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Men, all this stuff you’ve heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horse dung.
Americans traditionally love to fight. All real Americans love the sting of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, big-league ball players, the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner, and will not tolerate a loser.
Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost, and will never lose a war, because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans.
Now an army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a bunch of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know anything more about real battle than they do about fornicating.
Now we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. You know, by God, I actually pity those poor bastards we’re going up against. By God, I do!
We’re not just going to shoot the bastards, we’re going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We’re going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel!
Now some of you boys I know are wondering whether or not you’ll chicken out under fire. Don’t worry about it. I can assure you that you will all do your duty.
The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them! Spill their blood! Shoot them in the belly! When you put your hand into a bunch of goo that a moment before was your best friend’s face, you’ll know what to do.
There’s another thing I want you to remember. I don’t want to get any messages saying we are “holding our position.” We’re not “holding” anything. Let the Hun do that. We’re advancing constantly. We’re not interested in holding on to anything except the enemy. We’re going to hold on to him by the nose and kick him in the ass. We’re going to kick the hell out of him all the time, and we’re going to go through him like crap through a goose!
Now there’s one thing that you men will be able to say when you get back home. And you may thank God for it. Thirty years from now when you’re sitting around your fireside with your grandson on your knee, and he asks you: “What did you do in the great World War ll?”
You won’t have to say: “Well… I shovelled shit in Louisiana. “
All right, now, you sons of bitches… you know how I feel. I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere.