General George S. Patton was assassinated to silence his criticism of allied war leaders claims new bookhttp://www.prisonplanet.com/general-george-s-patton-was-assassinated-to-silence-his-criticism-of-allied-war-leaders-claims-new-book.html
I found this from Rense that goes along with it:
The Assassination Of
General George Patton
'Los Crimenes De Los Buenos' by Joaquin Bochaca Published January 1, 2001
(Note: The translation of the passage below from Joaquin Bochaca's book, "Los Crimenes De Los 'Buenos' " was prepared by a participant on Liberty Forum who writes under the name of "Mugwort." The Book by Bochaca, an Argentinian, appears to be a major writing. I hope it soon becomes available in english translation. The short passage below addresses the assassination of General Patton.)
The abuses committed by the Forces of the Occupation in Germany reached such bestial extremes that various people in the Allied command structure opposed it--or tried to. ... Lindbergh mentioned how the American soldiers burned the leftovers of their meals to keep them from being scavenged by the [starving] Germans who hung around the garbage barrels.
He also wrote: "In our homeland the public press publishes articles on how we 'liberated' the oppressed peoples. Here, our soldiers use the word 'liberate' to describe how they get their hands on loot. Everything they grab from from a German house, everything they take off a German is 'liberated' in the lingo of our troops. Leica cameras are liberated, food, works of art, clothes are liberated. A soldier who rapes a German girl is "liberating " her.
"There are German children who gaze at us as we eat ... our cursed regulations forbid us to give tham anything to eat. I remember the soldier Barnes, who was arrested for having given a chocolate bar to a tattered little girl. It's hard to look these children in the face. I feel ashamed. Ashamed of myself, my people, as I eat and look at those children. How can we have gotten so inhumane?" So wrote Colonel Lindbergh, national hero of the United States, who was proposed as a candidate for the presidency of his country, who fought in the air force of his country, who was not a nazi. Many decent American and British citizens can see that.
General Patton, perhaps the most popular of the American generals, immediately opposed the total or partial application of the Morgenthau Plan in his sector of occupation. Soon, he had a run-in with another general of higher rank: General Eisenhower. It's well-known what extremely violent debates they had about how the civilian population of Germany was to be treated. Patton was SENTENCED TO DEATH by the directors of the scenario.
One day Patton's car was run into by a military truck in what seemed like a very strange accident. The General was taken by ambulance to a hospital, where he was observed to have serious, but not life-threatening injuries. But some days later he died of a heart attack.
Patton's death, in any event, was extremely opportune. The General had annnounced that he was thinking of moving to the United States, where he was going to denounce publicly what was taking place in Germany. But he didn't have time. He had fought with too many important people. General Eisenhower had had to pick up the telephone and order that he be halted before he reached Berlin. At Yalta the new "masters of the world" had agreed that the Soviets would be the first to enter the German capital. Patton wanted to prevent the Vandal-like entrance of the Red Army into the capital of the Reich, and made an enemy of Eisenhower. A month before, he could have entered Prague, but was also detained by Eisenhower, leaving him nailed to the ground by an order.
Patton's difficulties with the WAR POWERS over the occupation of Germany were so great that Eisenhower stripped him of his position as Commander of the Third Army, and stuck him with the command of a secondary unit. Patton knew he was in danger of death, and confided as much to his family and close friends. He was feared because of his prestige-he was the most renowned American General, while Eisenhower was nothing more than a political soldier-and his words could alert the public to the reality of what was happening in Germany.
Thus the accident was set up, which was not by any means the first. On the 21st of April 1945, his airplane on which he was being transported to General Headquarters of the Third Army in Feldfield (England) was attacked by what was assumed to be a German fighter-bomber, but it turned out to be a "Spitfire" piloted by an inexpert Polish pilot. Patton's plane was shot up, but was miraculously able to land. On the 3rd of May, some days before the end of the war, the General's jeep was charged by an ox-drawn cart, leaving Patton with light injuries.
