Time of Death by James Craig

seemingly as engaged as a man pruning his roses.
    It was another fifteen minutes or so before the detainees were formally handed over to the ship’s commander. Even at times like this, we Chileans like our ceremony, Pettigrew mused. He was
almost surprised that they didn’t have a brass band on hand to provide a musical accompaniment. They were pushed up the gangplank under a hail of kicks, blows and curses.
    On the deck of the ship, his hands were untied and he was told to crouch with his hands behind the back of his neck. As the final prisoners shuffled on board, he counted twenty-six men and
twenty-two women. He guessed that their ages ranged from something like fifteen to sixty-five. They were arranged in eight rows of half a dozen each, facing away from the pier. Wandering between
the rows came a dozen or so guards carrying lances, sticks with steel points. Overseeing the group, perched on a raised deck-hatch to Pettigrew’s left, were two teenagers manning a
machine-gun that looked as if it had come from the First World War. If they had opened up, they could have taken everyone out in about ten seconds.
    Once everyone was on board, the order was given for the prisoners to strip. A few bemused glances were exchanged, but again no one complained. Not wishing to be hit again, Pettigrew quickly
dropped his trousers and wriggled out of his underpants. Pulling his paint-covered shirt over his head, he folded his clothes neatly, out of habit, and placed the pile at his feet. A cadet quickly
scuttled over and took his clothes away. Standing as straight as he could manage, with his arms folded, he tried not to watch the others get undressed. The near silence was occasionally broken by a
burst of gunfire from somewhere in the city. At one point, he heard another truck on the jetty. It stopped near to the ship but no one else came on board the White Lady.
    Finally, everyone was done. Naked and standing grimly to attention, people tried to make themselves seem as small as possible, almost trying to will themselves somewhere else.
    All except for one woman: standing in the row in front of Pettigrew, she stood defiant, back arched, legs planted apart, hands on hips, staring down any sailor who cared to take her on.
    She was an amazing sight, hairy, with a backside you could eat your lunch off, large breasts and nipples like bullets. He was ashamed of himself, but it was impossible not to stare.
    Forgive me, Father, he thought, for I have sinned in my head.
    Pettigrew willed himself to look at his feet and think about . . . Montrose, about football, Jesus, the Church, agrarian reform . . . anything to keep his mind off his groin. Others clearly had
the same problem. There was some mumbling among the ranks, and he turned to see that a youth standing next to the warrior woman was struggling with an enormous erection. The poor soul went beetroot
red in the face as he tried – and failed – to hide it between his legs. The guards roared with laughter and took turns at trying to hit his penis with their sticks; one threatened to
shoot it off. But they quickly grew bored with the game and, thanks to God, the errant member eventually subsided.
    As dawn began to break, a new group of sailors appeared, carrying hoses. Someone shouted, ‘It’s time for a wash you dirty bastards!’ With a flourish, they turned high-pressure
jets of seawater on the prisoners. The ranks broke as everyone tried to get out of the line of fire, while the guards stabbed them with their sticks to keep them under the jets. Water immediately
went up Pettigrew’s nose and in his mouth, and he was constantly gagging, on the brink of drowning. A jet of water hit him directly on the head and the pain was terrible. His eyes and ears
felt as if they were being stabbed.
    After about twenty minutes, they finally turned off the hoses. That’s when he really felt the cold. His hands and feet were numb and he could see one poor woman beginning to turn blue.