“Texas Charlie” Bigelow, a U.S. Army scout, was patrolling Indian Territory when he contracted a fever that left him so weak he could barely open his eyelids. An Indian chief took pity on Bigelow and nursed him back to health using a mysterious medicine he called sagwa. When Bigelow begged for the recipe of this wonder drug, the chief sent five tribal medicine men to accompany the scout to the East Coast, where they created “Kickapoo Sagwa,” the magic elixir sold in medicine shows that traveled America from 1881 to 1912.  

Or so the story goes, as recounted in countless Kickapoo Indian Medicine Company advertisements. But the story—like the medicine itself—was totally bogus.  

Bigelow was never an Army scout and never healed by an Indian chief. He grew up on a Texas farm in the 1850s, then fled the rigors of the plow for a life peddling patent medicines across the West and on the streets of Baltimore. In 1881, Bigelow teamed up with John “Doc” Healy, a former Union Army drummer boy, shoe salesman, proprietor of a traveling theatrical troupe called “Healy’s Hibernian Minstrels,” and the inventor and chief pitchman of a bogus liver medicine and a dubious liniment he dubbed “King of Pain.” When he joined forces with Bigelow, Healy concocted a new product, a fake “Indian” medicine he called “Kickapoo Sagwa.” And he proposed a brilliant idea for promoting it.  

“His plan was to hire a few Indians, rent a storeroom, and have the medicine simmering like a witch’s brew in a great iron pot inside a tepee,” recalled “Nevada Ned” Oliver, a veteran pitchman hired by Healy and Bigelow.  

Healy set up his first Kickapoo showroom in Providence, R.I., then moved to Manhattan before settling in New Haven in 1887. In a huge warehouse decorated with tepees, shields, spears, and other Native American curios, Healy hired Indians—none of them from the Kickapoo tribe—to entertain audiences with songs and dances while stirring huge pots of fake medicine. He advertised his Sagwa as a secret Indian recipe consisting of “Roots, Herbs, Barks, Gums and Leaves,” but it was actually a completely Caucasian concoction containing sugar, a mild laxative, and a dollop of alcohol.  

From their headquarters, Healy and Bigelow dispatched teams of real and ersatz Indians, plus vaudeville performers, and pitchmen posing as doctors to stage shows across America. The shows proved popular and the “doctors” sold oceans of Kickapoo Sagwa, as well as spinoff products—Kickapoo Buffalo Salve, Kickapoo Indian Cough Cure, and Kickapoo Indian Worm Killer. Healy and Bigelow became, as historian Stewart Holbrook wrote in his classic 1959 book, The Golden Age of Quackery, “the Barnum and Bailey of the medicine show business.”  

this article first appeared in American history magazine

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The two partners didn’t invent the traveling medicine show: For decades, patent medicine pitchmen roamed rural America, attracting crowds with musicians and other entertainers. Nor did Healy and Bigelow invent the notion that Native Americans were “children of nature” who possessed a mystical knowledge of healing plants. Throughout the 19th century, Americans bought books purporting to reveal the secrets of Indian medicine—The Indian Guide to Health and The Indian Doctor’s Dispensary, among others. What made Healy and Bigelow rich was their ingenious combination of the age-old appeal of miracle cures with the whiz-bang theatricality of Barnum’s circus and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.    

Early in the 1880s, Kickapoo shows were modest affairs—a few Indians performing dubious native dances, a few White singers and acrobats and a fake doctor, who sold Sagwa and served as master of ceremonies. One of those “doctors” was Nevada Ned Oliver, who described the shows decades later in a magazine article.  

“The show customarily began with the introduction of each of the Indians by name, together with some personal history,” Oliver recalled. “Five of the six would grunt acknowlegements; the sixth would make an impassioned speech in Kickapoo, interpreted by me….It was a most edifying oration as I translated it. What the brave actually said, I never knew, but I had reason to fear that it was not the noble discourse of my translation, for even the poker faces of his fellow savages sometimes were convulsed.”  

By the 1890s, Healy and Bigelow were dispatching more than a dozen Kickapoo shows across America every summer. The larger troupes played for weeks in big cities, staging elaborate spectacles in tents that held 3,000 seats. Admission cost a dime and shows included a dozen performances, interrupted by three or four pitches for Kickapoo cure-alls. The shows were wildly eclectic. The Indians performed war dances and an “Indian Marriage Ceremony,” and sometimes staged brutal attacks on wagon trains. The White performers included singers, acrobats, contortionists, comedians, and fire-eaters. Occasionally, Texas Charlie Bigelow himself appeared, a cowboy hat perched theatrically atop his shoulder-length hair. Billed as the world champion rifle shooter, Texas Charlie demonstrated feats of marksmanship and told dubious tales of his adventures.  

“Later, there were aerial acts, a great deal of Irish and blackface comedy, and such exotic novelties as a midget Dutch comic, the ‘Skatorial Songsters,’ who performed while gliding around the stage on roller skates, and Jackley, ‘the only table performer on earth’ who turned somersaults on a pile of tables that extended 25 feet in the air,” Brooks McNamara wrote in Step Right Up, his 1975 history of medicine shows.  

“If the combination of burning wagon trains and blackface minstrel routines was somewhat eccentric, “ McNamara continued, “no one seems to have cared or even noticed—especially not Healy and Bigelow, who refused to trouble themselves about complex artistic questions so long as the Kickapoo shows continued to attract crowds and sell medicine.”  

The crowds kept coming, and kept buying Kickapoo potions, into the 20th century, enabling Healy and Bigelow to purchase expansive mansions near Kickapoo’s Connecticut headquarters.  

In 1906, Congress passed the Pure Food and Drug Act, regulating the contents and the advertising of medicines—which put a damper on the more…um…poetic claims of Kickapoo’s pitchmen.  

By then, Healy had sold his half of the operation to Bigelow and moved to Australia. In 1912, Bigelow sold the company for $250,000 to a corporation that continued selling Kickapoo Sagwa in drugstores but ended the traveling medicine shows.  

Texas Charlie moved to England, where he manufactured a potion much like Sagwa. He called it “Kimco,” a tip of his cowboy hat to the scheme that made him rich—the Kickapoo Indian Medicine Company.  

Decades later, the hillbilly characters in Al Capp’s “Li’l Abner” comic strip drank a potent moonshine called “Kickapoo Joy Juice.” In 1965, the Monarch Beverage Company introduced a citrus-flavored soft drink called “Kickapoo Joy Juice.” It’s still around, and quite popular in Southeast Asia. The company never claimed the soda cures ailments, but it does brag that it contains enough caffeine “to give you the kick you crave.”  

This story appeared in the 2024 Winter issue of American History magazine.

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Those of us who still build the occasional model airplane on a rainy weekend have noticed that the small hobby shops that filled their shelves with colorful boxes of airplanes, tanks and the occasional 1967 Chevy Camaro have been disappearing from the American landscape. The classic model companies of our youth—Comet, Hawk and Lindberg—have also gone away. Even 1970s and ’80s stalwarts like Revell and Monogram combined forces at one point but have since been bought by a German business group.

Over time tastes also changed and the older, less-detailed kits became a bit passé. Modelers wanted more accurate scale models that they could build into “museum quality” reproductions. We wanted to build the P-51D, not the B version, and have a better choice of bombs or rockets and at least three different choices of markings. The heavy steel molds that produced those earlier kits wound up on warehouse shelves, waiting to be melted down.

Or maybe not.

In 2009 Atlantis Hobbies, based on Long Island just outside of New York City, began looking for some of those older out-of-production molds. Their mission was to produce nostalgia by bringing back the classic kits that got us all started. They quickly amassed a veritable museum of plastic model history, nostalgic items that can fill important spots in any collection. They range from rare aircraft like the P6M Seamaster and Convair 990 airliner to the Creature from the Black Lagoon and the “Rat Fink” hot rods of the 1960s. For me, Atlantis brought back memories of building kits while trying desperately to keep glue from getting on the kitchen table. I’m looking forward to the next addition to their collection and a few more memories on some rainy weekend.

One of Atlantis’s classic kits is the 1/48th-scale Curtiss JN-4D Jenny, originally produced by Lindberg in 1955. Lindberg was an early plastic scale-model company in the United States, producing a wide range of imitation boats and automobiles in the 1940s. Their line of airplane kits ranged from early Cold War fighters to the classic biplanes of World War I. Light on detail, which is typical of the time, the Lindberg Jenny is simple to put together and reasonably accurate. Perhaps skills learned over the years will help you make a more detailed version this time around.

The model is molded in a deep green color. After cleaning up the parts in a solution of water and dish soap, adding a coat of a light-colored primer is good idea. Now it’s time to get down to business.

Like the real thing, the cockpit is a simple affair—two seats, control sticks, rudder bars and a pair of shapes that double as control panels. Paint the cockpit floor and the control panels a light tan, then lightly streak with a darker color to imitate wood grain. Paint the inside of the cockpit area a slightly darker tan. A pair of after-market resin seats with a period wicker look will take the place of the kit parts. Add a pair of simple seat belts to give cockpit some extra interest. The kit provides a couple of decals that represent the few cockpit instruments.  

It’s time to finish the fuselage. The two halves fit well, but here’s here where the kit shows a little of its age. Minor flash and sink marks from the original molds are unavoidable and need a little care. Filling and sanding these flaws will require a bit of putty and a fair amount of patience. They are most noticeable across the lower wing. Once everything is smooth, you’re ready to get painting. For this military version of the airplane, the fabric part of the fuselage (to the rear of the cockpit) should be a pale tan color. The forward section was made of metal and should be masked off and painted olive green. The edge of each cockpit was lined with leather, so paint that area a reddish-brown color and set aside the finished fuselage to dry.

Next, paint the wings, rudder and horizontal stabilizer the same light tan color as the fuselage. The struts should be a darker wood brown. Landing gear struts and the tail skid should also have that wooden look.

Cement the lower wings, horizontal stabilizer and rudder to the fuselage. Give the assembly a coat of clear gloss and you can begin to add the airplane’s markings. Decals are a simple affair, and the kit has a nice set replicating the original version that came with the old Lindberg kit. Markings for a post-war Barnstormer and a color guide that shows a more historically accurate U.S. Army Air Service color scheme are provided with the instructions.

It’s time to attach the upper wing, always a part of the build I found tricky when I was younger. Take your time as you place the struts into their positions. Carefully add the landing gear and tail skid and the Jenny starts to look like the classic trainer it is. Give the airplane another coat of clear varnish to seal the decals.

The JN-4D is a web of rigging, wires and cables that control ailerons and stabilizers and supporting struts that hold the whole thing together. It has a spindly, fragile look that belies the stable airplane that it was. Pay close attention to your research in order to accurately rig the airplane. Open up that big box of patience; you’ll need it and probably spend more time here than you did actually building the airplane. The results will be well worth the effort.

Start rigging from the center and work out toward the wingtips. A number of companies produce a thin thread that is easy to use with a bit of superglue. “Old School” modelers might opt for thinly stretched sprue, a time-consuming technique to master. Tackle the back half of the airplane with the cables connecting the horizontal stabilizer and rudder. Remember to step back from time to time in order to let the cement cure and not get too far ahead of yourself. Patience.

With the complex rigging complete, it’s time to add the engine, radiator and propeller. Paint the engine aluminum with a dark wash to pick out details. Paint the radiator a metallic color and the area around the outside copper. The propeller should be painted a brown “oak” and you can drybrush a darker color to simulate streaks of wood grain. The hub is steel. Many props were fitted with metal tips and a leading edge. A touch of brass colored paint does the trick.

The kit comes with two tiny clear windscreen parts. While you might want to use them, cutting two pieces from a sheet of clear plastic looks a bit more to scale.

With the windscreens attached and the Jenny fully rigged, it’s time to find it a prime spot among your collection of early biplanes.

Atlantis gave me a couple of nostalgic weekends, and I appreciate the reminiscing and the chance to add a classic airplane to my display shelf. I look forward to getting another taste of nostalgia soon.

A night owl’s lament about wanting more sleep became an unexpected hit song in 1918 with lasting popularity. Irving Berlin’s “Oh! How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning,” swept across music halls in World War I and was performed all over the U.S. in World War II. 

Perhaps America’s most influential composer, Berlin was born Israel Beilin to a Jewish family in Russia and emigrated to New York City at age 5. He became a singer as a teenager living a hardscrabble existence on the Lower East Side, performing songs and parodies in music halls and nightclubs. Berlin won the hearts of audiences and quickly rose to fame in the city’s “Tin Pan Alley” as a composer and singer. His 1911 hit, “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” sparked a wild craze for what was then seen by older folks as “scandalous” dancing. Berlin was a rising star.

