1. Deep dark deeds
The dark, uneven floor is littered with what my ears tell me are probably pottery shards. I stub my toe on something and am loathe to move the torch beam far from the floor. There are larger bits of pottery, that for the moment remain unidentifiable.
An hour earlier I tied my large string ball to a tree at the catacomb’s entrance. The two-kilometre-long string is now mostly gone, despite assurances that it would get me in and out safely. I only have a smidgeon remaining from the hefty two-foot-thick bundle of twine I start with.
I fail to note the stairway’s erosion; I fall into the darkness. For a moment I am back on the Egyptian freighter that last month ferried me from Alexandria. I remember my sudden fall down a steep companionway.
Now I am on a hard, stone floor, my torch, still shining, a metre or so from my outstretched hands. Fighting rising panic, I crawl and recapture its beam. I have only fallen a couple of metres, but it is enough to have my senses on high alert. I draw comfort from the torch’s presence and move its beam to illuminate my surroundings. I see the crumbling stairway; no wonder I fell, as most of the steps are missing.
I am at the edge of a bell-shaped chamber, maybe ten metres across, the roof five metres above me. I play the torch across the nearby walls – I see a frieze: intricately patterned red, yellow and white tiled symmetry, a metre above the floor, running around the cavern’s perimeter.
I make my way to the wall and have a closer look. Its simplicity is elegantly beautiful. I have a vision. It is two in the morning, pitch black, save for my bedside clock’s digital display – a series of numbers: five, five, two, two, five, five, two – a never-ending series of numbers stated, then reversed, repeated ad infinitum. I marvel at my brain’s tangential capacities.
My torch wanders further, picking up a very large block of stone. It looks like a coffin – the right shape and there is a partially displaced stone lid. I look inside. OMG, there is a skeleton – I hesitate to say a ‘mummy’. A bony arm rises upwards from the bleached jumble, caught in final rigor, a bony finger latched over the lip of the sarcophagus. I play the torch. An involuntary shiver has me stepping back, another block of stone, another fall!
This fall breaks my string, my umbilical to light and life. I panic but find and retie the ends. Emotions are surging – an urgency to share this fantastic discovery and a possibly draining battery galvanise my decision to start retracing my steps.
The battery did well, but it eventually splutters and leaves me to crawl the last twenty minutes in darkness. There is palpable relief when a corner reveals a tantalising, distant light.
I need Harry, my old Sydney-based mate, who happens to be a Private Eye.
2. Help arrives
I ring the last number I have for Harry. It is early, before 06.00 in Australia. Nobody picks up. After several attempts, I have to assume the contact is cold. I remember he marries a parliamentarian, an Asian Australian lass – Helen Chung, if my memory serves me correctly. I Google her and I get an MLA email contact.
My email goes unanswered for another couple of days, then a terse four-liner arrives, advising of Harry’s retirement, his present uncontactable circumstance. She tells me that he is trialling retirement aboard a coastal freighter running between Cairns and Bamaga, off coastal Cape York. She insists that I not try to contact him again! I respond briefly, schmoozing, with a bit of historical banter. I query the shipping endeavour, but she is not forthcoming, save suggesting I contact Isabella Tomjanovic, whose CV lists pathology and criminal investigation as her two interlinked professions. Helen includes an email contact.
Isabella is friendly and as I give her a brief rundown on how I have come to be in Israel and of my discoveries and suspicions, she confirms an interest to be involved. “Why contact me?” was her second response. I tell her of Helen Chung’s referral.
I share some background information; my contract with the NSW Museum, requesting that I investigate what they suspect to be dodgy provenance on a collection of recently offered, extremely valuable Israeli artefacts. I talk about how my preliminary investigations have led me to a Tel just north of Beersheva. I talk about Harry, my memory of his Middle Eastern forebears, his interest in antiquities and the intervention of Helen, warning me off any further contact.
I tell her about the local police, who are less than helpful, about as useful as a frieze on a melting iceberg. They are alleging that I am possibly an antiquities smuggler, and after I inform them about the skeleton in the Tel, that I am possibly interfering in a crime scene. They are not interested in fingering anybody and even suggest I could be a terrorist, after seeing the recent Egyptian departure stamp in my passport. For good measure, they are threatening to deport me!
