by Theo Emery
The most exciting historical discovery of my research came from Louise Cass, the granddaughter of James Thayer Addison, who investigated his papers at my request and discovered his complete war diaries. It was humbling to be entrusted with those diaries, and such an astonishing act of faith for her to send them to me, that I am moved even by the thought of it. Louise’s cousin, Margot McCain, similarly provided invaluable documents, for which I’m deeply appreciative. I had wonderful exchanges with Holly Lake and Kathy Atkisson, descendants of Colonel Earl Atkisson, as well as with Connie Ann MacMullin Aust, the granddaughter of Robert MacMullin. While his reminiscences from his time with Company E did not find their way into this book, I’m pleased to include his haunting poems, which are so evocative of the trials at the front. I’m grateful as well for the interest of Jennifer Lawrence, granddaughter of A. Bruce Bielaski, and for my conversations with Betty Higginbottom, the daughter-in-law of Harold and Irene Higginbottom.
Parts of this story have been told in various ways. The outstanding book War of Nerves by the late Jonathan B. Tucker brushed up against this early history. Other scholars have more recently dove into the World War I legacy, such as Joel A. Vilensky’s Dew of Death and Thomas I. Faith’s Behind the Gas Mask, both excellent, meticulously researched works that provided invaluable guidance for me. My interview with Vilensky was among the first I did as I set out to report on Spring Valley for the Times in 2012, and his research pointed me toward document sources that would have been easy to overlook. My discussions with Faith came toward the very end, when he guided me toward General Pershing’s papers and other overlooked caches of valuable documentation and generously shared documents that I had trouble locating.
So many archivists and librarians have patiently guided me to files along the way that I can scarcely find space for them. Here are the ones I can recount: Dominiek Dendooven at the In Flanders Fields Museum in Ieper (Ypres), which I visited in April of 2015; Gertjan Remmerie, formerly of Talbot House in Poperinge, Belgium, who generously provided the transcript of Jeanne Batteu’s interview; Susan McElrath, the archivist at American University Library; Becky Jordan, reference specialist at Iowa State University Special Collections; Carol Mowrey at the Mystic Museum in Mystic, Connecticut; the Abraham Lincoln Public Library; the Deer Island Historical Society; Scott Sanders at Antioch College; Louise Sandberg at the Lawrence (Massachusetts) Public Library; Amita Kiley, collections manager and research coordinator at the Lawrence History Center; the Lake County Historical Society in Willoughby, Ohio; the Willoughby Historical Society; Ann and Pat Lewis at the Willoughby Public Library; Richard Bly and Scott Morgan at the Kane Depot Preservation Society; Patrick Raftery, librarian at the Westchester County Historical Society; the Peekskill Public Library; Marianne Leese, senior historian of the Historical Society of Rockland County (New York); Lindy Smith, research services archivist at Ohio State University; Andrea Mohr, Special Collections and University Archives, Oregon State University; the Washingtonia Room at the Martin Luther King Library in Washington, D.C.; the staff at the Kiplinger Research Library of the Historical Society of Washington, D.C.; the U.S. Army Heritage and Education Center in Carlisle, Pennsylvania; the archives of the Smithsonian Institution; Daniel Barbiero at the National Academy of Sciences Archives; and Mike Hanson at the Pentagon Library. I’m also grateful for the assistance and guidance of archivists and librarians at Catholic University, MIT, Harvard University, Princeton University, Yale University, Johns Hopkins, and Columbia. Maria Asp, archivist at the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences, directed my genealogical questions about Carl Wilhelm Scheele to historian Anders Lennartsson.
Jeffery Smart, command historian at Edgewood, fielded many an off-base question, and Kathy Chiolfi similarly provided me guidance when I reached research dead ends. While I’ve not quite gained senior status as a regular at the National Archives, I did receive a great deal of help from the diligent research assistants there, who guided me through the struggles of navigating century-old records. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers has been extremely helpful, both with providing archival documents and allowing me access to contemporary events. For a time, I embedded with the corps during the cleanup in Spring Valley, allowing me some behind-the-scenes observations that helped my understanding of technical aspects of the cleanup. I particularly want to thank Brenda Barber, Andrea Takash, J. R. Martin, and Dan Noble, who answered my endless litany of questions for years on end. Numerous activists and neighborhood residents of Spring Valley have helped me to understand this history as well: Kent Slowinski, Ginny Durrin, and others. Thank you to Tom and Kath Loughlin, who shared their painful story of living in the house that I saw razed in 2012. Simon Hankinson gave me a firsthand glimpse of the interior of Theodore Roosevelt Hall and a vantage point of the city as it might have appeared in April of 1917. Amy Smithson provided invaluable background during my reporting, as did Michael Neiberg at the U.S. Army War College. Seth Carus of the National Defense University and John Ellis van Courtland Moon, professor emeritus of history at Fitchburg State College, both provided insight and feedback regarding my conclusions. Hampton Sides and Anne Goodwin Sides gave me sage advice and guided me to speak with Gregg Bemis about the sinking of the Lusitania.
