Somewhere, a War Leader is Walking
There is not much I am sure of these days, I admit it. These are uncertain times, and when one, like myself, finds oneself holding distinctly minority views, it's wise to assume that one is probably wrong. After all, if law school taught me anything it taught me that there are an awful lot of very, very intelligent people out there and, chances are, they have some very different views that are worthy of consideration.
Still, one must also be true to oneself. I watch what is going on around me, I read the websites and the news, I hear how people frame discussions and it's hard for me to conclude from this anything other than we are, culturally, in some very deep trouble.
I could bore you with anecdote after anecdote, about the attorney terrorist conspirator who got a slap on the wrist after being convicted and the border patrol agents who are being sent down for hard time for the "crime" of shooting a Mexican drug smuggler in the ass. Or, perhaps you'd like to hear how the American-killer and Shi'ite whack-job al-Sadr is now being protected by American troops in Iraq. I could link to the video of the elementary school assembly in Texas where the kids celebrated "diversity day" by citing the Mexican pledge of allegiance in front of a Mexican flag. Or, if that isn't to your liking, I could explain in great detail of the story I read in the Canadian papers about the 13-year old Afghan girl who fled a Shari'a-approved arranged marriage to a 50-year old man only to be captured by US-funded and US-trained police and guarded at gunpoint in part by NATO troops.
But, really, why bother?
You already know the drill. We all know where this is heading. We're in a world-wide, full-blown clash of civilizations that is about to go decidedly nuclear at a time when the West is not only suffering from a lack of confidence, but has a significant portion of its population who believe in their bones that it deserves to lose.
There can only be one outcome in such a state of affairs: eventually, those of us who wish not only for survival but to prevail and to preserve what is ours and has been gifted to us by countless generations will have to decide to do whatever it takes to ensure that survival. And I'm not entirely unconvinced that such a struggle will not have a domestic component.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have an answer to our predictament or even a suggested course of action.
But, in my heart of hearts, I know that somewhere out there, walking around even as I type this, is a war leader, this generation's Patton. I don't know who he is or even if he is a he. But s/he is there.
And we'll know him when he speaks roughly like this:
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 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 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.
* * *
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. Some day 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!
* * *
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!"
And how will we know when we've won?
When the Muslims raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, "Allah, it's the Goddamned Third Army again and that son-of-a-fucking-bitch (name unknown)."
Our job is to lay the groundwork for this leader. To play the Churchill role, relegated to the bank-benches, howling our protests and our warnings in vain. Because when the time comes, and it will come, s/he will need us.
Get yourself ready. Never stop preparing and never stop writing.