I need a ‘friendly eye’ in the country. Isabella agrees to help and her El Al flight arrives four days later. She has her sister’s looks – fantastic – a trim figure, stylish clothes and a demeanour that exudes capability.
Clandestine preliminary briefings occur at her Tel Aviv hotel and later, at her room at the Hotel Negev, in Beer Sheva. I am clean-shaven now and have a reddish rinse through my hair. I think I look twenty years younger, and with my new pink suit, presenting quite the new me. She is complimentary, in a paternalistic, sisterly sort of way!
Isabella has bought a dozen cheap ‘burner’ mobiles – we split the haul. I move to Gaza, where I can quietly continue my background research on the antiquities trade and possible Palestinian connections. She arranges to visit the Tel and the crime scene.
3. A lonely parting.
The only clothing on the skeleton is that uniform – possibly an Australian issue, but any identifying insignia has long gone. I play my torch up and down the remains. There are still wispy bits of dark hair on the skull and a hole – looking very much like a 303 calibre, straight across the top of the skull.
I am nervous – the location, deep inside some sort of ancient, manmade hillock is playing on my psyche. I am never much for confined spaces and the two-kilometre crouching-crawl into this place is spooking me badly. Being by myself isn’t helping, although, on Brad’s advice, I have taken the precaution of carrying an extra torch! A judicious comfort.
The outstretched skeletal arm holds my attention; in particular, the bony finger hooked onto the rim of the sarcophagus. It confirms the nature of this bloke’s death – unnatural, and an incompetent kill at that, poor bugger; to die, alone in this dark cold cavern!
I want some of that hair and I lean into the sarcophagus. I can’t quite reach the skull but by dragging a nearby block of stone closer, I gain extra purchase. I am within a ‘bee’s-dick’ of falling into the bloody coffin, but I reach the hair and pop a few strands into a forensic bag. In regaining my balance, I send the outstretched, skeletal arm clattering back to rejoin the rest of the jumble.
OK, I think I’m done here, as I play the torch across the skeleton one last time. I catch just the merest hint of a reflection. I look again at the skeleton. There, next to the fibula, on the floor. I carefully reach in again – God I hate doing this, but my fingertip moves the bone to reveal a metal clasp around the remains of a small book. I scrabble further and before I know it, I’m arse up, lying spreadeagled across the top of the bones.
As I gently disentangle myself, I see a metal hat badge partially hidden by the skull – an emu and a boomerang and the words ‘Light Horse Fifth AIF’. So, he was a Digger! With my treasure, I clamber inelegantly out.
I retrace my route, scrambling back up the broken staircase, and rewinding the twine onto the spindle. I commit to never, ever getting into one of these situations again! I have two items that might help the investigation – the hair’s DNA might be traceable. As a former pathologist at Sydney’s Chippendale Morgue, I still have privileged access for DNA analysis. The library at Canberra’s War Memorial will be crucial to identifying who the poor bugger was and possibly unravel events leading up to his lonely death.
From my hotel room, I call Brad and discuss my findings and intentions to take both items back to Australia for analysis. I’ll have it completed soon. I send him a picture of the hat badge and my preliminary assessment that this guy was not an antiquities smuggler. I dump the ‘burner’ phone.
4. Herrings, possibly red ones.
Isabella rings me from her hotel before she begins her flight straight back to Sydney. She sends me a picture of a bronze Light Horse military badge and suggests she will have a DNA analysis of the skeleton’s hair in a couple of weeks. She also shares her preliminary assessment of a probable disconnect between the skeleton and the smugglers.
I return to Gaza, via a circuitous route back through Cairo, then across Rafah, the Egyptian-controlled border crossing. I again book into the Grand Palace Hotel, overlooking the calming Mediterranean waters. I have a meeting with the Museum’s library staff in the late afternoon and in the interim, climb the staircase to my room and join the rest of the community in a midday siesta.
