Congress honors all-Black female battalion crucial to World War II efforts
WASHINGTON — Congressional leaders honored members of the all-female 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion with the Congressional Gold Medal, the highest civilian honor one can receive from Congress.
The medal was bestowed upon all 855 members of the battalion, colloquially known as the Six-Triple-Eight, to pay tribute to their service during World War II when the group was deployed to England to clear a massive backlog of mail that had been stacking up over the course of three years. The backlog hindered troops abroad from receiving letters and packages from their loved ones, resulting in concerning levels of low morale.
'They were lifelines. They surrounded the soldiers. They reminded our brave heroes of all they were fighting for, it was actually waiting back at home,' House Speaker Mike Johnson, R-La., said in remarks before awarding the medal. 'Morale reports during the war underscore just how important mail was to the soldiers' spirit, so much so that the phrase 'No mail, low morale' became widespread.'
The Six-Triple-Eight also made history as the only all-Black female battalion deployed overseas during the war. The women faced both racial and sexual discrimination, and the military was deeply segregated at the time.
The battalion was tasked with cleaning out the massive backlog, filled with more than 17 million pieces of mail that left troops without any communications from their families for months.
The battalion accomplished this by maintaining shifts around the clock despite harsh conditions such as dim lighting, poor heating and the threat of attack at any moment. The strategy resulted in the battalion clearing the backlog in just three months — cutting the projected timeline in half.
'These women and the entire Six-Triple-Eight are great American patriots loyal to a nation that, for far too long, failed to return that favor,' Johnson said. 'And I'm glad to say that that's changing, and we're doing that here today.'
More than 300 descendants of the Six-Triple-Eight were present for the ceremony on Tuesday, held in Emancipation Hall inside the Capitol. The only two living members of the battalion, Fannie McClendon and Anna Mae Robertson, watched the ceremony online, according to Johnson.
Congress passed a bill in 2022 seeking to honor the full battalion with the Congressional Gold Medal, which passed with unanimous approval in both chambers.
'None of them did it for glory. They did it for love of country,' said Rep. Gwen Moore, D-Wis., who co-led efforts on the bill and represents the district where Robertson lives.
'They broke down barriers that never should have existed and defied odds that were stacked against them,' added Sen. Jerry Moran, R-Kansas, who spearheaded the bill in the Senate.
Johnson presented the award to Stanley Earley III, the son of Col. Charity Adams Earley, the commanding officer of the Six-Triple-Eight and the first Black woman to become an officer in the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps.
House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, D-N.Y., praised Earley's work ethic in the battalion, reflecting on the unique difficulties of being a Black woman in military leadership.
'These fiercely passionate, patriotic and persistent members of The Women's Army Corps deployed knowing that they would confront the dual challenges of racism and sexism at the hands of their own military and beyond,' Jeffries said. 'We salute the ingenuity with which they sprang into battle. We salute the barriers that they broke in a system designed to push them aside. We salute their trailblazing spirit and the road that they paved for others.'
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CNN
20 minutes ago
- CNN
Once home to the CIA, this tiny Southeast Asia runway was considered ‘the most secret place on Earth'
Deep in the sweltering jungles of central Laos, a 4,500-foot stretch of cracked concrete cuts through the trees — an airstrip without an airport, in a village where many have never been on a plane. But behind its crumbling control tower and bomb-cratered runway lies a hidden chapter of America's Cold War history — a site once known as 'the most secret place on Earth.' The village of Long Tieng sits in central Laos, about 80 miles northeast of the capital, Vientiane. Today, it's a sleepy settlement of a few thousand people who mostly rely on the land to carve out a living. There are a couple of restaurants, two guesthouses and a handful of multipurpose shops selling everything from rice to farming tools made from repurposed bombshell metal — a nod to the village's agricultural roots and wartime past. At the village center lies the airstrip. It no longer serves aircraft, instead now functioning as a kind of outdoor community center: children ride scooters, farmers herd cattle and elderly villagers take early morning strolls before the intense heat engulfs the valley. But 50 years ago, the scene was vastly different. From the 1960s to the early 1970s, Laos played a central role in the United States' fight to stop the spread of communism in Southeast Asia. Long Tieng was the secret headquarters of a US-backed Hmong anti-communist army fighting against the communist Pathet Lao forces, which were supported by the North Vietnamese Army. At its height, tens of thousands of inhabitants — Hmong soldiers, their families, refugees from other parts of Laos, Thai soldiers and a small contingent of American CIA operatives and secret US Air Force pilots, dubbed 'Ravens' — called this place home. It was the heart of the largest paramilitary operation ever conducted by the CIA. At one point in time, the tiny airstrip handled 900 daily take-offs and landings, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. Cargo planes would offload crucial supplies including ammunition and food, which would then be loaded onto smaller planes that flew to even smaller airstrips around the country. Despite the scale of the base, it was so secret even some of those participating in the war in other locations did not know of its existence, says Paul Carter, a Laos Secret War specialist who lives in Southeast Asia. 