For General Patton's Family, Recovered Ground

Famed World War II Gen. George S. Patton's grandson finds his calling in the ashes of his fathers journals

  • By Benjamin W. Patton
  • Smithsonian magazine, June 2009, Subscribe
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General George Patton and Benjamin W Patton Benjamin W. Patton stands with his father, Gen. George Patton in 1978 at the North Africa American Cemetery in Tunisia. His grandfather, Gen. George S. Patton commanded the U.S. II Corps in 1943.

Benjamin W. Patton

 

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    General George S Patton

    For General Patton's Family, Recovered Ground

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    Home Movies of the Patton Family

    Home Movies of the Patton Family

    The grandson of Gen. George S. Patton shares his family's home movies


    Related Books

    The Patton Papers: 1885-1940

    by Martin Blumenson
    Houghton Mifflin (Boston), 1972

    The Fighting Pattons

    by Brian M. Sobel
    Praeger Publishers (Westport, Connecticut), 1997

    More from Smithsonian.com

    In 1986, the year I turned 21, my father accidentally set fire to our basement. Until then he could often be found down there, in the office he'd carved out for himself in a far corner, smoking a cigar and working on his diaries. He'd been keeping them—dozens of identical volumes bound in red canvas—for most of his adult life.

    In the span of a few hours, the flames that rose from the smoldering butt he'd tossed in the wastebasket destroyed two rooms. My father suffered second-degree burns trying to rescue his journals, but nearly all of them were reduced to ash.

    A year later, a conservator handed us what was left of them, suggesting to Dad that he could review these scraps for an autobiography and start anew. Instead, my father—the namesake and only son of the World War II general George S. Patton Jr., and a decorated general and famously tough warrior in his own right—choked up. "I'm sorry, I just can't," he said. And he never did.

    Someone once told me that when a person dies, it's like a library burning down. My dad reversed the idea: the burning of his office extinguished something in him.

    History had always formed a huge part of our family life; the fact that my grandfather had kept thousands of pages of his own letters and diaries—later published as The Patton Papers—was no fluke. As kids, my four siblings and I were fed a steady diet of biographies. Wherever we lived—Kentucky, Alabama, Texas, Germany—we spent a lot of time trudging through battlefields and other historical sites. After the basement fire, assorted family relics dating back to the Civil War era were restored, cataloged and donated to museums. The oil portrait of my grandfather that was represented in the film Patton now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. Other keepsakes went to West Point and the Patton Museum in Kentucky, and each has a story. For just one example, there's a gold coin that my great-great-grandfather, Confederate Col. George Patton, carried in his vest pocket during the Civil War. When a Yankee Minié ball struck him during the Battle of Giles Court House in 1862, the coin deflected the bullet just enough to prevent it from penetrating his gut and likely killing him.

    A year or so after the fire, I offered to interview my father on audiotape. I wanted to do it partly for our family and partly for him. The loss of his journals had caused him even more sorrow than his retirement from the military six years earlier. I wanted him to be able to share his stories with someone who cared—and who found them inherently valuable.

    I was the right age to listen. My father had left for the second of his three tours in Vietnam about the time I was a year old, and my first memory of him is when we flew to Hawaii on R & R to meet him when I was about 3. My mother still teases me about my tugging on her dress at the airport and asking, "What did you say his name was? Daddy?"

    As a child, my father had been quite close to his own father: they rode horses, read poetry and even built a 22-foot motorboat together in the garage. But after my dad left for boarding school at 13, they communicated mainly through letters, most of which were a formal, man-to-man mix of advice and strategy. A 1944 letter written from Europe to my dad, who had just flunked math, captures the tenor of their new relationship: "Get as high a stand in math as you can before you hit the stuff you flunked on. In that way, you have further to retreat. It's just like war: in a delaying action, meet the enemy as far out as possible."

    During college, my father saw his father only twice—once before then-Maj. Gen. Patton left for North Africa as part of the secret Operation Torch invasion force in 1942 and again briefly just after the war, when my grandfather returned to the States for a War Bond tour featuring victory parades in Boston and Los Angeles. Then he returned to Germany, where he died December 21, 1945, at age 60, after breaking his neck in an automobile accident.


    In 1986, the year I turned 21, my father accidentally set fire to our basement. Until then he could often be found down there, in the office he'd carved out for himself in a far corner, smoking a cigar and working on his diaries. He'd been keeping them—dozens of identical volumes bound in red canvas—for most of his adult life.

