“Curiosity killed the cat,” as my grandmother used to say. But curiosity is also what led me on a memorable drive to Atlanta back in 2011, an experience still vivid in my mind because of the remarkable legacy of Pete Wheeler, a native son of Crawford, Georgia.
Even today, driving down Bunker Hill Road, spotting the weathered red barn of his grandfather—now part of Crawford Village—brings a smile to my face, recalling Pete’s humble beginnings working on that very farm.
With Veterans Day approaching, it’s fitting to remember Pete Wheeler, a true legend among Georgia veterans. Pete Wheeler dedicated an astounding 66 years of his life to serving as the commissioner of the Georgia Department of Veterans Service, until his passing in 2015. Appointed by his college roommate, Governor Herman Talmadge, Pete served under 12 Georgia governors, a testament to his unwavering dedication and bipartisan respect he commanded. His contributions are further honored by the plaza named after General Pete Wheeler, located in front of the Sloppy Floyd Building, near the state capitol.
Eleven years prior to his passing, on a seemingly ordinary September day, Pete Wheeler extended an invitation to me and a few friends for a visit, promising a surprise. Intrigued by Pete’s reputation for the unexpected, we braved Atlanta’s notorious traffic and parking challenges to accept.
That morning, I had been with former U.S. Senator Sam Nunn. Upon learning of my impending visit with the commissioner, Senator Nunn remarked, “I love Pete Wheeler. Please tell him he’s the best. Give him my regards.” Such high praise, “love and respect,” from a national figure as esteemed as Senator Nunn, spoke volumes about Pete Wheeler’s character and impact. It only took moments within Pete’s presence to understand the depth of that sentiment.
Stepping into the Georgia Department of Veterans Service was like entering a living museum. The walls were a comprehensive tribute to the brave men and women who have served the nation. History permeated every corner. Pete Wheeler shared that Georgia boasted the largest number of military retirees in the nation and the fourth-largest active-duty population, highlighting the extensive reach of his responsibilities across the state.
During our visit, I addressed him formally as “commissioner” and then as “general,” acknowledging his distinguished service. Pete, then 89 years young, simply waved his cane and with a warm smile said, “Just call me Pete.” Born in 1922, the same year as my own father, Pete Wheeler possessed a timeless quality, connecting generations through his stories and wisdom.
Our time with Pete was a captivating journey through history. Every word he spoke seemed worthy of recording. He recounted witnessing Richard B. Russell’s inauguration as Georgia’s youngest governor in 1930. Behind him, a flag carried by Georgians in the Spanish-American War served as a tangible link to the past. With a tap of his cane, he brought relic after relic to life with fascinating anecdotes.
Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he paused and asked, “Are you ready?”
Our curiosity, indeed, was reaching its peak. In unison, we eagerly responded, “Yes!”
He led us single file through a maze of veteran records and memorabilia. “Here we are,” Pete announced, “We’re in the Hall of Dishonor.” With another tap of his cane, this time on a nondescript metal storage cabinet, he revealed his surprise. There, on the bottom shelf, lay Adolf Hitler’s 150-pound bronze head, casually draped with a Rich’s shopping bag.
What?
How?
Pete Wheeler explained the incredible story: when Allied troops captured Berlin in World War II, American soldiers had toppled the Nazi dictator’s colossal statue. A Georgia GI, in a moment of historical souvenir hunting, hacksawed off Hitler’s bronze head. This macabre trophy somehow navigated its way through customs and into the possession of Georgia’s Secretary of State, Ben Fortson, who then entrusted it to the commissioner of veteran services – Pete Wheeler.
Viewing it as a chilling reminder of Hitler’s hateful regime, Pete decided to conceal the heavy head within a dusty “chamber of dishonor,” where it remained for decades, a hidden piece of world history in Georgia.
Pete Wheeler certainly knew how to ignite curiosity and deliver on his promises, exceeding all expectations with his stories and the unforgettable grand finale. It’s no surprise that veterans held him in such high esteem and affection.
Today, a new wave of curiosity is “killing my cat.”
Where is Hitler’s head now?
