24 米洛

  米洛最喜歡四月。丁香花在四月裏盛開，藤蔓上的果子在此時成熟。人的心跳比以前快，胃口也比以往好。四月天，鴿子身上披上一道繽紛的彩虹，閃爍著光芒。四月是春天，一到春天，米洛·明德賓德的腦筋一下子就用到了柑橘上。
“柑橘？”
“是的，長官。”
“我的士兵會喜歡柑橘的，”那位指揮駐紮在撒丁島的四個B26型飛機中隊的上校承認。 “有的是柑橘吃，隻要你能從夥食費裏搞到錢來付帳。”米洛向他保證。
“弄得到卡薩巴甜瓜嗎？”
“在大馬士革很便宜 (象唱首歌那樣)。”
“愛吃卡薩巴甜瓜是我的軟肋。我特愛吃。”
“隻要每個中隊借給我一架飛機就成，各隊隻要出一架，你想吃多少卡薩巴甜瓜就有多少，隻要你付得起。”
“我們是從辛迪加聯合體中購買嗎？”
“聯合體裏人人都有股份。”
“這真令人吃驚，太令人吃驚了。你是怎麽辦到的？”
“集團購買力使得一切都大不一樣。比如說，來點裹了麵包屑的炸小牛排。”
“我可不會為裹了麵包屑的炸小牛排如此抓狂，”那位駐紮科西嘉北部的B25型機群指揮官心存疑慮,嘀咕著。
“裹了麵包屑的炸小牛排很有營養噢。”米洛非常誠懇地忠告他。“它含有蛋黃和麵包屑。小羊排也很有營養。”
“哈，小羊排！”這位B25指揮官立即作出響應。“是上好的小羊排嗎？”
“是最好的，”米洛說，“黑市上最好的。”
“小羊羔的排骨？”
“是你從未見過的、穿著最漂亮的粉紅色小紙尿褲的小羊羔。 在葡萄牙，這種小羊排賣得很便宜(象唱首歌那樣)。”
“我可不能派飛機去葡萄牙。我沒這權力。”
“隻要你借飛機給我，我就能辦到。再派一名飛行員駕駛就行了。別忘了，這能使你討得騅鬥將軍的歡心。”
“騅鬥將軍會再來我們食堂用餐？”
“他會吃得像頭豬，隻要你用我的純黃油煎上一些最新鮮的雞蛋，然後拿給他吃，他就會像頭豬。你還會有柑橘、卡薩巴甜瓜、白蘭瓜、多佛的純鰨魚片、烘烤冰淇淋、鳥蛤和貽貝等。”
“人人都有份嗎？”
米洛說：“這是最妙的部分。”
“這事我一點也不喜歡，”這位戰鬥機指揮官不肯合作，咆哮著，他不喜歡米洛這個人。
“北邊部隊的那個戰鬥機指揮官跟我過不去，他不肯合作。” 米洛對騅鬥將軍抱怨道，“往往一個人就會把整件事給毀了，這一來你就再也吃不上我新鮮的純黃油煎蛋。”
騅鬥將軍便把這位不肯合作的戰鬥機指揮官調到所羅門群島去了，讓他在那裏挖墓，後來又換了一個患有滑囊炎的老頭子上校來接替他。這老頭特別愛吃荔枝，他又將米洛介紹給了駐紮在陸地上的一位指揮B17型機群的將軍，此人尤其愛吃波蘭香腸。
“在克拉科夫，用花生可以換到波蘭香腸，”米洛告訴他說。
“波蘭香腸，”將軍懷舊地感歎道，“要知道，隻要能買到一大截波蘭香腸，我什麽都願意拿出來。” “你不必拿出來什麽。隻要給我架飛機，每個食堂一架，外加一名聽話的駕駛員。還有，第一次訂貨時，你得付上一小筆現金作定金。”
“可是克拉科夫遠在敵後幾百英裏，你怎麽去弄香腸？”
“日內瓦有個波蘭香腸國際交易市場。我隻要將花生空運到瑞士，以市價將其換成波蘭香腸。他們將把花生運到克拉科夫，我呢，把波蘭香腸運回來給你。你要多少波蘭香腸，就可以通過辛迪加聯合體買到多少。你還能買到柑橘，隻不過上麵稍微染了點人造顏色。還有馬耳他的雞蛋和西西裏的蘇格蘭威士忌。你通過辛迪加聯合體買這些東西時，等於是自己付錢給自己，因為你在裏麵擁有股份。所以，你實際上是不花一個子兒就買到了所有的東西。是這個理兒吧？”
“你真是個天才。你究竟是怎樣想到這個主意的？”
“我叫米洛·明德賓德，今年二十六歲。”
米洛·明德賓德的飛機從各處飛了回來，驅逐機、轟炸機，還有運輸機接連不斷地湧進卡思卡特上校的機場，開飛機的飛行員都是些叫幹啥就幹啥的人。這些飛機的機身上飾有象征各飛行中隊的圖案，色彩豔麗奪目。每一個圖案代表著一種值得稱讚的理想，如勇敢、力量、正義、真理、自由、博愛、榮譽和愛國主義等等。飛機歸米洛調遣後，機械師立即用乳白色的油漆刷了兩遍，將這些圖案塗掉，取而代之的是將事先刻好的標誌用耀眼的紫色將“ M&M果蔬產品聯合公司”的標誌噴在飛機上。這個名稱裏的“M&M”代表米洛和明德賓德。米洛坦白地透露，之所以要將連接符號“＆”插在中間，是為了不讓人感到這個辛迪加聯合體實際上是由一個人的操縱的。在米洛的調遣下，一架架飛機分別從意大利、北非和英國的機場，以及設在利比裏亞、阿森鬆島、開羅，還有卡拉奇等地的空運指揮站飛來。那些驅逐機有些被拿來做了交易，以多換幾架運輸機，有些則留著用來應付緊急托運事宜和運送一些小包裹。他還從地麵部隊弄來了卡車和坦克，搞短途運輸。凡參與的單位人人都有股份，個個吃得發福，兩片油光光的嘴唇間，整日裏叼著根牙簽，懶洋洋地到處逛遊。米洛獨自掌管著所有的日益擴大的業務。他全神貫注地投入該項工作，褐色皺紋象一條條水獺皮，漸漸地爬滿了那張操勞過度的臉，永遠也休想消除掉。這一來，他看上去既清醒理智，又滿腹狐疑，整天不是為這，就是為那而頭疼。除尤塞瑞恩之外，人們都認為米洛是個笨蛋，一則是因為他主動要求去幹事務長的工作，二則是因為他幹這差事幹得太賣力。尤塞瑞恩也認為米洛是個笨蛋，但同時他也知道他是個天才。
有一天，米洛飛往英國采購一批土耳其芝麻糖，然後領著四架德國飛機從馬達加斯加飛了回來。那些德國飛機上裝滿了甘薯、甘藍、芥菜和喬治亞黑斑豌豆等蔬菜。米洛從飛機上走了下來。他剛一踏上地麵就呆住了，因為他發現有一小隊憲兵正等在那裏，準備俘獲德國駕駛員，並要沒收他們的飛機。沒收！僅僅這兩個字就使他又氣又恨。隻見他暴跳如雷地來回走個不停，一根非難的手指猶如一柄利劍，在卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和那位統領著憲兵、臉上帶有戰場上留下的疤痕、手上端著衝鋒槍的可伶上尉那三張滿含愧疚的臉前舞個不休，不住地嚴辭痛斥著他們。
“這是在俄國嗎？”米洛以懷疑的口吻聲嘶力竭地斥責著他們。 “沒收？”他尖叫著，好像不相信自己的耳朵似的。“美國政府從什麽時候起開始沒收私人財產了？你們真不要臉！你們竟會有這麽個可怕念頭，太不要臉了。”
“可是，米洛，”丹比少校膽怯地打斷了他，“我們畢竟是在同德國人打仗呀。這些可全都是德國飛機。”
“它們根本不是！”米洛憤怒地反駁道，“這些飛機都屬於咱們的辛迪加聯合體，大夥人人都有股份。沒收？你們怎麽能自己沒收自己的私有財產？沒收，虧你們想得出！我這一輩子還從來沒有聽說過這麽卑鄙的事呢。”
果然，米洛沒說錯，因為等他們再細看時，那些機械師早已將德國飛機機翼，機尾和機身上原有的納粹符號用乳白色的油漆塗掉了，而且還塗了兩遍，然後又用模板在這些地方印上了“M＆M果蔬產品聯合公司”的字樣。就這樣，米洛當著他們的麵將他的辛迪加組織變成了一個國際性卡特爾。
如今，米洛的龐大的空中商隊充斥著天空。一架又一架的飛機源源不斷地從各地湧來，從挪威、丹麥、法國、德國、奧地利、意大利、南斯拉夫、羅馬尼亞、保加利亞、瑞典、芬蘭、波蘭等地方湧來。實際上，這些飛機，歐洲的什麽地方都去，除了俄國，因為米洛拒絕同俄國做生意。當他找過的那些人都同 “M＆M果蔬產品聯合公司”簽了約以後，米洛又創辦了一個集體所有的附屬公司，取名為“M&M花色糕點公司”。他又弄來了一些飛機，並從夥食費中撥出更多的公款來做這項生意。他經營的糕點有英倫三島的烤餅和鬆餅，有哥本哈根的梅幹和丹麥奶酪，還有從巴黎、尼姆斯和格勒諾布爾弄來的奶酪餅、奶油卷、奶油千層餅、花色小蛋糕，另有柏林的水果蛋糕、稞麥麵包、薑汁麵包、維也納的杏仁果醬餅、巧克力餅和分別從匈牙利和安卡拉搞來的包餡卷餅和果仁蛋糕。每天早上，米洛都要向歐洲和北非派遣飛機，飛機上拖著兩條長長的紅色廣告標牌，上麵用大大的方體字寫著當天的特色商品：“注意：有圓腿肉，七十九美分……鰭魚，二十一美分。”他還將兩條這樣的牌子租給了佩特牛奶公司、蓋恩斯狗食公司以及諾克澤默公司，大大提高了辛迪加聯合體的現金收入。為了體現自己有願意為公眾服務的公民意識，他還常常在空中廣告裏留出一些位置，免費為佩克姆將軍做公益宣傳廣告，如“要講究整潔”，“欲速則不達”，還有“做祈禱的家庭永不離散”。在柏林，阿克西斯·薩利和霍·霍爵士這兩位大名鼎鼎的廣播員每天都要主持宣傳性的廣播節目，而米洛居然花錢買到了這些節目的廣告插播權，以促他的業務。就這樣，他的生意在各前線戰場都做得很紅火。
