September 1918: Camp Devens, Massachusetts.  The man on the autopsy table  has turned blue.  Dr William H. 
Welch  nods to proceed.  His colleagues reach for the bone saw and begin  to open the ribcage.  The man's lungs  are heavy. 
Welch and his colleagues  lean in as they're opened.  The lungs are  so full of fluid that it's traveled up the trachea.  The man  had drowned in his own body, just like  the others. 
Welch needs air.  He opens the door and stumbles  around men lying on the floor.  There are no longer  enough beds in the hospital. 
Six thousand men, crammed  at a facility meant for 1,200, and they're turning blue.  This is  a horror story; one of the most  frightening in history.  In 1918  a new disease emerged. 
We still don't know exactly how  or where it first began infecting humans, but within months it would spread  across the planet, from the trenches of the Western Front to the most remote villages on earth.  It infected 1/3 of the world's population  and killed between 50 and 100 million people.  To put that in perspective, the low estimate would make it  twice as deadly as World War I, while the high estimate would mean  it killed more than both World Wars combined. 
Between 3-6% of the global population died within 18 months.  It was the first  modern plague, turning  our interconnected world against us by spreading  through shipping lanes, rail lines and the arteries of industrialized war, yet it was also the first pandemic  of the scientific age, where doctors could, to some extent, understand  what was happening and stand against the infection, though they lacked  the tools to stop it.  So in 1918, while researchers  couldn't really see viruses, they knew  such things must exist. 
They had no idea that unlike the bacteria they could see in their microscopes, the flu was not alive  in any way humans understood it: Just a bunch of unstable genetic material that possessed a cell, forcing it to pump out billions  of copies of itself, and  with each cell infected, a minority of those new viruses  mutated into something more infectious; more deadly.  A microorganism that, through the randomness of natural selection, became progressively better at catching  and killing as it passed through each host.  In its wake it altered  a World War, drove languages extinct, and shattered the sense of invulnerability  that modern medicine had begun to cultivate, and when  the nightmare ended, the world did what any person does  when they wake from a dream: It forgot! 
But forgetting  is something we can't afford because the virus that ravaged  the world in 1918 is still out there; still mutating, and it will return.  Yet, despite  its impacts, we still don't know where the pandemic originated, but there are theories!  Canada, 1917. 
A train races across the plains.  Military guards are instructed to keep civilians away from the locomotive.  If they see what's inside, there may be a riot. 
These cars, designed for cattle, contain the men of the Chinese Labor Corps.  Pawns in a political gambit, until recently, the young, fragile Republic of China  had remained neutral in the first World War.  With so many foreign countries holding territory within its borders, joining the conflict risks making  their homeland a battleground. 
But neutrality was not tenable.  Japan,  one of the allies, had used the war  as pretext to move troops into Chinese territory and demand control  of the Chinese government.  To thread the political needle,  China had declared war on Germany. 
Hopefully the other allies  will now protect China from Japanese aggression and give it a seat at the post-war negotiating table.  It may even get  its occupied territory back.  But to maintain  a shred of neutrality, these Chinese recruits are barred from combat. 
They would dig trenches, lug ammunition,  and clear minefields.  So here they are, shipped to Canada, crammed  on train cars, and traveling overland  to a troop ship in Halifax.  But there's something else among them. 
A respiratory disease that had ravaged northern China the previous year.  A winter sickness severe enough that some victims  coughed blood and turned blue.  First, one recruit begins to cough, then another. 
One by one they fall ill  with splitting headaches and chills.  Crammed into the cattle cars,  there's nowhere to run; nowhere  to isolate the sick.  They beg the guards to let them  get off and seek medical attention, but due to the rampant  anti-Chinese sentiment in Canada, the guards have their orders  to keep the passengers a secret. 
By the time they reach Halifax, 3,000 have to  be placed in quarantine.  Doctors give the sick nothing  but castor oil for sore throats and load the rest of the recruits  onto the troop ships for France.  Those men aren't sick.
. .  yet. 
