 Tired of the everyday routine? Ever dream of a life of romantic adventure? Want to get away from it all? We offer you escape. Escape, designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Escape, brought to you by your Richfield gasoline dealer and the Richfield Oil Corporation of New York. Marketers of Richfield gasoline, motor oils and other petroleum products. Look for the Richfield Eagle under cream and blue pumps. Tonight we escape to the prairie west of the Platte River and to the Indian fighting US cavalry of the Old West. As James Warner Bella describes it in his exciting tale, command. Brittle, sir. Yes, Sergeant. Here comes Lieutenant Cohill back with a patrol. Yes, I see him. Halt the column. Yes, sir. Hand me my field glasses, Sergeant. Yes, sir. Here you are, sir. Thank you. Captain Brittle's. Well, Mr. Cohill, here's the best body of grass, sir. This slope with the small run below for water. This is the best bivouac for tonight. Mr. Cohill, do you see the rise there to the left behind you across the valley? Yes, sir. What are those shapes lying on that slope? A small herd of buffalo. Sleeping it seems. We didn't go that far, sir. We turned back when we saw them. The wind has shifted a bit. Take a deep breath, Mr. Cohill. Yes, sir. Smell anything? No, sir. Take another deep breath, Mr. Cohill. Get it in your nostrils and tell me if what you smell is sleeping buffalo. No, sir. Smells like dead men. And not freshly killed. Lieutenant Grasham and his squad, sir? I imagine so. The men we've come to find. We'll make sure after nightfall. Mr. Cohill, there are several fairly obvious differences between the great plains and the classroom at West Point. There you can fail and try again. Here you may not have that chance. There they taught you, I am sure, that servitude and accuracy and observation is a military virtue. I suggest that you cultivate it here. Sergeant Octabacck. Yes, sir. This is the Bibuwak, this mountain unsaddled, a night-grazing area between the crest of this hill and the creek bottom. You as the picket rope know individual pins. Yes, sir. Yes. Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Yes,ikh! Yes, sir. Yes, sir, captain Pretels, no, sir, captain Pretels. Of all the officers in the United States why did they have to assign me to him? A handbook soldier over age and grade. A bitter failure of a soldier marking time out here on the plains until he retires, taking up space in the table of organization, standing in the way of younger and more aggressive and, yes, more capable officers. My father wouldn't be guessing. Father would be over yonder right now to see if those corpses are really Gresham and his men. Father would have made sure instead of losing time making camp. The broken rattle Sergeant Uterback had found at noon showed clearly, sir, that broken rattle the Sergeant found. Yes, Mr. Cohill. What we crossed the trace of that Sioux War Party at noon today. That could have been the trail of a Cheyenne War Party. Or Comanches or Apeches. They all make rattles like that from the ends of Buffalo Toes. But if they were Sioux, they couldn't be more than 30 miles to the north in the deadlands. They're afraid of ambush so they'd be camping away from timber and near water. Two hours rest and we can be at the upper reaches of the river by dawn, sir, ahead of them. Mr. Cohill, I have no orders to be anywhere by dawn or any other time. My orders are to find Mr. Gresham's patrol and, having found it, return to Fort Stark and report it. I think I've found him. I'll know as soon as the moon rises and I'll go over and take a look. What are the mounts in half an hour? Yes, sir. Mr. Cohill. Sir. Reading minds is an uncomfortable habit, but one I have never been able to lose. Yes, sir. Look at the other side of it. Suppose that War Party was Cheyenne, which they might be instead of Sioux. They wouldn't be in the deadlands. Cheyennes would head for timber along the Lower Mesa Roa. So would Arapahoe's, Chiowa's or Comanches. They'd all be bewackin' the open timber. And Mr. Cohill, they all make rattles out of Buffalo Toes. Yes, sir. Pass the word to Sergeant Utterback. The dinner will be at 630, but the bugler will not sound calls. Yes, sir. And Mr. Cohill. Yes, sir. There is no shortcut to the top of the glory heap, so we'll not run all over the West tonight looking for one. But if death and battle is a soldier's path to glory, Mr. Gresham and his patrol had found a shortcut. Yet what we looked upon that night on Yanda's slope was not glorious. Well, at