From: "Blackout" <blackout@404infomagic.net>
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Date: Fri, Oct 5, 2001 11:08 PM
Message-ID: <dBuv7.895$Tu5.720797@news.uswest.net>
I'm pretty sure this guy would have gutted GWB on sight
and used his
colon for a pocket pussy.
The Speech Given somewhere in England on June 5th, 1944
"Be seated."
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. Because 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 horseshit. 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 bullshit either.
The kind of man
that I want in my command is just like the lieutenant
in Libya, who,
with a Nazi Kraut poking 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 firefight 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
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! 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 just sitting back and 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 cocksuckers by the bushel-fucking-basket!
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."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: Re: 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third
Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton.'
From: Artemia Salina <y2k@sheayright.com>
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Date: Sat, Oct 6, 2001 2:05 AM
Message-ID: <3BBE9F10.22E293DC@sheayright.com>
Outstanding, son! Out-Goddamn-standing!
Posted like a TRUE AMERICAN!
--
Artemia Salina -- http://www.drpez.com/drali1.htm
"WELCOME TO THE WORLD!!!! I AM YOUR MINISTER AND
YOUR UNCLE!!"
Posted Via Usenet.com Premium Usenet Newsgroup Services
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Subject: Re: 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third
Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch Patton.'
From: speaker616@hotmail.com (The Rev. Dr. Lt. Chaos
Israel)
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Date: Mon, Oct 8, 2001 11:35 AM
Message-ID: <b3372e53.0110080735.3bba3733@posting.google.com>
mshotz@aol.comnospam (James T. Rex King of the Monsters)
wrote in message news:<20011007141422.19984.00002638@mb-fy.aol.com>...
> >I'm pretty sure this guy would have gutted
GWB on sight and used his
> >colon for a pocket pussy.
> >
> >
>
> Actually that speach was a alagamtion of several
speaches Patton made prior to
> D-Day.
>
> It was written for the Movie.
>
> And for the record: Patton would have thought Cruise
Missles cowardly too. He
> commented on the German "Wonder Weapons"
that was without sacrifice and Courage
> would loose its meaning.
Please note also, the OSS had to kill Patton. Otherwise
we would've
bee figting the Russians in 1945.
Original file name: 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamn - converted on Wednesday, 10 October 2001, 17:00
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