 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. Tonight we escape to the prairie west of the Platte River and to the fighting U.S. cavalry of the Old West as James Warner Bella describes it in his exciting tale... Command. Captain Brittle's. Yes, Sergeant? There comes the tenant called back with a patrol. Yes, I see him. Hold the column. Yes, sir. Column! Hand me my field glasses, Sergeant. Here you are, sir. Thank you. Hmm. Captain Brittle's. Well, Mr. Coheal. Here's the best body of grass, sir. This slope with a small run below for water. This is the best bibwack for tonight. Mr. Coheal, 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. We turned back when we saw them. The wind has shifted a bit. Take a deep breath, Mr. Coheal. Yes, sir. Smell anything? No, sir. Take another deep breath, Mr. Coheal. Get it into your nostrils. Tell me if that thing you smell is sleeping buffalo. No, sir. Smells like dead men. And not freshly killed. Lieutenant Gresham in his squad, sir. I imagine so. The men we've come to find. We'll make sure after midnight. Mr. Coheal, 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'm sure, that accuracy and observation is a military virtue. I suggest that you cultivate it here. Yes, sir. Sergeant, on the back. Yes, sir. This is the Bivouac, dismount and unsaddle. Night grazing area between the crest of this hill and the creek bottom. Use the picket rope. No individual pins. Yes, sir. Dismount! Dismount! Yes, sir, Captain Brittle's. No, sir, Captain Brittle's. Of all the officers in the United States Cavalry, why did they have to assign me to him? A handbook soldier. Overage in grade. A gray, 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, yes, more capable officers. My father wouldn't be guessing. My father would be over yonder right now to see if those corpses are really Gresham and his men. Father would have made sure of the losing time making camp. The broken rattle Sergeant Utterback had found at noon showed clearly. Sir, that broken rattle the Sergeant found? Yes, Mr. Cooill. When 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 Apaches. 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. The cars rest and we can be at the upper reaches of the river by dawn, sir, ahead of them. Mr. Cooill, I have no orders to be anywhere by dawn or any other time. My orders are to find Mr. Gresham's patrol, having found it returned to Fort Stark and report it. I think I found him. I'll know as soon as the moon rises and I go over and take a look. Water the mountain half an hour, saddle blank is to be left on until they're warded. Remember always, Mr. Cooill, cavalry is a very delicate arm of the service, depending as it does on the health of a dumb beast. Yes, sir. Mr. Cooill, reading minds is an uncomfortable habit, but one I have never been able to lose. Yes, sir. Look at the other side of it, Mr. Cooill. 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 Rocha, so would Arapahos, Keowars, or Comanches. They'd all be of a whack in open timber. And, Mr. Cooill, they all make rattles out of buffalo toes. Yes, sir. Pass the word to Sergeant Attaback that dinner will be at 6.30, but the bugle will not sound called. Yes, sir. And, Mr. Cooill. 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 in 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 Yonder's slope was not glorious. Ten bodies, stripped naked, pinned cushioned to the prairie with arrows, their feet and their right hands hacked off. They sold their lives dearly. The empty cartridge cases said that. At least they respected them as fighting men. How's that, Sergeant? Every one of them skinned bald-headed so he can cross the Chander waters without trouble. And whoever did it don't want to fight them again. Why? Hands and feet cut off. That's why I had to cripple them in case they meet them in the hereafter. Sergeant? Yes, Captain? Do you still think the Sioux did this? No, sir. Not now, sir. Why not? I made the march from Bents Fort to Santa Fe with Steve Carney. I know an Apache arrow and I see one, sir. Even a thousand miles more than men. 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. I don't think so, sir. This job is two days old. It wasn't that Sioux war party. This is Apache work. How do you figure that? Well, mostly because the captain knows it's Apache work, too. Lieutenant Cohill? Sir? Take the grave detail. Yes, sir. Sergeant? Yes, sir. We shall move the company out, attend the night. 