By T. Stone 

Ninety years ago, the world, in the final throes of the Great War (known today as World War I), was confronted with an influenza pandemic that ended up killing more than 50,000,000 people worldwide; a number at least twice the number of those soldiers who died in battle during the war. Some called it the "plague" but most called this contagion the Spanish flu because it was first reported as a pandemic in Spain.

War hysteria initially laid the blame on the Germans for concocting this pestilence. But, as research has now shown, the Spanish influenza originated in the United States, unknowingly incubated on Kansas farms by Kansas poultry, passed on to nearby army camps and then spread worldwide by American soldiers scattered to all parts of the U.S. and stepping off the boats in Europe. War always has unexpected consequences. 

Annually in the United States today, approximately 36,000 people die from influenza while another 200,000 are hospitalized with complications. But the Spanish influenza of 1918 killed over 675,000 Americans. And millions were hospitalized! 

Usually influenza victims are the very young or the elderly; middle-aged healthy people aren't frequent causalities. However, the Spanish influenza was a distinctly unique strain of virus because it had a penchant for killing otherwise healthy adults. Why so many relatively young adults died can be explained simply enough: the flu turned the victims' immune systems against themselves. Often, in infants and the elderly, the immune system is already weakened and has a difficult time fighting off infection, which explains why they succumb more readily to disease. But the 1918 influenza was so virulent that it forced naturally healthy immune systems to overreact and kill the very bodies they were trying to protect from the virus. This over-reaction of the immune system is called a cytokine storm. 

In Prescott's Citizens' Cemetery there is a lone marble headstone simply inscribed: "Will King, Pvt., 317 Sup. Tn. 92 Div., March 17, 1918." Those carved letters and numbers suggest a complex and fascinating story that the casual observer might not appreciate. "317 Sup. Tn. 92 Div." informs you that Will King was a soldier in the United States Army who was a part of the 317th Supply Train for the 92nd Division, an 'all colored' division that was training in a segregated portion of the Camp Funston cantonment at Fort Riley, Kansas. 

Then there is the significant date: March 17, 1918. That date coincides precisely with the beginning of the Spanish influenza that started its spread among the dirty tents and barracks of Camp Funston. The Prescott newspaper said that Will King died from pneumonia while he was training for war. Doctors, at first, did not understand that pneumonia was an aggravating factor of this new and deadly disease. Mr. King may well have been one of the very first people to die in what was to become one of the largest pandemics in history. 

Col. Carl Holmberg was the newly appointed commandant of Fort Whipple at the time. He took over the post in May 1918, and went about organizing the hospital there, as well as involving himself with Prescott society. The Prescott Journal-Miner reported, "Colonel Holmberg found time to freely mingle with the local populace, attended the meetings of the Chamber of Commerce, and was willing and happy at all times to extend any courtesy or furnish any aid to the Prescott people." A young Army officer and physician, Holmberg, 38, undoubtedly saw his new command as a positive step in his military career. 

The Spanish influenza rode into Arizona along the silvered rails of the Santa Fe Railroad. What had flared up among soldiers in the Midwest was now racing across the broad shoulders of Arizona. Holbrook, Winslow, Flagstaff, Williams, Ash Fork and Seligman fell one after the other to the virus. From Ash Fork, the train brought it to Prescott and Jerome. According to newspaper accounts, the influenza showed up in Arizona the first days of October 1918 and spread statewide in less than a week. In Prescott, the flu arrived on Wednesday, October 2nd in the lungs of soldiers transported from Camp Dodge, Iowa. Eight of these soldiers grew ill when they got to Fort Whipple. 

Col. Holmberg initially wondered if these first cases warranted placing Fort Whipple under quarantine. He posted sentries at the doors to restrict people from entering the hospital. The next day, October 3rd, five more soldiers showed symptoms of the flu. On October 4th, twelve new cases broke out among the soldiery and Col. Holmberg decided the barracks must be quarantined. The Prescott Journal-Miner reported, "It is understood that there are a number of cases of 'flu' among the local civilian population, and closing the post was ordered partially as a protective measure for the benefit of the soldiers, the officers fearing that some of the boys might become infected while on a visit (to Prescott)." It is interesting to note that the blame for the contagion first went to the civilians! Also disturbing was that "all of the officers" from Whipple were exempt from the quarantine and traveled without restriction to town. 

Like most social catastrophes unfit for political propaganda, the influenza arrived in Prescott heralded by soft words and denial. For the first week, even as the city closed down public entertainments such as the theatre, saloons and pool halls, the newspaper was careful to suggest that there should be no panic because this Prescott influenza appeared to be less dangerous than the one decimating the eastern seaboard. In fact, after warning its readers for over two weeks with front-page columns that the flu was on the way, the Journal-Miner only managed to mention the pandemic's Prescott arrival on page three.

Across Arizona the influenza raged. People no longer loitered in crowds. Gauze masks were de rigueur for those who could get them. Schools, churches and pool halls closed down for two months. Besides the standard admonitions discouraging public gatherings, the Arizona State Board of Health requested that posters be placed in conspicuous places to warn citizens against the dangers of coughing, sneezing, spitting, handshaking and kissing. 

Winslow and Flagstaff were hit especially hard by the epidemic. The copper towns including Bisbee, Globe and Jerome, where many impoverished miners lived in crowded rooms, suffered severely. 

The influenza was unpredictable in the way it infected communities. Some days, several people would come down with fever. Other days, no one got sick. The spread of infection rose and fell like a scythe cutting ripe wheat.  Hence the reference to the "Scythe."

Terrance L. Stone is the author of "Grave History: a Guidebook to Citizens' Cemetery, Prescott, Arizona"

Note: In Part 2, we will discover how the Spanish Flu of 1918 affected many of the small towns of northern Arizona, including Prescott. 



Sharlot Hall Museum Photograph Call Number:(Flu 2000-016-002a) Reuse only by permission.
Jerome, 1918. Photo courtesy of the Jerome Historical Society. Those who were lucky enough to avoid infection of the Spanish flu had to deal with the public health ordinances to restrain the spread of the disease. Gauze masks were distributed to be worn in public, stores could not hold sales, funerals were limited to 15 minutes and bodies piled up with a shortage of coffins, morticians and gravediggers. 


Sharlot Hall Museum Photograph Call Number:(1918 flu) Reuse only by permission.
Those in close living quarters, such as mining and military camps, were most susceptible to the Spanish flu of 1918. An estimated one-third of the worlds' population (or 500 million persons) was infected and had clinically apparent illness. It is referred to as the "mother of all pandemics."