April had been the best month of all for Milo. Lilacs bloomed in April and fruit ripened on the vine. Heartbeatsquickened and old appetites were renewed. In April a livelier iris gleamed upon the burnished dove. April wasspring, 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,” Miloassured 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 thatyou’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 breadcrumbs. 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 betangerines 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 toGeneral Dreedle. “It takes just one person to ruin the whole thing, and then you wouldn’t have your fresh eggsfried in my pure creamery butter any more.”

　　General Dreedle had the unco-operative fighter-plane commander transferred to the Solomon Islands to diggraves and replaced him with a senile colonel with bursitis and a craving for litchi nuts who introduced Milo tothe 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 ofPolish 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’stold. 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 andexchange them for Polish sausage at the open market rate. They’ll fly the peanuts back to Cracow and I’ll fly thePolish sausage back to you. You buy only as much Polish sausage as you want through the syndicate. There’ll betangerines too, with only a little artificial coloring added. And eggs from Malta and Scotch from Sicily. You’ll bepaying the money to yourself when you buy from the syndicate, since you’ll own a share, so you’ll really begetting 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 streaminginto 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 flatwhite and replaced in garish purple with the stenciled name M & M ENTERPRISES, FINE FRUITS ANDPRODUCE. 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 forMilo 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 foremergency invoice duty and small-parcel service; trucks and tanks were procured from the ground forces andused for short-distance road hauling. Everybody had a share, and men got fat and moved about tamely withtoothpicks in their greasy lips. Milo supervised the whole expanding operation by himself. Deep otter-brownlines of preoccupation etched themselves permanently into his careworn face and gave him a harried look ofsobriety and mistrust. Everybody but Yossarian thought Milo was a jerk, first for volunteering for the job ofmess officer and next for taking it so seriously. Yossarian also thought that Milo was a jerk; but he also knewthat Milo was a genius.

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

　　“Is this Russia?” Milo assailed them incredulously at the top of his voice. “Confiscate?” he shrieked, as thoughhe could not believe his own ears. “Since when is it the policy of the American government to confiscate theprivate 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 ashare. Confiscate? How can you possibly confiscate your own private property? Confiscate, indeed! I’ve neverheard 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 onthe 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 internationalcartel.

　　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, butRussia, with whom Milo refused to do business. When everybody who was going to had signed up with M & MEnterprises, Fine Fruits and Produce, Milo created a wholly owned subsidiary, M & M Fancy Pastry, andobtained more airplanes and more money from the mess funds for scones and crumpets from the British Isles, prune and cheese Danish from Copenhagen, éclairs, cream puffs, Napoleons and petits fours from Paris, Reimsand 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 NorthAfrica 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 DogFood, and Noxzema. In a spirit of civic enterprise, he regularly allotted a certain amount of free aerial advertisingspace 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. Milopurchased spot radio announcements on Axis Sally’s and Lord Haw Haw’s daily propaganda broadcasts fromBerlin 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 withthe American military authorities to bomb the German-held highway bridge at Orvieto and with the Germanmilitary authorities to defend the highway bridge at Orvieto with antiaircraft fire against his own attack. His feefor attacking the bridge for America was the total cost of the operation plus six per cent and his fee fromGermany for defending the bridge was the same cost-plus-six agreement augmented by a merit bonus of athousand dollars for every American plane he shot down. The consummation of these deals represented animportant victory for private enterprise, he pointed out, since the armies of both countries were socializedinstitutions. Once the contracts were signed, there seemed to be no point in using the resources of the syndicateto bomb and defend the bridge, inasmuch as both governments had ample men and material right there to do soand were perfectly happy to contribute them, and in the end Milo realized a fantastic profit from both halves ofhis 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 wereable to steal over in a sneak attack without alerting the German antiaircraft gunners; and since Milo knew aboutthe attack, he was able to alert the German antiaircraft gunners in sufficient time for them to begin firingaccurately the moment the planes came into range. It was an ideal arrangement for everyone but the dead man inYossarian’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, Itell 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 cloakingthe 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 hishissing, pale, twitching nose. “The Germans have the bridge, and we were going to bomb it, whether I steppedinto 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 hisbags.”