Gaza is a wonderful city, despite its aggressive Israeli encirclement. There is still a community life that continues in the streets – the food stalls, the coffee shops, the hectic, honking traffic, the donkey poo, the dust and the motorbikes – a friendly warm whole. Surprising historical links back to the Light Horse, and Beersheva in 1917 remain, and with Australians also based in Gaza in 1942, my accent delivers extra warmth and friendship.
Museum staff confirm the thefts of their recently acquired collection of 2nd-century Roman armaments. The four spears, found at the back of a Beer Sheva tel, they consider them priceless. They want them back and suspect they are already out of the country. Their intel’ suggests an Australian destination.
Their security further notes unusual consignments going to individuals associated with a gang calling themselves D’shakher. I had the privilege of crossing paths with these guys before – they were fencing a stolen Greek marble frieze. I would need to be vigilant – they dispense with niceties when their interests are under threat.
I know they have a local connection in Gaza. I get talking to a spivvy sort of chap at the library, not authorized to speak publicly, suggesting the thieves were Israeli, not Palestinian, simply using Gaza as a ruse. I retire to a cubicle to consider the state of play.
- I am sure the skeleton is an incidental ‘red-herring’, albeit it was in the same Tel that held the ancient Roman weapons;
- The skeleton’s hooked finger at the top of the sarcophagus indicates foul play, possibly during the First World War. The diary might provide explanations;
- Local intel suggests shipments are leaving Gaza consigned to the Sydney-based gang. The Israeli links to D’shakher membership, and their penchant for never leaving loose ends untended, are both well known.
I stake out a suspect warehouse and photograph four guys coming and going regularly. I also break into the premises one night, finding a large crate on a loading dock. I photograph the Sydney addressee and high-tail it back to my hotel.
The next day I follow a small truck back through the Rafah checkpoint into Egypt and to the Suez port facilities at Al Sokhna. I deduce my Middle Eastern work is done. It’s back to Sydney for me.
5. Gaza erupts
I have flights back to Sydney booked on Monday and spend the intervening couple of days tidying up my investigation and alerting both Interpol and the AFP of my findings. I suspect the Vaucluse address on the crates, seen in the Gazan warehouse belongs to the D’Shakher hierarchy and I provide details of the ship that was seen loading the crates at Al Sokhna docks.
‘That’s a wrap’, as they say, and I retire poolside at the hotel. I ring Isabella, forgetting the time difference. “Brad, it’s two in the morning!” She’s pleased with my progress but reluctant to share her own results until we’re together.
My mind returns to that poor bastard dying deep underground in the Tel. It will be interesting to see what the skeleton’s hair analysis and her discussions, viz the precious old diary with the War Memorial’s staff turn up.
So, what to do with my remaining 36 hours in Gaza? It is Saturday, maybe a visit to the Museum of Archaeology?
Mustapha, my Interpreter/Driver and I hear the radio announcer break into the music program. ‘Hamas is raiding kibbutz, killing and taking hostages, firing rockets.’ We pull over, listening intently to the garbled account of some uprising! I switch channels. I can’t find Gaza FM, but pick up an Israeli station reporting massive rocket and insurgency attacks, mostly centred from Khan Yunus, down near Rafah and the Egyptian border crossing.
Moments later we hear the air raid sirens wailing. We leap from the car as the first of a series of missiles fly overhead! We are crouching between the car and a brick wall when the next barrage arrives, the high-pitched screech, whistling, deafeningly close. It must have missed us by a whisker; we feel and hear the thuds as the debris starts to fall around us.
The radio has Netanyahu promising to wreak unholy revenge, to destroy Hamas, to flatten Gaza. What the hell is happening? Missiles are pommeling the city, buildings crumple, fireballs rise and evil-smelling, toxic fumes blanket the city.
We turn the car around, hoping against hope to get back to the hotel in one piece. We round the corner at the moment the Grand Palace Hotel folds into itself, vomiting a huge fiery conflagration. A deafening explosion is followed by an eerie silence, then screams, sirens, people running – mayhem announcing that my world is losing its shape!
