24 米洛

  米洛最喜欢四月。丁香花在四月里盛开，藤蔓上的果子在此时成熟。人的心跳比以前快，胃口也比以往好。四月天，鸽子身上披上一道缤纷的彩虹，闪烁着光芒。四月是春天，一到春天，米洛·明德宾德的脑筋一下子就用到了柑橘上。
“柑橘？”
“是的，长官。”
“我的士兵会喜欢柑橘的，”那位指挥驻扎在撒丁岛的四个B26型飞机中队的上校承认。 “有的是柑橘吃，只要你能从伙食费里搞到钱来付帐。”米洛向他保证。
“弄得到卡萨巴甜瓜吗？”
“在大马士革很便宜 (象唱首歌那样)。”
“爱吃卡萨巴甜瓜是我的软肋。我特爱吃。”
“只要每个中队借给我一架飞机就成，各队只要出一架，你想吃多少卡萨巴甜瓜就有多少，只要你付得起。”
“我们是从辛迪加联合体中购买吗？”
“联合体里人人都有股份。”
“这真令人吃惊，太令人吃惊了。你是怎么办到的？”
“集团购买力使得一切都大不一样。比如说，来点裹了面包屑的炸小牛排。”
“我可不会为裹了面包屑的炸小牛排如此抓狂，”那位驻扎科西嘉北部的B25型机群指挥官心存疑虑,嘀咕着。
“裹了面包屑的炸小牛排很有营养噢。”米洛非常诚恳地忠告他。“它含有蛋黄和面包屑。小羊排也很有营养。”
“哈，小羊排！”这位B25指挥官立即作出响应。“是上好的小羊排吗？”
“是最好的，”米洛说，“黑市上最好的。”
“小羊羔的排骨？”
“是你从未见过的、穿着最漂亮的粉红色小纸尿裤的小羊羔。 在葡萄牙，这种小羊排卖得很便宜(象唱首歌那样)。”
“我可不能派飞机去葡萄牙。我没这权力。”
“只要你借飞机给我，我就能办到。再派一名飞行员驾驶就行了。别忘了，这能使你讨得骓斗将军的欢心。”
“骓斗将军会再来我们食堂用餐？”
“他会吃得像头猪，只要你用我的纯黄油煎上一些最新鲜的鸡蛋，然后拿给他吃，他就会像头猪。你还会有柑橘、卡萨巴甜瓜、白兰瓜、多佛的纯鳎鱼片、烘烤冰淇淋、鸟蛤和贻贝等。”
“人人都有份吗？”
米洛说：“这是最妙的部分。”
“这事我一点也不喜欢，”这位战斗机指挥官不肯合作，咆哮着，他不喜欢米洛这个人。
“北边部队的那个战斗机指挥官跟我过不去，他不肯合作。” 米洛对骓斗将军抱怨道，“往往一个人就会把整件事给毁了，这一来你就再也吃不上我新鲜的纯黄油煎蛋。”
骓斗将军便把这位不肯合作的战斗机指挥官调到所罗门群岛去了，让他在那里挖墓，后来又换了一个患有滑囊炎的老头子上校来接替他。这老头特别爱吃荔枝，他又将米洛介绍给了驻扎在陆地上的一位指挥B17型机群的将军，此人尤其爱吃波兰香肠。
“在克拉科夫，用花生可以换到波兰香肠，”米洛告诉他说。
“波兰香肠，”将军怀旧地感叹道，“要知道，只要能买到一大截波兰香肠，我什么都愿意拿出来。” “你不必拿出来什么。只要给我架飞机，每个食堂一架，外加一名听话的驾驶员。还有，第一次订货时，你得付上一小笔现金作定金。”
“可是克拉科夫远在敌后几百英里，你怎么去弄香肠？”
“日内瓦有个波兰香肠国际交易市场。我只要将花生空运到瑞士，以市价将其换成波兰香肠。他们将把花生运到克拉科夫，我呢，把波兰香肠运回来给你。你要多少波兰香肠，就可以通过辛迪加联合体买到多少。你还能买到柑橘，只不过上面稍微染了点人造颜色。还有马耳他的鸡蛋和西西里的苏格兰威士忌。你通过辛迪加联合体买这些东西时，等于是自己付钱给自己，因为你在里面拥有股份。所以，你实际上是不花一个子儿就买到了所有的东西。是这个理儿吧？”
“你真是个天才。你究竟是怎样想到这个主意的？”
“我叫米洛·明德宾德，今年二十六岁。”
米洛·明德宾德的飞机从各处飞了回来，驱逐机、轰炸机，还有运输机接连不断地涌进卡思卡特上校的机场，开飞机的飞行员都是些叫干啥就干啥的人。这些飞机的机身上饰有象征各飞行中队的图案，色彩艳丽夺目。每一个图案代表著一种值得称赞的理想，如勇敢、力量、正义、真理、自由、博爱、荣誉和爱国主义等等。飞机归米洛调遣后，机械师立即用乳白色的油漆刷了两遍，将这些图案涂掉，取而代之的是将事先刻好的标志用耀眼的紫色将“ M&M果蔬产品联合公司”的标志喷在飞机上。这个名称里的“M&M”代表米洛和明德宾德。米洛坦白地透露，之所以要将连接符号“＆”插在中间，是为了不让人感到这个辛迪加联合体实际上是由一个人的操纵的。在米洛的调遣下，一架架飞机分别从意大利、北非和英国的机场，以及设在利比里亚、阿森松岛、开罗，还有卡拉奇等地的空运指挥站飞来。