米洛的飛機成了人們司空見慣的東西。它們享有自由，在各處隨便通行。有一天米洛同美軍當局簽訂了一份合同，由他負責去轟炸德軍在奧爾維那托守衛的一座公路橋，同時又同德軍當局簽訂了由他來守護該大橋的合同，用高射炮火來對付他自己策劃的攻擊。為美軍轟炸橋梁，米洛可得到轟炸的全部成本費用外加百分之六的酬金，為德軍守護大橋的協議款項也是如此，隻不過還附加了一條，即他每擊落一架美軍飛機，德方將付給他一千美元獎金。 米洛強調指出，這些交易的圓滿成功標誌著私有企業的重大勝利，因為兩國的軍隊都是社會化的團體。這兩個合同一經簽訂，無論是炸橋還是守橋，似乎都無需讓辛迪加聯合體破費一文，因為雙方的政府有的是現成的人力和物力來做這些事情，更何況雙方都非常心甘情願地投入。結果，米洛通過他的雙邊謀劃實現了巨額利潤，而他所做的僅僅是簽了兩次名而已。 這個安排對雙方都很公平。一方麵，由於米洛有在各處隨意通行的自由，因此他的飛機可以悄悄潛入德軍陣地進行偷襲，而不會驚動德軍的高射炮火；而另一方麵，由於米洛知道襲擊行動，因此他有充分的時間向德軍的高射炮手發出警告，待美軍飛機一進入他們的炮火射程，就準確地向它們開火。除了尤塞瑞恩帳篷裏的那個死人以外，沒有一個人不認為這是一個絕妙的策劃。 當天，那家夥剛飛到目標上空就被擊中，喪了命。
“我可沒殺他！”米洛感情激動地一再重複著這句話，以此來回答尤塞瑞恩怒不可遏的非難。“告訴你，我那天根本沒在場。你難道認為那天咱們的飛機飛來的時候，我在那邊的地麵上朝它們開了火？”
“但這整個事情都是你一手策劃的，不是嗎？”尤塞瑞恩大叫著回敬他。此時他們正站在黑緞子般的黑暗之中，這黑暗同時也籠罩著那條穿過寂靜的停車場直通露天影院的小路。
“我什麽也沒策劃，”米洛氣衝衝地回答說，一邊激動地使勁吸氣，將他那有聲，但蒼白的鼻子擠成了一團。“不管有沒有我的插手，德國人總歸占著大橋，而我們則要去炸了它。我隻不過發現了一個極好的機會，可以讓我們從這一任務中撈到一把。這有什麽大不了的？”
“有什麽大不了的？米洛，躺在我帳篷裏的那個人在這次任務中丟了命，而他連背包都沒來得及打開呢。”
“可我又沒殺他。”
“你為此得到了一千美元的外快。”
“可他不是我殺的。我說過，我根本不在場。當時我在巴塞羅那，在那裏購買橄欖油和去皮剔骨的沙丁魚。我有定貨單，它可以為我作證。我也沒得到那一千美元。這一千美元都入了咱們聯合體的帳，每個人都有份，連你也有，”米洛萬般誠懇地向尤塞瑞恩傾訴道，“瞧，尤塞瑞恩，不管那個混帳的溫特格林說過些什麽，反正這場戰爭不是我發起的。我隻不過是盡量以做買賣的方式來對待它。這難道有什麽不對嗎？要知道，用一架中型轟炸機另加上麵的機組人員來換一千美元，這不能說是壞價錢。如果我能說服德國人，要他們每擊落一架飛機就付給我一千美元，那我為什麽不能拿這筆錢呢？”
“因為你在同敵人做交易，這就是全部理由。難道你就不明白，我們是在打仗？有人正在死亡。看在基督的分上，你朝你的周圍看看吧！”
米洛已極不耐煩，搖晃著腦袋。“德國人並不是我們的敵人，他宣稱，“哦，我知道你想說什麽。不錯，我們是在同他們打仗。不過德國人在咱們辛迪加聯合體裏的聲譽很好。作為我們的股東，我有責任保護他們的權益。也許是他們挑起了戰爭，也許他們的確殺了成千上萬的人，可他們付起帳來卻比我所知道的我們的一些盟國要痛快得多。我得維護我同德國人訂的合同的嚴肅性，你明白嗎？你就不能從我的角度來看待這個問題？”
“不能！”尤塞瑞恩厲聲回絕道。
米洛被狠狠刺了一下，覺得感情受到了極大的傷害，他也並不想設法掩飾這一事實。那是一個悶熱的月夜，空中到處飛有小蟲、飛蛾和蚊子。米洛突然伸出一隻胳臂，指向那邊的露天影院，隻見那裏的放映機正在工作，平射出一道銀白色的光芒，映得灰塵清晰可見，似一柄利劍，在黑暗中劃出一道圓錐形的光痕，將一層薄膜似的熒光覆蓋在觀眾的身上。那裏的觀眾一個個都斜倚在椅子上，像受了催眠似地軟癱無力，大家的臉都朝上抬著，正對著那麵白色銀幕。此時，隻見米洛的雙眼裏噙著淚水，顯得無比真誠，臉上透著樸實和清白，並因滲出的亮晶晶的汗水和所搽的避蚊油而閃閃發光。
“你瞧瞧他們，”他大聲說，因感情激動而有些透不過氣來。“他們是我的朋友，我的同胞，我的戰友。任何人都不會擁有比他們這麽一群人更好的夥伴了。難道你認為我會做出一樁傷害他們的事情嗎？除非是萬不得已。我現在的煩心事還不夠多嗎？你沒看見？ 為了那些堆積在埃及各個碼頭上的大批棉花，我已經頭疼死了。” 米洛的說話聲音斷斷續續的，突然，他像個溺水者一樣，一把抓住了尤塞瑞恩的襯衣前襟。他的眼睛像一對褐色毛蟲一樣，醒目地眨動個不歇。“尤塞瑞恩，我該拿這麽些棉花怎麽辦呀？這都是你的錯，讓我買下這麽多的棉花。”
那些棉花在埃及的碼頭上堆積如山，卻沒有一個買主。米洛從前做夢也沒想到尼羅河流域的土地竟會這麽肥沃，也沒想到他買下的這批農作物會找不到市場。他的辛迪加聯合體的各個食堂都幫不上他的忙。不僅如此，食堂成員還紛紛起來造反，毫不妥協地反對米洛要按人頭硬性攤派給每人一份埃及棉花的建議。連他最忠實的朋友德國人在這次危機中也不肯幫他的忙。他們寧願使用棉花的代用品。米洛的食堂甚至都不肯讓他將棉花堆在那裏。他隻好租用倉庫，其費用是直線上升，導致了他的現金儲備徹底枯竭。從那次奧爾維那托戰鬥行動中所賺到的利潤漸漸被耗光了。他開始不斷寫信回家去要錢，這些錢是他在生意興隆的時候寄回去的，但不久這筆錢也幾乎要用完了。仍有一包一包的棉花接連不斷地被運到亞曆山大港的碼頭。每次，隻要米洛在國際市場上以虧本價脫手一批棉花，那些狡猾的埃及掮客就在地中海東部各地將其統統吃進，然後再以合同規定的原價賣給米洛。這樣一來，米洛變得越來越窮了。
“M&M果蔬產品聯合公司”眼看就要垮台。米洛無時無刻不在咒罵自己，恨自己大貪婪，太愚蠢，不該買下埃及的所有棉花。然而，無論如何，合同就是合同，非得信守不行。於是，一天晚上，在吃了一頓豐盛的晚餐之後，米洛的所有戰鬥機和轟炸機一起起飛，在基地上空編好隊形，隨後便開始向自己的空軍大隊投起炸彈來了。原來米洛又同德國人弄了一個合同，這一次他必須轟炸自己大隊的全部裝備和設施。米洛的飛機分成幾路協同襲擊，轟炸了機場的油料庫、彈藥庫、修理庫，還有停在棒糖形停機坪上的B25轟炸機。他的機組人員總算對起落跑道和各個食堂手下留了情，因為這樣一來他們幹完活之後便可以安全著陸，而且在上床睡覺之前還可以享用到一頓熱氣騰騰的快餐。他們轟炸時機上的著陸燈一直亮著，因為地麵上根本沒人向他們開火還擊。他們轟炸了四個中隊、軍官俱樂部和大隊的指揮大樓。官兵們紛紛逃出各自的帳篷，個個驚恐萬狀，都不知道往哪個方向逃竄是好。不一會，受傷者躺得到處都是，尖叫聲不絕於耳。連續幾顆殺傷彈在軍官俱樂部的院子裏爆炸開來，使得這座木頭建築的一側牆壁上留下了累累彈痕，也彈穿了那排站在吧台前的中尉和上尉們的腹背。他們痛苦萬狀地先是彎曲了身子，然後倒了下去。剩下的那些軍官都給嚇得魂不附體，紛紛朝那兩個出口處逃竄，但他們又不敢出去，於是隻好鬼哭狼嚎著擠在門口，像一道厚實的人肉堤壩。
卡思卡特上校又爬又擠，好不容易才從亂成一團、茫然失措的人群中鑽出來，獨自站在了門外。他瞪大雙眼朝天上一看，不禁大驚失色。隻見米洛的飛機像氣球一樣從容不迫地掠過花朵盛開的樹梢，朝他們逼過來。機上的投彈艙的門敞開著，機翼上的風門片也向下垂著；那些巨大的著陸燈一直亮著，好似一對對暴眼，閃爍著強烈、炫目而又可怕的光芒。這番景象猶如一種神靈的啟示，他以往從未目睹過。卡思卡特上校像被什麽擊中了一樣，驚愕地叫了一聲，接著便向前猛衝，幾乎是嗚咽著一頭撲進自己的吉普車。他的腳找到了油門踏板和車子的發火裝置，隨後便以這輛搖搖擺擺的汽車所能達到的最快速度朝著機場疾駛而去。他那雙鬆軟無力的手因緊緊地握著方向盤而變得毫無血色。間或他還亂摁一陣子喇叭，似想故意折磨它一樣。一次，他碰到了一群人，一個個隻穿內衣，驚恐萬狀地低著臉，一邊將瘦弱的胳臂當成不堪一擊的盾牌緊緊抱著腦袋，一邊瘋了似的沒命地朝小山上狂奔。為了避讓這幫人，他來了一個急轉彎，隻聽輪胎發出了一陣刺耳的尖叫聲，差點沒送掉他的小命。公路兩旁，黃色、桔紅色和紅色的火焰在熊熊燃燒。帳篷和樹木也在火中燃燒，而米洛的飛機還在不斷地盤旋，不停地閃爍著的白色著陸燈仍舊亮著，投彈艙的門也還敞開著。吉普車開到機場指揮塔時，卡思卡特上校猛拉了一下刹車，車子幾乎給弄翻掉。沒等車子停穩，他就不顧危險地一躍跳下了汽車，飛快地衝上一段樓梯進到塔內。塔裏有三個人正在忙著擺弄儀器，指揮著天上的飛機。他猛地衝上前去，一把推開其中的兩人，伸手奪過那隻鍍鎳的麥克風，兩眼冒著怒火，那張結實的臉由於緊張而扭曲得變了形。他使著蠻勁緊緊地抓著麥克風，開始聲嘶力竭地對著話筒狂叫。
“米洛，你這個狗雜種！你瘋了嗎？你他媽究竟要幹什麽？下來！快給我下來！”
