Had a slight attack of influenza...

Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19, also called Spanish Influenza Epidemic, was the most severe influenza outbreak of the 20th century and, in terms of total numbers of deaths, possibly the most devastating epidemic in human history. Influenza is caused by a virus that is transmitted from person to person through airborne respiratory secretions. An outbreak can occur if a new strain of influenza virus emerges against which the population has no immunity. The Influenza Epidemic of 1918–19—which is more precisely called a pandemic because it affected populations throughout the world—resulted from such an occurrence. On average influenza pandemics occur every 30 to 40 years, so it was not the event but the severity and speed of transmission of the virus that marked this episode as unusual. 

The outbreak occurred in three waves. The first apparently originated in Camp Funston, Kansas, U.S., in early March 1918. American troops that arrived in western Europe in April to participate in World War I are thought to have brought the virus with them, and by July it had spread to Poland. The first wave of influenza was comparatively mild; however, during the summer the virus mutated into a more lethal strain and a second more severe form of the disease emerged in August 1918. Pneumonia often developed quickly, with death usually coming two days after the first indications of the flu. For example, at Camp Devens, Massachusetts, U.S., six days after the first case of influenza was reported, there were 6,674 cases. The third wave of the epidemic occurred in the following winter, and by the spring the virus had run its course. In the two later waves about half the deaths were among 20- to 40-year-olds, an unusual age pattern for influenza.

In this letter to his mother, Grant talks about having an attack of flu. His only lasted a day or so but this was most likely an early wave of the deadly Spanish Influenza pandemic. Grant talks about it making the rounds in the army. 

Convois Autos.,
S.S.U. 647,
Par B.C.M.,
France.

Tuesday, June 25, 1918

Dear Mother:-

I can’t tell you how badly it makes me feel to hear you say, as you did in your May 20 letter received but a few minutes ago, that my April letter had arrived.  Are you really only getting one letter a month from me?  McCrackin from Montana says his mother only receives about one letter a month from him.  Why is it and where do they all go to?  I must have written all of ten to you in April.  I’m at a loss to know the reason for it.  Other parents are receiving mail regularly from this side.  For the last two weeks I have been writing you every 48 hours as we are relieved and come back to rest up for another 48 hours on post.  I’m due to go out again tonight but have had a slight attack of influenza; which seems to be going the rounds of the army so am to be held over a shift--meaning 48 hours more.  The fever lasts about 3 days but my attack must have been light for my fever left me last night.  Am up and around today though rather shaky on my twigs.  Putnam, Klein, Wilder and Bodfish are all out with the same ailment so perhaps you can imagine how very busy the available men must be.  McGuire left us with this same disease about three weeks ago (they thought it best to take him to a hospital.)  He was evacuated several times and we have lost track of him.  It was last reported that he was at a Base Hospital near Base #66 where we were in early April so this morning our Lieutenant left in his staff car to hunt for him.  We want McGuire back with us very much indeed.

Lieutenant Anderson has left us and we have a new Lieut. (Lieut. Smith) from V.M.I.(Virginia Military Institute) who has just been over here since the first of the year.  He’s a “true blue” and the fellows are wild about him.  Many changes are taking place with us these days but without a word of complaint from any of us for we know our Lieutenant is behind us and fighting for us.

Our division is moving but we do not move with them.  We stay right here and work with the new division which will be French and American--rookies.  (Not French rookies, you understand, because there are none such).

Nothing more has been done about permissions and probably won’t be for awhile.

Got a letter from Bill Everett today but he had not received my letter telling of the proposed permission.  I certainly wish I could write as much in detail as he does.  In fact I sometimes wonder if the reason for my letters not reaching you is not due to my trying to tell too much.  Gee, but his work is interesting.

Things are looking fine on the front. Very encouraging developments as you note by the papers.

Got a bill from Literary Digest people.  Shall I pay it?  I would be glad to because it is very much appreciated (the paper, I mean).

Boost the Red Cross and Salvation Army.  They are doing splendid work over here.

Your loving son,

Grant.

A year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person.

Ever since Grant embarked on this great adventure, he adopted the use of several French words in his diary and letters. "Repos" and "permission" are two words that appear frequently since both were highly desired by men on both sides of the fighting. When an army is en repos it's at rest in the rear, away from the bloody carnage. Going on permission (military leave) was even more coveted than repos because one could get far away from the fighting, recharge one's batteries and try to forget.

In this letter to his mother, Louise, Grant describes being en repos and the tantalizing carrot of permission dangling before him.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                       

Friday – June 14, 1918

 

Dearest Mother:-

It’s been almost two weeks since I last wrote you. And a busy two weeks it has been, too.  We are still where we were and have been for the last two months. (Read the first article in the Literary Digest for May 4). Several of our cars have been laid up so that some have had to do extra work. I am now on my third day of rest. Tomorrow will be my fourth and last. It’s just like coming back on repos to come to this camp of ours. It’s as quiet as the cemetery next door--far enough back so that we can only hear the big guns and sufficiently out-of-the-way and small enough so that we are not bothered by air-raids.  Have spent my time back here this “hitch” just sleeping and eating. It feels great to be able to sleep in a good bed in a large airy room free from bugs and rats. We (#647) played the French Engineers in soccer last night after supper. This is the third game in a series of five which we have played these boys. They have won two games (2-1 and 1-0) and we have won one (2-1). It is rather difficult for us to depend upon 11 men who play because we are continually shifting in and out of this place. Soccer provides diversion and excellent exercise. The Frenchmen are fine sports and enjoy playing with us as much as we do them.