　　“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 andboneless sardines, and I’ve got the purchase orders to prove it. And I didn’t get the thousand dollars. Thatthousand dollars went to the syndicate, and everybody got a share, even you.” Milo was appealing to Yossarianfrom the bottom of his soul. “Look, I didn’t start this war, Yossarian, no matter what that lousy Wintergreen issaying. I’m just trying to put it on a businesslike basis. Is anything wrong with that? You know, a thousanddollars ain’t such a bad price for a medium bomber and a crew. If I can persuade the Germans to pay me athousand 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 aredying. 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 knowwhat you’re going to say. Sure, we’re at war with them. But the Germans are also members in good standing ofthe syndicate, and it’s my job to protect their rights as shareholders. Maybe they did start the war, and maybethey are killing millions of people, but they pay their bills a lot more promptly than some allies of ours I couldname. Don’t you understand that I have to respect the sanctity of my contract with Germany? Can’t you see itfrom 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 withgnats, moths, and mosquitoes. Milo lifted his arm suddenly and pointed toward the open-air theater, where themilky, dust-filled beam bursting horizontally from the projector slashed a conelike swath in the blackness anddraped in a fluorescent membrane of light the audience tilted on the seats there in hypnotic sags, their facesfocused upward toward the aluminized movie screen. Milo’s eyes were liquid with integrity, and his artless anduncorrupted 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, mycomrades in arms. A fellow never had a better bunch of buddies. Do you think I’d do a single thing to harm themif 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 cottonpiling up on those piers in Egypt?” Milo’s voice splintered into fragments, and he clutched at Yossarian’s shirtfront as though drowning. His eyes were throbbing visibly like brown caterpillars. “Yossarian, what am I goingto 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 NileValley could be so fertile or that there would be no market at all for the crop he had bought. The mess halls in hissyndicate would not help; they rose up in uncompromising rebellion against his proposal to tax them on a percapita basis in order to enable each man to own his own share of the Egyptian cotton crop. Even his reliablefriends 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 cashreserves. The profits from the Orvieto mission were sucked away. He began writing home for the money he hadsent back in better days; soon that was almost gone. And new bales of cotton kept arriving on the wharves atAlexandria every day. Each time he succeeded in dumping some on the world market for a loss it was snappedup by canny Egyptian brokers in the Levant, who sold it back to him at the original price, so that he was reallyworse off than before.

