Category: This great Nation & Its People

Happy 140th Birthday Sir !

Post author By Grumpy
Post date November 11, 2025
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Now the real speech below:

Be seated.

Men, all this stuff you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of horse dung. Americans love to fight.

All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and 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. The very thought of losing is hateful to America. Battle is the most significant competition in which a man can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base.

You are not all going to die. Only two percent of you right here today would be killed in a major battle. Every man is scared in his first action. If he says he’s not, he’s a goddamn liar. But the real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some men will get over their fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real man never lets his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.

All through your army career you men have bitched about what you call ‘this chicken-shit drilling.’ That is all for a purpose—to ensure instant obedience to orders and to create constant alertness. This must be bred into every soldier. I don’t give a fuck for a man who is not always on his toes. But the drilling has made veterans of all you men. You are ready! A man has to be alert all the time if he expects to keep on breathing. If not, some German son-of-a-bitch will sneak up behind him and beat him to death with a sock full of shit.

There are four hundred neatly marked graves in Sicily, all because one man went to sleep on the job—but they are German graves, because we caught the bastard asleep before his officer did.

An army is a team. It lives, eats, sleeps, and fights as a team. This individual hero stuff is bullshit. The bilious bastards who write that stuff for the Saturday Evening Post don’t know any more about real battle than they do about fucking. Now we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit and the best men in the world. You know, by God, I actually pity these poor bastards we’re going up against, by God I do.

All the real heroes are not storybook combat fighters. Every single man in the army plays a vital role. So don’t ever let up. Don’t ever think that your job is unimportant. What if every truck driver decided that he didn’t like the whine of the shells and turned yellow and jumped headlong into a ditch? That cowardly bastard could say to himself, ‘Hell, they won’t miss me, just one man in thousands.’ What if every man said that? Where in the hell would we be then? No, thank God, Americans don’t say that. Every man does his job. Every man is important.

The ordnance men are needed to supply the guns, the quartermaster is needed to bring up the food and clothes for us because where we are going there isn’t a hell of a lot to steal. Every last damn man in the mess hall, even the one who boils the water to keep us from getting the GI shits, has a job to do.

Each man must think not only of himself, but think of his buddy fighting alongside him. We don’t want yellow cowards in the army. They should be killed off like flies. If not, they will go back home after the war, goddamn cowards, and breed more cowards. The brave men will breed more brave men. Kill off the goddamn cowards and we’ll have a nation of brave men.

One of the bravest men I saw in the African campaign was on a telegraph pole in the midst of furious fire while we were moving toward Tunis. I stopped and asked him what the hell he was doing up there. He answered, ‘Fixing the wire, sir.’ ‘Isn’t it a little unhealthy up there right now?’ I asked. ‘Yes sir, but this goddamn wire has got 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 soldier. A real man. A man who devoted all he had to his duty, no matter how great the odds, no matter how seemingly insignificant his duty appeared at the time.

And you should have seen the trucks on the road to Gabès. Those drivers were magnificent. All day and all night they crawled along those son-of-a-bitch roads, never stopping, never deviating from their course with shells bursting all around them. Many of the men drove over 40 consecutive hours. We got through on good old American guts. These were not combat men. But they were soldiers with a job to do. They were part of a team. Without them the fight would have been lost.

Sure, we all want to go home. We want to get this war over with. But you can’t win a war lying down. The quickest way to get it over with is to get the bastards who started it. We want to get the hell over there and clean the goddamn thing up, and then get at those purple-pissing Japs.^[a]

The quicker they are whipped, the quicker we go home. The shortest way home is through Berlin and Tokyo. So keep moving. And when we get to Berlin, I am personally going to shoot that paper-hanging son-of-a-bitch Hitler.

When a man is lying in a shell hole, if he just stays there all day, a Boche will get him eventually. The hell with that. My men don’t dig foxholes. Foxholes only slow up an offensive. Keep moving. We’ll win this war, but we’ll win it only by fighting and showing the Germans that we’ve got more guts than they have or ever will have. We’re not just going to shoot the bastards, 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-fucking-basket.

Some of you men are wondering whether or not you’ll chicken out under fire. Don’t worry about it. I can assure you that you’ll all do your duty. War is a bloody business, a killing business.

The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them, spill their blood or they will spill yours. Shoot them in the guts. Rip open their belly. When shells are hitting all around you and you wipe the dirt from your face and you realize that it’s not dirt, it’s the blood and guts of what was once your best friend, you’ll know what to do.

