Riview Of The Movie "FURY"

[Ole Cowboy]

Best war movie in a while...*spoilers below*


I do have a question about the main tank battle regarding realism: did they really roll so closely together when charging the Tiger like that in real life? Or was that simply needed for camera angles and such? Would seem better to be spread out.

You are correct, it was for the camera. Albeit the WWII tactics were a bit tighter, the general lateral distance between tanks is between 50 and 100 meters. I would guess in WWII with the Sherman the Tactical Opns manual called for between 35 and about 75 meters. This would be due to less effective guns on the tank vs the more modern M1 Abrams.

 

[Jakashh]

Would the M4A2E8 Sherman rounds really ricochet off the Tigers front armor like that or is that all just hollywood BS. You'd think it'd leave a mark or something...

 

[Stukaman]

Tiger armor was something like 4 inches thick. Our tanks guns weren't really worth a damn as we had a doctrine that called for Tank destroyers to engage tanks as you can tell that didn't always happen.

 

[Ole Cowboy]

Would the M4A2E8 Sherman rounds really ricochet off the Tigers front armor like that or is that all just hollywood BS. You'd think it'd leave a mark or something...

The M4 Sherman like the one featured in the film could penetrate the upper frontal hull of a Tiger 1 from between about 1,600 and 3,300 feet (500 meters and 1000 m), while the Tiger could knock out an M4 from the front at about 2,600 feet (800 m), according to a Tiger crew instruction manual.

But all was not lost: The Tiger wasn't invincible. Its tracks would freeze up with mud and snow in the winter, which Russian forces used to their advantage in battle. The tanks engines' were underpowered, making them difficult to drive. The tanks also faced problems because of their large size. Since few bridges could handle the Tiger's weight, the first version contained a snorkel that allowed the tanks to cross rivers up to 13 feet (4 m) deep, but later versions lacked this feature, according to the History Learning Site.

So the Germans held Ace cards on the Sherman Tank, which was classified as a Medium tank whereas the Gerry Panzer was a heavy tank! But what the Nazi SOB's did not have was THIS:

General Patton's Address to the Troops Part I
Background Research Charles M. Province

Somewhere in England June 5th, 1944.

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, now, was a TOP-SECRET in the files in Washington, D.C. The men saw the camp turn out "en masse" for the first time and in full uniform, too.

Today their marching was not lackadaisical. It was serious and the men felt the difference. From the lieutenants in charge of the companies on down in rank they felt the difference. In long columns, they marched down the hill from the barracks. They counted cadence while marching. They turned off to the left, up the rise and so on down into the roped off field where the General was to speak. Gold braid and stripes were everywhere. Soon, company-by-company, the hillside was a solid mass of brown. It was a beautiful fresh English morning. The tall trees lined the road and swayed gently in the breeze. Across the field, a British farmer calmly tilled his soil. High upon a nearby hill a group of British soldiers huddled together, waiting for the coming of the General. Military Police were everywhere wearing their white leggings, belts, and helmets. They were brisk and grim. The twittering of the birds in the trees could be heard above the dull murmur of the crowd and soft, white clouds floated lazily overhead as the men settled themselves and lit cigarettes. On the special platform near the speakers stand, Colonels and Majors were a dime a dozen. Behind the platform stood General Patton's "Guard of Honor"; all specially chosen men. At their right was a band playing rousing marches while the crowd waited and on the platform, a nervous sergeant repeatedly tested the loudspeaker. The moment grew near and the necks began to crane to view the tiny winding road that led to Stourport-on-Severn. A captain stepped to the microphone. "When the General arrives," he said sonorously, "the band will play the Generals March and you will all stand at attention.”

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! At last, the long black car, shining resplendently in the bright sun, roared up the road, preceded by a jeep full of Military Police. A dead hush fell over the hillside. There he was! Impeccably dressed. With knee high, brown, gleaming boots, shiny helmet, and his Colt .45 Peacemaker swinging in its holster on his right side. Patton strode down the incline and then straight to the stiff backed "Guard of Honor". He looked them up and down. He peered intently into their faces and surveyed their backs. He moved through the ranks of the statuesque band like an avenging wraith and, apparently satisfied, mounted the platform with Lieutenant General Simpson and Major General Cook, the Corps Commander, at his side. Major General Cook then introduced Lieutenant General Simpson, whose Army was still in America, preparing for their part in the war? "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, every one 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. However, 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 **** 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".


CONT'D

 

[Ole Cowboy]

CONT'D

 

[Ole Cowboy]

CONT'D


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 horseshit. 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 $#@!ing!” 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 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 bullshit 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, went out, and killed another German before they knew what was coming off. In addition, 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". However, 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, $#@!nit, 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 GD 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 firefight 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 GD 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. In addition, 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 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 GD Germans. Some day I want to see them raise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl, 'Jesus Christ, it’s the GD 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 G-D mess, the quicker we can take a little jaunt against the purple pissing Japs and clean out their nest, too. Before the GD !ned 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, in addition, 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 an offensive. Keep moving. In addition, 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 $#@!ned guts and use them to grease the treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun SOB's by the bushel-F*%KING basket. War is a bloody, killing business. You have 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 GD 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 GD 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-G-damned-Bitch named Georgie Patton!"

 

[Jakashh]

Damn good read.

 

[Jakashh]

 

[Ole Cowboy]

Damn good read.

I read it from time to time for motivation, I especially like the last paragraph. Its a bit more salty, but TGT filters out a lot of stuff.

I served under MG George S Patton, commander of the 2nd Armor Div. I met him several times and he had a major impact on my actions the rest of my life.