　　M & M Enterprises verged on collapse. Milo cursed himself hourly for his monumental greed and stupidity inpurchasing 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 overheadand began dropping bombs on the group. He had landed another contract with the Germans, this time to bombhis own outfit. Milo’s planes separated in a well co-ordinated attack and bombed the fuel stocks and theordnance 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 doneand 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 theirtents in sheer terror and did not know in which direction to turn. Wounded soon lay screaming everywhere. Acluster of fragmentation bombs exploded in the yard of the officers’ club and punched jagged holes in the side ofthe wooden building and in the bellies and backs of a row of lieutenants and captains standing at the bar. Theydoubled over in agony and dropped. The rest of the officers fled toward the two exits in panic and jammed up thedoorways 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 byhimself. He stared up at the sky in stark astonishment and horror. Milo’s planes, ballooning serenely in over theblossoming 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. ColonelCathcart let go a stricken gasp of dismay and hurled himself headlong into his jeep, almost sobbing. He found thegas pedal and the ignition and sped toward the airfield as fast as the rocking car would carry him, his huge flabbyhands clenched and bloodless on the wheel or blaring his horn tormentedly. Once he almost killed himself whenhe swerved with a banshee screech of tires to avoid plowing into a bunch of men running crazily toward the hillsin their underwear with their stunned faces down and their thin arms pressed high around their temples as punyshields. Yellow, orange and red fires were burning on both sides of the road. Tents and trees were in flames, andMilo’s planes kept coming around interminably with their blinking white landing lights on and their bomb baydoors 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, wherethree 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 themicrophone 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 controltower 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 backthere this minute and try it again. And this time come in slowly... slowly. Haste makes waste, Purvis. Hastemakes 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 phlegmaticobserver could stomach, and it looked like the end for him. High-ranking government officials poured in toinvestigate. Newspapers inveighed against Milo with glaring headlines, and Congressmen denounced the atrocityin stentorian wrath and clamored for punishment. Mothers with children in the service organized into militantgroups and demanded revenge. Not one voice was raised in his defense. Decent people everywhere wereaffronted, and Milo was all washed up until he opened his books to the public and disclosed the tremendousprofit he had made. He could reimburse the government for all the people and property he had destroyed and stillhave enough money left over to continue buying Egyptian cotton. Everybody, of course, owned a share. And thesweetest 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 aswell keep the money and eliminate the middleman. Frankly, I’d like to see the government get out of waraltogether and leave the whole field to private industry. If we pay the government everything we owe it, we’llonly be encouraging government control and discouraging other individuals from bombing their own men andplanes. 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 sulkedcantankerously and muttered offensive insinuations about the morality of the whole venture until Milo mollifiedhim with a donation, in the name of the syndicate, of a lightweight aluminum collapsible garden chair that DocDaneeka could fold up conveniently and carry outside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came inside histent and carry back inside his tent each time Chief White Halfoat came out. Doc Daneeka had lost his headduring Milo’s bombardment; instead of running for cover, he had remained out in the open and performed hisduty, slithering along the ground through shrapnel, strafing and incendiary bombs like a furtive, wily lizard fromcasualty to casualty, administering tourniquets, morphine, splints and sulfanilamide with a dark and dolefulvisage, never saying one word more than he had to and reading in each man’s bluing wound a dreadful portent ofhis own decay. He worked himself relentlessly into exhaustion before the long night was over and came downwith 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 heshowed at the airfield the day of the Avignon mission when Yossarian climbed down the few steps of his planenaked, in a state of utter shock, with Snowden smeared abundantly all over his bare heels and toes, knees, armsand fingers, and pointed inside wordlessly toward where the young radio-gunner lay freezing to death on thefloor beside the still younger tail-gunner who kept falling back into a dead faint each time he opened his eyes andsaw Snowden dying.

　　Doc Daneeka draped a blanket around Yossarian’s shoulders almost tenderly after Snowden had been removedfrom 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 Yossarianinside to a chair and washed Snowden off him with cold wet balls of absorbent cotton. Doc Daneeka gave him apill and a shot that put him to sleep for twelve hours. When Yossarian woke up and went to see him, DocDaneeka gave him another pill and a shot that put him to sleep for another twelve hours. When Yossarian wokeup 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? Whyare 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 nextmorning when Milo, after hunting everywhere else, finally found him sitting up a tree a small distance in back ofthe quaint little military cemetery at which Snowden was being buried. Milo was dressed in his customarybusiness attire—olive-drab trousers, a fresh olive-drab shirt and tie, with one silver first lieutenant’s bargleaming 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 handsgrasping the bough directly above. He refused to budge, and Milo had no choice but to stretch both arms aboutthe 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 thelimb and pause for breath. His dress cap was askew and in danger of falling. Milo caught it just in time when itbegan slipping. Globules of perspiration glistened like transparent pearls around his mustache and swelled likeopaque blisters under his eyes. Yossarian watched him impassively. Cautiously Milo worked himself around in ahalf circle so that he could face Yossarian. He unwrapped tissue paper from something soft, round and brownand 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 goddamseeds 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 gowith 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 utmostcare and apprehension. His face was rigid with tension, and he sighed with relief when he found himself seatedsecurely beside Yossarian. He stroked the tree affectionately. “This is a pretty good tree,” he observedadmiringly 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. Isell chestnuts.”

　　“Have it your way.”

