The Sins of the Father

20

THE FIRST THING Giles saw was his right leg hitched to a pulley and encased in plaster.

He could dimly remember a long journey, during which the pain had become almost unbearable, and he had assumed he would die long before they got him to a hospital. And he would never forget the operation, but then how could he, when they’d run out of anaesthetic moments before the doctor made the first incision?

He turned his head very slowly to the left and saw a window with three bars across it, then to the right; that’s when he saw him.

‘No, not you,’ Giles said. ‘For a moment I thought I’d escaped and gone to heaven.’

‘Not yet,’ said Bates. ‘First you have to do a spell in purgatory.’

‘For how long?’

‘At least until your leg’s mended, possibly longer.’

‘Are we back in England?’ Giles asked hopefully.

‘I wish,’ said Bates. ‘No, we’re in Germany, Weinsberg PoW camp, which is where we all ended up after being taken prisoner.’

Giles tried to sit up, but could only just raise his head off the pillow; enough to see a framed picture on the wall of Adolf Hitler giving him a Nazi salute.

‘How many of our boys survived?’

‘Only a handful. The lads took the colonel’s words to heart. “We will all sacrifice our lives before Rommel books a suite at the Majestic Hotel”.’

‘Did anyone else from our platoon make it?’

‘You, me and-’

‘Don’t tell me, Fisher?’

‘No. Because if they’d sent him to Weinsberg, I’d have asked for a transfer to Colditz.’

Giles lay still, staring up at the ceiling. ‘So how do we escape?’

‘I wondered how long it would be before you asked that.’

‘And what’s the answer?’

‘Not a chance while your leg’s still in plaster, and even after that it won’t be easy, but I’ve got a plan.’

‘Of course you have.’

‘The plan’s not the problem,’ said Bates. ‘The problem is the escape committee. They control the waiting list, and you’re at the back of the queue.’

‘How do I get to the front?’

‘It’s like any queue in England, you just have to wait your turn… unless-’

‘Unless?’

‘Unless Brigadier Turnbull, the senior ranking officer, thinks there’s a good reason why you should be moved up the queue.’

‘Like what?’

‘If you can speak fluent German, it’s a bonus.’

‘I picked up a bit when I was at OTS – just wish I’d concentrated more.’

‘Well, there are lessons twice a day, so someone of your intelligence shouldn’t find that too difficult. Unfortunately even that list is still fairly long.’

‘So what else can I do to get bumped up the escape-list faster?’

‘Find yourself the right job. That’s what got me moved up three places in the past month.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘As soon as the Krauts found out I was a butcher, they offered me a job in the officers’ mess. I told them to fuck off, excuse my French, but the brigadier insisted I took the job.’

‘Why would he want you to work for the Germans?’

‘Because occasionally I can manage to steal some food from the kitchen, but more important, I pick up the odd piece of information that’s useful to the escape committee. That’s why I’m near the front of the queue, and you’re still at the back. You’re going to have to get both feet on the ground if you’re still hoping to make it to the washroom before me.’

‘Any idea how long it will be before I can do that?’ asked Giles.

‘The prison doc says it’ll be at least another month, possibly six weeks before they can remove the plaster.’

Giles settled back on the pillow. ‘But even when I do get up, how can I hope to be offered a job in the officers’ mess? Unlike you, I don’t have the right qualifications.’

‘But you do,’ said Bates. ‘In fact, you can go one better than me, and get yourself a job in the camp commandant’s dining room, because I know they’re looking for a wine waiter.’

‘And what makes you think I’m qualified to be a wine waiter?’ asked Giles, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

‘If I remember correctly,’ said Bates, ‘you used to have a butler called Jenkins working for you at the Manor House.’

‘Still do, but that hardly qualifies me-’

‘And your grandfather, Lord Harvey, is in the wine trade. Frankly, you’re over-qualified.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘Once you get out of here, they’ll make you fill in a labour form, listing your previous employment. I’ve already told them you were a wine waiter at the Grand Hotel, Bristol.’

