Mighty Eighth commemorates VE Day
Visitors to the museum experienced their special 'Salute to Victory' event. One of the highlights was a talk by the son of a World War II airman from the 100th Bomb Group. He shared his father's story of surviving as a prisoner of war.
Visitors also learned about two missions where American bombers dropped food, not bombs, over starving parts of the Netherlands in May 1945.
With fewer than 1% of U.S. World War II veterans still living, events like this are crucial in preserving their legacy. Dawn Brosnan, director of communications for the Mighty Eighth says, 'It is important to remember. Even though we have so few World War II veterans left, their families, their relatives, their descendants…they gave sacrifices of their time, their efforts, sometimes their lives. Sot it is always important to honor and remember them.'
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
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National Geographic
an hour ago
- National Geographic
World War II treasure hunters love this rugged Greek island
Top collectors on the island have amassed hundreds of thousands of artifacts — and there are still more being found. Stelios Tripalitakis holds an original rifle used during the Battle of Crete, part of his extensive collection dedicated to preserving the island's wartime history and resistance. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou The metal helmet held by Stelios Tripalitakis is heavy, with a small hole on one side and a jagged gash on the other, likely caused by a bullet. It probably belonged to a German soldier, Lieutenant Schimkat, who fought and died in the Battle of Crete during WWII. The hole in the helmet, Tripalitakis surmises, was Schimkat's fatal wound. 'I bought this helmet from an elderly man in Daratsos village, about a kilometer from here,' recalls Tripalitakis, sitting in his living room in a village in the northwest of Crete, Greece's largest island. Crete is a rugged place, with a number of historic towns, ancient sites, and scenic beaches. While it doesn't attract the masses like the nearby Cyclades, Crete gets a fair amount of tourists. Not all who come are here for a beach vacation or even ancient Greece, though. It's something more recent that drives them to this island and into the living room of Tripalitakis. Crete is brimming with World War II treasures. Tripalitakis is just one of dozens of artifact hunters, part of a not-so-quiet subculture of amateur historians and military memorabilia enthusiasts searching for and preserving remnants of the pivotal 1941 Battle of Crete. So numerous are the remnants from this war-changing event that Tripalitakis has a collection of more than 100,000 artifacts—and it's still growing. He lives with his family of four in Galatas, a small village. The Battle of Crete began on May 20, and the Galatas area was one of its main battlefields. Tripalitakis started learning about it at just nine years old, and his collecting started at 16. Tripalitakis holds a helmet he believes once belonged to Lieutenant Schimkat, pointing out the bullet exit hole that marks its violent history. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou He managed to identify the helmet through two original photographs, both showing the makeshift grave of the German lieutenant. 'Both photos capture the helmet from the same angle, clearly showing the bullet entry hole, which is identical in size and position to the helmet I have,' he explains. One photo belongs to Dimitris Skartsilakis, a researcher and collector from Rethimno, a nearby city. He owns more than 10,000 photographs, many depicting grim scenes, ranging from local executions and battlefield casualties to soldiers' graves. The other is from a German paratrooper's album of the 3rd Parachute Regiment stationed in the Galatas area. 'The lieutenant's grave is visible with the same helmet, and the name on the cross is also clearly seen,' says Tripalitakis. When he searched the German archives, he found that Schimkat was killed on May 22 in Galatas, shot in the head. A generational pursuit Tripalitakis' front yard resembles a WWII vehicle cemetery, with several pieces of rusted metal scattered on the ground. But it's the room on the first floor of his house where history truly overflows. The 42-year-old has transformed his former living room into what may be the world's most densely packed private WWII museum, showcasing relics ranging from rifles and grenades to rare photographs and uniforms. Tripalitakis is not alone. Collectors in Crete become interested in this history from a very young age and many who had lived during the German occupation were still alive in the 1990s. 'My family runs a pastry shop in Rethimno, and I used to hear countless war stories from our customers, many of whom were around 70 years old at the time,' fellow collector Skartsilakis, now 42, says. 