Captain Latham

Britain 1947

He wasn't expecting any trouble.

Up until then it had been an average day. Captain Christopher Latham was in charge of a group of German prisoners. He and other guards had marched them out to work in seed rich fields. After a long but productive day, he and his men began to escort them back to camp. They passed an abandoned quarry. A lake had formed in part of it, fed by northern rain, and in places it was deep. Sheer cliffs flanked one side but another was flat ground. The latter was a popular spot for anglers. Gentle wavelets lapped on white gravel. Willows grew in some places while others were swards of grass. Fungi sprouted from tree stumps, small parts of organisms that lay mostly underground.

It was a cry of pain that alerted the captain. He spun round and saw that a prisoner was being kicked and punched. The attacker wasn't another captive but someone strange to Latham. The assailant was a young man, probably in his twenties and possibly an angler. The prisoner tried to hit back but was coming off worst. Another German stepped in and, consumed by fury, started defending his countryman.

Captain Latham ran over to them and managed to separate sweaty combatents. Then, as concern turned to anger, he rounded on his fellow Brit.

"What do you think you're doing?" he shouted. These are unarmed prisoners and the war is over!"

Their stares met. The stranger's eyes were full of hatred and Latham felt sure some of it was directed at him. Another guard stepped up to the Captain's side. Four chests heaved. Fingers stayed curled into fists. Teautonic prisoners looked bewildered. They had faced hostility at first, but things had improved since the war ended.

Latham fixed a hard stare onto his countryman.

"I think you should apologise to this man," he said.

The other person didn't reply. Latham wondered if he spoke a foreign language. Or was he just being rude? Then again, he looked to be the right age to have fought in the war. Surely he would have learned to respect an officer. The Captain opened his mouth to speak. The other man spun on on booted heels and hurried away, past thistles, nettles and long grass. A toad crossed their path and disappeared into green undergrowth. A dragonfly flew over the lake, hunting other insects. Still waters looked peaceful and therefore incongrous. Latham decided to let the attacker go. The Captain had to march his charges back to a prison camp for a strict deadline. The victim kept wincing and holding one hand to his face. Treatment had to wait until they reached wooden huts and barbed wire.

As they marched, Latham thought "I can't be judgemental, during the war I hated Germans too. I couldn't have fought them otherwise."

He remembered driving a tank through Normandy and blowing up several Nazi tanks. The situation was kill or be killed

Then he ended up in The Netherlands, a country newly liberated, where Latham had, years earlier, viewed paintings by Vermeer. One day, the Captain had been walking down a street where every house was damaged or destroyed. Some fallen stones were carved for this place had been prosperous. Latham came close to weeping. A boy of about nine or ten came charging round a corner, clutching something, chased by two other children. They caught him and wrestled him to the ground. This wasn't normal rough and tumble; Latham felt sure they would kill their victim. He charged forward and separated youthful combatants. It proved surprisingly difficult considering how small they were.

The first boy spoke in Dutch, probably saying "thank you." He uncurled pink fingers to reveal an apple. Two pairs of arms shot out to grab it, but Latham forced them back. Then he knew, people here were starving. They would fight or even kill for one small morsil.

The Captain pointed with one hand while restraining the duo with his other. Apple boy ran, past fallen roof beams, and was soon out of sight. Latham pointed in the opposite direction and the other boys walked that way, past a mass of shattered glass.

This proved to be a turning point for Christopher Latham. He now favoured reconcilliation, not for the sake of brutal Nazis but for innocent civilians.

Recalling the fracas at the quarry Latham thought "there was something going on there that I know nothing about." It was like the cap of the fungus, just one part of a larger whole.

Captain Latham had been invited to the wedding of a Major. They had served in France and The Netherlands together, so Latham accepted with pleasure. There would be only a few pieces of the real thing in a cardboard model of sweet, sticky cake. Even so, people felt desperate for good cheer and the couple were popular in this locality. That meant reporters and photographers from local newspapers and magazines would be there. The wedding day came. Latham put on a dress uniform and attended the ceremony. It took place in the town of Northworthy, near the prison camp.

The service went smoothly. Bells rang out. Confetti showered down. The church felt cool but outside conditions were mild and dry for that time of year. Photographers pressed shutters again and again. Latham recognised one of them, he was the man who had attacked that prisoner.

"Oh no," Latham thought. "I'm going to avoid him if possible."

Everyone moved over to a local hotel, for the reception was located there. The hotel dated from Victorian times and wartime austurity had prevented the owners from modernising it. Today the clock might have gone back to wartime for most male guests were in dress uniform. Rationing ment that trout caught locally would be the main course. Latham went to the bar and ordered some foaming beer for himself. The dining room lay before him. Circular tables sat covered in white cloths.

Latham thought "when I get demobbed I'll set up my own art gallery. I never want to be told what to do again. I'll display contemporary art, not Victorian paintings like these in the hotel."

No sooner had he been served than a woman came up to him. A pen and notepad showed that she was a reporter.He smiled and assumed she wanted to know more about the Major. She asked for red wine and he ordered some for her.

Latham asked "how can I help you miss...?"

"Murcott, Pamela Murcott,"she replied "I'm from 'The Deaf Standard Magazine.' I can hear but I have an uncle who is deaf."

"Captain Latham, at your service."

"Good," she said, Her expression changed. He felt as if she was looking right into his soul. If he hadn't been battle hardened he would have flinched. The Pamela asked him this question.

"Sir, can you tell me when our men will be coming home?"

