravenly in repentance¹³⁴. He lacked the courage to face them. The only other wayout was the window. The coast was clear, and the chaplain jumped out of Major Major’s office through thewindow, darted¹³⁵ swiftly around the corner of the tent, and leaped down inside the railroad ditch to hide.

　　He scooted away with his body doubled over and his face contorted intentionally¹³⁶ into a nonchalant, sociablesmile in case anyone chanced to see him. He abandoned the ditch for the forest the moment he saw someonecoming toward him from the opposite direction and ran through the cluttered¹³⁷ forest frenziedly like someonepursued, his cheeks burning with disgrace. He heard loud, wild peals¹³⁸ of derisive¹³⁹ laughter crashing all about himand caught blurred¹⁴⁰ glimpses of wicked, beery faces smirking¹⁴¹ far back inside the bushes and high overhead in thefoliage of the trees. Spasms¹⁴² of scorching¹⁴³ pains stabbed through his lungs and slowed him to a crippled walk. Helunged and staggered onward¹⁴⁴ until he could go no farther and collapsed¹⁴⁵ all at once against a gnarled apple tree,banging his head hard against the trunk as he toppled forward and holding on with both arms to keep fromfalling. His breathing was a rasping, moaning din¹⁸ in his ears. Minutes passed like hours before he finallyrecognized himself as the source of the turbulent roar that was overwhelming him. The pains in his chest abated¹⁴⁶.

　　Soon he felt strong enough to stand. He cocked his ears craftily¹⁴⁷. The forest was quiet. There was no demoniclaughter, no one was chasing him. He was too tired and sad and dirty to feel relieved. He straightened hisdisheveled clothing with fingers that were numb⁹⁵ and shaking and walked the rest of the way to the clearing withrigid self-control. The chaplain brooded often about the danger of heart attack.

　　Corporal Whitcomb’s jeep was still parked in the clearing. The chaplain tiptoed stealthily around the back ofCorporal Whitcomb’s tent rather than pass the entrance and risk being seen and insulted by him. Heaving agrateful sigh, he slipped quickly inside his own tent and found Corporal Whitcomb ensconced on his cot, hisknees propped¹⁴⁸ up. Corporal Whitcomb’s mud-caked shoes were on the chaplain’s blanket, and he was eating oneof the chaplain’s candy bars as he thumbed with sneering¹⁴⁹ expression through one of the chaplain’s Bibles.

　　“Where’ve you been?” he demanded rudely and disinterestedly¹⁵⁰, without looking up.

　　The chaplain colored and turned away evasively. “I went for a walk through the woods.”

　　“All right,” Corporal Whitcomb snapped. “Don’t take me into your confidence. But just wait and see whathappens to my morale¹⁵¹.” He bit into the chaplain’s candy bar hungrily and continued with a full mouth. “You hada visitor while you were gone. Major Major.”

　　The chaplain spun¹⁵² around with surprise and cried: “Major Major? Major Major was here?”

　　“That’s who we’re talking about, isn’t it?”

　　“Where did he go?”

　　“He jumped down into that railroad ditch and took off like a frightened rabbit.” Corporal Whitcomb snickered.

　　“What a jerk!”

　　“Did he say what he wanted?”

　　“He said he needed your help in a matter of great importance.”

　　The chaplain was astounded¹⁵³. “Major Major said that?”

　　“He didn’t say that,” Corporal Whitcomb corrected with withering¹⁵⁴ precision. “He wrote it down in a sealedpersonal letter he left on your desk.”

　　The chaplain glanced at the bridge table that served as his desk and saw only the abominable¹⁵⁵ orange-red pear-shaped plum tomato he had obtained that same morning from Colonel Cathcart, still lying on its side where hehad forgotten it like an indestructible and incamadine symbol of his own ineptitude¹⁵⁶. “Where is the letter?”

　　“I threw it away as soon as I tore it open and read it.” Corporal Whitcomb slammed the Bible shut and jumpedup. “What’s the matter? Won’t you take my word for it?” He walked out. He walked right back in and almostcollided with the chaplain, who was rushing out behind him on his way back to Major Major. “You don’t knowhow to delegate responsibility,” Corporal Whitcomb informed him sullenly¹⁵⁷. “That’s another one of the thingsthat’s wrong with you.”

