The Lost Patrol

Synopsis: A World War I British Army patrol is crossing the Mesopotomian desert when their commanding officer, the only one who knows their destination is killed by the bullet of unseen bandits. The patrol's sergeant keeps them heading north on the assumption that they will hit their brigade. They stop for the night at an oasis and awake the next morning to find their horses stolen, their sentry dead, the oasis surrounded and survival difficult.
Genre: Adventure, War
Director(s): John Ford
Production: Media Home Entertainment
  Nominated for 1 Oscar. Another 1 win.
 
IMDB:
6.9
Rotten Tomatoes:
100%
PASSED
Year:
1934
73 min
21 Views


Right through the lung.

Bell, dismount the men.

Yes, Sergeant.

Dismount!

Pity.

- Decent boy, in some ways.

- Yeah, no soldier though.

- See the blighter what done it?

- No.

Blasted Arabs. Hide like sand flies.

Never see them.

There's them GS shovels.

Will I get two or three of

the blokes to start in?

Right.

Sanders!

Corporal.

Brown.

Here.

Hand your horses over to McKay.

Put your rifles back in your buckets

and get them GS shovels.

What happened?

There was a shot and then the officer...

Is dead, my lad. Gwendolyn is napoo.

We are gravediggers.

Understand now, young fellow, my lad?

But out here?

Where are we gonna bury him?

Doesn't make much difference, does it?

- All right, men, that'll do.

- Gonna mark it?

What's the good? Bell, mount the men.

Sergeant.

Haven't you forgotten something?

Oh.

Go ahead, Sanders.

"Almighty Father...

"we commend the soul

of our brother departed...

"and we commit his body to the ground.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

dust to dust...

"in sure and certain hope

of the resurrection...

- "unto eternal life, through our Lord."

- Amen.

I'm sorry, Sergeant,

but that's not the entire service.

Sorry, Sanders,

but we gotta be moving.

If we stick around here...

we'll be patting you and a couple

of others in the face with a spade.

Put your topi on.

All right, men.

Return to your horses.

Morelli, do you see anything?

No. Nothing but sand. Plenty of it.

Corporal Bell.

Yes, Sergeant?

- Do you know where we are?

- No.

Do you know what we're here for?

Do you know where we're going?

- No.

- Well, neither do I.

Huh?

That young lad, that officer back there,

never gave me his orders.

What?

I ask him four or five times,

and he'd always say...

"I'll do that, Sergeant, tomorrow."

Well, here's our tomorrow.

A nice one, too, ain't it?

Didn't he have them on him?

Wasn't they in his pocket?

No, kept them in his head.

A fat lot of good that'll do us now.

Where are we going now?

What are we gonna do?

Well, we're lost.

You heard me. Lost.

What are you figuring on doing?

Well, I've worked it out the best I can.

We're heading due north.

We ought to hit the river tomorrow night.

Yes, we may hit the river and that'll

be that. But what else will we hit?

Yeah. A fine thing, ain't it, huh?

A patrol patrolling

and not knowing where they're at...

and the orders locked up

in that dead kid back there.

Dismount.

That's it, Jock.

That'll do your horse good.

Pearson!

Yes, sir?

- You're a fool, Pearson.

- Yes, sir.

Now, come on.

Take it off, give it to me.

Now, come on, come on.

You know I won't drink it.

You'll have a little

left for tonight.

All right, men, walk your horses.

I don't know, Jock,

I will never forget the time...

I drank the 57 bottles

of beer on a bet.

It was in a bar in Calcutta,

the Queen's Bar.

- Ice cold it was.

- 57 bottles.

Well, I may have miscounted a few,

one way or another...

but I know it was 10 below me record.

Freezing cold it was. Gave me a chill

that nearly caused my death.

A pity it didn't.

All right, then.

Horse down!

Hold it! Halt!

Come on, laddie, please get up.

Too bad.

Sorry, McKay.

Here, Jock, give me that.

Take my horse. Go on with the rest.

Bell...

what do you make that out to be?

Looks like something moving.

Not sure. Such a glare.

- Couldn't be the brigade, could it?

- Brigade? No.

Might be Arabs.

Morelli.

Hey, Morelli.

You're the hawk-eye of this party.

What do you make that out to be?

Trees.

Whole clump of them.

Sure it ain't a mirage?

Mirage, my aunt.

Think he's right, Bell?

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Dudley Nichols

Dudley Nichols (April 6, 1895 – January 4, 1960) was an American screenwriter and director. more…

All Dudley Nichols scripts | Dudley Nichols Scripts

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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