Rope of Sand

Welcome to Hollywood Radio Theater. For the age of motion pictures, we present radio adaptations of Hollywood's finest film. Tonight, very Sullivan stars in Woke, of Bands.

For Woke, of course, in Hollywood Radio Theater, Air Force Sergeant Tom Corzinowski. For tonight's feature presentation, we've chosen a story of intrigue and romance set in South Africa's Diamond Fields.

Most of that one begins after this important method. Game buyers on kitchen stove for get over. Mothers heating lunch for the children in a frying pan. The baby runs home crying with a messy scratch.

Mother rushes to the medicine chair to help babies, then stays to comfort the child. The frying pan, unfunded, oversees. It turns up right, so you read. The food inside smokes, then flames. Unless mothers know the smoke of burning food, chances are the house will burn down.

Think fire prevention. And now act one of rape. Boring. Burries, full of them. Nothing a change. They were the same sheet iron warehouse as along the docks, the same slow-moving steve adores waiting on a walk.

Same glaring sky, the same suffocating deuce. The port of Diamond Star, British Southwest Africa, was as changeless as ugly as the souls of the men who lived there. A deck of the freighter I could see the low hills behind the town.

And along the crest of those hills, the silhouettes of the watch-hours were men waited with rifles and machine guns. On the other side of those hills, there would be still other men in armored cars and half-packs.

Men in machines that patrol the endless miles of sand dunes which surround like a rope of sand, the richest diamond bearing area in the world. I was standing by the forward hold, waiting for my own gear to be hold up.