NAZIS BLINK IN FATEFUL GLOW OF SHINIEST HELMET IN E.T.O.

By Roelif Loveland (Cleveland Plain Dealer)

When Patton came to Third Army briefings his boots were shining And his helmet was shining, and campaign bars were thick. Somebody said: “The Germans will see them, general.” “Hell,” replied Patton, “I want the Germans to see ’em “And send word back that Patton is on the job.” That was in Normandy, and a lot has happened since Normandy. The American Third Army has taken its place in history. The American Third Army, tanks and tank destroyers and bloody infantry— The American Third Army, which swept across France, and kept going. It has gone a long way since that apple orchard in Normandy. Where Patton gave his first press conference And talked about his chances of getting to Paris first, Before any of the other American generals, Told of a little bet he had made, but that’s his business. They let the French enter Paris, for obvious reasons, And Patton and his army kept on fighting. Third Army correspondents went to Paris en masse; that was the story, But the Old Man with the burnished helmet kept on fighting— Patton and his boys. They kept going until gasoline and ammunition ran out. It had been told. And they sat by the Moselle for nervous weeks. And when they got the stuff to go with, they went. And they brought the war home to the German people, Who had always fought past wars in other people’s back yards. And the Germans didn’t like it, damn them! They could dish it out, but they couldn’t take it— At least not the way other people had taken it for weary years and years. I can remember the Fourth Armored Division. The last time I saw them they were sitting in a field of mud, And the wind was cold and the rain drenching, “They dropped some in this morning,” a captain said, “but hit nothing.” By one of the tanks the lads had constructed a sort of lean-to. They were sitting there, on boxes which had contained rations. The colonel of the outfit, guests being present, broke out cigars. “German cigars,” he said. “Not too bad, either.” They weren’t too bad, and they weren’t too good. There was always one nice thing about an armored outfit— They got there first, and they corralled most of the wet goods. They were generous lads, these boys who rode in the stinking tanks. It was always nice to go and see an armored outfit. Yesterday the paper said: “The Third Army’s Fourth Armored Division, “Plunging 19 miles eastward, raced into the outskirts of Gotha, “Reaching a point three-fourths the way across the Reich from Czechoslovakia “And 140 miles from Berlin.” A lot of the tanks which were in the rain-soaked October mud, And a lot of the men who were sitting on boxes by the tanks, And a lot of the infantrymen who were slogging in wet shoes Very probably never got to Germany at all. Some of them went to hospitals, and some of them died, For of such is the institution of war. But I cannot help feeling proud when I read of Third Army. I cannot help but feel proud when I think of Third Army. I cannot forget Patton, with the shiniest helmet in the E. T. O. Who wanted the Germans to know he was there, And who, by God, made ’em regret it.