I Marched with Patton, page 5
Everyone knew that Patton didn’t like or trust the Russians. In his opinion, as soon as we finished off the Germans, the American military ought to turn its guns on Moscow. I’m sure that Supreme Commander Eisenhower worried Patton would start World War III before World War II was even over.
Patton’s forcefulness was a sign of his tenacity and resolution, but sometimes it got him in trouble. One time was a speech he made to a women’s group in England. Eisenhower had warned Patton about making public statements, but for some reason, Patton decided to ignore the order. On April 25, 1944, he was invited to speak to a ladies’ club in the town of Knutsford. Assured that his remarks were off the record and wouldn’t be reported, Patton praised the war efforts of the British and Americans, predicting victory in the immediate future. He did not mention the Russians, who sustained far more casualties than either Britain or the United States and essentially maintained the war against Nazi Germany single-handedly while America was building its military during 1942 and 1943. It took two and a half years for us to be ready to attack Germany from the west while the Russian army was doggedly and courageously fending off the Wehrmacht on the eastern front.
The omission of this important component in the Allied Front was seen as a rebuff to the Russian army and country. Around the world, the response to Patton was harsh. Eisenhower sent him a letter registering his growing frustration with Patton’s inability to exercise self-control. Although Ike decided not to relieve the general, the concluding sentence of his letter warned, “I want to tell you officially and definitely that if you are again guilty of any indiscretion in speech or action that leads to embarrassment for the War Department, any other part of government, or for this headquarters, I will relieve you instantly from command.”
I think the soldiers in the Third Army understood the situation. Patton had disobeyed orders, shot off his mouth, and jeopardized cooperation. Eisenhower couldn’t have it. We liked Patton the general, but not his from-the-hip comments.
On the other hand, General Patton believed that his speeches and appearances before his men helped morale. He made as many of these pep talks as possible, which everyone knew would be laced with profanity. He held the viewpoint that you couldn’t run an army without profanity. Once he got rolling, the air turned blue. I wasn’t there when he delivered the following speech, but the words were etched forever in the minds of the men who attended: “I want you men to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making sure the other dumb bastard dies for his country. All this stuff you heard about Americans not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horseshit.”
That was just for starters! I picked up some of his remarks from the newspaper. The Brits particularly enjoyed quoting him. Patton would often end his pep talks with something like: “I’m not even supposed 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!’ All right, you sons of bitches, you know how I feel. I’ll be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anywhere anytime. That is all!”
Does that give you a little feel for General Patton’s pep talks?
The men all got a bang out of hearing a general sound off like a bartender. They knew the press would pick up these verbal assaults and loved the impact his comments would have back home. Eisenhower wasn’t so enthusiastic and told Patton to keep his opinions to himself without express permission from the top. Of course, Old Blood and Guts didn’t pay attention to Ike’s directive, and that finally got him kicked to the bottom of the stairs.
Colonel Leslie Cross of the Forty-Third Reconnaissance Squadron had been given a mission of occupying a five-mile front along the Moselle River, in Luxembourg, when he received word that Patton was driving to his headquarters. I learned from one of the attachés who was there that Cross wanted to meet the famous general but was also apprehensive about seeing such a lofty figure. The lead jeep arrived first, with two majors carrying tommy guns ready to fire. Next came Patton’s jeep, flags flying. Snapping to attention, Colonel Cross saluted with precision. The general returned the salute and extended his hand. They broke into small talk. Cross was surprised that Patton was head and shoulders taller than he was. He found the general to have a most commanding appearance.
They went into the situation room, where Patton began studying their maps of the area and asking questions. Colonel Cross felt exceptionally nervous answering the renowned general’s inquiries, but he did the best he could. To his relief, Patton agreed with his answers. They shook hands, took pictures, and then General Patton’s jeep stood ready to leave. With a salute and a wave of the hand, Colonel Leslie Cross watched his commanding general’s jeep disappear down the road. The entire staff, having experienced an overpowering moment, felt a sense of relief.
After all of these years, the image of General George S. Patton stays in my mind as a supreme example of fortitude, discipline, and determination. He inspired devotion. During the passing decades, history embraced Patton even with his defects. He was a man of contradictions. Patton was a swaggering, pistol-packing, profane man who was also deeply religious. While he could scream and shout, underneath he had a kind heart. In battle he could become hotheaded, even ruthless—but behind his impulsive actions was a studious and exacting military student.
At the end of the war in Europe, Patton wanted to go to the Pacific and fight the Japanese, but his requests were ignored, and he wound up the governor of Bavaria. Unfortunately, that assignment didn’t fit his temperament well. During a press conference, he made an off-the-cuff comment comparing the Nazi Party with the American Democrats and Republicans. General Eisenhower immediately removed him not only from the governorship but also as head of the Third Army. He was assigned the task of writing a history of World War II. He had gone from the top to the bottom. In one of his last comments, he said, “I love war.”
He truly did.