World War I turned Berlin’s world upside down. Drafted into the U.S. Army and packed off to Camp Upton in Yaphank, Long Island in 1918, he was reduced to despair at being dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn. Berlin preferred moonlit streets, crowded clubs and staying up late to write music.

“There were a lot of things about army life I didn’t like, and the thing I didn’t like most of all was reveille. I hated it. I hated it so much I used to lie awake nights thinking about how much I hated it,” he later said. Needing to vent, Berlin expressed himself with a song that was not so much an artistic effort as an ode to drowsy grumpiness. It incorporated reveille into its refrain.

Oh! How I hate to get up in the morning, Oh! How I’d love to remain in bed; For the hardest blow of all, is to hear the bugler call: Youv’e got to get up, You’ve got to get up, You’ve got to get up this morning! 

Someday I’m going to murder the bugler, Someday they’re going to find him dead; I’ll amputate his reveille and step upon it heavily, And spend the rest of my life in bed. 

The song spread like wildfire. It appeared in a 1932 Betty Boop cartoon as well as Berlin’s popular 1942 Broadway show, “This is the Army.” Although Berlin wrote many other hit songs, including “God Bless America,” and received a Congressional Gold Medal for his achievements, his anti-morning ballad is among his most famous.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

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Artemisia absinthium is a green, leafy plant native to Europe, but one that has since migrated to North America. Commonly called the wormwood plant, its flowers and leaves are the main ingredient of absinthe, one of the world’s most unusual liquors that was first distilled in Switzerland. Absinthe is naturally green in color, and potent, usually 90 to 148 proof.

That potency led many to believe absinthe had hallucinogenic powers, and controversy has plagued the drink since it was first distilled. Before coming to America, it was extremely popular in France. And then, Jean Lanfray killed his family after imbibing the “Green Demon.”

The Lanfray killings happened in Commugny, a small agricultural village in southwest Switzerland, nestled along the border with France. Lanfray was a tall, brawny vineyard worker and day laborer. Like many in the area, he was a born Frenchman; he had served three years in the French Army. At 31 years old, he lived in a two-story farmhouse with his family: his wife and two daughters living upstairs, and his parents and brother, with rooms downstairs.

On August 28, 1905, he woke at 4:30 in the morning. He started the day with a shot of absinthe diluted in water—not uncommon for him or for many Europeans at the time. He let the cows out to pasture, had some harsh words with his wife, and set off to a nearby vineyard to work. Along the way, he stopped for more alcohol: a creme de menthe with water, followed by a cognac and soda. By then it was 5:30 a.m.

Investigating the killings, Swiss authorities established a careful timeline of Lanfray’s prodigious drinking, learning that he would sometimes drink five liters of wine a day. Around noon, he lunched on bread, cheese, and sausage. He also had six glasses of strong wine over his lunch and afternoon break. And another glass before leaving work about 4:30 p.m.

At a cafe on his way home, he had black coffee with brandy. Back at the farmhouse, he and his father each polished off another liter of wine while Lanfray bickered with his wife. Their long-simmering grievances came to a head, and he rose from his seat, took down his rifle from the wall, and shot his wife through the forehead, killing her instantly.

As Lanfray’s father ran from the house seeking help, his daughter Rose came into the room—Lanfray shot her in the chest. He then went to the crib of his younger daughter, Blanche, and killed her, as well. He struggled to kill himself with the rifle, but it was too long to easily aim at himself and still reach the trigger. Using a piece of string, he finally pulled the trigger but succeeded only in shooting himself in the jaw. With blood running down his face, he picked up Blanche and carried her to the barn, where he lost consciousness. Police found him minutes later.

It was a senseless tragedy, the kind that leaves bystanders helplessly grasping at explanations. The fact that a man could get drunk, kill his entire family, and have no memory of it—that may have struck too close to home for Lanfray’s neighbors, who worked in vineyards and drank beside him. No, there had to be something else, something other.

At a public meeting soon after, the people of Commugny railed against the supposedly corrupting power of absinthe. Lanfray was known regularly to drink it (as did many, many others), and had drunk two glasses on the day of the murders (along with liters of wine). A story began to form, an explanation. Lanfray wasn’t simply an angry drunkard; he was an Absintheur.

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It was a story many were ready to hear. Absinthe already had a dangerous reputation, despite its widespread use throughout Europe. Even aficionados cautioned that “absinthe is a spark that explodes the gunpowder of wine.”

Lanfray’s killings provided potent fuel for a moral panic around absinthe that had been growing for decades. Politicians now had a scapegoat—and a crusade. The press feverishly covered “the Absinthe Murder,” putting it on front pages throughout Europe. One Swiss newspaper called absinthe “the premier cause of bloodthirsty crime in this century,” a sentiment echoed by Commugny’s mayor, who declared, “Absinthe is the principal cause of a series of bloody crimes in our country.”

In the region, a petition to outlaw the drink gathered 82,000 signatures within weeks. After an absinthe drinker in Geneva, Switzerland, killed his wife with a hatchet and a revolver, an anti-absinthe petition quickly gained 34,702 signatures. The public, too, had found a villain.

The following February, Lanfray went on trial. His defense hinged on proving him absinthe-mad, consumed by his addiction to that foul drink whose demonic grip had driven him to murder. If absinthe had made him do it, he couldn’t be held completely responsible for his actions.

The argument leaned on a folk understanding of “absinthism,” a collection of maladies supposedly known to afflict the chronic absinthe drinker, including seizures, speech impairment, disordered sleep, and auditory and visual hallucinations. Absinthism was the road to insanity and death; even as millions of people from every walk of life enjoyed absinthe, medical professionals and the press warned of asylums rapidly filling with former Absintheurs, now lost in the throes of madness.

It was known as “une correspondance pour Charenton,” a ticket to Charenton, the insane asylum outside Paris. (It’s unclear whether absinthism actually existed as a syndrome at all, rather than arising from misunderstandings about alcoholism and mental health more generally.)

Not every doctor gave credence to the more lurid claims about absinthism. In Lanfray’s case, however, Albert Mahaim, a professor at the University of Geneva and the head of the regional insane asylum in Vaud, examined the defendant in jail and later testified that “without a doubt, it is the absinthe he drank daily and for a long time that gave Lanfray the ferociousness of temper and blind rages that made him shoot his wife for nothing and his two poor children, whom he loved.” The prosecution, naturally, disagreed.

Whatever the public sentiment toward absinthe, Lanfray was found guilty on four counts of murder—his wife, it turned out, had been pregnant with a son. Three days later, Lanfray hanged himself in his cell.

Less than a month after his death, Vaud, the canton containing Commugny, succeeded in banning absinthe, with the canton of Geneva quickly following. Then it was banned nationwide. Belgium had already banned absinthe in 1905; the Netherlands in 1909. Even France, which consumed more absinthe than the rest of the world, and where it was, as historian P.E. Prestwich put it, “inspiration of French poets and the consolation of French workers,” banned the drink in 1914.

The Green Fairy to its advocates and the Green Demon to its detractors, absinthe was exiled from much of Europe. (The United Kingdom and the Czech Republic were notable exceptions.) While anti-alcohol movements had agitated in countries around the world for decades, absinthe was the first alcoholic drink singled out for a ban. Its outsized, bewitching reputation had been turned against it.

Before the exile, absinthe had a long history in Europe, particularly in France. In its modern form, it likely began as a patent remedy concocted by a French doctor living in Switzerland in the late 1700s. Its name derives from the Greek absinthion, an ancient medicinal drink made by soaking wormwood leaves (Artemisia absinthium) in wine or spirits. It was said to aid in childbirth, and the Greek physician Hippocrates, known as the father of medicine, recommended it for menstrual pain, jaundice, anemia, and rheumatism.

Wormwood persisted as a folk remedy through the ages; when the bubonic plague ravaged England in the 17th and 18th centuries, desperate villagers burned wormwood to cleanse their houses. Wormwood drinks were likewise medicinal—including that early patent remedy.

In 1830, France conquered Algeria and began to expand its empire into North Africa. Soon 100,000 French troops were stationed in the country, where the heat and bad water led to sickness tearing through the occupiers. Wormwood helped stave off insects, calm fevers, and prevent dysentery, and soldiers started adding it to their wine. When they returned home, they brought with them “une verte”—the potent drink with the unique green color.

Absinthe quickly became intertwined with French society, first as a harmless vice of the upper and middle classes. As its reputation (exotic, revelatory) grew, so did its popularity; even among those not looking for a hallucinogenic experience, the high alcohol content proved a key selling point, as you could easily dilute absinthe and still get a great bargain, proof-wise. Everywhere in France seemed to celebrate l’heure verte, the “green hour” of the early evening devoted to absinthe.

Absinthe became intricately connected to French culture and identity. So it is no surprise that when the drink found its way to the United States, the most famous venue for absinthe indulgence would be in a city with a distinctly French flavor: New Orleans, “the little Paris of North America.”

The French sold Louisiana to the United States in 1803, and the region’s uniquely French culture became a point of pride. As absinthe took off in France, it also appeared in New Orleans, though without the same fanfare and popularity. In a town already famous for carousing, absinthe was one drink among many.

Following the Civil War, a barman named Cayetano Ferrer, formerly of the Paris Opera House, began serving absinthe in what some clever marketing called “the Parisian manner.” A glass of the emerald drink would be placed on the bar beneath a pair of fountains, and water would slowly drip, creating a milky opalescence in a glass—a process called the “louche.”

Ferrer’s ritual proved a compelling spectacle for the tourists who flocked to the city of sin. The building became the Old Absinthe House. Thought to be the city’s first saloon, it hosted famous luminaries from Mark Twain and Walt Whitman to O. Henry and William Makepeace Thackeray. Oscar Wilde, of course, attended. No visit to New Orleans, by then “the Absinthe capital of the world,” could be complete without a round at the Old Absinthe House.

While Europeans of all classes drank absinthe, in the United States it remained a cosmopolitan indulgence little known outside the city. New York had its own Absinthe House, and large metropolitan areas such as Chicago and San Francisco catered to the artists, bohemians, and wealthy, gilded-age poseurs who wanted to associate themselves with absinthe’s dark allure.

Absinthe’s relative obscurity in America didn’t prevent the press from warning of its fearsome reputation, however. Against the backdrop of a growing temperance movement, in 1879, a Dr. Richardson offered his perspective on absinthe to The New York Times. “I cannot report so favorably on the use of Absinthe as I have on the use of opium,” he began, describing rising absinthe use in “closely-packed towns and cities.” He warned that the drink was commonly adulterated, and that frequent imbibers could become addicted. “In the worst examples of poisoning from Absinthe,” he wrote, “the person becomes a confirmed epileptic.”

Later that year, the Times reiterated: “The dangerous, often deadly, habit of drinking Absinthe is said to be steadily growing in this country, not among foreigners merely, but among the native population.” It ascribed “a good many deaths in different parts of the country” to a drink “much more perilous, as well as more deleterious, than any ordinary kind of liquor.”

Absinthe, the writer claimed, had a subtlety lacking in other alcohol; addiction could sneak up quickly. “The more intellectual a man is,” the Times cautioned, “the more readily the habit fastens itself upon him.” It had already taken its toll in Europe: “Some of the most brilliant authors and artists of Paris have killed themselves with absinthe, and many more are doing so.” The Times closed by warning that absinthe, previously found only in large cities, had permeated everywhere, “and it is called for with alarming frequency.”

Much of absinthe’s mythology came from an accumulation of confusions, misunderstandings, and motivated lies. Some, though, did try to cut through the green fog and get to the truth—at least as best they could. Valentin Magnan, physician-in-chief at Sainte-Anne, France’s main asylum, saw rising numbers of insane people as a sign of his country’s social decay. (More likely, the increase resulted from improved diagnostic techniques.) Like many, he saw absinthe as the culprit, and set out to prove his case.

In 1869 he published his results. He had arranged an experiment. One guinea pig was placed in a glass case with a saucer of pure alcohol; another was placed in a glass case with a saucer of wormwood oil. A cat and a rabbit also got their own cases and their own saucers of wormwood oil. The animals breathing wormwood fumes were wracked with seizures, while the sole alcohol-breathing guinea pig just got drunk.

This and other experiments convinced Magnan (if he hadn’t been already) that absinthe was uniquely toxic. He extrapolated his results to humans, and claimed that “absinthistes” in his asylum displayed seizures, violent fits, and amnesia. He pushed for banning the Green Demon.

Fellow authorities disagreed, pointing out that guinea pigs inhaling high doses of distilled wormwood couldn’t be compared to humans consuming tiny amounts of diluted wormwood. They suggested that wormwood likely had little effect, and whatever damage absinthe wrought was no different from typical alcoholism. Rhetorically, however, Magnan’s support for the concept of “absinthism,” separate from alcoholism, enabled those concerned citizens who wanted to ban absinthe without committing to full prohibition. Absinthe, after all, posed a unique medical danger, while other alcohol (including France’s beloved wine) was surely fine for responsible adults.