least they respected the most fighting men. How's that, Sergeant? Every one of them skin ball-headed so he can cross the shadow waters without trouble. And whoever did it don't want to fight him again. Why? Hands and feet cut off, that's why, sir, to cripple them in case they meet in the Hereafter. Sergeant. Yes, sir? Do you still think the Sioux did this? No, sir. Not now, sir. Why not? Sir, I made the march from Bent's Forth to Santa Fe with Steve Conny, and I know an Apache arrow when I see one, sir. Even a thousand miles from where they're made. Yes, but that Sioux trail we crossed this morning, that war party could have brushed with an Apache war party and come by Apache arrows that way. No, sir. No, sir, this job is two days old, sir. It wasn't that Sioux war party. This is Apache work. How do you figure that? Mostly because the captain knows it's Apache work, too, sir. Lieutenant Coyle. Sir? Take the grave detail. Yes, sir. Sergeant. Yes, sir. We shall move the company out at 10 tonight. Yes, sir. We will return to Fort Stark to report this massacre as fast as we can. Yes, sir. So he's showing me. Makes his lieutenant first grave digger and confides his plans to the sergeant in exchange for flattery. He's an old woman in blue fatigues. Can't hide his bad temper. And worse, he's a frightened old woman. Instead of striking when he has the advantage, he's going to cut and run. In a stiff action, I'd probably have to shoot him and take over the command. A grave doesn't take long to dig in the soft black earth of the plains. And the rocks were nearby to pile upon the still mounds against the hungry mussels of wolves and coyotes. And after, the air was sweeter in the cold moonlight. The job done in plenty of time for Captain Brittle's scheduled retreat. The command is prepared to mount, sir. Very good, Sergeant. Captain Brittle. Yes, Mr. Coyle. Excuse me, sir, but can't we go after the Indians who did this? Can't we try to- Mr. Coyle, the United States Cavalry is not out here to fight Indians. We're here to watch them and report on them for the Indian Bureau. We fight only if they attack us. I refer you to the standing orders of the Department of the Plet. They are most explicit on this point. Yes, I know, sir, but Mr. Gresham was attacked. How do you know that? I don't, for sure. Of course you don't. But he's dead and his command, dead and mutilated, and we ought to- Oh, to what? Avenge him? Disabuse yourself of classroom valor, Mr. Coyle. Out here we obey orders. Sergeant. Yes, sir. Pass the word to mount. Yes, sir. Up thank you. Pass the word, mount. Pass the word, mount. Pass the word, mount. Thirty miles already that day, and who knows how many miles ahead of us tonight. The men are tired. The horses are tired. Cavalry is a delicate arm of the service, Captain Britols. Hour after hour is the moon through our lengthening shadows ahead of us. Hour after hour, walk 30 minutes, trot 5 minutes, dismount and lead 10 minutes, unbidden graze 15 minutes, every hour. Hour after hour. Got a chaw eating tobacco, Middendorf? Ain't got much. Give me a loan or something. You can get some more at the fort tomorrow. Yeah. Why don't you ever have any of your own? Don't approve of chawing tobacco. My ma don't, that is. Thanks. Golf free, mighty. Mexico wasn't like this. Do tell. No, sir. When I was with Winfield, Scott, the time we took Chipulope- Hey, Middendorf, save his back in our Mexican campaign again. Pity he didn't stay there. Yeah. Just the same, the army was arming them days. You slept in tents, and when you took a town, there was girls, senoritas, not scoffs. If you like to sit there and much, why don't you go back with those girls? Cause, I was gold-bricked. Yours what? Gold-bricked. I joined up again because they said they'd be fighting out here. Only fighting, I seen west of the Missouri's on Saturday nights in the barracks. Sergeant other back. Yes, sir. I'd like to ask you a question. Yes, sir. How did you know the captain thought there were apaches that killed Mr. Grasham's detail? Well, I've been his first sergeant for a long time, sir. You, uh, you get to know. I see. Do I get to know? This is a different kind of service out here, sir. It ain't full dress war, but but it's the only kind the captain and I ever served in, sir. And you get to know it just like you get to know siege operations or saber charge by company front after you've had enough of me. I see. Five hours on the way now. Less than three hours till dawn. And we're at the north fork of the Platte in