The novel that inspired John Ford’s The Lost Patrol: A band of World War I soldiers fights to survive in the desert after their leader is shot and killed.
There had been, here, eleven men. Now ten rode away. . . .
In the Mesopotamian desert during the First World War, an unseen enemy guns down the leader of a British parol. The officer was the only one who knew their orders, and he did not told anyone else where they are located.
Now the sergeant must lead his men through a hostile desert landscape full of invisible Arab snipers. One by one, they are being picked off, and the group of diverse men with different backgrounds must try to come together in order to survive. The decision-making process proves far from easy as tensions and prejudices from their former lives come to a head.
The basis for films by Walter Summer and John Ford, this bestselling novel is a suspenseful tale of the Great War for readers of Robert Graves or Ford Madox Ford—or anyone who enjoys an action-packed war story. Author Philip MacDonald, who served in Mesopotamia with the British cavalry, went on to become one of the most popular writers of thrillers and detective fiction.
Chapter 1
"I don't exactly know," said the Sergeant half aloud, "what to do with him."
The head which rested on his knee shifted a little and a froth of blood bubbled suddenly at the corners of the mouth.
"'M!" said the Sergeant. "Bell!"
The Corporal who stood beside him knelt, peering at the face on the Sergeant's knee. "That's that" he said.
The Sergeant freed his right hand and groped under the boy's tunic. He looked as if he were listening. Presently his fingers came away. He said:
"Yes. Pity. Decent boy in some ways. No soldier." He gently eased down the body until it lay flat upon the sand. He dried his hand upon the side of his breeches and began methodically to empty the pockets of the body's drill tunic.
The Corporal rose to his feet and dusted the soft grey-dun sand from his right leg. "There's those entrenching tools," he said. "Will I get two-three o' the blokes to start in?"
"Yes," said the Sergeant. He did not look up; he was arranging the contents of the dead subaltern's pockets in small heaps, tidily.
Corporal Bell turned and walked slowly, with his lounging gait, back over the twenty yards which separated the body of their officer from the eight troopers who made up the rest of this small patrol. These stood and sat in a listless group. Over an arm of each man were the reins of his horse, standing above and beside him. Both men and horses seemed to droop a little: it was as if the sun which beat down upon them had weighted rays which were pressing them towards the sand.
The Corporal came up to this group. He said:
"Morelli, Pearson, Brown — hand over your goras to Hale, put your rifles back in the buckets an' get those three entrenching tools."
Three men rose and gave their reins to a fourth, who now disappeared within a shifting ring of horses, out from which his voice, nasal and Cockney, rose ever and again in bitter, plaintive obscenity.
"What's on, Corp?" A giant of a man emerged from the cluster. In his hand was a small, oddly-shaped spade. He looked at it, turning it this way and that. "What's on?" he repeated.
"Muriel's got his," said the Corporal, "clean through left lung." He raised his voice. "Come on, you two, Brown's here. What you playin' about at? Jildi!"
They came; two small men: Pearson shuffling, despondent, beads of sweat running down his face from beneath his topee. Morelli stocky, alert, cheerful.
The Corporal surveyed the three. "Fall in, Sextons," he said. "Come on!" He led the way.
"What's on?" Morelli cocked his head to look up at Brown. "We gotta make nice comfort'ble bed for His Majesty's Second Lif'tenant A. de C. G. Hawkins?"
"Comfort hell!" Brown said. "He's out."
"What's that?" Pearson raised his drawn little face.
Brown looked down at him. "Muriel," he said, "is napoo. The officer is dead. Our commander is no longer alive. We are grave-diggers. Understand now, Pansy?"
"Oh! shut up!" Pearson muttered. He plodded on, shoulders bent.
"Bleeding queer, that Buddo suddenly poppin' up like that!" Morelli raised a hand and tilted his topee forward to scratch at the back of his head. "Where'd the bleeder come from?"
"I nearly got him with my second," said Brown. "Damn' fast that horse was, though. But he was a good shot. Bell says right through Muriel's left lung." He fell silent as they came up to the Sergeant and the body at his feet.
"Whereabouts?" asked the Corporal.
"Anywhere. Anywhere. Only get busy." The Sergeant was preoccupied. He held a map outspread before him.
The sand was loose. The three sweated. There was presently a hole pronounced by the Corporal as of sufficient depth. Into this was placed the body of Second-Lieutenant (acting Lieutenant) Arthur de Courcy Grammont Hawkins.