“別這麽大喊大叫，行嗎？”米洛答道，這會兒米洛正在指揮塔裏，就站在他的旁邊，手裏也拿著一個話筒。“我就在這兒。”米洛不滿地瞟了他一眼，又回身去忙自己的事了。“很好，弟兄們，你們幹得很好，”他讚不絕口地衝著手裏的麥克風說，“不過我瞧見還有一個給養棚立著呢。那可不行，珀維斯，我以前跟你說過，別幹這種差勁事。現在你馬上給我飛回去，再去加把勁。這次你可要慢慢地向它靠攏……要慢慢地。要知道‘欲速則不達’，珀維斯。‘欲速則不達’，如果這話我以前曾對你說過，那麽我肯定我對你說過已不下一百次了。記住，‘欲速則不達’。”
他頭頂上方的喇叭高聲響了起來。“米洛，我是阿爾文·布朗。我的炸彈已經扔完了。現在我該幹什麽？”
“掃射，”米洛說。
“掃射？”阿爾文·布朗大吃一驚。
“沒法子，”米洛無可奈何地告訴他說，“合同上是這樣規定的。”
“哦，那麽好吧，”阿爾文·布朗默認道，“既然這樣，我就掃射吧。”
這一次米洛做得太過分了。他竟然轟炸自己方麵的人員和飛機，這事甚至連最冷漠的旁觀者都感到無法容忍，看來，他的未日來臨了。許許多多的政府高官蜂擁而至，對此事進行調查。各家的報紙都用醒目的大標題向米洛發起猛烈抨擊。國會議員們個個義憤填膺，都聲若洪鍾地譴責他的凶殘暴行，揚言要懲罰他。有孩子在部隊服役的母親們紛紛組織了起來，組成了若幹個頗具戰鬥力的團體，要求給孩子們報仇。大隊裏沒有一個人肯站出來為米洛說句話。無論他走到哪裏，所有正派的人都覺得受到了他的侮辱。米洛陷進了牆倒眾人推的困境，最後他隻好向大夥公開了他的帳本，透露了他所賺得的巨額利潤。至於他摧毀的人員及財產，他可以用這筆錢來向政府進行賠償，而且還有多餘，足以讓他將埃及的棉花生意繼續做下去。當然，這筆錢是人人有份的。然而，這整樁買賣妙就妙在根本沒有任何必要向政府進行賠償。
“在一個民主政體中，政府即是人民，”米洛解釋說，“我們是人民，不是嗎？所以我們完全可以將這筆錢留著，而讓那些中間經手人統統見鬼去。老實說，我倒情願政府徹底撤手，別管戰爭的事，把整個戰場留給私人企業去經營。如果我們欠了政府什麽就賠什麽，那我們隻會慫恿政府加緊控製，阻礙其他的私營單位轟炸它們自己的人員和飛機。我們就會使它們喪失經營積極性。”
當然，米洛是對的，因為除了少數幾人之外，大隊裏所有的人不久就都同意了米洛的觀點。那幾個忿忿不平且不識相的家夥中就有丹尼卡醫生。他整天氣衝衝的，動輒跟人吵架，嘴裏還總是嘀嘀咕咕說些討厭的含沙射影的話，說這整樁投機買賣是件不道德的事。為平息他的怒氣，米洛以辛迪加聯合體的名義送給了他一張在花園用的鋁架輕便折疊椅。這樣，每當一級準尉懷特·哈爾福特一跨進他的帳篷，丹尼卡醫生就可以很方便地將椅子折疊起來，拿到帳篷外麵去；等一級準尉懷特·哈爾福特一走，他就可以立即將椅子重新拿回帳篷。在米洛進行轟炸的那天，丹尼卡醫生喪失了理智。他不朝掩蔽處跑，反而留在戶外履行他的職責。他像隻詭秘狡猾的蜥蜴似的趴在地上，冒著橫飛的彈片、猛烈的掃射和無數的燃燒彈,在傷員間爬著，給他們紮止血帶，打嗎啡針，上夾板以及磺胺藥。他沉著臉，滿臉的悲哀，除非說話不可，否則絕不開口。從每個傷員那發青的傷處，他看到了自己將來有一天腐爛時的可怕預兆。他不停地工作著，絲毫也不伶惜自己的身體，把自己弄得筋疲力盡。這個長夜總算熬了過去，第二天，他使勁抽著鼻子，終於頂不住了，於是又抱怨不休地跑進醫務室的帳篷，要格斯和韋斯給他量體溫，然後又拿了塊芥未硬膏和一隻噴霧器。
那天夜晚，丹尼卡醫生帶著陰鬱、深沉而又無法表露的沉痛心情護理著每一個呻吟的傷員。在大隊執行轟炸阿維尼翁的任務的那天，他在機場也流露出同樣的沉痛表情。當時，尤塞瑞恩赤身裸體，喪魂落魄地從他的飛機的舷梯上朝下走了幾級，一言不發，隻是朝機艙裏指了指。他那赤裸著的腳後跟、腳趾頭、膝蓋、手臂和手指上到處都沾滿了斯諾登的鮮血。機艙裏，那位年輕的無線電通訊員兼炮手全身僵硬地臥在那裏，眼看就要死了，而他的旁邊則躺著更年輕的尾炮手，每次隻要一睜眼看到垂死的斯諾登，就立即又昏死過去。 人們把斯諾登抬出飛機，用擔架抬著送進了一輛救護車。
丹尼卡醫生將一條毯子披在了尤塞瑞恩的肩上，那動作簡直輕柔極了，然後領著尤塞瑞恩上了他的吉普車。在麥克沃特的幫助下，他們三人默默地驅車來到中隊的醫務室帳篷。麥克沃特和丹尼卡醫生將尤塞瑞恩引進帳篷，讓他在一張椅子上坐了下來，然後用冰冷的脫脂濕棉球把斯諾登濺在他身上的血全部擦洗幹淨。丹尼卡醫生給他服了一片藥，接著又給他打了一針，這些東西讓他整整睡了十二個小時。當尤塞瑞恩醒來後又去見他時，丹尼卡醫生又給他服了藥片並又給他打了一針，這使他又足足睡了十二個小時。等尤塞瑞恩再次醒來去見醫生時，醫生準備再給他吃藥打針。
“你到底還要給我吃多少藥，打多少針？”尤塞瑞恩問他。
“直到你感覺好些了為止。”
“我現在就感覺好些了。”
丹尼卡醫生那被太陽曬成棕黃色的憔悴的額頭因驚訝而皺了起來。“那你為什麽還不穿上衣裳呢？你為什麽要像這樣赤身裸體地到處亂跑？”
“我再也不想穿製服了。”
丹尼卡醫生接受了他的這一解釋，將手上的注射器收了起來。 “你肯定感覺良好？”
“我感覺很好。隻是你給我吃了那麽多的藥，打了那麽多的針，我感覺自己有點呆呆的。” 在那天剩餘的時間裏,尤塞瑞恩就這麽一絲不掛地到處走動。第二天上午,九、十點鍾的時候，米洛到處找他，最後發現他坐在距那小巧的軍人公墓後方不遠的一棵樹上，身上仍舊是精赤條條的。斯諾登即將被安葬在這裏。米洛是按平時規定著裝的,下著草綠色軍褲，上身穿一件幹淨的草綠色襯衫，打著領帶，衣領上那道標誌中尉軍銜的銀杠杠閃閃發亮。他頭上還戴著一頂有硬皮帽簷的軍帽。
“我一直在到處找你，”米洛仰起頭，以責怪的口吻朝著樹上的尤塞瑞恩喊道。
“你應該到這棵樹上來找我，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我整整一個上午都在這上麵。”
“下來，嚐嚐這個，告訴我好不好吃。這很重要。”
尤塞瑞恩搖了搖頭。他赤身裸體地坐在最低的那很大樹枝上，兩手緊緊地抓住它上方的一根樹枝，以讓身體保持平衡。他拒絕動彈，米洛沒辦法，隻好張開雙臂，極不情願地抱住樹幹，開始向上爬去。他笨手笨腳地爬著，一邊大聲呼哧呼哧地喘著粗氣。待他爬到一定高度，足以讓他將一條腿鉤在樹枝上停下來喘口氣時，他身上的衣服已被擠壓得不像樣了。他頭上的軍帽也歪了，隨時都有掉下來的危險。當帽子往下滑的時候，米洛趕緊一把將它抓住。豆粒般的汗珠像晶瑩剔透的珍珠一樣，在他的唇須上閃閃發光，而他眼睛下的汗珠則像鼓起來的混濁的水泡一樣。尤塞瑞恩冷眼瞅著他。米洛小心翼翼地將身體翻轉半圈，這樣他就可以麵對著尤塞瑞恩了。他把包在一團軟軟的、圓圓的棕色物體上的薄紙揭開，然後將其遞給尤塞瑞恩。
“請嚐一嚐，再告訴我味道怎麽樣。我想把這東西拿給大夥吃。”
“這是什麽？”尤塞瑞恩問，一邊咬了一大口。
“裹了一層巧克力的棉花。”
尤塞瑞恩惡心得直作嘔，那一大口巧克力糖衣棉花不偏不斜正好吐在米洛的臉上。“給，快把它拿走！”他一邊往外噴棉花，一邊生氣他說，“天哪！難道你瘋了？你連棉花籽都沒弄掉。”
“別說得那麽絕好不好？”米洛懇求說，“不至於那麽糟吧。真的那麽難吃？”
“比難吃還糟。”
“可我必須讓食堂把這東西給大夥當飯吃。”
“他們誰都不會咽得下去。”
“他們一定得咽下去，”米洛帶著一臉專橫的莊重神情，以命令的口氣說道。他邊說邊鬆開一隻胳臂，理直氣壯地在空中揮了揮一根手指，可沒料到自己差點摔下去跌斷脖子。
“你往這邊挪過來點，”尤塞瑞恩對他說，“這樣會安全得多，並且還能看到周圍的一切。”
米洛雙手抓住頭頂上方的樹枝，帶著十二分小心開始一點一點地往旁邊挪動。他的臉因緊張而繃得緊緊的。當他發現自己終於平安無事地坐在了尤塞瑞恩身邊時，不禁長長地鬆了口氣。他親切地撫摸著那棵樹。“這棵樹多好哇，”他以一種樹的主人的感激口氣讚歎地說。
“這就是生命之樹，”尤塞瑞恩回答說，一邊晃動著他的腳趾頭。 “也是識別善惡之樹。”
米洛眯起眼睛仔細打量樹皮和樹枝。“不是，它不是的，”他答道，“這是棵栗樹。我應該能看得出來。我也賣栗子。”
“你愛怎麽叫就怎麽叫吧。”
他倆坐在樹上，有好幾秒鍾誰也沒開口，腿從樹上垂下，雙手幾乎伸得筆直，抓著頭頂上的樹枝。他倆一個除穿著一雙縐膠底鞋外，全身上下一絲不掛，而另一個卻齊齊整整地穿著全套草綠色粗呢毛料軍裝，連領帶都係得緊緊的。米洛膽怯地透過眼角仔細地打量著尤塞瑞恩，很識相地猶豫著不開口。
“我想問你件事。”他終於開口了。“你什麽衣服也不穿，當然我一點也不想幹涉你，我隻不過好奇罷了。你為什麽不穿製服？”
“我不想穿。” 米洛像麻雀啄食那樣飛快地連連點頭。“我明白了，我明白了，”他忙不迭地說，但臉上卻現出一片迷茫。“我完全理解。我聽阿普爾比和布萊克上尉說你瘋了，我隻想弄個清楚。”出於禮貌，他又猶豫了一會，斟酌著下一句問話。“你真的以後再也不穿製服了？”
“我可沒這麽想。”