October 13, 1945 was when the collision with the truck occurred. When Patton appeared to be getting better from the accident, the "heart attack" occurred. The fact is that after October 13 only the doctors saw Patton, forbidding any other visitors.
Until recently, it was only speculation that Patton had been assassinated. Now it is known for a fact. And it is know for a very simple reason. Because an agent of the well-known OSS (Office of Strategic Services) or American military spy, a certain Douglas Bazata, a Jew of Lebanese origin, announced it in front of 450 invited guests; high ranking, ex-members of the OSS, in the Hilton Hotel in Washington, the 25th of September, 1979. Bazata said, word-for-word:
"For divers political reasons, many extremely high-ranking persons hated Patton. I know who killed him. Because I am the one who was hired to do it. Ten thousand dollars. General William Donovan himself, director of the O.S.S, entrusted me with the mission. I set up the accident. Since he didn't die in the accident, he was kept in isolation in the hospital, where he was killed with an injection."
The tragic fate of Patton convinced other colleagues and their honorable compatriots of the uselessness of fighting against the WAR POWERS. And if any doubts remained, the "Morgan case" was enough to dissipate them. (To be continued .) http://www.vho.org/aaargh/fran/livres4/Bochaca-Crimines.pdf
"Espionage is not a nice thing, nor are the methods employed
exemplary. Neither are demolition bombs nor Poison Gas… … We face an
enemy who believes one of his chief weapons is the fact that none but
he will employ terror. But we will turn terror against him…".
- General William J. 'Wild Bill' Donovanhttp://judicial-inc.biz/patton_murder.htmhttp://judicial-inc.biz/Pa_tton_speech.htm
The big camp buzzed with a tension. For hundreds of eager rookies, newly arrived from the states, it was a great day in their lives. This day marked their first taste of the "real thing". Now they were not merely puppets in brown uniforms. They were not going through the motions of soldiering with three thousand miles of ocean between them and English soil. They were actually in the heart of England itself. They were waiting for the arrival of that legendary figure, Lieutenant General George S. Patton, Jr. Old "Blood and Guts" himself, about whom many a colorful chapter would be written for the school boys of tomorrow. Patton of the brisk, purposeful stride. Patton of the harsh, compelling voice, the lurid vocabulary, the grim and indomitable spirit that carried him and his Army to glory in Africa and Sicily. They called him "America's Fightingest General". He was no desk commando. He was the man who was sent for when the going got rough and a fighter was needed. He was the most hated and feared American of all on the part of the German Army.
Patton was coming and the stage was being set. He would address a move which might have a far reaching effect on the global war that, at the moment, was a TOP-SECRET in the files in Washington, D.C.
By now the rumor had gotten around that Lieutenant General Simpson, Commanding General of the Fourth Army, was to be with General Patton. The men stirred expectantly. Two of the big boys in one day!
"We are here", said General Simpson, "to listen to the words of a great man. A man who will lead you all into whatever you may face with heroism, ability, and foresight. A man who has proven himself amid shot and shell. My greatest hope is that some day soon, I will have my own Army fighting with his, side by side."
General Patton arose and strode swiftly to the microphone. The men snapped to their feet and stood silently. Patton surveyed the sea of brown with a grim look. "Be seated", he said. The words were not a request, but a command. The General's voice rose high and clear.
"Men, this stuff that some sources sling around about America wanting out of this war, not wanting to fight, is a crock of bullshit. Americans love to fight, traditionally. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. You are here today for three reasons. First, because you are here to defend your homes and your loved ones. Second, you are here for your own self respect, because you would not want to be anywhere else. Third, you are here because you are real men and all real men like to fight. When you, here, everyone of you, were kids, you all admired the champion marble player, the fastest runner, the toughest boxer, the big league ball players, and the All-American football players. Americans love a winner. Americans will not tolerate a loser. Americans despise cowards. Americans play to win all of the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in hell for a man who lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost nor will ever lose a war; for the very idea of losing is hateful to an American."
