Today In History logo TIH

Today In History

February 29 in History

Your birthday shares the stage with stories that shaped the world. Born on this day: Pedro Sánchez, Jessica Long, and John Philip Holland.

Columbus Uses Eclipse: Science as Weapon Against Natives
1504Event

Columbus Uses Eclipse: Science as Weapon Against Natives

Christopher Columbus was stranded, starving, and running out of options when he pulled a bluff that would make a poker player proud. Marooned on Jamaica's north coast since June 1503 with two worm-eaten ships and a mutinous crew, Columbus had been relying on the Taino people for food. When the natives grew tired of feeding ungrateful foreigners who offered little in return, they cut off supplies. Columbus consulted his almanac and found his weapon: a total lunar eclipse predicted for the evening of February 29, 1504. Columbus had sailed from Spain on his fourth and final voyage in May 1502 with four ships and 140 men. The expedition was a disaster from the start. He was denied entry to Santo Domingo, barely survived a hurricane off Honduras, spent months searching fruitlessly for a strait to the Indian Ocean along the Central American coast, and lost two ships to shipworm before beaching the remaining two in Saint Ann's Bay, Jamaica. A small party canoed 108 miles to Hispaniola for help, but the governor, who despised Columbus, delayed sending a rescue ship for over a year. Three days before the eclipse, Columbus summoned the Taino leaders and told them that his God was displeased with their refusal to provide food and would demonstrate his anger by turning the moon blood red. When the eclipse began on schedule, the terrified Taino begged Columbus to intercede. He retired to his cabin with an hourglass, waited until the eclipse was nearing totality, then emerged and announced that God had been persuaded to relent. As the moon reappeared, the Taino agreed to resume food deliveries. The story, recorded by Columbus's son Ferdinand and by the Spanish historian Bartolome de las Casas, illustrates both the power of scientific knowledge and its capacity for exploitation. Columbus used European astronomy not to educate but to deceive and coerce, establishing a pattern of manipulating indigenous peoples through technological superiority that would characterize centuries of colonial encounters. A rescue ship finally arrived in June 1504. Columbus returned to Spain in November and died in 1506, still believing he had reached the outskirts of Asia.

Famous Birthdays

Pedro Sánchez

Pedro Sánchez

b. 1972

Jessica Long

Jessica Long

b. 1992

John Philip Holland

John Philip Holland

d. 1914

Khaled

Khaled

b. 1960

Pedro Zamora

Pedro Zamora

1972–1994

Historical Events

Christopher Columbus was stranded, starving, and running out of options when he pulled a bluff that would make a poker player proud. Marooned on Jamaica's north coast since June 1503 with two worm-eaten ships and a mutinous crew, Columbus had been relying on the Taino people for food. When the natives grew tired of feeding ungrateful foreigners who offered little in return, they cut off supplies. Columbus consulted his almanac and found his weapon: a total lunar eclipse predicted for the evening of February 29, 1504.

Columbus had sailed from Spain on his fourth and final voyage in May 1502 with four ships and 140 men. The expedition was a disaster from the start. He was denied entry to Santo Domingo, barely survived a hurricane off Honduras, spent months searching fruitlessly for a strait to the Indian Ocean along the Central American coast, and lost two ships to shipworm before beaching the remaining two in Saint Ann's Bay, Jamaica. A small party canoed 108 miles to Hispaniola for help, but the governor, who despised Columbus, delayed sending a rescue ship for over a year.

Three days before the eclipse, Columbus summoned the Taino leaders and told them that his God was displeased with their refusal to provide food and would demonstrate his anger by turning the moon blood red. When the eclipse began on schedule, the terrified Taino begged Columbus to intercede. He retired to his cabin with an hourglass, waited until the eclipse was nearing totality, then emerged and announced that God had been persuaded to relent. As the moon reappeared, the Taino agreed to resume food deliveries.