    In the span of a few hours, the flames that rose from the smoldering butt he'd tossed in the wastebasket destroyed two rooms. My father suffered second-degree burns trying to rescue his journals, but nearly all of them were reduced to ash.

    A year later, a conservator handed us what was left of them, suggesting to Dad that he could review these scraps for an autobiography and start anew. Instead, my father—the namesake and only son of the World War II general George S. Patton Jr., and a decorated general and famously tough warrior in his own right—choked up. "I'm sorry, I just can't," he said. And he never did.

    Someone once told me that when a person dies, it's like a library burning down. My dad reversed the idea: the burning of his office extinguished something in him.

    History had always formed a huge part of our family life; the fact that my grandfather had kept thousands of pages of his own letters and diaries—later published as The Patton Papers—was no fluke. As kids, my four siblings and I were fed a steady diet of biographies. Wherever we lived—Kentucky, Alabama, Texas, Germany—we spent a lot of time trudging through battlefields and other historical sites. After the basement fire, assorted family relics dating back to the Civil War era were restored, cataloged and donated to museums. The oil portrait of my grandfather that was represented in the film Patton now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C. Other keepsakes went to West Point and the Patton Museum in Kentucky, and each has a story. For just one example, there's a gold coin that my great-great-grandfather, Confederate Col. George Patton, carried in his vest pocket during the Civil War. When a Yankee Minié ball struck him during the Battle of Giles Court House in 1862, the coin deflected the bullet just enough to prevent it from penetrating his gut and likely killing him.

    A year or so after the fire, I offered to interview my father on audiotape. I wanted to do it partly for our family and partly for him. The loss of his journals had caused him even more sorrow than his retirement from the military six years earlier. I wanted him to be able to share his stories with someone who cared—and who found them inherently valuable.

    I was the right age to listen. My father had left for the second of his three tours in Vietnam about the time I was a year old, and my first memory of him is when we flew to Hawaii on R & R to meet him when I was about 3. My mother still teases me about my tugging on her dress at the airport and asking, "What did you say his name was? Daddy?"

    As a child, my father had been quite close to his own father: they rode horses, read poetry and even built a 22-foot motorboat together in the garage. But after my dad left for boarding school at 13, they communicated mainly through letters, most of which were a formal, man-to-man mix of advice and strategy. A 1944 letter written from Europe to my dad, who had just flunked math, captures the tenor of their new relationship: "Get as high a stand in math as you can before you hit the stuff you flunked on. In that way, you have further to retreat. It's just like war: in a delaying action, meet the enemy as far out as possible."

    During college, my father saw his father only twice—once before then-Maj. Gen. Patton left for North Africa as part of the secret Operation Torch invasion force in 1942 and again briefly just after the war, when my grandfather returned to the States for a War Bond tour featuring victory parades in Boston and Los Angeles. Then he returned to Germany, where he died December 21, 1945, at age 60, after breaking his neck in an automobile accident.

    My father turned 22 just days later, and the pressure to live up to his father's legend was already building. When he graduated from West Point the following June, an old veteran shook his hand and said, "Well, George, you'll never be the man your father was, but congratulations."

    One thing my father resolved to be was a family man. Even though he became a general himself and was often immersed in his military duties, he went out of his way to spend time with us. And while he never claimed to be an expert in anything nonmilitary, he was a first-class enthusiast. If he went hunting or fishing with friends or fellow soldiers, he often took me or one of my siblings along. He played the guitar at family parties (a self-proclaimed "three-chord man") and taught us how to ski, sail and play tennis. Sailing, he'd invite my friends and me to stay up half the night playing poker in an invariably smoke-filled cabin. He encouraged my brother George, developmentally delayed from birth, to compete in the Special Olympics and also become a champion barrel racer. During rare visits from my sister Margaret, who had become a Benedictine nun over Dad's initial protests, he'd get up early to pick blueberries for her breakfast. He wrote my mother silly but heartfelt poems.

    People often said he had the voice my grandfather wished he had—my grandfather's voice was high-pitched with a slightly patrician lilt, while my father actually sounded like George C. Scott. But even when I clashed with him as a teenager, I saw through his tough, hard-edged persona.

    At 21, I was just starting to appreciate the fact that my father was—and always had been—one of my biggest supporters and closest friends. Everyone had a story about him. With our audiotaping project, I would get to hear them firsthand.