　　They sat in the tree without talking for several seconds, their legs dangling and their hands almost straight up onthe bough above, the one completely nude but for a pair of crepe-soled sandals, the other completely dressed in acoarse olive-drab woolen uniform with his tie knotted tight. Milo studied Yossarian diffidently through thecorner 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 oranything, 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. “Iunderstand 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 withtroubled 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 byother gray chestnut trees and a silver spruce. The sun was high overhead in a vast sapphire-blue sky beaded withlow, isolated, puffy clouds of dry and immaculate white. There was no breeze, and the leaves about them hungmotionless. The shade was feathery. Everything was at peace but Milo, who straightened suddenly with amuffled 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 thecemetery. Isn’t it?”

　　Yossarian answered him slowly in a level voice. “They’re burying that kid who got killed in my plane overAvignon 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 ifthe mess halls don’t agree to buy my cotton. Yossarian, what’s the matter with them? Don’t they realize it’s theirsyndicate? 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 manin your tent,” he pleaded peevishly. “I told you I didn’t have anything to do with killing him. Is it my fault that Isaw this great opportunity to corner the market on Egyptian cotton and got us into all this trouble? Was Isupposed to know there was going to be a glut? I didn’t even know what a glut was in those days. An opportunityto 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 andset it gently down on the ground beside the yawning gash of the freshly dug grave. “And now I can’t get rid of asingle penny’s worth,” he mourned.

　　Yossarian was unmoved by the fustian charade of the burial ceremony, and by Milo’s crushing bereavement. Thechaplain’s voice floated up to him through the distance tenuously in an unintelligible, almost inaudiblemonotone, like a gaseous murmur. Yossarian could make out Major Major by his towering and lanky aloofnessand thought he recognized Major Danby mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Major Danby had not stoppedshaking since his run-in with General Dreedle. There were strands of enlisted men molded in a curve around thethree officers, as inflexible as lumps of wood, and four idle gravediggers in streaked fatigues loungingindifferently on spades near the shocking, incongruous heap of loose copperred earth. As Yossarian stared, thechaplain elevated his gaze toward Yossarian beatifically, pressed his fingers down over his eyeballs in a mannerof affliction, peered upward again toward Yossarian searchingly, and bowed his head, concluding whatYossarian took to be a climactic part of the funeral rite. The four men in fatigues lifted the coffin on slings andlowered 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 letmy syndicate die.” He gnashed his teeth and shook his head with bitter woe and resentment. “If they had anyloyalty, they would buy my cotton till it hurts so that they can keep right on buying my cotton till it hurts themsome more. They would build fires and burn up their underwear and summer uniforms just to create biggerdemand. But they won’t do a thing. Yossarian, try eating the rest of this chocolate-covered cotton for me. Maybeit 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 hislashes 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 tryliving 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, andthe beige crescent of human forms began to break up sluggishly, like flotsam. The men drifted without haste orsound to the vehicles parked along the side of the bumpy dirt road. With their heads down disconsolately, thechaplain, Major Major and Major Danby moved toward their jeeps in an ostracized group, each holding himselffriendlessly 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 theirown 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 menin 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 nobusiness in business, and I would be the last person in the world to ever try to involve the government in abusiness of mine. But the business of government is business,” he remembered alertly, and continued withelation. “Calvin Coolidge said that, and Calvin Coolidge was a President, so it must be true. And the governmentdoes have the responsibility of buying all the Egyptian cotton I’ve got that no one else wants so that I can make aprofit, 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 scoldedseverely, breathing virtuous fire down and upward into his rusty mustache through his billowing nostrils andprim lips. “Bribery is against the law, and you know it. But it’s not against the law to make a profit, is it? So itcan’t be against the law for me to bribe someone in order to make a fair profit, can it? No, of course not!” He fellto 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 jeepsand ambulance fractured the drowsy silence and the vehicles in the rear began driving away backward. “Youmake 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 orashamed, 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 nobetter than a bunch of crooks.”

　　“You’ll be all right,” Yossarian assured him with confidence. “If you run into trouble, just tell everybody that thesecurity 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 strongerAmerica.”

