Patrick Collins, my uncle, was a cavalry soldier in the first world war. In 1918 he was one of the few survivors in his Cheshire regiment.
When the influenza pandemic struck, it went through his camp like wildfire. Patrick noticed that virtually all those who stayed in camp died, presumably from the secondary staphylococcal pneumonia which killed so many. When he developed the first signs of influenza, he begged that he be allowed to leave camp with three days' rum ration and a tent. He managed to drag himself and his tent up a hill away from the camp, and there he sweated and shivered and was delirious for several days, sustained by his rum allowance.
Patrick was one of the few survivors. He lived until the age of 92. He was a wonderful storyteller to his children, nephews and nieces, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The one story he never told us was this one. His eldest daughter, in whom he had confided, told the story at his funeral in 1987.