    Over the next six years we spent many hours talking, with me picking his brain for every detail and vignette he could remember. Once we got going, it was as though a massive vault had been opened, and the stories began to pour out. He spoke of being bounced on Gen. John J. "Black Jack" Pershing's knee as a young boy, walking Gen. George C. Marshall's dog and being pulled out of school by his father to attend a talk by British soldier T. E. Lawrence (also known as Lawrence of Arabia). At 13, my father sailed from Hawaii to Southern California aboard a small schooner with his parents, a few of their friends and a professional mate. "We went through a school of blackfin tuna for four days straight," he told me. "They stirred up so much phosphorus [in fact, bioluminescent plankton] in the water that you could actually read a book on deck at night."

    He also told me about a fellow West Point graduate who had served under him when my father commanded the storied 11th Armored Cavalry ("Blackhorse") Regiment in Vietnam in 1968-69. His unit had performed poorly under fire, and the young captain asked to be relieved. After a long talk with my father—a colonel at the time—he changed his mind and asked for one more chance to get his outfit into shape before re­linquishing command. In a subsequent firefight, the captain earned the Distinguished Service Cross, the nation's second-highest award for valor in combat. "Although terribly costly to him, he chose the harder right rather than the easier wrong," said my dad. "And that's what wins battles. That's what wins wars."

    I didn't need to ask about the captain's fate. The John Hays plot at our family's farm in Massachusetts is just one of many that my dad named for soldiers killed under his command. To us, the hand-painted signs all over our property mark just how deeply Dad felt the loss of his troops. Even today, veterans come and quietly wander our fields.

    What our taped conversations helped me realize was that my dad was every bit the soldier that his father was. He saw more actual frontline combat and was just as highly decorated by his country for valor. He commanded more than 4,400 men—the largest combat unit led by someone of his rank and age during Vietnam—and more than once landed in his helicopter in the middle of a battle, pulled out his revolver and led the charge. Along the way, he earned the nation's second- and third-highest medals for bravery—twice each—and a Purple Heart. When he retired to Massachusetts in 1980, Dad started a produce farm on the family property. Today, Green Meadows Farm, north of Boston, is a thriving organic operation with the participation of more than 300 local families.

    My father didn't boast about his achievements, and he didn't want to be seen as iconic. Maybe that's why he never worked in my grandfather's home office, with its voluminous library and perfect replica of Napoleon's desk. "Too much damn traffic," Dad would say. Then he'd head off to his plywood-walled office in the basement, every surface a collage of photos of fellow soldiers and family.

    Re-examining his life had always kept him engaged; now, our interviews revived him. Eventually, Dad gave the transcripts to a biographer, and a book about his life—Brian Sobel's The Fighting Pattons—was published after all.

    I disappointed my father when I chose not to follow him into the military, and I frustrated him even more when I dawdled about a career. But here's the strange thing: after our taping was finished, other families with stories to preserve began to find me.

    Over the past several years, I've found myself, camera in hand, sitting with the family of an African-American general on the eve of his 80th birthday; a well-born Bostonian who drove an ambulance in World War II and then moved out West to ride in rodeos and raise cattle; an aeronautical engineer and senior executive in the Apollo program who was among the first to propose a moon landing to President John F. Kennedy; even Manfred Rommel, former long­time mayor of Stuttgart and son of the famed "Desert Fox" of World War II. I found a career as a producer and film educator, much of which I devote to recording personal histories.

    After a long struggle with Parkinson's disease, my father passed away in the summer of 2004. He was 80 years old and had lived as full a life as anyone could. I'd like to think that, were he still here, he would respect what I'm doing and understand why I'm doing it. In fact, many of my film projects involve working with veterans. Things have kind of circled back.

    Every family has a story, and every member's story is worth preserving—certainly for the living family, but even more so for future generations. Experiencing history through the lens of another person's life can offer unexpected insight into your own. It gets you to think: What sort of mark will I make? How will I be remembered?

    The key is to start now, whether with a tape recorder or video camera. In her wonderful book The Writing Life, Annie Dillard tells of a note found in Michelangelo's studio after he died. I have a copy pinned up in my office. Scribbled by the elderly artist to an apprentice, it reads: "Draw, Antonio, draw, Antonio, draw and do not waste time."

    Benjamin W. Patton, a filmmaker based in New York City, can be reached at ben@pattonproductions.com.


