Government is not reason; it is not eloquent; it is force. Like fire, it is a dangerous servant and a fearful master.
P.J. O’Rourke, Holidays in Hell|
A John Wayne movie,” I said. Thats what you [Europeans] were going to say, wasnt it? We think war is a John Wayne movie. We think life is a John Wayne moviewith good guys and bad guys, as simple as that. Well, you know something, Mister Limey Poofter? Youre right. And let me tell you who those bad guys are. Theyre us. WE BE BAD.
Were the baddest-assed sons of bitches that ever jogged in Reeboks. Were three-quarters grizzly bear and two-thirds car wreck and descended from a stock market crash on our mothers side. You take your Germany, France and Spain, roll them all together and it wont give us room to park our cars. Were the big boys, Jack, the original, giant, economy-sized, new and improved butt kickers of all time. When we snort coke in Houston, people lose their hats in Cap dAntibes. And weve got an American Express card credit limit higher than your piss-ant metric numbers go.
You say our countrys never been invaded? Youre right, little buddy. Because Id like to see the needle-dicked foreigners whod have the guts to try. We drink napalm to get our hearts started in the morning. A rape and a mugging is our way of saying Cheerio. Hell can’t hold our sock-hops. We walk taller, talk louder, spit further, fuck longer and buy more things than you know the names of. Id rather be a junkie in a New York City jail than king, queen and jack of all you Europeans. We eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.
H.L. Mencken, Obituary of William Jennings Bryan (1926)|
This talk of [Bryans] sincerity, I confess, fatigues me. If the fellow was sincere, then so was P.T. Barnum. The word is disgraced and degraded by such uses. He was, in fact, a charlatan, a mountebank, a zany without sense or dignity. He was a peasant come home to the barnyard. Imagine a gentleman, and you have imagined everything he was not. What animated him from end to end of his grotesque career was simply ambitionthe ambition of a common man to get his hand upon the collar of his superiors, or, failing that, to get his thumb into their eyes. He was born with a roaring voice, and it had the trick of inflaming half-wits. His whole career was devoted to raising those half-wits against their betters, that he himself might shine.
It is not the critic who counts, not that man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doers of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.
General George S. Pattons Speech to the Third Army (June 5, 1944, the day before D-Day)|
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 wouldnt give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. Thats 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 hes not, hes 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 dont give a fuck for a man whos not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldnt be here. You are ready for whats to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If youre not alert, sometime, a German son-of-an-asshole-bitch is going to sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sock full 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 dont 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 were going up against. By God, I do.
My men dont surrender, and I dont 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 Thats not just bullshit 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. Dont ever let up. Dont 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 didnt like the whine of those shells overhead, turned yellow, and jumped headlong into a ditch? The cowardly bastard could say, Hell, they wont 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 dont 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 isnt 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 dont 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, Isnt that a little unhealthy right about now? He answered, Yes Sir, but the Goddamned wire has to be fixed. I asked, Dont 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 werent 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.
Dont forget, you men dont know that Im 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. Im not supposed to be commanding this Army. Im 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, its 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 Id 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 dont dig foxholes. I dont want them to. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. And dont give the enemy time to dig one either. Well win this war, but well win it only by fighting and by showing the Germans that weve got more guts than they have; or ever will have.
Were not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, were going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. Were going to murder those lousy Hun cock suckers by the bushel-fucking-basket. War is a bloody, killing business. Youve 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 its the blood and guts of what once was your best friend beside you, youll know what to do!
I dont 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 enemys 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 dont 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 wont 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.
|Bumper Stickers||DVDs - VHS||Books||Pokemon||How do I write...?||PacRim Jim ®||Downloads|
|E-Books||CDs - Music||Anime||Toys & Games||Maps Links Flags||Sites of Week||Wallpaper|
|Screen Savers||Home Elec.||Software||Video Games||National Anthem||JapaNews ®||Home Contact|