那些驱逐机有些被拿来做了交易，以多换几架运输机，有些则留著用来应付紧急托运事宜和运送一些小包裹。他还从地面部队弄来了卡车和坦克，搞短途运输。凡参与的单位人人都有股份，个个吃得发福，两片油光光的嘴唇间，整日里叼著根牙签，懒洋洋地到处逛游。米洛独自掌管著所有的日益扩大的业务。他全神贯注地投入该项工作，褐色皱纹象一条条水獭皮，渐渐地爬满了那张操劳过度的脸，永远也休想消除掉。这一来，他看上去既清醒理智，又满腹狐疑，整天不是为这，就是为那而头疼。除尤塞瑞恩之外，人们都认为米洛是个笨蛋，一则是因为他主动要求去干事务长的工作，二则是因为他干这差事干得太卖力。尤塞瑞恩也认为米洛是个笨蛋，但同时他也知道他是个天才。
有一天，米洛飞往英国采购一批土耳其芝麻糖，然后领著四架德国飞机从马达加斯加飞了回来。那些德国飞机上装满了甘薯、甘蓝、芥菜和乔治亚黑斑豌豆等蔬菜。米洛从飞机上走了下来。他刚一踏上地面就呆住了，因为他发现有一小队宪兵正等在那里，准备俘获德国驾驶员，并要没收他们的飞机。没收！仅仅这两个字就使他又气又恨。只见他暴跳如雷地来回走个不停，一根非难的手指犹如一柄利剑，在卡思卡特上校、科恩中校和那位统领著宪兵、脸上带有战场上留下的疤痕、手上端著冲锋枪的可伶上尉那三张满含愧疚的脸前舞个不休，不住地严辞痛斥著他们。
“这是在俄国吗？”米洛以怀疑的口吻声嘶力竭地斥责著他们。 “没收？”他尖叫著，好像不相信自己的耳朵似的。“美国政府从什么时候起开始没收私人财产了？你们真不要脸！你们竟会有这么个可怕念头，太不要脸了。”
“可是，米洛，”丹比少校胆怯地打断了他，“我们毕竟是在同德国人打仗呀。这些可全都是德国飞机。”
“它们根本不是！”米洛愤怒地反驳道，“这些飞机都属于咱们的辛迪加联合体，大伙人人都有股份。没收？你们怎么能自己没收自己的私有财产？没收，亏你们想得出！我这一辈子还从来没有听说过这么卑鄙的事呢。”
果然，米洛没说错，因为等他们再细看时，那些机械师早已将德国飞机机翼，机尾和机身上原有的纳粹符号用乳白色的油漆涂掉了，而且还涂了两遍，然后又用模板在这些地方印上了“M＆M果蔬产品联合公司”的字样。就这样，米洛当著他们的面将他的辛迪加组织变成了一个国际性卡特尔。
如今，米洛的庞大的空中商队充斥著天空。一架又一架的飞机源源不断地从各地涌来，从挪威、丹麦、法国、德国、奥地利、意大利、南斯拉夫、罗马尼亚、保加利亚、瑞典、芬兰、波兰等地方涌来。实际上，这些飞机，欧洲的什么地方都去，除了俄国，因为米洛拒绝同俄国做生意。当他找过的那些人都同 “M＆M果蔬产品联合公司”签了约以后，米洛又创办了一个集体所有的附属公司，取名为“M&M花色糕点公司”。他又弄来了一些飞机，并从伙食费中拨出更多的公款来做这项生意。他经营的糕点有英伦三岛的烤饼和松饼，有哥本哈根的梅干和丹麦奶酪，还有从巴黎、尼姆斯和格勒诺布尔弄来的奶酪饼、奶油卷、奶油千层饼、花色小蛋糕，另有柏林的水果蛋糕、稞麦面包、姜汁面包、维也纳的杏仁果酱饼、巧克力饼和分别从匈牙利和安卡拉搞来的包馅卷饼和果仁蛋糕。每天早上，米洛都要向欧洲和北非派遣飞机，飞机上拖著两条长长的红色广告标牌，上面用大大的方体字写著当天的特色商品：“注意：有圆腿肉，七十九美分……鳍鱼，二十一美分。”他还将两条这样的牌子租给了佩特牛奶公司、盖恩斯狗食公司以及诺克泽默公司，大大提高了辛迪加联合体的现金收入。为了体现自己有愿意为公众服务的公民意识，他还常常在空中广告里留出一些位置，免费为佩克姆将军做公益宣传广告，如“要讲究整洁”，“欲速则不达”，还有“做祈祷的家庭永不离散”。在柏林，阿克西斯·萨利和霍·霍爵士这两位大名鼎鼎的广播员每天都要主持宣传性的广播节目，而米洛居然花钱买到了这些节目的广告插播权，以促他的业务。就这样，他的生意在各前线战场都做得很红火。