"I can't answer that," Latham replied, trying not to feel guilty. "Its not for me to say."

"Do you know who could tell me?"

"No ma'm. I don't understand, why do deaf readers want to know? Surely they havn't been called up?"

"Because they have relatives who have been called up. In the last five days I've met two deaf women with hearing brothers in the Forces. Those women are desperate to know when their loved ones will be home. There must be others."

"Oh of course! Please accept my apologies. I'd help if I could."

"Apology accepted."

Latham drank and beer fizzed on his tongue. An ageing bartender placed a glass of red wine in front of Pamela. She glanced at it, then called out.

"Barman, I expect a full glass. Please top it up."

Elegent glass wasn't far short of the right amount, or so it seemed to Latham. The bartender turned aside. Latham saw a weary look in his eyes. Wrinkled hands picked up a bottle and topped up Pamela's glass. It looked as if it held melted rubies. She thanked him and took a sip, the flavour of a French autumn.

"We'll stay here for the time being," Pamela announced. "The Major is a generous benefactor of charities for deaf people, because one of his comrades was deafened by a bomb. That being so, our readers will be interested in his wedding."

The Captain noticed that she said "we" and wondered who had come with her. Presumably there was a photographer with her, but several were present and Latham didn't know which was her colleague.

It was time for the meal to be served. Happy guests took their seats beneath a barrel vaulted ceiling. Smart journalists also sat down to eat. Pink carnations perfumed mild air. Latham found himself on a table next to Pamela's. He watched as she rearranged the salt and pepper pots to make them perfectly central. Then that man from the abandoned quarry sat beside her. With a twinkle in his eye, he nudged the pepper pot slightly off centre. She put it back, as before. Pamela scowled briefly, then tittered.

Latham thought "what's a woman like you doing with a man like him?"

He envied her colleague, then silently warned himself not to get his hopes up.

Waitresses in black and white entered, walking past potted plants and a stone fire surround. They served each guest with brown trout. Vegetables came from local allotments. Aromas of cooking reminded Latham that he was hungry. He tucked into hot food, perhaps too quickly. Carrots tasted sweet and subtle. Then he lifted a piece of fish and put it into his mouth.

As he swallowed, something caught in his throat. It felt sharp. It must be a fish bone. The Captain grabbed a napkin and coughed into it. Stubbon bone didn't move. He coughed with more force but to no avail. His circular table vibrated with the power of it. A vase with carnations in it fell over, spilling water. Both lungs ran out of oxygen. He tried to gulp in fresh air but it wouldn't go down his windpipe. Latham hadn't been so frightened since hostilities ended. His eyes bulged. Sweat soaked goosebumps on flamingo coloured skin. He raised his right hand to his throat. Had he been able to vocalise, Latham would have screamed with terror.

The man from the quarry sprang up, like a hare from under a walker's feet. He pressed on the nape of Latham's neck and so made him bend over. The Captain felt three powerful blows between quaking shoulderblades, delivered by that man. All three hurt. The third blow dislodged pricking bone from Latham's throat and it ended up in his napkin. Pain lingered but at least he was alive. He inhaled, with some force, several times. Terror started ebbing away.

Pamela got up and pressed the glass of beer into Latham's hand. He drank from it but at first he couldn't speak. She loosened his tie. Guests from nearby tables came up and asked if he was all right. A waitress did likewise. When Latham could talk again he reassured them. He turned to face Pamela's workmate and said, in tones still croaky, "thank you. Thank you very much."

"Let me translate," said Pamela. "My colleague was born deaf so I've got to put it into sign language. I learned it from my deaf uncle."

Latham's mouth opened and he raised both eyebrows. Pamela made some signs, the man signed back to her and then she focused on the soldier.

"This is Chad Parry, a photographer at 'The Deaf Standard'," she explained. "I just told him your name and rank. He says you've already met."

"Yes we have." Latham recounted what had happened at the quarry. This clearly startled her. She gave Chad Parry a dark look and made him wince. Gloved hands signed to Mr Parry, presumably asking for his side of the story. He signed back to her. Then she interprated for the Captain. Overhead, electric lights glowed like domesticated lightning. A granfather clock could be seen through an arched doorway.

"My Uncle Charlie was killed when a Nazi bomb fell on his house," Chad explained. "The Nazis main target that night was Sheffield. They ripped the heart out of the city. They passed over Northworthy flying home and they still had a few spare bombs, so they dropped those on us. Now do you see why I hate Germans?"

"Yes," Pamela interjected "but we've had prisoners billited here for some time. Why did you loose control that day?"

Chad momentarily closed brown eyes and swallowed hard. Then he answered her.

"That day was the anniversary of Uncle Charlie's death. I laid a wreath on his grave that morning, then went fishing in the afternoon and saw you, sir, with your prisoners. All of a sudden it was too much."

"Ah, I see," Latham replied. "I forgive you for that time, but that man you attacked was a foot soldier not an airman, so he wouldn't have been your uncle's killer. Don't waste energy on the wrong target."

"No sir, I won't do that again." He paused, then added "I was brought up as an Anglican. That meant believing in moderation and compromise, or so I was raised to think. When my uncle died I questioned all that. Moderation and compromise looked, how shall I put it? Inadiquate when faced with evil like that."

Latham replied, again through Pamela, " I don't have all the answers Mr Parry, I have to be honest about that."

All around the dining room, people sat finishing their meals. All were eating more slowly and carefully than before. Waitresses stood by the walls. They were more alert than usual.

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