米洛忙又使勁點頭，裝出他仍能明白的模樣，接著就默不作聲地坐在那裏，神情嚴肅而又煩惱不安地陷入了深思。一隻頭頂紅冠的鳥兒，扇動著有力的黑色翅膀，擦過那搖曳不停的灌木叢，從他們的下麵飛過。樹蔭裏的約塞連和米洛由一層層斜斜的薄薄的綠葉擋著，四周則是圍了其他的灰色栗樹和一棵銀色的雲杉。太陽高高地懸掛在他倆頭頂上那片蔚藍色的遼闊天空上，在這一片藍色中低低地浮動著幾小團蓬鬆的白雲，好似綴成一串的珍珠。空氣中一絲風也沒有，他們周圍的樹葉一動不動地低垂著。那樹蔭好像是由羽毛覆蓋而成。除了米洛，一切似乎都是在靜止的狀態之中。隻見米洛突然直起腰，壓低嗓子叫了一聲，手激動地指著一個方向。
“快看！”他驚呼道，“快看那邊！那裏正在舉行葬禮。那像是一片公墓，對嗎？”
尤塞瑞恩用平淡的語氣慢吞吞地答道：“他們正在安葬一個小夥子，就是那天轟炸阿維尼翁時被打死在我機上的那位。就是斯諾登。”
“他是怎麽死的？”米洛問，因害怕連聲音都變了調。
“被打死的。”
“那太可怕了，”米洛悲歎道，一對褐色大眼睛裏充滿了淚水。
“多可伶的小夥子。這實在太可怕了。”他使勁咬住他那顫動不已的下嘴唇，隨後又頗帶感情地抬高嗓門繼續說，“可如果這些食堂都不肯購買我的棉花，那事情會變得更糟糕。尤塞瑞恩，這些人都是怎麽了？難道他們不明白，這辛迪加聯合體可是他們自己的呀。難道他們不知道？他們人人都有一份啊。”
“連我帳篷裏的那個死人也有一份嗎？”尤塞瑞恩挖苦地問。
“他當然也有，”米洛十分大方地向他保證道，“中隊裏的每一個人都有一份。”
“他還沒來得及到我們中隊就給打死了。”
米洛熟練地做了一個表示痛苦的怪相，然後將臉轉開。“我希望你不要老是拿你帳篷裏的那個死人來找我的茬，”他用慍怒的語氣懇求道，“我跟你說過，那人被打死同我一點關係也沒有。我看到了這個壟斷埃及棉花市場的大好機會，結果給咱們大夥惹來了麻煩，這難道是我的錯？難道我應該有未卜先知的本領，事先就知道會出現棉花供應過剩？那時我連供應過剩是怎麽回事都不知道。壟斷市場的機會是不常有的，我遇到這樣的機會能一把抓住就夠精明的了。”米洛本想發出一聲嗚咽，可他忍住了，因為這時他看到六個身穿製服的抬靈柩的人把一口簡陋的棺材從救護車上抬了下來，輕輕放在那條狹長的裂口，那口新挖的墓穴旁邊。 “可現在我連一個子兒的棉花也賣不出去。”
麵對這套不足道的葬禮，以及米洛那副如喪考妣似的悲痛欲絕的樣子,尤塞瑞恩無動於衷。隨軍牧師的聲音從很遠的地方輕輕傳來，那單調的聲音含混不清，幾乎一句話也聽不出，就像一種虛無的喃喃低語。尤塞瑞恩從那個骨瘦如柴的高高身影辨認出梅傑少校，還相信自己也認出那個正在用手帕擦額頭的人是丹比少校。丹比少校自那次與德裏德爾將軍衝突過後就從沒停止過發抖。幾排士兵圍著這三個軍官，站成一個弧形，像一根根木樁子似的直挺挺地立在那裏。四個閑著無事、身穿條子工作服的掘墓人，身體倚著鏟子，帶著一臉的冷漠，站在那一大堆難看的紫銅色的鬆土旁。在尤塞瑞恩盯著他們看的時候，牧師抬眼朝尤塞瑞恩送去了祝福的目光，痛苦似地用手指揉了揉眼睛，然後又用探究的目光注視著約塞連這個方向，接著低下了頭，結束尤塞瑞恩視之為葬禮高潮的最後程序。那四個穿工作服的人用吊索將棺材吊起來，慢慢放進墓穴。這時米洛的身體猛烈地顫動了一下。
“我不能再看下去啦，”他極度痛苦地轉過臉去叫道，“我可不能光坐在這裏，眼睜睜地看著這種場麵，而與此同時那些食堂卻在讓我的辛迪加聯合體死亡。”他簡直在咬牙切齒，滿臉悲哀和忿恨地直搖頭。“要是他們真有那麽一點忠心的話，他們就會買我的棉花，直到他們發覺虧了本，而一旦這樣，他們就會接連不斷地買我的棉花，直到他們賠了更大的本。這樣，他們就會去放火，將他們的內衣內褲以及夏季製服統統燒掉，好為棉花創造較大的銷路。可他們連一下忙都不肯幫。尤塞瑞恩，你就試試吧，幫我把這團剩下的巧克力糖衣棉花吃下去。也許這會兒味道會很好的。”
尤塞瑞恩推開了他的手。“得了吧，米洛。人是不能吃棉花的。”
米洛狡猾地堆起了一副笑臉。“這並不真的是棉花，”他哄騙道，“我剛才是開玩笑的。這其實是棉花糖，是美味的棉花糖。你再嚐嚐看。”
“你在撒謊。”
“我從不撒謊！”米洛帶著一種自豪的莊重神情反駁說。
“你此時就在撒謊。”
“我隻在必要的時候才撒謊，”米洛為自己辯解道，同時將目光移開了一會，一麵怪可愛地眨動著他的眼睫毛，“這東西比棉花糖要好，真的。它是用真正的棉花做成的。尤塞瑞恩，你得幫著我讓大夥將這東西吃下去。埃及棉花可是世界上最最好的棉花呀。”
“可它不能被消化，”尤塞瑞恩強調說，“它會讓大夥生病，這你不明白嗎？要是你不信我的話，你自己幹嗎不試試靠吃棉花過日子呢？”
“我試過了，”米洛沮喪地承認道，“它使我很不舒服。”
墓地裏一片黃色，是那種夾著青色的幹草顏色，就像燒熟的卷心菜。過了一會，牧師朝後退了幾步，那一小群圍成半圓形、穿著米色製服的人像漂浮在水麵上的碎片一樣，開始緩緩散開。這些人不急不慢、不聲不響地朝著各自沿高低不平的土路停放著的車輛飄了過去，牧師、梅傑少校和丹比少校不在這些人當中，他們自成一隊，鬱鬱寡歡地朝著他們各自的吉普車走去，彼此間保持著幾英尺的距離，好像素不相識似的。
“一切都結束了，”尤塞瑞恩說。
“一切都完了，”米洛喪氣地讚同道，“一點希望也沒有了。這都是因為我讓他們自作決定的結果。這倒給了我一個教訓：下一次我要是再幹類似的事情，我一定要先明確紀律。”
“你幹嗎不把棉花賣給政府？”尤塞瑞恩漫不經心地建議道，眼睛則盯著那四個穿條子工作服的人，他們正在將一鏟鏟紫銅色的泥土扔回到墓穴裏去。
米洛斷然否定了尤塞瑞恩的想法。“這可是個原則問題，”他以決然的口氣解釋說，“政府無權做生意，而我也是世界上最不願讓政府卷入我的生意的人。不過政府的職責就是做生意。”他突然靈機一動，想起了什麽，於是得意洋洋地繼續說道，“這話是卡爾文·柯立芝說的，卡爾文·柯立芝當過總統，所以他的話是不會錯的。我弄到了那麽多的埃及棉花，可沒人肯要，政府有責任把它們統統買下來，這樣我就可以有大賺頭了，不是嗎？”米洛的臉突然又陰沉下來，情緒一下子一落千丈，變得焦慮不安。“可我怎樣才能讓政府買下我的棉花呢？”
“行賄嘛。”
“行賄！”米洛勃然大怒，差點兒再次失去平衡，跌斷自己的脖子。“你真可恥！”他厲聲嗬斥道，從他那翕動不已的鼻孔和一本正經的雙唇裏噴出的氣息，如同正直的火焰，上下翻動著，直衝他上唇那抹鐵鏽色的小胡子。“行賄犯法，這你是知道的。可是做生意賺錢是不犯法的，對吧？所以，對我來說，為賺點正當的利潤而去賄賂某人，這不能算犯法，不是嗎？不算，當然不算犯法！”他又一次陷入了沉思，臉上掛著逆來順受和近乎可伶的苦惱表情。“可我又怎麽知道該賄賂誰呢？”
“哦，這你不用擔心，”尤塞瑞恩竊笑了一下，用平淡的語調安慰他說。此時吉普車和救護車發動引擎的聲音打破了使人昏昏欲睡的寂靜，排在後麵的車輛也開始倒著開走了。“隻要你行賄的數目大，他們會來找你的。有一點務必要做到，那就是你一切都得說在明處。要讓每一個人都明明白白地知道你想幹什麽，肯為此而出多大的價錢。假如你第一次行事時表現出一副心中有鬼或問心有愧的樣子，那你就要倒黴了。”
“我希望你能和我一起去辦這事，”米洛說，“和那些受賄的人呆在一起我感到很不安全。這些家夥比一幫騙子好不了多少。”
“你不會有事的。”尤塞瑞恩很有把握地向他擔保。“要是你碰到了麻煩，那你就讓每一個人都知道，為了美國的安全，需要有一個強大的埃及棉花投機企業。”
“確實需要，”米洛神情莊重地對他說，“有了強大的埃及棉花投機企業就意味著有了一個更強大的美國。”
“這是當然的啦。要是這招不靈，那你可以列出數字，說明有多少美國家庭得依賴該企業的存在來謀取收入。”
“確實有許許多多的美國家庭得靠它來取得收入。”
“你明白了？”尤塞瑞恩說，“這些你比我更在行。你幾乎讓這事聽起來像真的一樣。”
“本來就是這麽回事嘛，”米洛大聲他說，臉上重又明顯地掛上了他原來的那副傲慢神氣。
“我正是這個意思。你就帶著這種深信不疑的信念去幹吧。”
“你真的不願和我一道去？”
尤塞瑞恩搖了搖頭。
米洛急不可耐地想行動了。他將那團剩下的巧克力糖衣棉花塞進了他的襯衣口袋，然後戰戰兢兢、一點一點地順著樹枝向後挪著，一直挪到那光滑的灰色樹幹。接著，他張開雙臂笨拙地抱住樹身，開始向下滑去，可他穿的皮底鞋的鞋邊老是打滑，因此有好幾次他險些跌卞去，將自己摔傷。滑了一半的時候，他突然改變了主意，又重新爬了上去。他的唇須上沾滿了樹皮的碎屑，那張緊張的臉因用勁而漲得通紅。
“我希望你把製服穿起來，不要像這樣一絲不掛地到處亂跑。” 在他重新爬下樹匆匆離去之前，他憂鬱地向尤塞瑞恩吐露了自己的擔憂。“你這樣有可能會帶出一股風氣，這一來我的那些該死的棉花就永遠也脫不了手了。

