More Died From Flu Than Bullets

More died from flu than from bullets that year… That was the sad truth in America in 1918.  World War I was raging, but so was an influenza epidemic like the world had never seen.  Theodore Peterson—my great uncle Ted—was an engineering student at the University of Nebraska when duty called.  He never made it to Europe.

Although this photograph taken at his funeral is heart-wrenching to me, so too are the words of his sister Sara.  She wrote this letter to Sture, her sweetheart, on October 16, 1918—just days after Ted died of influenza at an army camp in Fort Grant, Illinois.  Their mother had lost her beloved husband Charles in 1917, and then her beloved son Ted just a year later.

“Mother is keeping up splendid, but the first few days are not near as hard as it is afterwards.  We girls have been talking of sending her out to California for the winter at least.  Carl (my brother) is in San Francisco, you know, and they have been wanting her to come for so long.  This winter will be so long and lonesome for her here.  If she gets out there she may be able to not think so much.  But I haven’t heard her complain—not once.  She is as brave a soldier as any.”

Sara wrote this a week later:

“Though I didn’t go to see the boys off today, I’ve been thinking of the day Ted went.  I don’t believe Ted ever felt happier in all his life than the day he went.  At last he was going to realize what had been his one wish and ambition ever since this war started.  And I can’t help but think, why oh why did he have to die, before he had a chance to accomplish some part of what he was so anxious to do.  It’s hard for us mortals to see the why of these things.  But it must be all to the best, for these things do not just happen, they are brought about by the Divine will.  It’s so hard to believe that is it the best, when we can’t see the why and wherefore.  But after all, surely I can be as brave as Mother, for surely to lose a son must be harder than to lose a brother.  And she says that after all and in spite of all, she wouldn’t had Ted done any other way than he did.  She is glad and proud that he wanted to go.

Sture, I said once about a year ago, that I would rather my brother would go, even if it meant that he never came back, than to have him take the stand of some of our other young men I know.  These words of mine have come to my mind so often these days, and while perhaps at the time I spoke them, I didn’t weigh them as I have since, I know deep in the bottom of my heart I meant them, and now I have come to the test.  And while it almost breaks my heart, dear, I can still say with all sincerity, that I am glad he took the course he did.  I would be unworthy of him and his sacrifice if I felt otherwise.”

For every soldier who died, whether on the battlefield or from the ravages of the flu, there were those who remained to mourn.

The Petersons - Sunshine and Shadow

My ancestors ran the gamut from black sheep to outstanding citizen.  But life isn’t fair…  Those who honor faith and family, who play by the rules, sometimes suffer plenty of tragedy anyway.  Consider my Peterson ancestors.

My great-grandparents were Carl Peterson (1861-1917) and Emelia Fryksdal Peterson (1861-1933).  From all indications they were a close and loving family—Carl’s obituary was titled “Another Good Man Gone.”  Eight children were born to them, all surviving to adulthood—but their adult lives were a mixture of sunshine and shadow, with plenty of heartbreak to go around.

Carl Jr. lived in California for a time before returning to his roots and taking over the family farm in Nebraska.  He and his wife had a daughter and a son; their baby boy died of whooping cough at 11 months.  Carl died young, at 53. 

Anna was a schoolteacher.  When her father died at age 57, she took care of her mother and sisters until they were settled with relatives or in homes of their own.  She married at age 37 and after a yearlong honeymoon, settled down to raise a family—only to die at 40, shortly after having her second son.

Theodore (Ted) was an engineering student at the University of Nebraska when he was drafted into the army.  He did not survive World War I; like so many other soldiers, he died of influenza in 1918, in an army camp in Illinois.

Emma lived on her own in Chicago, working as a nurse, and then bought a house in Montgomery, Illinois, where she worked at Copley Memorial Hospital until she retired at age 72.  Emma was very independent—she renewed her driver's license (for the final time) at age 91.  Emma never married, and she died at age 102.

Sara married Sture, her baseball-playing sweetheart, after a seven-year courtship (interrupted by WWI).  They lost their first child shortly after birth—a hidden sorrow that Sara never talked about.  They relocated to Illinois around 1940—Sture had a near-fatal car accident during the transition.  Sara outlived her husband and died in Illinois at age 91.

Signe was a schoolteacher and an excellent artist; some of her paintings survive.  She married a Nebraska farmer and had four children.  Their oldest son Jack died of a brain tumor at age 31, leaving a widow and young daughter.

Hilma, another schoolteacher, married and moved to Minnesota, where she and her husband Harold had three children.  Their only son, Harold Jr., drowned in a lake in Canada at age five.

Therese was bright and educated, but troubled.  After graduating as salutatorian of her high school class and becoming a schoolteacher, she died at age 30 in a mental hospital near Chicago.

This photo shows the four surviving sisters in later life—Emma, Sara, Hilma, and Signe.  They had seen much sorrow, including losing four siblings.  I lived near my grandma Sara and saw her often.  She had learned to take the good and the bad in stride, and was an inspiring example to me of surviving setbacks and appreciating the joys in life.