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    Comments (66)

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    Hello,
    I have a letter of commendation signed by Lieutenant General G.S. Patton Jr.
    My father was in Italy in 1943, he was in the Northwest African Photographic Reconnaissance Wing. N.A.P.R.W.
    The mission was instrumental to the fall of Palmero!
    The aircraft was based in Africa, and flew to SICILY, to do the assigned mission. Every time I watch the movie Patton, I think of this letter of commendation!
    Sincerely,
    Penelope Avins

    Posted by Penelope Avins on January 20,2012 | 12:06 PM

    Ben:
    Every man has personal heros and your grandfather is mine.
    Every time I face what seems like an insurmountable task I remember a quote from him.

    Thanks for the personal stories.
    Sincerely,
    Allan D. Martinson

    Posted by Allan Martinson on December 8,2011 | 10:43 AM

    Sir:
    I recently saw the story of General Patton on the History Channel and I was surprised to see that the general died in Mannheim. I know that is not true. I was stationed in Heidelberg with the 504 MP battalion at the time of the accident.Medicine was coming from the States to the Frankfurt airport and I was ordered to pick it up. A driver an I went on the Autobahn which was officially closed for the whole stretch because of the extreme icy condition. It was difficult, but we made it without incident and delivered the meds to the Hospital.
    After the Generals death I was the officer in charge of the honor guard. Among the duties which I had was escorting anyone who had come to pay their respects o where the General lay in state. It was my great honor to meet Mrs. Patton who was the most gracious person I ever met and ordered the men of the guard to stand at ease.I remember her saying"George wouldn't like it otherwise".
    It is known that the General made sure that the drivers of the vehicles involved in the accident would not have any trouble I have in my possession the commendation the General ordered before he died which states that it is For Exceptionally Meritorious Conduct in the Performance of Military Duty. This is one of my most priced possessions.t

    Posted by Francis Morgan on November 24,2011 | 03:01 PM

    Hello.
    I have a 1942 Jeep that was a communications jeep at the Californis training center prior to the General going to Europe. It is in the final stage of restoration. Are there any photo's of General Patton that were taken at, or, near the training center ? I am willing to pay whatever it costs to get a picture of General Patton in or near a jeep. And if luck is on my side, the jeep will be the one I have spent the last seven years restoring because of it's historic value.

    Thank you. Gene Small Sisters, Oregon

    Posted by Gene Small on September 5,2011 | 11:33 PM

    I was in the Hammelburg Germany P.O.W. n March, 1945, when your Grandfather sent a Task Force to liberate the prisoners, just so happens his son in law, Lt. Col. Waters was there also!! They reached the Camp on March, 28th (my birthdsy) I'm sure your grandfather meant well---but the task force was All lost--killed or captured, I was recaptured after nearly getting killed!!
    You can read about this in the Stephen Ambrose book ,"Citizen Soldiers", pages 457 & 458.
    Would be happy to hear from you!!!

    Posted by marvin shelley on September 2,2011 | 06:04 PM

    Hello!! My name is David Maxie, and I live in Minnesota. If I could maybe have a moment of time to express my moments for General Patten? It is most certainly with deep admiration to have and been the son of my father, who was an US army officer under General George Patten during the war. That it is still great privilage to be the son of my father who served under General Patten. May the General's vision and wonderful courage he showed for America go on!!
    Sincerely Yours,
    David Maxie
    Son of former US army officer under General George Patten,
    Captain_Nemo05@yahoo.com
    DavidMaxie35@gmail.com

    Posted by David Maxie on August 21,2011 | 03:02 AM

    Hello, If what you say is true...i'm your family member... my grandfather is Jim Patton.

    Posted by Christian Amy on July 5,2011 | 10:16 PM

    Hello Ben, I'm enthousiastic history buff, & I watch movie "Patton" all the time; I'm reading Carlo d'Este's 900 pg bk/of your grandfather; I especially like early movie scene/your grandfather/says "this is where Carthagenians fought Romans in 200BC; I know/I was here"; I wish your grandfather could re-incarnate to today's U.S. Army, our Country needs him! Warmest Regards, Tom Fennelly

    Posted by THOMAS W. FENNELLY on June 28,2011 | 11:57 PM

    Hello Sir,
    I waanted to write to you and your faily to say a hearty THANKYOU to you in the legacy left by your Grandfather, and father. I have read books on the General, and proudly call myself an american because of it. I have watched the movie "PATTON" enough times to acurately quote the script well before the line is said. One of my "Bucket list" items is to meet a family member of the GREAT PATTONS!!!!
    Again, thank you for my American Pride...
    I Salute you!
    Kevan E.Brooks
    (USAF 1972-1978)