"Get on! Get on!" said the Sergeant.
The three entrenching tools and the boots of the Corporal swept back the sand.
"Going to mark it?" the Corporal asked.
The Sergeant shook his head. "What's the good?" He came close and surveyed their work. "Stamp it down a bit," he said.
They stamped it down.
The Sergeant looked again. He said:
"That'll do. Bell, get 'em mounted." He unfolded the map again. "Bring my mare along, Morelli."
Three minutes later the little party, riding two abreast but with ten yards or so between each couple, moved off again, heading almost due north. Already loose sand had drifted over the stamped-down square which momentarily had distinguished the subaltern's grave: now there was no sign, no mark, no indication whatsoever. There had been, here, eleven men. Now ten rode away. A man had been cancelled.
"I don't exactly know," said the Sergeant half aloud, "what to do with him."
The head which rested on his knee shifted a little and a froth of blood bubbled suddenly at the corners of the mouth.
"'M!" said the Sergeant. "Bell!"
The Corporal who stood beside him knelt, peering at the face on the Sergeant's knee. "That's that" he said.
The Sergeant freed his right hand and groped under the boy's tunic. He looked as if he were listening. Presently his fingers came away. He said:
"Yes. Pity. Decent boy in some ways. No soldier." He gently eased down the body until it lay flat upon the sand. He dried his hand upon the side of his breeches and began methodically to empty the pockets of the body's drill tunic.
The Corporal rose to his feet and dusted the soft grey-dun sand from his right leg. "There's those entrenching tools," he said. "Will I get two-three o' the blokes to start in?"
"Yes," said the Sergeant. He did not look up; he was arranging the contents of the dead subaltern's pockets in small heaps, tidily.
Corporal Bell turned and walked slowly, with his lounging gait, back over the twenty yards which separated the body of their officer from the eight troopers who made up the rest of this small patrol. These stood and sat in a listless group. Over an arm of each man were the reins of his horse, standing above and beside him. Both men and horses seemed to droop a little: it was as if the sun which beat down upon them had weighted rays which were pressing them towards the sand.
The Corporal came up to this group. He said:
"Morelli, Pearson, Brown — hand over your goras to Hale, put your rifles back in the buckets an' get those three entrenching tools."
Three men rose and gave their reins to a fourth, who now disappeared within a shifting ring of horses, out from which his voice, nasal and Cockney, rose ever and again in bitter, plaintive obscenity.
"What's on, Corp?" A giant of a man emerged from the cluster. In his hand was a small, oddly-shaped spade. He looked at it, turning it this way and that. "What's on?" he repeated.
"Muriel's got his," said the Corporal, "clean through left lung." He raised his voice. "Come on, you two, Brown's here. What you playin' about at? Jildi!"
They came; two small men: Pearson shuffling, despondent, beads of sweat running down his face from beneath his topee. Morelli stocky, alert, cheerful.
The Corporal surveyed the three. "Fall in, Sextons," he said. "Come on!" He led the way.
"What's on?" Morelli cocked his head to look up at Brown. "We gotta make nice comfort'ble bed for His Majesty's Second Lif'tenant A. de C. G. Hawkins?"
"Comfort hell!" Brown said. "He's out."
"What's that?" Pearson raised his drawn little face.
Brown looked down at him. "Muriel," he said, "is napoo. The officer is dead. Our commander is no longer alive. We are grave-diggers. Understand now, Pansy?"
"Oh! shut up!" Pearson muttered. He plodded on, shoulders bent.
"Bleeding queer, that Buddo suddenly poppin' up like that!" Morelli raised a hand and tilted his topee forward to scratch at the back of his head. "Where'd the bleeder come from?"
"I nearly got him with my second," said Brown. "Damn' fast that horse was, though. But he was a good shot. Bell says right through Muriel's left lung." He fell silent as they came up to the Sergeant and the body at his feet.
"Whereabouts?" asked the Corporal.
"Anywhere. Anywhere. Only get busy." The Sergeant was preoccupied. He held a map outspread before him.
The sand was loose. The three sweated. There was presently a hole pronounced by the Corporal as of sufficient depth. Into this was placed the body of Second-Lieutenant (acting Lieutenant) Arthur de Courcy Grammont Hawkins.
"Get on! Get on!" said the Sergeant.
The three entrenching tools and the boots of the Corporal swept back the sand.