'The war in Laos was so compartmentalized … I knew guys who participated in that war, they did not even know Long Tieng existed until the late 1960s when they started letting the reporters in there,' he tells CNN. From this remote mountain village, the CIA-backed Hmong army, led by the charismatic General Vang Pao, fought not only the communist Pathet Lao forces but also conducted guerrilla operations — destroying North Vietnamese supply depots, blowing up critical supply routes and generally harassing communist forces — all with full support from the US. As part of this secret war, the US launched a brutal bombing campaign that paralleled its broader military operations in Vietnam. And because international agreements barred direct military involvement in Laos, the effort fell almost entirely on the CIA. American pilots flew thousands of missions from Long Tieng's airstrip, which was known by the codenames Lima Site 98 and Lima Site 20A. Fifty years after the fall of Long Tieng in 1975, I set out to explore the remnants of the US presence in the area. I was drawn here after reading the book, 'A Great Place to Have a War' by Joshua Kurlantzick. It pulled me into a world I'd never known — a hidden Cold War battleground on the sidelines of the Vietnam War. Watching old, grainy newsreels of reporters wandering around the base only deepened my fascination. Somewhere along the way, I realized I needed to see Long Tieng with my own eyes. Before long, I find myself in Vientiane with an old college friend who I've convinced to come along for an adventure and Mr. Pao — the only driver I could find with a car suitable for the journey. Pao says he used to work at the mines near Long Tieng and is familiar with the area, though he admits he's only visited the village once before. Several tour companies organize trips, but the number of tourists that visit Long Tieng still pales in comparison to Laos' major tourist destinations like Luang Prabang and Vang Vieng. Chris Corbett, owner of Laos Adv Tours and Rentals, tells CNN that his company operates around 10 motorbike tours a year to the site, taking a total of around 40 people to the village. He said his guests mainly come from the United States, Australia and Europe. Today, the village remains largely cut off from the rest of the country. Though just 80 miles from Vientiane, the drive takes over eight hours. Beyond the capital's outskirts, roads quickly degrade — first into unsealed dirt tracks, then into rugged mining roads scarred by landslides and potholes. Visibility is often poor — dust kicked up by mining trucks combines with smoke from slash-and-burn agriculture. At times, we crawl forward, barely reaching 5 mph. Part of the road winds over a rugged mountain pass with no guardrails, just a sheer drop into the valley below. Sitting in the back of the car, I grip the seat in front of me as our driver edges closer to the cliffside, the tires skimming loose gravel. At one point, our driver glances back and warns us that if we get a flat tire out here, we'll likely be stuck for a long time — maybe hours. There's no phone signal. We nod silently and keep going. As we approach Long Tieng, the rough dirt road suddenly gives way to smooth pavement. Cresting the final mountain pass, we expect to glimpse the airstrip — but thick smoke shrouds the valley, limiting visibility to a few hundred meters. Descending into the village as the sun sets, there's little sign that 30,000 people once lived here. Family farms now occupy land once filled with barracks and command centers. Military convoys have long been replaced by scooters and cattle. We stay in a guesthouse next to the airstrip. It's barebones — a wooden bed and a single creaky fan that spins with little effect. There's no air conditioning, and the humid air hangs heavy and unmoving. It's hard to sleep — not just because of the heat, but because I can't stop thinking about what this place had once been. The next morning, we walk down the center of the airstrip as the sun rises over the valley. Once one of the busiest runways in the world, it now lies silent. Tall grass sprouts from potholes left by artillery strikes. The crumbling control tower is only half its original height, and the hangars at the far end sit abandoned — rusting reminders of a war long past. As I walk along its length, I notice the absence of signposts, statues or any form of commemoration. Despite the airstrip's historical importance, there's nothing to mark it. Among those who operated out of Long Tieng during the war were the Ravens, a secret group of active-duty Air Force pilots who volunteered to serve in Laos. Their primary role was to act as forward air controllers (FACs), flying low behind enemy lines to identify and mark targets for US Air Force bombers. 