　　The chaplain nodded penitently¹⁵⁸ and hurried past, unable to make himself take the time to apologize. He couldfeel the skillful hand of fate motivating him imperatively¹⁵⁹. Twice that day already, he realized now, Major Majorhad come racing¹⁶⁰ toward him inside the ditch; and twice that day the chaplain had stupidly postponed¹⁶¹ the destinedmeeting by bolting into the forest. He seethed¹⁶² with self-recrimination as he hastened back as rapidly as he couldstride along the splintered, irregularly spaced railroad ties. Bits of grit¹⁶³ and gravel¹⁶⁴ inside his shoes and socks weregrinding the tops of his toes raw. His pale, laboring¹⁶⁵ face was screwed up unconsciously into a grimace¹⁶⁶ of acutediscomfort. The early August afternoon was growing hotter and more humid. It was almost a mile from his tentto Yossarian’s squadron. The chaplain’s summer-tan shirt was soaking with perspiration¹⁶⁷ by the time he arrivedthere and rushed breathlessly back inside the orderly room tent, where he was halted peremptorily¹⁶⁸ by the same treacherous¹⁶⁹, soft-spoken staff sergeant with round eyeglasses and gaunt cheeks, who requested him to remainoutside because Major Major was inside and told him he would not be allowed inside until Major Major wentout. The chaplain looked at him in an uncomprehending daze¹⁷⁰. Why did the sergeant hate him? he wondered. Hislips were white and trembling. He was aching with thirst. What was the matter with people? Wasn’t theretragedy enough? The sergeant put his hand out and held the chaplain steady.

　　“I’m sorry, sir,” he said regretfully in a low, courteous¹⁷¹, melancholy¹⁷² voice. “But those are Major Major’s orders.

　　He never wants to see anyone.”

　　“He wants to see me,” the chaplain pleaded. “He came to my tent to see me while I was here before.”

　　“Major Major did that?” the sergeant asked.

　　“Yes, he did. Please go in and ask him.”

　　“I’m afraid I can’t go in, sir. He never wants to see me either. Perhaps if you left a note.”

　　“I don’t want to leave a note. Doesn’t he ever make an exception?”

　　“Only in extreme circumstances. The last time he left his tent was to attend the funeral of one of the enlistedmen. The last time he saw anyone in his office was a time he was forced to. A bombardier named Yossarianforced—““Yossarian?” The chaplain lit up with excitement at this new coincidence. Was this another miracle in themaking? “But that’s exactly whom I want to speak to him about! Did they talk about the number of missionsYossarian has to fly?”

　　“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what they did talk about. Captain Yossarian had flown fifty-one missions, and heappealed to Major Major to ground him so that he wouldn’t have to fly four more. Colonel Cathcart wanted onlyfifty-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 clotted¹⁷³ dry lower lip forlornly, and walked out. It was still so early inthe day, and so much had already happened. The air was cooler in the forest. His throat was parched¹⁷⁴ and sore. Hewalked slowly and asked himself ruefully what new misfortune could possibly befall him a moment before the mad hermit¹⁷⁵ in the woods leaped out at him without warning from behind a mulberry bush. The chaplainscreamed at the top of his voice.

　　The tall, cadaverous stranger fell back in fright at the chaplain’s cry and shrieked¹⁷⁶, “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 exasperation¹⁷⁷, even though he was stillrooted 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 pneumonia¹⁷⁸ 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 trickling¹⁷⁹ back as he studied the queer, cringing¹⁸⁰ figure intently. A pair ofcaptain’s bars ulcerated with rust¹¹¹ hung on the man’s ragged¹⁸¹ shirt collar. He had a hairy, tar-black mole¹⁸² on theunderside of one nostril¹⁸³ 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 curiously¹⁸⁴.

　　“I have to live in the woods,” the captain replied crabbily, as though the chaplain ought to know. He straightenedslowly, 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 somenight 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. “Thatwould 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 throatif 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 porous¹⁸⁵ gray pallor of fatigue¹⁸⁷ and malnutrition¹⁸⁸ with a mixtureof pity and esteem¹⁸⁹. The man’s body was a bony shell inside rumpled¹⁹⁰ clothing that hung on him like a disorderlycollection 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 harassed¹⁹¹, bedraggled picture the captain presented, and he filled with deference¹⁹² and compassion⁸¹ at the thought of the many severe rigors¹⁹³ the poorman had to endure daily. In a voice hushed with humility¹⁹⁴, 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 farmhousesdown the road. I keep my things in my trailer and sneak¹⁹⁵ inside once or twice a day for a clean handkerchief or achange 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 promising¹⁹⁶ everyone that he was going to die of pneumonia, and I guess I’ll have to bepatient until the weather turns a little colder and damper.” He scrutinized¹⁹⁷ the chaplain perplexedly. “Don’t youknow 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 piqued¹⁹⁸, but managed to carry on with a pretense¹⁹⁹ ofoptimism. “Well, here it is almost September already, so I guess it won’t be too long now. The next time any ofthe boys ask about me, why, just tell them I’ll be back grinding out those old publicity²⁰⁰ releases again as soon asChief White Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Will you tell them that? Say I’ll be back in the squadron as soon aswinter comes and Chief Halfoat dies of pneumonia. Okay?”

　　The chaplain memorized the prophetic words solemnly, entranced further by their esoteric import. “Do you liveon 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 thekitchen. Milo gives me sandwiches and milk.”

　　“What do you do when it rains?”

　　The captain answered frankly²⁰¹. “I get wet.”