This book would have never reached the stage it did without the assistance of Kip Lindberg, director of the U.S. Army Chemical Corps Museum at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, who welcomed me for two days of research and guided me to the journal of Harold Higginbottom, who of course ended up as a major figure in this book. Christy Lindberg, the archivist at Fort Leonard Wood, assisted me with my FOIA request for records. Historian Simon Jones was my intrepid battlefield guide and also gave invaluable feedback for my prologue, not to mention the occasional historical lifeline when I ran up against vexing questions about the Great War and chemical warfare.
This book would not exist but for the sorcery woven in the classrooms and workshops of Goucher College’s creative nonfiction MFA program, the literary womb from which this entire enterprise sprang. Tom French, Suzannah Lessard, Jacob Levenson, and Dick Todd helped me to mold and shape the earliest iterations of this book, and Laura Wexler was my research oracle. The program’s director emeritus, Patsy Sims, and its current director, Leslie Rubinkowski, have been encouraging throughout. That goes, too, for all my amazing classmates, who have cheered me on throughout the process, ever since my first workshop in summer of 2012 when I told Jim, Laura, Andrea, and Julie about Spring Valley. If it weren’t for Jesse Holland, who beamed at me from across the table at the Root 100 dinner in 2012, I might still be laboring in some parallel universe of daily deadlines. Fellow alums in the D.C. area and beyond—Jim Dahlman, Erica Johnson, Tom Kapsedelis, Carol Marsh, Pam Kelley, and others—read sections along the way. Wil Hylton and Pamela Haag provided much-needed advice at a crucial juncture (i.e., deadline time). There have been innumerable editors and reporters at the New York Times who have helped and encouraged me over the years—two in particular are Ian Urbina and Hillary Stout. I’m indebted to the Alicia Patterson Foundation and its director, Margaret Engel. The foundation’s 2015 fellowship allowed me to explore topics related to the book and dig deep in my research. NARA historian and author Mitch Yockelson swooped in like an angel of history for a final, fine-tooth fact check—an astonishing act of generosity for which I am humbly in his debt.
I’m extremely grateful to Little, Brown, and in particular my former editor, John Parsley, who was a supporter of Hellfire Boys even before I stepped off the train in Manhattan in the fall of 2014. John’s calming voice and editorial advice, along with the insightful questions of his colleague Will Boggess and guidance from his assistant Gabriella Mongelli, steadied the helm throughout the writing of the book and improved the book immeasurably. A huge thank-you to my indefatigable copyeditor, Susan Bradanini Betz, whose untiring patience and diligence saved me from many an embarrassing error, and to Peggy Freudenthal, who kept the editorial trains running on time. My new editor, Phil Marino, stepped into the
role with gusto and style, and became an enthusiastic partner in no time.
My intrepid agent, Howard Yoon, hauled me to the conclusion that the better book was the bigger story. My readers suffered through the earliest draft of the book and gave me advice and thoughtful criticism that helped me spin some of the straw into gold: Lewis “Goat” Robinson, Sasha Abramsky, Jonathan Green, and Beverly Gage. Sam Williamson, in his lawyerly way, prodded me toward writing a book long before I ever thought it possible—thanks, Spud.
My family has been a stupendous source of support and encouragement—my father, Stan, and my sisters, Alice and Margaret. The keystone to it all, the person who has held the whole thing together, is my dazzling wife, Audie. She nudged me toward new endeavors, to color outside the margins of journalism that I had grown too comfortable with, and allowed me to experiment with writing in ways I had dreamed of but never dared to try.
Last, my mother, Ann Badger Emery, died in spring of 2013, before this undertaking had germinated into a full-fledged book. She was a pacifist in spirit with a gentle soul who hated violence in any form. Her generosity, love of family and music and art, and unwavering faith in humanity was a beacon of clarity for me when she was alive. She remains so today, even in moments when the world has appeared most dark. This book is dedicated to her. I hope that it would have made her proud.
