Stalag 17

FADE IN:

BARBED WIRE AGAINST A WINTRY NIGHT SKY

Beyond it, more barbed wire. Ice has formed on the strands.

Now and then searchlight beams crisscross the pattern. As

the CAMERA SLOWLY MOVES along the double fence, SUPERIMPOSE -

THE CREDIT TITLES

THE GREAT CAMP - (NIGHT)

A wide expanse of barren ground checkered with clusters of

barracks, sectioned off into compounds by double barbed-wire

fences, nine feet high. Searchlights sweep over the barracks,

the muddy ground with the snow patches, and the pine forest

beyond the barbed-wire. The searchlights come from the goon

towers -- little guard houses elevated on poles --

interspersed along the fences.

COOKIE'S VOICE

(with an occasional

stammer)

I don't know about you, but it always

make me sore when I see those war

pictures -- all about flying leather-

necks and submarine patrols and

frogmen and guerillas in the

Philippines. I don't want to take

anything away from those guys, but

what gets me is that there never was

a movie about P.O.W.s -- about

prisoners of war. Now my name is

Clarence Harvey Cook, -- they call

me Cookie. I was shot down over

Magdeburg, Germany back in 43. That's

why I stammer a little once in a

while, especially when I get excited

and I always get excited when I talk

about Stalag 17. I spent two and a

half years in Stalag 17. Stalag is

the Kraut word for prison camp and

number 17 was somewhere near Krems

on the Danube. There were about forty

thousand P.O.W.s there, if...

OUR COMPOUND:

In the foreground the big gate. Above it a sign: STALAG 17-

D. On both sides of the gate German guards in heavy coats,

rifles slung over their shoulders. They stomp about in

enormous boots with high cork soles to keep warm. Beyond the

gate about eight low barracks form a U about the Appell-

ground. They are primitive one-story wooden structures all

set up on stilts about two feet high. From one of the

buildings -- the Administration Building -- flies the

swastika. In between the barracks are the wash latrines. A

road runs through the slushy compound to the compound beyond.

ONE OF THE GOON TOWERS

A couple of German guards up there, one at the machine gun,

the other working the searchlight.

COOKIE'S VOICE

you bothered to count the Russians

and the Poles and the Czechs. In our

Compound there were about six hundred

and thirty of us -- all American

airmen, all shot down by the Krauts --

radio operators, gunners and engineers --

all sergeants. Now you put six hundred

and thirty sergeants together and

boinnnnng! -- you've got yourself a

situation! There was more fireworks

shooting off around that place! Take

for instance the story about the spy

we had in our barrack. It was about

a week before Christmas in '44 and

two of our guys -- Manfredi and

Johnson to be exact -- were just

getting set to blow the joint...

THE HUNDEFUEHRER

A German guard plodding along inside the barbed wire with

four mean mastiffs straining at the leash. The light from

the goon tower grazes over him.

ONE OF THE BARRACKS

The light sweeps slowly over the long shack. Catches the

sign:
BARACKE 4. Catches one of the doors, locked from outside

with a heavy wooden bar.

INSIDE BARRACK:

Bunks on both sides. Tripledecked bunks. In the bunks seventy-

five American P.O.W.s huddled in blankets. In between the

bunks, in the little space left to them, crude tables, an

iron stove, makeshift stools. Every inch crowded with whatever

they have. Up above and all the way down the barrack hangs

their wash. Over all of it, the heavy stench of seventy-five

men cooped up. From outside through the broken, patched

windows the searchlight sweeps over the bunks. The men are

all asleep. Or are they?

THE FAR END OF THE BARRACK

This is the strategic spot of the story. In the five tiers

of bunks live our major characters.

In the upper bunk lies HOFFY. Little fellow. Plenty of

authority. The Barrack Chief. His eyes are wide open. He is

studying his wristwatch, the phosphorescent numerals shining

in the dark.

In the other bunks lie the others, wide awake, tense:

DUKE, big bellyacher.

TRIZ, six-foot-three, ninety-eight pounds.

PRICE, the barrack Security Chief. Quiet, touch of class.

MANFREDI, no cover, fully dressed.

HARRY, bug-eyed, cocky.

BLONDIE, fair-skinned, boyish.

JOHNSON, fully dressed like Manfredi. Scared.

SEFTON, casual. In his mouth a cold cigar butt.

Hoffy again. Still staring at the wristwatch. This is the

moment. He lifts the metal dogtags off his chest and jiggles

them. This is the signal.

Duke instantly slides out of the bunk, grabs up his blanket

and moves toward the window. A searchlight beam sweeps across.

Duke goes flush on the ground. The light passes on. Duke

gets up again and starts hanging the blanket over the window.

Now the others go into action, silently, efficiently. Except

for Manfredi and Johnson they are all in long winter

underwear, some in slacks and socks.

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