a full 25 minutes for watering call. Some of the men lie sleeping where they've dismounted. Others huddled together in the moon shadow of the high bank quietly talking. She left me standing there like a bound boy at a Husky. What'd you do then? Won nothing to do except join the army. That little senior eater in Mexico City. Time I was with Scott when we took Mexico, but she wasn't at all like that. Not a talk. Any of you boys ever had a lobster? Not me. I never even seen one. I had a catfish once. Didn't like it. I could sure put away a lobster right now. Fresh out of the lobster pot and into the cooking pot. Live? Sure. That's the only way to cook a lobster. Sure wish I was back in Wisconsin. Get you back in the state of Maine. You'll be pining away for buffalo meat. Truer word was never spoken. Some people ain't never satisfied. I ain't never satisfied for a fact. That's how you get some place in this world. Never be satisfied. Sure got you a long way, didn't it? Looks like you can plan on getting even further, Cyber. Captain's getting fidgety again. Oh, yeah. Another day, another dollar. All right, man. All right. Fall in and be quiet. Prepare to mount. Pass a word. Prepare to mount. Pass a word. Prepare to mount. Pass it. Say a mount. Pass it. Mount. Mount. Mount. Mount. Route step. Forward. Route step. Forward. Route step. Forward. March. You go. You go. How's that, Sergeant? North, sir. Captain's heading north. You're right, Sergeant. Red Mesa should be to our left. Instead, it's dead ahead. Doesn't make any sense, Sergeant. Yes, sir. My father would have done things differently. In the cold, dying moonlight, I could imagine him. Young Major Cohill riding out of St. Joe to convoy the wagon trains bound west on the Oregon Trail. What a figure he must have been out here in the old days when the Missouri River itself was the jumping-off place. Killer Cohill, as men had called him, but the wide-roaming Arapahos had another name for him. Blue Devil with eyes in the back of his head. By this time, father would have cut those apaches into coyote meat as they lay sleeping around their smoldering campfire. Mr. Cohill. Mr. Cohill, sir. Yes, Sergeant. Were you dozing, sir? No. No, of course not. I was just thinking. Captain Biddles wants you at the head of the column, sir. Thank you, Sergeant. Sergeant Outerback said you wanted me, sir. Yes, Mr. Cohill. I do. This is his officer's call. Listen carefully. I have Sergeant Sutrow ahead of me with the point. You will relieve him with eight men and push forward fast. Yes, sir. Will you recall the Ford across Red Mesa Wash? Yes, sir. We crossed it yesterday. Exactly. There is a knoll on the east side of the Wash. A knoll that is crossed by the trail from the top of the Mesa. I remember, sir. Be on that knoll before dawn. Build a bivouac fire as soon as you arrive. To what, sir? Build a fire I want to know when you get there. But I can send a messenger back to tell you when I arrive. I want everyone else for miles around to know it, too. Build a bivouac fire, a squad fire. No larger. Yes, sir. Should you happen to be attacked, you ought to hold that knoll fighting on foot. Remember, the dawn light can work for you, but it can also fool you in this country. So don't shoot until the last possible moment. But I don't understand. You don't have to. You have your orders. Yes, sir. Move out, Mr. Cohill. You're the bait on my hook. Riggle. It's new. It's free. Don't miss it. Don't miss this free offer by your Richfield Gasoline Dealer. 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You knew Red Mesa was there only because the stars stopped where it stood. The moon was a honey ladle spilling blackness over the edge of the plains. Then the jagged teeth of the Rockies broke it into ragged pot sherds. And it was gone. It was dark, black dark, cold dark. The squad fire sputtered and took and pushed the night back a little. This was different. This was command. This was the final moment of the soldier's heritage. To stand ready to fire and be fired upon. To kill and be killed. And it wasn't at all like you expected. It just plumb scared you. Don't stand still, Mittendorf. Keep moving a little all the time and slap those mounts. Keep them moving too. Yes, sir. Lieutenant, sir, how come the captain sent us up here to sashay around on the top of this little old hill? He said we're the bait of his hook. Huh? The decoy. There's an Indian war party. We're to draw them out. Better put some bacon on to fry, Lusk. Make it look natural. Yes, sir. Meaning, weuns