Evening Star Newspaper, May 4, 1930, Page 111

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MAY 4, 1930.° How the French Army Punished Captured Spies During the War. Continued from Fifth Page Is-surTille, apparently. French postal em- ployes had grown lax. Heaven knew what let- ters in code or invisible ink they were letting by. So that leak was plugged. SPANISH-AMERICAN 1. P. had a perilous adventure. He was summoned one day to the counter-espionage office in Gievres, one of the greatest centers on the services of supply, where there was constant fear of enemy spying. “Do you want a dangerous mission?” asked his chief. “Yes, sir,” replied the I. P., his dark sharp face lighting, large eyes eager. “Do you speak good Spanish? -Can you pass as a Spaniard among Spaniards—and not get caught?” “Yes, sir,” the I P. said, still more eagerly. “] lived seven years in Madrid as a boy.” Later, that was to save his life. “Good,” said his chief. “At a little place called Selles-sur-Cher, near Gievres, we are puilding the largest refrigeration plant in the A. E. P, the third largest in the world, to store food en route to the front. There is a lot of civilian labor, Maltese, Belgians, Greeks, Swiss, but mostly Spaniards. We have checked up on them and they're guarded, but there’s some- thing wrong. I can’t tell you more than that. We'n(etyouhmulem,mdyw'nmu to find out what it is. But we hear they're a tough crowd. Watch yourself!” : Pedro Padilla from Madrid came to the Span- jsh labor eamp at Selles-sur-Cher, dirty and rather ragged, but with an intelligent face and good recommendations, so he got a job at 9 francs a day. He walked through the gate into an atmesphere that to his sensitive faculties seemed oppressive with danger. Immediately he felt himself observed, object of suspicious glances, muttered words by the polyglot dwellers there, especially the Spaniards whose confidence he 'was to win. Two or three pointed out his soft, rather small hands and asked one another, “What sort of workman is this?” He was starting wrong, he sensed, so that evening in the bunk house he asked in a loud voice what work there was for a painter. “I'm no day laborer,” he said. “They told me there was painting to do.” Had it gone over? He could not tell and fell asleep to dream of threatening swarthy faces crowding close, baleful light gleaming from their eyes. He sprang awake to find a flashlight thrust into his face, behind it the faces of two men he had seen talking, aloof from the rest. “Get up,” said one, “but be quiet. Come with us.” They led him to a dark recess, where they sat down, but kept him standing with the light full in his face. Then began an ordeal he has never forgotten. “Padilla,” said the first, whose pale, intent face showed imperious will, whose slim body the 1. P. found later was strong as steel, “you say you are a Spaniard from Madrid. Maybe you are. But you don’t look like a workman. We know these Americans think there is something going on here and blame us for it—thefts or something, maybe German spying and sabotage. We know they are going to send a secret serv- ice man here. You may be that man. The eyes of both seemed to bore into the I. P., whese each particular hair arcse and stood on end. “If you are,” the speaker’s voice became fe- rocicus, “we’ll tear you limb from limb. If you aren’t, you have nothing to fear. Now, answer our questions.” Then began a grilling that was a third degree, conducted by the white-faced leader, aided by the other, who had been all his life in Madrid. “Where did you live in Madrid?” the leader asked. Then, “From that place, how would you get to such and such a school, such a church? What streets would you cross? Who was priest in that church? What kind of house did you live in. Who else lived there? Who lived next door? Across the way?” Padilla quaked inwardly. But he really had lived in the Calle Zorrilla, Madrid, and most of the questions he could answer or bluff through. He felt he was succeeding when he saw from the corner of his eye the almost imperceptible nod with which the Madrid man told the leader he was answering correctly. Despite fear, in strange surroundings, half dazed by the flash- light, the secret agent was winning the battle of wits. The leader seemed about to admit it, when the man from Madrid raised heavy-lidded eyes and lifted a massive threatening arm. “Let me try,” he said. The I. P.’s heart sank. “Who was Garibaldi?” his new inquisitor al- most shouted. “Garibaldi?” Padilla exclaimed, cudgeling his brains. “Why, an Italian patriot, I suppose.” “Nobody from Madrid would say that” the Spaniard sald ominously. “Who was Garibaldi? Answer me!” Like a flash of light came a childhood memory. “That was the nickname for that old half- wit character who went about with the funny uniform and medals——" “Enough!” the Spaniard interrupted. He pushed the flashlight almost into the I. P.'s eyes. “One more question. If you lived in the Calle Zorrilla in 1898, what happened there? Every one whe lived there would remember.” “Many things happened there,” the I. P. pro- tested. “Give me some hint.” The questioner hesitated. “Well,” he said, “it concerned pig.” Coneerned a pig—a pig! Ancther flash, an- other memory. The I P. snapped his fingers. “I