Patton's Speech to Third Army Before D-Day
Compliments of our brethren
Herein follows a copy of
General Patton's (unabridged) speech to 3rd Army on the eve of D-Day. Although
not Politically Correct by contemporary standards, in the context of the pending
invasion of Europe and the human losses anticipated, it communicated an
important message to his target audience.
General Patton's Address
to the Troops
by Jim Quinn
The Background Research
Anyone who has ever viewed
the motion picture PATTON will never forget the opening. George Campbell Scott,
portraying Patton, standing in front of an immensely huge American flag,
delivers his version of Patton's "Speech to the Third Army" on June
5th, 1944, the eve of the Allied invasion of France, code named
"Overlord." Scott's rendition of the speech was highly sanitized so as
not to offend too many fainthearted Americans. Luckily, the soldiers of the
American Army who fought World War II were not so fainthearted.
After one of my lectures on
the subject of General Patton, I spoke with a retired Major General who was a
close friend of Patton and who had been stationed with him in the 1930's in the
Cavalry. He explained to me that the movie was a very good portrayal of Patton
in that it was the way he wanted his men and the public to see him, as a rugged,
colorful commander. There was one exception, however, according to the Major
General. In reality, Patton was a much more profane speaker than the movie dared
to exhibit. Patton had a unique ability regarding profanity. During a normal
conversation, he could liberally sprinkle four letter words into what he was
saying and the listeners would hardly take notice of it. He spoke so easily and
used those words in such a way that it just seemed natural for him to talk that
way. He could, when necessary, open up with both barrels and let forth such blue
flamed phrases that they seemed almost eloquent in their delivery. When asked by
his nephew about his profanity, Patton remarked, "When I want my men to
remember something important, to really make it stick, I give it to them double
dirty. It may not sound nice to some bunch of little old ladies at an afternoon
tea party, but it helps my soldiers to remember. You can't run an army without
profanity; and it has to be eloquent profanity. An army without profanity
couldn't fight it's way out of a piss-soaked paper bag."
"As for the types of
comments I make," he continued with a wry smile, "sometimes I just, By
God, get carried away with my own eloquence." When I appeared on a local
San Diego television show to discuss my Patton Collection a viewer living in a
suburb of San Diego, was very interested for personal reasons. Her husband had
been a lieutenant assigned to General Patton's Third Army Headquarters, code
named "Lucky Forward" and he had known General Patton quite well. He
had recently died and had left to his wife a box that he had brought home with
him from the European Theater of Operations.
The lady invited me to her
home to inspect the box to see if there was anything in it that might be useful
to me in my search for "collectibles." Opening the box, I immediately
thanked her. Inside was one of only a couple hundred copies printed of the
Official United States Third Army After Action Reports. It is a huge two volume
history of the Third Army throughout their 281 days of combat in Europe. She
said that she had no use for it and that I could have it. I left with my new
When I arrived at my office
and removed the foot-thick, oversized books from the box, I had an even greater
surprise. Under the Reports lay a small stack of original Third Army memos,
orders, AND a carbon copy of the original speech that had been typed by some
unknown clerk at Lucky Forward and had been widely distributed throughout Third
Army. A few years earlier, I had discovered an almost illegible Xerox of a
carbon copy of a similar speech. This one came from the Army War College and was
donated to their Historical Library Section in 1957.
I decided to do some research
on the speech to obtain the best one possible and to make an attempt to locate
the identity of the "unknown soldier" who had clandestinely typed and
distributed the famous document. I began by looking in my collection of old
magazines, newspapers, books that have been written about Patton since his
death, and dozens of other books which had references to Patton and his speech.
I discovered some interesting
facts. The most interesting probably being that George C. Scott was not the
first actor to perform the speech. In 1951, the New American Mercury Magazine
had printed a version of the speech which was almost exactly the same version
printed by John O'Donnell in his "Capitol Stuff" column for the New
York Daily News on May 31, 1945. According to the editors of the New American
Mercury, their copy was obtained from Congressman Joseph Clark Baldwin who had
returned from a visit to Patton's Headquarters in Czechoslovakia.
After publication, the
magazine received such a large reader response asking for reprints of the speech
that the editors decided to go one step further. They hired a "famous"
actor to make an "unexpurgated" recording of the Patton speech. This
recording was to be made available to veterans of Third Army and anyone else who
would like to have one. The term "famous" was the only reference made
by the editors about the actor who recorded the speech. In a later column they
explained, "We hired an excellent actor whose voice, on records, is almost
indistinguishable from Patton's, and with RCA's best equipment we made two
recordings; one just as Patton delivered it, with all the pungent language of a
cavalryman, and in the other we toned down a few of the more offensive words.
Our plan was to offer our readers, at cost, either recording."
Unfortunately, a few years
ago, their was a fire in the editorial offices of the magazine which destroyed
almost all of their old records. The name of the actor was lost in that
accident. Only one master recording of the speech was made. The magazine
Editors, not wanting to offend either Mrs. Patton or her family, asked for her
sanction of the project. The Editors explained the situation thusly, "While
we had only the master recordings, we submitted them to our friend, Mrs. Patton,
and asked her to approve our plan. It was not a commercial venture and no
profits were involved. We just wanted to preserve what to us seems a worthwhile
bit of memorabilia of the Second World War. Our attorneys advised us that
legally we did not need Mrs.. Patton's approval, but we wanted it."
"Mrs.. Patton considered
the matter graciously and thoroughly, and gave us a disappointing decision. She
took the position that this speech was made by the General only to the men who
were going to fight and die with him; it was, therefore, not a speech for the
public or for posterity."
"We think Mrs.. Patton is wrong; we think that what is great and worth
preserving about General Patton was expressed in that invasion speech. The fact
that he employed four letter words was proper; four letter words are the
language of war; without them wars would be quite impossible."
When Mrs. Patton's approval
was not forthcoming, the entire project was then scrapped, and the master
recordings were destroyed.
Patton always knew exactly
what he wanted to say to his soldiers and he never needed notes. He always spoke
to his troops extemporaneously. As a general rule of thumb, it is safe to say
that Patton usually told his men some of his basic thoughts and concepts
regarding his ideas of war and tactics. Instead of the empty, generalized
rhetoric of no substance often used by Eisenhower, Patton spoke to his men in
simple, down to earth language that they understood. He told them truthful
lessons he had learned that would keep them alive.
As he traveled throughout
battle areas, he always took the time to speak to individual soldiers, squads,
platoons, companies, regiments, divisions or whatever size group could be
collected. About the only difference in the context of these talks was that the
smaller the unit, the more "tactical" the talk would be. Often he
would just give his men some sound, common sense advice that they could follow
in order to keep from being killed or maimed. From innumerable sources; magazine
articles, newspaper clippings, motion picture biographies and newsreels, and
books, I have put together the most complete version possible that encompasses
all of the material that is available to date.
Somewhere in England June 5th, 1944
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, every one 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 lung. 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? No, Goddamnit, 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. Every 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.'
I asked, '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 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.
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.
Many of 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
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. Someday 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 the credit.
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, 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. When 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, 'Well, your 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."