In the United States, absinthe never became the burning social question it was in Europe. The media took occasional potshots, reflecting a general sense of absinthe’s depravity, without ever raising banning it to the height of a moral crusade.

An 1883 cartoon in Harper’s Weekly, for example, had the caption, “Absinthe Drinking—The Fast Prevailing Vice Among Our Gilded Youth.” The picture above featured a strapping young man on the left, and on the right a broken, aged specter of dissolution, “after two years’ indulgence, three times a day.” An earlier article in the magazine declared: “Many deaths are directly traceable to the excessive use of absinthe. The encroachments of this habit are scarcely perceptible. A regular absinthe drinker seldom perceives that he is dominated by its baleful influence until it is too late. All of a sudden he breaks down; his nervous system is destroyed, his brain is inoperative, his will is paralyzed, he is a mere wreck; there is no hope of his recovery.”

In the early 1900s, public opinion in Europe began to turn against absinthe, generally as part of the long-simmering temperance movement, and more specifically because of the Lanfray murders. As countries began to ban the drink, Harper’s Weekly reported in 1907 that the U.S. Department of Agriculture had begun to investigate “the green curse of France.” Four years later, with little fanfare at the end of 1911, the department’s Pure Food Board announced starting January 1, 1912, importing absinthe into the United States would be prohibited.

Give it a shot!

Tenth Ward distilling in Frederick, Md., is one American distiller now
producing absinthe. Check them out at (tenthwarddistilling.com).

The head of the board told the Times that “Absinthe is one of the worst enemies of man, and if we can keep the people of the United States from becoming slaves to this demon, we will do it.” (The board also announced new restrictions on opium, morphine, and cocaine.)

News reports from the time show that, unsurprisingly, Americans didn’t immediately cease drinking absinthe. In a preview of the Prohibition era, authorities particularly in California seized caches of the emerald beverage. British mystic and provocateur Aleister Crowley wrote his famous paean to the Old Absinthe House, “The Green Goddess,” in 1916, well after the ban. “Art is the soul of life and the Old Absinthe House is heart and soul of the old quarter of New Orleans,” he wrote. And he struck a familiar note about the bewitching, destructive power of the Green Fairy: “What is there in Absinthe that makes it a separate cult? The effects of its abuse are totally different from those of other stimulants. Even in ruin and in degradation it remains a thing apart: its victims wear a ghastly aureole all their own, and in their peculiar hell yet gloat with a sinister perversion of pride that they are not as other men.”

Crowley’s line evoked a demimonde particular to that time and place, but in 1920 the arrival of Prohibition blunted much of absinthe’s mystique in the United States. Jad Adams writes: “The surreptitious nature of drinking in the prohibition era—serving alcohol from hip flasks, barmen squirting a syringe of pure alcohol into soft drinks they were serving—was not conducive to absinthe, which was a drink of display and provocation.”

New Orleans continued imbibing and became known as “the liquor capital of America.” The Old Absinthe House was closed by federal agents in 1925 and again in 1926, the 100-year anniversary of its opening. Yet it outlasted prohibition and remains a fixture of New Orleans culture to this day.

Absinthe, too, persevered. It went further underground, particularly in America, and that burnished its appeal among bohemians and the counterculture. Ernest Hemingway and Jack London fondly recalled their absinthe experiences beyond the reach of U.S. law; Hemingway’s cocktail, Death in the Afternoon, is likely the country’s most lasting and well-known contribution to absinthe culture.

And eventually, like green shoots emerging after a long and punishing winter, the Green Fairy rose again. After nearly 100 years of targeted prohibition, in 2007 the United States once again allowed absinthe to be imported and consumed. The green hour had come back around again, at last.

Jesse Hicks writes about science, technology, and politics. Based in Detroit, his work has appeared in Harper’s, Politico, The New Republic, and elsewhere.

How Do You Drink Absinthe?

(Ask Hemingway)

Well, it requires a fancy slotted spoon, for one thing. The following is the most traditional and common method for preparing the drink. You place a sugar cube on the spoon, and then place the spoon over a glass of absinthe. Pour iced water over the sugar cube so you end up with about 1 part absinthe and 3–5 parts water.

The water brings out the anise, which gives absinthe a licorice taste, and fennel that are also distilled with the leaves and flowers of the wormwood plant. If the mix is correct, the liquid will turn milky and opalescent in appearance.

Ernest Hemingway was a fan of absinthe—why is that not surprising? His favorite way to drink it was a simple cocktail he called “Death in the Afternoon,” the same name as his 1932 book about Spanish bullfighting.

Death in the Afternoon ingredients:

1½ ounces Absinthe

4 ounces chilled Champagne

Hemingway published the recipe in a 1935 book, So Red the Nose, or Breath in the Afternoon, which featured 30 drink concoctions from celebrities. He explained, “Pour one jigger Absinthe into a Champagne glass. Add iced Champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.” Yes. Very slowly.

This story appeared in the 2023 Autumn issue of American History magazine.

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In the first years of the 20th century, despite the humiliating constraints of social segregation, thousands of African Americans made a living in show business. In Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Manhattan’s Harlem, there were top-tier vaudeville houses that headlined Black acts for Black audiences, and the Theaters Owners Booking Association signed up Black acts for almost 100 smaller venues around the country that catered to Black audiences. There were night spots like the Cotton Club in Harlem that for White audiences mounted lavish all-Black musical revues and Harlem theaters for full-scale Black musicals.

But the pinnacle was Broadway. As early as 1900, there were all-Black musicals there, but the concept really took off after the Eubie Blake–Nobel Sissle musical Shuffle Along opened in 1921 and ran an astonishing 504 performances. Producers sensed that the high stepping and raucous humor associated with Black performers were a money maker, and over the next decade 22 more all-Black shows opened on Broadway. These shows slotted the Black performers into stereotypical roles of shuffling gait and slurred speech, but they also opened the door for dozens of performers to have lifelong careers that eventually allowed them more dignity.

The money woes of the Great Depression of the 1930s made it tough to find backers for any Broadway shows, and the Shuffle Along type minstrelsy all-Black show virtually disappeared. But by then, two important corners had been turned: top-billed performers such as Paul Robson and Ethel Waters had moved out of the racial show business ghetto to earn star billing in otherwise White shows, and the classic American operas Porgy and Bess and Four Saints in Three Acts had opened on Broadway, giving African Americans roles as complex three-dimensional human beings.

this article first appeared in Military History magazine

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This story appeared in the 2023 Autumn issue of American History magazine.

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If Cillian Murphy’s J. Robert Oppenheimer was the anti-hero of director Christopher Nolan’s “Oppenheimer,” Lt. Gen. Leslie Groves, portrayed by Matt Damon, is his equally controversial counterpart.

Tasked with staffing what would eventually become known as the Manhattan Project, Damon’s character is the dutiful Army servant given the dubious honor of presiding over a team of brilliant scientists who in no way conform to the military’s notions of hierarchy.

“The frustration [for] Groves — what he lived with as a military person — he suddenly finds himself in charge of a bunch of civilians who don’t really recognize the chain of command,” Damon told Military Times.

In a serious film about one of the most devastating weapons ever created, Damon manages to bring a bit of levity via the near-comical level of rigidity with which he portrays Groves.

“I would have played anything that Chris asked me to,” Damon said. “But Groves was really fun because I’d never quite had a role like that. Nobody liked him, which was really fun. And he didn’t care at all, he was just completely focused on what he was doing.”

Damon played off of Murphy’s character particularly well — creating a relationship between Groves and Oppenheimer that, despite tension, facilitates both individuals’ lofty aspirations to get ahead. Despite the arm’s length distance between the duo, the pairing ultimately results in a friendship based on mutual respect.

“They both appreciated each other — they helped each other fulfill each other’s ambitions,” Damon noted. “Each couldn’t have done it without the other. There was a lot of genuine affection there.”

Despite having vastly different backgrounds and personalities, both characters accomplish the unbelievable amid the constant push and pull between the military, which Groves represents, and the enterprising civilian so perfectly illustrated by Oppenheimer.

“[It’s] that tension between the military and the science community, just because the military is just completely obsessed with compartmentalization and secrecy,” Damon noted. “You’re talking about an existential threat to humankind, but the scientists are all about kind of keeping things open and learning from one another. They were philosophically totally opposed, and that led to this kind of natural tension between Groves and everybody else.”

Ultimately, in the film’s following of the development of the atomic bomb, Nolan, Damon noted, developed something more akin to a horror film or psychological thriller.

“I was terrified when I when I got to the last line of the script, and then seeing it in the film,” Damon said. “I’ve been kind of filled with dread.”

Artful anxiety is something that Damon attributes often to the genius of Nolan, who both wrote and directed the film.

“His movies do this really incredible thing where he’s always grappling with these big concepts, but they’re also very intimate,” Damon said. “He always wants to put interesting questions in front of his audience and let them ponder them, but at the same time, they’re not lectures or thought exercises. They’re very emotional movies and they’re very intimate and and so he’s always got these compelling characters.”

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

During his service in Vietnam, Maj. Bruce Crandall flew almost a thousand missions. But valorous actions one day in November 1965 earned the Army pilot the Medal of Honor.

On Nov. 14, 1965, Crandall’s “flight of sixteen helicopters was lifting troops for a search and destroy mission from Plei Me, Vietnam, to Landing Zone X-Ray in the Ia Drang Valley,” his citation reads. “On the fourth troop lift, the enemy had Landing Zone X-Ray targeted.”

Now, the Association of the United States Army has chronicled his story in a graphic novel.

Drafted in 1953, Crandall served with the 229th Aviation Battalion of the 1st Cavalry Division — one of the Army’s new air cavalry units.

“During this first major battle of the war, Crandall repeatedly ignored heavy enemy fire on Landing Zone X-Ray to deliver ammunition and evacuate scores of wounded soldiers.”

Though he was flying an unarmed helicopter, he noted on his fifth troop lift that U.S. forces were taking on heavy casualties and that troops on the ground needed ammunition.

Flying with the first half of the squadron, he made the decision to have the following eight helicopters abort to protect their crews. But Crandall continued on, despite the fact that his mission was not casualty evacuation.

“Despite the heavy enemy fire, Crandall and another helicopter piloted by Maj. Ed Freeman, flew back to Landing Zone X-Ray, delivered much-needed ammunition and began loading their choppers with seriously wounded soldiers,” according to Defense Department records.

In all, they made the trek 22 times and saved 70 wounded soldiers.

“His actions provided critical resupply of ammunition and evacuation of the wounded,” his citation says. “Major Crandall’s daring acts of bravery and courage in the face of an overwhelming and determined enemy are in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit and the United States Army.”

Crandall had another heroic save in January 1966, when he rescued a dozen troops from the jungle.

However, he was injured in the line of duty.

“About four months into that second tour, Crandall’s helicopter went down,” DoD records said. “He suffered a broken back and other injuries that left him hospitalized for five months.”

Afterward, he attended college and stayed in the Army until retiring as a lieutenant colonel in 1977.

President George W. Bush awarded Crandall the Medal of Honor on Feb. 26, 2007.To download or read Medal of Honor: Bruce Crandall, please visit www.ausa.org/crandall.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

“Now you’ve never met him,” comes the voice of Ralph Edwards, host of the wildly popular 1950s television show, “This Is Your Life.” You “have never seen him but he’s here tonight to clasp your hand in friendship.”

And with that, a large, square figure stepped out from behind a screen to shake the hand of what appears to be a deeply reticent Kiyoshi Tanimoto.

Tanimoto, a Methodist minister, was 36 years old when he became a survivor of Hiroshima. As to the shadowy figure who stepped out from behind the screen? Capt. Robert Lewis, co-pilot and aircraft commander of the Enola Gay — the B-29 bomber that unleashed the first atomic bomb, Little Boy, on the city of Hiroshima on Aug. 6, 1945.

At the time, Tanimoto was visiting the United States to coordinate care for 25 women who had been badly disfigured by the dropping of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima.

Dubbed the Hiroshima Maidens, the women were going to Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City for reconstructive surgery in May of 1955, and Tanimoto believed that he was in the studio to be interviewed about these women and their suffering, according to Electric Literature.

“This Is Your Life” — whose original premise was to surprise unsuspecting celebrities with friends and family who had supported them throughout their life and career — changed its tone with Tanimoto.

Asking Tanimoto to relive the morning of the bombing, the show begins to play an air raid siren, flashing between Tanimoto’s startled face and newsreel clips of the attack.