‘Thanks. But they’ll know within minutes-’

‘Believe me, they don’t have a clue. All you have to do is get your German up to scratch, and try to remember what Jenkins did. Then if we can come up with a decent plan to present to the escape committee, we’ll march to the front of the queue in no time. Mind you, there’s a catch.’

‘There has to be, if you’re involved.’

‘But I’ve found a way round it.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘You can’t get a job workin’ for the Krauts if you take German lessons, because they’re not that stupid. They make a list of everyone who attends the classes, because they don’t want no one eavesdropping on their private conversations.’

‘You said you’d found a way around that?’

‘You’ll have to do what all toffs do to keep ahead of people like me. Take private lessons. I’ve even found you a tutor; a bloke who taught German at Solihull Grammar School. It’s only his English you’ll find difficult to understand.’ Giles laughed. ‘And since you’ll be locked up in here for another six weeks, and haven’t anything better to do, you can start straight away. You’ll find a German-English dictionary under your pillow.’

‘I’m in your debt, Terry,’ said Giles, grasping his friend by the hand.

‘No, I owe you, don’t I? On account of the fact that you saved my life.’

21

BY THE TIME Giles was released from the sick bay five weeks later, he knew a thousand German words but he hadn’t been able to work on his pronunciation.

He’d also spent countless hours lying in bed, trying to recall how Jenkins had gone about his job. He practised saying Good morning, sir, with a deferential nod of the head, and Would you care to sample this wine, colonel, while pouring a jug of water into a specimen bottle.

‘Always appear modest, never interrupt and don’t speak till you’re spoken to,’ Bates reminded him. ‘In fact, do exactly the opposite of everythin’ you’ve always done in the past.’

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?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Giles.

Giles returned an hour later with a large grin on his face.

‘You got the job?’ asked Bates.

‘I got lucky,’ said Giles. ‘The commandant interviewed me, not Müller. I start tomorrow.’

‘And he never suspected you were an officer and a gentleman?’

‘Not after I told him I was a friend of yours.’

Before the lunch for the visiting Red Cross officials was served, Giles uncorked six bottles of merlot to allow them to breathe. Once the guests were seated, he poured half an inch of wine into the commandant’s glass and waited for his approval. After a nod, he served the guests, always pouring from the right. He then moved on to the officers, according to rank, finally returning to the commandant, as host.

During the meal he made sure no one’s glass was ever empty, but he never served anyone while they were speaking. Like Jenkins, he was rarely seen and never heard. Everything went as planned, although Giles was well aware that Major Müller’s suspicious eyes rarely left him, even when he tried to melt into the background.

After the two of them had been escorted back to the camp later that afternoon, Bates said, ‘The commandant was impressed.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Giles, fishing.

‘He told the head chef that you must have worked for a grand household, because although you were obviously from the lower classes, you’d been well taught by a consummate professional.’

‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ said Giles.

‘So what does consummate mean?’ asked Bates.

Giles became so skilled in his new vocation that the camp commandant insisted on being served by him even when he dined alone. This allowed Giles to study his mannerisms, the inflections in his voice, his laugh, even his slight stutter.

Within weeks, Private Barrington had been handed the keys to the wine cellar, and allowed to select which wines would be served at dinner. And after a few months, Bates overheard the commandant telling the chef that Barrington was erstklassig.

Whenever the commandant held a dinner party, Giles quickly assessed which tongues could be loosened by the regular topping up of glasses, and how to make himself invisible whenever one of those tongues began to wag. He passed on any useful information he’d picked up the previous evening to the brigadier’s batman while they were out on the communal five-mile run. These titbits included where the commandant lived, the fact that he’d been elected to the town council at the age of thirty-two, and been appointed mayor in 1938. He couldn’t drive, but he had visited England three or four times before the war and spoke fluent English. In return, Giles learnt that he and Bates had climbed several more rungs up the escape committee’s ladder.

Giles’s main activity during the day was to spend an hour chatting to his tutor. Never a word of English was spoken, and the man from Solihull even told the brigadier that Private Barrington was beginning to sound more and more like the commandant.

On December 3rd 1941, Corporal Bates and Private Barrington made their final presentation to the escape committee. The brigadier and his team listened to the bed and breakfast plan with considerable interest, and agreed that it had a far better chance of succeeding than most of the half-baked schemes that were put before them.

