Most of the official documents that came to Major Major’s desk did not concern him at all. The vast majority consisted of allusions to prior communications which Major Major had never seen or heard of. There was never any need to look them up, for the instructions were invariably to disregard. In the space of a single productive minute, therefore, he might endorse twenty separate documents each advising him to pay absolutely no attention to any of the others. From General Peckem’s office on the mainland came prolix bulletins each day headed by such cheery homilies as “Procrastination is the Thief of Time” and “Cleanliness is Next to Godliness.”

General Peckem’s communications about cleanliness and procrastination made Major Major feel like a filthy procrastinator, and he always got those out of the way as quickly as he could. The only official documents that interested him were those occasional ones pertaining to the unfortunate second lieutenant who had been killed on the mission over Orvieto less than two hours after he arrived on Pianosa and whose partly unpacked belongings were still in Yossarian’s tent. Since the unfortunate lieutenant had reported to the operations tent instead of to the orderly room, Sergeant Towser had decided that it would be safest to report him as never having reported to the squadron at all, and the occasional documents relating to him dealt with the fact that he seemed to have vanished into thin air, which, in one way, was exactly what did happen to him. In the long run, Major Major was grateful for the official documents that came to his desk, for sitting in his office signing them all day long was a lot better than sitting in his office all day long not signing them. They gave him something to do.

Inevitably, every document he signed came back with a fresh page added for a new signature by him after intervals of from two to ten days. They were always much thicker than formerly, for in between the sheet bearing his last endorsement and the sheet added for his new endorsement were the sheets bearing the most recent endorsements of all the other officers in scattered locations who were also occupied in signing their names to that same official document. Major Major grew despondent as he watched simple communications swell prodigiously into huge manuscripts. No matter how many times he signed one, it always came back for still another signature, and he began to despair of ever being free of any of them. One day-it was the day after the C.I.D. man’s first visit-Major Major signed Washington Irving’s name to one of the documents instead of his own, just to see how it would feel. He liked it. He liked it so much that for the rest of that afternoon he did the same with all the official documents. It was an act of impulsive frivolity and rebellion for which he knew afterward he would be punished severely. The next morning he entered his office in trepidation and waited to see what would happen. Nothing happened.

He had sinned, and it was good, for none of the documents to which he had signed Washington Irving’s name ever came back! Here, at last, was progress, and Major Major threw himself into his new career with uninhibited gusto. Signing Washington Irving’s name to official documents was not much of a career, perhaps, but it was less monotonous than signing “Major Major Major.” When Washington Irving did grow monotonous, he could reverse the order and sign Irving Washington until that grew monotonous. And he was getting something done, for none of the documents signed with either of these names ever came back to the squadron.

What did come back, eventually, was a second C.I.D. man, masquerading as a pilot. The men knew he was a C.I.D. man because he confided to them he was and urged each of them not to reveal his true identity to any of the other men to whom he had already confided that he was a C.I.D. man.

“You’re the only one in the squadron who knows I’m a C.I.D. man,” he confided to Major Major, “and it’s absolutely essential that it remain a secret so that my efficiency won’t be impaired. Do you understand?”

“Sergeant Towser knows.”

“Yes, I know. I had to tell him in order to get in to see you. But I know he won’t tell a soul under any circumstances.”

“He told me,” said Major Major. “He told me there was a C.I.D. man outside to see me.”

“That bastard. I’ll have to throw a security check on him. I wouldn’t leave any top-secret documents lying around here if I were you. At least not until I make my report.”

“I don’t get any top-secret documents,” said Major Major.

“That’s the kind I mean. Lock them in your cabinet where Sergeant Towser can’t get his hands on them.”

“Sergeant Towser has the only key to the cabinet.”

“I’m afraid we’re wasting time,” said the second C.I.D. man rather stiffly. He was a brisk, pudgy, high-strung person whose movements were swift and certain. He took a number of photostats out of a large red expansion envelope he had been hiding conspicuously beneath a leather flight jacket painted garishly with pictures of airplanes flying through orange bursts of flak and with orderly rows of little bombs signifying fifty-five combat missions flown. “Have you ever seen any of these?”

Major Major looked with a blank expression at copies of personal correspondence from the hospital on which the censoring officer had written “Washington Irving” or “Irving Washington.”

No.

“How about these?”

Major Major gazed next at copies of official documents addressed to him to which he had been signing the same signatures.

“No.”

“Is the man who signed these names in your squadron?”

“Which one? There are two names here.”

“Either one. We figure that Washington Irving and Irving Washington are one man and that he’s using two names just to throw us off the track. That’s done very often you know.”

“I don’t think there’s a man with either of those names in my squadron.”

A look of disappointment crossed the second C.I.D. man’s face. “He’s a lot cleverer than we thought,” he observed. “He’s using a third name and posing as someone else. And I think… yes, I think I know what that third name is.” With excitement and inspiration, he held another photostat out for Major Major to study. “How about this?”

Major Major bent forward slightly and saw a copy of the piece of V mail from which Yossarian had blacked out everything but the name Mary and on which he had written, “I yearn for you tragically. R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army.” Major Major shook his head.

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“Do you know who R. O. Shipman is?”

“He’s the group chaplain.”

“That locks it up,” said the second C.I.D. man. “Washington Irving is the group chaplain.”

Major Major felt a twinge of alarm. “R. O. Shipman is the group chaplain,” he corrected.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why should the group chaplain write this on a letter?”

“Perhaps somebody else wrote it and forged his name.”

“Why should somebody want to forge the group chaplain’s name?”

“To escape detection.”

“You may be right,” the second C.I.D. man decided after an instant’s hesitation, and smacked his lips crisply. “Maybe we’re confronted with a gang, with two men working together who just happen to have opposite names. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. One of them here in the squadron, one of them up at the hospital and one of them with the chaplain. That makes three men, doesn’t it? Are you absolutely sure you never saw any of these official documents before?”

“I would have signed them if I had.”

“With whose name?” asked the second C.I.D. man cunningly. “Yours or Washington Irving’s?”

“With my own name,” Major Major told him. “I don’t even know Washington Irving’s name.”

The second C.I.D. man broke into a smile.

“Major, I’m glad you’re in the clear. It means we’ll be able to work together, and I’m going to need every man I can get. Somewhere in the European theater of operations is a man who’s getting his hands on communications addressed to you. Have you any idea who it can be?”