The story, recorded by Columbus's son Ferdinand and by the Spanish historian Bartolome de las Casas, illustrates both the power of scientific knowledge and its capacity for exploitation. Columbus used European astronomy not to educate but to deceive and coerce, establishing a pattern of manipulating indigenous peoples through technological superiority that would characterize centuries of colonial encounters. A rescue ship finally arrived in June 1504. Columbus returned to Spain in November and died in 1506, still believing he had reached the outskirts of Asia.
1504

Christopher Columbus was stranded, starving, and running out of options when he pulled a bluff that would make a poker player proud. Marooned on Jamaica's north coast since June 1503 with two worm-eaten ships and a mutinous crew, Columbus had been relying on the Taino people for food. When the natives grew tired of feeding ungrateful foreigners who offered little in return, they cut off supplies. Columbus consulted his almanac and found his weapon: a total lunar eclipse predicted for the evening of February 29, 1504. Columbus had sailed from Spain on his fourth and final voyage in May 1502 with four ships and 140 men. The expedition was a disaster from the start. He was denied entry to Santo Domingo, barely survived a hurricane off Honduras, spent months searching fruitlessly for a strait to the Indian Ocean along the Central American coast, and lost two ships to shipworm before beaching the remaining two in Saint Ann's Bay, Jamaica. A small party canoed 108 miles to Hispaniola for help, but the governor, who despised Columbus, delayed sending a rescue ship for over a year. Three days before the eclipse, Columbus summoned the Taino leaders and told them that his God was displeased with their refusal to provide food and would demonstrate his anger by turning the moon blood red. When the eclipse began on schedule, the terrified Taino begged Columbus to intercede. He retired to his cabin with an hourglass, waited until the eclipse was nearing totality, then emerged and announced that God had been persuaded to relent. As the moon reappeared, the Taino agreed to resume food deliveries. The story, recorded by Columbus's son Ferdinand and by the Spanish historian Bartolome de las Casas, illustrates both the power of scientific knowledge and its capacity for exploitation. Columbus used European astronomy not to educate but to deceive and coerce, establishing a pattern of manipulating indigenous peoples through technological superiority that would characterize centuries of colonial encounters. A rescue ship finally arrived in June 1504. Columbus returned to Spain in November and died in 1506, still believing he had reached the outskirts of Asia.

Lewis Hine's photographs stared back at a nation that preferred not to look. Children as young as five stood barefoot beside textile looms taller than they were. Eight-year-olds carried heavy bobbins through cotton mills, their faces blank with exhaustion. Boys of ten hauled coal in mines where the air turned their lungs black. When South Carolina raised its minimum factory working age from twelve to fourteen on February 29, 1916, it was one small step in a decades-long fight to end the exploitation of American children in the industrial economy.

The scale of child labor in early twentieth-century America was staggering. By 1900, an estimated 1.7 million children under fifteen worked in factories, mills, mines, and canneries. By 1910, the number exceeded two million. Glass factories were among the worst employers, exposing boys to temperatures above 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit, causing burns, eye damage, and lung disease. Since workers were paid by the piece, there were no breaks. Night shifts ran from 5 p.m. to 3 a.m. Factory owners preferred children under sixteen because they were cheap, compliant, and small enough to reach into dangerous machinery.

Hine, hired by the National Child Labor Committee in 1908, spent nearly a decade infiltrating factories and mines with hidden cameras. He posed as a fire inspector, a Bible salesman, and an industrial photographer to gain access. His images — a twelve-year-old spinner in a North Carolina cotton mill, a tiny "breaker boy" picking slate from coal, a girl working an industrial loom in a bare room — put human faces on statistics that legislators had ignored. The photographs were published in newspapers and exhibited across the country, generating public outrage that sustained the reform movement.