‘When would you consider the best time to carry out your plan?’ asked the brigadier.

‘New Year’s Eve, sir,’ said Giles without hesitation. ‘All the officers will be joining the commandant for dinner to welcome in the New Year.’

‘And as Private Barrington will be pouring the drinks,’ added Bates, ‘there shouldn’t be too many of them who are still sober by the time midnight strikes.’

‘Except for Müller,’ the brigadier reminded Bates, ‘who doesn’t drink.’

‘True, but he never fails to toast the Fatherland, the Führer and the Third Reich. If you add in the New Year, and his host, I have a feeling he’ll be pretty sleepy by the time he’s driven home.’

‘What time are you usually escorted back to camp after one of the commandant’s dinner parties?’ asked a young lieutenant who had recently joined the committee.

‘Around eleven,’ said Bates, ‘but as it’s New Year’s Eve, it won’t be before midnight.’

‘Don’t forget, gentlemen,’ Giles chipped in, ‘I have the keys to the wine cellar, so I can assure you several bottles will find their way to the guard house during the evening. We wouldn’t want them to miss out on the celebrations.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said a wing commander who rarely spoke, ‘but how do you plan to get past them?’

‘By driving out through the front gate in the commandant’s car,’ said Giles. ‘He’s always a dutiful host and never leaves before his last guest, which should give us at least a couple of hours’ start.’

‘Even if you are able to steal his car,’ said the brigadier, ‘however drunk the guards are, they’ll still be able to tell the difference between a wine waiter and their commanding officer.’

‘Not if I’m wearing his greatcoat, hat, scarf and gloves, and holding his baton,’ said Giles.

The young lieutenant clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘And is it part of your plan for the commandant to meekly hand all his clothes over to you, Private Barrington?’

‘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.

‘Certainly not,’ Giles had replied firmly. ‘We want them drinking all night on an empty stomach.’

Giles closed the door and returned to the dining room, where the waitresses had almost finished laying the table.

He uncorked the dozen bottles of merlot, but only placed four on the sideboard, discreetly hiding the other eight underneath it. He didn’t need Müller to work out what he was up to. He also put a bottle of whisky and two of sherry at one end of the sideboard, before lining up, like soldiers on parade, a dozen tumblers and half a dozen sherry glasses. Everything was in place.

Giles was polishing a tumbler when Colonel Schabacker walked in. The commandant checked the table, made one or two adjustments to the seating plan, then turned his attention to the array of bottles on the sideboard. Giles wondered if he might comment, but he simply smiled and said, ‘I’m expecting the guests to arrive around seven-thirty, and I have told the chef we will sit down for dinner at eight.’

Giles could only hope that in a few hours’ time, his German would prove as fluent as Colonel Schabacker’s English.

The next person to enter the dining room was a young lieutenant who had recently joined the officers’ mess and was attending his first commandant’s dinner. Giles noticed him eyeing the whisky and stepped forward to serve him, pouring him half a glass. He then handed the commandant his usual sherry.

The second officer to make an appearance was Captain Henkel, the camp’s adjutant. Giles handed him his usual glass of vodka, and spent the next thirty minutes serving each new guest, always having their favourite tipple to hand.

By the time the guests sat down for dinner, several empty bottles had been replaced by the reserves Giles had secreted under the sideboard.

Moments later waitresses appeared carrying plates of borscht, while the commandant sampled the white wine.

‘Italian,’ said Giles, showing him the label.

‘Excellent,’ he murmured.

Giles then filled every glass except that of Major Müller, who continued to sip his water.

Some of the guests drank more quickly than others, which kept Giles moving around the table, always making sure that no one had an empty glass. Once the soup bowls had been whisked away, Giles melted into the background because Terry had warned him what would happen next. With a flourish, the double doors opened and the chef entered carrying a large boar’s head on a silver salver. The waitresses followed and placed dishes of vegetables and potatoes, along with jugs of thick gravy, in the centre of the table.

