George C. Scott Monologues

Now I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.

My compliments to the General. Please inform him that I do not care to drink with him or any other Russian son of a bitch.

Fixed fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of man. If mountain ranges and oceans can be overcome, then anything built by man can be overcome.

They're ivory. Only a pimp from a cheap New Orleans whorehouse would carry a pearl-handled pistol.

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!

For over a thousand years, Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of a triumph - a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeters and musicians and strange animals from the conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conqueror rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children, robed in white, stood with him in the chariot, or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror, holding a golden crown, and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting.

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."

We're gonna keep fighting. Is that CLEAR? We're gonna attack all night, we're gonna attack tomorrow morning. If we are not VICTORIOUS, let no man come back alive!

The last great opportunity of a lifetime - an entire world at war, and I'm left out of it? God will not permit this to happen! I will be allowed to fulfill my destiny! His will be done.

This is where it pays off, the training and the discipline. No other outfit in the world could pull out of a winter battle, move a hundred miles, go into a major attack with no rest, no sleep, no hot food. God… God, I'm proud of these men!

In about fifteen minutes, we're going to start turning these boys into fanatics - razors. They'll lose their fear of the Germans. I only hope to God they never lose their fear of me.

Don't admit this yellow bastard. There's nothing wrong with him. I won't have sons-of-bitches who are afraid to fight stinking up this place of honor!

You're going back to the front, my friend. You may get shot, and you may get killed, but you're going up to the fighting. Either that, or I'm going to stand you up in front of a firing squad. I ought to shoot you myself, you god-damned... bastard! Get him out of here!

Take him up to the front! You hear me? You God-damned coward!

Gentlemen, from this moment, any soldier without leggings, without a helmet, without a tie, any man with unshined shoes or a soiled uniform… is going to be skinned.

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.

Almighty and most merciful Father, we humbly beseech Thee of Thy great goodness to restrain this immoderate weather with which we have had to contend. Grant us fair weather for battle. Graciously harken to us as solders who call upon Thee that, armed with Thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies, and establish Thy justice among men and nations. AMEN.

The Carthaginians defending the city were attacked by three Roman legions. The Carthaginians were proud and brave but they couldn't hold. They were massacred. Arab women stripped them of their tunics and their swords and lances. The soldiers lay naked in the sun. Two thousand years ago. I was here.

There's only one proper way for a professional soldier to die: the last bullet of the last battle of the last war.

Now, we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit, and the best men in the world. You know, I actually pity those poor Hun 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 on our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel.

I love it. God help me I do love it so. I love it more than my life.

Men, all this stuff you've heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the 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 shooter, the fastest runner, 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.

Look at that, gentlemen. Compared to war, all other forms of human endeavor shrink to insignificance.

I can assure you that I had no intention of being either harsh or cruel in my treatment of the... soldier in question. My sole purpose was to try to restore in him some sense of appreciation of his obligations as a man and as a soldier. "If one could shame a coward," I felt, "one might help him to regain his self-respect." This was on my mind. Now, I freely admit that my method was wrong, but I hope you can understand my motive. And that you will accept this explanation... and this... apology.

You want to know why this outfit got the hell kicked out of it? A blind man could spot it. They don't act like soldiers; they don't look like soldiers; why should they be expected to fight like soldiers?

Well, I'm my favorite General. I don't want to be told that some second stringer is up against me; Then *I* lose face.

You know, Dick, if I had my way, I'd meet Rommel face to face; him in his tank and me in mine. We'd meet out there somewhere... salute each other, maybe drink a toast, then we'd button up and do battle. The winner would decide the outcome of the entire war.

Well, the hell with the Mongoloid Russians. We've given them Berlin, we've given them Prague, God knows what else. Are we gonna let them dictate policy too?

Well, the war shouldn't be over. We should stop pussyfooting about the goddamn Russians! We're gonna have to fight them sooner or later anyway. Why not do it now, when we got the the army here to do it with? lnstead of disarming these German troops, we oughta get them to help us fight the damn Bolsheviks!

