 Tired of the everyday grind? Have a 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. You are a farmer. Peacefully working the soil, planting your crops. While above you, deadly as a vulture, a man is descending who will carry you away to his lair, a place from which there is no escape. So listen now, as Escape brings you Stacey Omonier's exciting story, a source of irritation. Whenever the talk turns to the last war and who won it between the correspondence of the overseas press club on Fleet Street, it becomes a hot two-way fight between the Americans and the Englishman. Myself, I'm a shy man. I keep out of it, nor do myself a shot of Benedictine and Brandy. But privately, I have my own candidate. You can take it for what it's worth, but I'd nominate old Sam Gates. I know about Sam because I had occasion to cover the story for the times. It was during the days of the Blitzkrieg, the Netherlands, Norway and Belgium had already fallen before the German Panzer divisions. And the British expeditionary force was doing its grim best to help out in France. Old Sam Gates was on Mr. Dodgers farm in Halvisham, hoeing turnips, waiting for his niece, Aggie, who will arrive twice daily at dawn and at tea time with his parcel of food. Oh, hello, Aggie. Well, uncle, is there any news? You asked me the same question yesterday. Did I? Yes, I'm the day before that. Well, it's another day. Any news today? In news? What do you want, girl? What news should there be? Well, no harm asking. You have my food. Here you are, uncle. We cut open a new cheese for you. Yeah, well, I'll have a taste of it right now. Did you hear Mrs. Cobain's foul gut out last night? And Mr. Dodge wants you to kill another pig tomorrow? Yeah. Air or plane, uncle? Yeah, I've got ears. Bloody nuisances of the word. These airy planes, ours and theirs. Oh, uncle, did you know that Mrs. Hardwick's nephew, Clarence, has joined up? He's flying a spitfire. Well, I knew he'd never amount to much. Well, Mrs. Hardwick says that... Aggie girl, the cows need milking. All right, uncle. You needn't get crossed. I'm going. Yeah. Bloody morning. If it ain't the girl, it's the airy planes. Old Sam Gates went back to hawing his turnips and muttering to himself about this full world and its inhabitants. But it wasn't an hour later that his thoughts were interrupted by another plane overhead. He waited for it to go away, but it didn't. And what he heard made him look up, startled. A plane was coming down with a Nazi swastika clearly marked on its side, and it was coming down on his field. Oi! Hey there! This ain't no flying field! Stop! Landing them turnips, I just hold them! Oh, you've kicked up 24 yards of Mr. Dodge's good suede. And what are you going to do about it? Well, Grandfather, stand back there where you are, I should. What? You know right to come barging in here with that gun? What are you doing on English soil, anyways? Another word, and I finish you. Keep your hands in the air and walk to me. Schnell, be quick. Now what do you want of me? No questions. Closer. There. No. Paul. Paul Jupierre. I... I'll Hitler. I'll Hitler me foot. I'm not much in favor of Mr. Hitler. Hey, what are you talking about, Herr Jupierre? I ain't no one called Herr Jopierre, and what's more, I don't want to be. Huh? One moment. What do you mean? Hey, wait! My beard ain't for tugging. You've been gone and lost your mind. Quiet. You, what is your name? Yeah, Sam Gates. Who are you? Never mind. Lie down. Keep your face in the ground. Are you going to shoot me? Englander Schweinhund. Hey, do it safely. I suppose I allowed to. Old Sam Gates did as he was told, and the pilot went to work on the engine of this photo reconnaissance plane. He located his trouble in a clogged fuel line and had it repaired in a few minutes. Then he looked at the old man and smiled grimly. You old man! Get in the plane. Well, what are you talking about? I ain't imitating fishing or birds. A man's two feet belong on the ground, and that's where mine is staying. No discussion. Get in or I shoot. What do you want me for? Get in! You're going back with me. What is the matter, old Grimfather? You're so pale. What if I am? I ain't been in the hands of a madman before. I want to be set down this minute. I can't be flying about the country with poor instill to do with Mr. Dodgy's Parnips only half thin. He needs. What's that noise from? You're Englishmen. They are shooting at us. Better say you pray, Grimfather. I've been praying, but I can't decide whether I want the Almighty to strike you down or save me. The right wingtip shot away. The fuselage rent with halls as big as a man's fist. The Nazi reconnaissance plane, nevertheless, remained miraculously aloft. Neither husband, nor pilot, nor old Sam Gates was hurt. Sam was being spared for other things. Within minutes they had crossed the channel and were gliding downwards. Sam knew by the roofs of the houses, the trees and streams, that he was in a foreign country. When they landed, Sam found himself behind German