“The time has come, that split second of eternity which comes in one way or another to every man in his lifetime,” Edwards says to Tanimoto. “What did you do when you heard that bomb?”

“Well, I didn’t hear any sounds, but I saw strange flash running through the air,” replied the minister.

Throughout much of the rest of the interview,Tanimoto says very little, with Edwards guiding his guest into each new topic ranging from greeting the minister’s former U.S. church congregation to cringe-worthy questions such as “where were you on December 7, 1941?”

“It’s not only that Edwards mostly refuses to let his subject speak,” writes Electric Literature. “It’s that he continually takes the liberty of describing Tanimoto’s feelings and memories to Tanimoto, often speaking over him to do so… He embodies an America that will bomb your home, kill your neighbors, surprise you with an interview on a deeply personal, traumatic experience and then — rather than allow you to tell your own story — tell you what happened and how you felt about it.”

Around the 16-minute mark of the show, Lewis makes his appearance.

“Captain Lewis, come in here close,” Edwards beseeches the airman.

Lewis and Tanimoto remain awkwardly as far apart on screen as possible.

A visibly nervous Lewis begins to haltingly give an account of his experience on the morning of Aug. 6, 1945, to a stone-faced Tanimoto before relaying, head in hand, that he wrote in his logbook after the infamous flight, “My God, what have we done?”

In a This American Life story about “This is Your Life,” Allison Silverman reports that “Lewis is the one you’re most worried about watching this bizarre blind date. Ralph Edwards is pleased. Tanimoto is respectful, but Captain Lewis looks like he’s breaking down. People say he went to a bar before the show and came back drunk.”

The men shake hands once again and Lewis swiftly leaves stage left.

The bizarre interaction caused many, including Jack Gould at The New York Times, to accuse the show of exploiting the raw and private emotions of victims. Time magazine called Ralph Edwards a “spiritual prosecutor” to his guests.

Lewis, it appears, remained haunted by his actions.

During the show, Lewis pledged a contribution to Tanimoto’s Hiroshima Maiden’s fund “on behalf of the entire crew that participated in that mission, my company, and my lovely family.” 

Lewis’ crewman, Paul Tibbets, insisted until he died iin 2007 that he had no regrets about dropping the bomb.

In 1971, Lewis sold his famous log where he declared “Just how many Japs did we kill?… My God, what have we done?” and used the money from the sale to buy marble for his new hobby: sculpture.

His piece — a mushroom cloud with streams of blood flowing down the side — was later given to Dr. Glenn Van Warrebey, an American psychiatrist who treated Lewis, seemingly for post-traumatic stress disorder.

Tanimoto’s daughter, Koko Kondo later recalled to Silverman that her father had fond memories of his appearance on the show despite the ambush on live tv.

“He wasn’t horrified by meeting Captain Lewis, the co-pilot of the Enola Gay. In fact, the two of them started writing each other after the show,” Kondo told Silverman. “Captain Lewis changed her whole attitude about the old enemy. Seeing him tear up on stage at the El Capitan, she stopped hating American soldiers.”

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(Warning: Spoilers ahead)

World War II ended with a literal bang when the U.S. military leveled the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki with never-before-seen atomic devastation. And though the explosive events of Aug. 6 and 9, 1945 live on as an ominous warning of the power of nuclear weapons, the series of events preceding those days have been relatively glossed over in the world of modern cinema — until now.

Christopher Nolan’s (”Dark Knight,” “Dunkirk”) “Oppenheimer” is a war epic, a revelation, and a cinematic masterpiece, but above all, it is a horror film. The sense of foreboding created while witnessing the best of humanity careen toward its own demise elicits a sense of dread more reminiscent of the best of the horror genre.

Loosely based on the biography “American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer,” Nolan’s story of J. Robert Oppenheimer — the father of the atomic bomb — is both beautiful and terrifying.

Played by Cillian Murphy at his absolute best, Oppenheimer offers a portrait of the individual struggle between balancing the pursuit of greatness and bringing humanity the closest it has ever been to its own destruction.

Nolan, at the top of his game for his second World War II film (following the triumphant “Dunkirk”), hurls movie-goers into Oppenheimer’s life in an almost schizophrenic manner, jumping through time and incorporating black-and-white sequences to illustrate the frenzied lead up to those fateful days in 1945.

As an individual, Oppenheimer explores the moral conflicts of religion, politics, and philosophy that weigh heavily on his involvement in the infamous Manhattan Project, a decision he makes with a blend of hubris and scientific curiosity.

In the grand scheme, Oppenheimer’s decision to build the bomb is one he believes to be for the good of mankind. Exhibiting to the world this kind of destructive power, he naively thinks, will mean the end of all wars. In reality, the new technology threw the world into an arms race during the ensuing Cold War, the traces of which are still seen today as countries around the globe attempt to develop their own nuclear arsenals.

While viewers might expect the bombing events on August 6 and 9 to be the height of the film, the real climax arrives as the team prepares to drop a test explosive south of Los Alamos, New Mexico. The event marks the culmination of years of work conducted by the world’s smartest minds. And as the device is lowered for detonation, the pent-up fear that preceded it is unleashed in a firework display of destruction.

As the countdown hits zero, there is a flash and silence. A mushroom cloud pillows into the night sky. The feeling of victory for the team is immediate, but for the audience, there is a feeling more akin to the climax of a horror film in which the lead character realizes death is imminent.

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds,” Oppenheimer’s voice echoes over the aftershocks of the bomb. The quote from the Bhagavad Gita makes numerous appearances in the film, and though it’s a bit on the nose, it encapsulates what the physicist becomes in his quest for knowledge.

The sentiment that follows throughout the rest of the movie, to hearken back to Jurassic Park, is one of Manhattan Project personnel being so preoccupied with whether or not they could create an atomic bomb, that no one stops to consider whether they should.

The original impetus of nuclear development in the U.S. may have been to beat the Nazis to constructing the bomb, but once America’s nuclear program began — even with the Germans surrendering — there was no stopping it.

And Oppenheimer, once seen as an American patriot who brought about a heroic end to the war, must live with the realization that he may, in fact, be the greatest villain in human history.

“Oppenheimer” is in theaters July 21.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

The trailer for director Ridley Scott’s (“Gladiator,” “Black Hawk Down”) epic on the rise of French emperor and military mastermind Napoleon Bonaparte has arrived.

The aptly titled “Napoleon” stars Joaquin Phoenix (“The Joker”) as history’s most eponymous warlord. And by all appearances, the intensity of the ruthless conqueror’s rise from soldier to French emperor will be shown in vivid detail — and muted color.

While the film’s battlefield scenes appear as images of utter chaos, the trailer juxtaposes Napoleon’s thirst for power with his lust of romantic pursuits to get an artistic oeuvre about what it means to be a conqueror in all aspects of life.

“The film is an original and personal look at Napoleon’s origins and his swift, ruthless climb to emperor, viewed through the prism of his addictive and often volatile relationship with his wife and one true love, Josephine, played by Vanessa Kirby,” according to an Apple TV+ press release. “[It] captures Napoleon’s famous battles, relentless ambition and astounding strategic mind as an extraordinary military leader and war visionary.”

The trailer concludes with Napoleon lording over a bloody, wintry assault, bombarding soldiers as they fall through thin ice.

“I’m the first to admit when I make a mistake,” he says in the trailer. “I simply never do.”

“Napoleon” debuts in theaters on Nov. 22 before appearing on Apple TV+.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

The 95th Academy Awards heaped praise on two military films from 2022, with “Top Gun: Maverick” and “All Quiet on the Western Front” selected as nominees for best picture.

While neither took home an Oscar, their inclusion among the year’s best cinematic achievements attracted attention toward the abundance of critically acclaimed wartime movies that have stood the test of time.

What makes such a movie endure? The universal language of shared experiences portrayed, for one.

Many films over the years have accomplished as much, highlighting the human side of wearing the uniform through stories that span edge-of-your-seat military thrillers and the sort of tedious boredom only military life can elicit.

And while compiling a list of all may be downright impossible, here are a few dozen we feel do it best.

Saving Private Ryan (1998)

The film opens with one of the most harrowing scenes in cinema history, as Allied troops storm the beaches at Normandy on June 6, 1944. Capt. John Miller, played by Tom Hanks in one of his best roles, sets off to find Pvt. James Ryan (Matt Damon) in enemy territory. Three Ryan brothers were killed in combat. Miller’s mission is find and send home the fourth.

Das Boot (1981)

Considered by many to be one of the greatest war films ever made, Wolfgang Peterson’s “Das Boot” is a thrilling account of a German U-boat operating in the North Atlantic during World War II. The film captures both the claustrophobic boredom faced by young submariners and the terrors of the dark, expansive unknown in which the inexperienced crew must operate.

Casablanca (1942)

Timely released during World War II yet timeless in its appeal, “Casablanca” remains a definitive classic in the romance-drama genre. Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman and Paul Henreid star in this authoritative love story about an American expatriate torn between his affections for a woman and his moral obligation to assist her husband in his defiance of the Nazis and escape from Vichy-controlled territory.

Thin Red Line (1998)

Based on the World War II autobiography by James Jones, “Thin Red Line” centers on an AWOL Pvt. Witt (Jim Caviezel), who is dragged back into the line of duty by Sgt. Welsh (Sean Penn). Set amid the Battle of Guadalcanal, the film hones in on the existential crises faced by men in combat.

1917 (2019)

Filmed as a single continuous shot, Sam Mendes’ “1917″ is an absolutely marvelous look at the everyman soldier of World War I. Similar to “Saving Private Ryan” it involves an attempt to save a British soldier’s brother from a battle predicted to be a slaughter. The cast and crew offer up one scene after another that, despite depicting a story a century old, resonate with any era of veteran.

All Quiet on the Western Front (1930 and 2022)

Based on a book of the same name by Erich Maria Remarque, “All Quiet on the Western Front” has undergone multiple well-received big-screen adaptations. Both the 1930 and 2022 versions are critically acclaimed and worth the watch, and both, each harrowing in their own right, do justice to the idea that war is hell for those who see it face to face.

The Deer Hunter (1978)

An emotionally shattering movie, “The Deer Hunter” centers on three friends who ship off to fight in the Vietnam War. Incredible performances from Robert De Niro, John Savage and Christopher Walken enhance the film’s subtle anti-war commentary. Post-war scenes also show the struggles of returning home after being changed by combat.

Apocalypse Now (1979)

Perhaps one of the more avant-garde of the war films, “Apocalypse Now” has become something of a cult classic. Directed by Francis Ford Coppola, the Vietnam War movie is based loosely on Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness.” At its core, the film explores war as an exercise in futility and a catalyst for a descent into madness.

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)

Set in the immediate aftermath of WWII, “The Best Years of Our Lives” depicts the struggles of three veterans as they return home and grapple with the rhythms of civilian life. Veterans of any war will see their own experiences — notably, the perpetual disconnect between war veterans and those who send them to fight — play out in this timeless film directed by Oscar-winner William Wyler (“Ben Hur,” “The Memphis Bell”).

Full Metal Jacket (1987)

Best known for its boot camp scenes featuring R. Lee Ermey, this Vietnam War film has become a mainstay in military movie culture. Directed by Stanley Kubrick, “Full Metal Jacket” is anchored by the trajectory of James T. “Joker” Davis (Matthew Modine) from boot camp to his deployment during the Tet Offensive.

Platoon (1986)

Oliver Stone’s “Platoon” delivered Oscars for Best Picture and Best Director, cementing its status as an authoritative Vietnam War film. The story, delivered with narrative that provides compassion in the midst of human depravity, gets to our core as human beings as only tribulations of war can.

Land of Mine (2015)

“Land of Mine” tells an emotional story of young German prisoners of war who, while under Danish control in post-WWII Denmark, are tasked with de-mining the countryside with their bare hands. The brutality of the endeavor begins a painful reflection of one’s capacity for forgiveness.

Rescue Dawn (2006)

German-American Dieter Dengler (Christian Bale) was a U.S. Navy pilot shot down near the Ho Chi Minh Trail in 1966. Tortured for months and emaciated, Dengler eventually escaped his captors, fleeing into dense jungle and evading capture for over three weeks before being rescued by U.S. forces. Bale’s spectacular performance brings relatability to the most dire situation.

Black Hawk Down (2001)

A film about the disastrous October 1993 attempt by U.S. Special Forces to bring down a Somali warlord’s top lieutenants, “Black Hawk Down” remains one of the best portrayals of the chaos of urban warfare. Director Ridley Scott’s depiction of the Battle of Mogadishu, which resulted in 18 American casualties, is further enhanced by stellar performances by Eric Bana and Josh Hartnett.

