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Mirrored from the The Patton Museum of Cavalry and Armor, Fort Knox.
The newspapers called him "Blood and Guts."
His men in Africa called him "Gorgeous Georgie" after
his distinctive way of dressing. The men of the Third Army simply
called him "Georgie," his nickname from childhood.
Whatever the nickname, George S. Patton, Jr. represented a rarity
in the U.S. Army and unique in the European-African-Middle Eastern
theater, the cult of personality. To this day, while other World
War II veterans refer to the division and often only to the regiment
or battalion, men of the Third Army refer to their belonging to
the Third U.S. Army. "I was with Patton," many will
say. A lifetime of study had convinced Patton that this
should be his leadership style. He was a consummate actor displaying
many faces to suit the need of the moment. Most famous was what
he called his "war face." Martin Blumenson, Patton's
biographer, says: His toughness, his profanity, his bluster
and braggadocio were appurtenances he assumed in order to inspire
soldiers and, incidentally, himself. He cultivated the ferocious
face because he believed that only he-men, as he often said, stimulated
men to fight. Like Indian war paint, the hideous masks of primitive
people, the rebel yell, the shout of paratroopers leaping from
their planes, the fierce countenance helped men in battle disguise
and overcome their fear of death. Patton, himself, stated his principle in War as I Knew It: Corps and Army Commanders must make
it a point to be physically seen by as many individuals of their
command as possible -- certainly by all combat soldiers. The
best way to do this is to assemble the divisions, either as a
whole or in separate pieces, and make a short talk. From January until July 1944, Patton commanded two
disparate organizations. Secretly, he became commander of the
Third U.S. Army in place of LTG Courtney H. Hodges. Also secretly,
with many leaks, he was in command of the First U.S. Army Group
(FUSAG) which was to invade France at Calais. FUSAG was the largest
deception of the war. Using props built by the movie industry
of England and with some real and some fake divisions, FUSAG needed
a commander. Patton was ideally suited because he had been relieved
of command of the 7th Army for slapping two soldiers. German
Intelligence believed he was preparing for some large action.
The fake army group (FUSAG) would keep 18 German divisions in
the Calais area until almost two months after the Normandy Invasion.
In January 1944, the Third Army was in the United States.
Its mission was to break out from Normandy after the invasion
had secured sufficient ground. After the the units for the Normandy
Invasion were staged in Great Britain, elements of Third Army
began arriving. It would be a continual process in the six months
before and even after the invasion. When Patton assumed command of Third Army, he replaced
a number of the headquarters staff with his own people. Patton
spoke to his headquarters staff on March 24, 1944 outside Peover
Hall. Some were from his staff in Africa and Sicily but were
new to Third Army. Others were fresh from the United States and
had been part of Third Army from the beginning. On this day,
Patton tailored his speech to a headquarters staff. I have been given command of Third Army for reasons
which will become clear to you later on. You
made an outstanding record as an able and hard-working staff under
my predecessor. I have no doubt you will do the same for me.
We now have two staffs merging into one, each with its own procedures.
By working harmoniously and intelligently together a third staff
will be developed with a third procedure, which should be better
than either of the other two. I am here because of the confidence of two men:
The President of the United States and the theater commander.
They have confidence in me because they don't believe a lot of
goddamned lies that have been printed about me and also because
they know I mean business when I fight. I don't fight for fun
and I won't tolerate anyone on my staff who does. You are here to fight. This is an active theater
of war. Ahead of you lies battle. That means just one thing.
You can't afford to be a goddamned fool, because, in battle,
fools mean dead men. It is inevitable for men to be killed and
wounded in battle. But there is no reason why such losses should
be increased because of the incompetence and carelessness of some
stupid son-of-a-bitch. I don't tolerate such men on my staff.
There are three reasons why we are fighting this
war. The first is because we are determined to preserve our traditional
liberties. Some crazy German bastards decided they were supermen
and that it was their holy mission to rule the world. They've
been pushing people around all over the world, looting, killing,
and abusing millions of innocent men, women, and children. They
were getting set to do the same thing to us. We had to fight
to prevent being subjugated. The second reason we are fighting is to defeat
and wipe out the Nazis who started all this goddamned son-of-bitchery.
They didn't think we could or would fight, and they weren't the
only ones who thought that, either. There are certain people
back home who had the same idea. Both were wrong. The third reason we are fighting is because men
like to fight. They always have and they always will. Some sophists
and other crackpots deny that. They don't know what they're talking
about. They are either goddamned fools or cowards, or both.
Men like to fight, and if they don't they're not real men. If you don't like to fight, I don't want you
around. You'd better get out before I kick you out. But there
is one thing to remember. In war, it takes more than the desire
to fight to win. You've got to have more than guts to lick the
enemy. You must also have brains. It takes brains and guts to
win wars. A man with guts but no brains is only half a soldier.