　　“Of course it does. And if that doesn’t work, point out the great number of American families that depend on itfor 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 shirtpocket and edged his way back gingerly along the branch to the smooth gray trunk. He threw this arms about thetrunk in a generous and awkward embrace and began shinnying down, the sides of his leather-soled shoesslipping constantly so that it seemed many times he would fall and injure himself. Halfway down, he changed hismind and climbed back up. Bits of tree bark stuck to his mustache, and his straining face was flushed withexertion.

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

 24、米洛
　　对米洛来说，四月一直是他最喜欢的一个月份。丁香花总在四月里盛开，结在藤蔓上的水果也在这时成熟。人的心跳会比以前加快，减弱了的胃口也会重新恢复起来。四月里，曾有一道色彩更为艳丽的彩虹在那只周身发光的鸽子的身上闪烁。四月是春天，而一到春天米洛.明德宾德的脑筋一下子就转到了柑橘上面。
　　“柑橘？”
　　“是的，长官。”
　　“我的士兵会喜欢柑橘的，”那位指挥驻扎撒丁岛的四个B26型飞机中队的上校承认说。
　　“他们吃多少都不成问题，只要你能从伙食费里弄到钱来付帐。”米洛向他保证。
　　“卡萨巴甜瓜弄得到吗？”
　　“在大马士革便宜极了。”
　　“我特别爱吃卡萨巴甜瓜。我一向都爱吃得不得了。”
　　“只要每个中队借给我一架飞机就成，各队只要出一架，那你想吃多少卡萨巴甜瓜就有多少，只要你付得起钱。”
　　“我们是从辛迪加联合体中购买吗？”
　　“人人都在联合体里有股份。”
　　“这真令人吃惊，简直太令人吃惊了。你是怎么办到的？”
　　“集团购买力能使得一切都大不一样。比如说，想来点裹了面包屑的炸小牛排也成。”
　　“我可不大爱吃裹了面包屑的炸小牛排，”那位驻扎科西嘉北部的B25型机群指挥官嘀嘀咕咕地说，他仍然心存疑虑。
　　“裹了面包屑的炸小牛排可是很有营养的噢。”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，“黑市上卖的最好的。”
　　“是小羊羔的排骨？”
　　“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，这种小羊排卖得非常便宜。”
　　“我可不能派一架飞机去葡萄牙。我没这个权力。”
　　“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——这能使你讨得德里德尔将军的欢心。”
　　“德里德尔将军会再来我们食堂吃饭？”
　　“会吃得像头猪似的，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，他就会这样。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：“这是整件事中最妙的部分。”
　　“这事我一点也不喜欢，”这位不肯合作的战斗机指挥官咆哮道，他也不喜欢米洛这个人。
　　“北边部队里有个战斗机指挥官不肯合作，他跟我过不去，”米洛对德里德尔将军抱怨道，“往往一个人就会把整个事给毁了，这一来你就再也吃不上用我的纯黄油煎出来的新鲜鸡蛋了。”
　　于是，德里德尔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，让他在那里挖坟墓，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。
　　“啊，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。什么都愿意。”
　　“你什么都不必拿出来。只要给我一架飞机，每个食堂一架，外加一名叫干啥就干啥的驾驶员。还有，在第一次订货时，你得付上一小笔现金作为定金。”
　　“可是克拉科夫远在敌后几百英里，你怎么去那里弄香肠？”
　　“在日内瓦有一个波兰香肠国际交易市场。我只要将花生空运到瑞士，以市场上的公开价格将其换成波兰香肠。他们将把花生运到克拉科夫，我呢，则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。当你通过辛迪加联合体买这些东西时，你等于是自己付钱给自己，因为你将在里面拥有一份股份。所以，你实际上是不花一个子儿就买到了所有的东西。这不是挺有意义吗？”
　　“你简直是个天才。你究竟是怎样想出这个主意来的？”
　　“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。这些飞机的机身上都装饰有各个飞行中队的象征图案，其色彩艳丽夺目。每一个图案都代表着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喷在飞机上。那标志是：M&M果蔬产品联合公司。在这个名称里，“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，是为了消除这样一个印象：这个辛迪加联合体实际上是在一个人的操纵下。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，有些则留着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一些卡车和坦克，用它们来搞短途运输。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天叼着根牙签，懒洋洋地到处逛游。米洛独自掌管着所有的正在日益扩大的经营业务。由于他全神贯注地投入该项工作，一条条水獭皮似的褐色皱纹渐渐地爬满了他那张操劳过度的脸，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。除约塞连之外，人人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。约塞连也认为米洛是个笨蛋，但同时他也知道米洛是个天才。
