The entire monologue at the beginning of "Patton" :
I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a
country. He won it by making the other poor, dumb bastard die for his country.
Men, all this stuff you've heard about America not wanting to
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 shooters, the fastest runners, 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, 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
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
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 II?" You won't have to say, "Well, I shoveled shit
in Louisiana."
Alright, now, you sons-of-bitches, you know how I feel. Oh... I will be
proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime, anywhere.
That's all.