We licked the Germans in Africa and Sicily because we had brains
as well as guts. We're going to lick them in Europe for the same
reason. That's all and good luck. Even after the publication of the private diaries
of the leaders, Patton's actions and reaction to him during this
period are somewhat confusing. Patton's command of the FUSAG
required a failed attempt at secrecy. One of Patton's major career
crises occurred during this period. Called the "Knutsford
Incident," Patton, at least, thought his career was at an
end. Third Army Headquarters was located at Peover near Knutsford,
England. Patton was asked to attend an opening of a Welcome Club
for soldiers. He had declined to speak. However, once on the
dais, he was introduced as a speaker. He made a few brief remarks
and happened to say, " ...it is the evident destiny of the British and Americans, and, of course, the Russians, to rule
the world... " The remarks hit the newspapers on both
sides of the Atlantic omitting the Russians thereby slighting
one of our allies. All witnesses to the event said he included
the Russians. Anthony Cave Brown, in Bodyguard of Lies, states that a British Government representative named
Mould "almost certainly" released Patton's remarks to
the media as part of the FUSAG deception. Eisenhower, concentrating
on invasion plans, seemed to be on the verge of relieving Patton.
What did Eisenhower know about details of the deception plan?
There is some indication that Patton had more detailed instructions
from the British. Did Patton's Third Army staff even know he
was in command of FUSAG? Knowing his antipathy to Montgomery,
they blamed the British for the incident. The effect of this
was a break in what Patton considered one of his most important
duties as commander, being seen and speaking to all soldiers.
Beginning in February, in spite of a break from April 25 to May
17 because of the "Knutsford Incident," Patton managed
to speak to and be seen by everyone in Third Army before landing
in Normandy in July. Patton's speech to units within Third Army were
directed to the private. It was directed in a language he thought
would appeal to them. Appearing to be extemporaneous, the speech
was actually a well rehearsed performance. The Patton Museum
has several copies of the speech dating from March to May. Patton
kept no record of the speech. Each was copied by someone in the
audience. The variations in the text may have come from the recorder
or Patton's variation in the presentation. With minor variations
such as "toughest boxer" for "All American football
teams" and cowards should die like "rats" or like
"flies," each version of the speech is remarkably consistent.
Be Seated. Men, this stuff we hear about America wanting
to stay out of the war, not wanting to fight, is a lot of bullshit.
Americans love to fight - traditionally. All real Americans
love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all
admired the champion marble player; the fastest runner; the big
league ball players; the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner
and will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise cowards. Americans
play to win - all the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for
a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost,
not ever will lose a war, for the very thought of losing is hateful
to an American. You are not all going to die. Only two percent
of you here today would die in a major battle. Death must not
be feared. Every man is frightened at first in battle. If he
says he isn't, he's a goddamn liar. Some men are cowards, yes!
But they fight just the same, or get the hell shamed out of them
watching men who do fight who are just as scared. The real hero
is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some get over
their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour. For some
it takes days. But the real man never lets fear of death overpower
his honor, his sense of duty to this country and his innate manhood.
All through your army career you men have bitched
about "This chickenshit drilling." That is all for
a purpose. Drilling and discipline must be maintained in any
army if for only one reason -- instant obedience to orders and
to create constant alertness. I don't give a damn for a man who
is not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn't
be here. You are ready. A man to continue breathing must be
alert at all times. If not, sometime a German son-of-a-bitch
will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full
of shit. There are 400 neatly marked graves somewhere
in Sicily all because one man went to sleep on his job -- but
they were German graves for we caught the bastard asleep before
his officers did. An Army is a team. Lives, sleeps, eats, fights
as a team. This individual heroic stuff is a lot of crap. The
bilious bastards who wrote that kind of stuff for the Saturday
Evening Post don't know any more about real fighting, under fire,
than they do about *@#*&#@%. We have the best food, the finest
equipment, the best spirit and the best fighting men in the world.
Why, by God, I actually pity these poor sons-of-bitches we are
going up against. By God, I do! My men don't surrender. I don't want to hear
of any soldier under my command being captured unless he is hit.
Even if you are hit, you can still fight. That's not just bullshit,
either. The kind of man I want under me is like the lieutenant
in Libya, who, with a Luger against his chest, jerked off his
helmet, swept the gun aside with one hand and busted hell out
of the Boche with the helmet. Then he jumped on the gun and went
out and killed another German: All this with a bullet through
his lung. That's a man for you. All real heroes are not story book combat fighters
either. Every man in the army plays a vital part. Every little
job is essential. Don't ever let down, thinking your role is
unimportant. Every man has a job to do. Every man is a link
in the great chain. What if every truck driver decided that he
didn't like the whine of the shells overhead, turned yellow and
jumped headlong into the ditch? He could say to himself, "They
won't miss me -- just one in thousands." What if every man
said that? Where in hell would we be now? No, thank God, Americans
don't say that! Every man does his job; every man serves the
whole. Every department, every unit, is important to the vast
scheme of things. The Ordnance men are needed to supply the guns,
the Quartermaster to bring up the food and clothes to us -- for
where we're going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal. Every
last man in the mess hall, even the one who heats the water to
keep us from getting the GI shits has a job to do. Even the chaplain
is important, for if we get killed and if he is not there to bury
us we'd all go to hell. Each man must not only think of himself, but
of his buddy fighting beside him. We don't want yellow cowards
in this army. They should all be killed off like flies. If not
they will go back home after the war and breed more cowards.
