A Leaf in the Stream

By Roderick Bethune

Argentina 1964: the Perons have all been ousted by the army which is trying to govern in the face of a rising tide of hostility leading to strikes and civil disobedience. The army reacts in the only way it knows with kidnappings, secret imprisonment and murder of its enemies. (The ‘Desaparecidos’) Conscripted into National Service, Juan Garcia steps into this unknown world. His mother cautions him not to get involved but he enjoys the army and is soon involved with the Gestapo-like tactics of the Pumas. His development and final extrication from this secret world form the basis of this exciting book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398430808

Roderick Bethune

Roderick Bethune has dual British and Argentine nationality and is particularly proud of his Scottish descent. After education in both countries, he served as a Pilot Officer in the Royal Air Force before joining the Argentine army as a private soldier. Subsequently, he crossed the ocean as a Merchant Seaman. He spent many years in commerce and industry, becoming a senior executive in one of the world’s largest paper and packaging groups.

Book preview

Synopsis

All power tends to corrupt… How does a civilised, modern democracy get taken over by the power of the armed forces, and how is that maintained?

Juan Domingo Garcia is an athletic, able schoolboy whose only claim to fame is that he was born on the very day, in 1945, that General Juan Domingo Peron was freed from detention on the prison island of Martin Garcia, off the coast of Argentina. This freedom had been demanded by the mass of the crowd on the exhortations of his wife, Evita. Natural then that the child should receive the same Christian name. As a result, he is sent by his school, with his mother, as representatives at festivities connected with the fifth anniversary of that event. His meeting with Evita makes a deep impression on the small boy.

This story starts with Juan’s conscription to serve twelve months in the army. His mother, who deeply distrusts it, cautions him to keep his head down and avoid taking sides. But Juan enjoys soldiering and is soon sucked into an elite corps – The Pumas – loosely based on the Gestapo. He is witness to some of their excesses which he can understand. After all, ‘you cannot make an omelette without breaking some eggs.’

Personal attachment to Paulina, daughter of a man he has identified, causes him to re-think his values.

At the end of his conscription, Juan is a very different person from the schoolboy who was called up. But, unknown to him, we are left wondering if he did not have some effect on the officers and NCOs he left behind.

Chapter 1

The ear-splitting pitch of guards’ whistles, coinciding with a sudden exhalation of steam from a nearby locomotive interrupts their conversation but both know that everything necessary has been said. Juan Domingo Garcia kisses his mother goodbye and forces himself to respond to her final strong embrace.

"Ay mi bebe! Just remember, do what you’re told and keep out of trouble and it will soon be over!"

He winces at her words and watches as she trudges disconsolately away from the station. With a lump in his throat he waves her out of sight. Since the death of his father two years ago they have become emotionally more inter-dependent. She’ll be all right, he tells himself, thinking of Father Jerome, and of their neighbours. What about me? He recalls what she said to him last night. You’re like a daddy-long-legs fallen in the stream. A May-fly…just float along in the middle and things will be fine…you’ll find a leaf to climb up on…just don’t argue with the edges! She had laughed but he knew she was forcing herself to be strong on his account.

Now he hurries to the tobacconist’s kiosk and buys twenty ‘Army Club’ and a pack of matches. She did his packing last night and he knows how she hates his smoking. He glances down at the high polish on his shoes and the sharp creases in his trousers. He spent much of last evening on this valeting and is quite proud of the effect. He lights up and, for perhaps the fourth time that morning, examines his travel documents and call-up papers. He is to report to Recruit Training Camp number three at Amarillo del Sud near the Rio Negro. It is suggested that he travel by the 0620 train from the main terminus at Constitucion near the centre of Buenos Aires. A warrant to be exchanged at the station booking office is enclosed.

The train is not yet indicated on the new electronic board. He buys himself something to read on the journey. A copy of ‘Motorcycle News’ will mark him out as mature – and might attract a fellow enthusiast. He also buys something lighter for entertainment. Handing over the money, he notices the state of his fingernails. Having spent the last two days putting his beloved MV Agusta Vialvero to bed for a year or so, his nails now defy all attempts to clean them.