'They were just kind of taken off the books,' Carter says. 'They operated under a different cover.' The Ravens wore civilian clothing and were issued US Embassy ID cards. In some cases, Carter notes, pilots were also issued US Agency for International Development (USAID) identity cards. The Ravens often flew in pairs — an American pilot in front and a local Hmong 'backseater' who communicated with ground forces. But they weren't alone over the skies of Laos. Pilots from Air America, a secret CIA-owned airline, also operated in Long Tieng; they flew in crucial supplies to the base and conducted daring search and rescue missions to recover downed pilots deep behind enemy lines. 'I landed there pretty much every other day,' Neil Hansen, a pilot stationed in Laos during part of the war, tells CNN. Hansen worked for Air America between 1964 and 1973 and detailed his experience in the book, 'FLIGHT: An Air America Pilot's Story of Adventure, Descent and Redemption.' 'I was flying a C-123, bringing in munitions, supplies and fuel for 'the little birds,' which would then distribute it to other sites,' Hansen recalls. As part of his mission, he also transported 'CIA customers.' During one flight in 1972, Hansen was shot down over the Plateau de Bolevan in southern Laos. 'After getting my crew out and bailing out, I watched the C-123 fall out of the sky and explode,' he says, noting he was rescued by Air America helicopters shortly after. About 100 meters west of the airstrip stands a two-story house that once served as the headquarters of General Vang Pao, the leader of the CIA-backed Hmong army. From this remote compound, Pao worked closely with American operatives to coordinate a covert war, marshaling thousands of Hmong fighters while receiving US air support, weapons and humanitarian aid in return. Set behind a tall fence and overgrown garden, the house still feels separated from the rest of the village — distant, guarded. A sign on the front door, written in English, reads: 'No entry without permission.' It's the only English sign we've seen in the entire village, and it stops us in our tracks. With no one around, we circle the property, peering through dusty windows, unsure whether we can get inside. An older man in weathered military fatigues appears nearby. Without saying a word, he approaches, slowly dangling a key in front of our faces. He doesn't speak English, but types out a number on his phone. We nod and hand over the cash. A moment later, we're inside. The house is not what I expected. I'd imagined a preserved time capsule, cluttered with mementos or forgotten artifacts — but the rooms are eerily empty. No furniture, no decorations, no posters or portraits of the general. In the foyer, dozens of artillery shells are stacked neatly in one corner, with several mortar rounds resting nearby. It's surreal to see these instruments of war arranged with such quiet precision. Through a translation app, the man warns us not to touch anything — some might still be live. Upstairs, a single wooden desk and chair have been placed near a panoramic window facing the airstrip. I sit down, imagining General Vang Pao and CIA officers in this very spot, directing B-52 bombing runs on communist strongholds. The war — so vast, so devastating — had largely been coordinated from this small, simple room. It was almost impossible to reconcile the scale of the conflict with the modesty of this setting. We climb up to the roof. From there, the view stretches across the old airstrip and into the mountains that once shielded Long Tieng from attack. Today, the village is quiet. A few people walk slowly down the main road. Stray dogs nap in the sun. It's hard to believe that tens of thousands of people once lived here. Today, the impacts of the intense US bombing campaign on Laos are still being felt. Of the 270 million sub-munitions dropped on the country, an estimated 30% did not detonate, according to the Mines Advisory Group (MAG). These unexploded ordnances continue to kill, injure and hinder development across the country, according to MAG. Around the hills of Long Tieng, villagers still rarely venture off established roads and trails to avoid unexploded munitions. Full US-Laos relations were restored in 1992 and since 1995, the US has invested more than $390 million in a Conventional Weapons Destruction program aimed at addressing the legacy of the war. However, questions remain about future US funding of explosive ordinance clearance in Southeast Asia following the Trump administration's widespread suspension of foreign aid. 'I fell in love with Laos,' says Hansen. 'I look back on my time as exciting and a place where I could immerse myself in the culture. I was fulfilling a purpose where I knew I was accomplishing something that was needed.' Back in Long Tieng, children riding scooters zoom past my friend and me, their tires bumping over the broken concrete that once launched warplanes into the sky. I now understand why the community gravitates toward the airstrip whenever they can: it's one of the few open spaces cleared of unexploded ordnance. A rare place where children can play without fear of becoming another casualty of a war that ended 50 years ago. The legacy of a secret conflict — barely remembered back in the United States.
