Hattie Meyers Weaver: Life During the Great Influenza Epidemic of 1918

From an early age, Hattie Meyers was fascinated with flight. At first, being a “mere girl,” she contented herself with building models in her Glen Ridge, New Jersey, home with the help of her older brother Charlie, a member of the Aero Club of New York. She recalled her first model, made of cranberry red silk from Scotland, being named the “Red Devil” for the “wicked prohibitive sound and the hope that it would raise the ‘devil’ with the long distance model record held by Percy Pierce.” Hattie’s model shattered the record (and the cellar window)! Hattie’s model success gained her entry into the “boy’s” shop in back of their house, where she was nominally allowed to participate in their endeavor to build a man-carrying glider, often taking the blame for hijinks, all for the promise of a ride in the final product.

Hattie and Charles Meyers, ages five and seven. (Photo is dated 189[9], but is most likely 1903.) NASM 9A16573  

In 1916, Charlie brought home a friend from the Aero Club of Illinois—known only as “Buck.” Hattie immediately noted that he was “a real aviator and not just a model builder” and twenty-one to boot! She also was not a fan of the black and white checkered cap he constantly wore (not knowing that this was the proud symbol of an early aviator). As they courted, Hattie learned his full name was George Weaver. After he turned down an opportunity to fly with Katherine Stinson in Japan, George and Hattie announced their engagement on June 14, 1917, with the specter of the United States’ entrance into World War I looming.

Civilian Flying Instructors, Rich Field, Waco, Texas, January 1918. George E. “Buck” Weaver is the third from the left in the seated row. NASM 9A16576 

George and Charlie registered for the war and went to work at Aeromarine. Already a capable aviator tapped as a civilian flying instructor, George was first sent to the U.S. Naval Reserve School on Long Island then to Dayton and then to Rich Field in Waco, Texas. Hattie left everything she knew in New Jersey to meet his family in Chicago on her way to joining George in Texas. They married on February 12, 1918, with George rushing in from work, washing the castor oil off his face.

George “Buck” Weaver and Hattie Meyers Weaver together in Waco, Texas, March 19, 1918. NASM 9A16575

Hattie settled into life at Rich Field as a wife, impatiently waiting for the war’s end, even as Rich Field was struck by the influenza. George received a doctor’s note for influenza for over a week’s absence in April. Effective as of October 4, all officers and enlisted men were given antiseptic treatment daily as a precaution. Hattie recalled, “The big husky men at Camp MacArthur died faster than burial and when the wind blew from there the odor gave proof.” She noted the other target—pregnant women like herself.

Doctor’s letter, dated April 12, 1918, certifying that George “Buck” Weaver was absent from work due to influenza. NASM NASM.XXXX.0171-M0000127-00300

 On November 11, 1918, Hattie and George joined the Armistice parade in downtown Waco in their Buick convertible: “Flu and babies forgotten.” George obtained a leave of absence so that he could go to Chicago with Hattie to prepare for the baby. By the time they had reached St. Louis, Hattie knew she “had a cold, sneezes and snuffles.” She arrived in Chicago with a fever and full-blown influenza. Although she had “coughs that hurt and would not stop,” Hattie was apologetic that she was a sick nuisance to her mother-in-law.

George E. "Buck" Weaver and wife Hattie Meyers Weaver pose in their Buick Roadster, October 1918. Another version of this photograph was labeled “Mrs. W pregnant, flu epidemic.” NASM 9A16574

George Charles Weaver, nicknamed “Buddie,” was born on December 12, 1918. Hattie noted that the “fever had burned off the weight, the flesh was loose on the 5 lb. 3oz. baby.” She blamed herself and her illness for the premature birth and promised “to do better next time.” George exited the room and only later did Hattie learn he had fainted. He returned to Texas soon after to receive his discharge papers. He had been warned if he was not present, he would not receive the end-of-war separation benefits package.