米洛的飞机成了人们司空见惯的东西。它们享有自由，在各处随便通行。有一天米洛同美军当局签订了一份合同，由他负责去轰炸德军在奥尔维那托守卫的一座公路桥，同时又同德军当局签订了由他来守护该大桥的合同，用高射炮火来对付他自己策划的攻击。为美军轰炸桥梁，米洛可得到轰炸的全部成本费用外加百分之六的酬金，为德军守护大桥的协议款项也是如此，只不过还附加了一条，即他每击落一架美军飞机，德方将付给他一千美元奖金。 米洛强调指出，这些交易的圆满成功标志著私有企业的重大胜利，因为两国的军队都是社会化的团体。这两个合同一经签订，无论是炸桥还是守桥，似乎都无需让辛迪加联合体破费一文，因为双方的政府有的是现成的人力和物力来做这些事情，更何况双方都非常心甘情愿地投入。结果，米洛通过他的双边谋划实现了巨额利润，而他所做的仅仅是签了两次名而已。 这个安排对双方都很公平。一方面，由于米洛有在各处随意通行的自由，因此他的飞机可以悄悄潜入德军阵地进行偷袭，而不会惊动德军的高射炮火；而另一方面，由于米洛知道袭击行动，因此他有充分的时间向德军的高射炮手发出警告，待美军飞机一进入他们的炮火射程，就准确地向它们开火。除了尤塞瑞恩帐篷里的那个死人以外，没有一个人不认为这是一个绝妙的策划。 当天，那家伙刚飞到目标上空就被击中，丧了命。
“我可没杀他！”米洛感情激动地一再重复著这句话，以此来回答尤塞瑞恩怒不可遏的非难。“告诉你，我那天根本没在场。你难道认为那天咱们的飞机飞来的时候，我在那边的地面上朝它们开了火？”
“但这整个事情都是你一手策划的，不是吗？”尤塞瑞恩大叫著回敬他。此时他们正站在黑缎子般的黑暗之中，这黑暗同时也笼罩著那条穿过寂静的停车场直通露天影院的小路。
“我什么也没策划，”米洛气冲冲地回答说，一边激动地使劲吸气，将他那有声，但苍白的鼻子挤成了一团。“不管有没有我的插手，德国人总归占著大桥，而我们则要去炸了它。我只不过发现了一个极好的机会，可以让我们从这一任务中捞到一把。这有什么大不了的？”
“有什么大不了的？米洛，躺在我帐篷里的那个人在这次任务中丢了命，而他连背包都没来得及打开呢。”
“可我又没杀他。”
“你为此得到了一千美元的外快。”
“可他不是我杀的。我说过，我根本不在场。当时我在巴塞罗那，在那里购买橄榄油和去皮剔骨的沙丁鱼。我有定货单，它可以为我作证。我也没得到那一千美元。这一千美元都入了咱们联合体的帐，每个人都有份，连你也有，”米洛万般诚恳地向尤塞瑞恩倾诉道，“瞧，尤塞瑞恩，不管那个混帐的温特格林说过些什么，反正这场战争不是我发起的。我只不过是尽量以做买卖的方式来对待它。这难道有什么不对吗？要知道，用一架中型轰炸机另加上面的机组人员来换一千美元，这不能说是坏价钱。如果我能说服德国人，要他们每击落一架飞机就付给我一千美元，那我为什么不能拿这笔钱呢？”
“因为你在同敌人做交易，这就是全部理由。难道你就不明白，我们是在打仗？有人正在死亡。看在基督的分上，你朝你的周围看看吧！”
米洛已极不耐烦，摇晃着脑袋。“德国人并不是我们的敌人，他宣称，“哦，我知道你想说什么。不错，我们是在同他们打仗。不过德国人在咱们辛迪加联合体里的声誉很好。作为我们的股东，我有责任保护他们的权益。也许是他们挑起了战争，也许他们的确杀了成千上万的人，可他们付起帐来却比我所知道的我们的一些盟国要痛快得多。我得维护我同德国人订的合同的严肃性，你明白吗？你就不能从我的角度来看待这个问题？”
“不能！”尤塞瑞恩厉声回绝道。
米洛被狠狠刺了一下，觉得感情受到了极大的伤害，他也并不想设法掩饰这一事实。那是一个闷热的月夜，空中到处飞有小虫、飞蛾和蚊子。米洛突然伸出一只胳臂，指向那边的露天影院，只见那里的放映机正在工作，平射出一道银白色的光芒，映得灰尘清晰可见，似一柄利剑，在黑暗中划出一道圆锥形的光痕，将一层薄膜似的荧光覆盖在观众的身上。那里的观众一个个都斜倚在椅子上，像受了催眠似地软瘫无力，大家的脸都朝上抬著，正对著那面白色银幕。此时，只见米洛的双眼里噙著泪水，显得无比真诚，脸上透著朴实和清白，并因渗出的亮晶晶的汗水和所搽的避蚊油而闪闪发光。
“你瞧瞧他们，”他大声说，因感情激动而有些透不过气来。“他们是我的朋友，我的同胞，我的战友。任何人都不会拥有比他们这么一群人更好的伙伴了。难道你认为我会做出一桩伤害他们的事情吗？除非是万不得已。我现在的烦心事还不够多吗？你没看见？ 为了那些堆积在埃及各个码头上的大批棉花，我已经头疼死了。” 米洛的说话声音断断续续的，突然，他像个溺水者一样，一把抓住了尤塞瑞恩的衬衣前襟。他的眼睛像一对褐色毛虫一样，醒目地眨动个不歇。“尤塞瑞恩，我该拿这么些棉花怎么办呀？这都是你的错，让我买下这么多的棉花。”