11
Winter Sets in
That night, after our reconnaissance up the hill, a blizzard blew in straight out of Siberia. Sometimes the Oklahoma winter sky would turn purple, and the snow drifted everywhere. But those winters didn’t even hold icicles to what hit us that night. The temperature dropped to 70 degrees below zero. Yeah, you heard that right: we were going to war in minus-70-degree weather. The wind kept whipping up drifting snow, and I thought my lips would freeze off. We had on everything we could lay our hands on. I was under so many layers that I could hardly move, and even then, I thought I would end up a block of ice.
Strangely enough, the sky looked like it was ablaze. The winds of war were shooting up fire into that frozen sky like it was the Fourth of July. The fire in the clouds made a strange contrast to the blizzard on the ground. I worried that my fingers would refrigerate and turn black. I knew the cold could be as deadly as a German Mauser K98 rifle. Far off in the distance, we could hear cannons blasting away and the constant cracking of gunfire. We had to be close to the front line. No comfort in that thought. Terrible weather didn’t slow down the war a notch.
I had no idea who the guy standing next to me was. I imagine he’d showed up from some other unit and been assigned to us. His lips were blue, and he kept rubbing his cheeks. The man’s eyes appeared hollow and red.
Suddenly the guy whimpered, “I-I-I don’t want t-to die.”
“What?” I said.
“I-I’m afraid.” The private could barely speak. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”
“What’d you say?” The sergeant whirled around.
“I don’t know. I’m afraid . . .”
“Shut up!” The sergeant snarled and slapped him in the face. “Listen, you son of a bitch! You’re not going to die any sooner or faster than anybody else, and you’ll not freeze to death if you keep your mouth shut. Now shape up and get tough.”
The private kept blinking and started rubbing his cheeks.
“You hear me?” the sergeant shouted. “Stop it!”
The soldier abruptly had a shocked look on his face. “Y-y-yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“Now, listen to me!” the sergeant yelled at the squad. “We’re going to load up in a minute. Sit close to each other in the truck. You’ll stay warmer that way. The convoy’s going to get closer to the front, and then we’re going to blow the hell out of the Nazis. Got it?”
The men mumbled their yeses.
An older guy I always called Mr. Dobson nudged me. “Here’s an old worn blanket. Wrap your feet in it. Don’t want your toes to get frostbite.”
Randy Dobson was thirty-five, much older than most of the other soldiers. The average guy looked like me. Farm boys. Kids just out of high school. Nobodies. Most of us had never been out of the state we were born in, and here we were in France or Belgium or wherever the hell we were right then in this frozen countryside. But Dobson was older and had been around the barn a few times. He had a much better grasp of what was going on, and I wanted him to be my partner in whatever assault was coming down the road, so I treated him with a great deal of respect. I always called him Mister because that’s what we called the principal at the high school.
The truck fired up, and we piled in. The gears ground with a roar, and we started bumping down the dirt road. I leaned over to Mr. Dobson. “Know where we are going?”
Dobson knew that we’d completely outfoxed the Nazis, and they were scrambling to readjust to the fact that we not only had landed on Normandy but had pushed through their lines and established ourselves. Today they were having to recognize that the First Army was pressing on toward Paris. Dobson imagined they were in a panic. Dobson knew we had to give General Eisenhower and old Monty credit for outsmarting the Germans.
“Sounds like the cannons are getting louder,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” Dobson growled under his breath. “We’re getting there.”
After a few minutes, the truck stopped, and the orders were sounded to pile out. The sergeant stood in front of the men.
“Okay, boys,” he began. “The howitzers are already in place. Your job is to keep them firing!” he shouted. “Constantly! We’re going to scare the living hell out of those German bastards and splatter them over the countryside. They thought they owned the European continent. Well, we’re going to show them that they don’t own shit. Keep your eyes open ’cause they got snipers that can shoot, and we don’t want no dead men manning these big guns. Now, each of you select a partner. You’ll cover each other’s backs and make sure you keep functioning without a hitch. Pick your man.”
Instantly, I grabbed Randy Dobson’s arm. I knew I needed an older man looking over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t do something stupid and get shot. Mr. Dobson nodded at me and smiled. I knew I was hooked up with the right guy.
My father had always been my buddy. Those years that I worked in Oakland as a welder, I had missed him so often because he always knew what I should do. I could only hope that Mr. Dobson had those same smarts and cared like my old man.
“Dobson!” the sergeant called out. “You’re in charge of this unit of men for the time being. You’ll need eventually to find a place to bed down tonight. Some of these men will be involved in firing the howitzer 105s. Others will need to stand guard watching for snipers. We don’t want no Germans surprising us none.” The sarge looked around. “Everybody got it?”
The men mumbled a cold “Yes,” and we began to settle in.
The sky had turned even redder, but at least the wind subsided some. The men started finding their places.
“Specialist Sisson!” The first lieutenant standing at the edge of the lineup of the big guns gestured for me to come forward.
I saluted.
