Evening star., 1950-09-25
! Fought SpiesV
By Col. Oreste Pinto
copyright, 1850, by North American
Newspaper Alliance, Inc.

Stolid Emile Boulanger was one
Of the cleverest German spies
have ever met. Fortunately, I was
able to deal with him before he
could do damage.
For a long time he withstood
every trick and test. I do not
believe that even the scientific
American F. B. I. would have sue
ceeded in making Emile Boulanger
betray himself. For, like the best
spies. he was cautions to the roots
of his brain.
Had he been an Allied agent in
German hands, the clumsy, impa-
tient Nazis with electric needles,
pincers, hot irons, might have
made Emile scream. But I am
positive they would never have
made him confess.
Yet when Emile fell into my
hands, made him talk with
neither drug nor agony.
! used the French and British
examination methods knowl-
edge of mans soul. We call it
psychology-the subtlest weapon
Of all. Properly used. it can cut
like a knife through layers of
toughness, deep into a mans pri-
vate thoughts.
Met Boulanger on Battlefield.
I first met Emile Boulanger
when the Allies were thrusting
into Belgium. Tanks and perspir-
ing infantry in shirt-Sleeves had
gone up the bomb -churned grey
village lanes ahead Of our intelli-
gence outpost. Artillery was a.
restless orange thunder on the
near skyline.
was seated in my battlefield
office, its sandbagged walls cracked
by shellfire. Two field security
soldiers brought Boulanger in to
me. He had been found wander
ing, daZed, near an evacuated
Belgian village, where not house
now stood.
He blinked at me, wiped dust
from his Redeemed eyes onto his
torn blouse sleeve.
You are a farmer?" I asked.
He gestured with limp, hopeless
wrists.
Il was a farmer" he said. But |
now I have no farm. The Boche |
took my animals-even my little |
ducks. My fields. my house-the
guns have eaten them"
Had Teutonic Appearance.
"Your relations and neighbors?"
said. He shut his eyes tiredly,
shutting black saboted feet.
my wife is dead-under our
broken roof" he whispered. THE
others-they all went"
regarded him thoughtfully. He
was speaking Belgian-French in
the true accent of the Waloon
farmer. His garb was a typical
countryman's.
Yeti was not happy about
him. He was bull-necked, Teu-
tonic; his eyes were a bright, wild
blue. Perhaps they were little
too Steely, too alert.
Although I had not shred of
proof against the farmer, an in
stinct of suspicion fiuttered in my
stomach.
"I think you are a spy" I
said softly.
He did not seem to have heard |
me. He held out his thick, strong
hands The f1ngernails were
bloodied and broken, scanned with
dirt.
Counting Test Failed.
"I dug for her-my wife," he
whispered, almost to himself. "She
was under the ruins in the dark
ness. and she was afraid of the
dark. I scratched like a hen
but she was dead"
Can you count?" I said. He
blnked. "Count?" he echoed. I
pushed a little dish of dried beans
towards him. Count these" II
said, aloud"
He picked up each bean slowly,
wonderngly, and recited in French:
''Un-deuX-trois-" When he
had counted 72 beans I stopped
him. The test had not betrayed |
him.
For. had he been clever Ger
man linguist masquerading as a
WALTON Belgian, one might have
expected him to say the usual
French "Soixante douze" for
"seventy-two." But Boulanger |
had said: "Septanta-deux," and
only WALTON farmers count thus.
Yet I still felt certain he was a |
German.
"You must stay here" I said.
1--WE are not satisfied" He was put
In little locked room, alone.
Watched Through Peephole.
Through a peephole he was con-
stantly watched. That night he
knelt to say his prayers, and he
said them in Belgian, simply, as
a Walloon village cure might have |
taught him in childhood. A rat
scurried across the bare floor. He
saw 1t and, startled, exclaimed
"Dieu!" Then he stretched wearily
on his mattress and seemed to
sleep.
I instructed soldiers to put
straw against his door, and set
light to it. AS the smoke curled
acridly under the doors crevices,
the soldiers clattered down the
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