那些棉花在埃及的码头上堆积如山，却没有一个买主。米洛从前做梦也没想到尼罗河流域的土地竟会这么肥沃，也没想到他买下的这批农作物会找不到市场。他的辛迪加联合体的各个食堂都帮不上他的忙。不仅如此，食堂成员还纷纷起来造反，毫不妥协地反对米洛要按人头硬性摊派给每人一份埃及棉花的建议。连他最忠实的朋友德国人在这次危机中也不肯帮他的忙。他们宁愿使用棉花的代用品。米洛的食堂甚至都不肯让他将棉花堆在那里。他只好租用仓库，其费用是直线上升，导致了他的现金储备彻底枯竭。从那次奥尔维那托战斗行动中所赚到的利润渐渐被耗光了。他开始不断写信回家去要钱，这些钱是他在生意兴隆的时候寄回去的，但不久这笔钱也几乎要用完了。仍有一包一包的棉花接连不断地被运到亚历山大港的码头。每次，只要米洛在国际市场上以亏本价脱手一批棉花，那些狡猾的埃及掮客就在地中海东部各地将其统统吃进，然后再以合同规定的原价卖给米洛。这样一来，米洛变得越来越穷了。
“M&M果蔬产品联合公司”眼看就要垮台。米洛无时无刻不在咒骂自己，恨自己大贪婪，太愚蠢，不该买下埃及的所有棉花。然而，无论如何，合同就是合同，非得信守不行。于是，一天晚上，在吃了一顿丰盛的晚餐之后，米洛的所有战斗机和轰炸机一起起飞，在基地上空编好队形，随后便开始向自己的空军大队投起炸弹来了。原来米洛又同德国人弄了一个合同，这一次他必须轰炸自己大队的全部装备和设施。米洛的飞机分成几路协同袭击，轰炸了机场的油料库、弹药库、修理库，还有停在棒糖形停机坪上的B25轰炸机。他的机组人员总算对起落跑道和各个食堂手下留了情，因为这样一来他们干完活之后便可以安全着陆，而且在上床睡觉之前还可以享用到一顿热气腾腾的快餐。他们轰炸时机上的着陆灯一直亮著，因为地面上根本没人向他们开火还击。他们轰炸了四个中队、军官俱乐部和大队的指挥大楼。官兵们纷纷逃出各自的帐篷，个个惊恐万状，都不知道往哪个方向逃窜是好。不一会，受伤者躺得到处都是，尖叫声不绝于耳。连续几颗杀伤弹在军官俱乐部的院子里爆炸开来，使得这座木头建筑的一侧墙壁上留下了累累弹痕，也弹穿了那排站在吧台前的中尉和上尉们的腹背。他们痛苦万状地先是弯曲了身子，然后倒了下去。剩下的那些军官都给吓得魂不附体，纷纷朝那两个出口处逃窜，但他们又不敢出去，于是只好鬼哭狼嚎著挤在门口，像一道厚实的人肉堤坝。
卡思卡特上校又爬又挤，好不容易才从乱成一团、茫然失措的人群中钻出来，独自站在了门外。他瞪大双眼朝天上一看，不禁大惊失色。只见米洛的飞机像气球一样从容不迫地掠过花朵盛开的树梢，朝他们逼过来。机上的投弹舱的门敞开著，机翼上的风门片也向下垂著；那些巨大的着陆灯一直亮著，好似一对对暴眼，闪烁著强烈、炫目而又可怕的光芒。这番景象犹如一种神灵的启示，他以往从未目睹过。卡思卡特上校像被什么击中了一样，惊愕地叫了一声，接著便向前猛冲，几乎是呜咽著一头扑进自己的吉普车。他的脚找到了油门踏板和车子的发火装置，随后便以这辆摇摇摆摆的汽车所能达到的最快速度朝著机场疾驶而去。他那双松软无力的手因紧紧地握著方向盘而变得毫无血色。间或他还乱摁一阵子喇叭，似想故意折磨它一样。一次，他碰到了一群人，一个个只穿内衣，惊恐万状地低著脸，一边将瘦弱的胳臂当成不堪一击的盾牌紧紧抱著脑袋，一边疯了似的没命地朝小山上狂奔。为了避让这帮人，他来了一个急转弯，只听轮胎发出了一阵刺耳的尖叫声，差点没送掉他的小命。公路两旁，黄色、桔红色和红色的火焰在熊熊燃烧。帐篷和树木也在火中燃烧，而米洛的飞机还在不断地盘旋，不停地闪烁著的白色着陆灯仍旧亮著，投弹舱的门也还敞开著。吉普车开到机场指挥塔时，卡思卡特上校猛拉了一下刹车，车子几乎给弄翻掉。没等车子停稳，他就不顾危险地一跃跳下了汽车，飞快地冲上一段楼梯进到塔内。塔里有三个人正在忙著摆弄仪器，指挥著天上的飞机。他猛地冲上前去，一把推开其中的两人，伸手夺过那只镀镍的麦克风，两眼冒著怒火，那张结实的脸由于紧张而扭曲得变了形。他使著蛮劲紧紧地抓著麦克风，开始声嘶力竭地对著话筒狂叫。
“米洛，你这个狗杂种！你疯了吗？你他妈究竟要干什么？下来！快给我下来！”
“别这么大喊大叫，行吗？”米洛答道，这会儿米洛正在指挥塔里，就站在他的旁边，手里也拿著一个话筒。“我就在这儿。”米洛不满地瞟了他一眼，又回身去忙自己的事了。“很好，弟兄们，你们干得很好，”他赞不绝口地冲着手里的麦克风说，“不过我瞧见还有一个给养棚立著呢。那可不行，珀维斯，我以前跟你说过，别干这种差劲事。现在你马上给我飞回去，再去加把劲。这次你可要慢慢地向它靠拢……要慢慢地。要知道‘欲速则不达’，珀维斯。‘欲速则不达’，如果这话我以前曾对你说过，那么我肯定我对你说过已不下一百次了。记住，‘欲速则不达’。”