Hattie convalesced in Chicago under the watchful eye of the Weaver family. Her doctor insisted that she needed to be strong and nurse the baby. Her youngest brother-in-law taught her how to walk again. George wrote often. It was difficult for Hattie to learn that many of the women with whom she had made baby clothes at Rich Field had succumbed to the flu, along with their children. In a January 5 letter, Hattie wrote: “George, that grips me by the heart at nights and when Son is sleeping quietly I have to feel him to be sure he is living. I have tried to write Mrs. Blair but each time I have become deathly sick. I cannot. Oh Georgie how grateful we are.” George returned to Chicago when Buddie was eight weeks old.

After the war, George Weaver took up barnstorming. In 1920, along with Clayton Bruckner and Elwood "Sam" Junkin, he founded the Weaver Aircraft Company. George “Buck” Weaver died on July 31, 1924, from a septic blister. He was eulogized by some of aviation’s greats, including Katherine Stinson: “You [Hattie] have been very dear to and made very happy this boy whom we all loved so dearly.”

Reproduction of July 29, 1924 telegram from Katherine Stinson to Hattie Meyers Weaver regarding the death of George “Buck” Weaver. NASM NASM.XXXX.0171-M0000014-00140

The company was later renamed Advanced Aircraft and, later, Waco (pronounced wah-co, as opposed to way-co). Hattie married Sam Junkin in 1926, but he died shortly afterwards (their daughter Janet was only a few months old). The company slipped out of Hattie’s hands soon after. The Waco Aircraft Company flourished during the interwar period as Waco aircraft were operated by public, private, military and corporate owners in thirty-five countries. During World War II, Waco devoted itself entirely to war production, particularly gliders, but could not adjust to the postwar market.

Hattie and her son Buddie lived long lives. In 1929, Hattie married Ralph Stanton Barnaby, a glider pilot, but the marriage was short-lived. Hattie wrote several versions of the Waco Company history. She was one of the first women to earn a glider class C license. She studied law at the University of Washington (DC), but fell ill before taking the bar.

Hattie Meyers Junkin with son George “Buddie” Weaver, age six, January 1927. Hattie noted on the back that she had trimmed her crepe tunic with beaver from an ageing coat. NASM 9A16577 

In 1976, an episode of the hit television show Upstairs Downstairs prompted Hattie to recall her bout of influenza in a letter to Buddie: “The report again in the final chapter of the ‘Spanish’ flu that caused more deaths than the millions slaughtered in [World] War One, naturally brings me agin [sic] to my carrying you, the Armistice, (pic in my album) of my Kewpie doll body as your father was chosen to lead the parade in our Buick convertible….” She revisited the circumstances of Buddie’s birth, adding, “Since then it is remarkable how we have escaped attempts, literally on our lives.” Hattie Meyers Weaver Junkin died in 1990 and George “Buddie” Weaver followed in 1991.

The National Air and Space Museum Archives holds the Hattie Meyers Junkin Papers, the Waco Aircraft Company Records, and the Ralph Stanley Barnaby Papers. The Waco collection includes almost 25,000 drawings on paper, business records (including purchase orders for individual aircraft), and engineering reports. Ralph Barnaby’s collection holds documents from his gliding career and correspondence received late in his life from other aviation pioneers.

Hattie’s papers are digitized, containing materials from every stage of her life. Her diaries and correspondence are especially rich in the World War I and early Waco periods. She saved everything for years, including photos and cards straight out of George “Buck” Weaver’s wallet and satchel, and donated the collection to the Museum in 1983. In fact, the Smithsonian TranscriptionCenter is looking for volunteers to transcribe materials from the Hattie Meyers Junkin Papers!

Elizabeth C. Borja
Archivist
National Air and Space Museum Archives

The Spanish Flu

This year marks the 100 year anniversary of the World War I armistice. While many will remember this year as the end of the First World War, many may not realize that this is also the centennial anniversary of something much deadlier than the Great War itself. This killer did not come in the form of a bullet, bomb or chemical weapon, but appeared at first as a simple flu virus. A century later, we can find testimonies from the people who directly witnessed this virus’s destruction.