　　“Where do you sleep?”

　　Swiftly the captain ducked down into a crouch²⁰² and began backing away. “You too?” he cried frantically²⁰³.

　　“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 homely²⁰⁴ hirsute²⁰⁵ specter had already vanished, dissolving so expertly inside the blooming, dappled, fragmented malformations of leaves, light and shadows thatthe chaplain was already doubting that he had even been there. So many monstrous²⁰⁶ events were occurring that hewas no longer positive which events were monstrous and which were really taking place. He wanted to find outabout 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 reluctance²⁰⁷, was to appease²⁰⁸ Corporal Whitcomb for neglecting to delegateenough responsibility to him. He plodded²⁰⁹ along the zigzagging²¹⁰ path through the forest listlessly, clogged²¹¹ withthirst and feeling almost too exhausted²¹² to go on. He was remorseful²¹³ when he thought of Corporal Whitcomb. Heprayed that Corporal Whitcomb would be gone when he reached the clearing so that he could undress withoutembarrassment, wash his arms and chest and shoulders thoroughly²¹⁴, drink water, lie down refreshed and perhapseven sleep for a few minutes; but he was in for still another disappointment and still another shock, for CorporalWhitcomb was Sergeant Whitcomb by the time he arrived and was sitting with his shirt off in the chaplain’schair sewing his new sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve with the chaplain’s needle and thread. Corporal Whitcombhad been promoted by Colonel Cathcart, who wanted to see the chaplain at once about the letters.

　　“Oh, no,” groaned²¹⁵ the chaplain, sinking down dumbfounded on his cot. His warm canteen was empty, and hewas too distraught to remember the lister bag hanging outside in the shade between the two tents. “I can’t believeit. 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 chagrin²¹⁶. “He wants to see youabout the letters home to the families of casualties.”

　　“Those letters?” asked the chaplain with surprise.

　　“That’s right,” Corporal Whitcomb gloated. “He’s really going to chew you out for refusing to let me send them.

　　You should have seen him go for the idea once I reminded him the letters could carry his signature. That’s whyhe promoted me. He’s absolutely sure they’ll get him into The Saturday Evening Post.”

　　The chaplain’s befuddlement²¹⁷ increased. “But how did he know we were even considering the idea?”

　　“I went to his office and told him.”

　　“You did what?” the chaplain demanded shrilly²¹⁸, and charged to his feet in an unfamiliar⁴⁴ rage. “Do you mean tosay that you actually went over my head to the colonel without asking my permission?”

　　Corporal Whitcomb grinned brazenly²¹⁹ with scornful satisfaction. “That’s right, Chaplain,” he answered. “Andyou better not try to do anything about it if you know what’s good for you.” He laughed quietly in maliciousdefiance. “Colonel Cathcart isn’t going to like it if he finds out you’re getting even with me for bringing him myidea. You know something, Chaplain?” Corporal Whitcomb continued, biting the chaplain’s black thread apartcontemptuously with a loud snap and buttoning on his shirt. “That dumb bastard²²⁰ really thinks it’s one of thegreatest ideas he’s ever heard.”

　　“It might even get me into The Saturday Evening Post,” Colonel Cathcart boasted in his office with a smile,swaggering back and forth²²¹ convivially²²² as he reproached the chaplain. “And you didn’t have brains enough to appreciate it. You’ve got a good man in Corporal Whitcomb, Chaplain. I hope you have brains enough toappreciate that.”

　　“Sergeant Whitcomb,” the chaplain corrected, before he could control himself.

　　Colonel Cathcart Oared²²³. “I said Sergeant Whitcomb,” he replied. “I wish you’d try listening once in a whileinstead of always finding fault. You don’t want to be a captain all your life, do you?”

　　“Sir?”

　　“Well, I certainly don’t see how you’re ever going to amount to anything else if you keep on this way. CorporalWhitcomb feels that you fellows haven’t had a fresh idea in nineteen hundred and forty-four years, and I’minclined to agree with him. A bright boy, that Corporal Whitcomb. Well, it’s all going to change.” ColonelCathcart sat down at his desk with a determined²²⁴ air and cleared a large neat space in his blotter. When he hadfinished, he tapped his finger inside it. “Starting tomorrow,” he said, “I want you and Corporal Whitcomb towrite a letter of condolence for me to the next of kin⁵ of every man in the group who’s killed, wounded or takenprisoner. I want those letters to be sincere letters. I want them filled up with lots of personal details so there’ll beno doubt I mean every word you say. Is that clear?”

　　The chaplain stepped forward impulsively²²⁵ to remonstrate²²⁶. “But, sir, that’s impossible!” he blurted²²⁷ out. “We don’teven know all the men that well.”