他头顶上方的喇叭高声响了起来。“米洛，我是阿尔文·布朗。我的炸弹已经扔完了。现在我该干什么？”
“扫射，”米洛说。
“扫射？”阿尔文·布朗大吃一惊。
“没法子，”米洛无可奈何地告诉他说，“合同上是这样规定的。”
“哦，那么好吧，”阿尔文·布朗默认道，“既然这样，我就扫射吧。”
这一次米洛做得太过分了。他竟然轰炸自己方面的人员和飞机，这事甚至连最冷漠的旁观者都感到无法容忍，看来，他的未日来临了。许许多多的政府高官蜂拥而至，对此事进行调查。各家的报纸都用醒目的大标题向米洛发起猛烈抨击。国会议员们个个义愤填膺，都声若洪钟地谴责他的凶残暴行，扬言要惩罚他。有孩子在部队服役的母亲们纷纷组织了起来，组成了若干个颇具战斗力的团体，要求给孩子们报仇。大队里没有一个人肯站出来为米洛说句话。无论他走到哪里，所有正派的人都觉得受到了他的侮辱。米洛陷进了墙倒众人推的困境，最后他只好向大伙公开了他的帐本，透露了他所赚得的巨额利润。至于他摧毁的人员及财产，他可以用这笔钱来向政府进行赔偿，而且还有多余，足以让他将埃及的棉花生意继续做下去。当然，这笔钱是人人有份的。然而，这整桩买卖妙就妙在根本没有任何必要向政府进行赔偿。
“在一个民主政体中，政府即是人民，”米洛解释说，“我们是人民，不是吗？所以我们完全可以将这笔钱留著，而让那些中间经手人统统见鬼去。老实说，我倒情愿政府彻底撤手，别管战争的事，把整个战场留给私人企业去经营。如果我们欠了政府什么就赔什么，那我们只会怂恿政府加紧控制，阻碍其他的私营单位轰炸它们自己的人员和飞机。我们就会使它们丧失经营积极性。”
当然，米洛是对的，因为除了少数几人之外，大队里所有的人不久就都同意了米洛的观点。那几个忿忿不平且不识相的家伙中就有丹尼卡医生。他整天气冲冲的，动辄跟人吵架，嘴里还总是嘀嘀咕咕说些讨厌的含沙射影的话，说这整桩投机买卖是件不道德的事。为平息他的怒气，米洛以辛迪加联合体的名义送给了他一张在花园用的铝架轻便折叠椅。这样，每当一级准尉怀特·哈尔福特一跨进他的帐篷，丹尼卡医生就可以很方便地将椅子折叠起来，拿到帐篷外面去；等一级准尉怀特·哈尔福特一走，他就可以立即将椅子重新拿回帐篷。在米洛进行轰炸的那天，丹尼卡医生丧失了理智。他不朝掩蔽处跑，反而留在户外履行他的职责。他像只诡秘狡猾的蜥蜴似的趴在地上，冒著横飞的弹片、猛烈的扫射和无数的燃烧弹,在伤员间爬著，给他们扎止血带，打吗啡针，上夹板以及磺胺药。他沉着脸，满脸的悲哀，除非说话不可，否则绝不开口。从每个伤员那发青的伤处，他看到了自己将来有一天腐烂时的可怕预兆。他不停地工作著，丝毫也不伶惜自己的身体，把自己弄得筋疲力尽。这个长夜总算熬了过去，第二天，他使劲抽著鼻子，终于顶不住了，于是又抱怨不休地跑进医务室的帐篷，要格斯和韦斯给他量体温，然后又拿了块芥未硬膏和一只喷雾器。
那天夜晚，丹尼卡医生带著阴郁、深沉而又无法表露的沉痛心情护理著每一个呻吟的伤员。在大队执行轰炸阿维尼翁的任务的那天，他在机场也流露出同样的沉痛表情。当时，尤塞瑞恩赤身裸体，丧魂落魄地从他的飞机的舷梯上朝下走了几级，一言不发，只是朝机舱里指了指。他那赤裸著的脚后跟、脚趾头、膝盖、手臂和手指上到处都沾满了斯诺登的鲜血。机舱里，那位年轻的无线电通讯员兼炮手全身僵硬地卧在那里，眼看就要死了，而他的旁边则躺著更年轻的尾炮手，每次只要一睁眼看到垂死的斯诺登，就立即又昏死过去。 人们把斯诺登抬出飞机，用担架抬著送进了一辆救护车。
丹尼卡医生将一条毯子披在了尤塞瑞恩的肩上，那动作简直轻柔极了，然后领著尤塞瑞恩上了他的吉普车。在麦克沃特的帮助下，他们三人默默地驱车来到中队的医务室帐篷。麦克沃特和丹尼卡医生将尤塞瑞恩引进帐篷，让他在一张椅子上坐了下来，然后用冰冷的脱脂湿棉球把斯诺登溅在他身上的血全部擦洗干净。丹尼卡医生给他服了一片药，接著又给他打了一针，这些东西让他整整睡了十二个小时。当尤塞瑞恩醒来后又去见他时，丹尼卡医生又给他服了药片并又给他打了一针，这使他又足足睡了十二个小时。等尤塞瑞恩再次醒来去见医生时，医生准备再给他吃药打针。
