Raggedy men - Page 4
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Brett Caldwell
ON THE GOLD COAST, I ENJOY THE CONFERENCE DINNER. We are plied with alcohol and fed thick, bloody steaks. We ravage sugar-filled desserts and plates of exotic, pungent cheese. Nobody pays attention to the litany of promotional speeches. Instead, we eat and get drunk.
The next morning, hung over and tired, I check out of my five-star hotel. I have collected a hundred brochures and a fine bathrobe.
The taxi driver taking me to the airport talks like a right-wing extremist. He explains why the invasion of "fuckin eye-ran" was justified. "Musees should be rounded up and put into camps in the desert." I politely point out we invaded Iraq, not Iran, and tell him my sister is a Muslim. We don't talk again.
RAGGEDY MAN LEAVES THE MAIN VILLAGE AND WALKS ALONG a small track leading to his home. Tonight he will sleep with his wife. Tomorrow he will leave to hide from the American Special Forces who will be hunting for him. On the path he meets one of his children, a little girl. He hasn't seen her for some months and he marvels at how tall she has grown. She is afraid of him, this tall bearded stranger. He scoops her into his arms, throws her upon his shoulders and jogs for a few paces. Her fear dissolves into squeals of laughter as her hands dig into his beard. Together they laugh and sing a silly song about a goat.
High above the village, an American UAV circles silently. It's a Predator UAV MQ-1 Hunter/Killer – lethal, and silent. The pilotless aircraft's camera zooms in on a man, a target – he is carrying something on his back. Eight hundred kilometres away, somewhere hidden and safe, the UAV "pilot" squints at the monitor trying to make out the detail – is it a backpack, a weapon? The technology isn't perfect, the air vehicle is hard to fly – akin to driving a car by looking through a straw. Either side of her are two sensor operators. It's hard to tell what is on the man's back, so they assume the worst. The warrior mistress begins to manipulate a targeting crosshair. Nobody inside the control room can hear the child's ecstatic giggles or Raggedy Man's silly goat song; if they could, they too might laugh.
Later, the Predator operators pack their belongings into small satchels and leave the air-conditioned comfort of the trailer. It's hot outside, but the sun will soon drop below the distant horizon, and with its departure the cold night air will descend. It's steak and movie night so there is still time for a short workout and shower. The "pilot" cracks a joke about Homer Simpson – they all laugh.
ALL SOLDIERS DREAM ABOUT THEIR HOMECOMING. When my grandfather arrived home from fighting the Japanese Imperial Army in Timor, he was sick from war, malaria and malnutrition. He spent months recuperating in a Darwin hospital. When he was well, he returned home to the Blue Mountains where he learned that my mother, then a child, had been publicly kicked and beaten by a nun and priest for attending a Church of England service. He found her in a boarding school and brought her home to heal. He rarely spoke of the war, and never marched on Anzac Day.
I arrive home from the war-age conference to the smell of baking bread and a warm hug from my wife. Our teenage daughter abandons her homework and charges across the room to dig her hands into my suit coat pockets. She doesn't mind that this time I don't have a gift for her and, as only fourteen-year-old girls can, rattles off a kaleidoscopic story about school, friends, boys, homework and a movie she wants to see with me.
That night we watch the TV news: Iraq is the lead story – again. The parade passes by: cannon fodder, the sacrificed, teenagers in military dress uniform, 2,500 faces. Nobody quotes the number of maimed or civilian dead.
Another suicide bomber has exploded in a marketplace, killing innocents with hate-tempered schrapnel.
The news rambles on in its quest for ratings and the perfect sound bite: the price of petrol has soared – black gold, Texas tea.
Australia decides the barbarians are inside the gates.
There is something wrong with the weather.
News over, I sit back into my leather lounge and wait to watch a re-run of The Simpsons. ♦