Suspense. And the producer of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William N. Robeson.
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 Bierce's weird and wonderful story of the Civil War, an occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, which begins in exactly one minute.
Another visit with Joe and Daphne Forsyte.
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 percent 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 are 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 tides 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 noose and dive into the creek.
If I swam underwater, 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 tides 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 downward, 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 are 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 must breathe quickly.
For if they haven't hanged you, and they fail to drown you, you can't let them shoot you.
There he is!
Don't have to pay!
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 gray piece of Yankee lead reminds you of the gray uniform on the soldier who is responsible for your being here.
It was only night before last when the soldier had ridden 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, Payton. I'll go fetch it.
You're most kind, ma'am. If you'll indicate the well, I'll...
Oh, nonsense. You just sit a spell with my husband. You look as if you could do with some rest.
Yes, ma'am. Reckon I could.
I'll be back in a jiffy.
Thank you, 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 our Creek Bridge.
Then they got an outpost there. Once they can run trains beyond the bridge,
there's nothing to stop between here and Atlanta.
Then why hasn't the bridge been destroyed?
Military couldn't get near it. Civilian might.
Our old Creek Bridge. Well, I'm not far from here, is it?
Less than 20 miles.
You say they have an outpost there? Which side?
The other side. There's 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 the Yankees several weeks.
Now suppose a man, a civilian like myself, should elude the picket posts
and get the better of that sentinel. What could he accomplish?
Well, I was there a week ago just before we had to pull out.
There's a heap of driftwood come down last winter's flood.
It's caught on the trestle at this end.
Looked mighty dry and tenderly 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 spring house.
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 me tonight.
Well, good luck to you, Corporal, and thank you for your information.
You'd be taking the 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 Howl Creek for a second time,
and now you're much further downstream, further away from the Union soldiers on the bridge,
reloading their guns, the ramrods flashing in the morning sun.
Then something seems to grab you.
You're whirled round and round, spinning, spinning like a water log top.
You're caught in a vortex, a whirlpool.
The water, the banks, the distant bridges, 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, Mr. Peyton Farquhar, we've been expecting you.
How did you know my name?
Always.
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, men.
Here he is, Captain, right on schedule.
Good work, Sergeant. This is 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 Salt and Stole,
intelligence officer, 5th Massachusetts Regulers.
You've trapped me. You've deliberately led me into a trap.
I'm a civilian, a planter.
And 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...
Which 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 the 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 cited 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 cited 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 A Current Set 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.
Gnat swarm before your eyes, catching in your eyelids.
Mosquitos buzz in your ears, drill deep in your hands and swollen neck.
You can't go any longer. You slow down, you stop.
You reach toward a palmetto roof 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.
No, water moccasin.
Now each branch and root seems to ride under your glance.
The swamp is undulating with certain depth.
You plunge on through the dark, stinking ooze on and on,
tripping, stumbling, never stopping.
For terror rides your back, flogging you with a whiplash of fear.
Jethro's gonna have Mosquitos fiddling jig time.
Now you just drink this here yob tea, Mosquitos.
Thank you. Thank you.
Jethro!
Yes, Mosquitos.
What are you doing here?
I live here.
You, you live, where am I?
What, 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, 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, Mosquitos.
Well, sir, don't you know what then happened to me?
I'm free. I'm free at last. Yes, sir, I'm free.
And I expect pretty soon my woman and my little girl gonna come along and join me.
How is the Mosquitos? Is they well?
Yes, yes indeed. They're both fine.
Oh, I sure glad to hear that.
Jethro, I, 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, Mosquitos.
Quiet, and don't you pay it no mind. I done forgive you long time ago.
You have?
Well, sure. Don't the Lord tell us to forgive those who trespass against us?
And don't the Lord promise us we shall be free?
Don't you worry none about it, Mosquitos.
Hey, hear now. Quiet, Mosquitos.
Quiet, chigga. They must have heard the razor back in the brush.
No, turn no hog.
Look, Mosquitos, there's a horse coming down the back road.
Why, I swear it's a soldier.
One of our soldiers, a carpal look like.
Carpal? Jethro, you've got to hide me.
How come I got to hide you, Mosquitos?
Don't ask so many questions, you insolent.
Mosquitos, you forgets I'm free now.
Well, then just as an old friend of mine, please just hide me.
Don't tell that soldier anything.
Sure, I reckon I can do that for an old friend, Mosquitos.
Here, you get under this bed here and I'll 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.
If you run into this Farquhar, don't tell him I was looking for him.
Yes, sir. I remember not telling.
Just keep minding your own business, Uncle, you'll live longer.
Yeah.
You all can come on out now, Mosquitos.
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, Mosquitos?
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.
Something never bothered me like it do most.
Money in me's always been strange.
Jethro, 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, Mosquitos.
Oh, no, no, no, thank you, Jethro.
I want to get home by sundown if you'll just tell me which way I should go.
Well, I don't rightly know, Mosquitos.
I reckon from the way the sun's reclining it would be down the road that way.
Yes, that should be about right.
I ain't never been back, you know.
Ain't never tried to go back since I've been freed.
Yes, yeah, 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, Mosquitos, if you seize them, 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 in 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 a 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 columned 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.
Hey, my dear, you're back just as you promised you'd be.
For this moment you have endured the agonies of this day
and were 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.
Stretched tight, sang like a bowstring.
Peyton Farquhar 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
Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,
adapted by Mr. Robeson from a short story by Ambrose Bierce.
Supporting Mr. Cotton and Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge were
Alan Morgan, William Conrad, Harry Bartel, Lou Merrill, Jack Crouchon, 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.
Suspense.
Suspense.