I don't give a damn if it is. I'll tell you something Bedell, up until now, we've been fighting the wrong people. Look, you and Ike don't have to get involved, you're so damn soft about it. You leave it to me. In 10 days, I'll have us a war with those sons of bitches and I'll make it look like their fault!

Well, I'm no diplomat! I'm a combat soldier! That's all these jokers understand! You get Ike to give me the word, and I'll kick their behinds back into Russia where they belong!

The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them. Spill their 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.

"Wonder weapons?" My God, I don't see the wonder in them. Killing without heroics. Nothing is glorified? Nothing is reaffirmed? No heroes, no cowards, no troops, no generals. Only those who are left alive and those who are left… dead. I won't live to see it.

Oh God, thou are my God. Early will I seek thee. My soul thirsteth for thee. My flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and thirsty land, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary. My soul followeth hard after thee, but those that seek my soul, to destroy it, shall go into the lower parts of the Earth. They shall fall by the sword. They shall be a portion for foxes. But the king shall rejoice in God. Everyone that sweareth by Him shall glory, but the mouth of them that speak lies shall be stopped.

There's absolutely no reason for us to assume the Germans are mounting a major offensive. The weather is awful, their supplies are low, and the German Army hasn't mounted a winter offensive since the time of Frederick the Great. Therefore, I believe that's exactly what they're going to do.

Ah, doctor. I understand you have two cases of, uh, self-inflicted wounds. Uh, get 'em out of here. I don't care if he dies. Just get him someplace, but out of here. He doesn't belong in the same building with men that have been wounded in battle.

Please don't argue with me, sergeant. I can smell a battlefield.

All my life… I've wanted to lead a lot of men in a desperate battle. Now I'm going to do it.

Yesterday, the inspector general's office told me… my Italian prisoners didn't have enough latrines. Hell, they didn't know what a damn latrine was till I showed 'em.

Uh, my dear ladies… Until today, my only experience at welcoming… Has been to welcome Germans and Italians… To the infernal regions.

Because, uh, as soon as our soldiers… Meet and get to know the English ladies… And, uh, write home and tell our women… Just how lovely you- you truly are… Then the sooner the American ladies will get jealous… And force this war to a quick termination. And then I will get a chance to go to the pacific… And kill Japanese.

There are no coffins here, since there is no wood.

You know, I think those stars would better on a green shirt. Did I ever tell you about the time I designed a uniform for tank crewmen? It was, uh, green leather, had red stripes, and sort of, uh, a row of brass buttons down across here, and topped off by a gold football helmet.

The Army rejected it, of course. Goddamn, it was beautiful.

I'd crawl on my belly to get a command. For god's sake, you've gotta get me in this fight. Only way I can get out of the doghouse is to do something spectacular. I gotta get back in the war. My god, Hitler's own people tried to kill him a couple of days ago. First thing you know, it'll all be over, and… I'll… keep my mouth shut. I'll behave myself. I give you my word.

We'll, then cut two holes in your helmet so that you can, and get those yellow bellies out of here, today.

Perhaps it might be better, Mr. President, if you were more concerned with the American People than with your image in the history books.

Sir, you can't let him in here. He'll see everything. He'll see the big board!

It'd be naive of us, Mr. President, to imagine that these new developments would cause a change in Soviet expansionist policy. I mean, we must be increasingly on the alert to prevent them taking over other mine shafts space, in order to breed more prodigiously than we do. Thus, knocking us out of these superior numbers when we emerge! Mr. President, we must not allow a mine-shaft gap!

Gee, I wish we had one of them doomsday machines.

Doctor, you mentioned the ratio of ten women to each man. Now, wouldn't that necessitate the abandonment of the so-called monogamous sexual relationship, I mean, as far as men were concerned?

General Ripper called Strategic Air Command headquarters shortly after he issued the go code. I have a portion of the transcript of that conversation if you'd like me to to read it.

