On Dangerous Ground Read online

  ‘Relics’ not ‘artefacts’. The choice of words on every page is sober and deliberate. Fragments of Lone Pine, rusting 303 rifles, even the landing craft that rowed troops ashore, all have a ‘sacred significance’. I run my finger across the phrase. Sacred. A word clerks had stolen from saints, a prayer folded in office foolscap. For a moment, I find myself remembering rambling Sunday sermons, tales country parsons told to children, stories of crusades, holy grails, knightly errands. Then a voice, the same voice.

  ‘What is it, Charley? Something we need to know about?’

  Vickers has again appeared from nowhere. I’m startled and not a little nervous. His noisy curiosity risks rousing a dozing Lambert.

  ‘Not really,’ I whisper, ‘just copies of cables.’

  But they were not just cables at all. I have seen diplomatic exchanges before and I know these come from the highest level. Folio after folio, purple ink and broken phrases, straddling the chain of command that links the British Empire.

  LT GOODYEAR OFFICER COMMANDING IMPERIAL WAR GRAVES UNIT DARDANELLES TO BRITISH EMBASSY CONSTANTINOPLE STOP BRITISH CONSUL TO PERMANENT UNDERSECRETARY FOREIGN OFFICE LONDON STOP FOREIGN OFFICE TO HIGH COMMISSIONER, AUSTRALIA HOUSE STOP AUSTRALIA HOUSE TO FEDERAL CAPITAL MELBOURNE.

  And in each file, the message rings out, anxious and insistent.

  CEMETERIES IN WORST POSSIBLE CONDITION STOP ALL WOODEN CROSSES REMOVED STOP ALL BRITISH AND FRENCH GRAVES CAPE HELLES SYSTEMATICALLY DESECRATED STOP GRAVES HAVE BEEN OPENED STOP SKELETONS EXHUMED STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTION.

  ‘Chr-Christ, Charley,’ I can feel Vickers’ gaze sweeping up the words behind me. ‘Desecration – our graves – at Anzac? – Christ.’

  I fold the file into itself. ‘No need for blasphemy, Harry.’

  ‘And what would you call that, Charley?’

  We both look down at the papers piled on the desk. I know the poor lad’s heart is racing. ‘Try to keep calm, Harry. There may be, must be some explanation.’

  ‘I just can’t believe it – not of the T-Turks.’

  Lambert’s body turns uneasily on the sofa. My voice falls again to a whisper.

  ‘The prime minister has asked us to investigate – send a report back to Melbourne. He asks for the utmost secrecy.’

  Vickers groans.

  ‘Secrecy? What the hell for? People are tired of damned secrets.’ A whisper sharpens to a snarl, ‘We’re not at war now, are we? And don’t you think people have a right to know? Jesus, they were our mates, Charley, we kn-knew these men.’

  I straighten up in my chair and turn around to face him. Keep your head, I remind myself, when all about are losing theirs. Control was what mattered. Discipline not emotion. Gallipoli had taught me that much.

  ‘Yes, Harry, yes, and we need to find out what happened to them. But there is no point in, as I say, jumping to conclusions.’

  Vickers draws a deep breath and sighs it out loudly. Like an engine letting off steam, hissing, fuming at a station. ‘Honestly, Charley, sometimes you sound like an old woman. Where’s that bloody brandy?’ And all spat out without so much as a stumble.

  Harry Vickers wanders away. He walks like a blind man, towards a bottle standing sentry at the sofa. I seal the cables securely in their envelope. One pile of papers remains, each letter written by the same hand, all bearing an Australian stamp, all crossed with the unlikely watermark: Central Tilba, NSW. ‘Elsie Forrest,’ I mumble. ‘Poor, dear Elsie.’

  Campbell Park Offices, Department of Defence, Canberra, 2015

  The taxi skidded to a standstill outside Defence HQ. It was early morning but Canberra’s temperature had already soared to the high 30s. As he stepped onto the pavement, Dr Mark Troy studied the black tyre marks melting in the bitumen. He had torn his tie loose from his shirt. A woollen suit, purchased in a Melbourne winter, clung to his body.

  ‘It’s gunna be a scorcher, they reckon.’ In every city in the world, taxi drivers have a talent for stating the obvious.