As the chef began to carve, Colonel Schabacker sampled the burgundy, which caused another smile to appear on his face. Giles returned to the task of topping up any half-empty glasses, with one exception. He’d noticed that the young lieutenant hadn’t spoken for some time, so he left his glass untouched. One or two of the other officers were beginning to slur their words, and he needed them to stay awake until at least midnight.

The chef returned later to serve second helpings, and Giles obliged when Colonel Schabacker demanded that everyone’s glasses should be replenished. By the time Terry made his first appearance to remove what was left of the boar’s head, Major Müller was the only officer still sober.

A few minutes later, the chef made a third entrance, this time carrying a black forest gateau, which he placed on the table in front of the commandant. The host plunged a knife into the cake several times, and the waitresses distributed generous portions to each of the guests. Giles continued topping up their glasses, until he was down to the last bottle.

As the waitresses cleared the dessert plates, Giles removed the wine glasses from the table, replacing them with brandy balloons and port glasses.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Colonel Schabacker just after eleven, ‘please charge your glasses, as I would like to propose a toast.’ He rose from his place, held his glass high in the air and said, ‘The Fatherland!’

Fifteen officers rose at various speeds, and repeated, ‘The Fatherland!’ Müller glanced towards Giles, and tapped his glass to indicate that he would require something for the toast.

‘Not wine, you idiot,’ said Müller. ‘I want some brandy.’ Giles smiled, and filled his glass with burgundy.

Müller had failed to trap him.

Loud, convivial chatter continued as Giles carried a humidor around the table and invited the guests to select a cigar. The young lieutenant was now resting his head on the table, and Giles thought he detected a snore.

When the commandant rose a second time, to drink the health of the Führer, Giles poured Müller some more red wine. He raised his glass, clicked his heels together and gave a Nazi salute. A toast to Frederick the Great followed, and this time Giles made sure Müller’s glass had been topped up long before he rose.

At five minutes to midnight, Giles checked that every glass was full. When the clock on the wall began to chime, fifteen officers cried almost in unison, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and then broke into ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles’, slapping each other on the back as they welcomed in the New Year.

It was some time before they resumed their places. The commandant remained standing and tapped his glass with a spoon. Everyone fell silent in anticipation of his annual speech.

He began by thanking his colleagues for their loyalty and dedication during a difficult year. He then spoke for some time about the destiny of the Fatherland. Giles remembered that Schabacker had been the local mayor before he took over as commandant of the camp. He ended by declaring that he hoped the right side would have won the war by this time next year. Giles wanted to scream, Hear, Hear! in any language, but Müller swung round to see if the colonel’s words had evoked any reaction. Giles stared blankly ahead, as if he hadn’t understood a word. He had passed another of Müller’s tests.

23

IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after 1.00 a.m. when the first guest rose to leave. ‘I’m on duty at six in the morning, colonel,’ he explained. This was greeted with mock applause, as the officer bowed low and left without another word.

Several other guests departed during the next hour, but Giles knew he couldn’t consider executing his own well-rehearsed exit while Müller was still on the premises. He became a little anxious when the waitresses started to clear away the coffee cups, a sign that their evening was coming to an end and he might be ordered back to the camp. Giles kept himself busy, continuing to serve those officers who didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.

Müller finally rose as the last waitress left the room and bade goodnight to his colleagues, but not before clicking his heels and giving his comrades another Nazi salute. Giles and Terry had agreed that their plan couldn’t be put into motion until at least fifteen minutes after Müller had departed and they had checked that his car was no longer in its usual place.

Giles refilled the glasses of the six officers who remained seated around the table. They were all close friends of the commandant. Two of them had been at school with him, another three had served on the town council, and only the camp adjutant was a more recent acquaintance; information Giles had picked up during the past few months.

It must have been about twenty past two when the commandant beckoned Giles over. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said in English. ‘Go and join your friend in the kitchen, and take a bottle of wine with you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Giles, placing a bottle of brandy and a decanter of port in the centre of the table.

The last words he heard the commandant say before he left were to the adjutant, who was seated on his right. ‘When we’ve finally won this war, Franz, I intend to offer that man a job. I can’t imagine he’ll want to return to England while a Swastika flies over Buckingham Palace.’