第二十四章 Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24: MILO

Summary

It is April, and Milo is busy conducting his business with a colonel in Sardinia. He promises to bring the colonel casaba melons from Damascus and lamb chops from Portugal if the colonel will lend him some planes. A fighter plane commander who refuses to fly Milo is transferred to the Solomon Islands.

Miloós planes fly everywhere. His planes carry the name "M & M Enterprises"; he even has German bombers working for his syndicate. One day, Cathcart wants to confiscate the German bombers that Milo has brought in from Madagascar, but Milo will have none of it. Miloós business has spread over all of Europe, except Russia.

Milo signs a contract with the American military authorities to bomb a German- held bridge and signed with German authorities to defend the same bridge from an American attack. Mudd is killed on this mission. Yossarian accuses Milo of killing Mudd, but Milo reiterates that he was merely fulfilling his business obligation. Milo receives a thousand dollars from the Germans for every American aircraft shot down at Orvieto.

The purchase of Egyptian cotton in Cairo has nearly caused the ruin of Miloós enterprise. There is no market for to sell the cotton. Milo comes up with all kinds of innovations, including chocolate covered cotton, hoping to sell it to the American soldiers. Meanwhile, Milo has signed a contract with the Germans to bomb his own squadron. He fulfills the terms of his contract and bombs Pianosa one night, much to the chagrin of Cathcart and the other officers. Milo is condemned as a traitor, but when he opens his account books and discloses the profit he has made by bombing his own unit, he is forgiven.

Notes

Milo says that the syndicate is for everyone, but it is his name alone that is on the airplanes. He does not care that he brings about the deaths of American soldiers by signing a contract with the Germans. He even bombs his own squadron in the middle of the night. The only thing that concerns him is business. He misuses Air Force planes to make a nice profit for himself. He becomes immensely popular among the officers because he brings them all kinds of exotic and tasty food. In a moment of supreme irony, Milo announces that he would prefer his syndicate fight the war instead of the government.

As a contrast to Milo, we have Daneeka's conscientious efforts to save the lives of the men that Miloós planes have shot down at Pianosa. Once again, there is a description of Yossarian in the tree at Snowdenós funeral.



CHAPTER 24: MILO
”
April had been the best month of all for Milo. Lilacs bloomed in April and fruit ripened on the vine. Heartbeats quickened and old appetites were renewed. In April a livelier iris gleamed upon the burnished dove. April was spring， and in the spring Milo Minderbinder's fancy had lightly turned to thoughts of tangerines.

    'Tangerines？'

    'Yes， sir.'

    'My men would love tangerines，' admitted the colonel in Sardinia who commanded four squadrons of B-26s.

    'There'll be all the tangerines they can eat that you're able to pay for with money from your mess fund，' Milo assured him.

    'Casaba melons？'

    'Are going for a song in Damascus.'

    'I have a weakness for casaba melons. I've always had a weakness for casaba melons.'

    'Just lend me one plane from each squadron， just one plane， and you'll have all the casabas you can eat that you've money to pay for.'

    'We buy from the syndicate？'

    'And everybody has a share.'

    'It's amazing， positively amazing. How can you do it？'

    'Mass purchasing power makes the big difference. For example， breaded veal cutlets.'

    'I'm not so crazy about breaded veal cutlets，' grumbled the skeptical B-25 commander in the north of Corsica.

    'Breaded veal cutlets are very nutritious，' Milo admonished him piously. 'They contain egg yolk and bread crumbs. And so are lamb chops.'

    'Ah， lamb chops，' echoed the B-25 commander. 'Good lamb chops？'

    'The best，' said Milo， 'that the black market has to offer.'

    'Baby lamb chops？'

    'In the cutest little pink paper panties you ever saw. Are going for a song in Portugal.'

    'I can't send a plane to Portugal. I haven't the authority.'

    'I can， once you lend the plane to me. With a pilot to fly it. And don't forget-you'll get General Dreedle.'

    'Will General Dreedle eat in my mess hall again？'

    'Like a pig， once you start feeding him my best white fresh eggs fried in my pure creamery butter. There'll be tangerines too， and casaba melons， honeydews， filet of Dover sole， baked Alaska， and cockles and mussels.'

    'And everybody has a share？'

    'That，' said Milo， 'is the most beautiful part of it.'

    'I don't like it，' growled the unco-operative fighter-plane commander， who didn't like Milo either.

    'There's an unco-operative fighter-plane commander up north who's got it in for me，' Milo complained to General Dreedle. 'It takes just one person to ruin the whole thing， and then you wouldn't have your fresh eggs fried in my pure creamery butter any more.' General Dreedle had the unco-operative fighter-plane commander transferred to the Solomon Islands to dig graves and replaced him with a senile colonel with bursitis and a craving for litchi nuts who introduced Milo to the B-17 general on the mainland with a yearning for Polish sausage.

    'Polish sausage is going for peanuts in Cracow，' Milo informed him.

    'Polish sausage，' sighed the general nostalgically. 'You know， I'd give just about anything for a good hunk of Polish sausage. Just about anything.'