'Both of my grandmothers also shared stories from those years. That's how I first became interested in all this.' Tripalitakis talks about his artifacts with such passion, and so fast, it's as if he's trying to share as much as possible before time runs out. He's had to practice talking fast. He collaborates with at least six travel agencies in Chania that run daily Battle of Crete tours, all of which include a 'strictly one-hour visit' to his museum. Mortar rounds, grenades, and ammunition, recovered by Tripalitakis during more than 25 years of searching the island for wartime remnants. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou A U.S. Army medical stretcher, used during WWII, now preserved as part of Tripalitakis' collection. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou According to Yannis Skalidakis, historian and professor at the University of Crete, the Battle of Crete played an extraordinary role in WWII. It was the first—and last—large-scale battle in which the attack was carried out entirely from the air using paratroopers. And Crete "was essentially the only free territory left in Europe,' he explains. Due to the strong local resistance, however, the elite German unit suffered heavy losses, which prevented them from attempting further airborne operations during the war. The relentless opposition by the Cretans was another harbinger. 'The resistance of the Cretan people marked the beginning of armed civilian resistance across Europe against Nazism. The citizens of Crete—ordinary people—were the first to fight back, alongside the Greek and British armies," notes Skalidakis, author of a book on German-occupied Crete. (There is also the disputed theory that the Germans getting bogged down in Crete contributed to the delay of the German invasion of the Soviet Union—a delay which cost them dearly.) A uniquely documented battle Collectors like Tripalitakis can be found across the island, with the Chania region holding the largest share. But you would be mistaken to think this is a mere hobby. 'In reality,' asserts Skartsilakis, who is currently collaborating with the Historical Museum of Crete for a temporary exhibition, 'if it weren't for us, much of this material would have ended up as scrap and been lost forever.' Since Tripalitakis started collecting in 1999 he estimates he's spent more than €100,000 on artifacts, and nearly €50,000, maybe even more, just on fuel. 'I work several jobs and invest everything into this," he admits. Guided by history books, local testimonies, and intuition, Tripalitakis has scoured the island's battle sites by land and sea multiple times. Most of the collectors also scan the web for important findings. That's because Crete might be the most photographed battle of the war, the historian Skalidakis contends. 'Almost all the Germans had cameras with them and captured many moments of the battle, both before and after it, resulting in an extremely rich visual archive that doesn't exist for other battles.' The regime did it for potential propaganda purposes. The collector Skartsilakis has used photographs to find objects. 'It's sometimes astonishing to see that, even after 80 years, shell casings from the battle are still lying on a wall where I have a photo of soldiers positioned during the battle,' he shares. Tripalitakis examines a selection of original wartime photographs from his collection —some costing him around 300 euros. Underneath are displayed personal items such as buttons and belt buckles found in the islands' battlefields. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou It should come as no surprise, then, that these photographs can fetch lofty sums. 'I've bought a single photograph on eBay for €300. Especially the ones showing paratroopers with full gear in the midst of battle are extremely expensive,' Tripalitakis shares. 'A paratrooper's full photo album, can go for as much as €5,000 and may contain 150–200 photographs.' Under Greek law, items from 1453 and earlier are considered antiquities and are automatically state property. Anything found that dates after 1453—the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans and the end of the Byzantine Empire—is not considered ancient and can be legally owned as collectibles. Weaponry and ammunition that are still functional must be officially registered with the Greek police. Small arms require a permit and must be deactivated. 'I handle that myself,' Tripalitakis says. 'I'm a reserve officer in the special forces, in the paratroopers, but I knew how to handle explosives like these long before the army." In total, Tripalitakis owns around 200 weapons, though not all of them are complete. Other items include uniforms, gas masks, field telephones, mess tins, motorcycle goggles, ID tags, cutlery sets, first aid kits, cooking pots, buttons, pocket watches, and unit insignia. Much like Schimkat's helmet, each item in a collection carries its own life story. 