Stalag 17 Page #6

STOSH:

I'll kill you, Harry -- so help me!

HARRY:

Let go, Animal! It's roll call! Hitler

wants to see you!

Sefton is standing near his bunk, getting dressed. Cookie is

helping him to zip up his luxurious flyer's boots.

SCHULTZ:

Good morning, Sefton.

SEFTON:

Good morning, Schulz. And how's Mrs.

Schulz? And all the little Schulzes?

SCHULTZ:

Fine -- fine!

He looks at the two bunks which were occupied by Manfredi

and Johnson. Takes off his gloves.

SCHULTZ:

Let us see. We have now two empty

bunks here.

(takes out pencil and

notebook, writes)

Nummer einundsiebzig und Nummer

dreiundsiebzig in Baracke vier.

PRICE:

Suppose you let those mattresses

cool off a little -- just out of

decency?

SCHULTZ:

Ja, ja, gewiss! It is only that we

are cramped for space with new

prisoners every day.

(to the whole barrack)

Gentlemen! Outside! Please! Do you

want me to have trouble with the

Kommandant again!

He starts herding them out the door.

STOSH:

Hey, Schulz -- as long as you're

going to move somebody in -- how

about a couple of those Russian

broads?

SCHULTZ:

Russian women prisoners?

HARRY:

Jawohl!

SCHULTZ:

Some are not bad at all.

STOSH:

Just get us a couple with big

Glockenspiels.

SCHULTZ:

Ja! Ja! Droppen Sie dead!

Splitting his sides, he pushes them out, and follows.

EXT. COMPOUND - COLD GREY MORNING

Most of the P.O.W.s are out of their barracks by now. A mass

of freezing, disheveled men. Some wear Army coats over their

underwear, knitted caps pulled down over their ears. Some

are huddled in blankets, their feet in wooden clogs. Only a

few are fully dressed and shaven. A few are on crutches or

bandaged up.

They assemble before their respective barracks, forming a U

facing the center of the compound. The barrack chiefs are

assisting the guards in lining them up, fifteen abreast and

five deep.

Supervised by Schulz and Hoffy the last ones from Barrack 4

emerge.

HOFFY:

All right, men -- fall in!

From off comes:

GERMAN OFFICER'S VOICE

Ach-tung! Abzaehlen!

The HUB-BUB dies down.

The guards march down the front line of their barrack groups,

counting the lines of five in German.

As Schulz passes him, Blondie spots something in the middle

of the compound. He nudges Duke. Duke nudges Price, Price

Harry, Harry Stosh, Stosh Cookie. Cookie nudges Sefton who

is putting on his wool gloves. The glove drops. They all

look off in the same direction.

In the center of the compound, right smack in the mud, lie

the corpses of Johnson and Manfredi, covered with a blanket.

You know it's them because Johnson's foot is sticking out,

with the barrack bag still tied to it.

A stir goes through the men of Barrack 4. They are hit hard.

All but Sefton. He looks at the corpses for a moment, then

bends down, picks up the glove and starts putting it on.

In front of the Administration Building a German Lieutenant

has been supervising a couple of guards as they lay narrow

planks over the mud in a line leading to the middle of the

compound. He turns now to the P.O.W.s.

GERMAN LIEUTENANT

Parade Atten-tion!

The German guards come to rigid attention. The Americans

just stand there, sullenly.

The Lieutenant comes to a heil salute. Through the open door

of the Administration Building steps the Kommandant, OBERST

VON SCHERBACH, followed by another Lieutenant. Von Scherbach

is a big erect officer of the Potsdam School. Over his

shoulder hangs a furlined officer's coat. His boots shine

like polished glass. He glances over the compound, then walks

down the planks, followed by the two Lieutenants, marching

through the mud on both sides of him. Von Scherbach stops at

the end of the plank. In front of him lies a deep puddle. He

clicks his heels and raises his hand in a heil salute.

VON SCHERBACH:

Guten Morgen, Sergeants!

A glowering silence from the men. Von Scherbach lowers his

hand.

VON SCHERBACH:

Nasty weather we're having, eh? And

I so much hoped that we could give

you a white Christmas -- just like

the ones you used to know... Aren't

those the words that clever little

man wrote -- you know the one who

stole his name from our capital --

that something-or-other Berlin?

He waits until his nasty little joke sinks in. Schulz has

come up to the Lieutenant, salutes and hands him the slips

of paper with the prisoner count.

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