    'You don't have to give anything. Just give me one plane for each mess hall and a pilot who will do what he's told. And a small down payment on your initial order as a token of good faith.'

    'But Cracow is hundreds of miles behind the enemy lines. How will you get to the sausage？'

    'There's an international Polish sausage exchange in Geneva. I'll just fly the peanuts into Switzerland and exchange them for Polish sausage at the open market rate. They'll fly the peanuts back to Cracow and I'll fly the Polish sausage back to you. You buy only as much Polish sausage as you want through the syndicate. There'll be tangerines too， with only a little artificial coloring added. And eggs from Malta and Scotch from Sicily. You'll be paying the money to yourself when you buy from the syndicate， since you'll own a share， so you'll really be getting everything you buy for nothing. Doesn't that makes sense？'

    'Sheer genius. How in the world did you ever think of it？'

    'My name is Milo Minderbinder. I am twenty-seven years old.' Milo Minderbinder's planes flew in from everywhere， the pursuit planes， bombers， and cargo ships streaming into Colonel Cathcart's field with pilots at the controls who would do what they were told. The planes were decorated with flamboyant squadron emblems illustrating such laudable ideals as Courage， Might， Justice， Truth， Liberty， Love， Honor and Patriotism that were painted out at once by Milo's mechanics with a double coat of flat white and replaced in garish purple with the stenciled name M & M ENTERPRISES， FINE FRUITS AND PRODUCE. The 'M & M' In 'M & M ENTERPRISES' stood for Milo & Minderbinder， and the & was inserted， Milo revealed candidly， to nullify any impression that the syndicate was a one-man operation. Planes arrived for Milo from airfields in Italy， North Africa and England， and from Air Transport Command stations in Liberia， Ascension Island， Cairo， and Karachi. Pursuit planes were traded for additional cargo ships or retained for emergency invoice duty and small-parcel service； trucks and tanks were procured from the ground forces and used for short-distance road hauling. Everybody had a share， and men got fat and moved about tamely with toothpicks in their greasy lips. Milo supervised the whole expanding operation by himself. Deep otter-brown lines of preoccupation etched themselves permanently into his careworn face and gave him a harried look of sobriety and mistrust. Everybody but Yossarian thought Milo was a jerk， first for volunteering for the job of mess officer and next for taking it so seriously. Yossarian also thought that Milo was a jerk； but he also knew that Milo was a genius.

    One day Milo flew away to England to pick up a load of Turkish halvah and came flying back from Madagascar leading four German bombers filled with yams， collards， mustard greens and black-eyed Georgia peas. Milo was dumbfounded when he stepped down to the ground and found a contingent of armed M.P.s waiting to imprison the German pilots and confiscate their planes. Confiscate！ The mere word was anathema to him， and he stormed back and forth in excoriating condemnation， shaking a piercing finger of rebuke in the guilt-ridden faces of Colonel Cathcart， Colonel Korn and the poor battle-scarred captain with the submachine gun who commanded the M.P.s.

    'Is this Russia？' Milo assailed them incredulously at the top of his voice. 'Confiscate？' he shrieked， as though he could not believe his own ears. 'Since when is it the policy of the American government to confiscate the private property of its citizens？ Shame on you！ Shame on all of you for even thinking such a horrible thought.'

    'But Milo，' Major Danby interrupted timidly， 'we're at war with Germany， and those are German planes.'

    'They are no such thing！' Milo retorted furiously. 'Those planes belong to the syndicate， and everybody has a share. Confiscate？ How can you possibly confiscate your own private property？ Confiscate， indeed！ I've never heard anything so depraved in my whole life.' And sure enough， Milo was right， for when they looked， his mechanics had painted out the German swastikas on the wings， tails and fuselages with double coats of flat white and stenciled in the words M & M ENTERPRISES， FINE FRUITS AND PRODUCE. Right before their eyes he had transformed his syndicate into an international cartel.

    Milo's argosies of plenty now filled the air. Planes poured in from Norway， Denmark， France， Germany， Austria， Italy， Yugoslavia， Romania， Bulgaria， Sweden， Finland， Poland-from everywhere in Europe， in fact， but Russia， with whom Milo refused to do business. When everybody who was going to had signed up with M & M Enterprises， Fine Fruits and Produce， Milo created a wholly owned subsidiary， M & M Fancy Pastry， and obtained more airplanes and more money from the mess funds for scones and crumpets from the British Isles， prune and cheese Danish from Copenhagen， é；clairs， cream puffs， Napoleons and petits fours from Paris， Reims and Grenoble， Kugelhopf， pumpernickel and Pfefferkuchen from Berlin， Linzer and Dobos Torten from Vienna， Strudel from Hungary and baklava from Ankara. Each morning Milo sent planes aloft all over Europe and North Africa hauling long red tow signs advertising the day's specials in large square letters： 'EYEROUND， 79¢；… WHITING， 21¢；。' He boosted cash income for the syndicate by leasing tow signs to Pet Milk， Gaines Dog Food， and Noxzema. In a spirit of civic enterprise， he regularly allotted a certain amount of free aerial advertising space to General Peckem for the propagation of such messages in the public interest as NEATNESS COUNTS， HASTE MAKES WASTE， and THE FAMILY THAT PRAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER. Milo purchased spot radio announcements on Axis Sally's and Lord Haw Haw's daily propaganda broadcasts from Berlin to keep things moving. Business boomed on every battlefront.

    Milo's planes were a familiar sight. They had freedom of passage everywhere， and one day Milo contracted with the American military authorities to bomb the German-held highway bridge at Orvieto and with the German military authorities to defend the highway bridge at Orvieto with antiaircraft fire against his own attack. His fee for attacking the bridge for America was the total cost of the operation plus six per cent and his fee from Germany for defending the bridge was the same cost-plus-six agreement augmented by a merit bonus of a thousand dollars for every American plane he shot down. The consummation of these deals represented an important victory for private enterprise， he pointed out， since the armies of both countries were socialized institutions. Once the contracts were signed， there seemed to be no point in using the resources of the syndicate to bomb and defend the bridge， inasmuch as both governments had ample men and material right there to do so and were perfectly happy to contribute them， and in the end Milo realized a fantastic profit from both halves of his project for doing nothing more than signing his name twice.

    The arrangements were fair to both sides. Since Milo did have freedom of passage everywhere， his planes were able to steal over in a sneak attack without alerting the German antiaircraft gunners； and since Milo knew about the attack， he was able to alert the German antiaircraft gunners in sufficient time for them to begin firing accurately the moment the planes came into range. It was an ideal arrangement for everyone but the dead man in Yossarian's tent， who was killed over the target the day he arrived.

    'I didn't kill him！' Milo kept replying passionately to Yossarian's angry protest. 'I wasn't even there that day， I tell you. Do you think I was down there on the ground firing an antiaircraft gun when the planes came over？'

    'But you organized the whole thing， didn't you？' Yossarian shouted back at him in the velvet darkness cloaking the path leading past the still vehicles of the motor pool to the open-air movie theater.

    'And I didn't organize anything，' Milo answered indignantly， drawing great agitated sniffs of air in through his hissing， pale， twitching nose. 'The Germans have the bridge， and we were going to bomb it， whether I stepped into the picture or not. I just saw a wonderful opportunity to make some profit out of the mission， and I took it. What's so terrible about that？'

    'What's so terrible about it？ Milo， a man in my tent was killed on that mission before he could even unpack his bags.'

    'But I didn't kill him.'

    'You got a thousand dollars extra for it.'

    'But I didn't kill him. I wasn't even there， I tell you. I was in Barcelona buying olive oil and skinless and boneless sardines， and I've got the purchase orders to prove it. And I didn't get the thousand dollars. That thousand dollars went to the syndicate， and everybody got a share， even you.' Milo was appealing to Yossarian from the bottom of his soul. 'Look， I didn't start this war， Yossarian， no matter what that lousy Wintergreen is saying. I'm just trying to put it on a businesslike basis. Is anything wrong with that？ You know， a thousand dollars ain't such a bad price for a medium bomber and a crew. If I can persuade the Germans to pay me a thousand dollars for every plane they shoot down， why shouldn't I take it？'

    'Because you're dealing with the enemy， that's why. Can't you understand that we're fighting a war？ People are dying. Look around you， for Christ's sake！' Milo shook his head with weary forbearance. 'And the Germans are not our enemies，' he declared. 'Oh I know what you're going to say. Sure， we're at war with them. But the Germans are also members in good standing of the syndicate， and it's my job to protect their rights as shareholders. Maybe they did start the war， and maybe they are killing millions of people， but they pay their bills a lot more promptly than some allies of ours I could name. Don't you understand that I have to respect the sanctity of my contract with Germany？ Can't you see it from my point of view？'

    'No，' Yossarian rebuffed him harshly.

    Milo was stung and made no effort to disguise his wounded feelings. It was a muggy， moonlit night filled with gnats， moths， and mosquitoes. Milo lifted his arm suddenly and pointed toward the open-air theater， where the milky， dust-filled beam bursting horizontally from the projector slashed a conelike swath in the blackness and draped in a fluorescent membrane of light the audience tilted on the seats there in hypnotic sags， their faces focused upward toward the aluminized movie screen. Milo's eyes were liquid with integrity， and his artless and uncorrupted face was lustrous with a shining mixture of sweat and insect repellent.

