For the first time in his life, Yossarian prayed. He got down on his knees and prayed to Nately not to volunteer tofly more than seventy missions after Chief White Halfoat did die of pneumonia in the hospital and Nately hadapplied for his job. But Nately just wouldn’t listen.

　　“I’ve got to fly more missions,” Nately insisted lamely with a crooked smile. “Otherwise they’ll send me home.”

　　“So?”

　　“I don’t want to go home until I can take her back with me.”

　　“She means that much to you?”

　　Nately nodded dejectedly. “I might never see her again.”

　　“Then get yourself grounded,” Yossarian urged. “You’ve finished your missions and you don’t need the flightpay. Why don’t you ask for Chief White Halfoat’s job, if you can stand working for Captain Black?”

　　Nately shook his head, his cheeks darkening with shy and regretful mortification. “They won’t give it to me. Ispoke to Colonel Korn, and he told me I’d have to fly more missions or be sent home.”

　　Yossarian cursed savagely. “That’s just plain meanness.”

　　“I don’t mind, I guess. I’ve flown seventy missions without getting hurt. I guess I can fly a few more.”

　　“Don’t do anything at all about it until I talk to someone,” Yossarian decided, and went looking for help fromMilo, who went immediately afterward to Colonel Cathcart for help in having himself assigned to more combatmissions.

　　Milo had been earning many distinctions for himself. He had flown fearlessly into danger and criticism byselling petroleum and ball bearings to Germany at good prices in order to make a good profit and help maintain abalance of power between the contending forces. His nerve under fire was graceful and infinite. With a devotionto purpose above and beyond the line of duty, he had then raised the price of food in his mess halls so high thatall officers and enlisted men had to turn over all their pay to him in order to eat. Their alternative—there was analternative, of course, since Milo detested coercion and was a vocal champion of freedom of choice—was tostarve. When he encountered a wave of enemy resistance to this attack, he stuck to his position without regardfor his safety or reputation and gallantly invoked the law of supply and demand. And when someone somewheresaid no, Milo gave ground grudgingly, valiantly defending, even in retreat, the historic right of free men to pay asmuch as they had to for the things they needed in order to survive.

　　Milo had been caught red-handed in the act of plundering his countrymen, and, as a result, his stock had neverbeen higher. He proved good as his word when a rawboned major from Minnesota curled his lip in rebelliousdisavowal and demanded his share of the syndicate Milo kept saying everybody owned. Milo met the challengeby writing the words “A Share” on the nearest scrap of paper and handing it away with a virtuous disdain thatwon the envy and admiration of almost everyone who knew him. His glory was at a peak, and Colonel Cathcart,who knew and admired his war record, was astonished by the deferential humility with which Milo presentedhimself at Group Headquarters and made his fantastic appeal for more hazardous assignments.

　　“You want to fly more combat missions?” Colonel Cathcart gasped. “What in the world for?”

　　Milo answered in a demure voice with his face lowered meekly. “I want to do my duty, sir. The country is atwar, and I want to fight to defend it like the rest of the fellows.”

　　“But, Milo, you are doing your duty,” Colonel Cathcart exclaimed with a laugh that thundered jovially. “I can’tthink of a single person who’s done more for the men than you have. Who gave them chocolate-covered cotton?”

　　Milo shook his head slowly and sadly. “But being a good mess officer in wartime just isn’t enough, ColonelCathcart.”

　　“Certainly it is, Milo. I don’t know what’s come over you.”

　　“Certainly it isn’t, Colonel,” Milo disagreed in a somewhat firm tone, raising his subservient eyes significantlyjust far enough to arrest Colonel Cathcart’s. “Some of the men are beginning to talk.”

　　“Oh, is that it? Give me their names, Milo. Give me their names and I’ll see to it that they go on every dangerousmission the group flies.”

　　“No, Colonel, I’m afraid they’re right,” Milo said, with his head drooping again. “I was sent overseas as a pilot,and I should be flying more combat missions and spending less time on my duties as a mess officer.”

　　Colonel Cathcart was surprised but co-operative. “Well, Milo, if you really feel that way, I’m sure we can makewhatever arrangements you want. How long have you been overseas now?”

　　“Eleven months, sir.”

　　“And how many missions have you flown?”

　　“Five.”

　　“Five?” asked Colonel Cathcart.

　　“Five, sir.”

