Subj. pvt. stood to attention and saluted Gen. Patton, and so did all other ambulatory patients and medical personnel. Gen. Patton appeared extremely moved by this and became inarticulate. 1stLt. Gayle Hadley asked if he needed any help, but he smiled and shook his head, then left the tent.
Lt. Hadley immediately asked me if Gen. Patton might require medical attention.
Then she said that she had been trying to find something to say to combat fatigue cases, because very few of them seemed to be happy about getting out of the lines. Subj. pvt. had been ordered back three times with a diagnosis of combat fatigue and each time asked to return to unit. He had been in the Army eight months and with the 1stDivision since June 1943.
Private Shrieber's diagnosis was acute dysentery, possibly amoebic, with a temperature of 102.5 degrees, frequent headaches and stools, and severe dehydration. His stool test was negative for malarial parasites. Bed rest and fluids were recommended.
I have advised all personnel present during Gen. Patton's visit to treat his words as entirely confidential. I also sincerely hope that it will be possible for Gen. Patton to grant permission for his words to be circulated, if not generally then at least among medical personnel. He may have found a much more effective way of telling combat fatigue cases that they are still soldiers than any the Medical Corps has yet developed.
Interview with Captain Gayle Hadley Jorgensen, U. S. Army Nurse Corps (Ret.), November 25, 1963:
I suppose you'd have to say I was the guilty party in letting what General Patton said get out. Many of us who heard him were almost in tears when he left, and some of us did break down afterwards. I think his aide, Major Stiller, knew that, because he left two bottles of whiskey, not one, even if the second was something from Texas and pretty awful.
But anyway, I wasn't quite myself when I got off duty, or when I got to my boyfriend for our date. He was married, so I won't tell you his name. It was just one of those things that happen in wartime, when you're both alone a long way from home. I was also thinking of how after one Luftwaffe raid it might have been me sitting on a cot shaking and crying, and nobody to tell me that being scared wasn't the same as being a coward.
So I told my friend, and he said he was glad to hear that some high brass understood what it could be like, when you had to fly straight and level on the last ten miles of a bombing run with fighters coming in from all sides except the one that the flak was using, and sometimes even that. He also promised not to tell.
That's why we broke up, incidentally. He really didn't keep the promise. Like a lot of Air Force officers, he knew a reporter. He talked to the reporter, the reporter decided that this was too good a story to sit on, and it wound up embarrassing General Patton, or so I've heard.
It's too late to apologize to Old Georgie. But I hope he'll understand that ever since that day, all of us who heard him are just a little prouder of having worn the same uniform as he did.
From The New York Times,August 6, 1943:
Patton Strikes Blow for Morale
Says "No Cowards" in American Army
Cheered at Press Conference in Palermo
Letter to Beatrice Patton, August 7, 1943:
Don't worry about the old "death wish" coming back, but right now I would rather lead the first wave of Operation Decatur ashore than give another speech or answer another question from a reporter. Anyone would think I was running for office (when I retire after the war I am more likely to run from office) and the reporters say they are on our side but I don't think all of them are telling the truth.
Of course, neither am I, in public. You are the only one I'm going to tell about the whole thing. I was all ready to chew Private Shriver's ass up one side and down the other, and maybe kick him right out of the tent. But I had a tickle in my throat, and I knew that if I started shouting I would cough myself silly.
So I put on my fighting face, which looked as if it was going to scare the poor little SOB right off his cot. I started to raise my riding crop, and I could see people flinching.
Then something grabbed my wrist. It was as solid a grab as I ever felt from you. It pulled my wrist back to my side and then I heard a voice whisper, "Wait." It was the same voice I heard when I was wounded in the Argonne.
I looked over Pvt. Shreever's head, and saw Papa standing there. He was about the age you remember him when we met, but he was wearing his VMI [Virginia Military Institute] cadet's uniform.
"Look at me, son," he said. I hoped nobody else could hear him, and that I could reply without anybody else hearing me. Right then, I didn't want anybody thinking I was crazy.
"I wore this uniform a lot longer than that young man has worn his," Papa went on. "But I never set foot on a battle field. I never smelled powder smoke. I never had a single man die beside me. You honor my name, but let me tell you that Private Shrieber is braver than I ever was."
"But Papa-your own father died because his brigade-" I didn't really care if the living heard me.
"Was running away?" That was another voice, not as familiar. I looked beyond Papa, and saw my grandfather standing there. He was the one who'd wondered out loud if it was time for another Patton to die, at the Meuse-Argonne. The same as the other time, he was wearing his Confederate uniform like in the pictures my grandmother left us.
I didn't know what to say. My grandfather grinned. "Oh, some of them were running. Most of them were trying to find somewhere behind a fence or wall, instead of standing out there to be targits for the Yankee artillery. Even the ones who were running away, they've apologized and asked me to forgive them.
"I did just that. This boy hasn't even run away. Nobody's died because he was sick, and nobody will.If you send him back to his regiment with his pride intact. And if you go back to your post so as to make us prouder still. You've already done honor to the Patton name, grandson. Go and do more."
He saluted. So did Papa. Then they were both gone.
That is exactly what I remember, no more and no less. It must have happened in some way outside of time, because it was only a few seconds according to my watch.
Thank God nobody else heard or saw anything. Or maybe they did, and they are too afraid of everybody thinking their crazy to say anything.
Anyway, that's Grandpa, Papa, and you who all think I'm a pretty good soldier. We shall see what happens with Operation Decatur.
Your George
PS-The British seem to be reading the papers.
All of a sudden, Monty wants a meeting tomorrow, to coordinate Operation Decatur with a landing on the east coast of Sicily. I hope there's enough air cover for two, and that the Limeys move out of the beachhead fast. They will be closer to Messina than we will be, and they might get there first, but that does not bother me as much as a lot of British soldiers getting killed because they squatted long enough for the Germans to bring up artillery or even counterattack. Oh well, if nothing else moves them, the Royal Navy will give them a kick in the ass. They've been trying to get Monty to try an end-run for weeks.
PPS-Don't show this to anybody else.
From The New York Times, August 11, 1943:
A Pincer for the Panzers
Double Allied Landings Cut Off
Germans in Northern Sicily
Ferocious Luftwaffe Counterattacks