lines in France. The swastikas, the sea of unfamiliar faces shouting at each other in the heathen gibberish filled the old man with a strange dread. But he made up his mind to stick it through as he walked stiffly in front of the pilot's prodding pistol until they reached a zinc roof building and went in. Are you going as far as I can? That aeroplane ride shook me up a bit. I'll hit left. I'll hit left. General is occupied, Captain. I must see him. Tomorrow morning. It is a matter of extreme urgency. Take me to him immediately. Very well, Captain. Get the pipe out of your mouth. Stand at attention, Graham Potter. I'll hit left. I'll hit left. Now, what is the meaning of this, houseman? Who is this old farmer? I brought him from England, General. Houseman, have you gone mad? That he has mad as a martyr. Without a bow, your leave becomes unreliable sky, kicking up 25 yards of good turnips and snatches me from the honest toil to go flying up with him. Grab you. General, please look at him closely. What do you expect me to see, houseman? No. Paul Jopin. I never heard of any Paul Jopin. My name is Sam Gates, and as much as your flying machine grinds a man's bones to dust, I'll expect you to have one deliver me safe and sound to Mr. Dodgy's farm on my native soil or the king will hear of this. This is not Paul? No, General. Jupére is now a gardener at the convent of St. Eloise at Mailleton-en-Or, 100 feet from British field headquarters in Paris. I know where he is supposed to be. What is the point of all this, houseman? Paul Jupére has practically become the eyes and ears of the German army. He delivered us the complete blueprint of the marginal line and removed the Englanders. You do not have to sing Paul's praises to me. I am well aware he is the best spy in the Third Reich. But the Englanders know that too. They put a reward of 10,000 pounds on his head. Twice they have captured him and each time he has slipped from their fingers. They have gone so fast to distribute his photograph to all commanding officers in their states. Houseman, you are pondering the obvious. Now what about this old farmer? He and Paul Jupére are exactly identical in appearance. What? I don't want to grieve for that over here. But suppose again, they found the dead body of Paul Jupére. Houseman, you may have something there. I am certain of it. Put Grimfather in one of our uniforms, which Jupére's identity card in his pocket, and I'll let the Englanders to find him dead behind our lines. Excellent. The English will spread the word of Paul's death to the other allies and the real Paul Jupére will be free to continue his labors undisturbed. Houseman, you are a clever man. Thank you, Herr General. Do not worry, Houseman. The word of this will reach the fewer himself. But now we do not have a moment to lose. The English are attacking Hill 701, which we are abandoning within the hour to straighten our lines. The perfect place for our little plan. Take up a light and I'll shoot with you. You may be here. Keep the farmer at the front lines until the order for retreat is given. Then shoot him, but do not disfigure him, let him out face upwards. I understand, perfect. Proceed immediately, Houseman. I'll hit la. I'll hit la. And then old Sam was forced into a Nazi officer's field uniform, a helmet placed on his head, and before he knew where he was going, he found himself at the front. Look, my legs are aching. When am I going back to my turnips? You'll be back to the soil quite soon. We are in the forward area now, and the retreat has started. Well, I ain't going no further. No. You're not about to take me back to Mr. Dodger's farm, and it makes no difference to me whether you shoot me or I get blown to bits by one of them exploding things. No. I'll have me a last pipe full of tobacco either way. Oh, dreaded, this fucking tin keeps falling over my eyes. Keep moving and keep that helmet on your head. Down! Capitan, that was too close. They have the range. Let us shoot him and get out of here. Yeah. All right, Grandfather, you can have your pipe full of smoke now. Are you ready to shoot? I'm out. And fire! We will return to escape in just a moment, but first, answering the call of the sick and the distressed at home and at the battlefield is the job of the Red Cross. This month, the Red Cross is asking for contributions to carry on this wonderful work for another year. Can we do less than answer the call ourselves? Give as much as you can to the American Red Cross. And now, back to escape. That same day, the sun was hot in the midday sky. As an hour later, a forward patrol of English Tommies rounded Hill 701 and saw the bodies of Lieutenant Schutz, Captain Hausmann and behind a rock, old Sam Gates, lying with his pipe still in his hand. They were about to move on when the corporal coming up from the rear stopped them. Hold on a minute. What's that for? We've got to get back to battalion headquarters. The one there with the pipe seems to be breathing. We'll leave him to the aid boys. They'll