The radio is advising that the attacks are more deadly. Reports are talking about wholesale slaughter, hostage-taking, bodies in the streets. Gaza is being sealed off, the IDF are gathering at the Gazan/Israeli border crossings, a huge call-up of reservist troops is scheduled. Netanyahu is establishing a Government of Unity, threatening to exact massive revenge.
I need to find an escape route! The idea of catching my flight from Tel Aviv is fading by the hour. Mustapha suggests we drive north. His family, and fuel are loaded. Thank God I have my passport and wallet in my coat pocket. More incoming rockets. We head for the underground carpark at the nearby hospital.
6. Isabella’s attention shifts
A tropical beachside, pina colada sipping and the bloody phone is ringing. Bloody 2.00 a.m. It’s Brad. “Are you still in Gaza?” He is and has provided Interpol and the AFP with shipping details and the consignee’s address. “I reckon we have earned a dinner at Doyles when I get home, Rock Oysters, salmon and cold beers. Watcha reckon?” He hopes to depart Tel Aviv on Monday.
The morning news carries images and sketchy details of a Palestinian attack: Hamas, slaughter, and Israeli hostages in southern Gaza and in the city. My calls to Brad ring out! I trust he has the wits to stay away from whatever is happening.
I was going to tell him about my skeletal findings – his name, for a starter – Arthur, (he prefers ‘Artie’) Makepeace. His diary provides a snapshot of his time in Egypt and Palestine with the 4th Light Horse Regiment.
Arti grew up in Inglewood, central Victoria, the son of Eucalyptus Oil producers. His identity disk, tucked into his diary, will shortcut discussions at the War Memorial, in Canberra. He talks of his close mate Goldie, ‘Goldilocks’ Seppelt, from somewhere north of Adelaide, recruited into the Light Horse about the same time, and their shipboard meeting, en route to Alexandria. Goldie is creating a complete sensation with the local girls, drawn to his intense, white-blond hair.
The pyramids dominate their weeks of acclimatised training encampment, before the eventual deployment to Beer Sheva. General Harry Chauvel is calling the shots. The diary gets to the ‘pointy’ end in the last couple of pages. I quote
“We’re finally going to see some action tonight. Chauvel wants a nighttime attack upon Beer Sheva where the Turks have a stranglehold on the precious, accessible water It is heavily defended, with machine guns, and even aeroplanes being used to drop explosives.
Goldie and I ride together. We get about three hundred yards before both our horses are shot out from under us. I also cop a graze across the top of my head, bleeding a lot, but I’ll live. We make our way towards a nearby hillock, the bastards are still trying to ping us. We crawl into a cave. Goldie fixes a bandage around my head.
I ring all Brad’s burner phone numbers. They ring out.
Guttural voices approach. We retreat further into the darkness. There is a tunnel, we crawl quietly, as the Turkish bastards fire a weapon into the cavern. A bullet whizzes past, missing us by a whisker. Our trench torches work well. Batteries are uncertain, only mine in use at the moment. The Turks have given up looking for us. My head is hurting badly, although the bleeding has mostly stopped.
My battery is flickering—Goldie’s works. We fall out of the tunnel into a bell-shaped room. An old stairway has crumbled and …
The entries stop. A couple of misshapen words suggest their lamps are giving out. But I now know how Arthur arrived at his final resting place!
7. Isabella – a new focus
Over the top, some might even say hilarious, but my interests and responsibilities have completely shifted. Engaged to uncover antiquity-smugglers, now solved, leaving me with a deliciously intriguing trail of Artie’s to follow.
I now know he was from Inglewood, in Victoria. He is a casualty from the 1917 Charge of the Light Horse regiment that were seeking to wrest control of the vital water supplies locked up by the Turks within Beer Sheva. Artie’s diary records his final poignant moments, wounded, and with his mate Goldie, hiding out in the depths of the Beer Sheva tel.
I have been in contact with the library staff at the National War Memorial, establishing that Artie remains listed as MiA. His diary is going to change that! But they also tell me that Xavier Seppelt’s body was recovered from the battlefield, close to where the Charge commences. Putting two and two together, I surmise Goldie presumes Artie is dead, he leaves the Tel and is gunned down trying to get back to his lines.