Leo Baekeland, inventor of the first commercialized plastic, known as Bakelite, personally saw the virus in action. He wrote almost daily about life in 1918 and the end of the war in his diaries, which are part of the Leo H. Baekeland Papers in the Archives Center, National Museum of American History. He also made many entries revealing that some of his close friends were becoming severely sick from what he thought was just only the every-day flu virus. In his diary entry dated October 24th, Baekeland wrote, “Albert sick with influenza.” Baekeland’s November 3rd entry stated, “Albert and children better and out of bed, but now (his) wife is sick with pneumonia,” and by November 10th, Baekeland recorded, “Albert’s wife is dead.” A week after Albert’s wife died, Baekeland wrote that his maid, “Katie is buried this morning.” The severity of this flu virus must have become jarringly evident to Leo when he wrote, “From five who had influenza, two deaths!” But this was no average flu season.

Leo Baekeland’s diary entry explaining that he had lost two friends to the flu. Volume 25, pages 158-159, Baekeland’s personal diaries, Leo Baekeland Papers, Archives Center, National Museum of American History.  Image #AC0005-D25-083.

This epidemic, better known as the Spanish Flu, became a pandemic viral outbreak that struck almost every corner of the world.  While World War I appeared to have brought the world to its knees in human costs, the losses the war brought paled in comparison to the toll the Spanish flu took, especially on the healthiest of the populations.

Most victims of influenza are of the youngest, oldest or most physically vulnerable groups, but this was not the case with the Spanish flu. This type of influenza began as a bird virus and for reasons unknown, mutated into something very different, making the jump from infecting birds to infecting humans. What made this virus so devastating was how it attacked the body. Unlike other viruses, the symptoms of the Spanish flu included nosebleeds, explosive hemorrhaging, air hunger and cyanosis (skin turning blue or black from lack of oxygen). In many cases, people literally suffocated to death. The Spanish flu further differed from other flu viruses in that it turned the autoimmune system into a weapon against the body; the stronger your immune system, the stronger the virus’s attack.  This is why over fifty percent of the deaths were of the healthiest people, ranging from 20 to 40 years old.

Leo Baekeland’s diary entry detailing the need for oxygen tanks for his sick friend’s wife. Volume 25, page 148, Baekeland’s personal diaries, Leo Baekeland Papers, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. Image #AC0005-D25-078.

The world being at war also helped vault this flu from an epidemic into a pandemic. It is believed to have started in the United States in the spring of 1918 and it quickly spread throughout the world with U.S. troop movements and deployments. As American military soldiers deployed to the war zones, they brought the virus wherever they went. Six months later, with the end of the war in the fall of that year, American and foreign soldiers returned back to their homelands, taking the virus from the battlefield to the home front. This created a perfect recipe for a pandemic disaster.

The legacy of World War I left a devastating impact, but the Spanish Flu would soon dwarf the war’s casualty count. Approximately 20 million people died as result of World War I, but the Spanish flu claimed fifty to possibly as many as 100 million lives. The continual national and international movement of troops only fueled the impact of the virus’s impact on a pandemic scale like no other flu in modern times. So as we remember the centennial of the end of World War I, we should note this is also the anniversary of one of the worst viral outbreaks of the modern age.

Joe Hursey, Reference Archivist,
Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Three German Ships, Puerto Rico, and the Great War: the First Shots Fired by the U.S. in WWI

Theodoor de Booy in the Dominican Republic in 1916 (N04834).

In 1915, Theodoor de Booy, an archaeologist of the Museum of the American Indian, predecessor of the National Museum of the American Indian (NMAI), took photos of Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, which are now part of the Theodoor de Booy negatives and photographs collection. Included among this collection are photographs of three ships named S.S. Odenwald, S.S. KD-III, and S.S. Präsident. Considering this an oddity, I investigated further and what I discovered was a story that involved World War I, the Fortress of el Morro in San Juan harbor, a German scheme, and what many consider to be the first shots fired by the U.S. in the Great War.

The Fortress of El Morro guarding in the entrance of San Juan Harbor, 1915.
Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04073).