  Mark glanced over the bonnet as he collected the requisite receipt from the driver. A mob of eastern greys stared back across the shimmering heat, mystified by yet another arrival. Behind them the Campbell Park offices stretched up into the bush, defending Australia to the complete indifference of its wildlife. The same cluster of flagpoles that decorates every defence department building stood before it. All their ensigns were drooping. A fragment of a Midnight Oil song rushed unexpectedly through the young man’s mind. Crazy flags from history. The taxi driver resumed his pre-programmed conversation.

  ‘Thanks mate ... have a good one.’

  ‘You too.’

  The roos watched the taxi jolt back up the drive before returning to the timeless chore of grazing. Mark turned towards the building. A blast of refrigerated air rushed out to greet him.

  ‘Just sign here, sir – name, date, rank and purpose of visit.’ The statement never varied, not even for the ‘regulars’. A folder was pushed out across the desk and Dr Troy wondered what rank he could possibly aspire to.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sir.’ Having trained long ago for war, the security guard sensed hesitation in an instant, ‘...or just put civilian.’

  Mark noted the campaign colours sewn carefully onto the blue cotton shirt. Though amply padded by several years’ retirement, this man was still every inch a soldier. ‘Civilian’ was spoken as if it was a reprimand.

  ‘You’ll need to wear this pass at all times.’ The guard noted an iPod cord peeping from the lapel of Mark’s jacket; it seemed obscenely white beside the heavy black material. ‘Now, who can I ring for, sir?’ there was a crispness in his voice that smacked of the drill hall.

  ‘Special Committee, Mr Brawley.’

  ‘Of course,’ the security guard glanced down and read the upside down block letters with a much-practiced accuracy, ‘DR MARK TROY.’ Naming a visitor conferred respect, suggesting civilians might actually have a purpose. ‘Here for the Inquiry then?’

  ‘Oh, you know about that?’

  ‘Not much we don’t know about, sir,’ the security guard reached for the telephone. ‘Mr Brawley’s secretary will be down shortly. Take a seat, won’t you.’

  Part order, part request, there was nothing in the old soldier’s tone to suggest welcome or hostility. Mark caught just a fragment of the telephone conversation which followed. ‘That’s right, small bloke ... late twenties maybe ... glasses,’ the guard lowered his voice, ‘...bit scruffy.’

  ‘Thanks so much for coming, Dr Troy. Comfortable flight from Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Mark balanced a folder on his lap. It was stuffed with notes scribbled from another altitude.

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t need you here for long. It should be quite straightforward. And I expect you’re keen to get back to your writing. How’s that book coming along by the way?’

  It shouldn’t have surprised Mark that Army Intelligence had done their homework. On Howard Brawley’s desk sat a pile of personnel files, CVs, security clearances, risk assessments, even the air force record of Mark’s long dead grandfather. All of the Inquiry’s expert witnesses had been carefully vetted – the higher the security code, the deeper the trawl through family history. Brawley settled back in his chair. A big man, it barely contained the bulk of him. Brawley was aware the young man had noticed the files. Good. That was just as he’d intended. Now was the time to sound a quiet air of caution.

  ‘Really, this isn’t an army matter, of course.’ Brawley lowered his voice, suggesting an air of confidence. ‘The decisions will be made upstairs, by what we like to call “a higher authority”.’ Brawley enjoyed his little pun. Mark looked back blankly. Brawley became more directive. ‘Our task is to put this matter to rest, put an end to all this speculation. Both you and I know all this happened such a long time ago. There’s no point in dwelling on the past. Our concern really is the future. In many ways these allegations are just...’ Brawley paused and chose his words with care ‘...well, a little “over the top
”, don’t you think?’

  He smiled again, clocking up yet another metaphor.

  ‘And, of course, there is the matter of precedent.’ In Brawley’s world, precedent had all the authority of Papal Encyclical.

  Mark looked again at the pile of papers, much ruffled and conspicuously highlighted. Scholarly dissent welled up inside him: ‘But it is an Inquiry, isn’t it? Does precedent bind us? And anyway...’ Mark’s eyes shifted to the papers again, ‘...things that happened long ago are of interest to historians. That’s how it works, really.’