"Going to mark it?" the Corporal asked.
The Sergeant shook his head. "What's the good?" He came close and surveyed their work. "Stamp it down a bit," he said.
They stamped it down.
The Sergeant looked again. He said:
"That'll do. Bell, get 'em mounted." He unfolded the map again. "Bring my mare along, Morelli."
Three minutes later the little party, riding two abreast but with ten yards or so between each couple, moved off again, heading almost due north. Already loose sand had drifted over the stamped-down square which momentarily had distinguished the subaltern's grave: now there was no sign, no mark, no indication whatsoever. There had been, here, eleven men. Now ten rode away. A man had been cancelled.
Release Date: February 16, 1934
Release Time: 73 minutes
Director: John Ford
Cast:
Victor McLaglen as The Sergeant
Boris Karloff as Sanders
Wallace Ford as Morelli
Reginald Denny as George Brown
J. M. Kerrigan as Quincannon
Billy Bevan as Herbert Hale
Alan Hale as Matlow Cook
Brandon Hurst as Corporal Bell
Douglas Walton as Pearson
Sammy Stein as Abelson
Howard Wilson as Aviator
Paul Hanson as Jock MacKay
Philip MacDonald
Philip MacDonald (who some give as 1896 or 1899 as his date of birth) was the grandson of the writer George MacDonald and son of the author Ronald MacDonald and the actress Constance Robertson.
During World War I he served with the British cavalry in Mesopotamia, later trained horses for the army, and was a show jumper. He also raised Great Danes. After marrying the writer F. Ruth Howard, he moved to Hollywood in 1931. He was one of the most popular mystery writers of the 1930s, and between 1931 and 1963 wrote many screenplays along with a few radio and television scripts.
His detective novels, particularly those featuring his series detective Anthony Gethryn, are primarily "whodunnits" with the occasional locked room mystery. His first detective novel was 'The Rasp' (1924), in which he introduced his character Anthony Gethryn.
In later years MacDonald wrote television scripts for Alfred Hitchcock Presents ('Malice Domestic', 1957) and Perry Mason ('The Case of the Terrified Typist', 1958).
He twice received an Edgar Award for Best Short Story: in 1953, for 'Something to Hide', and in 1956, for 'Dream No More'. Indeed many critics felt that his short story writing was superior to his novels and they did win five second prizes in the annual contests held by 'Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine'.
He also wrote under the pseudonyms Oliver Fleming, Anthony Lawless, Martin Porlock, W.J. Stuart and Warren Stuart.
Cast:
Victor McLaglen as The Sergeant
Boris Karloff as Sanders
Wallace Ford as Morelli
Reginald Denny as George Brown
J. M. Kerrigan as Quincannon
Billy Bevan as Herbert Hale
Alan Hale as Matlow Cook
Brandon Hurst as Corporal Bell
Douglas Walton as Pearson
Sammy Stein as Abelson
Howard Wilson as Aviator
Paul Hanson as Jock MacKay
Awards:
7th Academy Awards - February 27, 1935
Best Original Music - Max Steiner - Nominated
Philip MacDonald (who some give as 1896 or 1899 as his date of birth) was the grandson of the writer George MacDonald and son of the author Ronald MacDonald and the actress Constance Robertson.
During World War I he served with the British cavalry in Mesopotamia, later trained horses for the army, and was a show jumper. He also raised Great Danes. After marrying the writer F. Ruth Howard, he moved to Hollywood in 1931. He was one of the most popular mystery writers of the 1930s, and between 1931 and 1963 wrote many screenplays along with a few radio and television scripts.
His detective novels, particularly those featuring his series detective Anthony Gethryn, are primarily "whodunnits" with the occasional locked room mystery. His first detective novel was 'The Rasp' (1924), in which he introduced his character Anthony Gethryn.
In later years MacDonald wrote television scripts for Alfred Hitchcock Presents ('Malice Domestic', 1957) and Perry Mason ('The Case of the Terrified Typist', 1958).
He twice received an Edgar Award for Best Short Story: in 1953, for 'Something to Hide', and in 1956, for 'Dream No More'. Indeed many critics felt that his short story writing was superior to his novels and they did win five second prizes in the annual contests held by 'Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine'.
He also wrote under the pseudonyms Oliver Fleming, Anthony Lawless, Martin Porlock, W.J. Stuart and Warren Stuart.
Film
