Land Warfare Conference

Adelaide recently played host to a conference on warfare. The event
rotates between Australian 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 mess 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 and looked into the hall. Inside, soldiers
were stripping down rifles alongside 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. 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 off those 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. The fight.


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.