Giles removed the only bottle of wine still on the sideboard, left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his body, and was well aware that the next fifteen minutes would decide their fate. He took the back stairs down to the kitchen where he found Terry chatting to the chef, a half-empty bottle of cooking sherry by his side.

‘Happy New Year, chef,’ said Terry as he rose from his chair. ‘Got to dash, otherwise I’ll be late for breakfast in Zurich.’

Giles tried to keep a straight face as the chef just about raised a hand in acknowledgement.

They ran up the stairs, the only two sober people in the building. Giles passed the bottle of wine to Terry and said, ‘Two minutes, no more.’

Terry walked down the corridor and slipped out of the back door. Giles withdrew into the shadows at the top of the stairs, just as an officer came out of the dining room and headed for the lavatory.

Moments later, the back door reopened and a head appeared. Giles waved furiously at Terry and pointed to the lavatory. Terry ran over to join him in the shadows, just before the officer emerged to make his way unsteadily back to the dining room. Once the door had closed behind him, Giles asked, ‘How’s our tame German, corporal?’

‘Half asleep. I gave him the bottle of wine and warned him we could be at least another hour.’

‘Do you think he understood?’

‘I don’t think he cared.’

‘Good enough. Your turn to act as lookout,’ said Giles as he stepped back out into the corridor. He clenched his fists to stop his hands trembling, and was just about to open the cloakroom door when he thought he heard a voice coming from inside. He froze, put his ear to the door and listened. It only took him a moment to realize who it must be. For the first time, he broke Jenkins’s golden rule and charged back down the corridor to rejoin Terry in the shadows at the top of the stairs.

‘What’s the problem?’

Giles put a finger up to his lips, as the cloakroom door opened and out stepped Major Müller, doing up his fly buttons. Once he’d pulled on his greatcoat, he glanced up and down the corridor to make sure no one had spotted him, then slipped through the front door and out into the night.

‘Which girl?’ asked Giles.

‘Probably Greta. I’ve had her a couple of times, but never in the cloakroom.’

‘Isn’t that fraternizing?’ whispered Giles.

‘Only if you’re an officer,’ said Terry.

They only had to wait for a few moments before the door opened again and Greta appeared, looking a little flushed. She walked calmly out of the front door without bothering to check if anyone had seen her.

‘Second attempt,’ said Giles, who moved swiftly back down the corridor, opened the cloakroom door and disappeared inside just as another officer came out of the dining room.

Don’t turn right, don’t turn right, Terry begged silently. The officer turned left and headed for the lavatory. Terry prayed for the longest pee in history. He began counting the seconds, but then the cloakroom door opened and out stepped the commandant in all but name. Get back inside, Terry waved frantically. Giles ducked back into the cloakroom and pulled the door closed.

When the adjutant reappeared, Terry feared he would go to the cloakroom to collect his cap and coat, and find Giles dressed as the commandant, in which case the game would be up before it had even begun. Terry followed each step, fearing the worst, but the adjutant stopped at the dining room door, opened it and disappeared inside. Once the door had closed, Terry bolted down the corridor and opened the cloakroom door to find Giles dressed in a greatcoat, scarf, gloves and peaked cap and carrying a baton, beads of sweat on his forehead.

‘Let’s get out of here before one of us has a heart attack,’ said Terry.

Terry and Giles left the building even more quickly than Müller or Greta had.

‘Relax,’ said Giles once they were outside. ‘Don’t forget we’re the only two people who are sober.’ He tucked the scarf around his neck so that it covered his chin, pulled down his cap, gripped the baton firmly and stooped slightly, as he was a couple of inches taller than the commandant.

As soon as the driver heard Giles approaching, he leapt out of the car and opened the back door for him. Giles had rehearsed a sentence he’d heard the colonel say to his driver many times, and as he fell into the back seat, he pulled his cap even further down and slurred, ‘Take me home, Hans.’

Hans returned to the driver’s seat, but when he heard a click that sounded like the boot closing, he looked back suspiciously, only to see the commandant tapping his baton on the window.

‘What’s holding you up, Hans?’ Giles asked with a slight stutter.