may end up like Mr. Gresham and his patrol. Is always that possibility? Tain a prospect that pleases, sir. That's what a soldier lives for, Sarver. To die. He does? I mean, yes, sir. It was a good performance. To any watching Sue or Apache, here was a small white soldier war party like the two yesterday's party they'd left lying scalpless in the buffalo grass 30 miles down the valley. Firelighted, bacon cooking. Horses unsaddled and warriors sleeping from a long night march. Soft for the kill. Only the warriors weren't sleeping. Beyond the yellow carpet of firelight, they lay fanned out behind their saddles waiting. Sorting the night sounds with straining ears, pushing at the soft wall of darkness with widened eyes. Wish them dead burned coyotes didn't sound so much like human beings. Well, any can be sure of one thing. No Indian is running around the middle of the night yelling like a coyote. Yeah, but it sure makes me nervous. Sounds like hoodie aisles back home in Maine. What's that? Behind you. Don't get in a fret, boys. It's only me. Oh, General Scott's chief of staff. Oh, something. You're lucky I didn't put a bullet through you. Man, you wouldn't do that. Lieutenant said not to fire until commanded. Any of you fellas ever at Indian Putin? No. I had a sort of bean pudding when I was with old rough and ready Zach Taylor at the Battle of Univista, but I didn't like it much. Was you with Napoleon at Waterloo? No, but I've been talking to the Lieutenant. Naturally. What's the word from headquarters? It's made of cornmeal and molasses. What? Engine pudding. Seen any savages yet? No, and don't expect to yet. Why? Is there any Indian west of the Missouri or come out and fight at night if he can help it? Yeah, that's right. They're afraid of taking a chance of being killed at night. They believe if a warrior's killed at night, he'll be blind when he gets to the happy hunting grounds. Well, then what are we worrying about? Who's worrying? Not me. Oh. And you can start worrying. Huh? Dawn's coming to make out the mesa planer. Sure would like some engine pudding for breakfast. Slowly the light came. First you could see the outline of the mesa, then down below the silver of the water in the wash, then the shapes of the men, and out across the plain the feathers of mist in the drawers. If it was to come, it would come now. Hold your fire, men. Errors. They're shooting arrows. Oh, I'd expect their engines. What was that? Hit one of the horses. Here they come. Oh, my leg. Hold your fire. Hold it. Barra patches. I got one of the heathen. I got two. Look at them lying, Yondi. One of them's still wriggling. I'll fix that. Hold your fire. But I was just... They'll be backed up was only the beginning. Yes, sir. You all right, coffin? My legs, sir. Bone shattered. Hurt much? A little, sir. Those arrows are sure wicked. Go right through a man if they don't hit bone. Do tell. No action in the new army, huh, Sava? Well, it ain't exactly like your polar pack. Did they come again? Hold fire. Lights better this time. Makes no difference. Hold your fire. They're the ones that did Mr. Gresham in. Look, that one's wearing a corporal's chevrons and there's one with a U.S. cavalry saver. Where's Captain Brittle's? That's how I want to know. Most likely having breakfast at the fort. Decoy. We're just a... Lord of mighty... Okay, almost half of them. They'll be back. No, they won't. Here's Captain Brittle's now. Attacking from the flank. Hey, Sava, Captain Brittle's got him on the run. Hey, can you pull this tarnation arrow out of me? Down below the knoll, the remains of the Apaches were streaking for the open planes with Captain Brittle's men overtaking them, cutting them down with thirsty sabers and pistalling the ponies as they ran. And then it was quiet. And not an Indian or his pony was left alive. Coffin sat propped up against a saddle lighting his pipe. His shattered leg stretch naked and useless before him. And Sava lay where he'd fallen. Eyes closed, face blue. His hands around the shaft sunk deep in his left side below the ribs. The feathered tip waving idly with each shallow breath. Can't we do something for him, sir? What? Look how deep that arrow is. Right under the heart. Can't cut it out, can't pull it through. Oh, Sava. He finally saw action. Yeah. I can hear him now telling St. Peter about the time he beat the Apaches under Coheal. That's not very funny. Noah, guess you're right, Coffin. How's your leg? Painting you much? Can't feel anything. Lieutenant. Yes, Coffin? Dear, I