“This is my last night in America,” he had written in his diary the previous evening. “It may be years and it may be forever. God grant that I do my full duty to my men and myself.” He thought of his Wednesday morning in Washington three days earlier. Before going to the White House, he had driven up 16th Street to Walter Reed Army Hospital to call on his ancient hero, General John J. Pershing. A feeble eighty-two, Pershing had reminisced about their adventures in Mexico, where Patton had served as an unofficial aide-de-camp. “I can always pick a fighting man,” Pershing said. “I like generals
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