'We have found many personal belongings of soldiers, such as wedding rings with engraved initials, some of which we've traced back to their owners,' says Skartsilakis, who recently made a particularly rare discovery. 'I found three wooden crosses from graves at the Battle of Galatas. A local had them to support the roof of his stable.' From screws to barrels the entire island is dotted with repurposed WWII relics. Some became flower pots or water troughs. 'I've seen a raki still made from a German fuel barrel," Skalidakis laughs. Photograph by Demetrios Ioannou But don't mistake the ways they've been repurposed to mean they aren't valued. After all, many in Crete have family lore about ancestors who fought and died to stop the Nazis. 'You should know,' Tripalitakis concludes, 'that everyone has objects like these in their homes. Some people consider them family heirlooms and don't want to part with them.' Given the island's riches, Tripalitakis's former living room isn't the only stop for aficionados. One of the first private collections to open to the public was the War Museum Askifou at Sfakia, created by collector Georgios Hatzidakis and now maintained by his son Andreas. 'My father started this when he was 16, a few years after the war ended, in 1946,' says Andreas, who inherited the collection after his dad passed away in 2007. 'He was a young boy during the war. The Germans killed one of his sisters, and my grandfather was in the resistance,' he says. Today, they own thousands of artifacts and exhibit them at their home at Askifou village, which is open to visitors daily. Andreas continues the tradition of searching for relics with his younger son, who is now the same age his father was when he started the collection. 'I am trying to teach him the history of our place', he says. 'It's important for the older generations to remember, and for the younger ones to learn'.
Epoch Times
2 hours ago
- Epoch Times
The ‘Trad Wife' Debate Misses the Point
As many people who follow my journey know, I had children later in life. By the time I became a mother, my life was already shaped in certain ways. I was more the breadwinner in our family—or at least the public face of the enterprise my husband and I have worked hard to build together. Now, with a return to 'traditional values' sweeping parts of the country, I see criticism coming from both directions. On the left, the message is often: 'Don't just have children—do something more with your life!' Motherhood is portrayed as too small, too limiting, even oppressive. On the right, it's 'Stay home, don't work, and let your husband provide.' The recent New York Times piece on Ballerina Farm's founder, Hannah Neeleman, written by Megan Agnew, tried to cast her as an oppressed woman whose life couldn't possibly be as wonderful as it appears. Yet more traditional or conservative voices also criticize her—for working too much, for not being 'at home' enough. The irony is that none of this is truly traditional. The image of the man leaving for ten hours a day while the woman stays home with the children really emerged in factory culture in the early 1900s. Before that, industry was in the home. Husbands and wives worked together as blacksmiths, shoemakers, tailors, bakers—running family enterprises where the children were underfoot, learning the trade as they grew. For only a short fraction of American history—mainly the post–World War II decades into the early 1970s—was it considered 'normal' for a man to go off to work while his wife stayed home with the children full-time. That model was largely a product of economic prosperity, suburban expansion, and postwar advertising—not a timeless tradition. Before and after that brief window, families across America worked together in agriculture, trades, and small businesses. We shouldn't mistake nostalgia for accuracy, or imagine that the 1950s image of 'traditional' is the only—or even the best—path forward. In reality, when men and women both contribute to a home enterprise, they bring unique strengths that serve not just the family's income but its entire way of life. Children in these environments learn enterprise, problem-solving, negotiation, decision-making, and how to navigate complex situations long before they ever fill out a résumé. In that way, Hannah's work is actually closer to tradition than many critics realize. At Ballerina Farm, she and her husband run multiple enterprises—some in the home, some outside—but all connected, with the family working together. That's also my reality. If you visit The Barn restaurant at Sovereignty Ranch, my kids might burst through the door, hair windblown, sticks and dirt clinging to them. They'll run to give