South Carolina's 1916 law was part of a broader wave. Congress passed the Keating-Owen Act later that year, banning interstate commerce in goods produced by child labor, but the Supreme Court struck it down in 1918. A constitutional amendment proposed in 1924 failed to win ratification. Federal child labor protections did not become permanent until the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938. The gap between recognizing a moral horror and ending it legally took more than thirty years, a timeline that says as much about political economy as it does about conscience.
1916

Lewis Hine's photographs stared back at a nation that preferred not to look. Children as young as five stood barefoot beside textile looms taller than they were. Eight-year-olds carried heavy bobbins through cotton mills, their faces blank with exhaustion. Boys of ten hauled coal in mines where the air turned their lungs black. When South Carolina raised its minimum factory working age from twelve to fourteen on February 29, 1916, it was one small step in a decades-long fight to end the exploitation of American children in the industrial economy. The scale of child labor in early twentieth-century America was staggering. By 1900, an estimated 1.7 million children under fifteen worked in factories, mills, mines, and canneries. By 1910, the number exceeded two million. Glass factories were among the worst employers, exposing boys to temperatures above 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit, causing burns, eye damage, and lung disease. Since workers were paid by the piece, there were no breaks. Night shifts ran from 5 p.m. to 3 a.m. Factory owners preferred children under sixteen because they were cheap, compliant, and small enough to reach into dangerous machinery. Hine, hired by the National Child Labor Committee in 1908, spent nearly a decade infiltrating factories and mines with hidden cameras. He posed as a fire inspector, a Bible salesman, and an industrial photographer to gain access. His images — a twelve-year-old spinner in a North Carolina cotton mill, a tiny "breaker boy" picking slate from coal, a girl working an industrial loom in a bare room — put human faces on statistics that legislators had ignored. The photographs were published in newspapers and exhibited across the country, generating public outrage that sustained the reform movement. South Carolina's 1916 law was part of a broader wave. Congress passed the Keating-Owen Act later that year, banning interstate commerce in goods produced by child labor, but the Supreme Court struck it down in 1918. A constitutional amendment proposed in 1924 failed to win ratification. Federal child labor protections did not become permanent until the Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938. The gap between recognizing a moral horror and ending it legally took more than thirty years, a timeline that says as much about political economy as it does about conscience.

The Kerner Commission delivered the bluntest assessment of American race relations ever produced by a presidential body, and the president who created it refused to accept the findings. The National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders, chaired by Illinois Governor Otto Kerner Jr., released its report on February 29, 1968, warning that the United States was "moving toward two societies, one black, one white — separate and unequal." The report blamed white racism, not Black militancy or outside agitators, for the wave of urban uprisings that had swept American cities.

President Lyndon Johnson had created the commission in July 1967 after riots in Newark and Detroit killed dozens and destroyed entire neighborhoods. Johnson expected the commission to blame radical agitators and recommend tougher policing. Instead, the eleven-member panel — which included moderate politicians, business leaders, and civil rights figures — investigated twenty-three cities where disorders had occurred and reached a conclusion that challenged the entire American political establishment.

The report documented in meticulous detail how decades of discriminatory housing policies, employment practices, police brutality, and inadequate public services had created the conditions for urban rebellion. It recommended massive federal investment in jobs, housing, education, and welfare programs, calling for the creation of two million new jobs, six million new housing units, and a guaranteed minimum income. The price tag would have dwarfed the Great Society programs Johnson had already struggled to fund alongside the Vietnam War.

Johnson received the report and effectively buried it. He refused to accept its recommendations, partly because of the cost and partly because blaming white America for Black unrest was politically toxic in an election year. The report sold over two million copies and became one of the most widely read government documents in American history, but its policy recommendations were largely ignored. Five weeks after its release, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, and the urban uprisings the commission had warned about erupted again in over a hundred cities. The report's diagnosis of two Americas has been cited repeatedly in every subsequent decade, most recently after the police killing of George Floyd in 2020, which suggests its central finding has been more durable than anyone in power has been willing to address.
1968