The clock tells him there is still nearly an hour to go. Always best to be early. In any case, excitement had kept him awake most of the night. Now, to avoid looking like someone with nowhere to go he puts his small bag under an arm and chooses a dark corner to wait. He surreptitiously uses a match to scrape dirty oil out of his finger-nails. From this spot he can watch for any other possible army recruits. He is not looking forward to the experience with any pleasure. As an only son of a widowed mother, he had appealed to the local council, but they had turned him down.

Drawing too heavily on his cigarette he feels himself about to choke. His eyes water and he has to take out a clean handkerchief and blow his nose. Looking up he sees, as if for the first time, the tattered remnants of an old poster. Wiping his nose he is enraged. Such a disgrace! It should have been protected, or cleaned, or at least taken down, years ago. It illustrates the woman he has loved all his life. Her husband’s head is superimposed over her own but there is no doubting her precedence. After her death, his presidency survived for barely three years before the dreadful army generals threw him out. The army – yes, the body he is about to join. Under the two portraits the simple phrase remains emblazoned through the torn and dirty paper: Peron Cumple – Evita Dignifica*. He allows his mind to drift back – fourteen years, 1950 – so long ago, was that possible? His fifth birthday, the 17th October, of course. But on that special day, he had been selected by his school as a representative at festivities in the Presidential Palace honouring the fifth anniversary of the freeing from detention of the man who would become, with his wife’s support, the greatest president ever. Why had the school chosen him? Loyalty? Or could it be a slightly humorous act by the head to send a pupil who bore the president’s Christian names and who was born on the very anniversary being recalled?

He remembers his awe as, clutching his mother’s hand, he had passed through the great doors, lined with Grenadier Guards in uniforms of yesteryear and entered the Audience Chamber. Evita, one never called her anything else, was seated at the top of the room – probably, he thought, about thirty metres away. Even at that great distance, their eyes had met. She had immediately excused herself from those she had been speaking with and come down the room to meet him.

At his mother’s bidding, he had bowed in the way he had been practising for days. Evita had been enchanted; she had bent down and scooped him into her arms. He remembers her shining eyes, the precious perfume of her hair, the smell of her powder. She had put him down and chatted to his mother as she led them up to the top of the chamber. They must have been with her for more than ten minutes. He still recalls the flash of the photographer’s bulb. At the conclusion, a man had come to Evita’s side and murmured in her ear. Evita had offered his mother three hundred Dollars but she had refused it saying that, thanks to the President, her husband had a good job and she would want to donate the money to Evita’s Charitable Foundation.

Even now he squirms inwardly as he recalls the following day, addressing the whole school on his adventure. His mother had written a short article for the local paper – it took her two weeks with neighbours hanging around the door suggesting phrases. Had they not been avowed Peronistas before, it was a certainty that the experience would have confirmed them. But, in common with everyone they knew, they were patriotic supporters of the pair whom they felt had transformed their lives and their country.

It was sheer chance that had made him arrive on that special day – 17th October. His mother told him it had been a difficult birth – he had weighed in at just under four and a half kilos…all legs, his father had joked. But then naming him had been simplicity itself. For the first few years, he had imagined that the celebrations each anniversary were for him alone. Elementary school had soon put that right.

He swallows now as he remembers another date engraved on his mind. Less than two years later; a cold, dreary Winter’s afternoon. He had returned home full of excitement after being chosen to play on the wing for the under nine’s. It was the 26th July. As he descended the bus steps, he noticed all the neighbours standing outside their doors, muttering among themselves. The bell of Santa Anna de las Cruces was tolling. His mother was hurrying home to get his supper. She said she had been to the church to pray for Evita. He had been unable to eat. His muddy football shorts had stayed on the bathroom floor. They listened to the radio all evening – nothing but news about Evita’s condition. At about eleven, his father sent him to bed, but sleep had almost eluded him. Sometime after midnight, his father came and woke him. He cried as he told him that Evita was dead. She had died at twenty-three minutes past eight, a time at which radio stations had interrupted their programmes for years after.

Everyone they knew had gone to the funeral. The streets wet with the tears of the mourners. His school had closed immediately and did not re-open until the start of the next term. When they returned, everyone seemed to treat him differently. Almost with respect. It was as if they envied the name that had surely eased his progress through the early years. He smiles to himself as he thinks about the exception: ‘Salchicha, the Sausage’ as they called him, the maths master. He had hated him at first and seemed unable to do anything right. Algebra and geometry were his special subjects. He had taken him aside, looked him in the eye, and said very deliberately, Think of life as an equation, Juan – there are always at least two sides to a problem; four plus three equates to seven – but remember, so does two and five! Silly beggar. Juan still wonders if the man had been talking politics. And yet, what had he been planning to study at university? Advanced maths, of course.

