After reading krazy4kowalski's Behind the Chain-Link Fence I was inevitably curious to watch Stalag 17. Well, this is kind of inspired by both. Anyway, to answer two questions that you will undoubtedly ask: Private will be appearing and Rico will have a more important part in future chapters.
The prisoner was half dragged through the spotless hallway. He was perfectly capable of walking, but if it annoyed the guards even slightly, it was worth trying. Usually ticking off people who had the power of life and death over you wasn't exactly strategic, but they'd probably already made up their minds on what to do with him, and it wouldn't be pretty.
"Doc, prisoner 113417 has been processed!" One of his guards shouted. The commandant in the other room looked up from his desk, adjusted his mechanical eye, a triumphant smile on his face.
"Has he been searched?"
"Yes doc."
"Search him again," the commandant stated, adjusting his eye again. The phantom pains always started when the man who'd taken his eye and his dreams was near, "he is very good at hiding deadly little gadgets."
"Get your hands offa me!" An angry voice shouted through the door. A few seconds later the scuffle ended.
"We found a couple knives and a few explosives on him doc," The guard reported, "No idea how they got past the first search."
"Bring him in," the door opened, and the prisoner stumbled in, his sapphire blue eyes flashing angrily, "well, well, well, pen-gu-in. I assume this was not how you pictured our second meeting."
"How's the test piloting going?" Prisoner 113417 smirked.
"I was the best pilot in my wing until you took out my eye," Blowhole replied crisply with a withering glare.
"A terrible shame," the prisoner mocked, "I'm not too bad myself, we could have gone a few rounds and settled all of this."
"It doesn't matter," Blowhole brushed off the insult, eyeing the prisoner, still smirking, "you will be staying here a very long time." At this the prisoner was surprised, so much so that his curiosity forced him to blurt out so dangerous a question:
"I know this is the real world, but maybe you should take a hint or two from the movies. If you bore the good guy to pieces with an evil scheme he eventually escapes."
"Yes well, due to some annoying pencil pushers I am not allowed to automatically end you," blowhole sneered, "believe me, wiping Geneva off the map is quite high up on my list of revenges."
"Well maybe after I send you a telegram telling you just how wonderful the weather back in the US of A is you can get around to doing just that." The prisoner liked trying to sound like a promotional slogan. Blowhole hated those.
"I doubt that, pen-gu-in. You will be kept under very close watch. Remember," Blowhole smiled deviously, "if you try to escape, well, you're in my jurisdiction."
"And when the war's over, you'll be in mine."
Corporal Smith trudged through the mud, staring into the grey, bleak horizon as he and his fellow prisoners marched back from the mine. His back ached, though his technical knowledge had gotten him a relatively easy job, and he was soaked to the skin with muddy water after annoying one of the 'lobsters'. On that matter, Smith looked up to see one of the aforesaid guards leaving the largest wooden structure in the compound, which used to be the commandant's quarters, but he'd given them up for his visiting sister, of which he was completely enamoured. 3...2...1...
"Smith!" the guard shouted, exactly on cue, Smith's head turned in acknowledgement, rolling his eyes slightly.
"Her majesty requests my presence, again?" Smith replied sarcastically.
"Miss Blowhole would be honoured by your presence at dinner," The lobster reported, just as bored of the same speech as Smith. It was a little game between the two if they could always ask at exactly the same time. Showed the state of their social lives, "I'd take it. Miss Blowhole went hunting this afternoon and shot a couple of nice pheasants."
"Well I'm afraid you'll have to once again tell her that I cannot bear to tear myself away from my geological specimens," Smith motioned sarcastically to his mud soaked clothing, "Rare muddius maximus."
"She instructed me to inform you of the opportunity of a hot bath and a mug of cocoa."
"You know my answer." Smith continued his trudge back towards the barracks. A hot bath sounded good to someone in his position, but he'd done the math: if he became the commandant's 'pet' life would be living hell for him in the barracks, and Miss Blowhole would only be staying so long. Anyway, it was against his principles.
Prisoner 113417 tossed his blanket down on his bunk. That was when he looked up.
"Kowalsk...!" He exclaimed, gaping at the familiar face.
"Shhh...!" The man snapped.
"I swear they commissioned you in..."
"You have me confused with someone else." Smith announced loudly enough for the rest of the room to hear, "alright, shows over, folks. I'll run the checks on the new guy," he looked back at the newest addition, and continued in a quieter, somewhat sadder tone, "Got you too, did they Skipper?"
"Yeah. Guess I shoulda shaved before I tried to sneak out a town as one a those cabaret girls," Skipper replied, "What the hell are you doing in an enlisted camp calling yourself Smith?"
"What are you, captain?" Kowalski got a look that distinctly told him: you first. Well, he was higher ranking, "long story. Essentially, when they took me, I couldn't let them know it was me due to the project I was working on, you know, national security and all that. I grabbed my late guard's dog tag and now I'm Corporal Smith. Your turn."
"The details are classified," skipper blushed slightly. Then his voice lowered to barely a whisper, "so when are we getting out of here?" It was then he noticed what he had originally mistaken for fatigue was now unmistakably depression.
"Never." Kowalski sighed.
"Ow!" Kowalski rubbed the side of his face where Skipper's hand had impacted.
