The Scythe: Spanish Influenza in Northern Arizona, 1918

Jerome, Arizona during the Spanish influenza.



(I wrote this article using leftover research material shortly after publishing my history of Prescott entitled Grave History; a Guidebook to Citizens' Cemetery, Prescott, Arizona. This feature was originally published by the Prescott Daily Courier in September, 2008.)

   Ninety years ago, in the final throes of the Great War, our civilization was confronted with an influenza pandemic that ended up killing more than 50,000,000 people worldwide; a number at least twice that of those soldiers and civilians who died 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.

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

   Usually influenza victims are the very young or the elderly; middle-aged healthy people aren't frequent causalities. But the Spanish influenza was a distinctly virulent microbe and had a penchant for killing otherwise healthy adults. The virus infected a body so quickly that it forced naturally healthy immune systems to overreact and kill the very bodies they were trying to protect. 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 tombstone’s significant date: March 17, 1918. That date coincides precisely with the beginning of the 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 in Kansas. 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. 

   Colonel Carl Holmberg was the newly appointed commandant of Prescott’s Fort Whipple; he took over this Army hospital post in May 1918, and went about organizing it, 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 this new command as a positive step in his military career. 
 
   After infecting much of the world for several months, the Spanish influenza rode into Arizona in early October, 1918, along the steel rails of the Santa Fe Railroad. Holbrook, Winslow, Flagstaff, Williams, Ash Fork, and Seligman fell one after the other to the virus. From Ash Fork, the train brought the disease to Prescott and Jerome. According to newspaper accounts, the influenza spread statewide in about one 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 seriously ill when they got to Fort Whipple.
 
   Initially, Col. Holmberg 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 the officers from Whipple were exempt from the quarantine and traveled without restriction to town. 

   Like most catastrophes, 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 for two months. Besides the standard admonitions discouraging public gatherings, the Arizona State Board of Health requested that placards 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. Copper towns including Bisbee, Globe, and Jerome, where many impoverished miners lived in crowded rooms, also 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 seemed to get sick. The spread of infection rose and fell like a scythe cutting ripe wheat.
 
   By October 8th, Prescott was shut down but not yet officially quarantined. The newspaper warned that there should be "no public gatherings of any sort." In Jerome, approximately 20 cases of influenza were reported. In the predominately Mormon town of Snowflake, the only physician, Dr. Caldwell, became an early influenza fatality, causing the community of 900 people to put out a call for another doctor.

   On October 9th, the Prescott Journal-Miner reported only one new case at the Army post with an article entitled "Spread of Flu is Halted at Fort Whipple." Two days later there were 18 new cases there.
 
   By October 12th, over 400 cases of flu were reported in Flagstaff, 300 cases in Williams, and Winslow suffered with 375 cases. In Winslow alone, at least 17 people had already died. Fort Whipple had about 75 patients. As for sick civilians in Prescott, the local paper had little to say.
 
   By October 14th, 125 people had the disease in Jerome, filling the rooms at the United Verde Hospital. Temporary hospital beds were placed in the public school's annex buildings. Prescott and Winslow also used their public schools as makeshift hospitals. As in the regular hospital facilities of that era, people of Mexican heritage and other "coloreds" were kept segregated from the white patients.
 
   By October 16th, 21 people in Jerome were dead from the disease. Armed guards were stationed on every road leading into Jerome to insure a strict quarantine. The Verde Copper News listed the dead, all between the ages of 25 and 32, including a young Mexican couple who left behind two small children.
 
   The Prescott papers were tight-lipped about how the influenza was spreading among the civilian population. There was hardly any mention of the fact that the entire town was shut down and that people were requested to wear gauze facemasks in a vain attempt to filter out the virus. Instead, the Journal-Miner printed benign features about the soldiers at Whipple: "Because of the fact that most of the afflicted men have been placed on diet, it is necessary for the inspectors to go through all of the parcels which come to the boys each day in the mails, and take out all of the contraband food articles. Most of the soldiers have friends and relatives who keep them supplied with all sorts of delicacies, including candy, cake, chocolate, and many other dainties which are alright for a well man but not exactly the proper food for a man who is in bed with the flu. Consequently, each morning a large pile of pastry, candy, etc., accumulates in the postal department...yesterday morning a big sack of these good eats was turned over to the nurses and to the soldiers who are not suffering from the influenza." The Flagstaff, Winslow, and Jerome newspapers printed a more straightforward accounting of the flu, while the Prescott paper somewhat downplayed it.
 
