June 5th, 1944
George S. Patton
"Men, this stuff that some sources sling around about America wanting out of this war, not wanting to fight, is a crock of bullshit. Americans love to fight, traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle.
You are here today for three reasons. First, because you are here to defend your homes and your loved ones. Second, you are here for your own self respect, because you would not want to be anywhere else. Third, you are here because you are real men and all real men like to fight.
When you, here, everyone of you, were kids, you all admired the champion marble player, the fastest runner, the toughest boxer, the big league ball players, and the All-American football players.
Americans love a winner.
Americans will not tolerate a loser.
Americans despise cowards.
Americans play to win all of the time.
I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost nor will ever lose a war; for the very idea of losing is hateful to an American."
"You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would die in a major battle. Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all men. Yes, every man is scared in his first battle. If he says he's not, he's a liar. Some men are cowards but they fight the same as the brave men or they get the hell slammed out of them watching men fight who are just as scared as they are.
The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some men get over their fright in a minute under fire. For some,
it takes an hour. For some, it takes days. But a real man will never let
his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and
his innate manhood. Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a
human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all
that is base. Americans pride themselves on being He Men and they ARE He Men.
Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you are, and probably
more so. They are not supermen."
"All through your Army careers, you men have bitched about what you call
"chicken shit drilling". That, like everything else in this Army, has a
definite purpose. That purpose is alertness. Alertness must be bred into
every soldier. I don't give a fuck for a man who's not always on his
toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn't be here. You are ready for what's
to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If
you're not alert, sometime, a German son-of-an-asshole-bitch is going to
sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sockful of shit!"
"There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily, all
because one man went to sleep on the job. But they are German graves,
because we caught the bastard asleep before they did."
"An Army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, and fights as a team. This
individual heroic stuff is pure horse shit. The bilious bastards who
write that kind of stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more
about real fighting under fire than they know about fucking!"
"We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the
best men in the world. Why, by God, I actually pity those poor
sons-of-bitches we're going up against. By God, I do."
"My men don't surrender, and I don't want to hear of any soldier under
my command being captured unless he has been hit. Even if you are hit, you
can still fight back. That's not just bull shit either. The kind of man that
I want in my command is just 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 the hell out of the Kraut with his helmet. Then he jumped on
the gun and went out and killed another German before they knew what the
hell was coming off. And, all of that time, this man had a bullet through a
There was a real man!"
"All of the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters, either. Every
single man in this Army plays a vital role. Don't ever let up. Don't
ever think that your job is unimportant. Every man has a job to do and he
must do it. Every man is a vital link in the great chain.
What if every truck
driver suddenly decided that he didn't like the whine of those shells overhead,
turned yellow, and jumped headlong into a ditch? The cowardly bastard
could say, 'Hell, they won't miss me, just one man in thousands.' But, what if
every man thought that way? Where in the hell would we be now? What
would our country, our loved ones, our homes, even the world, be like?
Americans don't think like that.
Every man does his job. Every man
serves the whole. Every department, every unit, is important in the vast scheme
of this war.
The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns and machinery of war
to keep us rolling.
The Quartermaster is needed to bring up food and
clothes because where we are going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal.
last man on K.P. has a job to do, even the one who heats our water to keep us
from getting the 'G.I. Shits'."
"Each man must not think only of himself, but also of his buddy fighting
beside him. We don't want yellow cowards in this Army. They should be
killed off like rats. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more
cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the Goddamned
cowards and we will have a nation of brave men.
One of the bravest men
that I ever saw was a fellow on top of a telegraph pole in the midst of a
furious fire fight in Tunisia. I stopped and asked what the hell he was doing up
there at a time like that. He answered, 'Fixing the wire, Sir.'
'Isn't that a little unhealthy right about now?'
He answered, 'Yes Sir,
but the Goddamned wire has to be fixed.'
I asked, 'Don't those planes
strafing the road bother you?'
And he answered, 'No, Sir, but you sure as hell
Now, there was a real man.
A real soldier.
There was a man who devoted
all he had to his duty, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty might
appear at the time, no matter how great the odds.
And you should have
seen those trucks on the rode to Tunisia. Those 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 all
around them all of the time.
We got through on good old American guts.
those men drove for over forty consecutive hours. These men weren't
combat men, but they were soldiers with a job to do. They did it, and in one
hell of a way they did it. They were part of a team. Without team effort,
without them, the fight would have been lost. All of the links in the chain
pulled together and the chain became unbreakable."
"Don't forget, you men don't know that I'm here. No mention of that fact
is to be made in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the
hell happened to me. I'm not supposed to be commanding this Army. I'm not
even supposed to be here in England.
Let the first bastards to find out be
the Goddamned Germans.
Some day I want to see them raise up on their
piss-soaked hind legs and howl, 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third Army again
and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton'."
"We want to get the hell over there." The quicker we clean up this
Goddamned mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing
Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the Goddamned Marines get all of
"Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way
to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it. The quicker
they are whipped, the quicker we can go home. The shortest way home is
through Berlin and Tokyo. And when we get to Berlin", he yelled, "I am
personally going to shoot that paper hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler. Just like I'd
shoot a snake!"
"When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a
German will get to him eventually. 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 either. We'll win this war, but we'll win it only by fighting and by
showing the Germans that we've got more guts than they have; or ever will have.
We're not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we're going to rip
out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks.
We're going to murder those lousy Hun cock suckers by the
"War is a bloody, killing business. You've got to spill their blood, or
they will spill yours.
Rip them up the belly.
Shoot them in the guts.
shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and
realize that instead of dirt it's the blood and guts of what once was your best
friend beside you, you'll know what to do!"
"I don't want to get any messages saying, 'I am holding my position.' We
are not holding a Goddamned thing.
Let the Germans do that.
We are advancing
constantly and we are not interested in holding onto anything, except
the enemy's balls.
We are going to twist his balls and kick the living shit
out of him all of the time.
Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to
keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or
through the enemy.
We are going to go through him like crap through a
goose; like shit through a tin horn!"
"From time to time there will be some complaints that we are pushing our
people too hard.
I don't give a good Goddamn about such complaints. I
believe in the old and sound rule that an ounce of sweat will save a
gallon of blood. The harder WE push, the more Germans we will kill. The more
Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing means
fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that."
"There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after
this war is over and you are home once again.
You may be thankful that twenty
years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson
on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you
WON'T have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say,
Granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana.'
No, Sir, you can look him straight in the
eye and say,
'Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Third Army and a
Son-of-a-Goddamned-Bitch named Georgie Patton!' "
"That is all."