“You boys need to know that we’re not gonna need to string them wires at this location,” he said in a Texas drawl. “I can see you all is a load of rookies. We’re going to be shootin’ so loud it might blow your pants off. Don’t let the noise bother ya. That’s just the outgoing mail. We’re a-kickin’ them Nazi asses. So, you kids be careful now, ya hear? That’s just the message flying down the line.”
I nodded. The Texan hitched up his pants. “You can help load shells into them howitzers. Once we start firing, we’re not going to stop for the rest of the day.”
“Yes, sir. Where’s the ammo?”
He pointed to a stack of wooden boxes piled up at the edge of some trees. “Several thousand rounds over there. We’re gonna start pretty quick.”
“Got you.” I saluted.
The shells for the 105-millimeter cannons weighed around 110 pounds each. Carrying them back and forth was not an easy task for one person. It was easier with two men. Our 155-millimeter howitzers were self-propelled weapons, which meant they could be moved relatively easily as the battlefield changed. From what we were hearing, the Allies were steadily pushing back the Germans. We knew our position was important and could make a difference.
Mr. Dobson looked at me and grinned. “Okay, tiger. You ready to haul those heavy shells alone? Or would you like a hand?”
“Are you kidding? Maybe the hard work will warm us up just a tad.”
12
The Killing Machine
Once the cannons started firing, the rumble was nonstop. We tried to plug our ears, but you couldn’t escape the detonation and the thunder. Constant bombardment drowned out even my innermost thoughts. Mr. Dobson and I supplied a stream of shells to the cannons as quick as we could carry them. All I could do was sling those heavy mortar shells toward the howitzers and the soldiers firing the big guns. The ground shook, and our teeth rattled, and after a while, even my legs started to get the shakes. But we kept at it.
In the fiercely cold weather, the barrels on the big guns got hotter than a firecracker. The heat felt like someone had turned on a furnace downstairs and left the basement door open. Maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t eventually freeze to death. By the late afternoon of the action, we had fired close to two thousand rounds. The sound became almost impossible to endure, but we didn’t stop. I wondered how the Germans didn’t go completely nuts.
When we took a break, Mr. Dobson and I walked far enough away that at least we could talk some, but the constant blasts made it hard to understand each other. The dirt road was snow packed but had withstood devastation from the ice. Seemed like a durable path. We had to be careful that we didn’t end up getting exposed to some enemy sniper waiting for soldiers like us to come walking out of the bushes. Finally, we sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree knocked down by the bombing. Mr. Dobson told me that General Patton had surveyed the road situation clear back to ancient times. Apparently, Patton discovered that far back in the eleventh century, William the Conqueror, then the duke of Normandy, studied the local roads to discover which trails were always usable so that he could travel in his war operations in Normandy and Brittany. To this very day, those same roads provided transportation no matter the weather or the circumstances. Strange as it might seem, nearly a thousand years later, we were on the identical paths and trails William the Conqueror rode down in his preparation to invade and defeat England and seize its throne. Patton obviously knew what to expect.
“Got any cigarettes?” Mr. Dobson asked.
“Sure.” I pulled a pack out of my pocket and flipped one out.
We both lit up and leaned back.
“You know every time one of those hundred-ten-pound shells go flying off, we might have killed who knows how many men?” I said.
“War is a killing machine,” Mr. Dobson said. “That’s just the way it is. I’m sure the general knows that fact. Makes you either an atheist or a believer. I think most end up calling on God to pull them out of the ditch.”
“You think Patton’s a religious man?” I asked.
“Sure,” Mr. Dobson said. “I understand that the first Sunday he was in Normandy, he went to a Roman Catholic field Mass. A slight drizzle had settled in, and they had to kneel in the mud, but the general was down there on his knees just like the rest of the men. In the background, the guns were blasting, and the sky was filled with airplanes and bombers zooming overhead, but the worship service continued on without a hitch. Patton stayed right there to the end.”
“Interesting,” I mumbled to myself.
But my mind was actually somewhere else. War pushes one to think about the ultimate issues—such as death.
People were getting killed everywhere, and I knew I could always be next, but I had found a passage in the Bible that spoke to me at such moments. I wondered if these words could make me bulletproof. I know that sounds a little silly, but when you’re looking death in the eye, you want something you can hang on to that might make a difference, and this particular Psalm seemed to have my name on it. I knew that when the going got tough, I could pull it out and read the verses. Comfort and solace resided in that thought.
Mr. Dobson got up and started walking back to the howitzers. I waited until he was down the road and then pulled out this page that I had cut out of a Bible. I read it again:
PSALM 91
Though a thousand fall at my side,
Though ten thousand are dying around me,
The evil will not touch me.
I will see how the wicked are punished
But I will not share it.
For Jehovah is my refuge!
I choose the God above all gods to shelter me.
I read those lines several times, and then I slipped the passage back into my shirt pocket. I knew no greater comfort and assurance than that promise. Patton had knelt in the mud. I was praying in the snow. “God, please be our shelter.”
There wasn’t much sun breaking through the winter clouds, which were edged in red from the fires erupting across the front lines. It certainly wasn’t any warmer, and the sun was moving toward the horizon. Our unit needed shelter for the night.