think they'll send me back home to get this fixed. You think maybe I'll get to see the state of Maine right soon? I hope so, Coffin. Lander, Goshen, no. You won't get further than the hospital at Council Bluffs. They'll wire you together, slap a plaster on you, send you right back to fight Indians. It was a strange feeling. A mixture of pride and guilt. Watching a man die whom I'd commanded into action, looking at the shattered leg of another. And a feeling of helplessness, too. For the moment we could only sit there and wait. Our horses were dead for a stampeded by the action. We were alone on our little hilltop in the hot red glare of the rising sun. And then the company rode back in triumph, and I was reporting to Captain Brittle's. And it seemed like months instead of hours since I'd last looked at his tired gray face. You may do in time. Captain, you knew there were apaches yesterday at sundown. And you knew they were camped on top of the mesa, didn't you, sir? Mr. Cohill, accuracy and observation is a military virtue. Had you pushed forward to that slope yesterday afternoon, you would have found Mr. Gresham not sleeping buffalo. Had your eyes been sharp, you would have found this between the slope and last night's bivouac. An Apache headband. That's right, unbloodstained. And had you been a plainsman and suspected apaches, you would have looked at once for smoke at sundown from the highest ground, in this case, Red Mesa. You had me fooled, sir. I even thought- The facts for the record are these. My patrol, temporarily bivouacked at dawn today, came under a sudden enemy attack. Fortunately, it was able to hold until I arrived at the main body. I understand perfectly, sir. I'm familiar with departmental orders which allow defensive actions only and expressly forbid attack. And yet they are in direct violation of cavalry tactics. For cavalry is extremely weak on the defensive and can only defend well by attacking. I believe that is also taught at West Point. And I thought you were avoiding an engagement. Captain, I'm terribly sorry. Mr. Cohill, never apologize. It is a mark of weakness. There is a captain out here who tried it once to escape an inquiry board. He escaped it, but he will die a captain in spite of his apology. The officer who saw to that could have worked with him and made a soldier of him if his humanity had been large enough. Mr. Cohill, I am going to make a soldier out of you. You may present my respects to General Cohill when next you write your father. Mr. Cohill, take morning stables. If you drive a car, remember this strange sounding word, xylene. Xylene is one of the highest octane gasoline components known to science. Today, all richfield gasoline contains this powerful super octane component xylene. With a tank full of richfield gasoline containing xylene, you've got dynamic power at the tip of your toe. Smooth, knockless power to put you out of head in traffic. Every gallon of richfield gasoline contains xylene, but that's not all. There is a richfield gasoline especially refined to fit the power requirements of your particular car. By richfield ethyl, ethyl at its best for best results in highest compression motors. By richfield high octane at regular price for the average motor. Both of these famous richfield gasolines contain xylene. Get the best out of your car. Get the most for your money. Get richfield gasoline with xylene. Look for the richfield eagle on the cream and blue pumps. Escape is produced and directed by William M. Robson. And tonight has presented command by James Warner Bella. Adapted for radio by Mr. Robson. Featured in the cast were Harry Bartell as Lt. Cohill. John Hoyt as Captain Brittle's. Wally Mayer as Sergeant Utterback. David Ellis as Updike. Paul Freese as Sarver. Walter Burke as Mittendorf and Hugh Thomas as Coffin. Special music was arranged and played by Ivan Dittmars. Next week. You are standing in the observation turret of a gigantic rocket ship about to be shocked into space on man's first voyage to Mars. In the heavens above you lie the magnificence of the universe. And also terrible dangers from which there is no escape. Next week at this time the Richfield Oil Corporation of New York invites you to escape with one of the most unusual of all stories about man's attempt to conquer space. As Ray Bradbury tells it in his exciting tale Mars is Heaven. Be listening. Goodbye then until the same time next week when once again we offer you escape. Tom Hanlon speaking. This is CBS the Columbia Broadcasting System.