Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 163, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 July 1915 — HIDDEN IN BEER CASK SPY RIDES PAST HIS FOES [ARTICLE]

HIDDEN IN BEER CASK SPY RIDES PAST HIS FOES

French Officer’s Conveyance, a Dutchman’s Dray, Passes Safe ’Mid Man Hunt - r 1 STOPPED NEAR THE FRONTIER Purloiner of German Secrets at Namur Finally Emerges In Holland From Barrel Refuge^—Close to Capture Several Times. By EDGAR ANSEL MOWRER. (Correspondent of the Chicago News.) Paris. —This is a story that was told me by a hotelkeeper’s wife at Namur, who has traveled considerably about Belgium. After the Germans destroyed the forts of Namur with their long-range, heavy cannon, the Belgians, for reasons which are not yet quite clear, evacuated the place. The invaders occupied the city, made it one of their centers of operations and settled down as if they intended to stay. With their usual precision they saw, even in August, that a time might come when a retreat would be necessary. Namur, at the junction of the Meuse and the Sambre, would be one of the pivots for a line of defensei They hastily began to rebuild the forts, enlarging and strengthening them.

Namurrois Go to Work at Last. But this work demanded many, hands. The Germans called upon, the inhabitants, offering high wages. For a month not a man from the town responded. The Namurrois would die rather than work for the Germans, and said so. So the German military brought a few hundred civilians from Germany, but left the original offer open to the Belgians. There was no work in Namur; the prices of foodstuffs rose higher and higher. Finally one man, maddened by the pinched faces of his wife and babies, shouldered his shovel and reported ready for work. This was the signal. Not only the Namurrois but idle men from all over Belgium came to toil at the massive fortifications. With them one day arrived a Frenchman, who turned out to be an officer of the engineering corps. He came originally from Glvet, near the Belgian frontier, so his French resembled that of the Belgians. He was dressed like a workingman, even to the insignia of the Belgian L W. W., which he wore conspicuously. His papers showed his name was Qeorges Bezon, Belgian, thirty-two years old, born at Neufchpteau. The Germans accepted him without question or suspicion. Notices Hands Are Small. For three weeks the French officer dug on the fortifications. He did his work well. Then, one day, a German officer, who happened to pause near where the Frenchman was digging, noticed that the latter’s hands, despite their coating of dirt, were small and well made. To this German they seemed too small and too well made. He questioned the pseudo-laborer. The latter’s replies were satisfactory. But the German felt that in spite of appearances something was wrong about this Georges Bezon, born in Neufchateau in April, 1882. That night Namur telephoned Neufchateau. Search among the municipal records failed to reveal the name of Bezon.

"We’ll get him,” laughed the German officer who had laid bare the deception, and he gave orders to arrest Bezon the following morning. When morning came it brought the workers to the fortifications, but Georges Bezon was not among them. A search was made. Inquiries at the house where the suspect had been staying showed he had not come In the night before. All of the efforts made by the military failed to reveal how the artful Georges had escaped. Perhaps some of the inhabitants didn’t tell all

they knew. The hatred of the Namurrois for the German is extremtf. Next Seen in Liege. The next that the clever German officer saw of Georges Bezon was at Liege. He had gone over to visit a friend, an officer in the artillery. The friend was conducting him about the town one evening. They entered a case. At the first table, sipping a glass of bitter wine, dressed as a well-to-do bourgeois, sat the man who had worked on the fortifications in Namur. “Catch that man,” the German cried to some soldiers, and he himself rushed upon his enemy. But the well dressed man had seen the German as quickly as he was seen. In a flash he was out of the case, around the first corner and had disappeared. The garrison of Liege was all upset and a hunt was begun in earnest The inhabitants were disturbed, guards were posted, German cavalry scoured the country, descriptions of Georges Bezon were telephoned broadcast. But when evening came and the cavalry bands returned none of them had the desired prisoner, though they had plenty of others who were magnanimously released as soon as they proved their innocence. Were Close to Capture. But the Germans had come closer than they knew to catching their man. From Liege to the Dutch frontier at Esden is about twelve miles. Sentries are posted on the outskirts of the town and again at the frontier. But enterprising Dutchmen drive a flourishing trade by loading drays with beer in Holland and driving to Liege and selling their refreshments. Whether legal or not, the trade seems to be allowed by both nationalities. On the day of the man hunt a Dutchman was returning from Liege to the frontier with a drayload of empty casks. He was passing through the ruined village of Vise, when from the wreck of a house a man rose and called to him to stop. “Let me go with you into Holland,” said the man, who wore the clothes of a workingman. “I can’t, friend," replied the Dutchman. “My pass is good only for one. Who are you?" For answer the other made the wide French salute with the palm forward and the fling of the arm as it returns to the side. "Oh-h-h-h-h!” said the driver. “Will you help me or not?” went on the other. “Make up your mind quickly. The cavalry are after me. It won’t be long before they’re here. You know what that means, a spy?" The sympathies of those Dutch who live along the Belgian border are not doubtful. The carter was risking his life, but he did not stop to think of consequences. “Can you get into that cask?” he asked, pointing to one on top.

The Frenchman sprang to the top of the load. “Yes,” he called from the inside, “put on the head and hammer it in well. 'Hurry." German cavalry overtook the dray 500 yards from the frontier. Stop!” ordered the sergeant in command. “What's in that load?” “Empty casks,” answpred the Dutchman, pulling up his two horses. The cavalry surrounded the dray. They inspected the driver's pass, and found it in good order. “There’s nothing in those barrels?” the sergeant asked, as he pounded lustily on the very one where the fugitive was curled. The barrel boomed a hollow reply. If the sergeant had pounded another barrel he would have noticed a difference in the tone. But he didn’t Instead, he turned’ his horse and the party galloped back the way they had come. Ten minutes later the French officer stood on Dutch soil, a free man. In his pocket and in his mind went some sketches of the German defenses of Belgium.