Aerial photograph of a French cloud gas attack in Flanders, Belgium. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-95)
Bureau of Mines director Vannoy “Van” Hartog Manning. After the war, fellow chemists praised Manning for his foresight in preparing for the threat of chemical warfare, but he received little public recognition for his efforts. (National Archives, photo no. 111-SC-56573)
Major General William L. Sibert, director of the U.S. Chemical Warfare Service. (Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, photograph by Harris & Ewing, LC-DIG-hec-16794)
Major General William L. Sibert in Gondrecourt, France, in August 1917, when he still commanded the First Division. He was later dismissed and ordered to return to the United States, where he became chief of the Chemical Warfare Service. (National Archives, photo no. 111-SC-80078)
Brigadier General Amos A. Fries, chief of the gas service, AEF, and later chief of the U.S. Chemical Warfare Service after the dismissal of Major General William L. Sibert. (Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, photograph by Harris & Ewing, LC-DIG-hec-16690)
Fries after the war. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-103)
Captain Winford Lee Lewis, the chemist credited with identifying lewisite as a potential chemical weapon. (Photo courtesy of L. Philip Reiss, grandson of W. Lee Lewis)
Sergeant Harold “Higgie” J. Higginbottom, Company B, First Gas Regiment. (Photo courtesy of U.S. Army Chemical Corps Museum, Fort Leonard Wood, MO)
Second Lieutenant Thomas Jabine, Companies B and C, First Gas Regiment. Wounded in mustard gas shelling in early October 1918. (Photo by permission of the Jabine family)
Sergeant Charles William Maurer, who was drafted and then ordered to report to American University in 1918. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Passport application and photo of Richmond M. Levering. (National Archives and Records Administration, U.S. Passport Applications, 1795–1925, via Ancestry.com)
German chemist, spy, and saboteur Walter T. Scheele, photographed aboard a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico after his arrest in Cuba. (Investigative Case Files of the Bureau of Investigation 1908–1922, Record Group 65, National Archives Microfilm Publication M1085, Old German Files, 1909–21, case no. 8000-925, roll 279, frame 203, National Archives at College Park, MD, via Fold3.com)
Walter Scheele, second from right, in a group photo with American and Cuban agents aboard a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico after his arrest in Cuba. (Investigative Case Files of the Bureau of Investigation 1908–1922, Record Group 65, National Archives Microfilm Publication M1085, Old German Files, 1909–21, case number 8000-925, roll 279, frame 566, National Archives at College Park, MD, via Fold3.com)
Incendiary darts developed by the Chemical Warfare Service, possibly using the chemical formula Walter Scheele developed to bomb American ships. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-76)
Kennel at the American University Experiment Station for dogs used in lab tests. Hundreds of dogs died in experiments of the Research Division; mice, cats, goats, monkeys, and other animals were also used in tests. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-18)
Future gas officers training at American University in the fall of 1917. (Photo courtesy of the U.S. Army Chemical Corps Museum, Fort Leonard Wood, MO)
View of the American University Experiment Station from the east, with McKinley Hall in the background. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-3)
View of McKinley Hall from the roof of the College of History building, American University. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-2)
West-facing view of the American University Experiment Station from the top of McKinley Hall. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-5)
The man-test house at the American University Experiment Station, where soldiers tested out new masks and canister designs. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-6)
Soldiers testing box respirators in the AUES man-test house. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-7)
Stationary bicycle in the man-test house used to test gas mask canisters during physical exertion. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-9)
Left, example of a skin test comparing different chemical weapons agents. The photo illustrates a comparison of mustard gas and lewisite blisters. Right photo shows blisters in a test of protective salves. (National Archives, photo nos. 70-CW-100 and 70-CW-101)
Masked soldiers in a test trench at the American University Experiment Station. Note the Livens shells in the top-left corner of the photo. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-66)
Flamethrower demonstration at the American University Experiment Station. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-56)
Soldiers in the Research Division at the test range at the American University Experiment Station. Stokes mortars with legs, baseplates, and sandbags are in the foreground. A battery of Livens projectors, buried in the ground at an angle, is at the left-most side of the photo. (National Archives, photo no. 70-CW-67)
The new chemical laboratory at American University. Construction began in 1918 but stalled because of massive cost overruns. The lab was unfinished when the war ended and was turned over to American University. Today the building is known as the Mary Graydon Center. (National Archives, photo no. 111-SC-55273)
Members of the Research Division staff at the American University Experiment Station. Charles William Maurer is third from the right in the front row. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Gas warning sign at the fenced periphery of the American University Experiment Station. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Drum of phosgene on the grounds of the American University Experiment Station. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Charles William Maurer, wearing gloves to protect against mustard, posing outside the shell-filling shack he called “my office.” The inscription on the back of the photo says the shack was filled with mustard and lewisite. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Maurer mugging inside one of the many outbuildings on the American University Experiment Station grounds. (Photo courtesy of estate of Addie Ruth Maurer Olson/Olson Family Collection)
Aftermath of a February 1918 explosion in which several soldiers and officers were injured at the American University Experiment Station. (Bureau of Mines, Record Group 70, War Chemical and Gas Investigations, 1918–1919, finding aid A-1, entry 80, box 2, National Archives at College Park, MD)
Martin Maloney Chemical Laboratory, the chemical lab at Catholic University of America, where W. Lee Lewis
and his Organic Unit No. 3 tested and developed the chemical compound lewisite. (Photo courtesy of L. Philip Reiss, grandson of W. Lee Lewis)
Group photo of Organic Unit No. 3 outside Maloney Laboratory at Catholic University. (Photo courtesy of L. Philip Reiss, grandson of W. Lee Lewis)
A small-scale lewisite still set up on the roof of Maloney Laboratory, a precursor to a larger version that exploded on August 3, 1918, exposing former senator Scott and the secret industrial-scale plant dubbed “the Mousetrap” in Willoughby, Ohio. (Photo courtesy of L. Philip Reiss, grandson of W. Lee Lewis)