But university would have to wait. Now, in common with about two and a half thousand other young men whose numbers had come up in the annual conscription lottery, he was about to enter the army for either twelve, eighteen or, God forbid, twenty-four months dependent largely on fortune. At times he did not regret his call-up. Privately, he had always regarded himself as something special – not ‘Superman’ exactly, but perhaps ‘The all-Argentine Boy’. Always tall for his age, he was good at football and could run fast. He still hoped for a good university degree. The army might give him the chance to experiment slightly with his appearance. He had tried parting his hair on the other side. He would let it grow – only on top of course – he knew that short back and sides was the rule. Could he grow a small beard? He had no real girlfriends and perhaps his appearance had something to do with it.

His cigarette suddenly burns his fingers. He drops it on the stone terrazzo at his feet. Lighting another reminds him of the bar where for a couple of years he had taken holiday work. A retired soldier who lived around the corner was always regaling his listeners with cautionary tales, and probable fables, about his achievements.

"The army’s the thing, pibe*. Best equipped in the world, I reckon. Yes, make a man of you – you get yourself called up! I remember fighting the Naval Division at Olivos, right near the Presidential Country Park. It was 1943, cold and grey, June, I think. Someone interrupts him to fetch him another beer. Thank you, kindly, the old man continued: Yes, must have been June. We marched all night – not many lorries then. Pah! Soldiers today don’t know what soldiering is! He swallows some more beer and helps himself to a handful of peanuts before continuing, shooting out bits of nut as he speaks. Mules, yes… he muses, poor things. They were machine-gunned to pieces, blood flowing in the gutters… He takes up his newspaper and swats a fly that has somehow penetrated the bead curtain in the doorway. He tears off the squashed remains, carefully folds it into a small ball which he throws at the spittoon. It lands well, right in the detritus of wet cigarette ends. Where was I? Ah yes. We got rid of that bloody rogue, Castillo! Eh? Who remembers Castillo now, eh? He mumbles away to himself for a sentence or two. Who came next, eh? You pibe! He turns his fire on Juan. I bet you can’t tell me who was the next president – eh? Without giving Juan a chance to reply, he continued, Yes, Arturo Rawson. A peanut caught in his throat inducing a coughing fit. Mind you, he didn’t last the week! Un Gran Carajo! He swears. Then we had General Ramirez – he’d been a great pal of Rawson’s but the Congress wouldn’t wear Rawson so… they fell out… He laughs to himself. A great army…then. As for Peron…"

Another man who has entered the bar half-way through the soliloquy, looks up from telling his dog to lie still. What about the time they tried to shut the universities? And what about Peron? Didn’t cover yourselves with glory then, did you?

Mmmm…but that wasn’t for ages. We tried to work with them! We were kings. A señorita on every soldier’s arm!

Juan thinks he was just a scruffy old man. Surely his new comrades will be better educated. But he has no great hopes. Nevertheless, he thinks of his mother’s words, ‘stay in mid-stream and watch your tongue – don’t bump the edges!’

Now, early in the morning of a day in late summer, his dreaming is interrupted by the loudspeaker crackling into life to announce the departure of a local train. The voice is then replaced by a recording of Carlos Gardel singing about his beloved Buenos Aires.

Juan returns to the main station concourse and exchanges his warrant for a ticket. He sees several young men wandering about individually. He feels no great rapport. There are two near a wall kicking a football to each other. They look scruffy, probably from the port area. He feels the eyes of a youth near him and turns to greet a nervous smile below thick-framed spectacles.

Are you going to the army recruiting station down in Amarillo?

Recruit Training Camp number three, yes. He sees a slim, even thin, youth of about nineteen with red hair and a rather pimply face. Juan remembers his own embarrassment.

With obvious relief, the fellow holds out his hand. The six-twenty via Bahia Blanca, it’s not indicated yet… Diego Heinmann.

Juan thinks, aha – German descent, he’ll like the army, still, doesn’t look too bad. They shake hands. Juan Garcia…no, back of the queue I expect… There are probably quite a number of new recruits here. Wonder what they’re like.