The brave men will breed brave men. Kill off the goddamn cowards
and we'll have a nation of brave men. One of the bravest men I ever saw in the African
campaign was the fellow I saw on top of a telegraph pole in the
midst of furious fire while we were plowing toward Tunis. I stopped
and asked what the hell he was doing up there at that time. He
answered, "Fixing the wire, sir." "Isn't it a
little unhealthy right now?," I asked. "Yes sir, but
this goddamn wire's got to be fixed." There was a real soldier.
There was a man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter
how great the odds, no matter how seemingly insignificant his
duty might appear at the time. You should have seen those trucks on the road
to Gabes. The drivers were magnificent. All day and all night
they rolled over those son-of-a-bitching roads, never stopping,
never faltering from their course, with shells bursting around
them all the time. We got through on good old American guts.
Many of these men drove over forty consecutive hours. These
weren't combat men. But they were soldiers with a job to do.
They did it -- and in a whale of a way they did it. They were
part of a team. Without them the fight would have been lost.
All the links in the chain pulled together and that chain became
unbreakable. Don't forget, you don't know I'm here. No word
of the fact is to be mentioned in any letters. The world is not
supposed to know what the hell became of me. I'm not supposed
to be commanding this Army. I'm not even supposed to be in England.
Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamn Germans. Someday
I want them to raise up on their hind legs and howl, "Jesus
Christ, it's the goddamn Third Army and that son-of-a-bitch Patton
again." We want to get the hell over there. We want
to get over there and clear the goddamn thing up. You can't win
a war lying down. The quicker we clean up this goddamn mess,
the quicker we can take a jaunt against the purple pissing Japs
an clean their nest out too, before the Marines get all the goddamn
credit. Sure, we all want to be home. We want this thing
over with. The quickest way to get it over is to get the bastards.
The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we go home. The shortest
way home is through Berlin. When a man is lying in a shell hole,
if he just stays there all day, a Boche will get him eventually,
and the hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men
don't dig foxholes. I don't want them to. Foxholes only slow
up an offensive. Keep moving. And don't give the enemy time
to dig one. We'll win this war but we'll win it only by fighting
and by showing the Germans we've got more guts than they have.
There is one great thing you men will all be
able to say when you go home. You may thank God for it. Thank
God, that at least, thirty years from now, when you are sitting
around the fireside with your grandson on your knees, and he asks
you what you did in the great war, you won't have to cough and
say, "I shoveled shit in Louisiana." End 
Additional info tacked onto the museum article above by the (movie-fan) editor: [salutes flag] Now I want you to remember that no
bastard ever won a war by dying for his country.
He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard
die for his country. Men, all this stuff you've
heard about America not wanting to fight -
wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of
horse dung. Americans traditionally love to
fight. All real Americans love the sting of
battle. When you were kids, you all
admired the champion marble shooter, the
fastest runner, big league ball players, the
toughest boxers. Americans love a winner
and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play
to win all the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in
hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's
why Americans have never lost and never
will lose a war, because the very thought of
losing is hateful to Americans. Now, an
army is a team - it lives, eats, sleeps, fights
as a team. This individuality stuff is a bunch
of crap... Now, we have the finest food and
equipment, the best spirit, and the best men
in the world. You know, by god, I actually
pity those poor bastards we're goin' up
against. By god, I do. We're not just gonna
shoot the bastard, we're going to cut out
their living guts and use them to grease the
treads of our tanks. We're going to murder
those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel.
Now, some of you boys, I know, are
wondering whether or not you'll chicken out
under fire. Don't worry about it. I can
assure you that you will all do your duty.
The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them,
spill their blood, shoot them in the belly.
When you put your hand into a bunch of
goo that a moment before was your best
friend's face, you'll know what to do. Now
there's another thing I want you to
remember. I don't want to get any
messages saying that we are holding our
position. We're not holding anything. Let
the Hun do that. We are advancing
constantly and we're not interested in
holding onto anything except the enemy.
We're going to hold onto him by the nose
and we're gonna kick him in the ass. We're
going to kick the hell out of him all the time
and we're gonna go through him like crap
through a goose.
Now, there's one thing
that you men will be able to say when you
get back home, and you may thank god for
it. Thirty years from now when you're sitting
around your fireside with your grandson on
your knee, and he asks you: 'What did you
do in the Great World War II?', you won't
have to say: 'Well, I shoveled shit in
Louisiana.' All right, now you
sons-of-bitches, you know how I feel and I
will be proud to lead you wonderful guys
into battle anytime, anywhere. That's all.
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