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Even night had the propensity to fall–just like an empty bean-can of pens off Cathcart’s desk–and just like the pens, he didn’t like it one bit.
The pens fell because young mess chef Milo Minderbinder had told Cathcart that Korn wouldn’t be back from his “diplomatic mission” for two more days. Night fell because the day had ended. Cathcart found himself filled with rage, the kind that made his rather corpulent stomach shake when he thought about it.
The lieutenant colonel had been gone for the better part of a week, and with St. Valentine’s day approaching, Cathcart had wanted him back more than anything. Many young officers made their way to Rome for a romantic getaway with one or more of the whores there who didn’t care in the slightest about romance, blowing their pay on elaborate bouquets which would be tossed out of windows in the best of circumstances. At best, it was a waste of perfectly good money which could’ve been spent on other things than having sex, and at worst, it was a waste of perfectly good men who could’ve been spending time doing things other than having sex. Cathcart himself couldn’t fathom the appeal of a woman nor an orgy in the slightest. Greedily, he hoped Korn didn’t see the appeal either.
It would be quite awful to have his most dear right hand man enjoy the company of women.
“Korn,” he called, ringing him up on the little phone which sat sadly at the corner of his desk, “When are you going to be back?”
He could practically hear Korn rolling his eyes. “Didn’t Milo tell you?”
“Yes, Milo told me,” Cathcart said, practically whining, “But I don’t want a reason to believe him, given that I’ve believed him every other time and he’s usually right. What’s keeping you from getting back tomorrow?”
“What’s important about tomorrow?”
Cathcart worried his lip, staring down at his notepad where he’d written ‘ KORN!!!!!!! ’ in big, swirly letters. His handwriting was rather unkempt and typically unreadable, but even the dumbest privates on the base had to be able to read this, although most would probably throw it in the trash as they didn’t realise its significance. It was in this way that Cathcart reassured himself of his expansive intelligence and Korn felt quite sturdy in his convictions that he’d soon be Cathcart’s boss. “Well, tomorrow’s St. Valentine’s day,” Cathcart told him after a beat, “I figured you’d probably want to spend it together, so the two of us can make our plans on how to appropriately garner feathers in our cap.”
Korn clicked his tongue. “Our caps.”
“Right, our caps,” Cathcart corrected, “As your commanding officer, I order that you return to Pianosa right now.”
“I’m in the middle of negotiations,” Korn said, although Cathcart could hear laughter and the clinking of wine glasses in the background and wondered how the negotiations had gotten to that stage, “But fine, I’ll see about making it back. You wouldn’t want to rush this process though.”
“No, no, of course not. Anyone who wanted to rush those proceedings would be one stupid son of a bitch.”
“Right.”
“So I’ll see you back at Pianosa tomorrow?”
But the receiver had clicked down and Cathcart hung up the phone with the same rage he felt when he’d knocked the pencils off the desk on purpose. There hadn’t even been any negotiations, only a mild disagreement between the two demanding heads of Pianosa. A short break, disguised as a negotiation. Cathcart had half-convinced himself it was a real negotiation. He knocked the pencils out of the lilliputian bean can for a second time, swearing loudly under his breath. Well, if this is how Korn wanted to be, he’d simply have to outdo him. Pulling out all the stops. Make the base the most functional place, most romantic place, without a shred of his loyal auxiliary’s help. Little did he know that seven countries away, Korn was trying his damnedest to get back to Pianosa as quickly as he could.
In the centre of a painfully busy room, Korn fought his way around person after person. “Do you know where I can purchase some Ballantine whiskey?” he demanded of each serviceman who ignored him, though his expression remained shrewd and placid.
An old type which he remembered Cathcart liked.
“Do you know where I can purchase some Ballantine whiskey?” Cathcart had asked a few months ago, taking a drag on his mother-of-pearl cigarette holder.
Korn wrinkled his nose. “Why the hell would I know that?”
And so it was only poetic justice when a lady finally came along, heard Korn’s sturdy demand, and scrunched up her face. “Why the hell would I know that?”
“You work at a–” Korn censored himself as he reached for her hand, “A bar, ma’am. And I’m a lieutenant colonel in the United States army, so how do you suspect it’d look if I were to talk to your manager? Let’s cut the niceties and get that whiskey, how about?”
He followed after her as she brought him over to a bar with heavy granite countertops and countless shelves displaying expensive alcohols. The lights were dim and industrial at best. As he walked along, Korn could practically hear the clock ticking which warned him of time passing. Often, he’d wondered how long it would take until Cathcart got nailed for insubordination. Just as the officers had to follow his commands over that of the United Air Force Command Centre, Cathcart had to follow the commands of the Command Centre above his own desires or commands of a greater God. Korn made a note to try and convince Cathcart to try the chaplain route again with that atheist Whitcomb instead of their rather useless local chaplain.
Korn leered over the bar, his glasses slipping down his nose. With one gloved hand, he pushed them back up. “Do you have Ballantine whiskey here?” he asked, lamenting that he hadn’t just asked Milo and traded him some of the luscious tomatoes up in Cathcart’s farmhouse.
