Memories of the Spanish Influenza

Reading the daily coverage of the coronavirus pandemic over the past few weeks I’ve seen the word ‘unprecedented’ used countless times. I’ve even used it myself in this magazine and in conversation.

But, of course, that is not entirely true. A century ago, the world was ravaged by the deadly ‘Spanish Flu’ pandemic, which is estimated to have killed 50 million people worldwide, although some put that figure even higher.

Around 15,000 people died in Australia, which was still among the most successful countries in containing the spread of their influenza. The methods put in place are all too familiar to us today: International arrivals were quarantined, states closed borders, schools and places of public entertainment were closed down; proclamations were issued restricting the number of patrons in bars and hotels before they too were closed.

The restrictions shut down economic activity and the governments of the day scrambled to provide relief to businesses and the thousands who found themselves unemployed.

It is uncanny just how many parallels one can find it this chapter of our history that has been largely forgotten; overshadowed perhaps by the two devastating world wars of the 20th Century.

But it really is not that long ago. My own grandfather, Allan Roe, was seven when the influenza arrived in NSW. Many decades later, he wrote down the following account of that time. (Please note that we are not endorsing the ‘treatment’ he describes)

“All our Scotch friends were avid followers of Professor Kirk’s home treatment for all kinds of sicknesses. After the first World War there was a horrible outbreak of influenza of the worst kind. So widespread was the sickness that many people died. To cope with the sick people the public schools were made into makeshift hospitals. The park next to the Cessnock Public School was filled with many temporary huts which were made into isolation wards apart from the school. It was really a serious plague. All people had to wear masks over their noses in public places to prevent infection.

“In the drama of this situation Professor Kirk’s treatment came to the fore. Mr Jim Clark called for Dad to give him Kirk’s treatment. A blanket was rolled up as a big sausage and a large kettle full of boiling water was poured down the middle core of the blanket. Then after tightly wringing out the surplus water the patient was wrapped up in the hot blanket. Sometimes it was too hot and caused great distress for the patient. It was very effective though and I would venture to say it sweated out the fever and prevented the fatal progress of the sickness.

“Well, about everyone in the town became sick. In our home everyone was sick excepting myself. I acted as nurse to all the family. By this time Jim Clark was over his flu so he came to Dad and Mum and on went the hot blanket. ‘Now,’ said Jim Clark, ‘this is when I get my own back on you Jim Roe. You gave me a too-hot blanket, so you are going to get a very hot one from me.’ So, he got his revenge. Eventually I got sick. I remember the terrifying darkness that swept over me when, at regular intervals, I was delirious. We all survived that traumatic time.”

My grandfather, Allan Roe (at the centre of the photograph), was just seven when the ‘Spanish Flu’ ravaged his home at Cessnock. Pictured standing is his grandmother, my great great grandmother Mary Ann Dalby, know widely in the Newcastle area as ‘Ma Dalby.’ Her entire life was spent serving charitable causes and it is said she would even give away her own children’s clothes to help others in need. During the influenza pandemic, she worked tirelessly to help those afflicted by the disease. Following her death in 1924, the people of Newcastle installed a marble tablet in her honour at the Royal Newcastle Hospital.