The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(45)

‘No, sir,’ said Giles to an officer he outranked. ‘The commandant always leaves his coat, cap and gloves in the cloakroom.’

‘But what about Bates?’ said the same officer. ‘They’ll spot him a mile off.’

‘Not if I’m in the boot of the car, they won’t,’ said Bates.

‘What about the commandant’s driver, who we must assume will be stone-cold sober?’ said the brigadier.

‘We’re working on it,’ said Giles.

‘And if you do manage to overcome the problem of the driver and get past the guards, how far is it to the Swiss border?’ The young lieutenant again.

‘One hundred and seventy-three kilometres,’ said Bates. ‘At a hundred kilometres an hour, we should reach the border in just under two hours.’

‘That’s assuming there are no hold-ups on the way.’

‘No escape plan can ever be foolproof,’ interjected the brigadier. ‘In the end, it all comes down to how you cope with the unforeseen.’

Both Giles and Bates nodded their agreement.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said the brigadier. ‘The committee will consider your plan, and we’ll let you know our decision in the morning.’

‘What’s that young sprog got against us?’ asked Bates once they’d left the meeting.

‘Nothing,’ said Giles. ‘On the contrary, I suspect he wishes he was the third member of our team.’



On December 6th, the brigadier’s batman told Giles during he five-mile run that their plan had been given the green light, and the committee wished them bon voyage. Giles quickly caught up with Corporal Bates and passed on the news.

Barrington and Bates went over their B&B plan again and again, until, like Olympic athletes, they became bored with the endless hours of preparation and longed to hear the starter’s pistol.

At six o’clock on December 31st, 1941, Corporal Terry Bates and Private Giles Barrington reported for duty in the commandant’s quarters, aware that if their plan failed, at best they would have to wait for another year, but if they were caught red-handed . . .





22

‘YOU-COME-BACK-at-six-thirty,’ Terry almost shouted at the German corporal who had escorted them from the camp to the commandant’s quarters.

The blank look on the corporal’s face left Giles in little doubt that he was never going to make sergeant.

‘Come-back-at-six-thirty,’ repeated Terry, enunciating each word slowly. He grabbed the corporal’s wrist and pointed to the six on his watch. Giles only wished he could say to the corporal, in his own language, ‘If you return at six-thirty, corporal, there’ll be a crate of beer for you and your friends in the guard house.’ But he knew that if he did, he would be arrested and be spending New Year’s Eve in solitary confinement.

Terry once again pointed to the corporal’s watch, and imitated a man drinking. This time the corporal smiled and mimicked the same action.

‘I think he’s finally got the message,’ said Giles as they made their way into the commandant’s quarters.

‘We still have to make sure he picks the beer up before the first officer arrives. So we’d better get a move on.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Terry as he headed off in the direction of the kitchen. Natural order restored.

Giles went to the cloakroom, removed the waiter’s uniform from its peg and changed into the white shirt, black tie, black trousers and white linen jacket. He spotted a pair of black leather gloves on the bench that an officer must have left behind on some previous occasion, and tucked them into his pocket thinking they might prove useful later. He closed the cloakroom door and made his way to the dining room. Three waitresses from the town – including Greta, the only one he’d ever been tempted to flirt with, but he knew Jenkins wouldn’t have approved – were laying a table for sixteen.

He checked his watch: 6.12 p.m. He left the dining room and went downstairs to the wine cellar. A single bulb lit a room that had once stored filing cabinets full of archives. Since Giles’s arrival, they had been replaced by wine racks.

Giles had already decided he would need at least three cases of wine for the dinner that night, as well as a crate of beer for the thirsty corporal and his comrades in the guard house. He studied the racks carefully before selecting a couple of bottles of sherry, a dozen bottles of Italian pinot grigio, two cases of French burgundy and a crate of German beer. Just as he was leaving, his eyes settled on three bottles of Johnnie Walker Red Label, two bottles of Russian vodka, half a dozen bottles of Rémy Martin and a flagon of vintage port. Giles felt that a visitor might be forgiven for not being sure who was at war with whom.

For the next fifteen minutes he lugged the cases of wine and beer up the stairs, constantly stopping to check his watch, and at 6.29 he opened the back door to find the German corporal jumping up and down and slapping his sides in an effort to keep warm. Giles raised the palms of both hands to indicate that he should stay put for a moment. He then moved swiftly back down the corridor – Jenkins never ran – picked up the crate of beer, returned and handed it to him.

Greta, who was clearly running late, watched the handover and grinned at Giles. He returned her smile, before she disappeared into the dining room.

‘The guard house,’ said Giles firmly, pointing towards the outer perimeter. The corporal nodded, and headed off in the right direction. Terry had asked Giles earlier if he should smuggle some food from the kitchen for the corporal and his friends in the guard house.