Soccer

Stuart Hugh Fraser AKA Fraze (1892-1990)

We have a new Lieutenant now and he is a peach. Hasn’t been over here long but so far we are very enthusiastic over him. As soon as he found out that we hadn’t had a permission of any kind in over nine months his first action was to arrange a permission schedule.  We paired off and we have just drawn for numbers. You have heard me speak of Fraser, New York, old #61 man?  He and I are going together. Regulations permit only 5% of any group leaving on permission at the same time which means two men in our section. I drew № 2 which means that we ought to be out of here in about three weeks. Am as excited as a kid about this thing. Maybe by the time this letter reaches you “Fraze” and I will be off in some corner of France on a real vacation for 7 days. Hap is going with McCrackin.  They drew № 5. Johnnie is trying to get to England with an English cousin--1^st Lieut. in English army. Johnnie drew № 14. Poor kid, and he did want to get away early. The irony of the whole thing is the fact that the government already owes us two permissions.  Before we make the rounds of this permission another will have already passed. Like this: Not including non-coms and our Lieut. we have, at present, 34 men in the section who are eligible for permission. That means 17 permissions when paired off. We are allowed 7 days exclusive of traveling time which means that each pair will probably be gone 10 days.  All right, 17 permissions of 10 days each means 170 days or better than five months and a half before we make the rounds and we are supposed to get a leave every four months.  Can you explain that? I can’t. But I’m so tickled to get any at all that I’m not complaining--just pondering.

Am writing Bill Everett today to tell him the glad news and see if we can’t get together. Bill’s situation will have a lot to do with where we will spend our permission. I should like to get down south again if possible.  The government may have something to say about where we are going, however. The good old days of going where you will when you will have passed, I’m afraid. So much for myself.

Mother, I have just received a letter from Dot, dated May 19, in which she told me all about her engagement party. I really can’t tell you how deeply I was affected by what you did for her in my absence. That letter put me to bed and kept me there for two days.  You know, Mother, a year has taken me a long, long, way from home both in thought and person. Now don’t misunderstand me. I think of you all very, very often but I can’t place myself back there among you. I’ve tried it time and again but it simply will not work.  I can’t explain it. Maybe because the nature of our work over here compels us to put most of our energy and thought behind our work and to forget everything else. Home seems so far off and a thing of the past because we have cast it out of our minds in our determination to stick over here until this thing is over.  We know not when that time will be. It may be a year, it may be a hundred. In any circumstance it’s our duty to stick it out. It isn’t a pleasant thought but it’s the truth. Anyway when Dot told me what you had done it broke me all up and a terrible attack of homesickness set in. It’s the first real severe attack I have ever had and hope it’s the last. Went up on the hill last night alone and had it out. Feel much better today. The novelty of this experience is no longer here to buoy us up. That has worn off long ago and it is now a continual night of bad dreams and horrible sights. I’ve had enough.  God, when will this thing be over?

 

Dorothy Houghton Willard (1894-1979)

Dorothy’s party evidently made her very happy and I’m very happy too although it hardly seems possible that I can be a part of it. She mentioned hoping for a letter or card or cablegram from me on May 18. I would have cabled if I could have done so just as I would have from the hospital. One can’t depend on mails. It is really most discouraging. I did write her but I have no assurance but what that letter will go just where many more of mine have gone.
 

I don’t want Dot to take that nurse’s course, training, I don’t want her to come to France. Her mother says Dot isn’t physically strong enough and then she--Dot--has the wrong idea back of it all. She says she wants to do her bit just as if that necessitated coming over here. She is willing to attempt a branch of work which she herself admits she isn’t crazy about just to get over here and to see me. I would love to have her near me but not in present France nor while doing work she didn’t like and isn’t fit for.

 

Somebody from Minneapolis inquired for Hap and me at camp here other day but we were both up on post. He left no name but said he would be around again. Would like to know who it could be. Thought everybody from Minnesota was an officer outside of Hap and me but this fellow, they say, was a private.

 

Here’s hoping that by the time this letter reaches you I will be off on our permission with Fraze and Bill. Bill will like Fraze I’m sure.

 

Thank you, dear people, for all you have done for me.  I feel more helpless than ever.

The same old barrels of love.

Grant.

I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

Grant composed this letter to his mother, Louise, while sitting in a bucolic French setting. He describes in detail the gas attack that he went through a month and a half before.