    'Look at them，' he exclaimed in a voice choked with emotion. 'They're my friends， my countrymen， my comrades in arms. A fellow never had a better bunch of buddies. Do you think I'd do a single thing to harm them if I didn't have to？ Haven't I got enough on my mind？ Can't you see how upset I am already about all that cotton piling up on those piers in Egypt？' Milo's voice splintered into fragments， and he clutched at Yossarian's shirt front as though drowning. His eyes were throbbing visibly like brown caterpillars. 'Yossarian， what am I going to do with so much cotton？ It's all your fault for letting me buy it.' The cotton was piling up on the piers in Egypt， and nobody wanted any. Milo had never dreamed that the Nile Valley could be so fertile or that there would be no market at all for the crop he had bought. The mess halls in his syndicate would not help； they rose up in uncompromising rebellion against his proposal to tax them on a per capita basis in order to enable each man to own his own share of the Egyptian cotton crop. Even his reliable friends the Germans failed him in this crisis： they preferred ersatz. Milo's mess halls would not even help him store the cotton， and his warehousing costs skyrocketed and contributed to the devastating drain upon his cash reserves. The profits from the Orvieto mission were sucked away. He began writing home for the money he had sent back in better days； soon that was almost gone. And new bales of cotton kept arriving on the wharves at Alexandria every day. Each time he succeeded in dumping some on the world market for a loss it was snapped up by canny Egyptian brokers in the Levant， who sold it back to him at the original price， so that he was really worse off than before.

    M & M Enterprises verged on collapse. Milo cursed himself hourly for his monumental greed and stupidity in purchasing the entire Egyptian cotton crop， but a contract was a contract and had to be honored， and one night， after a sumptuous evening meal， all Milo's fighters and bombers took off， joined in formation directly overhead and began dropping bombs on the group. He had landed another contract with the Germans， this time to bomb his own outfit. Milo's planes separated in a well co-ordinated attack and bombed the fuel stocks and the ordnance dump， the repair hangars and the B-25 bombers resting on the lollipop-shaped hardstands at the field. His crews spared the landing strip and the mess halls so that they could land safely when their work was done and enjoy a hot snack before retiring. They bombed with their landing lights on， since no one was shooting back. They bombed all four squadrons， the officers' club and the Group Headquarters building. Men bolted from their tents in sheer terror and did not know in which direction to turn. Wounded soon lay screaming everywhere. A cluster of fragmentation bombs exploded in the yard of the officers' club and punched jagged holes in the side of the wooden building and in the bellies and backs of a row of lieutenants and captains standing at the bar. They doubled over in agony and dropped. The rest of the officers fled toward the two exits in panic and jammed up the doorways like a dense， howling dam of human flesh as they shrank from going farther.

    Colonel Cathcart clawed and elbowed his way through the unruly， bewildered mass until he stood outside by himself. He stared up at the sky in stark astonishment and horror. Milo's planes， ballooning serenely in over the blossoming treetops with their bomb bay doors open and wing flaps down and with their monstrous， bug-eyed， blinding， fiercely flickering， eerie landing lights on， were the most apocalyptic sight he had ever beheld. Colonel Cathcart let go a stricken gasp of dismay and hurled himself headlong into his jeep， almost sobbing. He found the gas pedal and the ignition and sped toward the airfield as fast as the rocking car would carry him， his huge flabby hands clenched and bloodless on the wheel or blaring his horn tormentedly. Once he almost killed himself when he swerved with a banshee screech of tires to avoid plowing into a bunch of men running crazily toward the hills in their underwear with their stunned faces down and their thin arms pressed high around their temples as puny shields. Yellow， orange and red fires were burning on both sides of the road. Tents and trees were in flames， and Milo's planes kept coming around interminably with their blinking white landing lights on and their bomb bay doors open. Colonel Cathcart almost turned the jeep over when he slammed the brakes on at the control tower. He leaped from the car while it was still skidding dangerously and hurtled up the flight of steps inside， where three men were busy at the instruments and the controls. He bowled two of them aside in his lunge for the nickel-plated microphone， his eyes glittering wildly and his beefy face contorted with stress. He squeezed the microphone in a bestial grip and began shouting hysterically at the top of his voice.

    'Milo， you son of a bitch！ Are you crazy？ What the hell are you doing？ Come down！ Come down！'

    'Stop hollering so much， will you？' answered Milo， who was standing there right beside him in the control tower with a microphone of his own. 'I'm right here.' Milo looked at him with reproof and turned back to his work. 'Very good， men， very good，' he chanted into his microphone. 'But I see one supply shed still standing. That will never do， Purvis-I've spoken to you about that kind of shoddy work before. Now， you go right back there this minute and try it again. And this time come in slowly… slowly. Haste makes waste， Purvis. Haste makes waste. If I've told you that once， I must have told you that a hundred times. Haste makes waste.' The loudspeaker overhead began squawking. 'Milo， this is Alvin Brown. I've finished dropping my bombs. What should I do now？'

    'Strafe，' said Milo.

    'Strafe？' Alvin Brown was shocked.

    'We have no choice，' Milo informed him resignedly. 'It's in the contract.'

    'Oh， okay， then，' Alvin Brown acquiesced. 'In that case I'll strafe.' This time Milo had gone too far. Bombing his own men and planes was more than even the most phlegmatic observer could stomach， and it looked like the end for him. High-ranking government officials poured in to investigate. Newspapers inveighed against Milo with glaring headlines， and Congressmen denounced the atrocity in stentorian wrath and clamored for punishment. Mothers with children in the service organized into militant groups and demanded revenge. Not one voice was raised in his defense. Decent people everywhere were affronted， and Milo was all washed up until he opened his books to the public and disclosed the tremendous profit he had made. He could reimburse the government for all the people and property he had destroyed and still have enough money left over to continue buying Egyptian cotton. Everybody， of course， owned a share. And the sweetest part of the whole deal was that there really was no need to reimburse the government at all.

    'In a democracy， the government is the people，' Milo explained. 'We're people， aren't we？ So we might just as well keep the money and eliminate the middleman. Frankly， I'd like to see the government get out of war altogether and leave the whole field to private industry. If we pay the government everything we owe it， we'll only be encouraging government control and discouraging other individuals from bombing their own men and planes. We'll be taking away their incentive.' Milo was correct， of course， as everyone soon agreed but a few embittered misfits like Doc Daneeka， who sulked cantankerously and muttered offensive insinuations about the morality of the whole venture until Milo mollified him with a donation， in the name of the syndicate， of a lightweight aluminum collapsible garden chair that Doc Daneeka could fold up conveniently and carry outside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came inside his tent and carry back inside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came out. Doc Daneeka had lost his head during Milo's bombardment； instead of running for cover， he had remained out in the open and performed his duty， slithering along the ground through shrapnel， strafing and incendiary bombs like a furtive， wily lizard from casualty to casualty， administering tourniquets， morphine， splints and sulfanilamide with a dark and doleful visage， never saying one word more than he had to and reading in each man's bluing wound a dreadful portent of his own decay. He worked himself relentlessly into exhaustion before the long night was over and came down with a snife the next day that sent him hurrying querulously into the medical tent to have his temperature taken by Gus and Wes and to obtain a mustard plaster and vaporizer.

    Doc Daneeka tended each moaning man that night with the same glum and profound and introverted grief he showed at the airfield the day of the Avignon mission when Yossarian climbed down the few steps of his plane naked， in a state of utter shock， with Snowden smeared abundantly all over his bare heels and toes， knees， arms and fingers， and pointed inside wordlessly toward where the young radio-gunner lay freezing to death on the floor beside the still younger tail-gunner who kept falling back into a dead faint each time he opened his eyes and saw Snowden dying.

    Doc Daneeka draped a blanket around Yossarian's shoulders almost tenderly after Snowden had been removed from the plane and carried into an ambulance on a stretcher. He led Yossarian toward his jeep. McWatt helped， and the three drove in silence to the squadron medical tent， where McWatt and Doc Daneeka guided Yossarian inside to a chair and washed Snowden off him with cold wet balls of absorbent cotton. Doc Daneeka gave him a pill and a shot that put him to sleep for twelve hours. When Yossarian woke up and went to see him， Doc Daneeka gave him another pill and a shot that put him to sleep for another twelve hours. When Yossarian woke up again and went to see him， Doc Daneeka made ready to give him another pill and a shot.

    'How long are you going to keep giving me those pills and shots？' Yossarian asked him.

    'Until you feel better.'

    'I feel all right now.' Doc Daneeka's frail suntanned forehead furrowed with surprise. 'Then why don't you put some clothes on？ Why are you walking around naked？'

    'I don't want to wear a uniform any more.' Doc Daneeka accepted the explanation and put away his hypodermic syringe. 'Are you sure you feel all right？'

    'I feel fine. I'm just a little logy from all those pills and shots you've been giving me.' Yossarian went about his business with no clothes on all the rest of that day and was still naked late the next morning when Milo， after hunting everywhere else， finally found him sitting up a tree a small distance in back of the quaint little military cemetery at which Snowden was being buried. Milo was dressed in his customary business attire-olive-drab trousers， a fresh olive-drab shirt and tie， with one silver first lieutenant's bar gleaming on the collar， and a regulation dress cap with a stiff leather bill.

    'I've been looking all over for you，' Milo called up to Yossarian from the ground reproachfully.

    'You should have looked for me in this tree，' Yossarian answered. 'I've been up here all morning.'

    'Come on down and taste this and tell me if it's good. It's very important.' Yossarian shook his head. He sat nude on the lowest limb of the tree and balanced himself with both hands grasping the bough directly above. He refused to budge， and Milo had no choice but to stretch both arms about the trunk in a distasteful hug and start climbing. He struggled upward clumsily with loud grunts and wheezes， and his clothes were squashed and crooked by the time he pulled himself up high enough to hook a leg over the limb and pause for breath. His dress cap was askew and in danger of falling. Milo caught it just in time when it began slipping. Globules of perspiration glistened like transparent pearls around his mustache and swelled like opaque blisters under his eyes. Yossarian watched him impassively. Cautiously Milo worked himself around in a half circle so that he could face Yossarian. He unwrapped tissue paper from something soft， round and brown and handed it to Yossarian.

    'Please taste this and let me know what you think. I'd like to serve it to the men.'

    'What is it？' asked Yossarian， and took a big bite.

    'Chocolate-covered cotton.' Yossarian gagged convulsively and sprayed his big mouthful of chocolate-covered cotton right into Milo's face. 'Here， take it back！' he spouted angrily. 'Jesus Christ！ Have you gone crazy？ You didn't even take the goddam seeds out.'