me a hug or ask for pancakes, maybe beg for a popsicle from the farm store, and then run back into the wild of the farm. We've also built a small homeschool on the ranch, where a teacher comes for three hours each morning to focus on reading, writing, and math. The rest of their education comes from the farm, the restaurant, and our other enterprises. They do everything from helping with newborn calves to brainstorming Instagram video ideas. They often ask how much something costs, how much we'll sell it for, whether that's a lot of money, how much the mortgage is, or how many products we need to sell to make a car payment. In many ways, these questions—and the real-world math, economics, and decision-making they lead to—are more valuable than much of what children learn in conventional classrooms. This model may not be perfect, but it is far better than my life in California—driving an hour and twenty minutes each way, working more than eight hours, then commuting another three, and leaving them with others or dragging them along just to spend time together. We need to remember what 'traditional' really was—and what it still can be. We need more small, home-based enterprises where kids are involved and learn by doing. My children set up tables for big party reservations, wipe down tables, bus dishes, put stickers on hot sauce bottles, help bottle vinegar—and as they get older, their responsibilities will grow, and they'll be intimately connected to the work that sustains our family. I won't pretend I never feel guilt about working so much or wishing life was different. But I am grateful that God, in His grace, blessed us with children later in life and allowed us to weave them into our daily work, rather than relegating them to schools, babysitters, or screens. Maybe my home doesn't fit a perfect 'traditional' mold. But in the truest sense—family working together, children learning responsibility, life lived with purpose—it's as traditional as it gets.
CNN
3 hours ago
- CNN
Just two Navajo Code Talkers remain alive. Here's what they want America to know
Eighty years ago, as the sea swayed him from side to side on an attack vessel heading towards Iwo Jima, Thomas Begay started to feel afraid. 'On the ship, they said: 'get your last scrap of steak and eggs,'' he recalled. 'That gave (me) some kind of feeling in my stomach. What am I doing here? What's going to happen?' 'It's a scary thing,' the veteran told CNN from his home in Window Rock, Arizona. 'You don't know where the bullet or the bomb will come from.' Begay landed on the island as a member of the 5th Marine Division, but his role was unique: He was a Navajo Code Talker, deployed into battle to help the US military send encrypted messages that enemy forces were unable to decipher. More than 400 Navajo Code Talkers were sent to the Pacific during World War II, operating alongside the Marines at pivotal battles including those at Saipan, Guam, Tinian and Iwo Jima. Their code proved vital: it was never cracked by the Japanese, and allowed US troops to organize their movements without the enemy's knowledge. Thursday is National Navajo Code Talker Day – an annual celebration created by President Ronald Reagan in 1982. It is also the 80th anniversary of Japan's initial surrender in World War II, which effectively ended the costliest war in human history. The documents codifying their surrender were signed a few weeks later. Today, just two Code Talkers survive. CNN spoke to both – Peter MacDonald, 96, and Begay, who is now 100 – about their recollections from the war and how their contributions are recognized across the US. But while their service is recorded in history books, how they are remembered remains a live issue. The Code Talkers have been dragged into the Trump administration's crackdown on diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) initiatives, and a years-long effort to create a dedicated national museum has stalled and may stretch beyond MacDonald and Begay's lifetimes. For MacDonald, they are trends with troubling historical echoes. 'It's a form of discrimination,' he told CNN of the Pentagon's deletion in March of webpages documenting their service – an act the Department of Defense reversed, but which drew fury across the Navajo Nation. 'Over 100 years, we lived through all of that discrimination.' 'We need to take a serious look at what we are doing here in America,' MacDonald added. 'At what America has done to Native Americans, and maybe other minorities.' 'We need serious discussion,' he said. 'We cannot go on this way.' The secretive and dangerous journey that led MacDonald into America's history books began when he saw another member of his clan in a Marines uniform. 'I asked: where can I get one of those beautiful uniforms you're wearing?' he told CNN. MacDonald was told he'd need to enlist with the Marines. But there was a problem: he was only 15, two years below the age requirement. That didn't deter him. 