“Catch-22” By Joseph - Khamkoo

“Catch-22” By Joseph Heller 74
‘Where is the chicken?’ Major—de Coverley demanded.
‘The chicken is in Malta,’ Milo answered.
‘How many chickens are there in Malta?’
‘Enough chickens to lay fresh eggs for every officer in the squadron at five cents
apiece from the mess fund,’ Milo answered.
‘I have a weakness for fresh eggs,’ Major—de Coverley confessed.
‘If someone put a plane at my disposal, I could fly down there once a week in a
squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need,’ Milo answered. ‘After all,
Malta’s not so far away.’
‘Malta’s not so far away,’ Major—de Coverley observed. ‘You could probably fly down
there once a week in a squadron plane and bring back all the fresh eggs we need.’
‘Yes,’ Milo agreed. ‘I suppose I could do that, if someone wanted me to and put a
plane at my disposal.’
‘I like my fresh eggs fried,’ Major—de Coverley remembered. ‘In fresh butter.’
‘I can find all the fresh butter we need in Sicily for twenty-five cents a pound,’ Milo
answered. ‘Twenty-five cents a pound for fresh butter is a good buy. There’s enough
money in the mess fund for butter too, and we could probably sell some to the other
squadrons at a profit and get back most of what we pay for our own.’
‘What’s your name, son?’ asked Major—de Coverley.
‘My name is Milo Minderbinder, sir. I am twenty-seven years old.’
‘You’re a good mess officer, Milo.’
‘I’m not the mess officer, sir.’
‘You’re a good mess officer, Milo.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do everything in my power to be a good mess officer.’
‘Bless you, my boy. Have a horseshoe.’
‘Thank you, sir. What should I do with it?’
‘Throw it.’
‘Away?’
‘At the peg there. Then pick it up and throw it at this peg. It’s a game, see? You get
the horseshoe back.’
‘Yes, sir. I see. How much are horseshoes selling for?’ The smell of a fresh egg
snapping exotically in a pool of fresh butter carried a long way on the Mediterranean
trade winds and brought General Dreedle racing back with a voracious appetite,
accompanied by his nurse, who accompanied him everywhere, and his son-in-law,
Colonel Moodus. In the beginning General Dreedle devoured all his meals in Milo’s
mess hall. Then the other three squadrons in Colonel Cathcart’s group turned their
mess halls over to Milo and gave him an airplane and a pilot each so that he could buy
fresh eggs and fresh butter for them too. Milo’s planes shuttled back and forth seven
days a week as every officer in the four squadrons began devouring fresh eggs in an
insatiable orgy of fresh-egg eating. General Dreedle devoured fresh eggs for breakfast,
lunch and dinner—between meals he devoured more fresh eggs—until Milo located
abundant sources of fresh veal, beef, duck, baby lamb chops, mushroom caps, broccoli,
South African rock lobster tails, shrimp, hams, puddings, grapes, ice cream,
strawberries and artichokes. There were three other bomb groups in General Dreedle’s
combat wing, and they each jealously dispatched their own planes to Malta for fresh
eggs, but discovered that fresh eggs were selling there for seven cents apiece. Since
they could buy them from Milo for five cents apiece, it made more sense to turn over
their mess halls to his syndicate, too, and give him the planes and pilots needed to ferry
in all the other good food he promised to supply as well.
Everyone was elated with this turn of events, most of all Colonel Cathcart, who was
convinced he had won a feather in his cap. He greeted Milo jovially each time they met
and, in an excess of contrite generosity, impulsively recommended Major Major for
promotion. The recommendation was rejected at once at Twenty-seventh Air Force
Headquarters by ex-P.F.C. Wintergreen, who scribbled a brusque, unsigned reminder
that the Army had only one Major Major Major Major and did not intend to lose him by