The Imitation Game (2014)

Benedict Cumberbatch delivers an incredible performance as Alan Turing in this fact-based story about a small team of MI6 recruits who crack the Nazi code Enigma — once thought unbreakable. The film weaves between Turing’s wartime accomplishments and his eventual imprisonment in England, where his homosexuality was deemed a criminal offense at the time. The brilliant mathematician was posthumously pardoned and chosen as the face of Britain’s £50 note.

Schindler’s List (1993)

Steven Spielberg navigates human brutality and compassion in this authoritative adaptation of the life of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman (Liam Neeson) who arrives in Krakow in 1939 and begins staffing his factory with Jewish workers — even as Nazi SS troops seek them out for extermination. The real-life Schindler was credited with saving the lives of approximately 1,200 Jewish people.

Dunkirk (2017)

A stunningly immersive Christopher Nolan film that weaves between three separate timelines spanning the same event, “Dunkirk” delivers a tense character study with one of the most incredible evacuations in war history as its stage. Only once you reach the end can you fully understand the depth of this rich story.

Life is Beautiful (1997)

A young Jewish-Italian family are separated when they are taken to a concentration camp during World War II. Amid the incessant horrors of life in the camp, the father, played by Roberto Benigni, does everything in his power to protect his son’s innocence, sheltering the child from horrors while convincing him their time in one of the ugliest situations in human history is just part of a game.

The Pianist (2002)

In the adaptation of Polish pianist Wladyslaw Szpilman’s autobiography, actor Adrien Brody plays a Jewish pianist separated from his family in war-torn Warsaw. Szpilman hides among the city’s ruins at the outset of World War II, eventually joining the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising efforts before remaining hidden with the help of a German soldier. The film earned director Roman Polanski and Brody Academy Awards for best director and best actor, respectively.

Patton (1970)

Gen. George Patton remains of the most polarizing military tacticians in history. The film, written in part by Francis Ford Coppola, chronicles his career throughout World War II — from his many triumphs to his notable foibles — for a fascinating look at one of war history’s more controversial figures.

Gallipoli (1981)

A young Mel Gibson stars as an Australian sprinter who joins the army during World War I. He and his companion, another runner, are eventually sent to the front lines as messengers in one of the war’s most devastating battles. Directed by Peter Weir, who was also at the reins for “Master and Commander,” “Gallipoli” remains a leading anti-war film.

Gone with the Wind (1939)

Based on the 1936 novel of the same name by Margaret Mitchell and considered one of the most epic films ever made — not just in war cinema — “Gone with the Wind” is a fictional Civil War account detailing the scourge felt by southerners in the wake of America’s bloodiest conflict. The war backdrop, meanwhile, serves as the underpinning of one of the greatest love stories in cinema history.

Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

David Lean directed “The Bridge on the River Kwai” in 1957 and “Doctor Zhivago” in 1965. Sandwiched between those masterpieces is the epic, nearly four-hour tale based on the First World War exploits of British Lieutenant T.E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole). Quarrels abound between British and Arab forces as Lawrence embarks on a seemingly impossible quest in an unforgiving landscape mired in conflict.

The Great Escape (1963)

Steve McQueen, James Garner and Richard Attenborough star in this thrilling World War II story about an allied escape from a German prisoner-of-war camp. Directed by John Sturges (“The Magnificent Seven”), the story is loosely based on the mass escape by British WWII soldiers from the Stalag Luft III prison camp.

Inglourious Basterds (2009)

Quentin Tarantino’s World War II treatment is as bombastic as it is an accurate portrayal of Nazi Germany. The film, lathered with rich dialogue, is an action heist meets historical fiction, and features a cast for the ages — including Brad Pitt, Christoph Waltz, Michael Fassbender, Diane Kruger, and Daniel Brühl.

We Were Soldiers (2002)

Based on a book written by then-Lt. Col. Hal Moore (Mel Gibson), the film is carried by intense action sequences that give credence to the total disarray of the Vietnam War’s first major battle — Ia Drang. Moore, who during the battle was the commanding officer of 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Cavalry Division, earned a Distinguished Service Cross for his actions. He passed away in 2017 at the age of 94.

The Big Red One (1980)

“The Big Red One” follows five soldiers as they experience the toll of combat in World War II — notably, that survival isn’t always a reward. The film is based on director Samuel Fuller’s account of his days in North Africa serving with the 1st Infantry Division, which was nicknamed the “The Big Red One” after the division’s patch, one that remains an iconic symbol among Army uniforms.

Hamburger Hill (1987)

Based on the 101st Airborne Division’s push to take Hill 937, “Hamburger Hill” depicts the physical and mental exhaustion experienced by the battle’s participants. Despite sustaining massive losses in taking the hill, the U.S. abandoned the high ground only weeks after the battle concluded, prompting severe criticism of military leadership and a reassessment of overall war strategy.

Braveheart (1995)

Mel Gibson was at his finest as legendary Scottish warrior William Wallace. As he leads a rebellion of Highlanders against the English monarchy, themes of brotherhood, honor and sacrifice that have remained a human institution throughout the ages emerge, making this a truly timeless film.

Downfall (2004)

This meticulous account of Hitler’s final days is inspired by the real-life narrative of Traudl Junge, who served as the Nazi leader’s last private secretary from 1942 until his death in April 1945. Junge’s account offers a first-hand perspective of the maniacal dictator from the height of his power to his eventual unraveling in his underground bunker.

Hacksaw Ridge (2016)

An inspired film about military service from the perspective of a conscientious objector, “Hacksaw Ridge” tells the story of World War II Army Medic Desmond Doss. Across numerous battles in the Pacific, Doss refused to kill due to his beliefs as a Seventh-day Adventist. He later received the Medal of Honor for saving numerous lives during the Battle of Okinawa.

Letters From Iwo Jima (2006)

Filmed by director Clint Eastwood as a companion film alongside “Flags of Our Fathers,” the film begins with a modern day discovery of buried letters recovered from the World War II battle site. The correspondence, which shapes the battle story from the Japanese perspective, pulls the curtain back on both the humanity and radicalization of individual Japanese soldiers.

Master and Commander (2003)

Still not nearly as celebrated as it should be, “Master and Commander” sets the standard for old-fashioned naval warfare on the big screen. Napoleon is at the height of his power in the early 1800s, when, under the command of Capt. Jack Aubrey (Russell Crowe), the HMS Surprise is tasked with pursuing a French war vessel near South America. Crowe and Paul Bettany lead a strong cast that bring the rigors of 1805 ship life to early 2000s audiences.

Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)

A World War II story, “Bridge on the River Kwai,” which took home a staggering seven Oscars, including Best Picture, explores the ferocious conditions experienced by captured British soldiers in a Japanese prison camp. The prisoners are tasked with building a railway bridge in Japanese-occupied Burma, unaware that a commando raid is imminent. Alex Guinness (“Star Wars”) stars.

Born on the 4th of July (1989)

The Dirty Dozen (1967)

Unlike a majority of the movies in this genre, “The Dirty Dozen” illuminates a darker side of military service with a bit of a bombastic plot line. Twelve (mostly criminal) soldiers are tasked with an assassination mission during World War II that is essentially suicidal. Lee Marvin, a Marine sniper and Purple Heart recipient in the Pacific theater in WWII, stars as the misfit group’s commander.

Fury (2014)

Titled after a crew’s Sherman tank, director David Ayer’s film essentially turns the armored vehicle into a character that serves as a metaphor for experience, gains and losses in war. The tank’s crew, helmed by “Wardaddy” (Brad Pitt) must find a way to survive the approaching end of World War II and live with the costly choices they make along the way.

Casualties of War (1989)

A young Michael J. Fox and Sean Penn square off in a moral struggle after Penn’s character takes a young Vietnamese teenager as a prisoner. The blurred lines depicted force the viewer to wrestle with the notion that the casualties referenced in the title extend well beyond troops in combat.

‘71 (2014)

Riots are ravaging Belfast at the height of the Troubles, and in the midst of the chaos a young British soldier (Jack O’Connell) gets separated from his unit. Unarmed, he must remain largely hidden amid the city’s confusion and violent turmoil to make it home in one piece.

Jarhead (2005)

A different entry when it comes to most war movie lists — but if you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be a Marine, “Jarhead” has you covered. Jake Gyllenhaal stars as the crass Cpl. Anthony Swofford — a real-life Marine who wrote the memoir on which the film was based — in this Gulf War film that depicts both the monotony of service and the battle-fatigue experienced by many veterans.

Paths of Glory (1957)

Long before he directed “Full Metal Jacket,” a young filmmaker named Stanley Kubrick delivered an anti-war analysis, with World War I as its backdrop, of the collision between the ego and ambition of select leaders and the integrity of others — all while average soldiers endure the consequences. Kirk Douglas stars.

Zero Dark Thirty (2012)

This fictionalized depiction of the hunt for Osama bin Laden is a riveting character study featuring a spectacular performance by Jessica Chastain. Kathryn Bigelow, who won the Academy Award for Best Director for “The Hurt Locker,” helmed the film, which pulled the curtain back on the vast network of personnel, as well as the stroke of borderline madness, required to bring down the mastermind behind the worst terrorist attack in American history.

Three Kings (1999)

Set at the end of the Gulf War, David O. Russell’s (”The Fighter,” “Silver Linings Playbook”) film is an unexpectedly good war offering with a heist mission for Saddam Hussein’s hidden gold guiding the story. George Clooney, Ice Cube and Mark Wahlberg star in this brothers-in-arms story that seamlessly weaves between action, humor, politics, and drama.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

On the afternoon of December 7, 1941, director John Ford and his wife were attending a luncheon at the home of Rear Admiral Andrew C. Pickens in Alexandria, Virginia. The host excused himself to take a call from the War Department. When he returned, he told his guests that the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. “We are at war,” he said.

Ford was ready.

He had been born John Martin Feeney in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, on February 1, 1894, the son of Irish immigrants who had settled in nearby Portland, where the elder Feeney operated a bar. Young John played on the Portland High School football team and graduated in 1914. His high school nickname, probably because of his football prowess, was “Bull.”

When Feeney’s older brother Francis headed west and found work as an actor and director in California, young John followed—and assumed his brother’s stage name of Ford as well. Eventually John Ford began directing his own films. By the time of Pearl Harbor he was one of Hollywood’s most respected directors, with a resume that included The Iron Horse (1924), Young Mr. Lincoln (1939), The Grapes of Wrath (1940), How Green Was My Valley (1941), and even a Shirley Temple film, Wee Willie Winkie (1937). In his 1939 Western Stagecoach, Ford turned a relatively obscure actor named John Wayne into a star. That was also the first movie Ford shot in the Southwest’s Monument Valley, a setting he made iconic in his postwar Westerns.

Yet for all his talent, John Ford was a flawed human being with a strong streak of pure New England cussedness. “Actors were terrified of him because he liked to terrify them,” said John Carradine, who acted for Ford in several films. “He was a sadist.” Ford became known for the way he needled his actors, especially Wayne, during filming and for his tendency to go on drunken benders between projects. According to one acquaintance, “It was as though God had touched John Ford at the beginning of his life and said, ‘How would you like to be a very unique man—like no one else. However, you may scare some people.’”

Ford had always nursed a love for the sea, perhaps inspired by his youth on Maine’s Casco Bay. In the 1930s he enlisted in the Navy Reserve with a commission as a lieutenant commander, and as tensions with Japan increased, he sometimes used his yacht Araner to shadow any Japanese vessels he encountered off the California coast. He started the Eleventh Naval District Motion Picture and Still Photographic Group in 1939 as a means of documenting the navy’s activities in the impending war and began recruiting friends from all aspects of the film industry to help. As he later said, “They are writers, directors, some actors, but mostly technicians, electricians, cutters, sound cutters, negative cutters, positive cutters, carpenters, and that sort of thing.” The navy called the 47-year-old Ford to active duty in September 1941 as a lieutenant commander and he went to Washington, where his photographic unit was assigned to work under William J. Donovan, the head of the Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency.