The Kerner Commission delivered the bluntest assessment of American race relations ever produced by a presidential body, and the president who created it refused to accept the findings. The National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorders, chaired by Illinois Governor Otto Kerner Jr., released its report on February 29, 1968, warning that the United States was "moving toward two societies, one black, one white — separate and unequal." The report blamed white racism, not Black militancy or outside agitators, for the wave of urban uprisings that had swept American cities. President Lyndon Johnson had created the commission in July 1967 after riots in Newark and Detroit killed dozens and destroyed entire neighborhoods. Johnson expected the commission to blame radical agitators and recommend tougher policing. Instead, the eleven-member panel — which included moderate politicians, business leaders, and civil rights figures — investigated twenty-three cities where disorders had occurred and reached a conclusion that challenged the entire American political establishment. The report documented in meticulous detail how decades of discriminatory housing policies, employment practices, police brutality, and inadequate public services had created the conditions for urban rebellion. It recommended massive federal investment in jobs, housing, education, and welfare programs, calling for the creation of two million new jobs, six million new housing units, and a guaranteed minimum income. The price tag would have dwarfed the Great Society programs Johnson had already struggled to fund alongside the Vietnam War. Johnson received the report and effectively buried it. He refused to accept its recommendations, partly because of the cost and partly because blaming white America for Black unrest was politically toxic in an election year. The report sold over two million copies and became one of the most widely read government documents in American history, but its policy recommendations were largely ignored. Five weeks after its release, Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, and the urban uprisings the commission had warned about erupted again in over a hundred cities. The report's diagnosis of two Americas has been cited repeatedly in every subsequent decade, most recently after the police killing of George Floyd in 2020, which suggests its central finding has been more durable than anyone in power has been willing to address.

888

Odo wasn't supposed to be king. He was a count, not a Carolingian. But when Vikings besieged Paris in 885, he held the city for eleven months while Emperor Charles the Fat did nothing. Charles sent no troops, no supplies, just a bribe to make the Vikings leave. Three years later, the nobles deposed Charles and chose Odo instead. A military hero over a legitimate bloodline. The archbishop crowned him at Compiègne on this day in 888. It didn't stick—Carolingians would reclaim the throne after his death. But the precedent was set: competence could beat birthright. France wouldn't forget that.

The attack came at four in the morning during a February blizzard, and the snowdrifts that were supposed to protect the town became the instrument of its destruction. French soldiers and their Abenaki and Mohawk allies walked over snow piled against the ten-foot stockade at Deerfield, Massachusetts, dropped into the sleeping village, and launched one of the most devastating raids of Queen Anne's War. By dawn on February 29, 1704, fifty-six residents were dead and more than a hundred had been taken captive for the three-hundred-mile forced march to Canada.

Deerfield sat on the northern edge of English settlement in the Connecticut River valley, a frontier town of roughly 270 people that had been raided before. The stockade, built after earlier attacks, enclosed the central village and several garrison houses. But the winter of 1703-1704 had deposited exceptional snowfall, and the drifts against the northern wall reached nearly to the top of the palisade. A raiding force of roughly 50 French soldiers and 200 Native warriors from multiple nations had traveled overland from Canada on snowshoes, arriving undetected.

The raiders overwhelmed the town's defenses within minutes. They set houses on fire and killed those who resisted. The town's minister, John Williams, was captured along with his wife and five children. His wife, Eunice, weakened from a recent childbirth, was tomahawked and killed on the second day of the march when she could not keep pace. Their seven-year-old daughter, also named Eunice, was adopted by a Mohawk family at Kahnawake near Montreal, married a Mohawk man, converted to Catholicism, and refused to return to New England despite repeated attempts by her family over the following decades.