But flu victims are contagious  days before presenting symptoms, meaning the British Empire  has just delivered Pandemic flu to the trenches.  If that is, it was flu, because another emergence is about to occur in the unlikeliest of places.  March 4th, 1918. 
Camp Funston, Kansas.  Like every military base in America, Camp Funston is overcrowded.  The second largest training center  in the country, Funston's 56,000 men live  in barracks and tents, each waiting to be rotated  to duty in the US or France. 
Diseases always break out  when recruits muster for war, so it's no surprise when a private, a Cook no less, reports for sick call with influenza.  By noon, 107 other soldiers  have joined him.  Within three weeks  it'll be over 1,100. 
Alarming, sure,  but this is wartime.  Camp outbreaks happen.  Even as 20% of the patients  develop pneumonia and 38 died Doctors see nothing abnormal, but they're missing  a key piece of the puzzle. 
A month before  and 300 miles away, the lone doctor in Haskell County, Kansas  had watched flu kill dozens of his strongest, healthiest patients.  It's rapid pace and high fatality rate  alarmed him so much, that he contacted  the Public Health Service and published an alert  in the National Health Journal, but no one listened!  The paper's obituary page  was unusually busy that February, but alongside the reports of death  and illness were heartwarming articles. 
Soldiers from Haskell County  were departing for boot camp or visiting home one last time  before deployment.  All headed  to Camp Funston, and from there,  to France.  Two weeks after  the first case at Funston, 10% of recruits were reporting sick  at two camps in Georgia. 
By the end  of the month, 24 of the 36 largest military bases  in America had cases, along with 30 major cities.  No one noticed. .
.  yet.  Army Medical Department, Washington, DC. 
Doctor William H.  Welch  was tracking an epidemic.  One of the country's most famous doctors, Welch had helped drag American medicine into the modern age. 
He helped found  the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, spread the use  of microscopes, and organized  the Rockefeller Institute, the country's first  dedicated medical laboratory.  His work had helped transform America  from a nation of country doctors to a Titan of scientific medicine, able to compete  with the Pasteur Institute in France and the Koch Institute  in Berlin.  Because of him, America had joined the age of the microscope and the vaccine, a bright world where doctors could both see diseases and kill them. 
The last few decades had brought vaccines for smallpox, rabies, anthrax, diphtheria, and meningitis.  Researchers at the Rockefeller Institute were taking  the first steps towards limb reattachment and organ transplantation.  Some optimists even predicted  a future without communicable disease! 
And America needed that scientific power  now more than ever!  Even before the war, Welch delivered a message  to the Army Surgeon General: When mobilization happens, you'll have  an epidemic!  You'll need to recruit the best doctors  and microbiologists. 
You'll need researchers, train cars outfitted  as mobile research laboratories, a stockpile of vaccines  and antitoxins, anything to be ready.  When the war started, the Surgeon General didn't bother recruiting Welch and his researchers.  He just unfolded  the Rockefeller Institute into the army. 
And here it was, the epidemic  that Welch had feared.  He could see it moving  on the map from camp to camp, and it had killed  nearly 6,000 already.  He had sent researchers  to chart the spread and battle the secondary cases of pneumonia that were the real killer in most epidemics. 
They'd all warned the army that this would happen if they overcrowded the camps, but no one listened!  Welch had dispatched an experimental vaccine that fought one form of bacterial pneumonia, as well as a serum that cut  the death rates by half.  Results of the test looked good,  if not 100% effective. 
It was proving  a successful response.  But there was a problem.  Because the epidemic that Welch  was fighting to contain wasn't flu, it was measles. 
He'd seen reports of influenza spreading too, but influenza was seasonal, something that was expected  and would go away.  Doctors weren't even obligated to report  cases to the Public Health Service, so the prospect of a measles outbreak seemed much more serious, especially with recruits grouped  together in training camps and 36,000 of the nation's doctors  deployed in France.  So as Welch  fought Measles, infected American troops  boarded troop ships. 
They packed into the hold until each converted ocean liner held twice the normal load of passengers.  They pulled away  from the dock waving farewell to families  and loved ones on shore and turned towards Europe.  It was  in the bloodstream now. 
Not just of the men, but of the world. . .