“你到底还要给我吃多少药，打多少针？”尤塞瑞恩问他。
“直到你感觉好些了为止。”
“我现在就感觉好些了。”
丹尼卡医生那被太阳晒成棕黄色的憔悴的额头因惊讶而皱了起来。“那你为什么还不穿上衣裳呢？你为什么要像这样赤身裸体地到处乱跑？”
“我再也不想穿制服了。”
丹尼卡医生接受了他的这一解释，将手上的注射器收了起来。 “你肯定感觉良好？”
“我感觉很好。只是你给我吃了那么多的药，打了那么多的针，我感觉自己有点呆呆的。” 在那天剩余的时间里,尤塞瑞恩就这么一丝不挂地到处走动。第二天上午,九、十点钟的时候，米洛到处找他，最后发现他坐在距那小巧的军人公墓后方不远的一棵树上，身上仍旧是精赤条条的。斯诺登即将被安葬在这里。米洛是按平时规定著装的,下著草绿色军裤，上身穿一件干净的草绿色衬衫，打著领带，衣领上那道标志中尉军衔的银杠杠闪闪发亮。他头上还戴著一顶有硬皮帽檐的军帽。
“我一直在到处找你，”米洛仰起头，以责怪的口吻朝著树上的尤塞瑞恩喊道。
“你应该到这棵树上来找我，”尤塞瑞恩答道，“我整整一个上午都在这上面。”
“下来，尝尝这个，告诉我好不好吃。这很重要。”
尤塞瑞恩摇了摇头。他赤身裸体地坐在最低的那很大树枝上，两手紧紧地抓住它上方的一根树枝，以让身体保持平衡。他拒绝动弹，米洛没办法，只好张开双臂，极不情愿地抱住树干，开始向上爬去。他笨手笨脚地爬著，一边大声呼哧呼哧地喘著粗气。待他爬到一定高度，足以让他将一条腿钩在树枝上停下来喘口气时，他身上的衣服已被挤压得不像样了。他头上的军帽也歪了，随时都有掉下来的危险。当帽子往下滑的时候，米洛赶紧一把将它抓住。豆粒般的汗珠像晶莹剔透的珍珠一样，在他的唇须上闪闪发光，而他眼睛下的汗珠则像鼓起来的混浊的水泡一样。尤塞瑞恩冷眼瞅著他。米洛小心翼翼地将身体翻转半圈，这样他就可以面对著尤塞瑞恩了。他把包在一团软软的、圆圆的棕色物体上的薄纸揭开，然后将其递给尤塞瑞恩。
“请尝一尝，再告诉我味道怎么样。我想把这东西拿给大伙吃。”
“这是什么？”尤塞瑞恩问，一边咬了一大口。
“裹了一层巧克力的棉花。”
尤塞瑞恩恶心得直作呕，那一大口巧克力糖衣棉花不偏不斜正好吐在米洛的脸上。“给，快把它拿走！”他一边往外喷棉花，一边生气他说，“天哪！难道你疯了？你连棉花籽都没弄掉。”
“别说得那么绝好不好？”米洛恳求说，“不至于那么糟吧。真的那么难吃？”
“比难吃还糟。”
“可我必须让食堂把这东西给大伙当饭吃。”
“他们谁都不会咽得下去。”
“他们一定得咽下去，”米洛带著一脸专横的庄重神情，以命令的口气说道。他边说边松开一只胳臂，理直气壮地在空中挥了挥一根手指，可没料到自己差点摔下去跌断脖子。
“你往这边挪过来点，”尤塞瑞恩对他说，“这样会安全得多，并且还能看到周围的一切。”
米洛双手抓住头顶上方的树枝，带著十二分小心开始一点一点地往旁边挪动。他的脸因紧张而绷得紧紧的。当他发现自己终于平安无事地坐在了尤塞瑞恩身边时，不禁长长地松了口气。他亲切地抚摸著那棵树。“这棵树多好哇，”他以一种树的主人的感激口气赞叹地说。
“这就是生命之树，”尤塞瑞恩回答说，一边晃动著他的脚趾头。 “也是识别善恶之树。”
米洛眯起眼睛仔细打量树皮和树枝。“不是，它不是的，”他答道，“这是棵栗树。我应该能看得出来。我也卖栗子。”
“你爱怎么叫就怎么叫吧。”
他俩坐在树上，有好几秒钟谁也没开口，腿从树上垂下，双手几乎伸得笔直，抓著头顶上的树枝。他俩一个除穿着一双绉胶底鞋外，全身上下一丝不挂，而另一个却齐齐整整地穿着全套草绿色粗呢毛料军装，连领带都系得紧紧的。米洛胆怯地透过眼角仔细地打量著尤塞瑞恩，很识相地犹豫著不开口。
“我想问你件事。”他终于开口了。“你什么衣服也不穿，当然我一点也不想干涉你，我只不过好奇罢了。你为什么不穿制服？”
“我不想穿。” 米洛像麻雀啄食那样飞快地连连点头。“我明白了，我明白了，”他忙不迭地说，但脸上却现出一片迷茫。“我完全理解。我听阿普尔比和布莱克上尉说你疯了，我只想弄个清楚。”出于礼貌，他又犹豫了一会，斟酌著下一句问话。“你真的以后再也不穿制服了？”
“我可没这么想。”