In his new role Ford visited Iceland and Panama to survey the military situations there. After the attack on Pearl Harbor he received orders to head to Hawaii to film the aftermath. He and a crew embarked on the trip west on January 4, 1942. Twelve days later he was at Pearl Harbor, which he found “in a state of readiness. The Army and the Navy, all in good shape, everything taken care of, patrols going out regularly, everybody in high spirit[s]…”

On April 18, 1942, Lt. Col. James Doolittle and his raiders took off in twin-engine B-25 Mitchells from the carrier USS Hornet to bomb Tokyo. Although the Doolittle Raid did little physical damage to Japan, it dealt a psychological blow. Shocked by the American attack on its mainland, the Japanese military decided to move aggressively across the Pacific to prevent any more raids. One of its targets was a tiny atoll with an airstrip 1,110 miles northwest of Hawaii called Midway. It was little more than a speck in the vast Pacific, populated mostly by a species of albatross that people called gooney birds, but Midway was also the U.S. Navy’s westernmost base and home to a Marine detachment. Pan American World Airways had used Midway as a base for its Clippers, and navy submarines fueled there, too. A pair of Japanese destroyers had shelled Midway on the night of December 7, 1941, and the Japanese speculated that perhaps Doolittle’s men had taken off from the atoll for their attack. Furthermore, Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, the mastermind behind the Pearl Harbor attack, believed that if he threatened Midway, he could draw the U.S. Pacific Fleet under Admiral Chester W. Nimitz out from Hawaii and into battle.

The U.S. Navy had cracked Japanese codes and knew that Midway was in the crosshairs, and Nimitz wanted Ford to photograph the fighting once it erupted. Sometime in late May 1942 he summoned Ford to his office at Pearl Harbor, said he had a dangerous assignment for him, and told him to report to Admiral David W. Bagley. Ford and cameraman Jack Mackenzie Jr. were soon zipping across the harbor in a speedboat for a rendezvous with a destroyer that was already underway. “Hadn’t the slightest idea what I was doing, where I was going,” Ford said. “I found out when I got on board the destination was Midway.”

All was quiet on Midway when Ford and Mackenzie arrived. “All the year around it’s the same out there on that little Pacific island,” Mackenzie told American Cinematographer magazine. “The grandest place in the whole ocean to find absolute quiet and peace—if that’s what you want.” Ford spent time photographing the island’s gooney birds and the PT boats that had accompanied the task force. He remained doubtful that the Japanese would really attack but, forewarned by the codebreakers, the navy had been scrambling to bolster the atoll’s defenses by flying in more aircraft and reinforcing the ground forces. “By June 4 there were 121 combat planes, 141 officers and 2,886 enlisted men on the atoll,” noted Samuel Eliot Morison in his history of naval operations during the war. 

On June 3, Ford said, Commander Massie Hughes invited him aboard a PBY Catalina flying boats for a patrol. At first they saw nothing, Ford claimed, but then they got a glimpse of enemy vessels through a break in the clouds. When a couple of Japanese airplanes appeared to spot the PBY, Hughes headed into the clouds, and then descended for a wave-hugging return to Midway. 

Something, Ford realized, “was about to pop.” Another Catalina spotted what appeared to be the Japanese invasion fleet and the commander of Naval Air Station Midway, Captain Cyril T. Simard, sent out B-17s and Catalinas to attack the vessels, with little result. Simard expected the Japanese to attack the next morning and suggested that Ford place himself on top of the powerhouse, where he would have a good view of the impending action as well as a telephone link to headquarters. Ford and Mackenzie set up and went to bed.

Simard was right about the attack, although the morning of June 4 started off calmly enough. “Everything was very quiet and serene,” Ford said. He and Mackenzie shared the powerhouse with some Marines who had also stationed themselves on the roof. The filmmakers had a pair of 16mm cameras loaded with color film. Sometime around 6:30 that morning Ford was scanning the sky with binoculars when he spotted the first black dots that meant incoming Japanese aircraft. There were 108 airplanes in all, including 36 Nakajima B5N “Kate” bombers, 36 Aichi D3A “Val” dive bombers, and 36 Mitsubishi A6M “Zero” fighters, and they had been launched from four carriers about 200 miles out to sea. Midway’s radar had already picked them up and the defenders were braced for the onslaught. “Everybody was very calm. I was amazed, sort of, at the lackadaisical air everybody took,” Ford said. It was  as though this kind of thing happened all the time.

The Japanese planes roared in to attack. According to Ford, the lead pilot shocked everybody by flipping his Zero on its back and flying upside down about 100 feet off the ground in a show of bravado. “Everybody was amazed, nobody fired at him, until suddenly some Marine said, ‘What the Hell,’ let go at him and then shot him down,” said Ford. “He slid off into the sea.”

Then the attack started “in earnest.” Bombs exploded nearby, shaking the cameras. A plane dropped a bomb on the garrison’s hangar, which exploded. A piece of concrete struck Ford in the head and briefly knocked him out. “Just knocked me goofy for a bit, and I pulled myself out of it.” Recovering, Ford continued to film despite also receiving an ugly, three-inch shrapnel wound in his arm. 

Mackenzie, who kept a lucky rabbit’s foot in his pocket, had also been knocked down by the blast, and he regretted missing a shot of the explosion because he had been reloading film when it happened. He recovered and scrambled down a ladder to the ground and resumed shooting. “By this time [the Japanese] had riddled the hangars and set them on fire,” he recalled. “The hospital too was smashed and on fire, and the commissary was all busted up and burning fierce and one of our oil tanks was on fire sending a plume of heavy black smoke up into the atmosphere. It was a merry little hell all around.”

It appeared to Ford that the Japanese avoided bombing the runway, perhaps, he thought, because they hoped to capture the island and use it later. They did bomb alongside it, and they focused a lot of attention on an airplane the Americans had left out in the open as a decoy. From what Ford saw, the enemy wasted a lot of effort to destroy it. “[T]hey lost about three planes trying to get to that fake plane, as it came into a cone of fire that was pretty dangerous,” he said.

One incident that angered Ford happened as he peered through his binoculars and saw a Zero attack and kill a Marine who had bailed out of his airplane. “This kid jumped and this Zero went after him and shot him out of his harness,” he said, and then the Japanese pilot returned to strafe the water where the Marine had come down. 

Ford told his debriefers how impressed he had been by the Marines around him. “They were kids, oh, I would say from 18 to 22, none of them were older. They were the calmest people I have ever seen. They were up there popping away with rifles, having a swell time and none of them were alarmed.” He added, “I was really amazed. I thought that some kids, one or two would get scared, but no, they were having the time of their lives.”

But not all of them had escaped with their lives. Forty-nine of the atoll’s Marine defenders had been killed. Their aircraft—F4F Wildcats and obsolete F2A Brewster Buffaloes—were outmatched by the Japanese Zeros, and attacks flown from Midway against the Japanese vessels proved inconsequential at best and resulted in the loss of more aircraft. 

The attack on the atoll lasted only about 20 minutes. The Japanese did not return to follow it up with an invasion because they ran into difficulties out to sea. Yamamoto had accomplished his goal of drawing the Pacific Fleet into battle, but the results were not what the Japanese had desired. American carrier-based dive bombers pounced on the Japanese ships and sank four of its aircraft carriers—and one reason the American airplanes found the enemy ships at a disadvantage is because the carriers had to recover, refuel, and rearm the aircraft that had returned from the attack on the island. Although the U.S. lost the carrier Yorktown, the Battle of Midway at sea proved to be a disaster for Japan and a turning point in the Pacific war.

Ford returned to the United States with the raw footage from his small portion of the fight as well as footage shot by another of his cameramen, Lieutenant Kenneth M. Pier, who had been aboard the carrier Hornet at sea. He began shaping the footage into a short film with the assistance of some Hollywood friends—Henry Fonda and Jane Darwell from The Grapes of Wrath provided voices, Donald Crisp from How Green Was My Valley added narration, and Alfred Newman, who oversaw music for Twentieth Century-Fox, wrote the score. Ford insisted that his editors include a brief shot of Major James Roosevelt, the president’s son, in the final cut. If he did that to curry favor with Roosevelt, it worked. After screening the 18-minute short at the White House, the president told his chief of staff, “I want every mother in American to see this film.” The Battle of Midway began appearing in theaters, as a short before the main feature, in September. Critic James Agee called it “a brave attempt to make a record—quick, jerky, vivid, fragmentary, luminous—of a moment of desperate peril to the nation.” 

“Even now, far removed from Midway and the war, The Battle of Midway resonates,” wrote Ford biographer Scott Eyman. “It remains one of Ford’s great achievements.”

Ford had a bumpier experience with another film from his unit. Cinematographer Gregg Toland had taken the lead in putting together a documentary about the Pearl Harbor attack, but the military men who previewed the work gave it scathing notices. They objected to the way the filmmakers had recreated events for their cameras, the film’s virulent portrayal of the Japanese, and the way it left the “distinct impression that the Navy was not on the job,” in the words of Admiral Harold Stark. Ford had it recut from 85 minutes to 34, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences voted December 7th best short documentary at the 1944 Oscars. 

Ford continued his work for the navy. He ventured into harm’s way again in late 1942 when he oversaw shooting in North Africa. One person he encountered there was Darryl F. Zanuck, the production chief of Twentieth Century-Fox, for whom Ford had made The Grapes of Wrath and How Green Was My Valley. Zanuck had received a commission in the Signal Corps and was working on his own documentary. “Can’t I ever get away from you?” Ford grumbled to him. “I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut that if I ever go to Heaven, you’ll be waiting at the door for me under a sign reading, ‘Produced by Darryl F. Zanuck.’”

Ford later went to Asia to film activity in Burma and China, and in June 1944 he supervised filming of the D-Day landings, activity marred when he went on an epic three-day bender in mid-June. Once he sobered up, Ford spent time aboard a PT boat commanded by John D. Bulkeley, who had rescued Douglas MacArthur from Corregidor in March 1942 and was the centerpiece of William Lindsay White’s book They Were Expendable, an account of PT boat crews in the Philippines. (See “Battle Films,” page 76.) When Ford returned to the United States to start work on the film version of White’s book, his time in the war zones were over. 

After the war, Ford continued his film career, directing a series of classic Westerns with John Wayne. (Ford enjoyed needling Wayne over his lack of service in the military.) Those films included Fort Apache (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949), and The Searchers (1956). The director is now considered one of the great artists of Hollywood’s Golden Age. When filmmaker Orson Welles, no slouch behind the camera himself, was asked who his three favorite directors were, he answered “John Ford, John Ford, John Ford.” 

For the rest of his days, until he died in 1973, Ford remained proud of his navy service and was “shameless” in his pursuit of official medals and ribbons. Befitting a man who had a character in one of his movies say, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend,” Ford often burnished the legend of his experiences at Midway and elsewhere. In truth, he had no need to embellish.

this article first appeared in world war II magazine

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They say there’s no business like show business. Maybe one day we’ll find out.

The story begins back in September 2022, when Aviation History’s editorial offices received an email from an employee at HBO Max (since renamed simply Max). Would Aviation History give HBO permission to use the cover of the magazine’s Autumn 2022 issue in an episode of the fourth and final season of its series “Succession”?

Our answer: Yes.

For those not aware of “Succession,” the acclaimed series focuses on the Roy family, led by patriarch Logan Roy (Brian Cox), the ill-tempered and foul-mouthed founder of a global media empire called Waystar Royco. As ill health forces Logan to contemplate his own mortality, his children begin jostling to take over once he steps down. Kendall (Jeremy Strong) seems in the best position to assume the crown, but siblings Shiv (Sarah Snook) and Roman (Kieran Culkin) also have ambitions, while their half-brother Connor (Alan Ruck) aims at running for president of the U.S. Through the show’s four seasons, the Roys engage in back-stabbing, skullduggery and scheming to gain control of the family business. And they do some of that on aircraft, especially private jets and helicopters. Why not make Aviation History part of the cast?

Well, when the season ended with the series finale on May 28, none of us here managed to pick out the cover. Turns out, it made its very tiny cameo appearance in episode three, “Connor’s Wedding.” Look closely at the back wall in the airport during the Roy children’s press conference and you can see it on the magazine rack. (Take our word for it.)

We think Aviation History acquitted itself well onscreen, and don’t blame us if viewers found their attention straying from the activity in the foreground as they wondered, “How can I get my hands on that magazine?” To quote “the father of modern acting,” Konstantin Stanislavski, “There are no small roles, only small actors.”

We just hope that if “Succession” ever returns to the screen, it will tell the story of how the new owners of Waystar Royco try to gain control of a group of history magazines that fights against its acquisition.

Now, that’s a show we would watch.  

Maj. Samuel Woodfill’s Army career is the stuff of legend. It’s no surprise that, as a result, the Association of the United States Army released a graphic novel detailing the acts of heroism that earned him his Medal of Honor.

“General John Pershing recognized Samuel Woodfill as the most outstanding soldier of the First World War,” according to AUSA.

On Oct. 12, 1918, in the midst of the Meuse-Argonne offensive, then-1st Lt. Woodfill was with the 60th Infantry near the town of Cunel, France, when their advance came under heavy fire.

“Followed by two soldiers at 25 yards, this officer went out ahead of his first line toward a machine-gun nest and worked his way around its flank, leaving the two soldiers in front,” his citation reads.

As Woodfill approached, the machine gun firing stopped and four German soldiers attacked. Woodfill shot three and “attempted to club the officer with his rifle.”

