 Suspense, and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robson. Each year, thousands of short stories roll out from a multitude of typewriters and march across the pages of our magazines toward well-deserved oblivion. Few are memorable. Fewer still are classics. They pass the time and are forgotten even before the paper in which they are written is reduced to black ash. But occasionally a story is written that is a true classic, an unforgettable tale. Listen to such a one now, as Joseph Cotton stars in Ambrose Bearse's weird and wonderful story of the Civil War, an occurrence at Al Creek Bridge, which begins in exactly one minute. Another visit with Joe and Daphne Forsythe. Joe? Joe? Joe, stop reading that paper and talk to me. I'm listening. Go ahead. Well, I was talking to Mrs. Snyder today. You know, she's the one whose boy had 31% less cavities? Uh-huh. Well, she thinks that we should buy bigger savings bonds. Uh-huh. She says that when people can afford it, it makes more sense. Oh, she says there are a lot of different denominations. They start at $25, but then there were 50, 100, 200, and even $500 bonds. Is that so? Purchasing price? Uh-huh. I thought so. Joe, what did I say? Uh, you said that United States savings bonds are a safe, easy way of investing. I did. That they help guard our country's freedom. And? They're the best investment in America's future. I said something else, too. Oh, yeah. You said that the total accumulated, compounded, semi-annual interest of the Series E savings bond will amount to 93 and one-third percent of the original purchase price. Well, now how did you do that? Husband's trade secret. And now, occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, starring Mr. Joseph Cotton, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down through the ties at the swift water 20 feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord, and a rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross timber above his head. He thought, if I could free my hands, I might throw off this nose and dive into the creek. If I swam under water, I would be safe from their bullets. If my wind held out, I could make the Southern Bank take to the woods and get away home. Peyton Farquhar, Alabama planter, stood at the end of a plank. A captain of the Union Army and a sergeant stood at the other end. When they stepped aside, the plank would tip upward, and Peyton Farquhar, Confederate spy, would slip between the ties to hang until dead, above the muddy water of Owl Creek. The captain steps aside, draws his sword, flourishes it to a carry, sings out a command. The men on the bank smartly spread their legs, thrust hands forward over their rifle barrels. The sergeant on the end of the plank takes one step to the left. The plank tips forward, and Peyton Farquhar drops between the timbers of Owl Creek Bridge. It takes longer to tell it. As you drop down, would you lose consciousness? You are as one already dead. Then you awaken sharply in pain to feel, not to think just to feel. The cutting pressure on your throat, the agonies of pulsating fire shooting from your neck downward. To feel the fullness, the congestion, the head bursting with suffocation. Distantly beyond outside yourself, you hear a splash. Remotely you sense cool, wet, green darkness. The rope is broken. You have fallen into the stream. Come Peyton, they can't lick you. The rope's giving. Again, try, try once more. That does it. You must breathe when you come to the service. You breathe quickly. Or if they haven't hanged you, and they fail to drown you, you can't let them shoot you. There he is! Ready, ready, ready! You dive deeply. But above the ringing in your ears, you hear the volley of the rifles. As you rise toward the surface, you meet shining bits of metal singularly flattened. The distorted and spent bullets oscillating slowly downward past you. One catches you in the collar. It feels uncomfortably warm. You, you, you snatch it out. And this grey piece of Yankee lead reminds you of the grey uniform on the soldier who is responsible for your being here. It was only night before last when the soldier had written up the driveway as you and your wife sat under the magnolia trees in the cool twilight. Evening, sir. Evening, corporal. I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water, sir. Of course. Oh, don't disturb yourself, Peyton. I'll go fetch it. You're most kind, ma'am. If you'll indicate the well- Oh, nonsense. You just said a spell with my husband. You look as if you could do with some rest. Yes, ma'am. I reckon I could. I'll be back in a jiffy. Mikey, ma'am. Whose command are you with, corporal? Colonel Tolliver, sir. 13th, North Carolina. We get so little news down here. How are things going at the front? Not good, sir. Damn, Yankees are getting ready for another advance. They're repairing the railroad. They got it in shape almost to Owl Creek Bridge. Then they got an outpost there. Once they can run trains beyond the bridge, there's nothing to stop them between here and Atlanta. Then why hasn't the bridge been destroyed? The military couldn't get near it. A civilian might. Owl Creek Bridge. Well, I'm not far from here, is it? Less than 20 miles. You say they have an outpost there? Which side? To the other side. Nothing on this side but a couple of pickets half a mile out on the railroad and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge. And this bridge is important. Sure is. Well, what if it were destroyed? Hold up, Yankees, several weeks. Now, suppose a man, a civilian like myself, should elude the picket post and get the better of that sentinel. What could he accomplish? Well, I was that week ago, just before we had to pull out. The driftwood come down last winter's flood. It's caught on the trestle at this end. Look, might a dry and tender it to me. I see. A fellow with enough gumption might get through and set fire to it or to burn like toad. Yeah, it should. Here's your water, Corporal. Right out of the springhouse. Oh, thank you kindly, ma'am. My, that's