　　有一天，米洛飞往英国去采购一批土耳其芝麻糖，然后领着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，并还要没收他们的飞机。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着宪兵、脸上带有战场上留下的疤痕、手上端着冲锋枪的可怜上尉那三张满含愧疚的脸前舞个不休，嘴里还在不住地严辞痛斥着他们。
　　“这是在俄国吗？”米洛以怀疑的口吻声嘶力竭地斥责着他们。
　　“没收？”他尖叫着，好像不相信自己的耳朵似的。“美国政府从什么时候起开始执行没收私人财产的政策了？你们真不要脸！你们竟会生出这么一个可怕念头，一个个都不要脸极了。”
　　“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。”
　　米洛果然没说错，因为等他们再细看时，他的那些机械师早已将德国飞机机翼、机尾和机身上原有的“十”形纳粹符号用乳白色的油漆给涂掉了，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，米洛当着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船队充斥着整个天空。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，唯独不去俄国，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。每天早上米洛都要往欧洲和北非派遣飞机，飞机上拖着两条长长的红色广告标牌，上面用大大的方体字写着当天的特色商品：“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“能同做祈祷的家庭是永不离散的家庭”。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前的广告插播权，以促进他的业务活动。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。它们享有在各处随便通行的自由。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着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从事这些事情，更何况双方都非常情愿将其投入进去。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。
　　米洛的这个安排对双方都是很公平的。一方面，由于米洛有在各处随意通行的自由，因此他的飞机就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。除了约塞连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着这句话，以此来回答约塞连那怒不可遏的非难。“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，我就呆在那边的地面上朝它们开火？”
　　“但这整个事情都是你一手策划的，不是吗？”约塞连大叫着回敬他。此时他们正站在黑缎子般的黑暗之中，这黑暗同时也笼罩着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，将他那咝咝有声、毫无血色的鼻子挤成了一团。“不管有没有我的插手，德国人总归占着大桥，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。”
　　“你为此而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。我当时在巴塞罗那，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，”米洛万般诚恳地向约塞连倾诉道，“瞧，约塞连，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，但他仍克制着自己。“德国人并不是我们的敌人，他声明道，“哦，我知道你想说什么。不错，我们是在同他们打仗。不过德国人也是咱们辛迪加联合体里声誉很好的成员。作为我们的股东，我有责任保护他们的权利。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！”约塞连厉声回绝道。
　　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，大家的脸都朝上抬着，正对着那面白色银幕。此时，只见米洛的双眼里噙着泪水，显得无比真诚，脸上透着朴实和清白，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，一把抓住了约塞连的衬衣前襟。他的眼睛像一对褐色毛虫一样，醒目地眨动个不歇。“约塞连，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。这一来，米洛就变得越来越穷了。
　　“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，不管怎么样合同就是合同，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，这一次他得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着，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，于是只好全都鬼哭狼嚎着挤在门口，就像一道厚实的人肉堤坝。
　　卡思卡特上校又是爬又是挤，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着，机翼上的风门片也向下垂着；那些巨大的着陆灯一直亮着，好似一对对暴眼，闪烁着强烈、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，接着便向前猛冲，几乎是呜咽着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着机场疾驶而去。他那双松软无力的手因紧紧地握着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，惊恐万状地低着脸，一边将瘦弱的胳臂当成不堪一击的盾牌紧紧抱着脑袋，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，不停地闪烁着的白色着陆灯仍旧亮着，投弹舱的门也还敞开着。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