I don’t want any messages saying ‘I’m holding my position.’ We’re not holding a goddamned thing. We’re advancing constantly and we’re not interested in holding anything except the enemy’s balls. We’re going to hold him by his balls and we’re going to kick him in the ass; twist his balls and kick the living shit out of him all the time. Our plan of operation is to advance and keep on advancing. We’re going to go through the enemy like shit through a tinhorn.

There will be some complaints that we’re pushing our people too hard. I don’t give a damn about such complaints. I believe that an ounce of sweat will save a gallon of blood. The harder we push, the more Germans we kill. The more Germans we kill, the fewer of our men will be killed. Pushing harder means fewer casualties.

I want you all to remember that. My men don’t surrender. I don’t want to hear of any soldier under my command being captured unless he is hit. Even if you are hit, you can still fight. That’s not just bullshit either. I want men like the lieutenant in Libya who, with a Luger against his chest, swept aside the gun with his hand, jerked his helmet off with the other and busted the hell out of the Boche with the helmet. Then he picked up the gun and he killed another German. All this time the man had a bullet through his lung. That’s a man for you!

Don’t forget, you don’t know I’m here at all. No word of that fact is to be mentioned in any letters. The world is not supposed to know what the hell they did with me. I’m not supposed to be commanding this army. I’m not even supposed to be in England. Let the first bastards to find out be the goddamned Germans. Some day, I want them to rise up on their piss-soaked hind legs and howl ‘Ach! It’s the goddamned Third Army and that son-of-a-bitch Patton again!’

Then there’s one thing you men will be able to say when this war is over and you get back home. Thirty years from now when you’re sitting by your fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks, ‘What did you do in the great World War Two?’ You won’t have to cough 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 George Patton!’

All right, you sons of bitches. You know how I feel. I’ll be proud to lead you wonderful guys in battle anytime, anywhere. That’s all

Art This great Nation & Its People War

World War I art of Col. John W. Thomason USMC

Post author By Grumpy
Post date November 10, 2025
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“There were also a number of diverse people who ran curiously to type, with drilled shoulders and a bone-deep sunburn, and a tolerant scorn of nearly everything on earth. Their speech was flavored with navy words, and … in easy hours their talk ran from the Tartar Wall beyond Pekin to the Southern Islands, down under Manila. … Rifles were high and holy things to them, and they knew five-inch broadside guns.

They talked patronizingly of the war, and were concerned about rations. They were the Leathernecks, the Old Timers … the old breed of American regular, regarding the service as home and war as an occupation; and they transmitted their temper and character and view-point to the high-hearted volunteer mass which filled the ranks of the Marine Brigade.”

All About Guns The Green Machine This great Nation & Its People War

Alton W. Knappenberger: So, A Bunch of Germans Walk Into a BAR… by Will Dabbs MD

Post author By Grumpy
Post date November 10, 2025
No Comments on Alton W. Knappenberger: So, A Bunch of Germans Walk Into a BAR… by Will Dabbs MD

The Browning Automatic Rifle served as a Squad Automatic Weapon back when Squad Automatic Weapons weren’t cool.

Think back to the last time you were alone and frightened. We live in such a remarkably insulated society that many modern Americans have never felt the uniquely synergistic fear that comes from both isolation and peril. For me it occurred back in the 1970’s while I was rabbit hunting with my dad and a bunch of friends.

I was maybe ten and was packing a Remington autoloading 20-gauge. Given my young age I was posted in the middle of the skirmish line as the beagles tore up the countryside looking for bunnies. It was wintertime in the Mississippi Delta and cold by our standards. As we swept through the woods we came across a thick stand of cane.

Thinking back, I should have had sense enough to go around. However, I just opted to press through the thicket instead. By the time I finally worked my way to the other side, the entire group was gone. The Army had not yet taught me the fine art of terrain association, so I just picked a likely direction and moved out smartly. That was a mistake.

I grew up an unwashed wild man in the Mississippi Delta. It’s a wonder I survived.

Lost and Cold

In short order, it was snowing, and I had no idea where I was. Disoriented and freezing in the middle of no place, I began to feel the icy grip of terror closing in. My unfettered imagination ran away with me, and every sordid wilderness survival story I had ever heard came flooding back into my mind.