“Depends on who’s asking,” the man replied.
He had a pencil-moustache not unlike that of Milo’s and black hair which appeared to have been glued onto his bald head, toupee style. Korn made another note to think about buying Cathcart a toupee if he ever got back to Pianosa. “I could not more clearly be the one asking,” Korn sneered, “Do you or do you not have it?”
“I’m in possession of different things for different people,” said the barman rather innocuously.
Korn leaned onto the bar. “I’m not asking about different things for different people. I’m asking about one thing for me , and it’s Ballantine whiskey , so do you or do you not have it?”
As it turned out, he did have it, but for more than Korn was willing to pay. This was what Cathcart would’ve most definitely referred to as a ‘black eye’, just like many of his hair-brained schemes wound up being. In that, there was a sort of push and pull, the remnants of a renaissance man’s thoughts in everything they did. Of course, Korn couldn’t get ahead without Cathcart bumbling and creating little Cathcart fires everywhere he went. Cathcart couldn’t create these fires unless Korn stood behind him and reassured him that all his ideas were good–even if they didn’t actually belong to Cathcart–and that he was the smartest man alive.
Lies, at best, but in a way, they were co-dependent on each other. One without the other was like a fish without a bicycle, better off but missing one of the best, most confounded, parts of everyday life.
By the time Korn set foot outside the bar with the whiskey and made his way up the ramp to the plane manned by Captain Plichard, the two headed back to Pianosa. The arrival time was set to be in the eleventh hour–or rather, twenty-third hour–of Valentine’s Day. In order to make it, there would be no time to radio ahead to Cathcart.
“It’s not like he needs to know,” Korn reassured Pilchard when he asked, insisting that he wanted to phone ahead to Wren, “They’ll see us when they see us, and whether that’s sooner or later, it doesn’t matter. They don’t need to know when it’ll be, that won’t change our ETA.”
But in the warm heat of Mediterranean February, Cathcart grew restless. He needed a gesture that went beyond flower petals on his bed or streamlined efficacy reports. He needed something grand . Something fantastic. What about planes on a mission, aerial photographs revealing a heart-shaped bombing pattern? Oh, that was golden. Clever since he could send out more planes and ingenious since it would offer a delightful tribute to Korn. “I sent the men out on a bombing mission on the Pyrenees,” Cathcart imagined himself saying.
“Oh?” Korn would ask, the smug smile painting upon his face as always. Whether it was from pride or pleasure at Cathcart’s likely failure, Cathcart didn’t know. “Let’s see the bombing pattern, then.”
Out of his breast pocket, Cathcart would remove the paper. On it, there would be a crystal-clear pattern when the bombs fell, offering a delicate shape of a heart which would frame the abominable destruction below. The only thing that wouldn’t be destroyed would be his career and also Korn’s. “Wow,” Cathcart imagined Korn saying, his words breathless, “That’s fantastic.”
And then they would kiss passionately and maybe engage in a little ficky-fick as a reward for their inevitable promotion to General and Lieutenant General, but Cathcart didn’t let himself get too caught up in the imaginings of all the success he would garner. They had it made.
Cathcart found himself on the PA system which went all over the camp, projecting out in the little speakers which hung from the officer’s halls and outside the encampments. Whichever soldiers hadn’t made it out to Rome–and none of them had because Cathcart had diligently vetoed all their off-base requests and signed them up for flying missions–would be on his heart-shaped destruction. “Alright, men,” he said into the speaker, feeling pleased as his whole voice lit up the camp, “I’ve volunteered you for a new mission. You’re going to be flying over the Pyrenees and I’ve got a delightful new bombing pattern I want you to try. Those aerial photographs are the most important part, boys, that and hitting your target. You do both and you’ll fast-track my–I mean, our–promotion to general.”
As soon as the PA switched off, Cathcart could hear the faint groans all over the encampment. Groans of delight, no doubt.
“I can’t believe this,” Yossarian groaned to the chaplain, who had been sitting on the end of his cot as they split a bottle of coca cola with two straws, “Can you? He’s signed us up for another goddamned mission.”
The chaplain shrugged. “I can believe it, actually,” he said, timidly, “This has been a recurring pattern. I don’t know how it’s much of a surprise at this point; all he does is sign you up for missions.”
“Then I’m not going.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going?”
Yossarian stared at him. “I mean, I’m not going. I’m staying here with you. Cheers.”
It turned out that the absence of Yossarian didn’t matter much anyway because he wouldn’t have had a new place in the flight plan. This suited Cathcart perfectly, who didn’t want any number of Yossarians sneaking up on him and ruining what was looking like a great Valentine’s Day tribute to his right hand man. Danby began a regular briefing but all too soon he was interrupted by Cathcart, who shoved himself in front of the diffident teacher belly first. Only slightly put off by this–but much less put off then when Dreedle had ordered Danby be taken out back and shot–Cathcart took over. He held up a piece of paper with a poorly drawn heart, featuring little black ink blotches to where he wanted each pilot to be. “In short,” Cathcart said proudly, “This is where each of you will be, in formation. This is a very important mission, and if any one of you ruins this meticulous bombing pattern, you’re going to be in deep shit. I’ll put you to a… court martial!”