New York Post
35 minutes ago
- New York Post
You're saying these Long Island towns wrong — even the ones you think you know: ‘Butchered'
This will have you spit out your 'cawffee.' It's a dead giveaway that someone isn't from Long Island if they bungle how to pronounce local communities – but it turns out even 516 and 631 lifers are doing it wrong. Teams like the New York Islanders and Long Island Ducks even post videos of out-of-town players brutally mincing Wantagh, Patchogue and other Native-American names. Advertisement 6 The New York Islanders and Long Island Ducks post videos of out-of-town players brutally mincing Wantagh, Patchogue and other Native-American names. Heather Khalifa for the NY Post But you may not have to venture far to find folks messing up Massapequa and Ronkonkoma, which have been anglicized over the past few centuries. Their real pronunciations sound unrecognizable to the modern ear, according to former longtime Unkechaug Nation Chief Harry Wallace, an expert in Algonquian. 'Our language wasn't written in the sense of being translated into English or French — the sound is what they're trying to copy,' Wallace, based on on the island, told The Post. Advertisement He compared how Algonquian is the root base of many different Native American languages, some of which were spoken on Long Island, much like the Romance languages, such as French, Spanish, and Italian, all of which stem from Latin. However, during colonial times, much was lost in translation because the European settlers 'didn't know how to spell,' especially with hard consonants like the letter 'H,' which are vital to the Algonquian language, he added. From there, readers would only see, but not hear, the real pronunciation. Ultimately, it turned into a telephone game that has been ongoing for a few hundred years. Advertisement Wallace recognizes that there's no one official way to sound out some towns, such as Wantagh, which islanders say as 'wan-tah.' And the local way of saying Patchogue as 'patch-hog' is pretty close to its origin, he said. These, however, are some Native American-named local towns that even the most bona fide residents are getting wrong, according to Wallace. Copiague 6 Algonquian is the root base of many different Native American languages, some of which were spoken on Long Island. Copiague Chamber of Commerce / Facebook Advertisement Townsfolk and the recorded voice on the Long Island Railroad alike sound out this Suffolk community as 'co-peg,' but really it should be pronounced closer to 'co-pi-ah-e' with a short 'I' and long 'E,' he explained. '[Europeans] would elongate the A when they read it…and that's all they would hear after,' Wallace added of what translates loosely to grove or forest. Massapequa 6 As with other Algonquin hard consonants, the real sound is 'Mass-a-peek' without the open vowels at the end. Massapequa Park / Facebook The town that has caught the eye of President Trump over as it fights to keep its Chiefs team logo in the face of a state ban on Native American mascots isn't straightforwardly pronounced 'Mass-a-pequa,' said Wallace, who opposes the school using the name. As with other Algonquin hard consonants, the real sound is 'Mass-a-peek' without the open vowels at the end, he added, explaining that it means place of great water. Cutchogue 6 While it's spoken today as 'cutch-hog,' Wallace said the real way is 'cutch-e-hoki,' spelled as 'kecheahki.' Alamy Stock Photo Unlike Patchogue, residents aren't remotely close to getting the pronunciation of the quiet North Fork escape spot on. While it's spoken today as 'cutch-hog,' Wallace said the real way is 'cutch-e-hoki,' spelled as 'kecheahki.' Advertisement In the same vein as Massapequa, it translates to mean great place. Setauket 6 Wallace says it as 'Se-tau-ah-ki' and added its definition is place of streams, something the north shore enclave by the Long Island Sound is known for. Alamy Stock Photo Similar to Cutchogue, Setauket, spoken like Secaucus in New Jersey, is a world apart from its perceived pronunciation. Wallace says it as 'Se-tau-ah-ki' and added its definition is place of streams, something the north shore enclave by the Long Island Sound is known for. Ronkonkoma Advertisement 6 Its prototypical 'Ron-cahnk-ama' pronunciation — which Neil Patrick Harris projected on the LIRR 2 a.m. drunk train in a sitcom — should be 'Ronkon-koman.' James Messerschmidt That's right, Long Island's showstopper that's been a punchline on 'How I Met Your Mother' and an Artie Lange monologue on an insufferable Yankees fan 'has been butchered,' Wallace said. Its prototypical 'Ron-cahnk-ama' pronunciation — which Neil Patrick Harris projected on the LIRR 2 a.m. drunk train in the sitcom — should be 'Ronkon-koman,' he explained. Advertisement The town name derives from its kettle lake, formed by the glacier that carved North America, which was sacred to its native population. One translation for Ronkonkoma is 'deep cavern place' in reference to the lake, which is tied to urban legends of hauntings and drownings attributed to a Native American-related curse — a story Wallace has explicitly called bunk on.