cool and nice. Well, I reckon I better hit the leather. I got a lot of riding here to meet tonight. Well, good luck to you, Corporal, and thank you for your information. You'd be taking a chance, sir, but you couldn't do a greater service for your country. I'll remember that, Corporal. Bye, ma'am. Bye, sir, and many thanks. You break the surface of Power Creek for a second time, and now you're much further downstream, further away from the Union soldiers on the bridge, reloading their guns, and the ramrods flashing in the morning sun. Then something seems to grab you. Your world round and round, spinning, spinning like a water log top. You're caught in a vortex of whirlpool. The water, the banks, the distant bridge, the soldiers become indistinct blurs. You're helpless. You feel dizzy and sick to your stomach. Just as you felt last night when you crept up the bank toward the lone sentinel at the south end of the bridge and discovered that the sentinel was not alone. There he is, boys, grab him! Got him, Sergeant! Well, that's the Peyton Farquhar we've been expecting you. How did you know mine? Well, look here, I'm a civilian. I was just... I'll save your breath. Thank you, maker. We didn't shoot you in the back. We don't do things like that up north. You'll get a trial, everything fair and square. All right, bring him along, man. Here he is, Captain, right on schedule. Good work, Sergeant. Is this the man, Lieutenant? That's him. Why, you... you were the corporal who stopped at my plantation last night. That's right, Mr. Farquhar, but not of the 13th North Carolina volunteers. Mr. Farquhar, this is Lieutenant Saltonstall, Intelligence Officer, 5th Massachusetts Regulatory. You've trapped me. You've delivered it and led me into a trap. I'm a civilian, a planter. Also a Southern patriot caught in the act of sabotage. You can't prove it. We don't have to. But why have you done this? Why have you deliberately trapped me? It's so much easier to eliminate civilian resistance by luring it into the open. You fell for the bait. Too bad. Now, look here. It is my constitutional right. It's Constitution. The Constitution of the United States of America or Jeff Davis. You insulting Yankee. Remember your manners, sir. I demand a trial. You've just had it. Post a guard over him, Sergeant. Yes, sir. We'll hang him in the morning. In a moment, we continue with the second act of... Suspense. In what form can an act of military heroism be acknowledged? In one example, the form is a rectangular blue ribbon set in a gold-colored metal frame of laurel leaves, worn centered over the right breast pocket of the uniform. A bronze oak leaf cluster may be affixed to the ribbon for each subsequent award of the same decoration. This is the emblem of the Distinguished Unit Citation, awarded to units of our armed forces and those of our allies for extraordinary heroism in action against an armed enemy. One of America's newer military decorations, it is designated to recognize activity on or after December 7, 1941. The Distinguished Unit Campaign Streamer is blue, with the name of the sighted action embroidered in white. To be eligible for this citation, the degree of heroism required is the same as that which, in an individual, would warrant the presentation of our second highest award for valor, the Distinguished Service Cross. The Distinguished Unit emblem may be worn permanently by all those involved in the sighted action, but for those individuals joining the unit later, the emblem may be worn only for the duration of their assignment. Both as individuals and as members of military units, America's servicemen have proved themselves worthy of medals and worthy of admiration by their countrymen. And now, starring Joseph Cotton, act two of occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. But they didn't hang. The rope broke and the whirlpool carried you away and now you realize that the whirling has stopped. You open your eyes, you're lying on the southern bank of the stream out of sight of your enemies. Safe. You leap to your feet and run into the woods south towards home. It's nearly noon now and for half an hour you've been plunging through a swamp waist-deep in green ooze. Your neck hurts constantly. Your head throbs and your tongue is thick. And that swarm before your eyes catching the eyelids. Mosquitoes buzz in your ears, drilled deep in your hands and swollen neck. You can't go any longer. You slow down, you stop. You reach to it a palmetta root for support and it slithers from your grasp and slides softly into the water. Water moccasin. Fear finds you at last. Terror which stood aloof when you fled the execution of the bullets now embraces you with clammy unction. Now water moccasin. Now each branch and root seems to ride under your glance. The swamp is undulating with certain death. You plunge on through the dark, stinking ooze on and on, tripping, stumbling, never stopping. But terror rides your back, flogging you with the whiplash of fear. My spacois fit as a fiddle in jig time. Now you just drink this shayab tea, my spacois. Thank you. Thank you. Jethro. That's a nice spacois. What are you doing here? I live here. You live where, my? What happened? Well, I was pulling my dugout and coming home through the swamp with a mess of catfish. I see you laying out there on the bank in front of my cabin. Jethro, I heard... I thought you were dead. Who? Me? Dead? Of course, you thought Jethro was dead. You knew he had consumption when you sold him. You knew he couldn't last long and he wasn't earning his keep. His wife and his daughter had carried on some at first, but after a while they calmed down. And last you heard of Jethro. He was dead. You thought I was dead, my spacois. Well, I said, don't you know what then happened to me? I'm free. I'm free at last. Yes, I'm free. And I expect pretty soon my woman and my little girl are going to come along and join me. How is that, my spacois? Is they well? Yes, yes indeed. They're both fine. Oh, I'm sure glad to hear that. Jethro, I don't know how to say