    'Give it a chance， will you？' Milo begged. 'It can't be that bad. Is it really that bad？'

    'It's even worse.'

    'But I've got to make the mess halls feed it to the men.'

    'They'll never be able to swallow it.'

    'They've got to swallow it，' Milo ordained with dictatorial grandeur， and almost broke his neck when he let go with one arm to wave a righteous finger in the air.

    'Come on out here，' Yossarian invited him. 'You'll be much safer， and you can see everything.' Gripping the bough above with both hands， Milo began inching his way out on the limb sideways with utmost care and apprehension. His face was rigid with tension， and he sighed with relief when he found himself seated securely beside Yossarian. He stroked the tree affectionately. 'This is a pretty good tree，' he observed admiringly with proprietary gratitude.

    'It's the tree of life，' Yossarian answered， waggling his toes， 'and of knowledge of good and evil， too.' Milo squinted closely at the bark and branches. 'No it isn't，' he replied. 'It's a chestnut tree. I ought to know. I sell chestnuts.'

    'Have it your way.' They sat in the tree without talking for several seconds， their legs dangling and their hands almost straight up on the bough above， the one completely nude but for a pair of crepe-soled sandals， the other completely dressed in a coarse olive-drab woolen uniform with his tie knotted tight. Milo studied Yossarian diffidently through the corner of his eye， hesitating tactfully.

    'I want to ask you something，' he said at last. 'You don't have any clothes on. I don't want to butt in or anything， but I just want to know. Why aren't you wearing your uniform？'

    'I don't want to.' Milo nodded rapidly like a sparrow pecking. 'I see， I see，' he stated quickly with a look of vivid confusion. 'I understand perfectly. I heard Appleby and Captain Black say you had gone crazy， and I just wanted to find out.' He hesitated politely again， weighing his next question. 'Aren't you ever going to put your uniform on again？'

    'I don't think so.' Milo nodded with spurious vim to indicate he still understood and then sat silent， ruminating gravely with troubled misgiving. A scarlet-crested bird shot by below， brushing sure dark wings against a quivering bush. Yossarian and Milo were covered in their bower by tissue-thin tiers of sloping green and largely surrounded by other gray chestnut trees and a silver spruce. The sun was high overhead in a vast sapphire-blue sky beaded with low， isolated， puffy clouds of dry and immaculate white. There was no breeze， and the leaves about them hung motionless. The shade was feathery. Everything was at peace but Milo， who straightened suddenly with a muffled cry and began pointing excitedly.

    'Look at that！' he exclaimed in alarm. 'Look at that！ That's a funeral going on down there. That looks like the cemetery. Isn't it？' Yossarian answered him slowly in a level voice. 'They're burying that kid who got killed in my plane over Avignon the other day. Snowden.'

    'What happened to him？' Milo asked in a voice deadened with awe.

    'He got killed.'

    'That's terrible，' Milo grieved， and his large brown eyes filled with tears. 'That poor kid. It really is terrible.' He bit his trembling lip hard， and his voice rose with emotion when he continued. 'And it will get even worse if the mess halls don't agree to buy my cotton. Yossarian， what's the matter with them？ Don't they realize it's their syndicate？ Don't they know they've all got a share？'

    'Did the dead man in my tent have a share？' Yossarian demanded caustically.

    'Of course he did，' Milo assured him lavishly. 'Everybody in the squadron has a share.'

    'He was killed before he even got into the squadron.' Milo made a deft grimace of tribulation and turned away. 'I wish you'd stop picking on me about that dead man in your tent，' he pleaded peevishly. 'I told you I didn't have anything to do with killing him. Is it my fault that I saw this great opportunity to corner the market on Egyptian cotton and got us into all this trouble？ Was I supposed to know there was going to be a glut？ I didn't even know what a glut was in those days. An opportunity to corner a market doesn't come along very often， and I was pretty shrewd to grab the chance when I had it.' Milo gulped back a moan as he saw six uniformed pallbearers lift the plain pine coffin from the ambulance and set it gently down on the ground beside the yawning gash of the freshly dug grave. 'And now I can't get rid of a single penny's worth，' he mourned.

    Yossarian was unmoved by the fustian charade of the burial ceremony， and by Milo's crushing bereavement. The chaplain's voice floated up to him through the distance tenuously in an unintelligible， almost inaudible monotone， like a gaseous murmur. Yossarian could make out Major Major by his towering and lanky aloofness and thought he recognized Major Danby mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Major Danby had not stopped shaking since his run-in with General Dreedle. There were strands of enlisted men molded in a curve around the three officers， as inflexible as lumps of wood， and four idle gravediggers in streaked fatigues lounging indifferently on spades near the shocking， incongruous heap of loose copperred earth. As Yossarian stared， the chaplain elevated his gaze toward Yossarian beatifically， pressed his fingers down over his eyeballs in a manner of affliction， peered upward again toward Yossarian searchingly， and bowed his head， concluding what Yossarian took to be a climactic part of the funeral rite. The four men in fatigues lifted the coffin on slings and lowered it into the grave. Milo shuddered violently.

    'I can't watch it，' he cried， turning away in anguish. 'I just can't sit here and watch while those mess halls let my syndicate die.' He gnashed his teeth and shook his head with bitter woe and resentment. 'If they had any loyalty， they would buy my cotton till it hurts so that they can keep right on buying my cotton till it hurts them some more. They would build fires and burn up their underwear and summer uniforms just to create bigger demand. But they won't do a thing. Yossarian， try eating the rest of this chocolate-covered cotton for me. Maybe it will taste delicious now.' Yossarian pushed his hand away. 'Give up， Milo. People can't eat cotton.' Milo's face narrowed cunningly. 'It isn't really cotton，' he coaxed. 'I was joking. It's really cotton candy， delicious cotton candy. Try it and see.'

    'Now you're lying.'

    'I never lie！' Milo rejoindered with proud dignity.

    'You're lying now.'

    'I only lie when it's necessary，' Milo explained defensively， averting his eyes for a moment and blinking his lashes winningly. 'This stuff is better than cotton candy， really it is. It's made out of real cotton. Yossarian， you've got to help me make the men eat it. Egyptian cotton is the finest cotton in the world.'

    'But it's indigestible，' Yossarian emphasized. 'It will make them sick， don't you understand？ Why don't you try living on it yourself if you don't believe me？'

    'I did try，' admitted Milo gloomily. 'And it made me sick.' The graveyard was yellow as hay and green as cooked cabbage. In a little while the chaplain stepped back， and the beige crescent of human forms began to break up sluggishly， like flotsam. The men drifted without haste or sound to the vehicles parked along the side of the bumpy dirt road. With their heads down disconsolately， the chaplain， Major Major and Major Danby moved toward their jeeps in an ostracized group， each holding himself friendlessly several feet away from the other two.

    'It's all over，' observed Yossarian.

    'It's the end，' Milo agreed despondently. 'There's no hope left. And all because I left them free to make their own decisions. That should teach me a lesson about discipline the next time I try something like this.'

    'Why don't you sell your cotton to the government？' Yossarian suggested casually， as he watched the four men in streaked fatigues shoveling heaping bladefuls of the copper-red earth back down inside the grave.

    Milo vetoed the idea brusquely. 'It's a matter of principle，' he explained firmly. 'The government has no business in business， and I would be the last person in the world to ever try to involve the government in a business of mine. But the business of government is business，' he remembered alertly， and continued with elation. 'Calvin Coolidge said that， and Calvin Coolidge was a President， so it must be true. And the government does have the responsibility of buying all the Egyptian cotton I've got that no one else wants so that I can make a profit， doesn't it？' Milo's face clouded almost as abruptly， and his spirits descended into a state of sad anxiety. 'But how will I get the government to do it？'

    'Bribe it，' Yossarian said.

    'Bribe it！' Milo was outraged and almost lost his balance and broke his neck again. 'Shame on you！' he scolded severely， breathing virtuous fire down and upward into his rusty mustache through his billowing nostrils and prim lips. 'Bribery is against the law， and you know it. But it's not against the law to make a profit， is it？ So it can't be against the law for me to bribe someone in order to make a fair profit， can it？ No， of course not！' He fell to brooding again， with a meek， almost pitiable distress. 'But how will I know who to bribe？'

    'Oh， don't you worry about that，' Yossarian comforted him with a toneless snicker as the engines of the jeeps and ambulance fractured the drowsy silence and the vehicles in the rear began driving away backward. 'You make the bribe big enough and they'll find you. Just make sure you do everything right out in the open. Let everyone know exactly what you want and how much you're willing to pay for it. The first time you act guilty or ashamed， you might get into trouble.'

    'I wish you'd come with me，' Milo remarked. 'I won't feel safe among people who take bribes. They're no better than a bunch of crooks.'

    'You'll be all right，' Yossarian assured him with confidence. 'If you run into trouble， just tell everybody that the security of the country requires a strong domestic Egyptian-cotton speculating industry.'

    'It does，' Milo informed him solemnly. 'A strong Egyptian-cotton speculating industry means a much stronger America.'

    'Of course it does. And if that doesn't work， point out the great number of American families that depend on it for income.'

    'A great many American families do depend on it for income.'

    'You see？' said Yossarian. 'You're much better at it than I am. You almost make it sound true.'

    'It is true，' Milo exclaimed with a strong trace of old hauteur.

    'That's what I mean. You do it with just the right amount of conviction.'

    'You're sure you won't come with me？' Yossarian shook his head.

    Milo was impatient to get started. He stuffed the remainder of the chocolate-covered cotton ball into his shirt pocket and edged his way back gingerly along the branch to the smooth gray trunk. He threw this arms about the trunk in a generous and awkward embrace and began shinnying down， the sides of his leather-soled shoes slipping constantly so that it seemed many times he would fall and injure himself. Halfway down， he changed his mind and climbed back up. Bits of tree bark stuck to his mustache， and his straining face was flushed with exertion.

    'I wish you'd put your uniform on instead of going around naked that way，' he confided pensively before he climbed back down again and hurried away. 'You might start a trend， and then I'll never get rid of all this goldarned cotton.'