  The little prick, Brawley thought, as he smiled back benignly. He hadn’t expected that. In his experience, the more junior the witness, the less likely he was to prove difficult. He looked with carefully disguised disapproval at the young man seated opposite him. Crumpled suit, untidy hair, messy opinions. Time for a little flattery, Brawley thought. There was nothing like flattery to quell a troublesome conscience.

  ‘Naturally, naturally. And there’s a place for that – in books like the one you’re writing – a place for history. But you must admit some of this is simply getting out of hand. Articles in the paper, questions in the House.’

  He nodded at the window, as if Parliament had assembled in the car park beneath them.

  ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’ Brawley leaned forward. The chair groaned in protest. ‘We know you’ll come to the right decision.’ He paused a moment. A wide smile ruled out further discussion.

  ‘Well, we had best go in then.’

  Brawley rose, unsettling a pile of papers in the process. His heavy frame lumbered across the room. For a moment Mark imagined rut marks in the carpet. To the far right, framed by yet another Australian flag, lay a door marked RESTRICTED. Above the sign someone had pinned a laminated sheet.

  Inquiry into alleged mass grave at Anzac, Grid 92.

  Strictly committee members only.

  Mark wondered how the dead could threaten state security.

  The desk in the conference room seemed to stretch from one end of the building to the other. The committee members were seated evenly around it. Private spaces were marked out with personal formations of pen, paper and water bottle. Someone had smuggled a takeaway coffee into the room. Amidst all the office issue stationery, Starbucks blurted out its brand name.

  Mark’s eyes quickly scanned the faces. A few of them he recognised instantly: archivists, museum staff and some senior academics. Beside them sat senior civil servants and a sprinkling of men in uniform. Golden braids weaved through epaulets and pips and campaign colours announced rank and status. The status of public servants was much harder to determine. Canberra’s vast bureaucracy had its own complex hierarchy, gradations of power so subtle that not even an anthropologist could fathom it. It took Mark several months’ consultancy work to conclude that the more files one carried the more junior the position. Other than that he could never really be certain.

  There was one woman. She sat back from the inner circle, barricaded by stacks of telltale files, excluded from this all-too-familiar circle of male authority. Beside her, a pile of maps was scattered at random. Never before had Mark seen north facing so many different directions. A strong, clear voice interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Ah, Dr Troy isn’t it? Thanks so much for joining us. I’m General Grimwade – Arthur Grimwade,’ his voice rose as if assuming command, ‘and I’ll be chairing the Inquiry.’

  Mark noted Grimwade’s uniform was the most heavily braided of all. The general’s left cheek bore a birthmark an excitable imagination might mistake for a scar. His mouth brandished the clipped moustache issued to senior British officers at the turn of the last century.

  ‘I expect you know some of the people here. Howard Brawley from Intelligence you’ve just met of course, your colleague Professor Evatt from the ANU, and this is Vanessa Pritchard, Mr Brawley’s 2ic on secondment from Foreign Affairs.’

  Military men, Mark surmised, always ordered their world in military formations. It took several more minutes to introduce the other committee members. Ministerial aides represented the various government departments housed in the dull brown office blocks that lined the manila landscape of Canberra.

  ‘As you can see, there are quite a number of us and perhaps that’s a measure of just how seriously this matter is taken by the government.’ The general handed a folio of papers to Dr Troy. ‘May I briefly outline our terms of reference.’

  It was a rhetorical question.

  The committee had been set up at the request of the prime minister. It was to investigate rumours that recent roadworks had uncovered soldiers’ remains at Gallipoli and to identify what the general called ‘problem areas’. If possible the committee was to plot a route along the ridges that didn’t disturb human remains or detract from the site’s ‘heritage value’. General Grimwade read the last phrase directly from his guidelines. To a soldier, a battlefield would always be a battlefield. There was, the general reminded him, an urgency about their task. With the centenary of the landing just a few months away, access roads had to be completed as quickly as possible. And there was also an element of controversy.

  Grimwade opened a file marked confidential. ‘We are all aware of how sensitive these issues are.’ His eyes settled again on the young historian. ‘The prime minister has asked that we investigate allegations of mass graves near the site of the roadworks thoroughly but discreetly. There are certain diplomatic repercussions,’ the general nodded at Brawley, ‘and the domestic political situation is also,’ he reached across ringbound folders for a politic word, ‘...difficult.’ The folder was closed and Grimwade rested his hands across it. Not a secret would slip by his watch. Canberra was a city built on confidence betrayed. But national security meant exactly that to a general.

