Stalag 17
- NOT RATED
- Year:
- 1953
- 120 min
- 1,077 Views
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
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.
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.
The light sweeps slowly over the long shack. Catches the
sign:
BARACKE 4. Catches one of the doors, locked from outsideINSIDE 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?
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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"Stalag 17" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 15 Oct. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/stalag_17_433>.
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