Hans switched on the ignition, put the car into first gear and drove slowly towards the guard house. A sergeant emerged from the sentry box when he heard the vehicle approaching. He tried to open the barrier and salute at the same time. Giles raised his baton in acknowledgement, and nearly burst out laughing when he noticed that the top two buttons of the sentry’s tunic were undone. Colonel Schabacker would never have let that pass without comment, even on New Year’s Eve.

Major Forsdyke, the escape committee’s intelligence officer, had told Giles that the commandant’s house was approximately two miles from the compound, and the last two hundred yards were down a narrow, unlit lane. Giles remained slumped into the corner of the back seat, where he couldn’t be seen in the rear-view mirror, but the moment the car swung into the lane, he sat bolt upright, tapped the driver on the shoulder with his baton and ordered him to stop.

‘I can’t wait,’ he said, before jumping out of the car and pretending to undo his fly buttons.

Hans watched as the colonel disappeared into the bushes. He looked puzzled; after all, they were only a hundred metres from his front door. He stepped out of the car and waited by the back door. When he thought he heard his master coming back, he turned around just in time to see a clenched fist, an instant before it broke his nose. He slumped to the ground.

Giles ran to the back of the car and opened the boot. Terry leapt out, walked across to Hans’s prostrate body and began to unbutton the driver’s uniform, before pulling off his own clothes. Once Bates had finished putting on his new uniform, it became clear just how much shorter and fatter Hans was.

‘It won’t matter,’ said Giles, reading his thoughts. ‘When you’re behind the wheel, no one will give you a second look.’

They dragged Hans to the back of the car and bundled him into the boot.

‘I doubt if he’ll wake up before we sit down for breakfast in Zurich,’ said Terry as he tied a handkerchief around Hans’s mouth.

The commandant’s new driver took his place behind the wheel, and neither of them spoke again until they were back on the main road. Terry didn’t need to stop and check any signposts, as he’d studied the route to the border every day for the past month.

‘Stay on the right-hand side of the road,’ said Giles, unnecessarily, ‘and don’t drive too fast. The last thing we need is to be pulled over.’

‘I think we’ve made it,’ Terry said as they passed a signpost for Schaffhausen.

‘I won’t believe we’ve made it until we’re being shown to our table at the Imperial Hotel and a waiter hands me the breakfast menu.’

‘I won’t need a menu,’ said Terry. ‘Eggs, bacon, beans, sausage and tomato, and a pint of beer. That’s my usual down at the meat market every morning. How about you?’

‘A kipper, lightly poached, a slice of buttered toast, a spoonful of Oxford marmalade and a pot of Earl Grey tea.’

‘It didn’t take you long to go back from butler to toff.’

Giles smiled. He checked his watch. There were few cars on the road that New Year’s morning, so they continued to make good progress. That was, until Terry spotted the convoy ahead of them.

‘What do I do now?’ he said.

‘Overtake them. We can’t afford to waste any time. They’ll have no reason to be suspicious – you’re driving a senior officer who wouldn’t expect to be held up.’

Once Terry caught up with the rear vehicle, he eased out into the centre of the road and began to overtake a long line of armoured trucks and motorcycles. As Giles had predicted, no one took any interest in a passing Mercedes that was clearly going about official business. When Terry overtook the leading vehicle, he breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn’t fully relax until he swept round a corner and could no longer see any headlights in his rear-view mirror.

Giles continued to check his watch every few minutes. The next signpost confirmed they were making good time, but Giles knew they had no control over when the commandant’s last guest would leave and Colonel Schabacker would go in search of his car and driver.

It was another forty minutes before they reached the outskirts of Schaffhausen. They were both so nervous that hardly a word had passed between them. Giles was exhausted just sitting in the back seat, doing nothing, but he knew they couldn’t afford to relax until they had crossed the Swiss border.

When they entered the town, the locals were just beginning to wake up; the occasional tram, the odd car, a few bicycles ferrying people who were expected to work on New Year’s Day. Terry didn’t need to look for signs to the border, as he could see the Swiss Alps dominating the skyline. Freedom felt as if it was touching distance away.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Terry as he slammed on the brakes.