Three Ships and a War

The story takes place in the harbor of San Juan between August 1914 and March 1915 when the U.S. was still a Neutral Power and Puerto Rico was already an American colony. The three ships were:

The S.S. Odenwald in San Juan Harbor, 1915.
 Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04078).

The Odenwald, a German merchant freighter (a coal collier) that began to service the German Navy days after the beginning of the war. Her duty was to serve as support freighter for the cruiser SMS Karlsruhe whose mission was to patrol the eastern Atlantic in search of, raid, and sink enemy merchant vessels. She sailed into San Juan harbor around August 6 or 7, 1914, possibly seeking refuge against a British squadron of warships. Since the U.S. was a neutral state, it is possible that her crew claimed to be a merchant ship. But, the U.S. authorities seem to have been suspicious of these claims.

The S.S. Präsident in San Juan Harbor, 1915.
Photo by Theodoor de Booy (N04077).

The S.S. Präsident was a German vessel that served as a combination of passenger and cargo ship before the war. When the war broke out, she, too, began to serve in the German Navy as a support vessel to the cruiser Karlsruhe by providing radio communication and supplies. She arrived in Puerto Rico on December 1914 to take refuge from British and French cruisers that were hunting her and eventually was interned (to impound or confine until the end of the war) by the U.S. government.



The S.S. K.D.-III (Farn) in San Juan Harbor, 1915. P
hoto by Theodoor de Booy (N04079).

S.S. K.D.-III, a German tender ship that was actually the captured British coal collier Farn. While not at the service of the British Navy, she was carrying 3,000 tons of coal when captured by the Karlsruhe on October 1914 off the coast of South America. It was renamed K.D.-III (K.D. standing for Kohlendampfer or coal carrier). She sailed into San Juan on the 11th or 12th of January, 1915 to obtain supplies. Declared a tender boat of the German Navy on January 15, it was interned by the U.S. authorities.

Days Before the Incident

The story begins on March 18, 1915 when the captain of the S.S. Odenwald, C. S. Segebarth, requested (1) clearance to sail back to Hamburg the next day and (2) 5000 tons of coal for such trip. Suspicious of the request the local authorities decided to consult with Washington, D.C. and, afraid that the vessel may leave without clearance, alerted the commanding officer of the Porto Rico Regiment of Infantry (PRPI) at the fortress of El Morro. Washington approved the use of force if necessary and the German captain of the Odenwald was warned several times. Despite the Germans assurances that they did not intend to leave without clearance, the local authorities made preparations in case a situation developed. A machine gun platoon was placed on the Bastión de San Agustín, 500 feet from the Morro Castle (see plan of the Bay) commanded by Captain Wood and the heavy guns of El Morro were readied under the command of Lt. Teófilo Marxuach.



The Incident
On the afternoon of March 21, the customs inspector returned to the Odenwald, but his visit was cut short when the Odenwald started her engines around 3:00 pm and began moving on the main channel towards the mouth of the harbor without clearance. The custom collector was asked to leave in a small boat. As the Odenwald passed the Bastión de San Agustín, Captain Wood, standing on the parapet of the sea wall, hailed the vessel several times without success; the Odenwald stayed on course. Captain Woods ordered Puerto Rican Sgt. Encarnación Correa, to fire warning-shots with his machine-gun without any success. Failing to stop the vessel, Lt. Marxuach was ordered to fire a warning shot 300 yards across the bow of the Odenwald from El Morro’s 4.7 inch gun. This was the convincing shot and the Odenwald stopped and dropped anchor at the mouth of the harbor under the fortress. She was eventually moved that same day to the upper harbor with a local pilot.



Map of San Juan Harbor with annotations and calculations by Lt. Teófilo Marxuach for his report of the incident (National Archives).

Despite the fact that the U.S would not declare war to Germany for two more years, these shots have been considered by some American and Puerto Rican historians as the first ones fired by the U.S. in World War I. Perhaps, the main reason for this conclusion is that the whole incident took place within the context of the war. While not involved in the fighting, even the status of neutrality of the U.S. and other countries was the result of and defined by the conflict. Interestingly, these shots were fired by Puerto Ricans who did not become American citizens until Congress passed the Jones-Shafroth Act two years later in March of 1917.