   In Winslow, where at least 30 people were now dead, every schoolteacher volunteered to help the sick. Gallup, NM (on that fateful Santa Fe line) was claiming 100 dead. In Flagstaff there were 80 dead. In Prescott, so many people were sick that the newspaper asked for men to volunteer as nurses at the temporary hospital at the Washington School. 
 
   The Journal-Miner, on November 1st, reported, "After having been dormant for nearly a week, the influenza epidemic flared up again at Fort Whipple and, as a result, more than 20 new cases were reported last night by Colonel Holmberg." At least to the press, Col. Holmberg claimed that none of the new cases appeared to be serious.
 
   On November 5th, the Journal-Miner tried to explain why it believed the epidemic didn't seem as bad in Prescott as in other locales: "Since the influenza made its appearance in Prescott, there are said to have been 125 cases reported with a total death list directly attributable to the disease of some 12, which is less than one percent of the number of cases reported. With the general use of masks and other preventive measures taken, together with the good expected to be accomplished in the expenditure of the funds voted yesterday by the supervisors, it is not believed that Prescott will suffer as greatly from the malady in proportion to population as other places of the state, owing to its comparative freedom from Mexican and foreign population, among which class of residents in other cities the toll has been heavy because of their disinclination to take precautionary measures." (One might point out that 12 dead out of 125 cases is actually a 10% death rate. One might also point out the racist attitude behind such a line as “freedom from Mexican and foreign population.”)

   World War I ended on November 11, 1918, while the flu continued its advance. Although some places such as Jerome and Clarkdale were lifting their quarantines, other towns were still in the grip of the fever. In mid-November, Seligman, for instance, reported 150 cases of influenza with 15 deaths. The Coconino Sun reported on November 22nd that the disease had been devastating to the Apache tribe. "So terrible has the influenza become on the San Carlos Indian Reservation that it is impossible to build coffins in which to bury the dead." 

   In Phoenix, a rumor spread suggesting that dogs carried the flu virus, causing much of the canine population there to be indiscriminately killed by fearful citizens. The Phoenix Gazette worried that the city would "soon be dogless."
 
   By December, it seemed the rate of illness was truly in decline, at least in Prescott and Jerome. Although the schools and churches were still closed, the stricter quarantine policies were lifted and most people looked forward to the coming holidays. 

   Certainly Col. Holmberg had plenty to feel thankful for. The Great War was over, the flu was all but gone, and the soldiers at his post were rapidly returning to good health. No more quarantine was necessary. The officers of Fort Whipple planned a formal ball to be held on December 21st. The soldiers were allowed to accept Christmas dinner invitations in Prescott.
 
   But the influenza again flared up along the Santa Fe line. "As in the early stages of the disease it is traveling westward from Albuquerque and practically every point on the Santa Fe is being attacked." The week before Christmas, Fort Whipple was once again placed under quarantine. The soldiers lost their town privileges and could no longer accept dinner invitations in Prescott homes. The officers, however, managed to have their ball before the quarantine went into effect.
 
   On December 23rd, Holmberg fell ill with a fever of 106 degrees. From the Journal-Miner: "As several cases of flu are reported to have had their inception at the ball given by officers at Fort Whipple on Saturday night last, it is likely that this is where he (Holmberg) contracted the influenza." As usual, the newspaper suggested that this particular strain of flu was probably less virulent than previous cases.
 
   Carl Edward Holmberg spent the last week of his life bed-ridden and attended by nurses. Eight months earlier he had moved to Arizona from New Mexico to manage the hospital facilities and soldiers of Fort Whipple. Now he was a hospital patient realizing that he would not get to celebrate the New Year. On Wednesday, January 1, 1919 at 11 a.m. Holmberg died. The post flag was lowered to half-mast. His body was shipped back to his parents' home in Saginaw, Michigan for burial.
 
   The Spanish flu plagued Arizona until the spring of 1919, affecting every town and nearly every family. But like all viruses, this one eventually burned itself out. After almost six months, the residents of Arizona could get on with their lives without the fear of another Spanish flu outbreak. When spring arrived, the scythe was stilled. 

 © 2020 T. Stone