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“Catch-22” <strong>By</strong> <strong>Joseph</strong> Heller 140<br />
augmented by a merit bonus of a thousand dollars for every American plane he shot<br />
down. The consummation of these deals represented an important victory for private<br />
enterprise, he pointed out, since the armies of both countries were socialized<br />
institutions. Once the contracts were signed, there seemed to be no point in using the<br />
resources of the syndicate to bomb and defend the bridge, inasmuch as both<br />
governments had ample men and material right there to do so and were perfectly happy<br />
to contribute them, and in the end Milo realized a fantastic profit from both halves of his<br />
project for doing nothing more than signing his name twice.<br />
The arrangements were fair to both sides. Since Milo did have freedom of passage<br />
everywhere, his planes were able to steal over in a sneak attack without alerting the<br />
German antiaircraft gunners; and since Milo knew about the attack, he was able to alert<br />
the German antiaircraft gunners in sufficient time for them to begin firing accurately the<br />
moment the planes came into range. It was an ideal arrangement for everyone but the<br />
dead man in Yossarian’s tent, who was killed over the target the day he arrived.<br />
‘I didn’t kill him!’ Milo kept replying passionately to Yossarian’s angry protest. ‘I wasn’t<br />
even there that day, I tell you. Do you think I was down there on the ground firing an<br />
antiaircraft gun when the planes came over?’<br />
‘But you organized the whole thing, didn’t you?’ Yossarian shouted back at him in the<br />
velvet darkness cloaking the path leading past the still vehicles of the motor pool to the<br />
open-air movie theater.<br />
‘And I didn’t organize anything,’ Milo answered indignantly, drawing great agitated<br />
sniffs of air in through his hissing, pale, twitching nose. ‘The Germans have the bridge,<br />
and we were going to bomb it, whether I stepped into the picture or not. I just saw a<br />
wonderful opportunity to make some profit out of the mission, and I took it. What’s so<br />
terrible about that?’<br />
‘What’s so terrible about it? Milo, a man in my tent was killed on that mission before he<br />
could even unpack his bags.’<br />
‘But I didn’t kill him.’<br />
‘You got a thousand dollars extra for it.’<br />
‘But I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t even there, I tell you. I was in Barcelona buying olive oil<br />
and skinless and boneless sardines, and I’ve got the purchase orders to prove it. And I<br />
didn’t get the thousand dollars. That thousand dollars went to the syndicate, and<br />
everybody got a share, even you.’ Milo was appealing to Yossarian from the bottom of<br />
his soul. ‘Look, I didn’t start this war, Yossarian, no matter what that lousy Wintergreen<br />
is saying. I’m just trying to put it on a businesslike basis. Is anything wrong with that?<br />
You know, a thousand dollars ain’t such a bad price for a medium bomber and a crew. If<br />
I can persuade the Germans to pay me a thousand dollars for every plane they shoot<br />
down, why shouldn’t I take it?’<br />
‘Because you’re dealing with the enemy, that’s why. Can’t you understand that we’re<br />
fighting a war? People are dying. Look around you, for Christ’s sake!’ Milo shook his<br />
head with weary forbearance. ‘And the Germans are not our enemies,’ he declared. ‘Oh<br />
I know what you’re going to say. Sure, we’re at war with them. But the Germans are also<br />
members in good standing of the syndicate, and it’s my job to protect their rights as<br />
shareholders. Maybe they did start the war, and maybe they are killing millions of<br />
people, but they pay their bills a lot more promptly than some allies of ours I could<br />
name. Don’t you understand that I have to respect the sanctity of my contract with<br />
Germany? Can’t you see it from my point of view?’<br />
‘No,’ Yossarian rebuffed him harshly.<br />
Milo was stung and made no effort to disguise his wounded feelings. It was a muggy,<br />
moonlit night filled with gnats, moths, and mosquitoes. Milo lifted his arm suddenly and<br />
pointed toward the open-air theater, where the milky, dust-filled beam bursting<br />
horizontally from the projector slashed a conelike swath in the blackness and draped in<br />
a fluorescent membrane of light the audience tilted on the seats there in hypnotic sags,<br />
their faces focused upward toward the aluminized movie screen. Milo’s eyes were liquid<br />
with integrity, and his artless and uncorrupted face was lustrous with a shining mixture