　　“What difference does that make?” Colonel Cathcart demanded, and then smiled amicably²²⁸. “Corporal Whitcombbrought me this basic form letter that takes care of just about every situation. Listen: ‘Dear Mrs., Mr., Miss, orMr. and Mrs.: Words cannot express the deep personal grief I experienced when your husband, son, father orbrother was killed, wounded or reported missing in action.’ And so on. I think that opening sentence sums up mysentiments exactly. Listen, maybe you’d better let Corporal Whitcomb take charge of the whole thing if youdon’t feel up to it.” Colonel Cathcart whipped out his cigarette holder²²⁹ and flexed²³⁰ it between both hands like anonyx and ivory riding crop. “That’s one of the things that’s wrong with you, Chaplain. Corporal Whitcomb tellsme you don’t know how to delegate responsibility. He says you’ve got no initiative either. You’re not going todisagree with me, are you?”

　　“No, sir.” The chaplain shook his head, feeling despicably remiss²³¹ because he did not know how to delegateresponsibility and had no initiative, and because he really had been tempted²³² to disagree with the colonel. Hismind was a shambles²³³. They were shooting skeet outside, and every time a gun was fired his senses were jarred.

　　He could not adjust to the sound of the shots. He was surrounded by bushels of plum tomatoes and was almostconvinced that he had stood in Colonel Cathcart’s office on some similar occasion deep in the past and had beensurrounded by those same bushels of those same plum tomatoes. Déjà vu again. The setting seemed so familiar;yet it also seemed so distant. His clothes felt grimy and old, and he was deathly afraid he smelled.

　　“You take things too seriously, Chaplain,” Colonel Cathcart told him bluntly with an air of adult objectivity.

　　“That’s another one of the things that’s wrong with you. That long face of yours gets everybody depressed²³⁴. Letme see you laugh once in a while. Come on, Chaplain. You give me a belly²³⁵ laugh now and I’ll give you a whole bushel of plum tomatoes.” He waited a second or two, watching, and then chortled victoriously²³⁶. “You see,Chaplain, I’m right. You can’t give me a belly laugh, can you?”

　　“No, sir,” admitted the chaplain meekly²³⁷, swallowing slowly with a visible effort. “Not right now. I’m verythirsty.”

　　“Then get yourself a drink. Colonel Korn keeps some bourbon in his desk. You ought to try dropping around theofficers’ club with us some evening just to have yourself a little fun. Try getting lit once in a while. I hope youdon’t feel you’re better than the rest of us just because you’re a professional man.”

　　“Oh, no, sir,” the chaplain assured him with embarrassment. “As a matter of fact, I have been going to theofficers’ club the past few evenings.”

　　“You’re only a captain, you know,” Colonel Cathcart continued, paying no attention to the chaplain’s remark.

　　“You may be a professional man, but you’re still only a captain.”

　　“Yes, sir. I know.”

　　“That’s fine, then. It’s just as well you didn’t laugh before. I wouldn’t have given you the plum tomatoesanyway. Corporal Whitcomb tells me you took a plum tomato when you were in here this morning.”

　　“This morning? But, sir! You gave it to me.”

　　Colonel Cathcart cocked his head with suspicion. “I didn’t say I didn’t give it to you, did I? I merely said youtook it. I don’t see why you’ve got such a guilty conscience if you really didn’t steal it. Did I give it to you?”

　　“Yes, sir. I swear you did.”

　　“Then I’ll just have to take your word for it. Although I can’t imagine why I’d want to give you a plum tomato.”

　　Colonel Cathcart transferred a round glass paperweight competently from the right edge of his desk to the leftedge and picked up a sharpened pencil. “Okay. Chaplain, I’ve got a lot of important work to do now if you’rethrough. You let me know when Corporal Whitcomb has sent out about a dozen of those letters and we’ll get intouch with the editors of The Saturday Evening Post.” A sudden inspiration made his face brighten. “Say! I thinkI’ll volunteer the group for Avignon again. That should speed things up!”

　　“For Avignon?” The chaplain’s heart missed a beat, and all his flesh began to prickle and creep.

　　“That’s right,” the colonel explained exuberantly²³⁸. “The sooner we get some casualties, the sooner we can makesome progress on this. I’d like to get in the Christmas issue if we can. I imagine the circulation is higher then.”

　　And to the chaplain’s horror, the colonel lifted the phone to volunteer the group for Avignon and tried to kickhim out of the officers’ club again that very same night a moment before Yossarian rose up drunkenly, knockingover his chair, to start an avenging²³⁹ punch that made Nately call out his name and made Colonel Cathcart blanch²⁴⁰ and retreat prudently²⁴¹ smack²⁴² into General Dreedle, who shoved him off his bruised²⁴³ foot disgustedly and orderhim forward to kick the chaplain right back into the officers’ club. It was all very upsetting to Colonel Cathcart,first the dreaded²⁴⁴ name Yossarian! tolling²⁴⁵ out again clearly like a warning of doom¹³ and then General Dreedle’sbruised foot, and that was another fault Colonel Cathcart found in the chaplain, the fact that it was impossible topredict how General Dreedle would react each time he saw him. Colonel Cathcart would never forget the firstevening General Dreedle took notice of the chaplain in the officers’ club, lifting his ruddy, sweltering,intoxicated face to stare ponderously²⁴⁶ through the yellow pall¹⁸⁶ of cigarette smoke at the chaplain lurking²⁴⁷ near thewall by himself.