"What kind of talk is that?" Skipper exclaimed, "We're Penguins! Well, I am, you quit to do your sciency stuff, but once a Penguin, always a Penguin. We never give up."
"You can't escape," Kowalski denied gloomily, "Especially not you. Blowhole's just waiting for a chance to put together a firing squad. Don't give him the excuse."
"If I stick around here, Geneva convention or not, I'm going to get a knife in my back!" Skipper argued, "and it's only a matter of time until Blowhole finds out you were the mastermind behind the plasma…"
"Shhhh!" Kowalski interrupted. He looked behind him, calling the attention of the man across the room, "Rico?"
"'eah?"
"Tell… Sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Knife," Skipper introduced himself, "Private Jack Knife," Noticing the smirks from around the room, he scowled, "hey, no jokes about the name!"
"Rico, tell Private Knife about Manfredi and Johnson." The jokes ceased and the atmosphere of the room went sober.
The man referred as Rico walked towards the centre off the room, the crowds clearing the area.
"'Ey tried ta 'scape." Rico stated, holding Skipper's attention with an intense glare, "Go' all 'a way out ta th' perimeter." Rico motioned to a spot of ground visible from the barracks, "Bang!" he suddenly shouted, and making a sound like the escape siren motioned that the lights swung onto them, "Ma'fredi," Rico motioned as if he was being shot from all sides by machine guns, before collapsing to the floor, "Johnson," Rico shook his head sadly, getting back up, "'e had coupla fireworks on 'im. Sparks from on' 'a da bullets set 'em off." At this Rico raced around the room as if trying to blow out imaginary fireworks attached to his foot, before throwing himself to the floor as if they'd exploded, "an' tha's what happened ta Ma'fredi and Johnson. They was jus' the most recent."
"Amazingly enough it didn't kill either of them," Kowalski added, "Blowhole dragged their bleeding bodies, Johnson missing his leg, Manfredi missing just about everything else into his lab and they've never been seen again."
"Dinner is served!" Bada interrupted, and instead of the usual big metal wash basin that usually brought their dinner, individual buckets were handed in, "Oh, and special announcement: anyone who touches anything but their own dinner will be shot. No idea why. Owens!"
"Yup." The man replied grabbing his bucket.
"Bolton…!"
"This is out of the ordinary." Kowalski muttered to Skipper.
"Oh, we got a special message for you," Bing announced, noticing Kowalski, "your stalker wants to know how you like your pheasant…"
"The answer's no." Kowalski stated over the continues drone of the food being handed out. There had to be a more efficient system. Perhaps he could design one, but then anything that intelligent might blow his cover.
"… Knife?!" Bada shouted out, holding up the last bucket.
"'s me." Skipper replied, grabbing the bucket. However, when he looked inside, it was empty, "Hey, what are you tryin' ta pull?!" Skipper shouted angrily.
"Beats me," Bada replied, "we was just told to give that to you."
"Blowhole!" Skipper growled, storming towards the door and out into the mud. It was an idiotic and reckless move as Kowalski shouted after him, but Skipper didn't care. Three sharp taps on the door later, and he was back in Blowhole's office.
"Well, well, well, Pen-gu-in, what an unexpected pleasure," Blowhole greeted with a ridiculously sugary smile, "What can I do for you?"
"My rations," Skipper snapped, "what happened to them?"
"Are they not in your mess tin?" Blowhole asked. Skipper tossed the metal bucket onto the desk.
"See for yourself." Blowhole mockingly inspected the bucket, and gasped with faux shock, before the expression morphed to a smile.
"We are having some supply problems here," Blowhole replied, "I previously could only afford to give the men their most basic nutritional requirements, however with your arrival… well, since you so generously volunteered to forego your rations for the good of your fellow prisoners until the supply train arrived…"
"So you're trying to starve me to death?" Skipper interrupted sarcastically, "Real brilliant. What about the pencil pushers?"
"It is not my fault a certain somebody blew up the bridge on the supply train's route," Blowhole replied innocently, "Of course, if you'd rather someone else take the decreased rations…"
"The arrangement's fine." Skipper spat.
"I thought you would say that. Well our business is concluded. I hope you make it back to your barracks before curfew…" But Skipper had already left.
"Don't do anything stupid, Skipper." A familiar voice warned. Skipper looked back to see 'Corporal Smith' keeping pace with him as he walked back through the mud.
"You may not have heard the conversation, but he intends to starve me to death." Skipper replied.
"Don't worry, Skipper, there's a whole underground black market," Kowalski countered, "I can trade with one of the other barracks, they aren't being rationed…"
"It's your duty to escape, you know." Skipper interrupted.
"Oh to hell with patriotism, Skipper, I'd rather live!" Kowalski automatically realised the connotations of the outburst, "Listen, Skipper, my men left me to die, I don't owe them anything."
"Well my men went down fighting, or as best they could, considering the circumstances. Even strangled one of the lobsters with his silk stockings. Call it survivor's guilt, but I outa either be with them, or carrying their banner into battle."
"Skipper, don't you think it would annoy Blowhole more to have you right here, and not be able to exact revenge?" Kowalski pleaded.
"I guess," Skipper relented surprisingly quickly, "Alright Kowalski, at least for tonight, I won't try anything."
"Thanks, Skipper," Kowalski smiled with relief as the two picked up their pace on the way back to the barracks, "So, I will be able to keep my top bunk…?"
"No."