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 muzzles of coyotes. And after, the air was sweeter in the cold moonlight and the job done in plenty of time for Captain Brittle's scheduled retreat. Command is ready to mount, sir. Very good, sir. Captain Brittle's. Yes, Mr. Cohill. Excuse me, sir, but can't we go after the Indians who did this? Can't we try? Mr. Cohill, the United States Cavalry is now 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'll refer you to the standing orders of the Department of the Platte. They are most explicit on this point. Yes, I know, sir, but Mr. Gresham was attacked. How do you know that? Well, I don't for sure. Of course you don't. But he's dead. And his command dead and mutilated. And we ought to... Or to what? Avenge him? Disabuse yourself of classroom valor, Mr. Cohill. Out here we obey orders. Sergeant. Yes, sir. Pass the word to mount. Yes, sir. I'm Tank. Pass the word. Mount. Pass the word to mount. 30 miles already today. 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 Brittle's. Hour after hour, as 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. You've got a chore eating the back of Mittendorf? I ain't got much. Well, give me a loan of some, huh? You can get some more at the fort tomorrow. Ah, here. Why don't you ever have any your own? Don't approve a chore on the back. My mod, don't it, is it? Thanks. Godfrey mighty. Gettysburg wasn't like this. Well, do tell. No, sir. We rode up to Gettysburg on the steam cars. Hey, Mittendorf, Sarver's back on Cemetery Ridge again. Fitty, he didn't stay there. The only mistake Robert E. Lee ever made, not to leave Sarver way, found him. Yeah? Just the same, the army was the army in them days. Slept in Tansen, and you got a furlough there was girls, not squaws, girls. Well, if you like it so much, why don't you go backwards, girl? Because I was gold-bricked. That's why I joined up again because they said there'd be fighting out here. Yeah, fighting. Only fighting I seen west of the Missouri is on Saturday nights in the barracks. Yeah, it sure ain't like the old army, I'll tell you that. I remember a girl in Richmond, time when I was with Grant when we took Richmond, prettiest little Virginia creeper he ever did see. She fried me forty-three fish. Sergeant, on her back. Yes, sir. I'd like to ask you a question. Yes, sir. How did you know the captain thought they were apaches that killed Mr. Gresham's detail? I've been his first sergeant for a long time, sir. You get to know him. I see. Do I get to know? Well, sir, there's a different kind of service out here. Like, Sarver up there was saying a minute ago, this ain't Gettysburg, it ain't full-dress war, but it's the only kind the captain and I ever served in, sir. Well, you get to know it just like you get to know siege operations are saber-charged by company front after you've had enough of it. During the war between the states, didn't you? No, sir, neither Captain Brittle's nor I saw service in the states, sir. While the North and the South were fighting each other, the West still had to be held, and, well, somebody had to do it. I see. Yes, I see a lot now. That would explain Captain Brittle's contempt for what he calls heroics. He's jealous. He never had his chance at glory. And if he had, our wagery would have muffed it. In a way, I feel sorry for the old boy. Sitting a sweaty horse on these endless prairies while the great words exploded across the country, Vicksburg, Chancellorsville, Antietam, Appomattox, the policeman on the corner, while history rolled across Georgia to the sea. 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 huddle together in the moon shadow of the high bank, quietly talking. Then she just left me standing there like a bound boy at a husking. Yeah, what'd you do then? Well, well, nothing to do except join the army. I had a little girl in Richmond. The time I was at Grant when we took Richmond. She wasn't at all like that, not at all. Any boys ever had a lobster? Nah, not me. I never even seen one. When I was in the breastworks in front of Vicksburg, I had a catfish. Didn't like it. I could sure put away a lobster right now. Press you out of the lobster button into the cooking button. Live? Sure. That's the only way to cook a lobster. Sure, wish I was back in Wisconsin. I'll get you back in the state of Maine and you'll be prying away for Buffalo steak. That true word was never spoken. Some people just ain't never satisfied. I ain't never satisfied for a fact. Tell you that. That's how you get some place in the world, know that? Never be satisfied. I sure got you a long way, didn't I? Got me a stripe. Yeah, well, looks like you can plan on getting even further, Sovere. Captain's getting fidgety again. Oh, well, another day, another dollar. All right, men, fall in. Here we go. Prepare an amount, pass the word. Mount? Mount. Round step forward. Round step forward. Hands. Yo. Yo. He's heading north. How's that, Sergeant? North. Captain's heading north. You're right, Sergeant. Red Mesa should be to our left. Instead, it's dead ahead. That doesn't make any sense. Pass it. 