'We've been carrying rifles since we were 7 or 8 years old,' he said, telling his fellow clan member: 'We shoot rabbits, we shoot squirrels, we shoot birds, and sometimes I'm a better shot than you.' MacDonald lied about his age and enlisted. He told CNN that on his visit to the enrollment office, he said: 'I don't want the Japanese to ever come here to Window Rock, Arizona.' 'We had seen enough of (that) stuff before, and we don't like it,' he told CNN. 'This is our land and we're going to protect it.' There was an irony to his eagerness. Native people had been full American citizens for just two decades, but they still didn't have the right to vote. Many Native children, including a significant portion of the Code Talker cohort, were still being taken from their families and forced to enroll in boarding schools, where they were stripped of their language and other traditions. With the Marines MacDonald was summoned to a meeting, where he found dozens of fellow Navajo. And in that room, he discovered a secret: The same Navajo language that many of his peers were forced to abandon was now being used to win a war. The idea had been proposed to the Marines by Philip Johnston, an engineer and the son of a missionary who had grown up alongside Navajo children. It was nearly indecipherable: virtually nobody outside the Navajo nation spoke the language. The Code Talkers developed an extensive and complicated code based on their own language, which substituted key military and geographical terms for related images. 'Tank' became 'chay-da-gahi,' which means 'turtle.' 'Fighter plane' 'was da-he-tih-hi,' or 'hummingbird.' In many cases, they were forced to invent new words altogether, because Navajo didn't contain direct translations. When Code Talkers were deployed in battle they were assigned Marine escorts for protection after multiple Code Talkers were mistaken for Japanese soldiers and confronted by US troops. 'A lot of times we were mistaken for Japanese,' Chester Nez, a Code Talker who died in 2014, said in an oral history interview for the Library of Congress. Nez recalled being stopped by a Marine while walking back to camp with a fellow Code Talker on the island of Guadalcanal in 1942. Nez, barred from disclosing any information about the Code Talker program even to fellow Marines, said the pair were telephone operators. 'He didn't believe us,' Nez said 'This guy took a .45 and stuck it in my head and my body … that was the most scary thing that happened to me.' Code Talkers spoke into their hefty radios when an instruction needed relaying. For example, MacDonald explained that on Iwo Jima, a message needed to be sent to headquarters: 'Send demolition team to hill 362B.' The message that was transmitted over radio was: 'Sheep. Eyes. Nose. Deer. Destroyer. Tea. Mouse. Turkey. Onion. Sick horse. Three. Six. Two. Bear.' In all, more than 800 messages were sent between Code Talkers at Iwo Jima. Begay was one of those on the island, and he remembers how he felt when he saw an American flag raised on Mount Suribachi. It had been hoisted by six Marines days earlier, a moment captured in an iconic photograph by the Associated Press photojournalist Joe Rosenthal. 'My God,' he said. 'I was so proud.' When MacDonald and Begay returned to the US after the war, they were sworn to secrecy. The code talker program remained classified until 1968, in case the military should ever need to reactivate it. For the Navajo who powered the program, that meant returning to their pre-war lives, excluded from the heroes' welcome that many other returning soldiers received. 'We had really gotten used to being treated as a second-class citizen,' MacDonald said, adding his experience was 'no different' after his return. 'We were very much mistreated in America.' 'We were not rich at all,' he continued. 'We were just trying to survive. In the meantime, when you go into town, (non-Native) people make fun of you: people tell you … 'you don't sit there, you eat over there, you don't use this, you do that.'' Begay's son remembers the day the secret was lifted: his father came home and finally told his family what he had done during the war. 'Right away I started asking him questions at the dinner table,' said Ronald Begay, himself a veteran of the Army. 