L. Antonio Curet, Curator

National Museum of the American Indian

Journals and Diaries: A Window into the Past

As a member of the Archives Center staff, I have worked with numerous hand-written archival materials over the past four years. Most of my work with hand-written documents has been for the purpose of digitizing them to be uploaded into the Transcription Center for transcription by public volunteers. While the Archives Center staff has digitized a wide array of materials, many of these handwritten documents are diaries or journals.

The majority of these diaries and journals provide a first-hand detailed account of a specific time and place, like the journals in the Leo H. Baekeland Papers, 1863-1968.  Leo Baekeland was a chemist and inventor, credited with the development of an early form of plastic called Bakelite. His journals, which spanned 35 years, 1907-1942, preserve much of his ideas and work in the development and production of plastic and his research. While this may be fascinating to some researchers, what I find most valuable about these journals is not the specifics of his work. I am more interested in his details of day-to-day American life and historic events.

Pages 142-143, Volume 25 of Leo Baekeland’s journals from the Leo H. Baekeland Papers, Archives Center, NMAH

Baekeland’s journals, 65 in all, cover not only his work with plastic, but some of the most important events in American history.  As an example, he wrote on November 7th, 1918, “WAR IS OVER and GERMANY SURRENDERS” and describes the celebration on Broadway in New York City. Later in his diaries, October 29, 1929, Baekeland writes about the fall of Wall Street and how he did not lose his money, but many did due to speculation and inflation of the stock market. In December 1941, he wrote of the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Journals like this are an invaluable resource for the day-to-day activities of their author, but also the insight they provide on the American experience from that period of time. When researched alongside other journals and diaries from other collections, on the same dates of important events or time periods, these manuscripts can assist the researcher in seeing a snapshot in time.  This can be an important aid to the understanding of a specific time period or experience.  For myself, this is why these types of manuscripts are so important to us and our researchers.

Joe Hursey
Archives Center, National Museum of American History

Throwback Thursday: October 13th, 1917

For this throwback Thursday, let’s take a look back in time to see what was happening at the Smithsonian on this day in 1917.  The nation was preparing for war as Europe sunk deeper and deeper into the stalemate of the First World War.  When the United States officially declared war, there was a mad scramble to build and equip an army to fight on such an international scale and the Smithsonian was no exception.

Letter from Woodrow Wilson to Charles D. Walcott, October 13, 1917, by Wilson, Woodrow 1856-1924, October 13,1917, Smithsonian Archives, SIA2014-06989.

On October 13, 1917, Smithsonian Secretary Charles D. Walcott received a letter from President Woodrow Wilson requesting space in the Natural History Building for the Bureau of War Risk Insurance. The Natural History Building had been open for just seven years at the time and curators were reasonably worried about moving the collections safely when the building was already quickly filling. The Bureau of War Risk Insurance, which provided life insurance to soldiers and sailors fighting abroad, rapidly moved into 15,000 square feet.

President Wilson made the point that the Bureau of War Risk Insurance was a newly legislated part of the Treasury Department. With the requirement of a minimum of five hundred employees, they needed significant office space much faster than anyone could hope to build it. The Treasury Department didn’t have five hundred desks sitting empty, and they found what they were looking for just a few blocks away in the modern, fireproof Natural History Building.

National Museum Closes for WWI Work, by Unknown, 1918, Smithsonian Institution Archives, 23905 or MAH-23905.

The state‐of‐the‐art fireproof building was especially valuable to an insurance bureau that needed to protect its records from as many dangers as possible. By July of the following year, the Bureau’s rapid growth eventually took over the entire building, closing the last exhibit halls to the public to be turned into office space. The Natural History Building was quickly returned to the Smithsonian and reopened to the public in 1919 just months after the war ended.

To find out more about the Bureau of War Risk Insurance at the Smithsonian, click here.

To learn more about the Smithsonian in World War One, check out the Smithsonian in Wartime exhibit.


