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'Killer,' Yossarian said.
'What are you fellas talkin' about?' the Texan asked nervously.
'You murdered him,' said Dunbar.
'You killed him,' said Yossarian.
The Texan shrank back. 'You fellas are crazy. I didn't even touch him.'
'You murdered him,' said Dunbar.
'I heard you kill him,' said Yossarian.
'You killed him because he was a nigger,' Dunbar said.
'You fellas are crazy,' the Texan cried. 'They don't allow niggers in here. They got a special place for niggers.'
'The sergeant smuggled him in,' Dunbar said.
'The Communist sergeant,' said Yossarian.
'And you knew it.' The warrant officer on Yossarian's left was unimpressed by the entire incident of the soldier in white. The warrant officer was unimpressed by everything and never spoke at all unless it was to show irritation.
The day before Yossarian met the chaplain, a stove exploded in the mess hall and set fire to one side of the kitchen. An intense heat flashed through the area. Even in Yossarian's ward, almost three hundred feet away, they could hear the roar of the blaze and the sharp cracks of flaming timber. Smoke sped past the orange-tinted windows. In about fifteen minutes the crash trucks from the airfield arrived to fight the fire. For a frantic half hour it was touch and go. Then the firemen began to get the upper hand. Suddenly there was the monotonous old drone of bombers returning from a mission, and the firemen had to roll up their hoses and speed back to the field in case one of the planes crashed and caught fire. The planes landed safely. As soon as the last one was down, the firemen wheeled their trucks around and raced back up the hill to resume their fight with the fire at the hospital. When they got there, the blaze was out. It had died of its own accord, expired completely without even an ember to be watered down, and there was nothing for the disappointed firemen to do but drink tepid coffee and hang around trying to screw the nurses.
The chaplain arrived the day after the fire. Yossarian was busy expurgating all but romance words from the letters when the chaplain sat down in a chair between the beds and asked him how he was feeling. He had placed himself a bit to one side, and the captain's bars on the tab of his shirt collar were all the insignia Yossarian could see. Yossarian had no idea who he was and just took it for granted that he was either another doctor or another madman.
'Oh, pretty good,' he answered. 'I've got a slight pain in my liver and I haven't been the most regular of fellows, I guess, but all in all I must admit that I feel pretty good.'
'That's good,' said the chaplain.
'Yes,' Yossarian said. 'Yes, that is good.'
'I meant to come around sooner,' the chaplain said, 'but I really haven't been well.'
'That's too bad,' Yossarian said.
'Just a head cold,' the chaplain added quickly.
'I've got a fever of a hundred and one,' Yossarian added just as quickly.
'That's too bad,' said the chaplain.
'Yes,' Yossarian agreed. 'Yes, that is too bad.' The chaplain fidgeted. 'Is there anything I can do for you?' he asked after a while.
'No, no.' Yossarian sighed. 'The doctors are doing all that's humanly possible, I suppose.'
'No, no.' The chaplain colored faintly. 'I didn't mean anything like that. I meant cigarettes... or books... or... toys.'
'No, no,' Yossarian said. 'Thank you. I have everything I need, I suppose--everything but good health.'
'That's too bad.'
'Yes,' Yossarian said. 'Yes, that is too bad.' The chaplain stirred again. He looked from side to side a few times, then gazed up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. He drew a deep breath.
'Lieutenant Nately sends his regards,' he said.
Yossarian was sorry to hear they had a mutual friend. It seemed there was a basis to their conversation after all. 'You know Lieutenant Nately?' he asked regretfully.