After a struggle, Woodfill shot the soldier with his pistol.

His unit continued the advance until it was met with yet another machine gun barrage.

“Woodfill rushed ahead of his line in the face of heavy fire from the nest, and when several of the enemy appeared above the nest, he shot them, capturing three other members of the crew and silencing the gun,” according to the citation.

The unit then encountered a third machine gun nest manned by five German soldiers, which Woodfill took out with his rifle. He tried but failed to subdue two additional troops with his revolver. Instead, he took up a pick-axe in the trench and engaged them in close-quarters combat.

“Inspired by the exceptional courage displayed by this officer, his men pressed on to their objective under severe shell and machine-gun fire,” the citation notes.

For these acts of valor, Pershing presented the Medal of Honor to Woodfill on Feb. 9, 1919.

But Woodfill’s story started much earlier in his hometown of Madison, Indiana, where he attempted to join the Army at age 15 to fight in the Spanish-American War. Turned down, he joined in 1901 when he was 18.

In 1917, he was made and officer and promoted to the rank of second lieutenant.

Woodfill served in the Army until retiring in 1923, but was recalled in 1942 at the outset of World War II.

“He was given special clearance to serve and, at 59, was still an excellent marksman,” according to the Defense Department archives. “But he hit the mandatory retirement age of 60 in 1943, so his third bout of service was short-lived.”

Woodfill died in 1951 and was buried in Indiana, however, in 1955, his remains were reinterred at Arlington National Cemetery — next to Pershing.

You can download a free copy of this graphic novel here.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

Rudyard Kipling once wrote, “A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”

And although he was writing of India, the phrase seems prophetic of director Ric Roman Waugh’s “Kandahar,” a film that, by the end, yields no shortage of fools laid bare under the desert sun. The problem, however, is that it would be difficult for anyone without an advanced degree in international relations to understand exactly how they all got there.

“Kandahar” stars Gerard Butler (“300,” “Plane”) as Tom Harris, an MI-6 agent on loan to the CIA. Viewers will be forgiven, after watching the film’s trailer, for believing this to be a spy movie with a timely Afghan translator twist — in fact, that is not at all the case.

Mapping out the plot lines of the film’s whirlwind of events would make the conspiracy board in the “Charlie Work” episode of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” look almost sane.

The premise: After destroying an Iranian nuclear plant, Harris sets off on a final mission alongside a former translator named Mo (Navid Negahban), which he has just days to complete in order to make it home in time for his daughter’s high school graduation.

Along the way, a Pentagon leaker reveals his identity to a British journalist, who is then kidnapped by the Iranians. Despite the success of Harris’ Iran mission, the CIA thinks the men should be neutralized.

Meanwhile, Pakistani and Indian double agent Kahil (Ali Fazal) seeks to nab the pair so the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) can auction Harris off to the highest bidder. Kahil, who pursues them by motorcycle, sees the men as his ticket away from the desert.

“Just because of the lay of the land, you’re stuck,” Fazal told Military Times. “You’re stuck in the middle of all these mercenaries and human life has become almost entirely inconsequential.”

Pursued from all angles, Harris and Mo must get to Kandahar for a final chance at an extraction. But before they can, the pair are captured by the Taliban.

A CIA handler (Travis Fimmel) sets out to rescue them, so he hires Afghan commandos to pose as ISIS and attack the base. This prompts the Taliban to call Kahil to bring in ISI reinforcements against what they believe are ISIS forces.

Convoluted? Yes. But while the film’s weakest point is that it’s rather hard to follow, it is also perhaps what makes the story most authentic. Middle Eastern geopolitics are complex, and the West’s attempts to simplify the region’s conflicts while ignoring its many shades of grey have caused the resurgence of the popular “graveyard of empires” trope.

And although “Kandahar” feels a bit like Tom Clancy meets a desert-based “Fast and the Furious,” there remains plenty of warranted reflection about the way greed has torn apart the region. Even those who do good seemingly do it for themselves. Those who have been exiled to the barren desert all want to go home — though many of them, like Harris and Mo, can hardly remember what that means.

“We’ve chosen a very sensitive geographical location for this to pan out,” Fazal said. “I really hope that people see that in the madness, we’ve lost the sensitivity to human life, the value of life.”

“Kandahar” hits theaters on May 26.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

As early as World War I, airmen who lost limbs in combat refused to let that keep them out of the air. In the Imperial Russian Navy, Alexander Prokofiev de Seversky lost a leg but learned to fly with a prosthetic and became a six-victory ace and later an airplane designer in the United States. During World War II, he would be outdone by Soviet fighter pilot Aleksey Maresyev, who survived a horrendous ordeal to become a fighter ace with no legs at all. The Pilot: A Battle for Survival is a Russian film that follows the contours of Maresyev’s ordeal.

Born on May 20, 1916, Aleksey Petrovich Maresyev joined the Red Army in 1937 and earned his wings in 1940. In August 1941 he was assigned to the 296th IAP (fighter aviation regiment) in the central Ukraine, flying the Polikarpov I-16. Over the following months, Maresyev was fortunate just to survive while flying that obsolescent airplane. Then, in March 1942, he was reassigned to the 580th IAP in the Demyansk Pocket, equipped with the new Yakovlev Yak-1. In less than a month of intense fighting he was credited with four German aircraft.

On April 5, 1942, Maresyev was shot down in German-held Russian territory in what were still winter conditions. Emerging from the wreck of his Yak with both legs crushed, he crawled toward Soviet lines, living on tree bark and berries for 18 days until he reached a farmhouse. It was another week before he reached a hospital, where his gangrenous legs were amputated. 

During his nearly year-long therapy with prosthetics, Maresyev read a magazine article about de Seversky and another on Douglas Bader, the British pilot who lost both legs in a 1931 crash but went on to become an 18-victory ace during the Battle of Britain. Their examples inspired Maresyev to convince his higher-ups he could still fly. In June 1943 he returned to the front, flying Lavochkin La-5s. 

“When I was appointed to be his wingman,” said Sergei F. Petrov in an interview, “I asked myself the question: ‘If he has no legs, will he be able to protect me in combat?’ But we carried out a number of missions together and I was convinced that he was a better pilot than many who had legs.”

Released on December 2, 2021, The Pilot is reputedly based on a novelized account of Maresyev’s life. Director Renat Davletyarov has called it his version of the American 2015 film The Revenant, with Nazi pursuers and a pack of wolves substituted for that film’s bear and hostile Indians. Instead of flying fighters, The Pilot’s protagonist, Nikolay Komlev (Pyotr Fyodorov), is a ground attack pilot, allegedly because there were no Yak-1s or La-5s available for the film, but a newly restored and flyable Ilyushin Il-2 was. Historical nit-pickers might point out that two-seater Il-2s and Messerschmitt Me-109Gs were not around in December 1941, the film’s setting. As for differences between the real Maresyev and the fictional Komlev, the whole matter is rendered moot when the end credits list about a dozen other Soviet airmen who lost both limbs but returned to active service, making it clear that Komlev is based on a composite of many “true stories.”

That said, The Pilot delivers visceral thrills during its 106-minute runtime, punctuated at intervals by a series of flashbacks to a developing love story that adds motivation to Komlev’s determination to survive. There is a certain universality to its theme, although Russia’s 2022 invasion of neighboring Ukraine has made a pariah of the country in which The Pilot was filmed.

The real Maresyev returned to combat for the Battle of Kursk on July 20, 1943. He and Petrov each downed a Junkers Ju-87 Stuka, then Petrov was shot up by a Focke-Wulf Fw-190. As a second Fw-190 got on his tail for the coup de grâce, Petrov looked back and saw it explode—courtesy of his legless wingman, who then downed a second Focke-Wulf. On August 24 Maresyev received the Gold Star of a Hero of the Soviet Union (the Russian Medal of Honor) and went on to bring his score up to 11 victories in 86 combat sorties—seven of those victories achieved with artificial legs.

After the war Maresyev continued as a flight instructor until his retirement in 1994. He became the subject of A Story About a Real Man, a novel based on his wartime experiences, and now two fictionalized postwar films. (The first came out in 1948.) In regard to all the adulation that attended him, however, he remarked: “There’s nothing extraordinary in what I have done. The fact that I’ve been turned into a legend irritates me.”

On May 19, 2001, Aleksey Maresyev was en route to attend a ceremony marking his 85th birthday in Moscow when he suffered a heart attack. Rushed to hospital, he died an hour and a half before the ceremony.

this article first appeared in world war II magazine

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More than a decade before sharpshooter Annie Oakley joined Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West, dancer Giuseppina Morlacchi garnered headlines performing with Cody in the traveling Western stage drama Scouts of the Prairie. Dime novelist and entrepreneur Ned Buntline, who hastily wrote the three-act Western script in December 1872, had the Italian-born prima ballerina play an Indian princess named Dove Eye. The male stars of Buntline’s theatrical company were Cody and John Baker “Texas Jack” Omohundro, notable Army scouts who played themselves onstage. Landing Morlacchi was quite a coup for Buntline. Since making her U.S. debut in New York City in 1867, she had become the most sought-after dancer in the country, introduced the can-can to American audiences and earned the nickname “The Peerless.”

Photo collector Tony Sapienza said that when graceful Giuseppina performed the “grand gallop can-can” on Jan. 6, 1868, in Boston, where this photograph was taken, her interpretation of the high-stepping dance left the audience breathless. In Scouts of the Prairie she not only remembered her lines better than her co-stars, but also found romance with one of them. On Aug. 31, 1873, she married Omohundro at St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Rochester, N.Y. Morlacchi continued to perform with her dance troupe and star with her husband in Western dramas. But tragedy was to strike the young couple when 33-year-old Texas Jack died of pneumonia in Leadville, Colo., on June 28, 1880. With that Morlacchi stopped touring. A scant six years later, on July 23, 1886, she died of cancer at age 49 in Billerica, Mass.

(For more on both Omohundro and Morlacchi, see Matthew Kerns’ Wild West feature article.)

this article first appeared in wild west magazine

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Farmer, surveyor, Founding Father, first American commander in chief. These are just a few of the ways President George Washington is remembered.

And though books abound, there have been a surprisingly limited number of attempts to tackle the mythic Virginian’s story in film — at least beyond the documentary space. As such, it’s difficult to discern which actor played the best Washington.

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“I don’t know that Mount Vernon could fairly rank but we certainly have some modern day favorites,” Matt Briney, vice president of media and communications for Mount Vernon, told Military Times.

Those, Briney said, include portrayals by Barry Bostwick from the 1984 miniseries “George Washington,” Jeff Daniels in “The Crossing,” and Ian Kahn from “TURN: Washington’s Spies.”

Two major motion pictures about the life or military career of Washington — “The General” and “The Virginian” — were rumored during the mid-to-late 2010s, but their status remains unclear.

Briney notes, however, that in the experience of the historians, the life of George Washington — or the other Founding Fathers, for that matter — does not need the Hollywood treatment to be compelling.

“I think some directors want to [view] them in a more superhuman, mythical [lens] — unrealistic portrayals of one-liner action heroes, but a good director with proper consultation from historians can create a story of their lives that would be very relatable to most people today.”

A treatment such as HBO’s “John Adams,” starring Paul Giamatti as the title character, would be a particularly good way to tackle the life of America’s most influential man, Briney adds.

“It’s my opinion, having produced several short films about Washington, that his life is a complicated and very full story to tell. That’s difficult to do in a 90- to 120-minute film,” he said. “Washington would likely be better served as a mini-series.”

Whether something of that nature is in store remains to be seen. For now, though it’s not historically accurate, there’s at least something to be said for the Dodge commercial in which Washington advances on the Redcoats behind the wheel of a Challenger. Talk about legendary.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.

Michael Dante, 91, appeared in nearly 200 big- and small-screen productions. Western film buffs would recall him best from such movies as Westbound (1959), with Randolph Scott; Apache Rifles (1964) and Arizona Raiders (1965), both with Audie Murphy; and as the title Blackfoot chief in Winterhawk (1975). Born Ralph Vitti (Dante picked his professional name after signing with Warner Bros.) in Stamford, Conn., in 1931, he started acting in fourth grade and majored in drama at the University of Miami. Before moving to Hollywood, he played professional baseball in the Boston Braves and Washington Senators organizations. Nursing a shoulder injury, he took a screen test arranged by big band legend Tommy Dorsey and left pro ball. From 1994–2008 he hosted the radio series The Michael Dante Classic Celebrity Talk Show, out of Palm Beach, Calif. Dante has since turned to writing both nonfiction and fiction, including the autobiography Michael Dante: From Hollywood to Michael Dante Way (2013); My Classic Radio Interviews With the Stars: Vol. 1 (2021), co-authored by wife Mary Jane Dante; and such novels and novellas as the post–Civil War Six Rode Home (2018); the Western sequel Winterhawk’s Land (2017) and the redemption tale Macabe’s Journey (2022), all from BearManor Media. Dante [michaeldanteway.com] recently took time to speak with Wild West about his various careers.

