‘Look at that!
That’s a funeral going on down there.
That looks like the cemetery. Isn’t it?’
Yossarian answered him slowly in a level voice.
‘They’re burying that kid who got killed in my plane over Avignon 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 if the mess halls don’t agree to buy my cotton.
Yossarian, what’s the matter with them?
Don’t they realize it’s their syndicate? 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 man in your tent,’ he pleaded peevishly.
‘I told you I didn’t have anything to do with killing him.
Is it my fault that I saw this great opportunity to corner the market on Egyptian cotton and got us into all this trouble?
Was I supposed to know there was going to be a glut?
I didn’t even know what a glut was in those days.
An opportunity to 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 and set it gently down on the ground beside the yawning gash of the freshly dug grave.
‘And now I can’t get rid of a single penny’s worth,’ he mourned.
Yossarian was unmoved by the fustian charade of the burial ceremony, and by Milo’s crushing bereavement.
The chaplain’s voice floated up to him through the distance tenuously in an unintelligible, almost inaudible monotone, like a gaseous murmur.
Yossarian could make out Major Major by his towering and lanky aloofness and thought he recognized Major Danby mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Major Danby had not stopped shaking since his run-in with General Dreedle.
There were strands of enlisted men molded in a curve around the three officers, as inflexible as lumps of wood, and four idle gravediggers in streaked fatigues lounging indifferently on spades near the shocking, incongruous heap of loose copperred earth.
As Yossarian stared, the chaplain elevated his gaze toward Yossarian beatifically, pressed his fingers down over his eyeballs in a manner of affliction, peered upward again toward Yossarian searchingly, and bowed his head, concluding what Yossarian took to be a climactic part of the funeral rite.
The four men in fatigues lifted the coffin on slings and lowered 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 let my syndicate die.’
He gnashed his teeth and shook his head with bitter woe and resentment.
‘If they had any loyalty, they would buy my cotton till it hurts so that they can keep right on buying my cotton till it hurts them some more. They would build fires and burn up their underwear and summer uniforms just to create bigger demand.
But they won’t do a thing.
Yossarian, try eating the rest of this chocolate-covered cotton for me.
Maybe it 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.