　　“Well, I’ll be damned,” General Dreedle had exclaimed hoarsely²⁴⁸, his shaggy gray menacing eyebrows²⁴⁹ beetling²⁵⁰ inrecognition. “Is that a chaplain I see over there? That’s really a fine thing when a man of God begins hangingaround a place like this with a bunch of dirty drunks and gamblers.”

　　Colonel Cathcart compressed his lips primly²⁵¹ and started to rise. “I couldn’t agree with you more, sir,” heassented briskly in a tone of ostentatious disapproval²⁵². “I just don’t know what’s happening to the clergy²⁵³ thesedays.”

　　“They’re getting better, that’s what’s happening to them,” General Dreedle growled²⁵⁴ emphatically.

　　Colonel Cathcart gulped²⁵⁶ awkwardly and made a nimble recovery. “Yes, sir. They are getting better. That’sexactly what I had in mind, sir.”

　　“This is just the place for a chaplain to be, mingling²⁵⁷ with the men while they’re out drinking and gambling²⁵⁸ so hecan get to understand them and win their confidence. How the hell else is he ever going to get them to believe inGod?”

　　“That’s exactly what I had in mind, sir, when I ordered him to come here,” Colonel Cathcart said carefully, andthrew his arm familiarly around the chaplain’s shoulders as he walked him off into a corner to order him in acold undertone to start reporting for duty at the officers’ club every evening to mingle²⁵⁹ with the men while theywere drinking and gambling so that he could get to understand them and win their confidence.

　　The chaplain agreed and did report for duty to the officers’ club every night to mingle with men who wanted toavoid him, until the evening the vicious fist fight broke out at the ping-pong table and Chief White Halfoatwhirled without provocation²⁶⁰ and punched Colonel Moodus squarely in the nose, knocking Colonel Moodusdown on the seat of his pants and making General Dreedle roar with lusty, unexpected laughter until he spied thechaplain standing close by gawking at him grotesquely²⁶¹ in tortured wonder. General Dreedle froze at the sight ofhim. He glowered²⁶² at the chaplain with swollen²⁶³ fury for a moment, his good humor gone, and turned back towardthe bar disgruntedly, rolling from side to side like a sailor on his short bandy legs. Colonel Cathcart canteredfearfully along behind, glancing anxiously about in vain for some sign of help from Colonel Korn.

　　“That’s a fine thing,” General Dreedle growled at the bar, gripping his empty shot glass in his burly hand.

　　“That’s really a fine thing, when a man of God begins hanging around a place like this with a bunch of dirtydrunks and gamblers.”

　　Colonel Cathcart sighed with relief. “Yes, sir,” he exclaimed proudly. “It certainly is a fine thing.”

　　“Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?”

　　“Sir?” Colonel Cathcart inquired, blinking.

　　“Do you think it does you credit to have your chaplain hanging around here every night? He’s in here everygoddam time I come.”

　　“You’re right, sir, absolutely right,” Colonel Cathcart responded. “It does me no credit at all. And I am going todo something about it, this very minute.”

　　“Aren’t you the one who ordered him to come here?”

　　“No, sir, that was Colonel Korn. I intend to punish him severely²⁶⁴, too.”

　　“If he wasn’t a chaplain,” General Dreedle muttered, “I’d have him taken outside and shot.”

　　“He’s not a chaplain, sir.” Colonel Cathcart advised helpfully.

　　“Isn’t he? Then why the hell does he wear that cross on his collar if he’s not a chaplain?”

　　“He doesn’t wear a cross on his collar, sir. He wears a silver leaf. He’s a lieutenant²⁶⁵ colonel.”

　　“You’ve got a chaplain who’s a lieutenant colonel?” inquired General Dreedle with amazement.

　　“Oh, no, sir. My chaplain is only a captain.”

　　“Then why the hell does he wear a silver leaf on his collar if he’s only a captain?”

　　“He doesn’t wear a silver leaf on his collar, sir. He wears a cross.”

　　“Go away from me now, you son of a bitch,” said General Dreedle. “Or I’ll have you taken outside and shot!”

　　“Yes, sir.”

