Now an army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a bunch of crap. The bilious basturds 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, the best men in the world. You know...my God, I actually pity those poor basturds we're going up against. My God, I do. We're not just going to shoot the basturds. 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 basturds 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.
Now, there's another thing I want you to remember. I don't want to get any messages saying that we are holding our position. We're not holding onto anything. Let the Hun do that. We are advancing constantly and we're not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy. We're going to hold onto him by the nose, and we're going to 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 Two?" You won't have to say, "Well, I shoveled sh*t in Louisiana. Alright, now you sons-of-bitches, you know how I feel. Oh...
I would be proud to lead you wonderful guys in to battle-anytime, anywhere. That's all.
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