know!” he said. “It was the day war was declared between Spain and the United States. A crowd paraded the Calle Zorrilla, cheering and singing, leading a pig, ‘Yankee pig,” dressed in a plug hat and an American filag. In front of the house of Gen. Weyler they hung the pig to a lamp post!” The Spaniard leaped to his feet and held out his hand. H “No dirty American could know that!” he cried, “You're from Madrid, all right!” ‘HE secret agent trembled with relief and cold perspiration started to his forehead. he -had passed the test of admittance to the freemasonry of the @panish workers. It amounted to that, he found. The white-faced man was the leader, could knock out any one except, perhaps, the man from Madrid. This man took a liking to Padilla and offered to do his work with pick and shovel. “I can lick three men,” he said, swelling muscles. “Why shouldn’t I work for two? We shall rest and you shall be our lookout. When the American guards come along, wake us up.” Just what the I. P. wanted. He could know what went on; at night he was a privileged person, so that he could continue his prowlings. Eyes and ears open, he began to notice things. First, he noticed that the Spaniards, great gamblers, played a strange game. When a train went by, all stopped work and watched it until out of sight. They made bets on how many trains would pass, in what direction, what sort of trains—supply trains, troop trains—how long trains, how many cars. The results were care- fully written down and handed to a Belgian who kept the paol—but never returned the lists. A word to the expert French commissaire spe- ciale, M. Bauer, and the Belgian disappeared. Scattered about piles of lumber, the I. P. ne- ticed round white pills. He picked up a few, which M. Bauer pronounced incendiary tablets of a type the Germans used. Lumber piles were guarded after that. In a little buvette the laborers frequented he saw a Greek hand to the barmaid a folded square of paper. The Spaniards roared. “Where's your nerve?” they taunted the Greek. “Every day you give her love notes. A Spaniard doesn’t make love that way.” The Greek hurried from the place. French agents saw those “love notes” slipped by the barmaid to a railroad man traveling back and forth between Tours and Paris, who handed them there to some one else. Another “grape- vine” to Germany was cut. There was the “Spaniard” who came after Padilla’s arrival, passed his examination, but proved to know a lot about artillery, to have worked, in fact, at Creusot’s, the French Krupps. M. Bauer was glad to meet him. Through all perils, the I. P. remained undiscovered, and finally, his work done, went elsewhere. “What was the hardest ordeal of all?” I asked him. “The hardest?” he repeated angrily. “I'll tell you. One day an American corporal made four of us push him five miles on a hand-car, bawling us out for ‘greasers’ because we didn’t go fast emough. A corporal! And I was a sergeant, and in disguise, and couldn’'t say a word!” LAST in this chronicle of defeats and vic- tories of our secret war, comes the thrill- ing story of how three desperate men were caught just as they were about to deal the A.E. P. a serious blow—one of the most courage- ous single achievements of I. P’s. In the Summer of 1928 picturesque Beaune, of ancient Burgundy, was nearly an American town. Its cobbled gray-walled streets were Notes of Art and Artists. Continued jrom Nineteenth Page spend the greater part of the year and where & majority of his paintings are produced. In the Corcoran Gallery of Art is a typical painting by Daniel Garber, a Spring landscape showing the play of cool light and blue shadows in the old quarry across the river at New Hope, which has dwindled to 2bout the width of a creek. No one should judge these drawings and etchings now on view without seeing and studying this painting, bzcause the two comple- ment one another and collectively give the gamut of the artist’s skill. The National Gal- lery of Art is also fortunate in possessing an excellent painting by Garber, a painting of the same quarry later in the season, seen through a screen of trees—a superbly strong work. There is no more sincere lover of nature than Daniel Garber and no artist who holds his art in higher regard. Nothing that Garber puts out is less good than he can make it at the time, and at his best few are his equal. He, too, is a man of visions, a dreamer; but excep- tional technical equipment, habits of work and study, sound draftsmanship and knowledge of tradition have made it possible for him to find sound and adequate expression. N exhibition of paintings by an English artist, Vivian Guy, will open in the Yorke Gallery tomorrow, to continue through May 19. Capt. Guy studied at the Slade School in London and at the Academie Julien in Paris. During the war he laid aside his art and saw active service. He had attained the rank of captain when he was wounded and invalided home, but later, fortunately, was able to turn again to his art. He had the good fortune to be allowed to accompany the Prince of Wales on his trip to India, during which time he made numerous studies of Indian life. Eight months ago he and his wife came to this country and, after a short stay in New York, bought a “flivver” and started out to see the United States, going first to Niagara, then to the Yellowstone Park, to California, to Arizona and New Mexico, and now back to the East through the South and Middle West. In order to better understand the country that they passed through, they camped and lodged with other tourists, met the people in a spirit of comrade- ship, and, happily for our American pride, have returned enthusiastic over America. It is difficult for Capt. Guy to understand why American painters do not more generally paint American subjects, why they have not already given more adequate expression to American thought and life. It is as distinctive, he declares, as any life with which he has ever come in contact. And yet, for the most part, he finds our American painting closely akin to the painting of the past produeced by Euro- peans. Among the works which he will show at the Yorke Gallery are pictures of New York, with its towering skyscraper buildings, its jagged, unbelievable skyline, and of the Indians of Santa Fe and Taos, where, by the way, he is returning with a group of mature students to spend the Summer, to paint and teach. - There is every reason to anticipate the exhi- bition of this visiting artist with exceptional interest. THE chief of the division of fine arts of the Library of Congress, Dr. Leicester Holland, made known this week a grant of $5,000 re- ceived from the Carnegie Corporation of New York for the development of the work, lately undertaken, of assembling pictorial archives of early American architecture. This work was initiated by the loan exhibition of photographs by Miss Frances Benjamin Johnston of Fredericksburg, Va., executed under a commission from a resident of that historic city. Announcement was made at that time of the intention of the new division of fine arts of accumulating a collection of negatives, which would be available to students and others, of examples of early American archi- tecture—that is, of buildings ereeted before 1820. The appropriation made by the Carnegie Corporation will give opportunity to test out the potentialities of such a collection, both by allowing funds for acquisition and for clerical service, such as cataloguing, etc. The business of librari:s and museums, obviously, is not only to acquire’ but to make available, and this is likewise the policy of the division of fine arts of the Library of Congress. Miss Johnston, during the next few months, will make a pictorial survey of Leesburg and prints from these negatives will constitute a special exh’bition at the library next Fall Meanwhile additional expert assistance will be obtained to catalogue negatives already available and organize the work of further acquisition. Such a collection as Dr. Holland has in mind, and has already started, should prove invaluable to architects, historians, students and many others, especially as no other such col- lection now exists. The Carnegie Corporation grant, while small, evidences approval of the project and gives opportunity to further demon- strate its potentialities. A’r the Arts Club an exhibition of oil paint- ings by Minor S. Jameson, a member of the club, opens today. Mr. Jameson is president of the Society of Washington Artists and vice president of the Landscape Club of Washing- ton, and he exhibits regularly with these local organizations. Mr. Jameson's work will be shown on the walls of the little auditorium, while in the draw- ing room and dining room bromoils and bromoil transfers by Paul P. Steintorf will be on view. Mr. Steintorf has spent much time in Japan and has achieved exceptional artistic effects through the medium of photography. The water color studies of fish and other ereatures of the sea by Elie Cheverlange will be on view in the second floor lounge for a fort- night longer. M. Cheverlange will be the guest of honor at a dinner given at the club May 13 and will give an intimate talk on the marine life of the Pomotu Islands, Ta- hiti, etc. Mr. and Mrs. Harold Allen will be hosts upon that occasion. L MOKRIS LEISENRING has been re-elected president of the Arts Club, succeeding Will C. Barnes. Fulton Lewis is vice president; Henry Jay Staley, corresponding secretary; Harold Allen, recording secretary, and James Otis Porter, treasurer. Mr. Leisenring is well known both as architect and artist, and there is none more devoted to the interests of the Arts Club than he and his gifted wife. Ntx'r week art museum directors and repre- ‘sentatives of art associations from all parts of the country will be in Washington in at- tendance at the twenty-first annual convention of the American Pederation of Arts to be held at the Mayflower Hotel, May 14, 15 and 16. An innovation at this convention will be speeial sessions on the drama and on music, to be held on the second day, May 15—the former in the morning at the Mayflower, the latter in the evening by special permission, in the auditorium at the Library of Congress. A special session on the morning of May 16 will be devoted to art in commerce and will be held in the auditorium of the United States Chamber of Commerce by special permission. The introductory address at this session will be by the Secretary of Commerce, Robert P. La- mont, who is a member of the board of di- rectors of the