米洛忙又使劲点头，装出他仍能明白的模样，接著就默不作声地坐在那里，神情严肃而又烦恼不安地陷入了深思。一只头顶红冠的鸟儿，扇动著有力的黑色翅膀，擦过那摇曳不停的灌木丛，从他们的下面飞过。树荫里的约塞连和米洛由一层层斜斜的薄薄的绿叶挡著，四周则是围了其他的灰色栗树和一棵银色的云杉。太阳高高地悬挂在他俩头顶上那片蔚蓝色的辽阔天空上，在这一片蓝色中低低地浮动著几小团蓬松的白云，好似缀成一串的珍珠。空气中一丝风也没有，他们周围的树叶一动不动地低垂著。那树荫好像是由羽毛覆盖而成。除了米洛，一切似乎都是在静止的状态之中。只见米洛突然直起腰，压低嗓子叫了一声，手激动地指著一个方向。
“快看！”他惊呼道，“快看那边！那里正在举行葬礼。那像是一片公墓，对吗？”
尤塞瑞恩用平淡的语气慢吞吞地答道：“他们正在安葬一个小伙子，就是那天轰炸阿维尼翁时被打死在我机上的那位。就是斯诺登。”
“他是怎么死的？”米洛问，因害怕连声音都变了调。
“被打死的。”
“那太可怕了，”米洛悲叹道，一对褐色大眼睛里充满了泪水。
“多可伶的小伙子。这实在太可怕了。”他使劲咬住他那颤动不已的下嘴唇，随后又颇带感情地抬高嗓门继续说，“可如果这些食堂都不肯购买我的棉花，那事情会变得更糟糕。尤塞瑞恩，这些人都是怎么了？难道他们不明白，这辛迪加联合体可是他们自己的呀。难道他们不知道？他们人人都有一份啊。”
“连我帐篷里的那个死人也有一份吗？”尤塞瑞恩挖苦地问。
“他当然也有，”米洛十分大方地向他保证道，“中队里的每一个人都有一份。”
“他还没来得及到我们中队就给打死了。”
米洛熟练地做了一个表示痛苦的怪相，然后将脸转开。“我希望你不要老是拿你帐篷里的那个死人来找我的茬，”他用愠怒的语气恳求道，“我跟你说过，那人被打死同我一点关系也没有。我看到了这个垄断埃及棉花市场的大好机会，结果给咱们大伙惹来了麻烦，这难道是我的错？难道我应该有未卜先知的本领，事先就知道会出现棉花供应过剩？那时我连供应过剩是怎么回事都不知道。垄断市场的机会是不常有的，我遇到这样的机会能一把抓住就够精明的了。”米洛本想发出一声呜咽，可他忍住了，因为这时他看到六个身穿制服的抬灵柩的人把一口简陋的棺材从救护车上抬了下来，轻轻放在那条狭长的裂口，那口新挖的墓穴旁边。 “可现在我连一个子儿的棉花也卖不出去。”
面对这套不足道的葬礼，以及米洛那副如丧考妣似的悲痛欲绝的样子,尤塞瑞恩无动于衷。随军牧师的声音从很远的地方轻轻传来，那单调的声音含混不清，几乎一句话也听不出，就像一种虚无的喃喃低语。尤塞瑞恩从那个骨瘦如柴的高高身影辨认出梅杰少校，还相信自己也认出那个正在用手帕擦额头的人是丹比少校。丹比少校自那次与德里德尔将军冲突过后就从没停止过发抖。几排士兵围著这三个军官，站成一个弧形，像一根根木桩子似的直挺挺地立在那里。四个闲著无事、身穿条子工作服的掘墓人，身体倚著铲子，带著一脸的冷漠，站在那一大堆难看的紫铜色的松土旁。在尤塞瑞恩盯著他们看的时候，牧师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，然后又用探究的目光注视著约塞连这个方向，接著低下了头，结束尤塞瑞恩视之为葬礼高潮的最后程序。那四个穿工作服的人用吊索将棺材吊起来，慢慢放进墓穴。这时米洛的身体猛烈地颤动了一下。
“我不能再看下去啦，”他极度痛苦地转过脸去叫道，“我可不能光坐在这里，眼睁睁地看着这种场面，而与此同时那些食堂却在让我的辛迪加联合体死亡。”他简直在咬牙切齿，满脸悲哀和忿恨地直摇头。“要是他们真有那么一点忠心的话，他们就会买我的棉花，直到他们发觉亏了本，而一旦这样，他们就会接连不断地买我的棉花，直到他们赔了更大的本。这样，他们就会去放火，将他们的内衣内裤以及夏季制服统统烧掉，好为棉花创造较大的销路。可他们连一下忙都不肯帮。尤塞瑞恩，你就试试吧，帮我把这团剩下的巧克力糖衣棉花吃下去。也许这会儿味道会很好的。”
尤塞瑞恩推开了他的手。“得了吧，米洛。人是不能吃棉花的。”
米洛狡猾地堆起了一副笑脸。“这并不真的是棉花，”他哄骗道，“我刚才是开玩笑的。这其实是棉花糖，是美味的棉花糖。你再尝尝看。”
“你在撒谎。”
“我从不撒谎！”米洛带著一种自豪的庄重神情反驳说。
“你此时就在撒谎。”
“我只在必要的时候才撒谎，”米洛为自己辩解道，同时将目光移开了一会，一面怪可爱地眨动著他的眼睫毛，“这东西比棉花糖要好，真的。它是用真正的棉花做成的。尤塞瑞恩，你得帮著我让大伙将这东西吃下去。埃及棉花可是世界上最最好的棉花呀。”