    Posted by Kevan Brooks on June 26,2011 | 11:45 PM

    Ben, you probably don't remember me, but my name is Paula Smith Olson and I tutored you with your reading at Fort Knox. My husband was going to Armor Basic Training there. You were in first grade and I volunteered at your school. I found this article about you and your family and thought I would email you. You have certainly grown to be a fine young man and you write very well.
    I have always wondered what happened to you after all these years and with the miracle of the internet we can certainly find people easier. Take care and I wish you well.

    Paula Smith Olson
    Retired Educator
    Tucson, Arizona

    Posted by Paula Smith Olson on March 20,2011 | 07:19 PM

    Hi Ben,

    I met you recently at ths samily home in South Hamilton. Your sister Helen is a friend as is Joanne, your mother. I was introduced to Helen in Germany by Mo Shields the husband of Ann Shiels a civilian nurse who works at Landstuhl Hospital. He is also the father of Abby Shields A West Point graduate who retired as a US Army captain after serving two tours in Iraq.

    I had suggested to your mother that when Ingmar came to Green Meadows Farm that I take him to see the statue of his great-grandfather on the Esplenade in Boston. I took Ingmar to the magnificent statue of General George S. Patton. Ingmar, who was 12 years old at the time, climbed up on the concrete pedestal on which the statue stands and stood between his great-grandfather's legs. I took his picture there and gave a copy to your mother and his mother.

    Knowing that Ingmar would be attendening schools in Germany and thus would have little knowlege of the origins of our own country I took him to "The little bridge at Concord where freedom's fight began," While at the bridge we met two other visitors from Texas. The father of one of them had served in the Fourth Armored Division that relieved the troops of the 101st Airborne Division in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. I am a D-day veteran of the Fourth Infantry Division. My division spearheaded Operation Cobra, the St. Lo Breakout from the hedgerows. During the Battle of th Bulge we were cut off from the First Army and transderred to your grandfather's Third Army in Luxembourg.

    The visitor whom Ingmar an I net spoke enough German to carry on a brief conversation with Ingmar.

    Joanne ab Helen expressed their gratitude to me.

    Posted by Irving Smolens on January 5,2011 | 12:52 PM

    My Dad was The SJA at 7th Corp in Stuttgart, Germany from 1978-1980 when your family was also stationed there. I was going into my junior year of high school when we moved there. It was also that first summer when I met and became friends with Helen while she was visiting for the summer. In fact, I was just talking to my parents about her and wondering if I could find her on Facebook and I did! I can remember very vividly standing in Roosevelt Village very early in the mornings waiting for the bus to take us on the hour long ride to Stuttgart American High School on Pattonville Barracks (named after your Grandfather). Most mornings your Dad would be out for his bike ride and when he drove past us, he would tell us to "learn something at that school" The words he used were a little more colorful than that!

    Posted by Georgia Robinson on August 8,2010 | 10:31 PM

    I enjoyed this moment watching the video about your Grandfather and your dad. I served under your dad at the Armor School in Fort Knox in 1970 and 1971 and would talk to him ocassionally. He was a wonderful officer who cared about the men who served him. Your dad helped me get out of the military. I was getting ready to leave the military in 1971 and the Personnel Office burned with all my records. My funiture and belongings were already shipped to Florida and I had my wife and small child ready to leave. The Personnel Officer told me it would be another three weeks till I could get out. In a panic I asked to speak to your dad and I told him my problem. He made one phone call and I was on my way home in three hours. He had had ordered the Personnel Officer to produce my records with all dispatch. I admired your Grandfather and loved serving under you dad. Thanks to them both for their service to our country.

    Posted by Frank DeWitt on April 29,2010 | 12:59 AM

    Sir, I met your father in 1988 in Fulda Germany. He was coming through on a tour and they selected six of us to meet him. I have no idea how they went about the selection process, but I was one of them. While meeting us (sort of like an inspection I guess) the only thing he asked me was, "are they treating you right" I honestly was scared you know what less, and replied that they were. He seemed to care about all of us and also seemed to be a very nice man. It was my honor to meet him, thank you for sharing the article.

    Posted by Blake Wood on November 7,2009 | 01:00 PM

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