Convois Autos.,

S.S.U. 647,

Par B.C.M.,

France.

                          

Sunday – June 2, 1918

Dear Mother:-

The letter which I started to you last Wednesday morning at 3 o’clock will never reach you because, on reading it over the next day, I was too ashamed of it to drop it in the box. I wrote it while watching a most beautiful sunrise which seems to have gone to my head. I’m sure my morose stoicism would have startled you quite as much as it did me when I reread what I had set down on paper. It was really the first time I had been alone long enough to work into a philosophic frame of mind aided, no doubt, by the time of day and surroundings for a long time. This all took place in a town which at one time, not more than four years ago, had undoubtedly been a very beautiful place but these same four years in the firing lines has left it a lonely, desolate pile of rocks and dust. The inhabitants of this town are like so many rats or ground moles coming up out of their holes in the ruins to get a bit of fresh air and sunshine now and then but first looking carefully around to assure themselves that a common enemy is not dropping bits of Kultur in their vicinity.

     

The circumstances under which this letter is being composed, however, are quite different, being in full accord with the day. (I am sitting on a blanket with a shade tree as a back and protection against a hot sun. It is in a garden full of fragrant flowers in full bloom, honey-suckle, lilacs, daffodils and many others which I cannot call by name. And a million little bugs all very curious at my present occupation.) All of this is our back yard. These are our new quarters. To be sure, we sleep in a room over the stables but this garden is where we live. Next door is the church and cemetery. At present there are four big bells going full tilt in the belfry and I can look across and see a venerable old priest up there urging the bells on to more racket. It sounds like my Ford making a rough road at 30 per.

We have only changed our headquarters. We are still operating in the sector where we have been for the last month and a half. We have many new posts due to the shifting and interchanging of the American and French forces. This change takes me away from Boots Weidemann but give us a much better place to live. We work out of here on seven day shifts. I could get fat here if I could stay about two weeks.

The last two weeks have indeed been strenuous ones. Due to two or three of the cars being laid up for repairs and three of the drivers being in the hospital with a fever which seems to be going the rounds it has been necessary for some of us to work overtime. This is my first visit to our base for three weeks. Then the ambulance company to which we are attached has had their Fords replaced by GMCs which they consider to be too big for use for front work. I think they will find their mistake before long, however, they are a much more practical car for rough roads and heavy loads than a Ford. I only wish we had them.

About those cablegrams I sent to you. I gave them to a boy who went in to Paris and he was to send them for me--one for you and one for Dot. He returned this week and had forgotten all about them. You will have my letter telling you about my “slight” wound before a cablegram sent now would reach you so I can only hope and pray that my name has not been posted. Lest that letter be lost I will repeat my message in this.

On April 19 I was sent to a hospital with Kendrick, Risley, McCrackin, Swain, Dunlap, Gaynor and McEnnis, all 647 men, for a slight attack of gas (mustard). We were only there for three days and are perfectly all right again now. It was so trivial that I would have said nothing about it had Jack Kendrick not been reported in the States as “seriously wounded” and nearly driven his mother frantic. On hearing of this we all cabled but had to send them into Paris as there is no way of cabling from here. Mine never got off, as I have already explained. I hope you never saw my name and haven’t been worrying. You see the Boche made a raid and fed us gas for five hours. One shell hit our house and exploded in the hay directly over the room in which we were living (the gas was so bad in the cellar that we didn’t dare stay there even with our masks on). At daylight we started working our masks. We found it almost impossible to drive with our masks on and perhaps we took them off too soon. Perhaps we got gassed during the afternoon while running back and forth to our room while we evacuated the dressing station there. The gas from that one shell which pierced our roof hung there for days. My dose probably came from a gas shell which exploded in the roads, over which I was driving, about 100 yards ahead of me. I thought it was a 77 high explosive from the dust it blew up and didn’t stop to put on my mask. The dust proved to be fumes of a new gas which they call “fruit gas” (smelling like decayed fruit). We weren’t wasting any time on the road so we barely got a whiff of the stuff but it made us sick to our stomachs and caused the tears to flow in streams making if difficult to drive. My aide got it much worse than I did apparently for he is still suffering. Nobody seems to know when they were gassed because we all wore masks most of that day. Some got it in the lungs causing them to cough for weeks. (I’m talking about the eight of us now.) Some merely had trouble with their eyes for about a week or ten days. Some of us got body burns from the mustard gas. Jack Kendrick had a combination of all three and suffered considerably. The body burns didn’t develop until about ten days after the exposure. We were all released from the hospital long before we should have been but our work being so closely allied with the hospitals we were able to get treatment while we worked.

Have gotten into communication with Bill Everett and maybe we will be lucky enough to meet some of these days. We would to be up with the big noise soon.

Hap [Ahlers] tells me to tell you to tell his family that he is feeling fine. Even Hap is getting thin. What do you know about that?

     

I’ve simply got to go exploring around here before it gets dark.

     

Sincerely hope you are all well and haven’t been worrying.

Barrels of love,

Grant.