this, but I really was sorry about having to sell you, but there wasn't anything else I could do. Oh, I understand, my spacois. But don't you pay it no mind. I done forgive you long time ago. You have? For sure. Don't the Lord tell us to forgive those with trespass against us? And don't the Lord promise us we shall be free? Don't you worry none about it, my spacois. Hey, here now. Quiet there, spacois. Quiet, sugar. They must have heard a razor back in the brush. Oh, come on. Look, my spacois. There's a horse coming down the back road. Well, I swear, it's a soldier. When I'm a soldier, it's copper looking. Copper? Jethro, you've got to hide me. How come I've got to hide you, my spacois? Don't ask them any questions, you insolent. My spacois, you forget. I'm free now. Well, then, just as an old friend of mine, please, just hide me. Don't tell that soldier anything. Well, sure. I reckon I can do that for an old friend, my spacois. Yeah. Yeah, you get on under this bed here now. Put the covers over the side. Have you come this far just to be turned in by a wool-gathering black who talks crazy? If Jethro knew this gray-clad corporal was really a union lieutenant, he'd guarantee his freedom by turning you in. Unless... Unless, of course, he's planning to dispose of you himself. Yes. That's it. He's going to do you in himself. Yes, sir. I remember not telling him. Just keep minding your own business, sir, because you live longer. Yeah. Y'all can come on out now, my spacois. I declare I don't understand none of this. You said not to tell him you're here, and he says not to tell you he's been here. Now, what's this all about, my spacois? Oh, it's nothing, Jethro, nothing. I owe the man some money, and I'm not ready to pay it yet. Oh, I see. Well, I wouldn't know nothing about that. Money's something never bothered me like it do most. Money and me's always been strange. Jethro, what are you... what are you going to do with that knife? What? Oh, I was just fixing to slit up some of them catfish I got in the dugout. Looked like you could do with a little food, my spacois. Oh, no, no. Thank you, Jethro. I want to get home by sundown if you'll just tell me which way I should go. I don't rightly know, my spacois. I reckon from the way the sun's reclining it'd be down the road that way. Yes, that should be about right. I ain't never been back, you know. I ain't never tried to go back a sense I've been free. Yes, I know. I reckon it won't be long till my woman and my little one comes here to me. Of course. If you get back, my spacois, if you see them, or you tell them I'm here waiting for them. Yes, I'll do that, Jethro. I'll do that. In just a moment, we continue with the third act of... suspense. We have together ample capacity and freedom to defend freedom. This is NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. The strategic land area covered by the North Atlantic Treaty is vast and is divided into three major commands in accord with geography and political factors. European, Atlantic Ocean, and Channel commands. Combined, these cover a land and water mass stretching virtually from the North Pole to the Tropic of Cancer, from the coastal waters of North America to those of Europe and Africa. The United States of America is a part of NATO. You should be aware of and alert to the programs and objectives of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. And now, starring Joseph Cotton, act three of the currents at Owl Creek Bridge. How long have you been running down this endless road? It's dark now, is it night? No, the darkness is only the black of a sudden summer storm. That lightning flash clearly shows the white road ahead and the black silhouettes of trees along the sides. Another flash of lightning perfectly overhead. For an instant, you seem to see the soldiers of Owl Creek Bridge standing at the side of the road, rifles leveled, their eyes boring down the sights, aiming at your heart. Again, the lightning. And on the other side of the road, the gray clad corporal sits astride his horse waiting for you. No, no, you can't get me now. This bolt of lightning strikes a tree ahead of you. And in the white blinding light, stands Jethro Black and grinning knife raised in the air. No, no, Jethro, forgive me. He's gone now. Now you see, dangling from each tree along the road, a noose swinging in the wind wherever you turn, wherever you look, a noose waiting for you. A noose which wriggles like a water moccasin. You are standing on the green lawn of your plantation before the high-column entrance. The storm is over. The clouds are black and menacing all around the horizon, but through a break in the sky overhead, glorious sunlight streams down, bathing your garden and your house in heavenly light. You are home. And now you hear a rustle of crinoline. And down from the wide portico steps your beloved wife. She runs across the lawn, arms outstretched. My dear, you're back, just as you promised you'd be. For this moment you have endured the agonies of this day, and where those agonies multiplied a thousand times, they would be small price for the venison of this breast. The sanctuary of these arms, the security of these lips. You step forward to fold your wife in your embrace. The rope stretched tight, sang like a bowstring. Peyton Farqua was dead. His body with a broken neck swung gently from side to side, beneath the timbers of Owl Creek Bridge. Suspense, in which Joseph Cotton starred in William and Robeson's production of A Currents at Owl Creek Bridge. Adapted by Mr. Robeson from a short story by Ambrose Beers. Supporting Mr. Cotton and A Currents at Owl Creek Bridge were Alan Morgan, William Conrad, Harry Bartell, Lou Merrill, Jack Krushen, and Roy Glenn. Listen. Listen again next week, when we return with the youngest guest star in the history of suspense. Seven-year-old Evelyn Rudy in Dog Star. Another tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. Suspense has been brought to you through the worldwide facilities of the United States Armed Forces Radio and Television Service.