My DNA hair analysis needs to be matched. Staff at the Loddon Council offices put me in contact with the local Historical Society and in less than a week, I am emailing Bessie Makepeace, who is declaring that Arthur was her Great Uncle. She now lives in Castlemaine and would be delighted to meet up, to share her DNA.
News from Gaza confirms Brad is probably on the edge of a precipice. I continue to call his mobile numbers ineffectually. My hopes for a positive outcome are flagging, as time erodes my expectations.
I am driving down to Castlemaine, but have arranged to meet Larry Jones, Inglewood RSL’s President en route. I stop for a few moments at their War Memorial, noting the MIA asterisk against Makepeace, E.A. I meet Larry at their lodge and he hands me a photo of Artie, one of those typically uniformed poses, held on a dwindling number of mantlepieces, leather-framed, dusty. I turn my car south towards Castlemaine.
I take a call from somebody in DFAT. They want to confirm Brad’s details and are seeking photo ID. She opined that the Department are expecting to find any remaining Australians in Gaza plastered to smithereens. I thanked her for her advice!
Bessie Makepeace’s twinkling eyes sit above a smile that is both welcoming and teary. We hug as she bundles me inside for a cuppa and cakes. Her 90+ years are incidental, as she busies herself around the kitchen. Questions fly at me over her shoulder as the tea cosy is positioned, biscuits arranged and cups brought to the old deal table. She is bursting with curiosity and excitement, that smile threatening to split her features.
She has already cut a lock of her hair and presented the plastic bag to me. She has a fading memory of the many stories being told, often in hushed tones, by the returning soldiers and recalls photos of a young man going off to war.
8. Collateral mishap
A massive explosion, rubble, smoke, fumes gushing down the corridor towards me. I am knocked off my feet by the force of the blast.
As things clear, there is sunlight streaming from what was the ceiling of our subterranean space. What remains of a car is rocking backwards and forwards, precipitously suspended through the rupture. The occupants have not fared well, although someone is moving – a man in the front passenger seat! Inshallah, I might be able to get to him!
Through the rubble, I fumble and release the seatbelt and he tumbles down into my arms. A bloodied soul, alive but with uncertain prospects. I undertook a quick triage of the other passengers, confirming everyone else has not survived!
There is a deep cut running across his scalp. I call for help and between us we get him onto a blanket amongst the rubble. His pulse is flagging and there is blood seeping through his coat. We need to move him from below where the car continues to rock, ominously. We carry but mostly drag him further down the corridor. It is a good thing that we are only a hundred metres from our makeshift clinic.
Settled with the other wounded, I reach into his coat pockets, finding a wallet, and an Australian passport. ‘Brad Gentle’, hailing from Sydney. I wonder what he is doing in Gaza – probably a journalist, reporting to the world what the Israelis are doing to us!
I walk over to what serves as our Nurse’s Station. A bit of a joke really, maybe even hilarious to allocate such an optimistic label – we are out of drugs, water is being administered by the half cupful and our only light, a series of candles, plus the newly accessed sunlight, now reflecting back along our burrow!
I record his details in the Register, noting briefly the circumstances of his arrival. I walk back to the suspended car and with several others helping, we extract the bodies of the driver, probably his wife, and two small children. We take their bodies into another corridor, to what has become a morgue.
How can this be happening? So many of us, we are not Hamas. Last week I was a doctor in the hospital, today I and one hundred and fifty others, mostly from the medical centre, try and offer medical support to our neighbourhood’s human collateral. We can only assume that the earth-shattering detonations above mean that our hospital has been targeted by the rockets.
One of the walls of the clinic has a portrait of Netanyahu. A target has been drawn and it is plastered with red splotches, blood-soaked bandages thrown with a curse, as the living make their final journey towards Jannah.
I looked after the journalist for several days, but sepsis set in, his temperature soared, and his pulse got weaker. I logged his passing in the Register and hoped his spirit was not unduly compromised by our Islamic funerary rites.
