Johannes Toftey poses not long before getting drafted into World War 1. Tom Toftey, his nephew and the son of long time Cook County News-Herald Publisher Ade Toftey, wrote this beautiful piece about his uncle. Photo submitted by Tom Toftey
The influenza pandemic of 1918 swept throughout the world in three waves, finally subsiding in spring 1919. Military bases were especially vulnerable, because of the close living quarters in camps. While today’s COVID-19 pandemic has already infected nearly 9 million in the U.S., causing nearly 160,000 deaths, the “Spanish Flu” of 1918 infected 500 million people worldwide, killing 50 million. A young man from northern Minnesota fell victim to the pandemic the very day he stood guard duty at an army camp in Rockford, Illinois. His name was John Toftey. He was my uncle.
By Thomas G. Toftey
In May 1918, the young teacher paused before leaving his classroom, near the small town of Grand Marais, Minnesota, a picturesque village on the north shore of Lake Superior.
Just two years earlier, Johannes (John) Toftey had been a student in that school. In order to teach, he simply attended a summer course at the University of Minnesota’s St. Paul campus. That fall John became the teacher for all grades in the school on Good Harbor Hill.
John’s students adored him, not only because he played with them during recess, but because he made everyone feel important. Several told their parents that Mr. Toftey was the kindest teacher they knew.
As he closed the school door that spring, John wondered when he would see his students again.
He lived in a small house near the school, doing his own cooking. His house was spartan but neat. His younger brother – my dad – was amazed that John knew how to make rice pudding. At the local Lutheran church, he taught himself to play the organ, playing hymns that he learned by heart. But cooking and playing music weren’t on his mind.
He was anxious to return home, where his parents and siblings lived – 30 miles west in the town of Tofte. The town was named after Toftevag, the village in Norway his family and other settlers left in 1902 for the promise of a better life in America. As other Scandinavians did, John’s family took the town’s name as their last name, although John’s parents added a “y” to their name to help the post office distinguish the many John or Johannes Toftes.
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John was my uncle, but I never knew him. He was born 48 years before me. My dad, Ade, was the youngest of 11 children, seven years younger than John – and the only one in his family born in this country. Amazingly my grandmother was 47 years old when Ade was born, and my grandfather was 51. Much of what I know about John come from memoirs written by my dad or his sister Cecelia.
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On June 5, 1918, John received his registration card for military service. He had expected to be called soon.
World War I had been raging since 1914, and in April 1917, the U.S. declared war on Germany.
John’s mother, Sonneva, dreaded the day when John would leave Tofte to join the army. She had already seen her share of heartache.
Her oldest son, Andreas, had died of blood poisoning as a teen after stepping on broken glass in the Norwegian fjord near their home on the island of Halsnoy. A daughter, Anna, lived only 15 months before dying of a childhood disease. At age 45, Sonneva said goodbye forever to relatives and friends, to her beloved Norway, when the decision was made to move to the U.S. And – that wasn’t all.
After arriving in Tofte, she counted on her son, Andrew to help her husband, Johannes, in developing the farm. By the time he was 15, Andrew had the physique and work ethic of an adult. Folks in Tofte marveled how he did a man’s work.
In my dad’s memoirs, Ade recalled, “Andrew and my dad had driven a wagon pulled by a team of horses down the hill to the Tofte dock on Lake Superior. After unloading the wagon full of potatoes, Andrew stood, driving the horses toward home with pesky black flies everywhere, making the horses jittery. Suddenly, the wagon tongue fell, causing the horses to panic and pitching Andrew between the horses where he became tangled in the harness.
“Sitting facing backward in the rear of the wagon, Dad fell out while the horses made a wild dash home, dragging Andrew over the rocky ground. Mother and my oldest sister Anna witnessed the horses racing up the hill. Andrew was bruised, bloody and broken – and died a short time after reaching our yard.”
Sonneva was heartbroken. A few days later, Johannes offered a stirring prayer in memory of his loyal son, Andrew. At age 10, John had lost his big brother, his best friend.
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Now, 21 years old, John helped his folks during the summer until his notice to report to army duty arrived.
“I can still see him trudging down the road from our house, carrying his battered suitcase to catch a ride that would take him to the village of Cramer and on to Camp Grant in Illinois,” my dad wrote. The date was August 25, 1918.
Train travel was slow, so I can imagine John had time to think as he traveled to Rockford, Illinois.
He thought of his oldest brothers, Ed and Helge, who had visited Minnesota in the late 1890s, then returned to Toftevag in 1902 to convince his parents to move to the north shore of Lake Superior, an area similar in terrain to the Hardanger Fjord on Halsnoy.
He thought of his dad, Johannes. How sad he must have been saying farewell to his nearly 100-year old father, knowing he would never see him again in this life.
He remembered being excited when the ship America left Duluth, carrying 29 of his relatives and friends from Halsnoy to his new home on Lake Superior.
He thought of his mother’s twin brothers, Andrew and John Engelsen, who were among the first Norwegian settlers to homestead in Tofte in 1893.