A man raised his hand. “Speak,” Cathcart told him.
“With all due respect sir, is this a joke?”
Danby made a motion with his fingers across his throat, eyes wide and desperate as he attempted to impart information without Cathcart’s knowledge. He stood behind the colonel anyway, so as long as Cathcart didn’t have observant eyes on the back of his head, he had no reason to notice any of the gesture. “A joke?” Colonel Cathcart asked, taken aback as he scoffed out the words, “A joke? No! Just for that, you’re going in the front of the bombing pattern! How do you like that? If there’s flack, you’ll be the first to take any hits to your plane.”
Another man raised his hand. “Do I still have to fly in his plane, sir?”
“Just for asking that question, yes, you do,” Cathcart told him, glaring, “Any more stupid questions? Any of you who have a question may not ask it. If you aren’t wondering anything at all, though, it’s fine if you ask.”
“So none of us can ask any questions, then, sir?”
“That sounds like a question,” Cathcart told him, “And since I’m the only one asking questions around here, you’re going on the front flack plane.”
“What if we all ask questions, sir?”
“Then I’ll put you all on the goddamned worst plane in the formation! Don’t try me!” Cathcart exclaimed, his face getting redder as each subsequent person questioned his authority. “Now, out to your planes. I’ll be over on the PA to run the flight check and Danby will tell you when to take off. Remember: those aerial photographs are the most important thing.”
“And bombing the base,” Danby added.
“Sure, that too. But the aerials!”
And so the planes took off at half-past six and Cathcart remained on Pianosa, watching the skies for the return of Korn’s plane. Milo had come by to update him again and let him know that the likelihood that he’d return today was minimal, but Cathcart had refused to believe it. Milo was right in so much of what he said that surely, he was both stupid and inferior to Cathcart himself. Still, he intended to make proper decisions in terms of what Milo could do so he worked for the both of them. This immense amount of thinking weighed heavily on his brain and he decided to stop thinking for the time being. Korn was really supposed to do the majority of that between them.
The aerials came back a success and Cathcart–pleased as punch–slid it into his coat pocket for whenever Korn returned home. Seven of the planes had been destroyed as they flew back, engines burning up as they smashed into the ground, but Korn was nowhere to be found. Cathcart himself slumped over the driver’s seat in his neat squad car, a few freshly-picked flowers from Milo Minderbinder sitting on the passenger’s seat. Night had fallen, Valentine’s Day was almost over, and Korn was nowhere to be found. The day couldn’t have been any worse.
Flames lit up the background behind him, the soft light of death and destruction lining Cathcart’s silhouette. He didn’t cry, obviously, but couldn’t help but feel more than put out. A fake negotiation was clearly more important than him!
A soft tap on his shoulder alerted him, but Cathcart didn’t move. “Fuck off,” he said, sadly, “Unless you’re General Dreedle, in which case, disregard my saying that.”
“Yes, I’m General Dreedle,” said a voice.
Cathcart’s head spun up so quickly it nearly flew off his head, but behind him wasn’t Dreedle but rather… “Korn!” he exclaimed, “You made it!”
“Yeah, of course I made it,” Korn told him, the effervescent and smug expression creeping up to the apples of his cheeks, “What did you think was going to happen? Obviously I’m not going to leave you alone today.”
He refrained from saying the words ‘because you might fuck something up’, but Cathcart found himself too happy and too stupid to infer the meaning. “I got you flowers,” he said, and then reached for the paper which he’d folded inside of his jacket pocket, “And something else. I sent the men out on a bombing mission of the Pyenees.”
“I can see that,” Korn replied, taking in screams and shattered planes behind him, “Is this the aerials…? A… heart?”
“For you,” Cathcart said, puffing out his chest as he let Korn take the photo in his hands and climb into the other side of the squad car.
It shook with the added weight, even though Korn was far from the heaviest passenger who had taken up residence in the passenger seat. Dreedle easily held that position. With one hand, Cathcart lit the end of his handsome cigarette holder and blew into it, the smoke from it and the smoke from the planes intermingling in the air. In one hand, Korn took the flowers, but too soon! For a shred of ash flickered up out of the cigarette holder and they caught fire, irrepressible flames consuming each petal until Korn threw them over. He leaned in to where Cathcart was sitting, taking his cigarette holder with one hand. “You know, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Besides Dreedle?” asked Cathcart, who couldn’t think of anything more romantic than anything the general did.
“Besides Dreedle,” Korn replied, wincing slightly before reaching up and kissing Cathcart hard on his dry, chapped lips.
As their breath grew ragged and Cathcart found himself quite pleased with the results of his aerial photographs, Korn leaned onto his chest, hand pressed against his shoulder. “Just for that,” he said, exhaling onto Cathcart’s neck, “On your behalf, I’m going to raise the mission count by five.”
Nothing could have made Cathcart want him more.