Stalag 17 Page #15

G.I.S

Five on Equipoise!

Give me Equipoise -- ten on the nose!

Two on Twenty Grand!

Schnickelfritz for me. Five smackers!

Equipoise -- one solid pack!

LAST G.I.

(an unkempt bum)

Five on Seabiscuit! Pay you when the

Red Cross parcels come in.

SEFTON:

No credit.

UNKEMPT BUM:

Have a heart, Sefton!

SEFTON:

Sorry. It's against the rules of the

Racing Commission.

(calling out)

Already? Any more bets? Shake 'em

up, Cookie!

Cookie shakes the cardboard box, puts it face down on the

ground in the center of the circle.

SEFTON:

Let 'er go! They're off and running

at Stalag 17!

Cookie has lifted the box. There are five mice of various

colors with numbers 1 to 5 attached to their backs. The mice

start spreading hesitantly in all directions.

The P.O.W.s YELL and SCREAM, rooting for their horses to

reach the circle line first.

Among the P.O.W.s Stosh and Harry. Stosh, with a bundle of

mutuel tickets in his hand, screaming his head off.

STOSH:

Equipoise! Oh, you beauty! This way!

This way!

Equipoise, No. 3, pulls in front and is only a few feet from

the edge of the circle.

HARRY:

Equipoise! Equipoise! What did I

tell you, Animal?

STOSH:

Come on, baby! Daddy's going to buy

you a hunk of cheese!

Equipoise, now only a foot from the finish line, suddenly

stops and goes into a dizzy spin. The other mice gain rapidly.

STOSH AND HARRY:

Straighten out, you dog! This way!

That's no horse -- that's a dervish!

Please! This way! Come to Daddy!

In a turmoil of SCREAMING G.I.s, Schnickelfritz passes

Equipoise, still spinning like a top, and crosses the line.

SEFTON:

The winner is No. 5: Schnickelfritz!

Stosh grabs Harry.

STOSH:

Schnickelfritz! I told you

Schnickelfritz! Why'd you make me

bet on Equipoise!

HARRY:

I clocked him this morning. He was

running like a doll.

STOSH:

(choking him)

You clocked him! Why don't I clock

you?

SEFTON:

(calling out)

The next race will be a claiming

race for four months old and upward

which have not won since November

17th.

While Sefton pays off the winners, Cookie puts up a new odds

board. New bettors start lining up on the other side. Among

them, Harry and Stosh.

COOKIE'S VOICE

It's a good thing nobody ever asked

for a saliva test. Because I wouldn't

have put it past Sefton to stiff a

horse once in a while -- especially

when the betting was heavy.

DISSOLVE:

INT. BARRACK 4 - (DAY)

Near Sefton's bunk, the distillery is set up: a Rube Goldberg

contraption of old tin cans and a maze of piping, a margarine

lamp burning under the boiler. The whole thing SPUTTERS and

HISSES.

Behind a makeshift wooden shelf -- the bar -- stands Cookie,

pouring drinks for some eight customers, among them Harry

and Stosh, crocked. In Stosh's hand is the big Betty Grable

cheese-cake photo from his bunk.

COOKIE'S VOICE

Another one of his enterprises was

the distillery. Believe it or not,

he ran a bar right in our barrack,

selling Schnapps at two cigarettes a

shot. The boys called it the

Flamethrower, but it wasn't really

that bad. We brewed it out of old

potato peels and once in a while a

couple of strings off the Red Cross

parcels, to give it a little flavor.

STOSH:

(in a crying jag)

It's not fair, Harry. I'm telling

you, it's not fair! She's been married

for over a year! My Betty! She had a

baby! Didn't you hear it on the radio!

HARRY:

C'mon, Animal! Pull yourself together!

(off)

Hey, Cookie! Belt us again!

He pushes their little condensed milk cans, serving as

jiggers, across the bar, counts out four cigarettes.

STOSH:

Look at her! Isn't she beautiful!

Married an orchestra leader!

HARRY:

So what? There's other women!

STOSH:

Not for me! Betty! Betty!

HARRY:

Cut it out. Animal! I'll fix you up

with a couple of those Russian women!

STOSH:

(sarcastically)

You'll fix me up!

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