A trip up the river

text by Pink Oboe

"We would like you to go to Louisiana to attend a conference on Nitromethane."

Fine. I am the sort of soul who would happily travel to Huddersfield if you gave me a ticket. I just enjoy travelling or rather I enjoy being in other places and wandering around. The actual physical process of travelling tends to be painful.

So off I set in the direction of Monroe, Louisiana, requiring a transition across the big pond by ancient RAF VC 10, a change in Washington to fly down to Monroe and finally a hire car to navigate myself to the conference, which was being held in the wonderfully named Holiday Inn Holidrome. God knows what one of those is when it is at home but it appeared to be the sort of place that you went when the weather was so unbearably hot or so unbearably cold that you did not want to venture out of your hotel. It had all sorts of indoor entertainment laid on, none of which really appealed to me in my shattered state having been travelling for 20 hours or so.

The next day, feeling slightly more human than the night before, I sat in one of the conference centres and looked around at the other delegates. Angus Chemicals, the largest free world purveyor of nitromethane, a liquid explosive but also a useful chemical intermediary for a number of other products, had decided to give the possible military applications of their product a push. So they had invited all the people in the US defence hierarchy with a possible interest and thrown out an invitation or two to allied countries to see what the net would bring in. A small investment in their time and a bit of money spent on entertainment might bring major purchases in future.

There was a token Canadian, a token Australian and I was the token Brit. The day was spent with lectures from Angus employees telling us what wonderful stuff nitromethane was with a fair amount of effort put into explaining away several enormous accidental explosions of quantities of the stuff. Several rail cars had disappeared in a series of spectacular bangs all of which were wonderfully explained away by a set of extremely unlikely circumstances coming together. The fact that the enormous explosions stopped when they stopped shipping the stuff in large, heavily reinforced railcars and started carting it around the countryside in flimsy 45 gallon drums seemed to have escaped them but what the hell.

At the end of the day we were to be entertained to a banquet. I was just getting myself into my gent's natty suiting when the telephone rang. Who the hell knows I am even in the US let alone at this conference? It was a chum of mine, a Scottish professor of Rock Mechanics at the University of Rolla, Missouri. He was managing a contract for the US Navy, which involved removing explosives from warheads using high-pressure water. For reasons that are perhaps obvious, I knew quite a lot about how much abuse explosives would take from high pressure water and I had provided them with guidance for their programmes. I still do not know how he got through to me. Perhaps he rang my office and they redirected him. Anyway, the gist of his call was could I drop by Rolla on my way home and look at some of their latest data?

I explained that this was not really possible. My bosses would go ape-shit if I wandered off to another destination without authority and anyway, I did not have any time before my return flight by RAF from Washington because of my commitments with the conference.

Well, could the Professor and his US Navy Project Manager come and see me at the conference?

I did not see why not. As long as they realised that any meetings would have to be in the margins of the conference as that was what I was over in the US to do. That settled, the Professor and the US Navy man agreed to turn up the next evening and I toddled off to the banquet.

It was a splendid affair. Course after course accompanied by glass after glass of wine. Wonderful and I took advantage of every aspect of it. In the morning I wished I was dead. I had a hangover of gigantic proportions and it took several handfuls of headache pills and almost half an hour in one of those American showers that pummel the life out of you, or in this case into you, to make me presentable for the conference.

With the resilience of youth, I survived and took my notes and managed to make it through to the early afternoon. The rest of the day was to be spent with a trip up the local branch of the Missouri on a rear wheel paddle steamer along with a demonstration of nitromethane in a drag racer. I thought I could decently duck out of these excursions as I had visitors coming. I went and attempted to make my excuses to the Vice President of Angus.

I explained that I had a Professor and a senior US Navy Project Manager coming to talk to me. I could see his ears prick up.

"Bring them along. The more the merrier," he boomed.

So I was able to tell my chums when I saw them that we were to hold our discussions gently sailing up the local river perhaps with a glass or two of something to aid our intellectual pursuits.

We were all packed into a fleet of coaches and dropped off at the levee. I have always wanted to wait on the levee, if not for the Robert E Lee, at least for something that would pass for her in poor light. The Monroe Queen was a modern replica of an old rear wheel paddle steamer but she looked the part, pricked out in red and white. The unruly rabble were marshalled onto the boat by a young New York public relations man hired for the occasion to ensure that all the visitors had a good time and that the firm created the right impression.

As we left the shore and headed upstream, so the entertainment switched in: a repeat performance with fine wines and spirits accompanied by groaning tables of food. My companions looked on in awe but I was still in a very jaundiced state. A repeat of mixing all the wines in creation and washing it down with the odd brandy or three did not appeal. Still, we had to be sociable.

A white-coated flunky asked, "What can I get you gentlemen? Champagne? Whisky? Fine wines?"

"I would like a beer please." I said. American beer was well described in one of the Monty Python films as being rather like making love in a canoe. It's fucking close to water. Drinking that seemed to me to be a better way of spending the evening so that I did not end up with a thick head two days in a row.

My companions looked wistfully at the wonders on offer but decided to support me and so it was three beers. The waiter, who was really a senior manager from Angus, looked a little anxious but provided the three beers and we wandered off to the rail to watch the scenery go by.

Inevitably talking is a thirsty business and we returned several times to replenish the beers. On the fourth occasion there was an anguished reply,

"I am sorry sir. We do not have any more beer. Would you not prefer a fine bourbon? A whisky? Champagne?"

"No thank you. I want a beer. Bloody fine party when they run out of beer....mutter, mutter, mutter."

My dissenting voice caught the attention of the Vice President who was circulating to see if all the punters were happy. What was this? A discouraging word? But they are seldom heard. He investigated and there was a muffled conversation, snatches of which drifted over to us at the rail.

"We didn't think anyone would want beer when there was all this fine wine and spirits on offer. How was I to know the Goddam Limey would want beer?" This was followed by some heavy comments by the Vice President that if the Goddam Limey wanted beer then beer he should have. A message was flashed by radio back to Monroe to buy several cases of beer and get them up to the Monroe Queen by fast launch as quickly as possible.

We continued to talk and watched the evening close in as we gently made our way back towards the city of Monroe having steamed some ten miles or so upstream in the course of our evening's entertainment. After about half an hour there was a flurry of activity as a launch appeared and several cases of beer were unloaded. The Vice President himself brought the first of the replenished beers and we settled once more to our conversation suitably provided for.

It was a very merry party that staggered off the Monroe Queen and headed, gently zig-zagging, to the waiting coaches. I sat with my two chums towards the rear of one of the coaches.

The face of the New York public relations man appeared in the door of the coach, scarcely able to stand as he had been socialising all evening in his role of master of ceremonies.

"Where's that Goddam Limey?"

I waved and indicated my presence. He disappeared for a few minutes and returned carrying a complete case of about twenty beers. He fought his way down the aisle and deposited these in my lap.

"You may as well have these. They cost us enough to get"

"That is very kind. My friend here was drinking beer too."

He beamed, swayed a bit and disappeared again, returning a moment later with twenty more beers, which he presented to the US Navy man.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Well, my Scottish friend here is rather partial to single malt scotch. Do you possibly have some of that?"

Off he went again, gently ricocheting his way down the seats like a pinball off the cushions. He returned beaming more than ever and handed over two bottles of 12 year old Glenlivet!

Ah. The wonders of the international trade in weapons and explosives.