Yes, I spoke to those blokes playing with the football. They’re twins but only one has been called up!

That must be strange. Who is the more pleased?

I don’t think either of them has a job. But their father’s dead so one is left at home to look after his mother.

Juan thinks to himself, If I’d really pushed it, I could probably have got off too. But he asks, Are you from Buenos Aires?

Diego nods. Yes, from the suburbs, I live in Martinez so had to take the milk train up to Retiro, then the underground here. Where do you live?

"In town, a real Porteño – Calle Reconquista. This is going to be a hell of a long train journey. I’ve brought an empanada in case there are no dining facilities on board."

Yes, I was given some sandwiches, with my toothbrush and shaving kit… He holds up a small attaché case and gives a self-conscious chuckle. And a change of underwear.

Another lad comes up to join them. Are you both for the six-twenty to hell?

Yes, Juan Garcia. This is Diego Heinmann. What’s your name?

Pablo Arnañez, from Borges.

Pablo Arnañez from Borges looks like a football player. Fair-haired with a round face, Juan guesses his nickname would be Rubio (Blondie).

Do you play football? You look as though you’d be useful.

No, rugby – sorry, wrong-shaped ball. Play for Belgrano seconds! You?

Their conversation is interrupted by the loudspeaker announcing that the 0620 for Lobos, Tandil and Bahia Blanca will depart from Platform 11. It continues to say that any military bound for Amarillo del Sud should occupy the rear of the train where three extra coaches have been reserved for them.

There is a discernible surge of youthful figures searching their pockets for tickets as they move towards Platform 11. Juan surreptitiously studies his new colleagues. He decides that nearly all have made an effort to smarten themselves up – their hair shows signs of recent trimming and most shoes have been polished. But these, he reminds himself, are city folk. What will conscripts up from the country be like? Perish the thought! Then he castigates himself for snobbery… Stay quietly on the leaf.

The press of young men at the gate waiting to have their tickets checked is heavy but all are careful to avoid pushing and the twin who had been playing football and now outside the group looks crestfallen and lonely.

Remember, the last three coaches! The official at the gate intones repeatedly.

He sounds like one of those telephone recordings! whispers Diego. Juan smiles and gives a quiet nod. Diego continues, I expect our three coaches will be the tattiest they could find – I bet the upholstery’s all torn.

But the coaches at the rear of the train are no different to any others. The young men board and are generally subdued as they pull and push the adjustable seating into groups making new friendships and alliances. Cigarettes are passed around and many smoke and feel more mature.

As the time advances, there is a cacophony of whistles and banging doors. The engine screams in reply before beginning its powerful thrust, followed by the sliding wheels spinning until brought under control.

Right on time. Pablo intones looking at a rather smart wristwatch. Juan had not brought anything of value – he had been warned that items ‘could walk’.

Diego volunteers. I’ve read that this line won’t be electrified for at least three years!

No, not a diesel either. Mind you – I don’t think you can beat the old four-six-four on long distance!

Juan looks at him. It sounds as though you two are keen on trains!

Well it’s certainly better than walking! Diego grunts, perhaps shamefacedly, as he looks out of the window. He thinks back to the monthly railway magazine that used to come to the home.

Juan agrees. It’s nice just to watch the world go by.

Pablo stands. Keep my seat – I’m just going to see if there’s a refreshment car.

I doubt that, they’ll be trying to toughen us up! Diego smiles.

There is no challenge for Pablo’s seat. In fact, the coach is not crowded. More adjustments are made to the seating as occasional recognition occurs in respect of school or district.

Pablo soon returns with the confirmation that there is no restaurant car available to them although there appears to be one through the first-class coach just ahead of them. But the guard wouldn’t let me through. He says there will be meals and drinks provided in due course.

Oh that sounds more promising, says Juan. I trust there’s a toilet on the coach? He learns that there is one at each end.

They gradually fall silent as the scenery changes. Suburban streets and controlled level crossings give way to fields and, eventually, to vast, open spaces of grass-land with scarcely a tree to be seen. Occasionally, a tall windpump marks the location of a small farm-house. They see hardly any roads and only one utility van in the distance sending up a cloud of dust.