‘What’s the problem?’ said Giles, leaning forward.

‘Look at that queue.’

Giles stuck his head out of the window to see a line of about forty vehicles, bumper to bumper, ahead of them, all waiting to cross the border. He checked to see if any of them were official cars. When he was sure there were none, he said, ‘Drive straight to the front. That’s what they’d expect us to do. If we don’t, we’ll only draw attention to ourselves.’

Terry drove slowly forward, only stopping when he reached the barrier.

‘Get out and open the door for me, but don’t say anything.’

Terry turned off the engine, got out and opened the back door. Giles marched up to the customs post.

A young officer leapt up from behind his desk and saluted when he saw the colonel enter the room. Giles handed over two sets of papers that the camp forger had assured him would pass muster at any border post in Germany. He was about to find out if he’d exaggerated. As the officer flicked through the documents, Giles tapped the side of his leg with his baton and glanced repeatedly at his watch.

‘I have an important meeting in Zurich,’ he snapped, ‘and I’m running late.’

‘I’m sorry, colonel. I’ll get you on your way as soon as possible. It should only take me a few moments.’

The officer checked the photograph of Giles on his papers, and looked puzzled. Giles wondered if he’d have the nerve to ask him to remove his scarf, because if he did, he would immediately realize that he was too young to be a colonel.

Giles stared defiantly at the young man, who must have been weighing up the possible consequences of holding up a senior officer by asking him unnecessary questions. The scales came down in Giles’s favour. The officer nodded his head, stamped the papers and said, ‘I hope you won’t be late for your meeting, sir.’

‘Thank you,’ said Giles. He put the documents back in an inside pocket and was walking towards the door when the young officer stopped him in his tracks.

‘Heil Hitler!’ he shouted.

Giles hesitated, turned slowly around and said, ‘Heil Hitler,’ giving a perfect Nazi salute. As he walked out of the building, he had to suppress his laughter when he noticed that Terry was holding open the back door with one hand, and holding up his trousers with the other.

‘Thank you, Hans,’ said Giles as he slumped into the back seat.

That was when they heard a banging noise coming from the boot.

‘Oh my God,’ said Terry. ‘Hans.’

The brigadier’s words came back to haunt them; no escape plan can ever be foolproof. In the end, it all comes down to how you cope with the unforeseen.

Terry closed the back door and returned to his place behind the wheel as quickly as he could, as he feared the guards would hear the banging. He tried to remain calm as the barrier rose inch by inch, and the banging became louder and louder.

‘Drive slowly,’ said Giles. ‘Don’t give them any reason to become suspicious.’

Terry eased the gear lever into first and drove slowly under the barrier. Giles glanced out of the side window as they passed the customs post. The young officer was speaking on the phone. He looked out of the window, stared directly at Giles, jumped up from his desk and ran out on to the road.

Giles estimated that the Swiss border post was no more than a couple of hundred yards away. He looked out of the back window to see the young officer waving frantically, as guards carrying rifles poured out of the customs post.

‘Change of plan,’ said Giles. ‘Step on the accelerator,’ he shouted as the first bullets hit the back of the car.

Terry was changing gear when the tyre burst. He tried desperately to keep the car on the road, but it swerved from side to side, careered into the side railings and came to a standstill midway between the two border posts. Another volley of shots quickly followed.

‘My turn to beat you to the washroom,’ said Giles.

‘Not a hope,’ said Terry, who had both feet on the ground before Giles had dived out of the back door.

They both began running flat out towards the Swiss border. If either of them was ever going to run a ten-second hundred, it would be today. Although they were dodging and changing direction in their attempt to avoid the bullets, Giles still felt confident that he would cross the finishing line first. The Swiss border guards were cheering them on, and when Giles dipped at the tape, he raised his arms in triumph, having finally defeated his greatest rival.

He turned around to gloat, and saw Terry lying in the middle of the road about thirty yards away, a bullet wound in the back of his head and blood trickling from his mouth.

Giles fell on his knees and began to crawl towards his friend. More shots rang out as two Swiss border guards grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him back to safety.

He wanted to explain to them that he didn’t care to have breakfast alone.