Patton Waters George

Remembering the Great General
George Patton Waters, grandson of General G. S. Patton

I first met “Old Pattonie,” as I called him, in 1945 in Washington. He came home before returning to Germany where he was in charge of post-war reconstruction. He appeared at home in the fall in all his military glory. To me as a kid, he was a big guy in tall boots with two guns at his waist. I guess I thought Christmas was over... this guy was definitely staying with us.
I had never seen my father until then, and I don't really remember any other men. All my fathers were in the war, so my cousins were the same way.
My first experience was when my grandfather took me to see my father, who was sent home to Walter Reed Hospital at the end of the war. About 20 days before liberation, my father was shot in the back by a German. Dad had been a prisoner of war for two years, two months and 10 days before that. He was a walking skeleton, but he was alive. Our visit to the hospital was the first indication to me that the huge man with me, “Old Pattonie,” was important. There were a lot of people standing at attention by the walls, all saying, “Yes, sir” (certainly not “No, sir”).
When I saw my father, he was thin, black-eyed, and very weak. There was a short meeting and then we left. At home Old Pattonie was relaxing and having cocktails (apparently, because at five years old I had no idea what was going on). One day he was sitting in a garden chair on the porch when the seat underneath him gave way. The back of his body slumped and he was trapped in the chair with his knees on his chest. That's when I found out he knew another language (swearing). He swore for a good five minutes without repeating himself. My mom sent me away, saying her dad was just upset and talking “military”. I understand it now, but it was a bit of a shock at the time.
One morning he was standing on the porch again when a cat came out to bask in the sun about twenty yards away. Old Pattonie watched with a cigar and maybe a glass of brandy. Suddenly his two “cannons” began firing from his hips at the cat. A great cloud of dust and hair rose, and no sign of the cat. My brother and I ran to the “crime scene” and found only the tail. In order to somehow smooth over the incident, my mother told us that if the cat got scared, its tail would fall off. I believed this for several years.
Another experience was when Old Pattonie made my brother and me make bowls out of our palms side by side, as he said, and he tapped the ashes of his cigar into each of our hands. He told us that “if we moved, we'd burn every za***** bone in our bodies.” Once, when he was honoring us with ashes, he tapped the first ash that was cold to me. John was the second to have the ashes and the hot part knocked off into his hands. John flinched and I remember Old Pattonie lifting him up and there was a great crying and noise. He didn't break any bones, but the game was much more serious after that. That's when I learned to always go first!!!
Like the boxer we were breeding, I was afraid of lightning. In thunderstorms, Boxer and I would hide under the bed. Up until then, my family called me “Georgie”. I heard someone yell, “Where the hell is Georgie”. My brother, of course, gave away my location and took Old Pattonie to me. A huge hand crawled under the bed and began to rummage. I moved a boxer to my hand and the hand tried to grasp it. The boxer bit down hard on Old Pattonie's hand, which disappeared from under the bed with the dog. I have no idea what happened to the boxer, but the hand came back to pull me out... all bloody and not at all friendly. When Old Pattonie pulled me out, he told me that no one named Georgie was afraid of anything and that my name was no longer Georgie. I guess somehow my mother got the idea to call me Pat. I learned my lesson from that storm and today I will stand out in a storm without fear.
And so my life goes on.

From the book 500 Hours of Victory by Karel Foud, Milan Jíša, Ivan Rollinger