Patton’s Assassin Confessed – He Was Paid $10,000

The room was thick with shadows. Not ordinary shadows, but the kind that carry the weight of secrets too dark for daylight. It was September 25th, 1979, in the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton Hotel in Washington, D.C. Four hundred and fifty men sat at round tables draped in pristine white cloth. Whiskey glasses glinted under the chandelier’s light, cigars burned with a faint blue haze, and quiet conversation murmured like the undercurrent of a river. These men were ghosts in the eyes of the world—former operatives of the Office of Strategic Services, America’s first organized intelligence agency, the precursor to the CIA. They had parachuted behind enemy lines, sabotaged trains, assassinated targets with their bare hands, and turned enemy officers into allies. Their deeds had never been documented, and their names never publicly spoken. Tonight, they had gathered not as soldiers, but as men who had seen the world at its most brutal, and lived to tell only fragments of the truth.

The dinner was winding down. Plates were cleared, laughter replaced by a quiet hum. Then a man rose. He was in his late sixties, silver-haired, with the calm demeanor of a diplomat or a professor. But the men in the room recognized him instantly. This was Douglas Dwit Bazarta, a Navy Cross recipient, four Purple Hearts, the French Croix de Guerre with two palms. He had parachuted into Nazi-occupied France, organized 7,000 resistance fighters, and killed for his country more times than he could count. For thirty-four years, he had held a secret so dangerous it could have toppled governments. Tonight, he was ready to speak it aloud.

“I know who killed General George Patton,” Bazarta said, his voice steady. The room fell silent. Four hundred and fifty men, each with a lifetime of war stories, of death and survival, held their breath. “Because I was the one who was hired to do it.”

Shock rippled through the room. The most decorated American general of World War II—the liberator of Europe, “Old Blood and Guts,” a man whose courage had inspired thousands—had been assassinated. And this man, standing quietly among other ghosts of the war, claimed responsibility.

“They paid me ten thousand dollars,” Bazarta continued. “The order came from the top—General William ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan, director of the OSS. He wanted Patton dead, and I made it happen.”

To understand the gravity of Bazarta’s confession, one had to know who he was. Born February 17th, 1911, in Pennsylvania, the son of a Presbyterian minister, he had shown no signs of becoming America’s deadliest weapon. He studied at Syracuse University and served in the Marine Corps until 1937. But in 1942, with the world at war, he joined the OSS, an organization that sought the brightest, the most resourceful, and, if necessary, the most ruthless men America had to offer. Bazarta excelled.

Assigned to Operation Jedba, Bazarta parachuted into the occupied French countryside, his team’s mission clear: organize resistance, sabotage Nazi operations, and survive at all costs. Within weeks, he had rallied 7,000 fighters, disrupted supply lines, and orchestrated deadly ambushes—all while dressed in civilian clothing. He was a man who thrived in chaos, a man whose hands were stained with the unspoken costs of war.

Then came December 9th, 1945. Europe was ostensibly at peace. General George S. Patton, a man revered and feared in equal measure, was stationed in Bad Nauheim, Germany. He was restless, angry, disillusioned. Stripped of his beloved Third Army and humiliated by Eisenhower for his outspoken views, Patton had become a problem for those in power. He wanted to push further east, to strike at the Soviets before they could consolidate control over Eastern Europe. Dangerous words for a dangerous man.

On that foggy December morning, Patton was scheduled for a pheasant hunt near Mannheim. At 11:45 a.m., his Cadillac Model 75 rolled down the cold, misty road. A 2.5-ton army truck suddenly veered into its path. The collision was minor—damage minimal—but the general’s neck was broken, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down.

To the world, it was an accident. To Douglas Bazarta, it was meticulous design. According to his confession, he had people within Patton’s headquarters who informed him of every movement. When the general stopped to admire some Roman ruins along the road, Bazarta sabotaged the Cadillac window, leaving it ajar. And when the truck struck, a specially-designed low-velocity projectile—crafted to break bones without leaving a bullet—was fired into Patton’s neck.

Patton was rushed to the 131st Station Hospital in Heidelberg. For twelve days, doctors watched him fight for life. At first, there was hope. His vital signs were stable, he could move his arms slightly, he spoke of returning home for Christmas. But then, on December 21st, he died suddenly. Officially, it was heart failure. No autopsy was performed; his wife Beatrice refused one, perhaps to spare him further indignity.

Bazarta’s story did not end there. When the initial attempt failed to kill Patton outright, a backup plan was set into motion. According to Bazarta, a Soviet NKVD agent, known only as “the Pole,” infiltrated the hospital and injected Patton with a specialized cyanide designed to mimic heart failure, leaving no trace. The perfect murder. And with the official accident report gone, the driver transferred quietly, and no thorough investigation conducted, the truth was buried beneath layers of bureaucratic and geopolitical cover-ups.

Why kill Patton? He was a hero, a legend, but also a threat. He had criticized the denazification program, admired German efficiency, and openly planned memoirs that would expose wartime betrayals and political manipulations. To men like Donovan, Eisenhower, and the fledgling CIA, Patton was a loose cannon whose knowledge could dismantle reputations carefully built over decades. To Stalin, he was a threat to Soviet ambitions in Europe. Dead, he was no longer a problem.

Bazarta’s confession was verified with lie detector tests and repeated interviews. He never wavered, never recanted. He died in 1999 at age 88, buried among other American heroes in Arlington National Cemetery. His New York Times obituary praised his OSS service, his art, his colorful life—but did not mention Patton.

Was George Patton murdered, or was it an extraordinary coincidence? Was Douglas Bazarta a hero, a killer, or a man embittered by decades of secrecy? The accident report was missing. No autopsy. The witnesses were dead. And the truth? Buried in files that may never see daylight.

Yet, on that night in 1979, in the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton Hotel, a man stood and told four hundred and fifty of the most dangerous men who had ever lived: “I killed George Patton.” And not a single one called him a liar.

History is full of coincidences. But some secrets, once spoken aloud, can never be unheard. And some truths, no matter how deeply buried, have the power to shock the world long after the final bullet has been fired.