'I didn't know that, because it was never in the history books. I was proud of my dad.' Both men had long post-war careers. Begay retired in 1984 after 40 years of federal service as a superintendent at the Bureau of Indian Affairs in Chinle, Arizona. MacDonald's legacy is more complicated. He served four terms as the Navajo Nation chairman, becoming popular for aggressively championing Navajo sovereignty. But he was sentenced to jail time in 1990 on federal and tribal charges, including bribery and racketeering; his earlier refusal to step down when placed on administrative leave led to a lengthy standoff and ultimately a riot in which two of his supporters died. President Bill Clinton would ultimately commute his sentence to time served. At a White House reception hosted by President Donald Trump in 2017, MacDonald said he and his then-12 fellow surviving Code Talkers had one last mission: to ensure the memory of their accomplishments was kept alive. It is not a memory that has always been respected. MacDonald had hoped that 'Windtalkers,' a 2002 action movie based on their contributions, would serve as a cultural touchstone for a new generation. But the production was critically panned and criticized for its historical inaccuracies. 'They asked us to come to their opening,' MacDonald told CNN about the movie's premiere. 'And what do we see? About 20% of the movie was Navajo Code Talkers. 80% of the movie was about Nicolas Cage and whatever problem he was having with his girlfriend,' he said. For several years, one of the best collections of artifacts relating to the Code Talkers was found in an unlikely place: a Burger King in Kayenta, Arizona. Small exhibits also exist in museums in nearby Tuba City and in Gallup, New Mexico, but MacDonald has campaigned for a museum dedicated solely to the Code Talkers. That project is ongoing. Earlier this year, the surviving Code Talkers experienced an unexpected new assault on their legacy. Amid a sweeping purge of webpages that promoted diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) efforts, the Pentagon wiped a number of pages honoring the contribution of MacDonald, Begay and their peers. It was part of a hurried crackdown that also saw the deletion of information completely unrelated to DEI issues – like Holocaust remembrance, suicide prevention and the Enola Gay aircraft – or pages that commemorated other war heroes like World War II Medal of Honor recipient Pfc. Harold Gonsalves and historically significant service members such as baseball great Jackie Robinson. 'The new administration came in, and I guess they want to change a lot of things,' MacDonald told CNN. 'They wanted nothing, no words, about Navajo Code Talkers.' Multiple defense officials told CNN at the time that military units were instructed to simply use keyword searches like 'racism,' 'ethnicity,' 'history' and 'first' when searching for articles and photos to remove. The Pentagon subsequently restored the pages, and Pentagon press secretary John Ullyot said in a statement at the time: 'In the rare cases that content is removed — either deliberately or by mistake — that is out of the clearly outlined scope of the directive, we instruct the components and they correct the content so it recognizes our heroes for their dedicated service alongside their fellow Americans, period.' The episode became a flashpoint in the national controversy over the Trump administration's targeting of DEI initiatives. Ronald Begay, who champions his father's efforts to preserve the Code Talkers' legacy, said he was 'appalled' by the saga. 'I immediately started texting the Navajo Code Talker descendants, as well as some prominent veterans – we support each other in various ways,' he said. 'Why would they do that?' he asked. 'After all, that's why we are free … our language was historic.' The episode was quickly undone. But for the Code Talkers and their descendants, it struck at the heart of a deep-rooted fear: that their legacy will be sidelined once MacDonald and Begay are not longer around to tell their stories. 'We need a good 'thank you' from the people who have become wealthy in America,' MacDonald said. He'd like a new movie to be made about their contribution, alongside a permanent, dedicated museum. MacDonald and other Code Talkers have campaigned for years to make the museum project a reality, but it remains tens of millions of dollars out of reach, the Santa Fe New Mexican newspaper reported in 2023. CNN has contacted organizers of the project for an update on its progress. 'I don't believe (people) understand this tremendous contribution to the battle in the Pacific War,' he said. 'It made all the difference in the world.' The next time a post-war milestone is met, it is possible that no Code Talkers will be alive to greet it. But MacDonald and Begay hope their contribution to American history is remembered once they are no longer present to tell their stories. 'I believe this is the only country in the entire world blessed by the holy ones,' MacDonald said. 'And we need to keep it that way.' But the Pentagon's DEI purge and the lack of progress on the long-running effort to cement the Code Talkers' legacy with a museum has angered him. 'We need to get back to serious thinking (about) how we're gonna live into the next century,' he said.