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 on the old frontier, when the Missouri River itself was the jumping off place. Killer Cohill, his 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. Kyle. Mr. Kyle, sir. Yes, Sergeant? Were you dozing, sir? No, no, of course not. I was just thinking. Captain Brittle wants you, sir, to head to the convoy. Thank you, Sergeant. I said you wanted me, sir. Yes, Mr. Cohill, I do. This is Officer's call. Listen carefully. I have Sergeant Sutro ahead of me with a point. You will relieve him with eight men and push forward fast. Yes, sir. You recall the four to cross Red Mesa Wash? Yes, sir, we crossed it yesterday. Exactly. There's a knoll on the east side of the wash. A knoll that is crossed by the trail from the top of the mason. I remember, sir. Beyond that knoll before dawn. Build a bivouac fire as soon as you arrive. Do what, sir? Build a fire. I want to know when you get there. Well, I can send a scout 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'd hold that knoll fighting on foot. And remember, the dawn light works for you. But it can fool you in this country, so don't shoot to the last possible moment. 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. In just a moment, we will return to the second act of escape. But first, look what's going on. CBS Tomorrow Night. George Burns will, for the first time, unveil his sugar-throat voice when the Andrews sisters come to call on him and Gracie. Bing Crosby will go west, young man, go west. For William Boyd, alias Hopalong Cassidy, will be Bing's special guest. And Bing will become Sagalong to team up with Hopalong for a hilarious Western sketch. You'll also hear the antics of top comedian Groucho Marx and another Dr. Crosby. So make Wednesday nights a stay-tuned to CBS Night, for these great shows are heard on most of these same CBS stations. And now, back to... Escape. You knew Red Mesa was there, only because the star stopped where it stood. The moon was a honey-colored ladle, spilling blackness over the edge of the plains. Then the jagged teeth of the rock of the sea broke it into ragged pot-shirts, 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 the soldiers. 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 plum-scared you. Hey, don't stand still, Mittendorf. Keep moving a little all the time. And slap those mounts. Keep them moving, too. Yes. Hey, Lieutenant. Sir? Yes, Sergeant. How come that captain sent us up here to sashay around the top of this little hill? He said we're the bait on his hook. Huh? Decoy. If there's an Indian War party, where to draw them out? Uh, better put on some bacon to fry, Lusk. Make it look natural. Meaning weons may end up like Mr. Gresham and his patrol. There's always that possibility. Hmm. It ain't a prospect that pleases, sir. That's what a soldier lives for, Sarver. To die. It is? Uh, I mean, yes, sir. Was a good performance. To any watching Sioux or Apache, here was a small white soldier war party. Like the two yesterday's party, they had left lying scalpless in the buffalo grass 30 miles up the valley. Firelighted, bacon cooking, horses unsaddled, and warriors sleeping from a long night march. Soft for the killing. 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. I sure wish those dead-burn coyotes didn't sound so much like human beings. Well, you can be sure of one thing. No Indians running around in the middle of the night yelling like a coyote. Yeah. But it sure makes me nervous. Sound like Hoodie Owls back home in Maine. What's that behind you? Don't get in a fret, boys. It's only me. Oh. General Grant's chief is stuck. You know you're lucky I didn't put a bullet through you. Nah, nah, you wouldn't do that. Lieutenant said not to fire till commanded. Any of you fellas ever had engine pudding? What? No. I had sweet potato pudding when I was with Sherman and that lander, but I didn't like it much. Was you with Napoleon at Waterloo? Nope. But I've been talking to Lieutenant. Naturally. What's the word from headquarters? He's made a corn meal in molasses. Why? Engine pudding. Oh. Seen any savages yet? No, and don't expect to yet. Why? There ain't an Indian in the west of the Missouri that'll come out and fight at night if he can help it. That's right. Afraid to take 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. Then you can start worrying. Hm? Dom's coming. Can make out the mesa planar. Sure would lack 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 draws. If it was to come, it would come now. Hold your firemen. Arrows. They're shooting arrows. What'd you expect? They're Indians. What's