Driving General Patton: A Soldier’s Memories of War, Leadership, and Legend

He was born in 1918, old enough to see the world reshaped by two global wars, and young enough to throw himself into the thick of the second one. A Jeep driver and mechanic by trade, he could pull the engine from a Jeep in just forty minutes—something he had once proven using a special wrench a representative from the Willys company had custom-made for him. That skill would place him behind the wheel for two of the most influential commanders of the war: General Dwight D. Eisenhower and General George S. Patton. Eisenhower, he admits, he barely knew. Patton, however, he saw every day, from just a few feet away.

Driving Patton meant witnessing the general in his most unguarded moments. Patton preferred small vehicles—easy to maneuver, quick to move, and ideal for slipping across the battlefield. In films, he is often shown standing tall in his Jeep, barking commands. That, the driver remembers, was no Hollywood invention. Patton rode that way constantly, restless and focused, always planning his next move. When a young soldier once shouted to him, “Where are you going, George? Off to Berlin to kill that son of a—Hitler?” Patton had only grinned. He wanted Berlin more than anything.

The two spent countless hours together, though Patton was not one for personal conversation. He rarely spoke of home, family, or private thoughts. Everything he discussed revolved around strategy, troops, and the next phase of the fight. He didn’t chat with his driver—he preferred silence, concentration, and being obeyed. A simple “Slow down” or “Turn here” was the most he asked for, and his driver followed his instructions without question. Patton was quiet until the moment he wasn’t, often muttering to himself, analyzing problems aloud, then abruptly dismissing an idea with a blunt, “No, that won’t work.”

He cared deeply for his soldiers—something the driver saw firsthand. Patton often stopped to help men who were struggling, even wading into mud to direct traffic when a convoy got stuck. General Omar Bradley once teased him, telling him he’d make “one hell of a traffic cop.” Patton’s men respected him, sometimes fearing him, but never doubting his devotion. His driver liked him too. “He was good to me,” he recalled. Patton never scolded him, even when the Jeep hit a bump so hard the general’s helmet flew off. Instead, Patton simply joked, “Can you see better now?”

But there were darker moments—such as the day Patton learned he would not be allowed to take Berlin. Sitting in the Jeep, listening to a radio message from Bradley, the general’s face changed completely. He looked up, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He had fought for the chance to seize the German capital. To have it taken away broke something inside him.

The driver accompanied Patton from 1944 through the end of the war, staying even afterward to help pack his gear, organize his maps, and break down his mobile headquarters. Patton slept on the ground, rarely used his sleeping bag, and kept constant contact—when he wanted to—with higher command. When he didn’t want to hear messages, he simply shut the radio off.

Patton’s legendary helmet—gleaming like polished chrome—was another responsibility of his staff. To achieve the famous shine, they coated the liner with eight layers of lacquer. Nothing stuck to it—not water, not dust, not even a dropped hair. Patton always wore it proudly, along with his equally iconic pistols. Though the handles appeared to be pearl, they were actually carved from thick pieces of plastic that the driver had scrounged from a damaged building. A skilled worker shaped and polished them until they looked perfect, finishing them with paint and lacquer. Whether Patton knew they were imitation or simply didn’t care, no one could say.

As for Patton’s temper, the driver saw flashes of it but insisted the general wasn’t the monster some reports suggested. The infamous incident in Africa—where Patton allegedly struck a shell-shocked soldier—had been exaggerated, he said. Patton’s glove had hit the man’s helmet, not his head, yet the press had inflated it into scandal. Patton had been furious at cowardice, but he had not brutalized the soldier.

When the war ended, Patton was asked whether he wanted to go fight in the Pacific. He declined, saying General MacArthur was doing fine without him. President Truman even consulted him regarding Japan, and Patton reportedly agreed the atomic bomb might be necessary if no other solution ended the conflict. Despite everything, Patton had no appetite for more war.

These recollections—raw, direct, and unpolished—preserve a human portrait of a general larger than life, seen through the eyes of the man who drove him across the battlefields of Europe.