Men, this stuff some sources sling around about America wanting to stay out of the war and not wanting to fight is a lot of baloney! Americans love to fight, traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. America loves a winner. America will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise a coward; Americans play to win. That’s why America has never lost and never will lose a war.
You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you, right here today, would be killed in a major battle.
Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all of us. And every man is scared in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. Some men are cowards, yes, but they fight just the same, or get the hell slammed out of them.
The real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some get over their fright in a minute, under fire; others take an hour; for some it takes days; but a real man will never let the fear of death overpower his honour, his sense of duty, to his country and to his manhood.
All through your Army careers, you’ve been bitching about what you call «chicken-shit drills.» That, like everything else in the Army, has a definite purpose. That purpose is instant obedience to orders and to create and maintain constant alertness! This must be bred into every soldier. A man must be alert all the time if he expects to stay alive. If not, some German son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him with a sock full of shit! There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily, all because one man went to sleep on his job – but they are German graves, because we caught the bastards asleep!
An Army is a team, lives, sleeps, fights, and eats as a team. This individual hero stuff is a lot of 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! Every single man in the Army plays a vital role. Every man has his job to do and must do it. What if every truck driver decided that he didn’t like the whine of a shell overhead, turned yellow and jumped headlong into a ditch? What if every man thought, «They won’t miss me, just one in millions?» Where in Hell would we be now? Where would our country, our loved ones, our homes, even the world, be?
No, thank God, Americans don’t think like that. Every man does his job, serves the whole. Ordnance men supply and maintain the guns and vast machinery of this war, to keep us rolling. Quartermasters bring up clothes and food, for where we’re going, there isn’t a hell of a lot to steal. Every last man on K.P. has a job to do, even the guy who boils the water to keep us from getting the G.I. shits!
Remember, men, you don’t know I’m here. No mention of that is to be made in any letters. The USA is supposed to be wondering what the hell has happened to me. I’m not supposed to be commanding this Army, I’m not supposed even to be in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamn Germans. I want them to look up and howl, «Ach, it’s the goddamn Third Army and that son-of-a-bitch Patton again!»
We want to get this thing over and get the hell out of here, and get at those purple-pissin’ Japs!!! The shortest road home is through Berlin and Tokyo! We’ll win this war, but we’ll win it only by showing the enemy we have more guts than they have or ever will have!
There’s one great thing you men can say when it’s all over and you’re home once more. You can thank God that twenty years from now, when you’re sitting around the fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the war, you won’t have to shift him to the other knee, cough, and say, «I shovelled shit in Louisiana.»