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'Yes, I know Lieutenant Nately quite well.'
'He's a bit loony, isn't he?' The chaplain's smile was embarrassed. 'I'm afraid I couldn't say. I don't think I know him that well.'
'You can take my word for it,' Yossarian said. 'He's as goofy as they come.' The chaplain weighed the next silence heavily and then shattered it with an abrupt question. 'You are Captain Yossarian, aren't you?'
'Nately had a bad start. He came from a good family.'
'Please excuse me,' the chaplain persisted timorously. 'I may be committing a very grave error. Are you Captain Yossarian?'
'Yes,' Captain Yossarian confessed. 'I am Captain Yossarian.'
'Of the 256th Squadron?'
'Of the fighting 256th Squadron,' Yossarian replied. 'I didn't know there were any other Captain Yossarians. As far as I know, I'm the only Captain Yossarian I know, but that's only as far as I know.'
'I see,' the chaplain said unhappily.
'That's two to the fighting eighth power,' Yossarian pointed out, 'if you're thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron.'
'No,' mumbled the chaplain. 'I'm not thinking of writing a symbolic poem about your squadron.' Yossarian straightened sharply when he spied the tiny silver cross on the other side of the chaplain's collar. He was thoroughly astonished, for he had never really talked with a chaplain before.
'You're a chaplain,' he exclaimed ecstatically. 'I didn't know you were a chaplain.'
'Why, yes,' the chaplain answered. 'Didn't you know I was a chaplain?'
'Why, no. I didn't know you were a chaplain.' Yossarian stared at him with a big, fascinated grin. 'I've never really seen a chaplain before.' The chaplain flushed again and gazed down at his hands. He was a slight man of about thirty-two with tan hair and brown diffident eyes. His face was narrow and rather pale. An innocent nest of ancient pimple pricks lay in the basin of each cheek. Yossarian wanted to help him.
'Can I do anything at all to help you?' the chaplain asked.
Yossarian shook his head, still grinning. 'No, I'm sorry. I have everything I need and I'm quite comfortable. In fact, I'm not even sick.'
'That's good.' As soon as the chaplain said the words, he was sorry and shoved his knuckles into his mouth with a giggle of alarm, but Yossarian remained silent and disappointed him. 'There are other men in the group I must visit,' he apologized finally. 'I'll come to see you again, probably tomorrow.'
'Please do that,' Yossarian said.
'I'll come only if you want me to,' the chaplain said, lowering his head shyly. 'I've noticed that I make many of the men uncomfortable.' Yossarian glowed with affection. 'I want you to,' he said. 'You won't make me uncomfortable.' The chaplain beamed gratefully and then peered down at a slip of paper he had been concealing in his hand all the while. He counted along the beds in the ward, moving his lips, and then centered his attention dubiously on Dunbar.
'May I inquire,' he whispered softly, 'if that is Lieutenant Dunbar?'
'Yes,' Yossarian answered loudly, 'that is Lieutenant Dunbar.'
'Thank you,' the chaplain whispered. 'Thank you very much. I must visit with him. I must visit with every member of the group who is in the hospital.'
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'Even those in other wards?' Yossarian asked.
'Even those in other wards.'
'Be careful in those other wards, Father,' Yossarian warned. 'That's where they keep the mental cases. They're filled with lunatics.'
'It isn't necessary to call me Father,' the chaplain explained. 'I'm an Anabaptist.'
'I'm dead serious about those other wards,' Yossarian continued grimly. 'M.P.s won't protect you, because they're craziest of all. I'd go with you myself, but I'm scared stiff: Insanity is contagious. This is the only sane ward in the whole hospital. Everybody is crazy but us. This is probably the only sane ward in the whole world, for that matter.' The chaplain rose quickly and edged away from Yossarian's bed, and then nodded with a conciliating smile and promised to conduct himself with appropriate caution. 'And now I must visit with Lieutenant Dunbar,' he said. Still he lingered, remorsefully. 'How is Lieutenant Dunbar?' he asked at last.
'As good as they go,' Yossarian assured him. 'A true prince. One of the finest, least dedicated men in the whole world.'
'I didn't mean that,' the chaplain answered, whispering again. 'Is he very sick?'