The General paused and looked over the crowd. "You are not all going to die," he said slowly. "Only two percent of you right here today would die in a major battle. Death must not be feared. Death, in time, comes to all men. Yes, every man is scared in his first battle. If he says he's not, he's a liar. Some men are cowards but they fight the same as the brave men or they get the hell slammed out of them watching men fight who are just as scared as they are. The real hero is the man who fights even though he is scared. Some men get over their fright in a minute under fire. For some, it takes an hour. For some, it takes days. But a real man will never let his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood. Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base. Americans pride themselves on being He Men and they ARE He Men. Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you are, and probably more so. They are not supermen."
"All through your Army careers, you men have bitched about what you call "chicken shit drilling". That, like everything else in this Army, has a definite purpose. That purpose is alertness. Alertness must be bred into every soldier. I don't give a f**k for a man who's not always on his toes. You men are veterans or you wouldn't be here. You are ready for what's to come. A man must be alert at all times if he expects to stay alive. If you're not alert, sometime, a German son-of-an-asshole-bitch is going to sneak up behind you and beat you to death with a sockful of shit!" The men roared in agreement.
Patton's grim expression did not change. "There are four hundred neatly marked graves somewhere in Sicily", he roared into the microphone, "All because one man went to sleep on the job". He paused and the men grew silent. "But they are German graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before they did".
The General clutched the microphone tightly, his jaw out-thrust, and he continued, "An Army is a team. It lives, sleeps, eats, and fights as a team. This individual heroic stuff is pure horse shit. The bilious bastards who write that kind of stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don't know any more about real fighting under fire than they know about f**king!"
The men slapped their legs and rolled in glee. This was Patton as the men had imagined him to be, and in rare form, too. He hadn't let them down. He was all that he was cracked up to be, and more. He had IT!
"We have the finest food, the finest equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world", Patton bellowed. He lowered his head and shook it pensively. Suddenly he snapped erect, faced the men belligerently and thundered, "Why, by God, I actually pity those poor sons-of-bitches we're going up against. By God, I do". The men clapped and howled delightedly. There would be many a barracks tale about the "Old Man's" choice phrases. They would become part and parcel of Third Army's history and they would become the bible of their slang.
"My men don't surrender", Patton continued, "I don't want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he has been hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight back. That's not just bull shit either. The kind of man that I want in my command is just like the lieutenant in Libya, who, with a Luger against his chest, jerked off his helmet, swept the gun aside with one hand, and busted the hell out of the Kraut with his helmet. Then he jumped on the gun and went out and killed another German before they knew what the hell was coming off. And, all of that time, this man had a bullet through a lung. There was a real man!"
Patton stopped and the crowd waited. He continued more quietly, "All of the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters, either. Every single man in this Army plays a vital role. Don't ever let up. Don't ever think that your job is unimportant. Every man has a job to do and he must do it. Every man is a vital link in the great chain. What if every truck driver suddenly decided that he didn't like the whine of those shells overhead, turned yellow, and jumped headlong into a ditch? The cowardly bastard could say, "Hell, they won't miss me, just one man in thousands". But, what if every man thought that way? Where in the hell would we be now? What would our country, our loved ones, our homes, even the world, be like? No, Goddamnit, Americans don't think like that. Every man does his job. Every man serves the whole. Every department, every unit, is important in the vast scheme of this war. The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns and machinery of war to keep us rolling. The Quartermaster is needed to bring up food and clothes because where we are going there isn't a hell of a lot to steal. Every last man on K.P. has a job to do, even the one who heats our water to keep us from getting the 'G.I. Shits'."