John smiled as he thought of his mother, Sonneva. His sister Cecelia reminisced: “We docked in Liverpool. As we came up the stairs to disembark, there was a large mirror on the wall. Suddenly, Mother started to laugh and said, ‘I really felt sorry for that woman with all those children.’ Here it was herself with us!” She had seen herself in the mirror with 17-year old Hans and six children under the age of 13 trailing behind her.
He remembered how determined he had been to learn English, even though his parents insisted that they speak only Norwegian at home in Tofte.
John remembered when his sister, Inga, and he had secretly bought their mother a silver butter knife for Christmas. How excited they had been as they whispered and giggled while wrapping her gift!
He thought of how his parents insisted on calling him “Johannes” while his friends called him “John.” His niece, Thelma, nicknamed him “Honey” – and he loved that.
He recalled playing near the school with little Ade when they were young. The snow had started to melt. “John took a mighty leap,” my dad wrote in his memoirs, “into a snow-filled ditch. There was slushy snow underneath and when he tried to pull his feet up, they were stuck!” He stayed there until older kids helped him get out. Oh, how he and Ade had laughed.
He was so pleased he had helped Cecelia recently study arithmetic as she prepared for the exam that would enable her to become postmaster in Tofte, a position she held for 34 years.
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Camp Grant was located on the southern outskirts of Rockford, 85 miles west of Chicago. It opened as a U.S. Army facility in September 1917, was built in just a few months and remained in service until 1946. A museum in Rockford honors the camp on its original site.
Named after Ulysses S. Grant, the camp consisted of 5,460 acres including 1,500 buildings, barracks, and training grounds. Known as the “Black Hawk Division,” the 86th Infantry Division was formed there.
John adapted to army life easily. He was pleased to find two acquaintances from Grand Marais, Hartley Holte and Joe Morrison, at the camp. Perhaps he joined them on the Illinois Central into Chicago where he bought a keepsake — a garnet ring set in gold — at Stumpf Jewelry Co., located at 218- 220 South State Street.
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According to various historical documents, Camp Grant was the perfect place for the dreaded influenza pandemic that swept through the world, since 50,000 men slept, ate, and trained in close quarters.
Although the pandemic was called “the Spanish Flu,” the Centers for Disease Control noted the flu had not originated in Spain but was so named because Spain had remained neutral during World War I and thus, listed uncensored results of the disease’s casualties.
The pandemic may have started in Europe or Asia. Some evidence surfaced that the flu may have originated in a military camp in Belgium where the virus moved to humans from pigs raised to feed soldiers. Perhaps it began in the U.S.
In April 1918, the first wave of the pandemic hit Camp Funston in Fort Riley, Kansas. On September 8, a few sailors at Great Lakes Naval Training Station became ill with the disease. Two weeks later, the epidemic surged throughout Chicagoland. Residents were told to isolate themselves. By October 15, theaters, dance halls and night schools closed. Churches were open, but services were brief. Public funerals were prohibited.
Schools remained open in Chicago, but school nurses discontinued routine work, focusing solely on student inspections. Absentee rates reached 30% – not all due to illness. Some were caused by worried parents. Some students sniffed pepper, knowing that their coughing would allow them to stay home for a week.
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In his article “Camp Grant and the 1918 Influenza Pandemic,” historian Thomas Powers said the first case of the Spanish Flu in Camp Grant was reported on September 21, 2018 – less than one month after John Toftey arrived. Two days later, 400 men were in the infirmary, and the following day, two soldiers died.
By September 30, 16 men at the camp had died – and by the next week, deaths were counted in the hundreds. The virus spread easily throughout the camp and among the citizens of Rockford, especially causing death among healthy young men, 18-34 years old.
Sometime in September, John finally was issued his uniform.
On October 5, John left his laundry on his bunk with some change and a note to Joe Morrison to take it to the laundry, then he reported for guard duty.
That evening, his folks, Sonneva and Johannes, received a wire – John was seriously ill. Another wire arrived the following day. John Toftey died on October 6.
Two days later at 4 a.m., the acting commander of Camp Grant, Col. Charles B. Hagedorn – “distraught by the mounting death toll and his inability to slow the spread of the disease – shot himself in the head with a .44 caliber Colt revolver.” On that date, the epidemic reached its peak at Camp Grant, and by the end of October, the pandemic had subsided significantly in Illinois.
Within a week, John’s parents, siblings and friends stood silently as the America pulled into the Tofte dock carrying John’s coffin. Fourteen-year-old Ade was given John’s watch – and the garnet ring.
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World War I ended in November 1918. By that time, the size of the military had grown to 4.7 million. The pandemic’s third wave ended in the spring of 1919.
One-third of the world’s population – 500 million people were infected. As many as 50 million people died, including 675,000 in the United States. Among them were 1,400 from Camp Grant.
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A native of Grand Marais, Tom Toftey, Winfield, Illinois, is the youngest nephew of John Toftey. He is a former English and journalism teacher in Madison, Wisconsin, and past Director of Communications at the American Medical Association, Chicago.
He is the proud owner of his uncle’s garnet ring.
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