Pablo looks at it disconsolately. "I suppose this is the beginning of the Pampas. Not many animals about – and where are all the gauchos?"

"Resting indoors, having their breakfast mates, I expect."

I thought we would see them riding about lassoing cattle, Pablo continues. Juan laughs. You’ve been watching too many films!

A peaceful silence descends as papers and magazines are exchanged. Eventually, Diego pipes up. I’m bloody starving, when’s this meal going to be brought along?

Well, not yet surely. It can’t be more than half-past ten, can it?

Pablo looks at his watch. Mmm…just after ten actually. It’s a hell of a long morning!

Comes of having such an early breakfast. I imagine we’ll have to get used to that!

The unchanging scenery adds to the general feeling of fatigue and soon most heads start to nod and sink. They arrive in Lobos, their first stop after about four hours. They move gently over a barrier-controlled crossing before entering a small station. The platform is almost bare; there is some door-slamming and more whistle blowing before they move away and slowly gather speed.

Diego stares out of the window. Well, that took all of five minutes – not much of a place. Wonder why it has such a good train service!

Juan looks at them both. Quiz question: who was born here in 1897?

The others look blankly at him when a voice from the next row pipes up.

That was Juan Domingo’s birthplace – great town to get away from, eh?

There is some thin chuckling. Another voice calls out, A real wolf-like lobo then!

As they settle down again, Juan mutters in a low voice, I don’t see why that was so funny. He used to be president – and might be again – not to mention being the husband of Evita!

Diego and Pablo merely look at him.

Nearly an hour later, the train reaches its next stop. Tandil is a fairly large town with some historical associations which most of the boys have heard of in their schooling. Pablo offers, Isn’t this the place where a lot of the English were kept prisoner in 1806?

Juan agrees. Yes, after the invasions. Then we got rid of the Spanish and started our path to glory as a great nation!

Pablo smiles. Hooray for the historian! Quite the Peronista nationalist – I mustn’t get too close to you – might offend the sergeant!

Diego looks uncomfortable. Wasn’t Peron a bit…of a dictator?

Juan speaks up for his hero. Sometimes it’s what a nation needs for its full development.

Pablo gives a cynical laugh. "You mean a fuhrer, like Hitler!"

Juan is about to retort when he sees that Diego’s face is strangely contorted. Just then the door in the centre of their coach is opened and a smart-looking youth climbs up the steps. He looks older than the other recruits. Juan puts him at about twenty-two. He walks down the aisle and sees the three friends have an empty seat.

Excuse me, is this seat free?

Juan clears off a newspaper and extends a hand. Certainly, I’m Juan Garcia, this is Diego Heinmann and that’s Pablo Arnañez. Welcome aboard. Are you bound for Amarillo?

Yes, my name is Pedro…Pedro Castaño.

Pedro Pedro… that’s a funny name… Pablo looks around to see if his joke has worked.

No, just Pedro Lopez Castaño. He peers across with a quizzical look.

Are you from Tandil?

Oh no, no. But I left La Plata just before eight to catch the train here. Tell me, are all these people going to Amarillo?

With the usual whistling and screeching, the train slowly departs. Juan answers him. Yes, we’re rather a mixed lot. So, you live in La Plata. I went there once with my school, to visit the museum.

Yes, a great museum. People come from all over the world to see the collection of dinosaurs. No, I live in Cordoba but I have been doing my degree at La Plata.

Oh, I thought you looked a bit older. I was planning to go to university myself but decided to get this out of the way first.

Ah. What were you planning to study?

Maths and advanced maths. But I haven’t actually secured a place yet. What were you studying at La Plata?

Philosophy and economics. Actually I passed my doctorate.

"Oh carajo! That’s tremendous. A Ph.D. amongst us!"

A door at one end is pushed open. A narrow trolley is conveyed down the carriage and a lightweight carton is handed to each passenger.

Here you are, lads! A fine lunch courtesy of the railway. Last good meal you’ll get for a year or two. Say thank you nicely. Enjoy. Inside they find one small baguette-type loaf and a piece of hard cheese. A lidded cardboard cup contains a weak solution of orange cordial.

Pablo looks up. Well…we’re not going to get fat on this little lot, are we?

