Every man has forgotten who he is. . . . We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are.
—G. K. Chesterton
It is the unconquerable soul of man and not the nature of the weapon he uses which insures victory.
—Gen. George S. Patton
On June 5, 1944, a United States general strode on a platform donning a spit-shined helmet, polished cavalry boots, and a menacing riding crop in hand. Standing at attention were the United States Third Army’s Sixth Armored Division who were based in Gloucestershire, England, and preparing for the coming landings on Normandy beach. The hour to confront the Nazis in fortress Europe was at hand. And their leader stood before them. That man was Gen. George S. Patton.
The men were seated. The general paced. And glowered.
Men, this stuff that some sources sling around about America wanting out of this war, not wanting to fight, is a crock of bull—. 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.
The young soldiers sat in rapt attention. They were listening to a legend. Thus far in the Second World War, Patton had commanded US Western Task Forces in Operation Torch, invading French Morocco and capturing Casablanca. He rejuvenated a beleaguered Tunisia campaign, turning demoralizing defeat into scintillating victory. Patton successfully invaded Sicily. And he engaged in elaborate subterfuge to draw the Germans away from the Normandy invasion point.
On the other hand, the soldiers before him had been well-trained. They had engaged in exhausting maneuvers in Louisiana and grueling exercises in the Mojave Desert. They were fit. They were prepared. And they were enormously inexperienced. “You are not all going to die,” Patton pronounced.
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.
The soldiers smiled and sat a little taller. Their foreboding about the godlike Hitler, the ruthless SS, the unrelenting Wehrmacht, and the ideology of the master-race shrank as Patton strutted and spat and knifed his crop through the air. They may be inexperienced, but they know where they came from and who they were fighting for. Many men came from blue-collar or no-collar families. They grew up going to Mass, playing baseball in the vacant lot, working a lot while earning a little. They were young men of the Great Depression whose dads struggled for work and whose mothers repurposed leftovers, darned socks, and made soap. There wasn’t much, but there was God and family. As G. K. Chesterton once asserted, “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him but because he loves what is behind him.”
“There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily all because one man went to sleep on the job.” Patton grew silent and then men leaned forward, “But they are German graves, because we caught the bastards 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—t.”
They may be inexperienced, but they know where they came from and who they were fighting for.
Later, Patton would add,
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.” I asked, “Isn’t that a little unhealthy right about now?” He answered, “Yes Sir, but the G—damned 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 do!” 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.
Peppered in at one point or another, Patton reminded,
I want you to remember that no poor bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb son-of-a-b— bastard die for his country. Remember that.
This is what the soldiers knew, but needed to hear. We fight as one. We do not quit. We do the hard thing because no one else will. And then we win. “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.” Patton’s iron jaw finally broke into a broad smile.
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, “Well, your Granddaddy shoveled sh-t 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-G—damned-B—h named Georgie Patton!”
The men stood. And roared. And saluted.
Not long after D-Day, the Third Army’s Sixth Armored Division would land on Utah Beach and create a notable breakout at Avranches. Later, they would come to the rescue of besieged American forces around Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. After that, they would cross the Rhine River into the heart of Germany and, ultimately, liberate 21,000 prisoners from the hellscape of Buchenwald concentration camp.
At just the right moment, it took a complicated figure like Gen. George S. Patton to remind uncertain soldiers embarking on a harrowing campaign of who they are and not simply what they should do.
Today, we thank all veterans—for giving their freedom to protect ours, for living with honor to preserve ours, for enduring the darkness so we may live in the light.
Thank you for teaching us what we should do.
Even more, thank you for reminding us of just who we are.