The Influenza Pandemic of 1918 | The Invisible Enemy
Yankee classic from February 1982
Boston in the summer of 1918 was hot and very dry, with only 8.13 inches of rain in four months, according to the U.S. Weather Bureau. For the men in “Receiving Ship,” a naval barracks on Commonwealth Pier where as many as 7,000 enlistees boarded while awaiting assignment or returning from duty, the dry heat made sleeping a bit easier, and the cloudless blue skies prompted hundreds of them to take to Revere Beach.
The news of the day was mostly about the “job of beating the Hun, a job squarely up to the U.S.” We’d been in World War I for about two years.
As far as the newspapers were concerned, the glory of defeating the Boche was the only thing really worth thinking about. Between the columns about our gallant boys “over there,” the newspapers applauded the rounding up of slackers, those who hadn’t registered for draft; they mocked the suffragettes and puzzled over their cause; and firmly denounced anyone they thought was hampering the war effort — the IWW, Eugene Debs, the “Bolsheviki,” even the striking car men of the Boston Street Railway Company.
“If you must kiss, filter the smack,” read one mid-August Globe article. The story that followed was about a Norwegian ship that had arrived in New York City with 100 sick passengers on board; four more had died and been buried at sea. Was this the mysterious “Spanish Influenza” that they’d heard rumors about, reporters asked? It couldn’t be, officials replied.
Though in fact a new and brutal form of flu was ravaging both sides of the front, killing thousands in Europe, doctors here believed that the so-called Spanish influenza was something only the Germans could get because they were weakened by famine and life in a war zone. There was nothing to worry about here, stateside officials declared. Besides, they reasoned, flu is a winter disease familiar to everyone; and though it will put a person under for a few days, it’s certainly not deadly. “To avoid the common or garden-variety of the disease,” the Globe story concluded, “kiss through a handkerchief.”
Lydia Johnson’s father, a blacksmith, decided he could profit from the boom the war had brought to the mills and factories in small-town New England, and so he moved his wife and five children down to Greenfield, Massachusetts, from the hill village of Shutesbury. The move meant they had to sell the family’s cow, and Lydia, age 8, was sorry to see her go. Out in the country the Johnson family could grow its own food, keep chickens, and cut wood for heat. In town the war had not only boosted employment, but it had shot the price of food sky-high. At summer’s end there was inflation (eggs at $0.49 a dozen, butter at $0.51 a pound) and shortages (to heat a house you needed a ration card from the Fuel Administration).
On the evening of August 27, two sailors had come into Receiving Ship’s sick bay with what appeared to be textbook symptoms of the flu: chills, fever, sore throat, coughing, labored breathing. The medical officers on call took blood samples, made throat cultures, gave the standard physical exams, and ordered the men to bed. Forty-eight hours later, two doctors of the 11 at the infirmary had taken ill.
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