be along in a bit. Right, old sergeant, but he might be a pretty big fish. That's headquarters insignia he's wearing. We'll see if we can bring him around. We'll have to be quick about it. Yeah, the sun must have struck me down. Give me an awful set of dreams for my poor Red... Can't make out what he's saying. Come on, give him a hand. Get him up. We've got to get a move on. Is this the prisoner's sergeant? Yes, sir. He's a bit shaken, but otherwise he's all right, sir. Seems to understand English. Name? Sam Gates. Rank? Don't know what you're talking about. Rank. Army rank. Well, I've nothing to do with any armies. You mind telling me where the devil I am? Well, speaks English like a native. Your identification card, please. Zikdina identification cutter. Look here, what are you talking Nazi for? You're an Englishman, same as I am. Now, search him, sergeant. Yes, sir. Here you are, sir. Thank you, sergeant. Well, the must to spy himself, Paul Luper. Hell, you won't get away from us this time, Paul. Well, as the whole world gone daft, my name is Sam Gates, and I was Christen Sobe, by me maiden Aunt Christina. And I'm no Paul Dope here, and I never was. Good show, Paul. Good show. What do you need me, Paul? I'll tell you where I was born and bred, in who my wife is. Not your story worked out the last detail, but it won't do you a bit of good. You were tried by our court marshal September last, and the verdict still holds. You're gonna be executed as soon as possible. Make out the order of execution, Lieutenant. Yes, sir. And you better take the staff car and run down to division headquarters and have General Cartwright sign it. I really don't have much time, sir. The challenge has all to smooth forward. Can't you proceed on your own, authority? Not with General Cartwright. He worked his way up through the ranks, and he never quite got over it. Yes, sir. He doesn't like it much if you get your office's commission out of the university. I know. And in particular, he's never forgiven me for having graduated from Oxford. Well, capturing two pairs is going to be quite a feather in your cap, sir. Ah, yes. Well, it'll get going, Lieutenant. The general wants to witness the execution. Tell him we'll be over at the bombed-out farmhouse. Yes, sir. Squad, halt! Now, there won't be any delay, ma'am. Sergeant Corporal, advance the prisoner to the war. Keep your rifles cocked. Yes, sir. Right, sir. Close your pair. Have you anything to say before the sentence is executed? My name is Sam Gates, and if I was 20 years younger, I'd give you a punch in the ruddy eye. Why, you had me guilty before I opened me mouth. You can go to bloody blue blazes. Oh, very well. Is there any last request you have to make? Ah, I want to smoke out a last pipe full of tobacco in peace and quiet. I don't want none of that white cloth blind in my eyes. A request granted. Beg your pardon, sir, but the general's driven up. All right, Sergeant. All right, Morsley. What's this all about? Is that Paul Jupere? Yes, sir. My most remarkable man. He not only bothered to learn English, but he even went to the trouble of mastering our local dialects. He calls himself Sam Gates. He had me fooled at first, sir, but I kept after the sentence. Bring the prisoner air. All right, sir. But I'm afraid you won't get much out of him. He sticks to his own story. Sergeant, marks the prisoner forward. Say, your name is Sam Gates? It is. And if you had any sense, you'd believe me. I was minding my business, owing Mr. Dodges' turnips in Alvisham, when this daft aviator comes swooping down in his airy plane, carrying up good sweets, and he snatches me away with him. Kidnapped, eh? And how did you manage to get into a Nazi's officer's uniform? Explain that. Oh! They was hatching something. That's what. They forced me to wear a tin bucket in their green soldier's suits and made me go along with them. Aren't we wasting time, sir? We found your pair's identification card in his pocket. I told you they was hatching something. They put it in my pocket. How much do you expect us to believe? Oh, I don't ask you to believe anything at all. We'll get to the truth soon enough. Where were you born? Alvisham. Three miles from Mr. Dodges' farm and once more I haven't set foot out of the country except once to visit the flower show at the Market Rockbrough. And today to go flying about with that madman. Alvisham, eh? The perfect characterization. The pity to execute so fine an actor. Married? Yes, I be. And what's your wife's maiden name? Annie Hatchett. Everyone in Alvisham knows. Good show. Who did you say you worked for? Mr. Dodge. Charlie Dodge. And he raises horses and pigs besides. And what you know, got to grow besides turnips, runner beans. Good show. Sam. Good show. Sam, then. Now, I see what you can do with this. What's the name of the local vicar? Ah. You don't know, do you? Oh, I know well enough but mentioning him set me thinking that I promised the vicar a pot of beans which I never did bring. And what's worse, I ain't