Eventually, I happened upon an empty cabin. I briefly considered trying to shoot the power line down in the ridiculous hope that the power company might somehow notice. Then I thought of maybe blowing the door open to see if I could find any food.

Along the way, I did a fair amount of passionate praying. Then I heard a shotgun in the distance. I pointed my Remington skyward and answered with a blast of my own. Half an hour later I was surrounded by the hunting party, and all was well. For that brief period, however, I was legit terrified.

With the benefit of hindsight I’d give myself a solid C. I didn’t panic, scream, or cry. Instead, I analyzed the situation and considered my options. I planned to use the available resources to give myself the best possible chance at survival. I suppose I did OK, though there was never any serious peril. They’d have found me eventually regardless. However, some three decades before, an Army PFC named Alton W. Knappenberger did so much better.

The Guy: “Knappie” Knappenberger

Alton Knappenberger was a truly great American.

Alton W. “Knappie” Knappenberger was born in Cooperstown, PA, on the last day of 1923. He entered the US Army in March of 1943 in Spring Mount, Pennsylvania. Less than a year later, Knappenberger was a Private First Class assigned to the 30^th Infantry Regiment, 3d Infantry Division slogging his way across the Italian peninsula.

From our perspective in the Information Age, we know that the Allies were ultimately victorious and the Germans got spanked. However, at this time and in this place the end result was far from certain. During the Battle of Cisterna, we got our butts kicked.

The Battle of Cisterna was a subset of the overarching invasion of Anzio. Titled Operation Shingle, the amphibious assault on Anzio was a critical part of the learning process that eventually successfully took us to Normandy. Cisterna was also where we figured out how not to employ US Army Rangers. The hard lessons we learned held us in good stead across Europe and into the German heartland.

One Out of Many

Here we see Knappie Knappenberger cleaning his Browning Automatic Rifle.

Alton Knappenberger was just some guy, one of literally millions of American GIs who answered their nation’s call to go overseas and face down the forces of tyranny and oppression. However, PFC Knappenberger’s story is inexplicably tied to a unique weapon. Alton Knappenberger was a BAR man.

Grunts of the day spoke that term just as it sounds—“Barman.” By contrast, the weapon was referred to by its individual initials—“B…A…R.” Regardless of how you pronounced it, the Browning Automatic Rifle was a wonderful horrible gun.

The Weapon

The BAR remained in service for more than half a century.

The Browning Automatic Rifle was a First World War contrivance that was obsolete by the onset of WW2. However, the big gun soldiered on into Vietnam and was generally adored by the grunts who wielded it. John Browning designed the enormous weapon specifically to facilitate walking fire.

I was trained in the geriatric concept of walking fire when I first donned the uniform. The idea was that you would advance with your mates in line and fire a round from the hip every time a certain foot hit the ground. That’s great in theory, but it doesn’t work so well when facing dug-in, belt-fed MG08 Maxim guns. As a result, American grunts mostly just used the BAR like a man-portable machine gun.

Variety is the Spice of Life

Everything about the M1918A2 BAR is big and heavy.

The BAR came in three major variants. M1918 was the WW1 version, and it was just a big honking machine rifle without a bipod. The R75 Colt Monitor was essentially the same gun with a pistol grip, shortened barrel, and Cutts compensator made in very small numbers for the FBI as well as civilian consumption.

CPT Frank Hamer’s posse used an R75 Colt Monitor to gun down Bonnie and Clyde on 23 May 1934. Here’s that story if you’re interested. The M1918A2 was the most common military version.

Outfitted with a clunky bipod and complex buttstock, the M1918A2 weighed a whopping 19 pounds and fed from a 20-round detachable box magazine. Many GIs, particularly those serving in the South Pacific, stripped their BARs down by removing the bipods, carrying handles, and flash hiders to make them as light and maneuverable as possible.

Trigger Time

The BAR is simply enormous up close.

Despite firing a .30-06/7.62x63mm cartridge the size of my index finger, the M1918A2 remains quite controllable from the prone, hip, and offhand firing positions. The gun offers a user-selectable rate of fire between 400 and 600 rounds per minute. However, at 43.7 inches long, this thing is an absolute beast to carry.

While humping the BAR was not for the faint of heart, the gun invariably became the tactical center of gravity in any close to mid-range infantry engagement. The reassuring chug of the BAR endeared confidence in ways that semiautomatic rifle fire just couldn’t. It also reliably tore stuff up downrange.