Patton paused, took a deep breath, and continued, "Each man must not think only of himself, but also of his buddy fighting beside him. We don't want yellow cowards in this Army. They should be killed off like rats. If not, they will go home after this war and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the Goddamned cowards and we will have a nation of brave men. One of the bravest men that I ever saw was a fellow on top of a telegraph pole in the midst of a furious fire fight in Tunisia. I stopped and asked what the hell he was doing up there at a time like that. He answered, "Fixing the wire, Sir". I asked, "Isn't that a little unhealthy right about now?" He answered, "Yes Sir, but the Goddamned wire has to be fixed". I asked, "Don't those planes strafing the road bother you?" And he answered, "No, Sir, but you sure as hell do!" Now, there was a real man. A real soldier. There was a man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty might appear at the time, no matter how great the odds. And you should have seen those trucks on the rode to Tunisia. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they rolled over those son-of-a-bitching roads, never stopping, never faltering from their course, with shells bursting all around them all of the time. We got through on good old American guts. Many of those men drove for over forty consecutive hours. These men weren't combat men, but they were soldiers with a job to do. They did it, and in one hell of a way they did it. They were part of a team. Without team effort, without them, the fight would have been lost. All of the links in the chain pulled together and the chain became unbreakable."
The General paused and stared challengingly over the silent ocean of men. One could have heard a pin drop anywhere on that vast hillside. The only sound was the stirring of the breeze in the leaves of the bordering trees and the busy chirping of the birds in the branches of the trees at the General's left.
"Don't forget," Patton barked, "you men don't know that I'm here. No mention of that fact is to be made in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell happened to me. I'm not supposed to be commanding this Army. I'm not even supposed to be here in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the Goddamned Germans. Some day I want to see them raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, 'Jesus Christ, it's the Goddamned Third Army again and that son-of-a-f**king-bitch Patton'."
"We want to get the hell over there", Patton continued, "The quicker we clean up this Goddamned mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the Goddamned Marines get all of the credit."
The men roared approval and cheered delightedly. This statement had real significance behind it. Much more than met the eye and the men instinctively sensed the fact. They knew that they themselves were going to play a very great part in the making of world history. They were being told as much right now. Deep sincerity and seriousness lay behind the General's colorful words. The men knew and understood it. They loved the way he put it, too, as only he could.
Patton continued quietly, "Sure, we want to go home. We want this war over with. The quickest way to get it over with is to go get the bastards who started it. The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we can go home. The shortest way home is through Berlin and Tokyo. And when we get to Berlin", he yelled, "I am personally going to shoot that paper hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler. Just like I'd shoot a snake!"
"When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a German will get to him eventually. The hell with that idea. The hell with taking it. My men don't dig foxholes. I don't want them to. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. And don't give the enemy time to dig one either. We'll win this war, but we'll win it only by fighting and by showing the Germans that we've got more guts than they have; or ever will have. We're not going to just shoot the sons-of-bitches, we're going to rip out their living Goddamned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun cocksuckers by the bushel-f**king-basket. War is a bloody, killing business. You've got to spill their blood, or they will spill yours. Rip them up the belly. Shoot them in the guts. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt off your face and realize that instead of dirt it's the blood and guts of what once was your best friend beside you, you'll know what to do!"
"I don't want to get any messages saying, "I am holding my position." We are not holding a Goddamned thing. Let the Germans do that. We are advancing constantly and we are not interested in holding onto anything, except the enemy's balls. We are going to twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all of the time. Our basic plan of operation is to advance and to keep on advancing regardless of whether we have to go over, under, or through the enemy. We are going to go through him like crap through a goose; like shit through a tin horn!"
"From time to time there will be some complaints that we are pushing our people too hard. I don't give a good Goddamn about such complaints. I believe in the old and sound rule that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder WE push, the more Germans we will kill. The more Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing means fewer casualties. I want you all to remember that."
The General paused. His eagle like eyes swept over the hillside. He said with pride, "There is one great thing that you men will all be able to say after this war is over and you are home once again. You may be thankful that twenty years from now when you are sitting by the fireplace with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the great World War II, you WON'T have to cough, shift him to the other knee and say, "Well, your Granddaddy shoveled shit in Louisiana." No, Sir, you can look him straight in the eye and say, "Son, your Granddaddy rode with the Great Third Army and a Son-of-a-Goddamned-Bitch named Georgie Patton!"