been to church in over a month or Sunday. Ah. Maybe that's why the Almighty's placed my life in the hands of a pair of silly gaffers like the both of you. But you haven't told us who's the vicar's name. It's the Reverend David Price and a fine man he is. David Price. Wait a minute. I know a Reverend Price. He baptised my niece's cousin. What does he look like? Ah. You're another one that's gone a bit loony, ain't you? Just answer the question. Well, if you know the Reverend, I don't have to tell you. He's got a mole on the left side of his face with a hair growing out of it. And his nose is crooked where a horse kicked him when he was four years old. By heavens, he's right. Ah. The same man. What is that proof, sir? He might have met the man once. He might not be Paul Juppert after all. Ah. Now you're getting some sense at last. And if it's just Paul you're after, I might be able to tell you where he's at. Where, old man? He was a gardener somewhere. Don't rightly remember. Couldn't make out much of what they were saying. No fear. Afraid we might be able to check up on it, eh? It's coming to me. There's some convent near the army headquarters in Paris. Ah. Mighty no. That's it. Mountain on no. The convent sent a Louise. Mountain on no. Colonel, send a code message to Paris and order them to arrest the gardener immediately. Eh, yes, sir. And report back as soon as you hear anything. Mr. Gates, you come along with me. Colonel Mosby reporting to the general, sir. Well? Message from GHQ. They've arrested the gardener, sir. He is Paul Juppert, all right? You realize that Juppert might still be at large? Yes, sir. And Sam Gates here shot to death by his own people? Yes, sir. You're an Oxford man, aren't you, Mosby? Yes, sir. I never went to university. I went my way up through the ranks. Yes. First. Mr. Gates. My apologies. Paul Juppert is under arrest, and your honor has vindicated. Oh, you'd have done better to listen to me in the first place. I certainly would, sir. But you'll hear more of this. The King is certain to award you the Victoria Cross or something of that sort. In the meantime, what can I do for you? Well, I want to get back home. That could be arranged. Yeah, but I'd like to get home at tea time. What time is that? Well, five o'clock or thereabouts. Wait a minute. Ring up Wing Commander Jennings, RAF headquarters. Yes, sir. Jennings, yeah? General Cartwright, one moment. Wing Commander Jennings, then. All right. Wing Commander Jennings speaking. This is General Cartwright. Have you flown the dispatch case out yet? Oh, not yet, sir. Good. There's a little matter which concerns the honor of the British Army. Oh, what's that, sir? A friend of mine's here, Sam Gates. He'll come over from England to give us some valuable information. I promise to have him back at his farm at Aversham before tea time at five o'clock. Can you take a passenger? Well, I might be able to manage it, sir, if I can ever find the player. At a few minutes before five, Wing Commander Jennings landed his light plane on Mr. Dodgers' farm, being very careful to tear up as few turnips as possible. The commander shook hands with Sam and flew inland. The old man watched him and went slowly along and completed a line of turnips he had begun in the morning as he watched for his knee saggy to arrive with his parcel of food. Well, uncle, is there any news? You asked me that very same question this morning. Did I? Well, it's another day gone. Any news today? News? What do you want, girl? What news should there be? Needed enough to earn a bite to eat and a glass of beer without always wanting news, news, news. Hey, glad you and your news. Now, you get back home and fix the pot of runner beans to the bicker and you be quick about it. All right, uncle. Hey, hey, and you tell him, I'll be at church on Sunday next for sure. Under the direction of Anthony Ellis, Escape has brought you a source of irritation by Stacey Ammonier, adapted by Meyer Dolinsky and starring Ben Wright as Sam. Featured in the cast were Hi, Everback, Paul Freese, Jack Krushen, Charlie Lung, Betty Harford, John Doddsworth, Alec Harford, Richard Peele, and Ramsey Hill. The special music for Escape is composed and conducted by Leith Stephen. Next week. You are in the suffocating depths of a jungle listening to the words of your companion. While the native people seemingly friendly and quiet are awaiting the moment to strike, which when they do will mean a fate from which there is no escape. So listen next week when Escape brings you Somerset Mom's exciting story, The Outstation. This Monday night, Walk a Mile, the fast, furious, funny quiz show starring Bill Cullen, is yours for fun at the star's address. Be listening every Monday as Walk a Mile struts its stuff on most of the same CBS radio stations to make it an eventful evening side by side with Arthur Godfrey's talent scouts and crime classics. This is Roy Rowan speaking. And remember the stars still shine in the summer theater every Monday night on the CBS Radio Network.