　　Colonel Cathcart went away from General Dreedle with a gulp²⁵⁵ and kicked the chaplain out of the officers’ club,and it was exactly the way it almost was two months later after the chaplain had tried to persuade ColonelCathcart to rescind²⁶⁶ his order increasing the number of missions to sixty and had failed abysmally²⁶⁷ in thatendeavor too, and the chaplain was ready now to capitulate to despair entirely but was restrained by the memoryof his wife, whom he loved and missed so pathetically with such sensual and exalted²⁶⁸ ardor²⁶⁹, and by the lifelongtrust he had placed in the wisdom and justice of an immortal²⁷⁰, omnipotent²⁷¹, omniscient²⁷², humane²⁷³, universal, anthropomorphic, English-speaking, Anglo-Saxon, pro-American God, which had begun to waver. So manythings were testing his faith. There was the Bible, of course, but the Bible was a book, and so were Bleak²⁷⁴ House,Treasure Island, Ethan Frome and The Last of the Mohicans. Did it then seem probable, as he had onceoverheard Dunbar ask, that the answers to the riddles²⁷⁵ of creation would be supplied by people too ignorant tounderstand the mechanics of rainfall? Had Almighty God, in all His infinite wisdom, really been afraid that mensix thousand years ago would succeed in building a tower to heaven? Where the devil was heaven? Was it up?

　　Down? There was no up or down in a finite but expanding universe in which even the vast, burning, dazzling,majestic sun was in a state of progressive decay that would eventually destroy the earth too. There were nomiracles; prayers went unanswered, and misfortune tramped with equal brutality²⁷⁶ on the virtuous²⁷⁷ and the corrupt;and the chaplain, who had conscience and character, would have yielded to reason and relinquished²⁷⁸ his belief inthe God of his fathers—would truly have resigned both his calling and his commission and taken his chances as aprivate in the infantry or field artillery³⁵, or even, perhaps, as a corporal in the paratroopers—had it not been forsuch successive mystic phenomena²⁷⁹ as the naked man in the tree at that poor sergeant’s funeral weeks before andthe cryptic²⁸⁰, haunting, encouraging promise of the prophet Flume in the forest only that afternoon: “Tell them I’llbe back when winter comes.”

