‘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, éclairs, 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.