The Deerfield raid was one of dozens of frontier attacks during the French and Indian conflicts that plagued New England for nearly a century. John Williams was eventually ransomed and returned to write "The Redeemed Captive Returning to Zion," one of the most popular captivity narratives in colonial American literature. His daughter Eunice's choice to remain with the Mohawk challenged English assumptions about the superiority of their civilization and became one of the most studied cases of cultural assimilation in colonial history. The reconstructed village and memorial in modern Deerfield remains one of the best-preserved sites of early American frontier conflict.
1704

The attack came at four in the morning during a February blizzard, and the snowdrifts that were supposed to protect the town became the instrument of its destruction. French soldiers and their Abenaki and Mohawk allies walked over snow piled against the ten-foot stockade at Deerfield, Massachusetts, dropped into the sleeping village, and launched one of the most devastating raids of Queen Anne's War. By dawn on February 29, 1704, fifty-six residents were dead and more than a hundred had been taken captive for the three-hundred-mile forced march to Canada. Deerfield sat on the northern edge of English settlement in the Connecticut River valley, a frontier town of roughly 270 people that had been raided before. The stockade, built after earlier attacks, enclosed the central village and several garrison houses. But the winter of 1703-1704 had deposited exceptional snowfall, and the drifts against the northern wall reached nearly to the top of the palisade. A raiding force of roughly 50 French soldiers and 200 Native warriors from multiple nations had traveled overland from Canada on snowshoes, arriving undetected. The raiders overwhelmed the town's defenses within minutes. They set houses on fire and killed those who resisted. The town's minister, John Williams, was captured along with his wife and five children. His wife, Eunice, weakened from a recent childbirth, was tomahawked and killed on the second day of the march when she could not keep pace. Their seven-year-old daughter, also named Eunice, was adopted by a Mohawk family at Kahnawake near Montreal, married a Mohawk man, converted to Catholicism, and refused to return to New England despite repeated attempts by her family over the following decades. The Deerfield raid was one of dozens of frontier attacks during the French and Indian conflicts that plagued New England for nearly a century. John Williams was eventually ransomed and returned to write "The Redeemed Captive Returning to Zion," one of the most popular captivity narratives in colonial American literature. His daughter Eunice's choice to remain with the Mohawk challenged English assumptions about the superiority of their civilization and became one of the most studied cases of cultural assimilation in colonial history. The reconstructed village and memorial in modern Deerfield remains one of the best-preserved sites of early American frontier conflict.

Sweden once had a February 30th — the only country in recorded history to add that nonexistent date to its calendar — and the reason involves one of the most spectacularly botched calendar reforms ever attempted. The story begins with a sensible idea, detours through forty years of confusion, and ends with a date that should not exist appearing on the Swedish calendar in 1712.

The problem was the gap between the Julian and Gregorian calendars. By 1700, the Julian calendar, which most Protestant countries still used, had drifted ten days behind the Gregorian calendar adopted by Catholic nations in 1582. Most countries that switched simply deleted the extra days overnight — Britain, for instance, jumped from September 2 to September 14 in 1752, prompting (possibly apocryphal) protests demanding "Give us our eleven days!" Sweden chose a different approach: it would gradually shift to the Gregorian calendar by skipping all leap days between 1700 and 1740, eliminating one extra day per cycle until the calendars aligned.

The plan went wrong almost immediately. Sweden successfully skipped the leap day in 1700, putting it one day ahead of the Julian calendar but still nine days behind the Gregorian one. Then the Great Northern War erupted, Karl XII was consumed with fighting Russia, and everyone forgot about the calendar reform. Leap days were observed normally in 1704 and 1708, meaning Sweden was now on a calendar shared by no other country on Earth — one day off from Julian and nine days off from Gregorian.

In 1712, the Swedish government gave up on the gradual approach and decided to return to the Julian calendar by adding the day it had previously skipped. Since 1712 was already a leap year, Sweden added an extra day after February 29, creating February 30, 1712 — a date that has appeared on no calendar before or since. Sweden eventually adopted the Gregorian calendar properly in 1753 by the British method, jumping from February 17 to March 1. The entire episode lasted fifty-three years and accomplished nothing except producing one of history's most endearing bureaucratic absurdities.
1712