Lisa Fthenakis, Program Assistant
Smithsonian Institution Archives

Observing from the Air: The Theodore E. Boyd World War I Collection

Theodore E. Boyd was a 24-year-old teacher from Tennessee when the United States entered World War I in 1917. Boyd initially volunteered for Reserve Officers Training School at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia. He then accepted a commission to be a Second Lieutenant in the Field Artillery Section. In France, Boyd served with the 88th Aero Squadron (Attached), 7th Field Artillery, Air Service, American Expeditionary Forces (AEF).

In 2012, the National Air and Space Museum Archives received the Theodore E. Boyd World War I Collection (Acc. No. 2013-0016) and through the documents in the collection—correspondence, photographs, military orders, flight logs, and memoirs—we can reconstruct Boyd’s World War I experience.

Boyd volunteered to serve as an officer in the reserves because he was hoping the rank would serve him well in a planned career in law when the war was over. The transition to military life was difficult for many civilians and Boyd showed a sense of humor about training camp in a May 1917 letter:

“Great is militarism! For it maketh the once slovenly and inefficient ex-pedagog laboriously scrub and polish his rifle two hours, only to be told on inspection that there is rust in the muzzle, dust in the screw-heads, and that the cause thereof is damned laziness.”

He then signed the letter, “Militaristically, Theo,” with a postscript, “Don’t take my cussing out too seriously. Half the company had to clean the rifles over again, and my lecture was a mild one comparatively speaking.”

Military identification card for Theodore E. Boyd as a second lieutenant in the 7th Field Artillery regiment, serving as a military observer.  Image: NASM 9A12577

Upon arriving in France in fall 1917, Boyd was trained as a military observer. In this role, he would accompany a pilot in a flight over enemy lines, identify targets, and send the position information to the artillery via a wireless transmitter.

Boyd wittily captioned this photo: "Favorite position of the G-4."  This aircraft, nosed over on landing at Tours, France, in February 1918, is actually a Caudron G.3.  Image: NASM 9A11906

Boyd was required to take many training courses in France, including artillery school, observers’ school, and machine gun instruction.

Page from the flight log (carnet de vols) for Second Lt. Theodore E. Boyd from the École de Tir Aerien de Cazaux (a French aerial gunning school) from June-July 1918.  Image: NASM 9A12578-A

On September 14, 1918, Boyd was charged with protecting an aerial photo mission over Conflans, France. According to a citation from his friend and pilot that day, Kenneth P. Littauer:

“…He engaged in combat with five enemy pursuit machines of the Pfalz type. He was wounded in both legs, the left foot and right elbow by explosive bullets. In spite of his wounds he succeeded, by a remarkable display of courage and tenacity in keeping up the fire of his guns until the attacking planes were put to flight. During the return to the Allied lines, Lieut. Boyd, although faint with pain and loss of blood, assisted his pilot, whose machine was disabled and coming down under control, in choosing the shortest route to safety.”

For his actions, Boyd was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross.  He was also awarded the Silver Star for earlier gallantry in action.  He spent the rest of the war convalescing in a military hospital and on the last day of the war had been ordered report for return transport to the United States. He continued his correspondence with Littauer after the war. (Interesting side note: Littauer would go on to be an editor at Collier’s magazine and literary agent for author Kurt Vonnegut.)

Second Lieutenant Theodore E. Boyd receives the Distinguished Service Cross. He is still using a cane as the result of his injuries. NASM 9A11910

After the war, instead of becoming a lawyer, Boyd went to medical school and taught physiology for 24 years at Loyola University in Chicago. In 1947, he joined the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis where for twenty 20 years he served as assistant director, and then director, of the Research Department.

During the 1970s and 1980s, Boyd wrote dozens of letters to his children and grandchildren recalling his service in World War I with well-crafted tales of training and flying at the front in France. Theodore E. Boyd died in 1986 at the age of 92.

This blog post is also cross-posted at the National Air and Space Museum's AirSpace blog.

Elizabeth C. Borja
National Air and Space Museum Archives