  ‘Well, I think that just about covers it. Professor Evatt?’

  The old professor slowly turned to Mark and winked. It was an act of wilful flippancy. For a moment, he said nothing. Evatt was too old to be hurried by anyone.

  ‘Ah, yes, good to see you, by the way, Mark. I was just telling these gentlemen about the search for the missing at Gallipoli. Fascinating! Tragic, yes – but fascinating. Your field really – perhaps...’ he turned to the general, ‘perhaps, we should hear from the young fellow?’

  Professor Evatt’s generosity had never ceased to astound Mark. In a profession where expertise was hard won and jealously guarded, Evatt exuded amiable collegiality. It was an unshakable habit, acquired over many years of doffing hats and hosting teas at Cambridge. And the aging professor still looked something like a Cambridge don, in tweed and a buttoned-up cardigan. He wielded a gold-tipped pen that, like himself, belonged to another century.

  ‘The recovery of the missing at Anzac...’ Mark began to falter, as all eyes settled upon him. ‘Do you mean during the campaign, or in the 20s ... and, of course, earlier than that there was the historian C.E.W. Bean’s mission?’

  There was a rumbling in the ranks. Mark wondered if he’d spoken too loudly, too quickly, too emphatically.

  ‘Mission, what mission was that?’ one of the brigadiers sprang into action. Missions were for soldiers, cosy sabbaticals for historians.

  ‘Protocol requires us to hear the young man out, Jim.’ The general called for order.

  Mark was visibly nervous. Amidst the smart suits and tailored uniforms he felt small and drab and unimpressive. It was not just youth or appearance that placed him at a disadvantage. Mark shared the crippling doubts of many a fledgling academic. The fear that he was somehow an impostor. This was his first address to the committee and probably his only chance to gain their confidence. He stumbled into a speech rehearsed time and time again en route to Canberra.

  ‘In essence, the Gallipoli Mission, led by Bean, was a fact-finding mission for the government of the day. It was intended to investigate rumours that Allied graves were desecrated, particularly at Anzac, and to suggest ways of safeguarding our cemeteries there and help bring in the dead from the gullies
and the ridges.’

  To Mark’s surprise, the quiver in his voice had vanished. A few of the company jotted in their notepads, others looked back sceptically across the table. The young historian addressed Professor Evatt’s unlit pipe the way he once had in tutorials.

  ‘Of course, actually recovering the missing was just about impossible. Entire companies vanished in the early days – and during the August offensive. Human remains were scattered across the whole line of the fighting.’

  The brigadier cleared his throat far too noisily. He knew exactly what Mark was describing.

  Mark finished his speech and reached for a glass of water. He looked around the room, wondering who would be the first to challenge him. It had to be Brawley.

  ‘Well, we’re hardly very likely to find those “missing men” now, are we Dr Troy? And even if remains were “recovered”, as you put it, who is to say if they are Turkish or Australian?’ Howard Brawley wasn’t the sort of man to brook interference. As far as he was concerned, Gallipoli fell squarely within his jurisdiction. ‘Let’s just put sentiment to one side for a moment.’

  Sentiment, like civilian, could be spoken as a reprimand.

  ‘You see, for my colleague Vanessa and me,’ the young woman smiled dutifully, ‘unfounded rumours of human remains pose difficulty and expense. It’s almost a century since these men died. Is now really the time to go out looking for them?’

  There was a murmur of assent across the suited section of the table. Mark noted the men in uniform sat grim and rigid. General Grimwade closed his eyes for an instant. In another war and another time, soldiers under his command might well pose a similar ‘inconvenience’ for the government. Vanessa patted her red hair carefully into place. Brawley’s flushed cheeks matched its colour perfectly.

  ‘I suppose, Mr Brawley, what’s at issue here is procedure.’ The old professor spoke in a slow, measured way, pronouncing each word as if it were a foreign language. ‘Government policy is to re-inter all recovered human remains. We must identify them if we can; and if not, bury them as “unknowns”. “Known unto God”, as Kipling put it.’