that? Hit one of the horses. Here they come. I got one of the heathen. I got two. Look at them lying yonder. One of them's still wriggling. I'll fix that. Hold your fire. Well, I was just... They'll be back. That was only the beginning. Yes, sir. You all right, coffin? My leg, sir. Bone shattered. Hurt much? A little, sir. Those arrows, you're wicked. Let's go right through them, man, if they don't hit bone. Do tell. No action in the new army, unservered. Well, it ain't exactly like Gettysburg. Here they come again. Hold fire. Yeah, the light's better this time. It makes no difference. Hold your fire. They're the ones you did, Mr. Gratiuman. Look, that one's wearing corporal shepherds. And it is one with a U.S. cavalry seat. That's Captain Gretel. That's what I want. I was likely having breakfast at the port. Decor. We're done, man. Hold fire. That took care almost half of them. Yeah, they'll be back. Ah, now they won't. That's Captain Gretel's now. Yeah, attacking from the flank. Hey, Sivert, Captain Gretel's got him on the run. Say, can you pull this tarnation arrow out of me? Down below the knoll, the remains of the Apaches were streaking for the open plains, with Captain Gretel'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. Coffins sat, propped up against a saddle, lighting his pipe. His shattered legs stretched naked and useless before him. And Sivert lay where he had 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. And poor Sivert. He finally saw action. Yeah, I can hear him now telling St. Peter about the time he beat the Apaches on the coal hill. It's not very funny. No, I guess you're right, Coffin. How's your leg? Painting you much? Can't feel anything. Lieutenant. Yes, Coffin? You 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. I don't land a ghost you know. You won't get further than the base hospital of Council Bluffs. I'll wire you together to slap a plaster on you and send you right back to fight Indians. It was a strange feeling. A mixture of pride and guilt. Watching a man die whom I had 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 or 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 and it seemed like months instead of hours since I had last looked at his tired gray face. Mr. Cohill, you did that well. You may do in time. Captain, you knew they 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. And had your eyes been sharp you would have found this between the slope and last night's bivouac. And a patchy headband. That's right. And bloodstained. 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 with the main body. I understand perfectly, sir. I'm familiar with departmental orders which allowed defensive actions only and expressly forbid attack. And yet they are in direct violation of cavalry tactics. But cavalry is extremely weak on the defensive and can only defend well by attacking. I believe that is also taught at West Point. Captain, I'm terribly sorry for my... Mr. Cohill, never apologize. It is a mark of weakness. There's a captain out here who tried at once to escape an inquiry board. He escaped it, but he will die a captain in spite of his apology. The officer who sought to it could have worked with him and made a soldier of him if his humanity had been large enough. Mr. Cohill, I'm going to make a soldier out of you. You may present my respects to General Cohill as you write your father. Mr. Cohill, take morning stables. Escape is produced and directed by William N. Robeson. Tonight we have presented command by James Warner Bella, adapted for radio by Mr. Robeson. Featured in the cast were Elliot Reed as Lieutenant Cohill, Bill Johnstone as Captain Brittle's and Ted D'Corsia as Sergeant Utterback. Also heard were Sam Edwards, Tony Barrett, Burt Holland and Paul Freese. Special music was arranged and conducted by Del Castillo. Next week... You are standing on an unfinished roadbed somewhere in Mexico. It is night and a drunken, murderous foreman is forcing you to dig till you drop. The 45 in his hand means that for you, there can be no escape. Gracie Allen's campaign to make George Burns a real singing rival to Bing Crosby, his Wednesday night neighbor on CBS, is reaching its climax. Tomorrow night, backed by the beauty and talent of not one, but all three Andrews sisters, George's Sugar Throat Burns will definitely try out his tonsils and song. Being or Sugar Throat? It's really no choice for CBS fans, for you can hear each Sugar Throat following Bing every Wednesday night on most of these same CBS stations. Now stay tuned for Hit the Jackpot, which follows immediately over most of these same stations. This is CBS, where you'll find adventure and escape every Tuesday night. The Columbia Broadcasting System.