　　“Five, eh?” Colonel Cathcart rubbed his cheek pensively. “That isn’t very good, is it?”

　　“Isn’t it?” asked Milo in a sharply edged voice, glancing up again.

　　Colonel Cathcart quailed. “On the contrary, that’s very good, Milo,” he corrected himself hastily. “It isn’t bad atall.”

　　“No, Colonel,” Milo said, with a long, languishing, wistful sigh, “it isn’t very good. Although it’s very generousof you to say so.”

　　“But it’s really not bad, Milo. Not bad at all, when you consider all your other valuable contributions. Fivemissions, you say? Just five?”

　　“Just five, sir.”

　　“Just five.” Colonel Cathcart grew awfully depressed for a moment as he wondered what Milo was reallythinking, and whether he had already got a black eye with him. “Five is very good, Milo,” he observed withenthusiasm, spying a ray of hope. “That averages out to almost one combat mission every two months. And I’llbet your total doesn’t include the time you bombed us.”

　　“Yes, sir. It does.”

　　“It does?” inquired Colonel Cathcart with mild wonder. “You didn’t actually fly along on that mission, did you?

　　If I remember correctly, you were in the control tower with me, weren’t you?”

　　“But it was my mission,” Milo contended. “I organized it, and we used my planes and supplies. I planned andsupervised the whole thing.”

　　“Oh, certainly, Milo, certainly. I’m not disputing you. I’m only checking the figures to make sure you’reclaiming all you’re entitled to. Did you also include the time we contracted with you to bomb the bridge atOrvieto?”

　　“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t think I should, since I was in Orvieto at the time directing the antiaircraft fire.”

　　“I don’t see what difference that makes, Milo. It was still your mission. And a damned good one, too, I must say.

　　We didn’t get the bridge, but we did have a beautiful bomb pattern. I remember General Peckem commenting onit. No, Milo, I insist you count Orvieto as a mission, too.”

　　“If you insist, sir.”

　　“I do insist, Milo. Now, let’s see—you now have a grand total of six missions, which is damned good, Milo,damned good, really. Six missions is an increase of twenty per cent in just a couple of minutes, which is not badat all, Milo, not bad at all.”

　　“Many of the other men have seventy missions,” Milo pointed out.

　　“But they never produced any chocolate-covered cotton, did they? Milo, you’re doing more than your share.”

　　“But they’re getting all the fame and opportunity,” Milo persisted with a petulance that bordered on sniveling.

　　“Sir, I want to get in there and fight like the rest of the fellows. That’s what I’m here for. I want to win medals,too.”

　　“Yes, Milo, of course. We all want to spend more time in combat. But people like you and me serve in differentways. Look at my own record,” Colonel Cathcart uttered a deprecatory laugh. “I’ll bet it’s not generally known,Milo, that I myself have flown only four missions, is it?”

　　“No, sir,” Milo replied. “It’s generally known that you’ve flown only two missions. And that one of thoseoccurred when Aarfy accidentally flew you over enemy territory while navigating you to Naples for a black-market water cooler.”

　　Colonel Cathcart, flushing with embarrassment, abandoned all further argument. “All right, Milo. I can’t praiseyou enough for what you want to do. If it really means so much to you, I’ll have Major Major assign you to thenext sixty-four missions so that you can have seventy, too.”

　　“Thank you, Colonel, thank you, sir. You don’t know what this means.”

　　“Don’t mention it, Milo. I know exactly what it means.”

　　“No, Colonel, I don’t think you do know what it means,” Milo disagreed pointedly. “Someone will have to beginrunning the syndicate for me right away. It’s very complicated, and I might get shot down at any time.”

　　Colonel Cathcart brightened instantly at the thought and began rubbing his hands with avaricious zest. “Youknow, Milo, I think Colonel Korn and I might be willing to take the syndicate off your hands,” he suggested inan offhand manner, almost licking his lips in savory anticipation. “Our experience in black-market plumtomatoes should come in very useful. Where do we begin?”

　　Milo watched Colonel Cathcart steadily with a bland and guileless expression. “Thank you, sir, that’s very goodof you. Begin with a salt-free diet for General Peckem and a fat-free diet for General Dreedle.”

　　“Let me get a pencil. What’s next?”

　　“The cedars.”

　　“Cedars?”

　　“From Lebanon.”

　　“Lebanon?”

　　�............