Library Magic and Airlift Gold

Deep Dive in D.C.: General Tunner, Glue-Stained Maps, and a Whole Lot of Joy

Okay, I’m officially a nerd. A happy one. A very happy one.

I recently spent hours—seriously, hours—in the Library of Congress in Washington, buried in boxes and folders full of old paper, and I was practically giddy flipping through General Tunner’s personal files from the Berlin Airlift.

But let me back up a little …

You know that feeling when you’re chasing down something that matters to you—and every little breadcrumb you find leads to another door, another piece of the story? That’s been me the last few days.

It started with a phone conversation with General Tunner’s son a few months back. He shared with me that his dad had kept meticulous records, which he had donated to the National Archives.

Since I was in Washington this week for an event at the German Embassy, I figured this was a good opportunity to visit the Archives to search for General Tunner’s airlift notebooks. As you may or may not know, Tunner was the mastermind behind the organization of the Berlin Airlift operations. Once I found the right entrance at the archives, the staff was super helpful, and after a bit of digging, they referred me to the Library of Congress. Apparently, that’s where the real Tunner treasures live.

Let me just say—walking into the Library of Congress isn’t like strolling into your local library. This place is serious. Security checkpoint at the entrance. No bags. No jackets. No pens. You’re allowed to use your laptop, phone, and memory stick. That’s it. The library provides pencils and paper. It feels a bit like stepping into a time capsule, which, honestly, fits the vibe perfectly.

I requested access to General Tunner’s personal collection, and soon after checking in, a cart was wheeled out for me, stacked with archival boxes. My heart may have skipped a beat. Each box is carefully labeled, and each folder is packed with history.

And the rules? Strict. The boxes had to stay on the cart. I could pull out one folder at a time. No stacking. No taking pages off the table. Photographs could only be handled with gloves.

Inside those boxes? Gold.

Memos. Official daily reports. Notes scribbled in the margins of typewritten documents. And the maps. Oh, the maps. Some had been glued together into larger layouts—slightly wrinkled, with faint glue stains at the seams. You could almost feel the urgency behind them, like someone had to see the whole picture now, so they made it work with what they had.

These weren’t showpieces. These were tools. Working documents used to coordinate flights through narrow corridors, into a city on the brink.

Routes into Berlin, corridors through the Soviet zone, marked up and color-coded. You could see how precise they had to be, how every inch of airspace mattered. It wasn’t just logistics—it was life or death.

At one point, I opened a folder and there it was: a signed original letter from Berlin’s mayor, Ernst Reuter, to General Tunner. I felt like I’d stumbled into a private moment between two men who understood the weight of the mission they were part of.

These weren’t just formal military documents. Some of them had creases like they’d been pulled from a jacket pocket. Others were typed up in a hurry, with scribbles in the margins.

I was grinning like a kid in a candy store. Except, you know, the candy was Cold War documents, and the store smelled like old books and history.

I never knew this is the kind of thing I love. Digging into the real stuff. The stuff that doesn't make it into the headlines or the schoolbooks. The kind that reminds you these were actual people trying to solve a ‘Mission Impossible.’ And somehow, they did.

There's something about holding history in your hands—something fragile and powerful all at once. And honestly? I felt a little emotional.

These weren’t just records. They were proof. Proof of what people can do when they refuse to give up.

By the time I walked out of there, my brain was buzzing - even though I knew I had only touched the tiniest tip of the iceberg – and my heart completely full. It’s such a strange but wonderful feeling—learning something that makes you feel closer to the past while also totally fired up about the future.

This work with Voices of the Berlin Airlift has taken me to many unexpected places, but this one? It felt extra special. It reminded me of why I’m doing this in the first place. Because history like this needs to be remembered, shared, and honored. Because people like Tunner, Reuter, and the thousands who flew or stood their ground in Berlin deserve more than a passing footnote.

They deserve to be heard and remembered. We can honor them by not forgetting, by preserving their legacy, the legacy of the Berlin Airlift.

Please help me carry this story forward. If you know someone who remembers the airlift, has family stories, or is connected to the Berlin Airlift in any way, please let them know about Voices of the Berlin Airlift.