Sweden once had a February 30th — the only country in recorded history to add that nonexistent date to its calendar — and the reason involves one of the most spectacularly botched calendar reforms ever attempted. The story begins with a sensible idea, detours through forty years of confusion, and ends with a date that should not exist appearing on the Swedish calendar in 1712. The problem was the gap between the Julian and Gregorian calendars. By 1700, the Julian calendar, which most Protestant countries still used, had drifted ten days behind the Gregorian calendar adopted by Catholic nations in 1582. Most countries that switched simply deleted the extra days overnight — Britain, for instance, jumped from September 2 to September 14 in 1752, prompting (possibly apocryphal) protests demanding "Give us our eleven days!" Sweden chose a different approach: it would gradually shift to the Gregorian calendar by skipping all leap days between 1700 and 1740, eliminating one extra day per cycle until the calendars aligned. The plan went wrong almost immediately. Sweden successfully skipped the leap day in 1700, putting it one day ahead of the Julian calendar but still nine days behind the Gregorian one. Then the Great Northern War erupted, Karl XII was consumed with fighting Russia, and everyone forgot about the calendar reform. Leap days were observed normally in 1704 and 1708, meaning Sweden was now on a calendar shared by no other country on Earth — one day off from Julian and nine days off from Gregorian. In 1712, the Swedish government gave up on the gradual approach and decided to return to the Julian calendar by adding the day it had previously skipped. Since 1712 was already a leap year, Sweden added an extra day after February 29, creating February 30, 1712 — a date that has appeared on no calendar before or since. Sweden eventually adopted the Gregorian calendar properly in 1753 by the British method, jumping from February 17 to March 1. The entire episode lasted fifty-three years and accomplished nothing except producing one of history's most endearing bureaucratic absurdities.

1864

The Kilpatrick-Dahlgren Raid failed on March 2, 1864, when someone found papers on a dead colonel's body ordering the assassination of Jefferson Davis and the burning of Richmond. Colonel Ulric Dahlgren had led 500 Union cavalry in a diversionary sweep toward the Confederate capital while Brigadier General Judson Kilpatrick attacked from the north. The mission's stated objective was to free 15,000 Union prisoners held in camps around Richmond. Dahlgren's column got lost when their guide led them to a river crossing that was impassable due to spring flooding. Confederate Home Guard ambushed Dahlgren's column near King and Queen Court House. Dahlgren was killed. Soldiers searching his body discovered papers that appeared to be orders directing his men to burn Richmond and kill Davis and his cabinet. The Confederacy published the documents immediately and sent copies to European governments, using them as evidence that the Union was waging a war of extermination. The reaction was explosive. Lincoln's government denied the papers were authentic, calling them Confederate forgeries. Dahlgren's father, Admiral John Dahlgren, demanded their return and insisted they were fabricated. The question of authenticity has never been conclusively resolved. Historical analysis suggests the papers may have been genuine but represented Dahlgren's personal initiative rather than sanctioned Union policy. Kilpatrick, who survived the failed raid, never admitted knowledge of assassination orders. The controversy overshadowed the raid's military failure and hardened Confederate resistance. It also contributed to the Confederate conspiracy that ultimately produced Lincoln's own assassination thirteen months later, as some Southern agents may have been motivated in part by the belief that the Union had sanctioned political murder first.

1908

The State Normal and Industrial School for Women opened with 209 students and fifteen faculty members. Virginia needed teachers. Women could be trained cheaply. The school would prepare them to teach in rural counties for $25 a month. The legislature allocated $50,000 to build it. They picked Harrisonburg because the town donated the land and raised an additional $10,000. Classes started in a single building. No dormitories yet — students boarded with local families. The school became Madison College in 1938, then James Madison University in 1977. Today it enrolls 22,000 students. Started as a training program for underpaid rural teachers. Now it's a research university.

1916

South Carolina's mills ran on children. In 1900, one in four textile workers was under 16. Some started at age 7. Mill owners fought the 1916 law hard — they'd lose cheap labor. The new minimum? Fourteen. And only in factories. Farms didn't count. Neither did domestic work. So thousands of Black children kept working anyway, outside the law's reach. The exemptions weren't accidental.

