by Caroline Morrison Garrett   General George S. Patton

Tension ran high on Ward 8 that June morning in 1944. Staff members were on guard, having been alerted to the impending arrival of General Patton to see his son-in-law Colonel Waters. General Patton’s order that the halls be clear of onlookers had left the corridors deserted.

With more immediate problems on my mind, I hurried down the hall toward my office. As I passed Colonel Waters’ room, the door opened a little. A small blond boy, the colonel’s son, pointed his finger at me. “Bang, bang. I gotcha.” The four gleaming stars on the army cap tilted toward his ear spoke louder than words. Grandpa Patton had arrived.

Clutching my head as though I’d been shot, I staggered down the hall followed by a child’s laughter. He got off one more shot in my direction before a gruff voice inside the room issued a sharp command, “Shut that door.”

“What happened to you?” The nurse, with whom I shared an office, looked at me in surprise. I smoothed my hair and straightened my cap. “General Patton isn’t the only member of the family who likes warfare. I got wiped out in a gunfight with his four-year-old grandson.” Before I could explain, the heavy tread of boots made us jump to our feet.

General Patton strode into the room surrounded by an aura of static electricity. Ignoring the nurse in her striped seersucker army uniform, he confronted me in my starched white apprentice outfit. Perhaps, my cap reminded him of nurses of an earlier day. “I want to see General Means,” he barked.

“I’m sorry sir, I am the dietitian. Lieutenant Barlow can help you.”

He pivoted on his heel to face her. “God dammit, I want to see General Means, now.”

Color rose in her cheeks. “He has just come from surgery, Sir. No one is allowed in the recovery room without permission.”

“Well, by God, get it,” he thundered. She jumped when he struck the corner of the desk with his riding crop. With trembling hand, she called the Chief Surgeon. General Patton paced the small office from wall to wall like a caged lion.

The deep voice of the surgeon came over the phone in measured tones audible across the room. “General Patton has my permission to see General Means for exactly five minutes. I am notifying the recovery room he’s on his way.”

Lieutenant Barlow gave General Patton a snappy salute. Without a word to either of us, he strode from the room. She collapsed at her desk. “Did I do the right thing?”

She repeated her question. “Oh, did I do the right thing? He scared me when he struck the desk with his riding crop.” She had had no choice. She could not disobey the surgeon’s orders, not even for General Patton.

I grinned. “Wonder whether he’d have shot you, if he’d been wearing his ivory handled revolvers?” The Washington Post had reported that authorities on protocol deemed it inappropriate for General Patton to wear the revolvers for the first stop on the day’s itinerary — his call on President Truman at the White House.

Steps, two at a time, pounding up the stairs next to the office caught us by surprise. Lieutenant Barlow turned pale. “Is he coming back?” Before I could reply, a breathless colonel burst into the room.

He approached her desk. “Did you call me about General Patton?”

In a wavering voice she replied, “Yes Sir.”

He smiled. “Let me shake your hand. You did a very brave thing. I congratulate you.” The Chief of Surgery knew it took guts to cross General Patton.

A glance at my watch sent me scurrying to the ward kitchen. The food cart for lunch would arrive any minute. Inside the kitchen door, I faced catastrophe. Annie and Florine huddled over Beulah May. She sat on the floor crying and wringing her hands.

Florine looked up at me, the whites of her eyes enormous, as though she’d seen a ghost. I turned to Williston. “What’s going on here? What happened?”

Private Williston tossed his head, waving a slotted spoon in the direction of the sobbing girls, “Ask them.”

I put my hand on the distraught girl’s shoulder. “Beulah May, what happened? Pull yourself together. We have to serve lunch.” She tried to stifle her sobs. She said she heard noise in the hall and she wanted a peek. She opened the door just a bitty bit.

“Dat genral he look so mean. He hit the door, hard, with a stick in his han. Then he shouts at me.” Her words almost lost in her tears, she gulped, “He yell at me, ‘What the hell you think I am? A damn exhibition?’”

“I’m sorry Beulah May, but I warned you not to open that door. Now drink this glass of water and come help us serve lunch.” The rest of us turned our attention to filling plates, but not Beulah May. When George came for the Pershing trays, he stared at the crumpled heap on the floor. I offered no explanation for the tearful girl cowering in the corner.

Unable to find a way to comfort Beulah May, I left for my afternoon break. She still lay on the floor, her face to the wall. I never saw her again. She fled without stopping to pick up her paycheck. She had my sympathy, but finding another job would not be easy.

Many a person, stronger than Beulah May, including me, had quaked at the sight of General Patton. Nurses, who had served under him overseas, told me they hid when he came through field hospitals on inspection. Although used to profanity, they cringed at his language and they could not tolerate his insults to the patients.

Williston, Florine, and Annie struggled to cover Beulah May’s share of the workload. No replacement materialized to take her place.

General Patton had cost me the most reliable of my three employees.