Yahoo
41 minutes ago
- Yahoo
Replica 1738 fort in Florida a tribute to first free Black community
ORLANDO, Fla. — 'Viva Mose!' shouted the crowd of dignitaries, state park rangers and community members gathered at Fort Mose Historic State Park near St. Augustine on a sunny Friday in early May. The chant — translated as 'Long live Fort Mose!' — celebrated the ribbon cutting of a newly constructed replica of a 1738 fort that holds a special place in America's Black history. In 1738, the Spanish governor of Florida chartered the settlement of Fort Mose as a refuge for those fleeing slavery from English colonies in the Carolinas. Over several decades, an estimated 100 Africans made the first legally sanctioned free Black community in the pre-Constitution United States their home and safe haven from British rule. 'The reconstruction stands as a tribute to the courageous men and women who founded Fort Mose in 1738, ensuring their legacy lives on,' said Charles Ellis, the president of the Fort Mose Historical Society. 'By bringing this fort back to life, we enhance our ability to tell the story through on-site events, group tours, lectures and virtual seminars. Because of this, no longer will our fourth and fifth-grade students ask, 'Where is the fort?'' The reconstruction was made possible due to extensive research of the site that began in the 1970s and 1980s with efforts spearheaded by Dr. Kathleen Deagan, a University of Florida professor of archaeology, anthropology and history, and Dr. Jane Landers, a professor of history at Vanderbilt University. Financial support for the project came from public and private sources, including the Florida State Parks, St. Johns County, Florida Power and Light, Wells Fargo, the Jacksonville Jaguars Foundation, the Florida State Parks Foundation and more, who all fundraised a total of $3.2 million to turn this dream into reality. 'The reconstruction of the Fort Mose has been a labor of love, dedication and unwavering commitment which began in 2012,' Ellis said. 'When we broke ground on the reconstruction of Fort Mose, we didn't just build walls. We created a tribute to the resiliency and determination of freedom seekers who made the first legally sanctioned free Black settlement in North America possible.' In addition to exploring an indoor museum with a timeline of Fort Mose and St. Augustine history, visitors can now walk through a full-scale replica of the 39-foot-tall lookout tower that helped residents of the fort monitor for enemy attacks. Reenactors will help illuminate history and help visitors imagine what life was like in the 1730s during special events and tours complete with drills, pageantry and cannon firing. Construction on the replica fort began in January 2024, 30 years after the site was designated as a national historic landmark. Chuck Hatcher, director of the Florida State Parks, said collaboration is what made this project come to fruition. 'Archaeologists, CSOs, volunteers, park staff, division staff, artists and public officials have all worked together to make this project come to fruition,' he said. 'I would like to think if the people who were the original members of Fort Mose were here, they would be proud of what we've done and the representation of what they had.' While there is no blueprint for how to build a replica 1738 fort, the design was put together with the goal of being as authentic as possible while staying mindful of Florida's climate. The palisade walls and structural support beams that hold up the fort are made to look like wood but are constructed of concrete. Now, state park officials and volunteers who helped this project come together are celebrating the story of courage, resilience and freedom that the fort helps tell. 'Nearly 300 years after Fort Mose stood as a beacon to freedom seekers, it will stand again and be a testament to the power of freedom, bravery and the human spirit,' said Kathleen Brennan, president of the Florida State Parks Foundation. 'May this fort last 300 years and beyond to honor those who made their living here and to inspire visitors from all over the world, who will come here to experience what can only be found here at Fort Mose.' _________ Fort Mose Historic State Park Admission to park grounds is free. To enter the visitor center there is a $2 fee per adult. Children under 6 are admitted for free. Open every day from 9 a.m.-5 p.m. Located at 15 Fort Mose Trail in St. Augustine; 904-823-2232; __________