What real-life Westerner would you most like to have played on-screen?

Jesse James. He was a colorful character, very deceptive and knew the territory and despised the railroad. I wanted to make him a colorful character. He was a great horseman, and he and his brother were a team, and his gang was a family. He began to get a little too aggressive, which led to his demise. I made notes about his character, but I never got a chance to play him.

What was it like to play Crazy Horse on the 1967 TV series Custer?

I had read a great deal about him and had tremendous respect and love for native Americans. He was my favorite because he was a visionary and a militarist, a deep thinker, had a high element of a spiritual side. That was the kind of man I am. I could make a wonderful marriage to this character and do something exciting and interesting and show to the American audience what kind of man and leader he was.

But [producer David Weisbart] passed away after the seventh show, died of a heart attack on the golf course, and we were knocked off the air because of political correctness. Custer became a very bad name, unfortunately, so we were off after 17 shows. So I never really got a chance to share with the audience what I eventually was going to contribute to the character and the story.

What are some favorite memories from your days playing pro baseball?

I was underage but signed to a pro contract with a $6,000 bonus. When I received that bonus, the first thing I did was buy our family a brand-new four-door Buick—whitewall tires, radio and heater. It was a beautiful sedan.

Number two was, without a doubt, putting on the major league uniform. The Washington Senators invited me to spring training in 1955 in Orlando, Fla., and the first moment I put on the uniform, I sat by my locker, turned my back on everyone and just shed tears.

Who was your favorite ballplayer and what movies did you like as a boy? 

Joe DiMaggio. The Westerns.

We loved Westerns and the Dead End Kids. We didn’t have any money, but theaters had exit doors. After the first running of the movie and the serials, they would open the side doors. Everybody would exit out of the side instead of going out the front. We used to sneak in!

If we had a nickel, we’d buy a Baby Ruth or a Mounds, and that would be lunch or early dinner, because we’d stay and watch two shows. I had a great love for Buck Jones, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Ken Maynard, John Wayne and all the great stars that did Westerns in those days. We’d sit there and idolize all of them and wanted to be just like them.

When we played cowboys and Indians, I was the only one who’d play the Indian. We drilled a hole in the top of a broomstick and pulled a string through like reins, put a pad in the middle of the broomstick, and that would be our horse. And we’d chase with a cap gun. “Bang, bang! you’re dead. I got you.” That was the beginning of my love of sports, my love of movies and my love of Westerns.

What was it like working with directors Budd Boetticher and Sam Fuller?

The best. Budd Boetticher gave me my first opportunity to star in a motion picture, and that was Westbound. I was under contract to Warner Bros., making $275 a week, which was fine.

I told Budd I had an idea about my character [a one-armed Army veteran] using a Winchester. I picked up the script and went to props and took home the Winchester. Over the weekend I learned to crank it with one hand. It wasn’t written [in the script]. When I showed Monday, Budd said that was beautiful. That was my contribution. 

In first scene that day Randolph Scott was to teach me you can do a lot of things with one hand and one arm. So, in the story he had to teach me how to crank that Winchester. Unfortunately—and with all due respect, as he was a wonderful man and actor—he was not as coordinated as I was. He couldn’t do it. I took all day long—36 takes! At that point Scott’s hands were bleeding. They put tape on them, kept doing it, and he kept fumbling. Finally, he got it.

Budd was a great storyteller. He had a knack of telling stories on the set to keep everybody entertained. He had a great sense of humor.

Sammy Fuller was another wonderful director to work with. We did the provocative Naked Kiss [1964 neo-noir]. He was so innovative. Every day he had something new. One morning Sammy came in at 7 and said, “Michael, I’ve got something today that you’re gonna love. You’re going to shoot your own close-up.” He put a 2-by-6 on the dolly below the lens, and I pressed my shoulders up against that 2-by-6. You can’t go left, you can’t go right—you have to stay perfectly still while your shoulders are slowly pushing that camera on the dolly. Normally I don’t go to see rushes, but I saw the close-up and couldn’t believe how perfect it was. I filled the whole screen. And I did it—I filmed my own close-up.

How was it to co-star in Westerns with Audie Murphy and Randolph Scott?

When I was sitting in the Strand and Palace theaters [as a teen] in Stamford, Conn., they ran newsreels, and one day there was Audie Murphy receiving the Medal of Honor. We were tough kids, good athletes, great competitors, and here he was, our No. 1 hero, and he was not much older than we were. To think one day I’d be co-starring in Apache Rifles and Arizona Raiders with Audie Murphy, whom I idolized off- and on-screen. A lot of people don’t know he wrote poetry and lyrics. He had a great sense of humor, always on time, always knew his dialogue.

Randolph Scott was a perfect gentleman and a great businessman. He was also a great horseman. He could come in cantering and just slip off the horse and be in stride and tie the reins to the post in one motion.

How good a horseman did you become?

I was very good. I learned to ride when I was growing up. There was a buddy of mine, our best pitcher, but he liked to ride horses. He worked at the stable. He was currying a horse and doing his duties with hay and manure in the corrals. “I’ll teach you how to ride,” he said. “It’s a lot of fun, but you’ll have to clean the stalls, wipe down the horse when you’re done.” The owners liked me as I progressed, and I got to be pretty good. It’s like riding a bike—you don’t forget. So I was able to take that with me when I worked on my first Western in Hollywood. I got better as I got along.

You passed up a chance to co-star in TV’s The Untouchables. Why?

I was to be the star in 13 episodes, and Robert Stack was to be the star in 13 episodes. We’d alternate. Producer Quinn Martin offered me everything. I said I want to do films, signed a contract [with 20th Century Fox] and did Seven Thieves[with Edward G. Robinson and Rod Steiger]. Unfortunately, [Fox] was bankrupt and couldn’t distribute the picture when finished. It had one picture doing well in New York called Journey to the Center of the Earth, so it put the money into distribution of that film and didn’t have money for Seven Thieves. Ours was an art piece. It was commercial exploitation.

I’d turned down several series. As a matter of fact, I turned down The High Chaparral [1967–71]. After I guest-starred in a Bonanza episode called “The Brass Box,” executive producer David Dortort said, “I’d like you to do a series for me.”

 “OK, what do you have in mind?”

“We’re doing a series called High Chaparral. Cameron Mitchell is starring in it, and I want you to play Manolito. He’s Hispanic.” 

“David,” I said, “I don’t want to pigeonhole my career being a Latin actor because I played Ortega in ‘The Brass Box.’…I just don’t want to typecast myself.” [Henry Darrow landed the Manolito role.]

How did The Michael Dante Classic Celebrity Talk Show come about?

After filming Winterhawk and The Farmer [1977], I was doing some publicity in Palm Springs, Calif. I did a radio show (KXJ at the time), and the interviewer said, “Would you be interested in doing a radio show?”

“I don’t know anything about radio.”

 “I’ll teach you,” he said.

He signed me to a contract for 13 shows. The first couple of shows I was terrible. I went overtime on the commercial. I got in or out too late. But I began to learn what I was doing. At the end of 13 shows he said, “I want to sign you to 13 more.”

“What I’ll do,” I said, “is pay you for the airtime, and I’ll get sponsors for my own show.”

“Wow, you learn fast,” he said.

That was the beginning. That went on for 12 years, and I eventually moved to Palm Springs. Mary Jane became my radio operator and sound editor, and we were a dream team. We had hour-long interviews with all these people.

We didn’t make any money when we did the shows, but we paid our bills.

this article first appeared in wild west magazine

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What made you turn to writing?

It evolved. I didn’t realize I was pursuing the career of my life by treating it as an artform. It gave me encouragement from my acting experience, what I was reading, and I took notes. So I put these thoughts down on paper and thought maybe someday I’d be fortunate to write these stories, or a book or novella or screenplay, or a combination of all these things.

During my radio show and then COVID I had an ample amount of time to put these words and thoughts together and see what came out.

Which appeals to you more—fiction or nonfiction?

I enjoyed my autobiography immensely, of course. But I’d have to say writing fiction from the synopses and treatments I’d written many years ago. My fans have encouraged me along the way. My wife said I write well. So, I plunged in. So far so good.

On what did you base your post–Civil War novella Six Rode Home?

What inspired me to write that was reading about the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and all the veterans’ ordeals—suicide, divorce, depression—when they came home. Since the beginning of time veterans have gone through this. The only things that have changed are the locations and the names.

What has been the key to your success as a ballplayer, actor, radio show host, writer?

Discipline. You can have all the talent in the world, but if you have no discipline, you’re not worth a nickel.

People think discipline is reprimand, punishment. Discipline is love. Discipline guides you. It’s something God gave you. It’s your baby. You create it from start to scratch, beginning to end, and that comes from hard work, reading a lot and listening. 

Listening is key. What radio taught me was so important. I wished I had learned it in my 20s. Radio talk shows are not about talking but about listening. 

Preparation is also important as a radio show host, as an actor, as a ballplayer. The answers come when you do your homework. You prepare. You have a game plan. And that’s what I always had—discipline and a game plan. 

Have no fear of making mistakes. Explore. As an actor you explore. You don’t know where writing is going to take you, so go with it. Be daring. Be opportunistic. Go where you’d like to go. Also read as much as you can and watch other pros work, how they get to their objectives, what makes them successful.

What’s next for you?

My next book, Listen to the Rain, a contemporary novel.

If you were interviewing Michael Dante, what would you ask?

I would ask, “Why did you refuse a number of film and TV series?”

I did what I wanted to do. I did it my way, and I did it well. I could have been the star of The Untouchables. I didn’t realize at the time that exposure was the most important factor if an actor wanted to become independent and get to do the things he wanted to do. You have to have the exposure for people to recognize you and your work. You have to do 10 to 15 films before you get the recognition I would have gotten overnight in The Untouchables. Millions and millions of people would have seen me. I didn’t realize that at the time.

Regrets?

No. I was young. My lifestyle may have changed. I may not have met my wonderful wife, Mary Jane, who is my team.…I may not have ever met you. All things happen for a reason. It’s been a wonderful ride, and I’m still active and blessed by divine guidance. 

Michael Dante: From Hollywood to Michael Dante Way

By Michael Dante, 2013

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May is military appreciation month — a time to reflect with gratitude on the men and women who have served this country. And there was no perhaps no more necessary time in American history for citizens to answer the call to service than World War II.

Numerous documentaries have ventured to convey the seemingly insurmountable odds confronted by ground, air and naval forces, and the immense sacrifices that resulted.

As such, we compiled a list of five comprehensive World World II documentaries that best tell these harrowing stories.

World War II in HD

Released by the History Channel in 2009, this 10-episode series narrated by Gary Sinise (”Forrest Gump”) uses stunning footage from both the European and Pacific fronts, much of which was shot in color, to illustrate the horrors and triumphs of war.

The producers sourced first-hand stories from journalists, medics and soldiers, and used voice overs by professional actors to bring them to life.

Inside World War II

Released in 2012, this three-part documentary from National Geographic features personal stories of World War II from troops who lived it. According to its synopsis, the series “takes an intimate look at personal wartime experiences from the perspective of a wide array of veterans and citizens who endured … bloody conflicts day by day, hour by hour, and second by second.”

Episodes feature both black-and-white and color footage that move chronologically though the war’s defining moments.

World War II: The Last Heroes

This six-part series, which focuses on the ordinary boys who became heroes, begins with D-Day and ends at the war’s conclusion. The crux of this particular documentary is a story of war as told by its foot soldiers — rather than through a lens of historians or high-ranking decision makers.

The series is currently available to view on Amazon Prime.

World War 2: The Complete History

“The Complete History” is a slightly older series designed to appeal to the well-versed history and military buffs interested in oft overlooked details of the conflict.

Produced in 2000 and narrated by Peter Dickson (”Britain’s Got Talent”), the documentary begins with pre-WWII discussions surrounding the Treaty of Versailles and the Japanese invasion of Manchuria and concludes with the Nuremberg trials and the Cold War.

Apocalypse: The Second World War

This six-part French documentary is perhaps one of the best international films on the conflict. U.S. viewers, meanwhile, can enjoy a National Geographic-treated version narrated by Martin Sheen. The series can be easily digested by a WWII novice wanting to understand the high points of the war.

The documentary comprises footage — shot by regular citizens, journalists, and troops on the ground — that has been colorized and digitally remastered.

Originally published by Military Times, our sister publication.