The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(43)

Giles would have hit him, but he knew he was right.

Although Bates was only allowed to visit Giles twice a week for thirty minutes, he used every one of those minutes to brief him about the day-to-day workings of the commandant’s private dining room. He taught him the names and ranks of each officer, their particular likes and dislikes, and warned him that Major Müller of the SS, who was in charge of camp security, was not a gentleman, and was certainly not susceptible to charm, especially old-school.

Another visitor was Brigadier Turnbull, who listened with interest to what Giles told him he had in mind for when he was moved out of the sick bay and into the camp. The brigadier went away impressed, and returned a few days later with some thoughts of his own.

‘The escape committee aren’t in any doubt that the Krauts will never allow you to work in the commandant’s dining room if they think you’re an officer,’ he told Giles. ‘For your plan to have any chance of succeeding, you’ll need to be a private soldier. Since Bates is the only man to have served under you, he’s the only one who’ll have to keep his mouth shut.’

‘He’ll do what I tell him,’ said Giles.

‘Not any longer he won’t,’ warned the brigadier.



When Giles finally emerged from the sick bay and moved into camp, he was surprised to find how disciplined the life was, especially for a private soldier.

It brought back memories of his days at Ypres training camp on Dartmoor – feet on the floor at six every morning, with a sergeant major who certainly didn’t treat him like an officer.

Bates still beat him to the washroom and to breakfast every morning. There was full parade on the square at seven, when the salute was taken by the brigadier. Once the sergeant major had screamed, ‘Parade dismissed!’ everyone became engaged in frantic activity for the rest of the day.

Giles never missed the five-mile run, twenty-five times around the perimeter of the camp, or an hour’s quiet conversation in German with his private tutor while sitting in the latrines.

He quickly discovered that the Weinsberg PoW camp had a lot of other things in common with Ypres barracks: cold, bleak, barren terrain, and dozens of huts with wooden bunks, horsehair mattresses and no heating other than the sun, which, like the Red Cross, only made rare visits to Weinsberg. They also had their own sergeant major who endlessly referred to Giles as an idle little sod.

As on Dartmoor, there was a high wire fence surrounding the compound, and only one way in and out. The problem was that there were no weekend passes, and the guards, armed with rifles, certainly didn’t salute as you drove out of the gates in your yellow MG.

When Giles was asked to fill in the camp labour form, under ‘name’, he wrote Private Giles Barrington, and under ‘previous occupation’, sommelier.

‘What the hell’s that when it’s at home?’ asked Bates.

‘Wine waiter,’ said Giles in a superior tone.

‘Then why not bloody well say so?’ Bates said as he tore up the form, ‘unless of course you were hoping to get a job at the Ritz. You’ll have to fill in another one of these,’ he added, sounding exasperated.

Once Giles had handed in the second form, he waited impatiently to be interviewed by someone in the commandant’s office. He used the endless hours to keep fit in both mind and body. ‘Mens sana in corpore sano’ was about the only Latin he could still remember from his schooldays.

Bates kept him informed about what was happening on the other side of the fence, and even managed to smuggle out the odd potato or crust of bread, and on one occasion half an orange.

‘Can’t overdo it,’ he explained. ‘The last thing I need is to lose my job.’



It was about a month later that they were both invited to appear before the escape committee and present the Bates/Barrington plan, which quickly became known as the bed and breakfast plan – bed in Weinsberg, breakfast in Zurich.

Their clandestine presentation went well, and the committee agreed that they should be allowed to climb a few more places up the order, but no one was yet suggesting that they should open the batting. In fact, the brigadier told them bluntly that until Private Barrington had landed a job in the commandant’s dining room, they were not to bother the committee again.

‘Why is it taking so long, Terry?’ asked Giles after they’d left the meeting.

Corporal Bates grinned. ‘I’m quite happy for you to call me Terry,’ he said, ‘that is, when we’re on our own, but never in front of the men, you understand?’ he added, giving a passable imitation of Fisher.

Giles punched him on the arm.

‘Court martial offence, that,’ Bates reminded him, ‘a private soldier attacking a non-commissioned officer.’

Giles punched him again. ‘Now answer my question,’ he demanded.

‘Nothing moves quickly in this place. You’ll just have to be patient, Giles.’

‘You can’t call me Giles until we’re sitting down for breakfast in Zurich.’

‘Suits me, if you’re payin’.’

Everything changed the day the camp commandant had to host lunch for a group of visiting Red Cross officials, and needed an extra waiter.



‘Don’t forget you’re a private soldier,’ said Bates when Giles was escorted to the other side of the wire for his interview with Major Müller. ‘You have to try to think like a servant, not someone who’s used to being served. If Müller suspects, even for a moment, that you’re an officer, we’ll both be out on our arses, and you’ll go back to the bottom of the snakes and ladders board. I can promise you one thing, the brigadier won’t ever invite us to throw the dice again. So act like a servant, and never even hint that you understand a word of German. Got it?’