federation. i The convention will be concluded, as usual, with a dinner at the Mayflower on the eve- ning of May 16, at which there will be notable speakers, among them the Canadian Minister, Mr. Massey; the well known murial painter, Augustus Vincent Tack, and Thornton Oakley, 1lustrator. AN Italian sculptor, Louis di Valentin, has come to Washington with the intent of taking up permanent residence here and open- ing a studio. He has done a number of small portrait busts at the Capitol, among them an excellent likeness of Senator Borah. Mr. di Valentin is a Venetian and not far past his student days, but apparently is exceptionally gifted thronged with doughtboys in olive drab, paring for the front or working as part of services of supply for those already gone some of whom trickled back now to base pitals being built just outside the town. That made Beaune still busier, livelier, since to speed up the work the Americans had brought here, too, laborers as varied as they were numerous, who amazed the people of Beaune with speech in many tongues from Spain, Portugal and the Mediterranean. Rather a turbulent crowd, but we had to have them. To smooth troubles among themselves, and with Americans or French, the Red Cross had supplied an interpreter, a versatile genius gen- erally called Italian-American, although he spoke also English, French, Portuguese and Spanish. Pietro was a dark young man, not yet 30, of winning though not ostentatious manner by day diligently, even ubiquitously useful, in & quiet way, yet in the evenings fond of rather gay company. ¥ He liked the rich wine of Beaune, and lke to gamble. He would bet on almost anything, Yet he drank and gambled without losing his head. He never quarreled. The Red Cross in« terpreter was, in short, the ideal secret agemt, as the Beaune counter-espionage officer com= gratulated himself whenever, covertly, they me¢ and conferred. Speaking five languages, Pietro had many friends, chief among whom was a Spaniard named Diaz. Like Pietro, h: was quick-witted, intelligent; like Pietro, he liked the wine of now was a fanatic hatred of Americans, It had started in the Spanish-American War, Pietro could, he said, and a day or two later he and his officer read an impassioned offer of the Spaniard’s services to the German cause, - and an announcement that he had decided his first deed should be to steal and send to the German chief in Spain plans of the hospital the Americans were building at Beaune. Then German airplanes could come and bomb it. “Nice humane fellow!” they commented; copied the letter, sealed the original and sent it on its way. A few nights later, Diaz gave Pietro another letter, this time asking the Gers " man chief to send him secret ink and a code, - since “my present means of communication is rather risky.” -Pietro was joining in his plan more enthusiastically. Copies of the hos« pital plan were left where Diaz could steal them, and then, aflame with success, the threg made Pietro one of them. “We must take an oath!” cried Diaz, “never to desert one another. Death to the Americansk An oath in blood!” Gathered around a candle-lighted table, spiashed with the deep red Beaune wine, pricked their wrists, and signed the oath, Pietro did net turn a hair. “Now,” said Diaz, “we have stolen the plans and Pietro will send them to Spain. - But from{ there we hear nothing. Let us wait no longer, Let us strike another blow. Not far from here there is a big reserve depot of munitions, thoue sands of shells, powder. Why not blow it up?"® BEFOR! the night ended, they agreed that the Frenchman should reconnoiter the am« munition dump. “They mean business,” Pietro told his officer, “We’'d better grab ’'em.” The mext day brought to Beaune an official high in the Prench counter-espionage serviee, At first this old stager thought the Americans and read Diaz’s letter and was convinced. So “Now,” said Pietro, “how about my going ? I know where this German chief can say I've come from Diaz. Either get the goods on him so that we can out of Spain, or I can work in with his gang and find out a lot about an secret service.” “Do you know how likely you are to get g knife between your ribs?” his officer asked. “Sure,” said Pietro. “I'll take a chance.” ‘The offer went from Col. Ward to Col. Moreno, finally to Gen. Nolan. No one wanted to send a brave man to that sort of death. Then the war ended. That saved the lives of the blood= thirsty Diaz and the rest, but they got long prison terms after a trial when for the first time they found Pietro had betrayed them and swore bitterly in the court room to kill him when they got out. He is still alive, but no matter where. Pietro was not his name. For his gallant and valuable service, he was recommended for the Distinguished Service Medal but did get it. Still, he got another reward that he ued more highly. Not alf his time had been taken in interpreting, plot= ting and counter-plotting. He had been court« ing the daughter of the owner of the cafe where he ate his meals, a French girl liked and respected by every one and, like him, quiet. She was astonished when the Red Cross interpreter appeared at the wedding im the uniform of a sergeant of intelligence poiice. Pietro knew how to fight the secret war. (The end.)