 25、随军牧师
　　很久以前随军牧师便开始在心里起了疑惑，世间的一切究竟是怎么回事？到底有没有上帝，他怎么能肯定呢，身为美国军队中的一名浸礼教牧师，即便在最顺利的情况下，处境就够艰难的了；若再没了信仰，那境况就几乎无法容忍了。
　　那些大嗓门的人总让他感到害怕。像卡思卡特上校那样无所畏惧、敢做敢为的人总让他感到自己孤立无助，形单影只。在军中，无论他走到哪里，他总像个局外人似的。官兵们在在他面前总不及在别的官兵面前那么自在；连其他的牧师对他也不如他们彼此之间那么友好。在一个以成功为唯一美德的世界里，他自认自己是个失败者。一名教士应当镇定自若，且能随机应变。他痛苦地认识到，自己缺乏教士应具备的这种基本素质，而其他教派的那些同僚就因为具有这两点而干得相当出色。他生就没有胜过别人的本领。他认为自己丑陋不堪，没有一天不想立即回家去与妻子团聚。
　　其实，牧师的长相几乎是英俊的。他有一张讨人喜爱而又显得十分敏感的脸，像沙岩一样苍白、脆弱。他的思想相当开放。
　　也许，他真的是华盛顿.欧文。也许在一些信件上他一直都签的是华盛顿.欧文的姓名，尽管对此他一无所知。他知道，在医学史上，这种记忆错误是很常见的。他也明白，要想真正将什么事情都弄清楚是办不到的，甚至连为什么办不到也是无法知晓的。他清楚地记得——或者说他有印象清楚地记得——他见到约塞连时的那种感觉；他觉得在他第一次看到约塞连躺在医院里的病床上之前，就已经在什么地方见过他。他记得，大约两周以后当约塞连再次出现在他的帐篷，要求免除他的战斗任务时，他产生了同样的不安的感觉。当然，在此之前牧师已的确在什么地方见过他，就是在那间临时的、非正规的病房里。那个病房里的每个病人看上去都为怠工而来，只有一名不幸的病人除外。那人浑身上下敷着石膏，绑着绷带。一天人们发现他就这么死了，嘴里还含着温度计。但是在牧师的印象中，在此之前他就在某个更为重大、更为神秘的场合见过约塞连。那次有意义的会面是在某个遥远的、为时间的烟尘所淹没的、甚至是在纯属超现实的时代里发生的；而那次，他也曾同样命中注定地承认：他没有办法，没有任何办法可帮助约塞连。
　　这样的疑虑一刻不停地折磨着牧师那瘦削、多病的躯体。世上有没有哪怕是一种真正的信仰，或者人死后究竟有没有灵魂？有多少天使能够在一根大头针的针尖上跳舞？上帝在创造万物之前的那段漫长岁月里究竟在忙活些啥？如果没有其他的什么人需要防范，那有何必要在该隐的前额打上个保护的印记呢？亚当和夏娃真的生过女儿吗？这些就是一直不断地折磨着他的重大而又复杂的本体论问题，然而，在他看来，这些问题从来就不及善良和礼貌等问题来得重要。那些怀疑论者在认识论方面进退维谷的困境让他急得冒汗，他不能接受对一些问题的解释，可又不情愿将问题视为无法解释而不予理会。他从来都是处在痛苦之中，可又一直心怀希望。
　　那天约塞连坐在他的帐篷里，手里捧着一瓶热乎乎的可口可乐。这可乐是牧师为了安慰他才给他的。牧师犹豫不决地问道：
　　“你有没有过这样的感觉：你明明知道你是第一次碰到某一情形，但你却感到你过去好像经历过它？”约塞连敷衍地点了点头。牧师的呼吸由于急切的期待而变得急促起来，因为他准备让自己的意志与约塞连的联合起来，同心协力，最终揭开像巨大的黑幕一样笼罩在人类生存之上的永恒奥秘。
　　约塞连摇了摇头，接着解释说，所谓dejavu不过是两根共同活动的感觉神经中枢——他们通常是同时起作用的——在瞬间产生的极细微的时间差。他的话牧师几乎没听进去。他感到很失望，但他不愿相信约塞连的话，因为他曾得到过一个征兆，一个秘密而又不可思议的幻觉，那就是约塞连仍然缺乏勇气，不敢将真话说出来。无疑，在牧师所揭示的事情中有着令人敬畏的含义，这就是：它要么是一种神赐的顿悟，要么是一种幻觉；他本人不是得到了神灵的垂青就是丧失了理智。这两种可能使他内心充满了同样的恐惧和沮丧。这既不是dejavu，也不是presquevu或jamaisvu。很可能还有他从未听说过的其他幻觉，其中之一可以简单明了地解释他亲眼看见并亲身经历过的令人困惑的种种现象。也有这些可能：
　　可能他以往以为会发生的事情压根就没发生过；可能他患了记忆方面而不是感觉方面的毛病；可能他从来也没真正认为他亲眼见过现在他自认为过去一度曾以为自己见过的东西；可能对于他曾一度以为是的东西，他现在的印象只不过是幻党中的幻觉；可能他只是想象自己曾经在想象中看见过一个赤身裸体的男人坐在公墓里的一棵树上。
　　显然，牧师现在已意识到自己并不特别适合干目前的这份工作。他常常考虑，如果他到部队的某一其他部门去服役，比如说去步兵或野战炮兵部队当一名列兵，或者甚至去当一名伞兵，是不是会比现在开心点。他没有真正的朋友。在没遇到约塞连之前，在飞行大队的任何一个人面前他都会感到不自在，即使同约塞连相处，他也感到局促不安。约塞连常常表现得十分粗鲁，并不时爆发出一些反抗行为，这常使得他感到紧张不安，并伴有一种说不出来的心情，既开心又惶恐。当牧师同约塞连和邓巴一起呆在军官俱乐部里，甚至同内特利和麦克沃特呆在一起时他才感到安全。同他们在一起，他便无需再与其他人坐在一起了；他该坐在哪儿的问题也就解决了，他用不着再同那些他不喜欢的军官坐在一起了。平时，每当他走近这些军官时，他们无一例外地用过分的热情来欢迎他的到来，然后又非常不自在地等着他离去。他使得那么多的人不舒服。大伙都对他非常友好，但没有一个人真心待他。人人都同他说话，但没有一人同他说过真心话。约塞连和邓巴要随和得多，同他俩在一起，牧师几乎没有什么不自在的感觉。那天晚上，当卡思卡特上校又一次想把牧师从军官俱乐部撵出去时，他俩甚至还保护了他。当时约塞连气势汹汹地站了起来要进行干预，内特利想阻止他，就大叫了一声“约塞连！”卡思卡特上校一听到约塞连的名字，脸色顿时煞白，而且让大家感到吃惊的是，他吓得六神无主，一个劲地往后退，最后竟撞到了德里德尔将军的身上。将军气恼地用胳臂肘将他推开，并命令他立即回到牧师面前，叫他从今天开始每晚都到军官俱乐部来。