Juan reaches up for his small bag. I’m glad I brought an empanada with me! It is wrapped in a piece of grease-proof paper. As he exposes its golden glow to the air, there is a palpable sigh of longing. "Sorry, compadres – but there’s just not enough to go around. He breaks off a piece and puts it in his mouth. Oh I say, that really is lovely!"

Diego unrolls his sandwiches. Let’s see what they’ve made me…salt beef, I’m going to make the most of this.

Pablo looks longingly. Salt beef, eh? I wouldn’t eat all that – make yourself terribly thirsty. I don’t think the water in the lavatories is drinkable.

Pedro Castaño looks across. Surely we don’t have to drink water out of the lavatory?

I had a dog once who liked nothing better. Pablo smiles at the recollection. We’d give him fresh water in his bowl but he would run to the bathroom.

Castaño looks sardonic. Presumably not a pedigree animal?

It is a long run down to Bahia Blanca where the train is due at 19:40. By four pm, Pablo is complaining. I’m beginning to hallucinate. Food, I need food and drink. I’m chewing a finger! I was dreaming that I was a piece of fillet steak and started to eat myself!

Outside Bahia Blanca the train stops for some fifteen minutes while the rearmost coaches are uncoupled. The boys lean out of the windows in the gathering dusk of the March evening and watch the shunting back and forth. There is a further delay until another, smaller engine comes puffing up to collect them.

Eventually, after much squealing and jerking, they move on. It is a clear night and the carriage lights get extinguished at about nine o’clock. There is some complaining and cat-calling but it gradually dies down.

Juan wakes as the lights go on again. He has the impression of having slept for at least three hours. He is hungry and needs to go to the toilet. The train moves slowly into a station. He tries to see through the window but the lights in the carriage reflect back at him. As the train slows, he becomes aware of a mass of shouting outside. It seems that the platform is lined every two metres or so by a uniformed figure shouting at the top of its voice.

Pedro Castaño looks around at him. How very vulgar – I do hope they don’t go on like that all the time!

The recruits are quick to gather their things together and make for the door. Juan grabs his bag and moves to the toilet. Always wise to take advantage when one can.

Although he estimates having been no more than three minutes, he finds the carriage empty. He hurries down the steps into a vast melee of civilian youth and soldiers. A hand grabs him. Where’ve you been? Trying to hide, were you? Juan tries to explain but the voice gives him no chance. What’s your name? C’mon, be quick, we haven’t got all night!

Garcia…Juan Garcia… he mumbles.

I don’t want to know your bleeding first name! Garcia – right, get over there by the white gate. Stay with the F to I’s!

Clutching his bag, he moves as directed. Eleven lads are already there, lined up, one behind another. He peers around to see Pedro standing in a similar group to his left under a lamp. He gives him a tentative wave but gets no response other than a shouted expletive from a soldier to stand still. It is too dark to see if Diego or Pablo have yet been called.

A whistle blows and voices shout for silence.

Someone who sounds more authoritative takes over. "We’re going to call the roll. As your name is called move across to the car park and do as you’re told. Now listen carefully – we don’t want to do this twice! Right, carry on, Corporal!*"

A voice now reads from a list. Arenales! A youth far to Juan’s left springs forward and, urged by hard pushing from other uniformed figures, moves to the car park where he can be seen to climb into a lorry. The roll-call continues. Juan strains to hear. When it comes to the first of the F’s the whole of his group starts repeating the names. He thinks he hears ‘Garcia’ just as an engine whistles. He runs towards the parked lorries. A corporal grabs him. What’s your name?

Garcia! he shouts, but the man slaps him on the back of the head.

Can’t hear you!

Garcia! he shouts, louder than ever.

Still can’t hear you! But a kick points him in the direction of another soldier whose rank he cannot identify. Get up there and hang on – we haven’t got all night!

It is difficult to see much but an earlier climber pushes a rope into his hand and tells him where to put his feet. As he hoists himself, he is aware of someone else scrabbling behind him. He leans over and gives him the rope. He has no way of knowing if any of his travelling companions are on the lorry. Almost immediately the backboard is slammed shut and the engine starts.

There is nowhere to sit but a set of bars in the roof enables them to hang on. He puts his bag between his feet. It is too noisy to talk although one or two attempt to communicate with each other. The camion rocks from side to side and they try to roll with it. There is little other traffic and their driver seems determined to make his charges sea-sick. After some forty-five minutes, they draw up at a barrier. As one of the last