Finding an uncle I never knew.

Four days ago I set out for the Mediterranean and the WWII battleground cemetery at El Alamein, about 4 hours driving north west of Cairo. I want to find the grave and pay respects to my father's eldest brother, John, who was killed in the battle of El Alamein in 1942. He died fighting for the British in the Western Desert Campaign with the ANZACS, other boys from home, against the axis forces under Rommel. No family member had ever been able to travel to Egypt to visit his grave. One of Dad's sisters once told me—I remember when we got the news. It was terrible . . . Mum never really got over it. She died ten years later aged 52, just a few months after I was born. I realize now, how these two events must have devastated Dad's family. Back in the 50s when I grew up, memories of John and his mother were obviously still quite fresh for my grandfather, my father, my aunts and uncles and they often mentioned him.—John and his mates used to go way up into the hills to ski, I don't really know where, behind Kimbolton somewhere, I think—Look at these photos of the early days at 'Kop' (Koputaroa, where they lived)—That's John with Mum look at those clothes! And,—here's John and his mates with the old car—Here's the photos he sent back after he went away to the war—Here he is in uniform at the Pyramids with camels! Camels! and the Pyramids! Look at them all!—How old were you when John was killed, Dad?—Why was he in Egypt? I had visited the Pyramids myself a couple of days earlier and tried to imagine what it must have been like for those young NZ boys in 1942, and I can't.

I had done some research about the war cemetery online before I left and had found his grave number and the letters, I. C. 2. in the listings of the dead at El Alamein, so I knew for certain he was there. But when we get here, the map in the visitor center seems to bear little relation to the online coordinates. There is no alternative but for me and Shaimaa, my guide, to go systematically row by row through this huge cemetery until we discover where the New Zealanders are buried and hopefully find him. So many graves. I haven't prepared for the rain and wind that is now coming through in light squalls, but I can see clear patches and hope the sun will come out and make everything a little easier. The cemetery is well-tended, there are clumps of bougainvillea in flower, cacti, acacias and flax-like bushes breaking up the rows. My mood becomes somber, and if you've ever walked in one of these vast war cemeteries you'll recognize the feeling. Thousands upon thousands of very young men, most of them in their early 20s, one or two as young as 19, with a few in their late 30s or older, all killed within a few days of each other. After about half an hour we eventually find the New Zealand Machine Gun Battalion and I start to recognize family names common in New Zealand—Blackburn, Cottingham, Hogg, Jenkins, Barrett, Milne, Steadman, Booker, Turner, Weir and so on, some are unidentified and poignantly commemorated as Known only to God. We eventually find him and I am suddenly moved at seeing his name, my family name, on this grave in the Egyptian desert, far from home. 7739 PRIVATE L. J. SCIASCIA N.Z. MACHINE GUN BN. 5th JULY 1942 AGE 24 above the Silver Fern—the national emblem—and New Zealand in a circle at the center of a cross. The rain has finally stopped, I read a short prayer in Maori I'd copied onto a sheet of paper for this moment and lay some wild flowers against the headstone we'd picked beside the road during the drive here. I can't help thinking about a mum and dad 70 years ago hearing the news of their son killed in Egypt.

Now it's a relief to have some work to do. I set up the camera on the tripod I've carted half way round the world, and shoot some video. I'm making a short commemorative piece about John once I get to Sydney—principally for my father and uncle—John's last two surviving siblings. I forgot about leaving the card, with wording I'd agonized over a couple of hours earlier. Finally settling on —Uncle John. You were never forgotten by your mum and dad and all your brothers and sisters in New Zealand. Arohanui. David Sciascia. The wind would have blown it away anyway, as it had the flowers, even before I'd left the cemetery.

Soon we're off again, driving east along the coast to Alexandria, now in bright sunshine. The ocean, glimpsed through gaps in seemingly endless, crass, condo development, is a brilliant turquoise.