　　牧师要想保持他在军官俱乐部的地位是很难的，就同他想记往下一餐他该在大队的十个食堂的哪一个食堂就餐一样难。要不是如今他在军官俱乐部里从他的那些新伙伴那里找到了乐趣，他倒很愿意被人从那儿撵出来。晚上如果牧师不去军官俱乐部，那他也就没地方可去了。他时常坐在约塞连和邓巴的桌旁消磨时光，羞怯、沉默地微笑着，除非别人同他说话，否则他便一言不发。他的面前总是放着一杯浓浓的甜酒，可他几乎一口也不尝，只是不熟练地、别别扭扭、装模作样地玩弄着一只用玉米芯做成的烟斗，偶尔也往里面塞些烟丝，抽上几口。他喜欢听内特利讲话，因为内特利酒后说出的那些伤感的、又苦又乐的话在很大程度上反映出了牧师本人那充满了浪漫情调的孤寂惆怅，并且总能引发起牧师对妻儿的思念，使他的心情如潮水一样久久不得平静。内特利的坦率和幼稚让牧师感到有趣，他频频地朝着内特利点头表示理解和赞同，以鼓励他继续说下去。内特利还没有冒失到会向人夸耀自己的女朋友是个妓女的程度，牧师之所以会知道这事主要是由于布莱克上尉的缘故。每当布莱克上尉懒洋洋地从他们的桌旁经过时，他总要先使劲朝牧师眨眨眼，然后就转向内特利，就他的女友将他嘲弄一番，说出来的话既下流又伤人。牧师对布莱克上尉的这种做法很是不满，因此就产生了一个按捺不住的念头，那就是希望他倒大霉。
　　似乎没有人，甚至连内特利也不例外，真正意识到他，艾尔伯特.泰勒.塔普曼牧师，不光是个牧师，而且也是个活生生的人。
　　没人意识到他还有个漂亮迷人、充满激情的妻子——让他爱得几乎发狂，三个蓝眼睛的小孩，他们的相貌显得陌生，因为他已记不太清他们的模样了。将来有一天当他们长大了的时候，他们会将他视为一个怪物。他的职业会给他们在社会上带来种种尴尬，为此他们可能永远不会原谅他。为什么就没人明白他实际上并不是个怪物，而是一个正常、孤独的成年人，竭力想过一种正常、孤独的成年人的生活？假如他们刺他一下，难道他就不会出血吗？如果有人呵他痒，难道他就不会笑？看来他们从来就没想过，他，同他们一样，有眼、有手、有器官、有形体、有感觉、有感情。和他们一样，他也会被同样的武器所伤，因同样的微风而感到温暖和寒冷，并以同样的食物充饥，虽然在这一点上他被迫做出让步，每一顿都得去不同的食堂用餐。只有一个人似乎意识到了牧师是有感情的，这个人就是惠特科姆下士，而他所做的一切只是想方设法去伤害这些感情，因为正是他越过了他的上司去找卡思卡特上校，建议向阵亡或负伤士兵的家属寄发慰问通函。
　　在这个世界上，唯一能让他感到踏实的就是他的妻子。如果就让他与妻儿们在一起过一辈子，那他也就满足了。牧师的妻子是个文静的小个子女人，和蔼可亲，年纪刚过三十，皮肤黝黑，富有魅力。她的腰身纤细，眼睛里流露出沉着和机灵；牙齿雪白，又尖又小，再配上一张孩子似的脸蛋，显得既生气勃勃又娇小可爱。牧师常常忘记自己孩子的长相，每次拿出孩子们的照片，总觉得好像是第一次见到他们的面孔。牧师就像这样爱着他的妻儿，这种爱简直强烈得不可遏制，以致他总想放弃强打精神的努力，就此瘫倒在地，像个被人遗弃的残废人那样放声大哭。围绕着他的家人，他产生了许多病态的怪念头，产生了许多悲惨、可怕的预感，不是想到他们得了重病就是认为他们遭到了可怕的意外。这些东西每天都在无情地折磨着他。他的思维也受到了这些念头的侵扰，尽想着他的妻儿可能得了诸如恶性骨癌和白血病之类的可怕疾病。每周他至少有二三次会看见他那刚出生不久的儿子夭折了，因为他从未教过妻子如何止住动脉出血。他还曾泪流满面、眼睁睁地一声不响地目睹了全家人在墙基插座旁一个接一个地触电而亡的情景，因为他从未告诉过妻子人体是会导电的。几乎每天夜里他都会看到，家里的热水锅炉发生了爆炸，他家那两层木结构的楼房燃烧了起来，他的妻儿四人统统被烧死；他还看到了一件恐怖、惨不忍睹、令人震惊的惨祸的全部细节：他可怜的爱妻那一向整洁而又娇弱的躯体竟被一个喝醉了酒的白痴司机撞到了市场大楼的砖墙上，压成了黏糊糊的一滩肉酱；他还看到，他那被吓得歇斯底里地哭个不休的五岁女儿被一个长一头雪白头发、面目慈祥的中年男子领着离开了那可怖的事故现场；那男人驱车把她带到一个废弃的采沙场，一到那里他就一次接一次地对他的女儿进行奸污，最后把她给杀害了；帮他照管孩子的岳母，从电话里得知了他妻子的惨祸，当即就发了心脏病，倒在地上死掉了。于是，他那两个年幼的孩子就在家里慢慢地饿死了。牧师的妻子是个和蔼可亲、总能给人以安慰并善于体贴的女人。牧师渴望能再一次触摸到她那匀称的胳臂上的肌肤，抚摸到她那乌黑、光滑的秀发，听到她那亲切、充满了安慰的嗓音。她是一个比他坚强得多的人。他每周一次，有时两次给她去一封内容简单而又干巴巴的短信，而内心里他成天想着要给她去许许多多封情真意