“Dr. Stubbs?” The chaplain shook his head in baffled protest. “I haven’t seen Dr. Stubbs, Colonel. I was brought here by three strange officers who took me down into the cellar without authority and questioned and insulted me.”

Colonel Korn poked the chaplain in the chest once more. “You know damned well Dr. Stubbs has been telling the men in his squadron they didn’t have to fly more than seventy missions.” He laughed harshly. “Well, Padre, they do have to fly more than seventy missions, because we’re transferring Dr. Stubbs to the Pacific. So adios, Padre. Adios.”

Dreedle was out, and General Peckem was in, and General Peckem had hardly moved inside General Dreedle’s office to replace him when his splendid military victory began falling to pieces around him.

“General Scheisskopf?” he inquired unsuspectingly of the sergeant in his new office who brought him word of the order that had come in that morning. “You mean Colonel Scheisskopf, don’t you?”

“No, sir, General Scheisskopf He was promoted to general this morning, sir.”

“Well, that’s certainly curious! Scheisskopf? A general? What grade?”

“Lieutenant general, sir, and-“

“Lieutenant general!”

“Yes, sir, and he wants you to issue no orders to anyone in your command without first clearing them through him.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” mused General Peckem with astonishment, swearing aloud for perhaps the first time in his life. “Cargill, did you hear that? Scheisskopf was promoted way up to lieutenant general. I’ll bet that promotion was intended for me and they gave it to him by mistake.”

Colonel Cargill had been rubbing his sturdy chin reflectively. “Why is he giving orders to us?”

General Peckem’s sleek, scrubbed, distinguished face tightened. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said slowly with an uncomprehending frown. “Why is he issuing orders to us if he’s still in Special Services and we’re in combat operations?”

“That’s another change that was made this morning, sir. All combat operations are now under the jurisdiction of Special Services. General Scheisskopf is our new commanding officer.”

General Peckem let out a sharp cry. “Oh, my God!” he wailed, and all his practical composure went up in hysteria. “Scheisskopf in charge? Scheisskopf?” He pressed his fists down on his eyes with horror. “Cargill, get me Wintergreen! Scheisskopf? Not Scheisskopf!”

All phones began ringing at once. A corporal ran in and saluted.

“Sir, there’s a chaplain outside to see you with news of an injustice in Colonel Cathcart’s squadron.”

“Send him away, send him away! We’ve got enough injustices of our own. Where’s Wintergreen?”

“Sir, General Scheisskopf is on the phone. He wants to speak to you at once.”

“Tell him I haven’t arrived yet. Good Lord!” General Peckem screamed, as though struck by the enormity of the disaster for the first time. “Scheisskopf?The man’s a moron! I walked all over that blockhead, and now he’s my superior officer. Oh, my Lord! Cargill! Cargill, don’t desert me! Where’s Wintergreen?”

“Sir, I have an ex-Sergeant Wintergreen on your other telephone. He’s been trying to reach you all morning.”

“General, I can’t get Wintergreen,” Colonel Cargill shouted, “His line is busy.”

General Peckem was perspiring freely as he lunged for the other telephone.

“Wintergreen!”

“Peckem, you son of a bitch-“

“Wintergreen, have you heard what they’ve done?”

“-what have you done, you stupid bastard?”

“They put Scheisskopf in charge of everything!”

Wintergreen was shrieking with rage and panic. “You and your goddam memorandums! They’ve gone and transferred combat operations to Special Services!”

“Oh, no,” moaned General Peckem. “Is that what did it? My memoranda? Is that what made them put Scheisskopf in charge? Why didn’t they put me in charge?”

“Because you weren’t in Special Services any more. You transferred out and left him in charge. And do you know what he wants? Do you know what the bastard wants us all to do?”

“Sir, I think you’d better talk to General Scheisskopf,” pleaded the sergeant nervously. “He insists on speaking to someone.”

“Cargill, talk to Scheisskopf for me. I can’t do it. Find out what he wants.”

Colonel Cargill listened to General Scheisskopf for a moment and went white as a sheet. “Oh, my God!” he cried, as the phone fell from his fingers. “Do you know what he wants? He wants us to march. He wants everybody to march!”

Yossarian marched backward with his gun on his hip and refused to fly any more missions. He marched backward because he was continously spinning around as he walked to make certain no one was sneaking up on him from behind. Every sound to his rear was a warning, every person he passed a potential assassin. He kept his hand on his gun butt constantly and smiled at no one but Hungry Joe. He told Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren that he was through flying. Captain Piltchard and Captain Wren left his name off the flight schedule for the next mission and reported the matter to Group Headquarters.

Colonel Korn laughed cahnly. “What the devil do you mean, he won’t fly more missions?” he asked with a smile, as Colonel Cathcart crept away into a corner to brood about the sinister import of the name Yossarian popping up to plague him once again. “Why won’t he?”

“His friend Nately was killed in the crash over Spezia. Maybe that’s why.”

“Who does he think he is-Achilles?” Colonel Korn was pleased with the simile and filed a mental reminder to repeat it the next time he found himself in General Peckem’s presence. “He has to fly more missions. He has no choice. Go back and tell him you’ll report the matter to us if he doesn’t change his mind.”

“We already did tell him that, sir. It made no difference.”

“What does Major Major say?”

“We never see Major Major. He seems to have disappeared.”

“I wish we could disappear him!” Colonel Cathcart blurted out from the corner peevishly. “The way they did that fellow Dunbar.”

“Oh, there are plenty of other ways we can handle this one,” Colonel Korn assured him confidently, and continued to Piltchard and Wren, “Let’s begin with the kindest. Send him to Rome for a rest for a few days. Maybe this fellow’s death really did hurt him a bit.”

Nately’s death, in fact, almost killed Yossarian too, for when he broke the news to Nately’s whore in Rome she uttered a piercing, heartbroken shriek and tried to stab him to death with a potato peeler.

“Bruto!” she howled at him in hysterical fury as he bent her arm up around behind her back and twisted gradually until the potato peeler dropped from her grasp. “Bruto! Bruto!” She lashed at him swiftly with the long-nailed fingers of her free hand and raked open his cheek. She spat in his face viciously.

“What’s the matter?” he screamed in stinging pain and bewilderment, flinging her away from him all the way across the room to the wall. “What do you want from me?”

She flew back at him with both fists flailing and bloodied his mouth with a solid punch before he was able to grab her wrists and hold her still. Her hair tossed wildly. Tears were streaming in single torrents from her flashing, hate-filled eyes as she struggled against him fiercely in an irrational frenzy of maddened might, snarling and cursing savagely and screaming “Bruto! Bruto!” each time he tried to explain. Her great strength caught him off guard, and he lost his footing. She was nearly as tall as Yossarian, and for a few fantastic, terror-filled moments he was certain she would overpower him in her crazed determination, crush him to the ground and rip him apart mercilessly limb from limb for some heinous crime he had never committed. He wanted to yell for help as they strove against each other frantically in a grunting, panting stalemate, arm against arm. At last she weakened, and he was able to force her back and plead with her to let him talk, swearing to her that Nately’s death had not been his fault. She spat in his face again, and he pushed her away hard in disgusted anger and frustration. She hurled herself down toward the potato peeler the instant he released her. He flung himself down after her, and they rolled over each other on the floor several times before he could tear the potato peeler away. She tried to trip him with her hand as he scrambled to his feet and scratched an excruciating chunk out of his ankle. He hopped across the room in pain and threw the potato peeler out the window. He heaved a huge sigh of relief once he saw he was safe.