1932

William "Alfalfa Bill" Murray appeared on the cover of TIME magazine on March 2, 1932, wearing a ten-gallon hat and boots, looking exactly like the populist eccentric that he was. The Oklahoma governor had become a national figure through a combination of genuine populism, theatrical self-promotion, and positions that were bizarre even by Depression-era standards. Murray had been a farmer, lawyer, and politician who helped write Oklahoma's constitution in 1907 and served as the first Speaker of the state House. He'd spent the 1920s in Bolivia trying to establish an agricultural colony, failed, and returned to Oklahoma broke. He won the governorship in 1930 by campaigning in overalls, sleeping in haystacks for publicity, and promising to fight banks, oil companies, and the federal government simultaneously. Once in office, he declared martial law to enforce oil production quotas, called out the National Guard to close Oklahoma's bridges over the Red River during a border dispute with Texas, and used state militia to integrate Oklahoma City's oil wells. He ran for the Democratic presidential nomination in 1932 on a platform of mandatory agricultural reforms and lost badly to Franklin Roosevelt. The TIME cover captured a political figure who was simultaneously ahead of his time and entirely of his time — a Depression-era populist who understood rural anger before it had a national vocabulary but whose eccentricities made him impossible to take seriously at the national level. Murray served a single term as governor and spent the rest of his life writing books and letters nobody read, convinced that history would vindicate his ideas if not his methods.

1940

Ernest Lawrence received his Nobel Prize in Physics at a campus ceremony in Berkeley, California, rather than in Stockholm. The year was 1940. Sweden's Consul General drove up from San Francisco to hand Lawrence the award because the Nobel ceremonies in Stockholm had been cancelled due to World War II. Lawrence won for inventing the cyclotron, the first circular particle accelerator, which he'd built in the physics department at the University of California, Berkeley starting in 1929. The first model fit in the palm of his hand and cost twenty-five dollars. The concept was elegant: charged particles spiral outward in a magnetic field, gaining energy with each revolution, ultimately reaching speeds sufficient to smash atoms apart. Each successive cyclotron Lawrence built was larger and more powerful. By 1940, the Berkeley cyclotron had a 60-inch magnet and produced particle energies that enabled the discovery of new elements and isotopes. Lawrence's invention didn't just advance physics — it created the field of nuclear medicine and provided the technological foundation for the atomic bomb. The cyclotron could produce radioactive isotopes for cancer treatment, and during the Manhattan Project, modified cyclotrons (calutrons) separated uranium-235 at Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Lawrence became one of the most influential scientists of the twentieth century, connecting pure physics research to both medical applications and weapons development. The Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, and element 103 (lawrencium) all bear his name. The backyard particle accelerator that started at twenty-five dollars grew into a national laboratory system that employs thousands and has produced dozens of Nobel laureates.

1940

Hattie McDaniel won Best Supporting Actress at the Academy Awards ceremony on February 29, 1940, for her role as Mammy in Gone with the Wind. She was not allowed to sit with her cast at the ceremony. The Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, where the Oscars were held, enforced a strict no-Blacks policy. McDaniel attended as a special exception, seated at a small table at the back of the room, separated from the Gone with the Wind delegation by several rows. When her name was called, she walked through a room of white faces to accept the award. Her acceptance speech was gracious: she hoped to be a credit to her race and the industry. The speech had been written for her by the studio. McDaniel had fought to play Mammy, understanding that the role was both an artistic opportunity and a racial trap. The NAACP criticized her for accepting stereotypical servant roles that reinforced white audiences' expectations of Black women. McDaniel's response became legendary: "I'd rather play a maid for $700 a week than be one for $7." She worked steadily in Hollywood for two more decades, almost always in domestic servant roles. No African American would win another Academy Award for twenty-four years, until Sidney Poitier took Best Actor for Lilies of the Field in 1964. When McDaniel died in 1952, she requested burial at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. The cemetery refused because she was Black. She was buried at Rosedale Cemetery instead. Hollywood Forever eventually offered to accept her remains in 1999. Her family declined the belated invitation.