Ahem… The Duty Officer asked General Ripper to confirm the fact that he had issued the go code, and he said, uh, "Yes gentlemen, they are on their way in, and no one can bring them back. For the sake of our country, and our way of life, I suggest you get the rest of SAC in after them. Otherwise, we will be totally destroyed by Red retaliation. Uh, my boys will give you the best kind of start, 1400 megatons worth, and you sure as hell won't stop them now, uhuh. Uh, so let's get going, there's no other choice. God willing, we will prevail, in peace and freedom from fear, and in true health, through the purity and essence of our natural… fluids. God bless you all" and he hung up.

Uh, we're, still trying to figure out the meaning of that last phrase, sir.

If the pilot's good, see, I mean if he's reeeally sharp, he can barrel that baby in so low… oh you oughta see it sometime. It's a sight. A big plane like a '52… varrrooom! Its jet exhaust… frying chickens in the barnyard!

Mr. President, we are rapidly approaching a moment of truth both for ourselves as human beings and for the life of our nation. Now, truth is not always a pleasant thing. But it is necessary now to make a choice, to choose between two admittedly regrettable, but nevertheless *distinguishable*, postwar environments: one where you got twenty million people killed, and the other where you got a hundred and fifty million people killed.

Mr. President, I'm not saying we wouldn't get our hair mussed. But I do say no more than ten to twenty million killed, tops. Uh, depending on the breaks.

Mr. President, if I may speak freely, the Russkie talks big, but frankly, we think he's short of know how. I mean, you just can't expect a bunch of ignorant peons to understand a machine like some of our boys. And that's not meant as an insult, Mr. Ambassador, I mean, you take your average Russkie, we all know how much guts he's got. Hell, lookit all them Nazis killed off and they still wouldn't quit.

Hello…

I told you never to call me here, don't you know where I am?... Well look, baby, I c-, I *can't* talk to you now... my president needs me!... Of *course* Bucky'd rather be there with you!... Of *course* it isn't only physical!... I deeply respect you as a human being... Some day I'm gonna make you *Mrs* Buck Turgidson!... Oh, listen uh, you go back to sleep hon, and Bucky'll be back there just as soon as he can... All right... listen, sug, don't forget to say your prayers!

Mr. President, about, uh, 35 minutes ago, General Jack Ripper, the commanding general of, uh, Burpelson Air Force Base, issued an order to the 34 B-52's of his Wing, which were airborne at the time as part of a special exercise we were holding called Operation Drop-Kick. Now, it appears that the order called for the planes to, uh, attack their targets inside Russia. The, uh, planes are fully armed with nuclear weapons with an average load of, um, 40 megatons each. Now, the central display of Russia will indicate the position of the planes. The triangles are their primary targets; the squares are their secondary targets. The aircraft will begin penetrating Russian radar cover within, uh, 25 minutes.

That's right, sir, you are the only person authorized to do so. And although I, uh, hate to judge before all the facts are in, it's beginning to look like, uh, General Ripper exceeded his authority.

As you may recall, sir, one of the provisions of Plan 'R' provides that once the go-code is received, the normal SSB Radios in the aircraft are switched into a special coded device which I believe is designated as CRM-114. Now, in order to prevent the enemy from issuing fake or confusing orders, CRM-114 is designed not to receive at all - unless the message is preceded by the correct three-letter recall code group prefix.

That's about the size of it. However, we are plowing through every possible three-letter combination of the code. But since there are 17,000 permutations... it's going to take us about two-and-a-half days to transmit them all.

Mr. President, I'm beginning to smell a big, fat Commie rat! I mean, supposin' Kissov is lying about that fourth plane, just lookin' for an excuse to clobber us. I mean, if the spaghetti hits the fan, now, we're in trouble.

Ah, gentlemen, Mr. President, I'm not a sentimentalist at all, by nature, but I think I know what's in every heart in this room. I think we ought to all just bow our heads and give a short prayer of thanks for our deliverance. Uh, Lord, we have heard the wings of the angel of death fluttering over our heads from the valley of fear. You have seen fit to deliver us from the forces of evil…