“可它不能被消化，”尤塞瑞恩强调说，“它会让大伙生病，这你不明白吗？要是你不信我的话，你自己干吗不试试靠吃棉花过日子呢？”
“我试过了，”米洛沮丧地承认道，“它使我很不舒服。”
墓地里一片黄色，是那种夹著青色的干草颜色，就像烧熟的卷心菜。过了一会，牧师朝后退了几步，那一小群围成半圆形、穿着米色制服的人像漂浮在水面上的碎片一样，开始缓缓散开。这些人不急不慢、不声不响地朝著各自沿高低不平的土路停放著的车辆飘了过去，牧师、梅杰少校和丹比少校不在这些人当中，他们自成一队，郁郁寡欢地朝著他们各自的吉普车走去，彼此间保持著几英尺的距离，好像素不相识似的。
“一切都结束了，”尤塞瑞恩说。
“一切都完了，”米洛丧气地赞同道，“一点希望也没有了。这都是因为我让他们自作决定的结果。这倒给了我一个教训：下一次我要是再干类似的事情，我一定要先明确纪律。”
“你干吗不把棉花卖给政府？”尤塞瑞恩漫不经心地建议道，眼睛则盯著那四个穿条子工作服的人，他们正在将一铲铲紫铜色的泥土扔回到墓穴里去。
米洛断然否定了尤塞瑞恩的想法。“这可是个原则问题，”他以决然的口气解释说，“政府无权做生意，而我也是世界上最不愿让政府卷入我的生意的人。不过政府的职责就是做生意。”他突然灵机一动，想起了什么，于是得意洋洋地继续说道，“这话是卡尔文·柯立芝说的，卡尔文·柯立芝当过总统，所以他的话是不会错的。我弄到了那么多的埃及棉花，可没人肯要，政府有责任把它们统统买下来，这样我就可以有大赚头了，不是吗？”米洛的脸突然又阴沉下来，情绪一下子一落千丈，变得焦虑不安。“可我怎样才能让政府买下我的棉花呢？”
“行贿嘛。”
“行贿！”米洛勃然大怒，差点儿再次失去平衡，跌断自己的脖子。“你真可耻！”他厉声呵斥道，从他那翕动不已的鼻孔和一本正经的双唇里喷出的气息，如同正直的火焰，上下翻动著，直冲他上唇那抹铁锈色的小胡子。“行贿犯法，这你是知道的。可是做生意赚钱是不犯法的，对吧？所以，对我来说，为赚点正当的利润而去贿赂某人，这不能算犯法，不是吗？不算，当然不算犯法！”他又一次陷入了沉思，脸上挂著逆来顺受和近乎可伶的苦恼表情。“可我又怎么知道该贿赂谁呢？”
“哦，这你不用担心，”尤塞瑞恩窃笑了一下，用平淡的语调安慰他说。此时吉普车和救护车发动引擎的声音打破了使人昏昏欲睡的寂静，排在后面的车辆也开始倒著开走了。“只要你行贿的数目大，他们会来找你的。有一点务必要做到，那就是你一切都得说在明处。要让每一个人都明明白白地知道你想干什么，肯为此而出多大的价钱。假如你第一次行事时表现出一副心中有鬼或问心有愧的样子，那你就要倒霉了。”
“我希望你能和我一起去办这事，”米洛说，“和那些受贿的人呆在一起我感到很不安全。这些家伙比一帮骗子好不了多少。”
“你不会有事的。”尤塞瑞恩很有把握地向他担保。“要是你碰到了麻烦，那你就让每一个人都知道，为了美国的安全，需要有一个强大的埃及棉花投机企业。”
“确实需要，”米洛神情庄重地对他说，“有了强大的埃及棉花投机企业就意味著有了一个更强大的美国。”
“这是当然的啦。要是这招不灵，那你可以列出数字，说明有多少美国家庭得依赖该企业的存在来谋取收入。”
“确实有许许多多的美国家庭得靠它来取得收入。”
“你明白了？”尤塞瑞恩说，“这些你比我更在行。你几乎让这事听起来像真的一样。”
“本来就是这么回事嘛，”米洛大声他说，脸上重又明显地挂上了他原来的那副傲慢神气。
“我正是这个意思。你就带著这种深信不疑的信念去干吧。”
“你真的不愿和我一道去？”
尤塞瑞恩摇了摇头。
米洛急不可耐地想行动了。他将那团剩下的巧克力糖衣棉花塞进了他的衬衣口袋，然后战战兢兢、一点一点地顺著树枝向后挪著，一直挪到那光滑的灰色树干。接著，他张开双臂笨拙地抱住树身，开始向下滑去，可他穿的皮底鞋的鞋边老是打滑，因此有好几次他险些跌卞去，将自己摔伤。滑了一半的时候，他突然改变了主意，又重新爬了上去。他的唇须上沾满了树皮的碎屑，那张紧张的脸因用劲而涨得通红。
“我希望你把制服穿起来，不要像这样一丝不挂地到处乱跑。” 在他重新爬下树匆匆离去之前，他忧郁地向尤塞瑞恩吐露了自己的担忧。“你这样有可能会带出一股风气，这一来我的那些该死的棉花就永远也脱不了手了。

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.'