Tactical Details

Relatively soon into this engagement, PFC Knappenberger scrounged up a Browning Automatic Rifle.

As I mentioned, the Battle of Cisterna was one we lost. On 1 February 1944, a concerted and powerful German counterattack splintered Knappenberger’s infantry battalion. Where many of his mates understandably fell back, Knappenberger pushed forward with his M1 onto a small rise with minimal cover.

Along the way, he retrieved a Browning Automatic Rifle and ammunition from a dead comrade. This vantage gave him an excellent view of the surrounding area and a decent field of fire, but it left him woefully exposed. Suddenly an enemy machinegun team spotted him and opened fire from a distance of about 85 meters.

German belt-fed machine guns were rightfully respected. The MG34 and MG42 were reliable, portable, accurate, and fast. This crew chewed up Knappenberger’s position, snapping big 7.92mm rounds within six inches of his head. In response, Knappenberger rose to his knees, shouldered his spanking new BAR, and blew the German MG crew away, killing two and wounding the third.

It Gets Worse for Knappenberger

Though both heavy and bulky, the BAR was still sufficiently agile as to be fired offhand.

Taking advantage of the chaos, a pair of stalwart German Landsers crept to within 20 meters of Knappenberger’s position and threw a couple of potato masher grenades.

However, in its simplest form, the German Stielhandgranate was an offensive grenade with a thin sheet steel casing. While it offered ample blast effect, actual shrapnel was minimal. Knappenberger successfully weathered the explosions, indexed his big auto rifle, and killed both of the German grenadiers with a single generous burst.

The BAR’s 20-round magazine capacity, along with its lack of a quick-change barrel, proved to be the limiting factors in the gun’s employment. Knappenberger swapped magazines as needed as targets bore. By now he was finding his stride.

A second German belt-fed machinegun opened up from a range of roughly 100 meters. In response, Knappenberger laid his gun just as he had been trained and dispatched that crew as well.

The surviving Germans then unlimbered a fast-firing 20mm antiaircraft gun. That’s when things went really sideways.

Next Level Chaos

The German Flak 38 2cm antiaircraft gun was pure death against terrestrial targets. This example resides at the superb International Artillery Museum in Saint Jo, Texas.

Those 20mm AA guns could be found in both single and quad mounts. The Flak-38 was the most common and fed its high explosive projectiles from a 20-round box magazine at a cyclic rate of 450 rpm.

Such a weapon figured prominently in the epic climactic scene in Saving Private Ryan. I really cannot imagine facing such a meat chopper in action. However, Alton Knappenberger just drew a careful bead with his liberated BAR, and decrewed that gun as well.

By now the Germans were losing their sense of humor with this solitary grunt from Pennsylvania. They advanced on his position en masse armed with rifles and machine pistols supported by shellfire from both tanks and artillery.

Every time one of these Germans stuck his head up, PFC Knappenberger just shot it off. Eventually, however, the intrepid young American grunt ran out of ammo.

Though the BAR fed from a 20-round box magazine and the M1 Garand used 8-round en bloc clips, the rounds were interchangeable between the two weapons.

PFC Knappenberger crawled some fifteen yards under fire to reach a downed GI and relieve the man’s body of his M1 clips. He then kept up the fight until all available ammunition was consumed. Now defenseless, Knappenberger quietly slipped rearward to rejoin his battalion. He had singlehandedly stopped this concerted German counterattack for more than two hours.

Knappenberger’s Grand Finale

Alton “Knappie” Knappenberger was one of 472 Medal of Honor recipients from WW2.

Knappenberger survived the war and came home with Staff Sergeant’s stripes on his arms and the Medal of Honor around his neck. He was one of only six from his original 200-man company not killed or wounded. Once home he eschewed social events organized in his honor, making his living driving an asphalt truck and running construction equipment while living humbly in a trailer.

According to surviving family members, SSG Knappenberger would have absolutely hated his funeral. A profoundly humble man, Knappie actively avoided the limelight.

Alton Knappenberger was a hero laid to rest in a field of heroes at Arlington.

Knappie lived out the rest of his days quietly in Pennsylvania, eventually dying in Pottstown at the ripe age of 84. SSG Knappenberger ran that BAR like he owned it and then came home to make the world a better place. He was the absolute best of us.

COOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This great Nation & Its People