Eggs

Eggs are the foundational commodity of Milo Minderbinder's vast wartime syndicate, M & M Enterprises, and they serve as the novel's primary illustration of how capitalism can be twisted into a self-justifying, amoral system. From a simple request for fresh eggs, Milo builds a global network of planes, pilots, and contracts, demonstrating that even the most basic foodstuff can be transformed into an instrument of profit, manipulation, and, ultimately, death.

Origin and the Syndicate's Birth

The syndicate begins with a hard-boiled egg. In his second week with the squadron, Milo approaches the fearsome Major -- de Coverley at his horseshoe-pitching pit, holding a hard-boiled egg aloft like a talisman. When asked where the egg came from, Milo answers, "From a chicken," and then reveals that the chicken is in Malta, where enough eggs exist to supply the entire squadron at five cents apiece from the mess fund. Major -- de Coverley confesses a weakness for fresh eggs, and Milo secures the use of a plane to fly to Malta weekly. This single transaction, built on the humble egg, is the seed from which the entire M & M syndicate grows, eventually encompassing planes, pilots, and contracts from both Allied and Axis powers.

The Paradox of Profit

Milo's egg trade is the novel's most explicit demonstration of his bizarre, circular economics. He buys eggs in Sicily for one cent apiece, secretly transfers them to Malta at four and a half cents to inflate the market price, and then buys them back in Malta for seven cents. He then sells these same eggs to his own mess halls for five cents, taking a loss of two cents per egg. Yet, as he explains to Yossarian, this is how he makes a profit: he makes three and a quarter cents per egg by selling them to the Maltese middlemen (who are, in fact, himself), and two and three-quarter cents when he buys them back. The net result is a six-cent profit per egg, achieved by losing two cents on the final sale. This absurd logic, where loss is the engine of gain, perfectly encapsulates the novel's critique of a system where the process of exchange itself, divorced from any real value, becomes the only source of profit.

Eggs as a Symbol of Nourishment and Corruption

Beyond their economic function, eggs represent a promise of wholesome nourishment that is repeatedly corrupted. The initial appeal of Milo's eggs is their freshness and quality, a stark contrast to the grim reality of war. General Dreedle himself is drawn to Milo's mess hall by the "smell of a fresh egg snapping exotically in a pool of fresh butter," and he devours them "for breakfast, lunch and dinner." This image of simple, good food is perverted when Milo, desperate to unload his disastrous investment in Egyptian cotton, creates "chocolate-covered cotton" and tries to pass it off as a treat. When Yossarian bites into it, he gags and sprays it out, exclaiming, "You didn't even take the goddam seeds out." The egg, a symbol of natural, unadulterated sustenance, is thus replaced by an inedible, manufactured product, a direct result of Milo's profit-driven schemes.

Eggs, Death, and the Absurd

The egg's symbolic range extends to the most visceral and horrifying moments of the novel. During the mission to Avignon, Yossarian crawls into the rear of the plane to treat the mortally wounded Snowden. As he cuts away Snowden's coveralls, he sees the wound and, in a grotesque inversion of the life-giving egg, Snowden's insides spill out. The text notes that among the "liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach" were "bits of the stewed tomatoes Snowden had eaten that day for lunch." This image of undigested food, a reminder of a simple, mundane act of eating, is juxtaposed with the ultimate reality of death. The egg, as a fundamental food, is part of this chain of consumption and decay, reinforcing Snowden's secret: "Man was matter." The promise of life inherent in the egg is rendered meaningless by the brute fact of physical mortality.

Eggs as a Tool of Control

Milo's control over eggs gives him power over the entire military structure. By providing fresh eggs and other delicacies, he makes himself indispensable to commanders like Colonel Cathcart and General Dreedle, who then protect his syndicate from scrutiny. This power is used to enforce conformity. When Milo wants to force the men to eat his chocolate-covered cotton, he threatens to withhold the good food, including eggs. The threat of losing access to this basic, desirable commodity is enough to make the men compliant. In this way, the egg becomes a tool of social and military control, demonstrating how the control of a simple necessity can be leveraged into absolute authority, even over men who are ostensibly fighting a war. The ultimate perversion of this control is seen when Milo, having stolen the carbon dioxide from the Mae West life jackets to make ice cream sodas, leaves the men to drown. The pursuit of profit, beginning with the simple egg, leads directly to the betrayal of life itself.