1940

Finland opened peace negotiations with the Soviet Union in February 1940 after three months of fighting a war nobody expected them to survive. The Winter War had begun on November 30, 1939, when Stalin invaded with over a million troops, expecting to conquer Finland in two weeks. The Finnish army had roughly 340,000 soldiers, minimal heavy equipment, and almost no air force. They held. Finnish troops used their knowledge of the terrain, the brutal winter conditions, and unconventional tactics to inflict staggering casualties on the Red Army. The Soviets lost more than 126,000 killed and hundreds of thousands wounded. Finnish losses were severe — approximately 26,000 dead — but the army remained intact and fighting. By February 1940, however, the situation was deteriorating. The Soviets had reorganized their forces under competent commanders, brought overwhelming artillery to bear on the Mannerheim Line, and were grinding through Finnish defenses by sheer weight of numbers. Finland had no allies willing to send troops. Sweden refused. Britain and France made promises they couldn't keep. The peace negotiations took place in Moscow under duress. The Treaty of Moscow, signed March 12, 1940, forced Finland to cede approximately 11% of its territory, including the entire Karelian Isthmus and the city of Viipuri, Finland's second-largest. Over 400,000 Finns living in the ceded territories had to be relocated. Finland lost territory and population but preserved its sovereignty and democratic government — the only European country invaded by the Soviet Union during World War II to avoid occupation or regime change.

1944

General Douglas MacArthur invaded the Admiralty Islands on February 29, 1944, with 1,000 men when intelligence estimated 4,000 Japanese troops were dug in on the islands. His own intelligence staff had recommended against the operation. MacArthur went anyway, accompanying the landing force personally aboard the cruiser USS Phoenix. The gamble was characteristic of MacArthur's command style: bold to the point of recklessness when the strategic prize was large enough. The Admiralty Islands controlled the approaches to the Bismarck Sea and the New Guinea coast. Taking them would complete the isolation of the massive Japanese base at Rabaul, rendering its 100,000-man garrison strategically irrelevant without requiring a costly frontal assault. The initial landing on Los Negros Island met lighter resistance than expected because the Japanese garrison was concentrated inland rather than on the beaches. But the Japanese counterattacked fiercely over the following weeks, and the fighting on Manus Island was particularly intense. The intelligence estimate proved roughly accurate — approximately 4,000 Japanese troops defended the islands — but MacArthur's reconnaissance-in-force approach worked because the initial landing caught the defenders out of position. By the time Japanese forces could coordinate a response, American reinforcements had poured in. The campaign cost 326 American dead against approximately 3,280 Japanese killed. The Admiralty Islands provided the anchorage and airfields MacArthur needed for the next leap forward along the New Guinea coast. Rabaul, with its enormous garrison, was bypassed entirely. MacArthur's willingness to take a calculated risk with 1,000 men saved thousands of lives that would have been spent storming Rabaul's fortifications.

1960

The Agadir earthquake lasted 15 seconds. It killed a third of the city's population. Most died in their beds — the quake hit at 11:47 PM, when the city was asleep. The old kasbah fortress, built in 1540, collapsed completely. King Mohammed V ordered the entire city rebuilt three miles south. The original site became a memorial. Morocco had no building codes before this. After, they did.

Fun Facts

Zodiac Sign

Pisces

Feb 19 -- Mar 20

Water sign. Compassionate, intuitive, and artistic.

Birthstone

Amethyst

Purple

Symbolizes wisdom, clarity, and peace of mind.

Next Birthday

--

days until February 29

Quote of the Day

“Life at any time can become difficult: life at any time can become easy. It all depends upon how one adjusts oneself to life.”

Share Your Birthday

Create a beautiful birthday card with events and famous birthdays for February 29.

Create Birthday Card

Explore Nearby Dates

Popular Dates

Explore more about February 29 in history. See the full date page for all events, browse February, or look up another birthday. Play history games or talk to historical figures.