War Story: It was a tough field exercise made more so by the rain, cold and mud. I had been up since about 0300, we had had a movement to contract and a withdrawal under pressure, it was now late at night around 9 pm or so when I got a radio msg to come to the Tactical Opns Command at Div for a meeting. I knew the terrain very well and got there quickly. I went into the TOC and wander over into the Opns side of the tents as I knew the G-3 and knowing they would have some hot coffee and MAYBE some chow setting around.

I am standing around chewing the fat and asking if anyone has any chow when in a booming and gruff voice I hear: Capt when was the last time you ate? I turn and its Gen Patton, SIR, since breakfast this morning! He says: Capt, you are doing yourself, your men under your command, your unit and ME a disservice as you cannot perform at the level required for an officer without food. Capt, NEVER pass a Mess Tent or a POL Dump ( fuel) without filling your belly and filling your tanks... YES SIR! I have never missed a meal and never run out of gas since...RIP Sir, have never forgot you...

 

[ROGER4314]

My father was a Captain in the Army Medical Corps that came ashore at Normandy D+? days. Their unit was a "Mash" unit located right behind the front but the "Mash" term wasn't used then. When the front moved, so did their unit....right behind the action. He didn't say much about his service but we found a story written by a nurse that served in Dad's unit or near their location. Her words told us a lot about what Dad endured. The only discrepancy I could find was on their landing at Normandy. Dad said he came in at D+3 or D+6 days. I remember him saying that his landing was on Omaha Beach. I suppose that we'll never know.

Flash

"themorningcall.com
Near the front, nurse cared for the wounded
November 11, 1999


Marian Arner Jones of Bowmanstown joined the Army Nurse Corps in February
1943 and was assigned to the 34th Evacuation Hospital. She went on
maneuvers in Louisiana and Texas, then to England to prepare for D-Day,
the Normandy invasion, which came on June 6, 1944.

We landed on Utah Beach June 22 with Gen. George Patton's 3rd Army. On our
first day, we admitted 525 patients into a 400-bed hospital.

How can one forget: The barrage balloons along the coasts of France and
England.

The fireworks-like display of the anti-aircraft guns.

Sleeping in a foxhole our first night on the beach.

"Bed-check Charlie," a small German reconnaissance plane checking us out
every night at approximately the same time.

The wounded, lying all about on the ground, waiting for their turn in
surgery.

The total destruction of whole towns, nothing left but a pile of rubble.

The stench of rotting flesh, human or otherwise.

The booming of 155mm guns in the field behind us, so loud it shakes the
ground. After about a week they move on, but so do we.

The wounded! Where do they all come from?

The joy of a letter from home or a package of homemade cookies that you
share and eat with a spoon.

Giving a plasma transfusion for the first time, by flashlight, and having
to kneel to steady your shaking legs. You do anything to keep your
patients from knowing that you are scared, too.

The ankle-deep mud.

The wounded! They look so pitiful, you feel like crying. But you force
yourself to smile.

Getting up before dawn and starting a fire in a Sibley stove so that it
will be warm when your tent mates must get up.

Going barefoot out in the rain to loosen the tent ropes so the stakes
won't pull out of the ground. Otherwise, the tent will fall down.

Wave after wave of planes, thousands of them, bombing St. Lo, blasting a
hole in the German defenses so the 3rd Army can go through.

The wounded! All bloody and shot up.

French wine and cognac.

Being frightened half out of your wits.

Meeting and shaking hands with Bing Crosby.

Periods of unbearable homesickness.

The shaved heads of the French girls who were being punished for being
friendly with the German soldiers during the occupation.

The wounded! Will they never stop coming?

Being so hungry, and all there is to eat is some matzo and jelly. No
butter. No coffee to wash it down. "Old Blood and Guts" has requisitioned
all the gasoline.

The flooding and mud at Verdun.

The wounded. How glad they are to see our faces!

Our first showers since we landed in France, and here it is, the middle of
September.

A German shell landing a block away from our hospital in Luxembourg. I saw
the crater the next day. I still can't believe I slept through the whole
affair.

The arrogance of the German SS soldiers. They make you so angry you want
to do something to bring them down a peg or two, but that's not
professional, nor Christian.

Being so cold, you wonder whether you will ever thaw out. Then vowing you
will never allow yourself to be that cold again.

Trying to hide from Gen. Patton as he makes one of his many visits to our
hospital.

The cheers of the soldiers, and gaining their respect when they realize we
are one with them -- not better than.

The wounded. You do your very best, but you feel it isn't good enough. How
brave they are!

Learning a new password every day during the Battle of the Bulge. The
Germans are infiltrating our lines.

Taking a bath, shampooing your hair and washing your unmentionables in the
same helmet full of water.

The whistle of the fighter planes overhead, engaged in a dogfight.

A quartermaster convoy being strafed as it's going past our hospital,
bringing in more wounded.

Using the latrine, a tent, in the winter when you are wearing one- piece
fatigues.

The rumble of Sherman tanks going past our area.

Crossing the Rhine River at Remagen on a pontoon bridge, under a smokescreen.

The stench of the crematoriums at Dachau. We were forbidden to visit the
camp. Our male counterparts came back vomiting, so sick they were in a
state of shock. Horrible!

We in the 34th Evac worked our butts off, 12 hours a day, seven days a
week, week in and week out with very little time off. We were where the
fighting was taking place, but in spite of that, we could not possibly
visualize nor comprehend what life was like on the front lines, in the
thick of battle. We saw the results of the fighting and tried to heal the
mangled bodies brought to us.

We took care of 27,477 soldiers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * *

Marian Arner came home from the war and married Kenneth Jones, now
deceased. They had two daughters, Linda and Susan, and three
grandchildren.

Copyright © 2007, The Morning Call"