A couple of weeks ago, Adelaide played host to a conference on warfare. The event rotates between capital cities each year, but this time, instead of wooing the host city, the conference hid beneath fears of terrorism, sneaking into the Convention Centre unannounced. ABC Radio found out (the DSTO’s web site gave it away) and managed to interview a spokesman who confirmed “Yes, the conference is happening, but we don’t want to talk about it.” Hardly a scoop.
I wanted to see the conference, but even more so I wanted to get in under its skin. I wanted to see the human face of the arms dealers and join them at play. What did they do when they had finished discussing collateral damage?
I arrived at the Convention Centre in my smartest suit and best “don’t fuck with me” tie. I watched delegates wandering around the plaza with identification tags hanging around their necks. There were a few men in uniform and quite a few more looking like they wished that they were. Sharp suits clashed with free conference carryalls.
A security guard stood at the door with a sniffer dog by his side. I found myself scanning the ground in the hope that someone had dropped their conference identification, but quickly dismissed the idea. I decided to play it straight. By walking straight in.
I slipped in behind some delegates, matching their stride as they walked to the door. We were almost there when my mobile rang. It was my mother.
“Mum! I need you to do me a favour! Stay on the phone. Just keep talking, okay?”
“Sure, no problem!” she said. I know Mum.
Good old Mum talked like a trooper as I approached the door. And somehow, I evaded the security guard. He was distracted by some other would be terrorist without identification. I laughed!
“Mum, I think I’m in!”
“That’s nice. What are you in?”
I scanned in wide-eyed desperation, trying to get a feel for the place. I located the main exhibition hall, and went to explore, but there were two military police checking identifications again! I cursed!
“What did you just say?”
“Oh, sorry Mum. Not you – the military police.”
“Military police?! Anthony Ludwik, what are you up to!”
Suddenly, an avalanche of delegates came streaming towards the exhibition hall. I took the opportunity and floated, like flea on a fart, towards the hall.
“Excuse me sir,” said one of the red berets. “Do you have your conference ID?”
“Ah, no.”
“Well, you’ll have to go back and register sir.”
“Yes of course, thank you.”
I stepped back, looking into the hall. Inside, soldiers were stripping down rifles. There were shells and motors in glass display cases. At the end of the hall sat an armoured personnel carrier. The room was a temple to death and destruction. I snooped around the hallways and toilets, collecting anything I could find. I came away with brochures for five sorts of bombs, augmented day sights and one mother of a self-propelled mortar. And, of course, my copy of ‘Australian Defence Magazine: Free to Delegates at Land Warfare 2003’.
It was time to move from the conference to the social scene. The DSTO web site had betrayed something crucial: the time and venue for the conference dinner and I felt obliged to gatecrash it.
I caught the tram to Glenelg that night, still in my suit, and waited outside the Grand looking for delegates. Then, just as I had done before, I slipped in behind a few heading in. We walked inside and up the main staircase, took a quick left and strolled past the same security guard I had seen earlier that day. And we walked straight into the dinner! I was elated.
The dark expanse of the ballroom contained about four hundred delegates. They sat around tables lit with grand candelabras. It was loud. Networking now. All around me, I could hear “What’s your name? What do you do? Who do you work for?”. It made me nervous. And everyone had conference identifications around their necks. Everyone except me. That really made me nervous.
I ducked into the toilets to collect myself and listened to the conversations outside my cubicle.
There were words of advice.
“…that ‘s exactly what a company credit card is for.” And old war stories: “…and we pumped propane down all the rat holes, then we lit the stuff up, and we blew the heads right off those fucking rats!” And talk in riddles: “…you know, STA… at the SSF… part of LEA”.
I hit the ballroom again. The seating plan showed Lieutenant Colonels, Colonels and Brigadiers. The police were there. And plenty of corporates representing everything from car manufacturers to high end audio. Better sound quality for your home and your war.
I scouted about for a quiet table, but could not seem to find one that was free. It was a territorial crowd. I was pleased to discover the smokers on the balcony. I like to smoke at warfare dinners. It builds community and, more importantly, activity, for someone with no-one to talk to and a need to stay on the move. But I had brought only rollies. It did not seem right to break out the baccie before the top brass. So, I went back to the toilets and sat there, hiding, rolling a straight one. I felt so damned dodgy. It really helped me relax.
I went out the balcony to light up and I’d barely started to splutter when I heard some action inside. Speeches!
The executive director of the conference had taken the stage with his cronies. They rotated the microphone between them waxing about how wonderful the conference had been. They thanked the sponsors, they thanked each other and of course they thanked:
“…all the conference delegates. Everyone in this room helped to make this event a success. So, if you would all be upstanding – I’d like to propose a toast… to us!!”
“TO US!!”
The room roared in good cheer and self congratulation as an army band took the stage. Rather a good one actually, with a strange sort of cabaret bent. While they played, a pudgy bespectacled man stood to attention behind the lectern. Intermittently, the music softened and he stepped forward to laud “the lucky country – We Australians are so fortunate to live in a land of peace and freedom.”
Quite so. And?
“And we must fight to keep it that way.”
Oh, of course.
After the pudgy man had stood down, the music became a medley with band members leaping up to sing songs. War songs. Apparently, it is still best to pack up your troubles in your old kit bag; it remains a long way to Tipperary; and Lilli Marlene is still doing the rounds. It seems there has not been a good war song -or a good war – since the Big One. Not that it mattered to the crowd. They were singing and dancing, clapping together in time.
Enough. Time to leave the dinner; my stomach was churning. I had missed the last tram and resigned myself to catching a taxi home. But stepping outside, I saw some coaches pulling up. I approached the driver of the first bus: “Are these for the conference?”
“Yep, we drop you off at the Hilton. There’s one on board already if you want to get on.”
“Thanks,” I said smiling. “I think I’ll do just that.”
I spotted a man crashed out at the back of the bus and sat forward of him, adopting a similar pose. Others boarded in small groups and subdued drunken tones. The bus filled up and we were lulled towards town. A few overseas delegates chatted away near the front. The bloke up the back emanated a near silent snore. Others laughed, recounting the night. Over the murmur, I heard an oafish man showing a woman his pocket PC.
“I’ve downloaded ‘The Fifth Element’ onto it,” he said settling back. “You wanna watch?”
“No thanks,” said the woman, switching seats. She struck up a conversation with another man and they hit it off pretty well. There was no romance, just warm conversation. They discussed their partners, their home lives, that sort of thing.
“Do you have kids?” I heard her ask.
“I sure do,” said he. “Twins. Mirror images of each other. It’s really rare. Here – have a look at their photo.”
“They’re beautiful kids,” said the woman in admiration.
“They sure are,” said the man smiling with love.
Love. They could have been anyone. On any bus. I guess people are just people at the end of the day. It is just that some people have day jobs they really should quit.