Monthly Archives: July 2025

Biographical, History

Peder and Lincoln

  1. The Lincoln

May, 1918. Brest, France.

The USS President Lincoln, once a luxury ocean liner, now sails as a U.S. military transport—refitted for war. She had departed Hoboken, New Jersey, on May 11th, and made port in Brest twelve days later, bringing 14,000 troops and materiel to the front.

Now, on the evening of May 29th, she turns westward again—bound for home. Aboard are 715 souls: crewmen, wounded soldiers, medical staff, and troops rotating out.

After thirty-six hours of steady zigzagging through the open sea, and two nights under muted gibbous moonlight, the ship slides into a gray and windless morning. The destroyer escort has turned back; very few U-boats hunt this far from shore or the major shipping lanes.
Still, the war — and the danger — is far from over.

  1. Morsø: The Fertile Island

    Lovely fertile Morsø

Morsø sits in Denmark’s Limfjord—a brackish waterway threading through the Jutland Peninsula. Its rich soil, shaped by glacial deposits and tidal flows, made the island ideal for farming. Long summer days of extended sunlight brought forth fruitful fields of crops like wheat and barley. The blend of mild coastal climate, ample rain, and mineral-rich earth created a landscape where generations of families could make a living.

  1. Peder Miltersen

It was in Karby, Thisted County, along the southwest coast of Morsø Island, that the first Peder Andreas was born to Poul and Kirsten (Pedersen) Miltersen on November 6, 1892. A sickly child, he didn’t survive the winter, passing away on March 2, 1893.

When Poul and Kirsten’s next child was born—also a son—they gave him the same name: Peder Andreas Miltersen. This practice was common at the time, perhaps a salve to ease their grief.

The second Peder was raised in this fertile agricultural region and came of age among its fields. At sixteen, he was sent about forty miles away to Hvidbjerg Å, off Morsø Island, to live with the Klausens—Kresten and Mariane, about ten years older than his parents. There he worked on their similarly blessed farm (he’s listed as Landbruger: farmer). The 1911 Danish census lists another much older farm laborer at that address as well (Fodmaster – feeds the animals)..

  1. The sea craft

DS President Lincoln

The President Lincoln was laid down in 1903 at Harland & Wolff in Belfast, Northern Ireland. This was the same famous shipyard that later built the Titanic and her sister ships, Olympic and Britannic—all destined for fates marked by tragedy. While the Olympic sailed many successful years, the Titanic and Britannic were lost to the sea, reminders of the thin line between luxury and peril.

Launched on July 27, 1904, the Lincoln was built for the Hamburg-Amerikanische Packetfahrt-Actien-Gesellschaft (HAPAG), commonly known as the Hamburg America Line. Named to appeal to U.S. passengers, she was among the largest German liners of her time—capable of carrying over 2,800 people, with luxury suites for the elite and steerage bunks for immigrants yearning to breathe free. She sailed the Hamburg–New York route, offering elegant and dependable service across the Atlantic—until war re-directed her mission … and destiny.

U-Boats
Kaiser Wilhelm’s Germany built some 380 U-boats during World War I. Many were constructed at the naval shipyard in Danzig (now Gdańsk), though the docks in Kiel were the most prolific builders.

The U-90 of the Imperial German Navy was built in Danzig, at the Kaiserliche Werft. She was commissioned and entered service on January 12, 1917—a hunter is born.

Though worlds apart in design and purpose, the Kronprinzessin Cecilie and the U-90 shared a birthplace in the shrilling shipyards of Imperial Germany. One was built to ferry passengers—the wealthy in luxury, the hopeful poor in steerage—across the Atlantic. The other, sculpted in steel for stealth, would stalk the seas. Soon, their stories would become one.

  1. Peder Miltersen – Emigration.

    In March 1912, just shy of his eighteenth birthday, Peder Miltersen left the fertile Danish farmlands. A ferry to England and a train to Liverpool brought him to the RMS Baltic. This grand White Star liner offered accommodations from steerage to first class, carrying thousands of hopeful immigrants across the Atlantic—men and women chasing new chances and fresh starts. Peder, of course, sailed in steerage, surrounded by a crowded mix of rural workers, dreamers, and families.

He arrived in April, stepping onto American soil with little English and heavy boots—but with Scandinavian determination as solid as the Danish soil he left behind. Like many Scandinavians before him, Peder headed north—to Minnesota, where the land was rich, the summers long, and a familiar northern climate awaited.

Here, among fellow Norse descendants and new settlers, he would begin the work of setting down new roots—learning the language, tending the soil, and forging his fortune.

  1. The Great War

Within six weeks of Gavrilo Princip’s second chance encounter with Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his young wife Sophia of Hohenberg in Sarajevo on June 24, 1914, the unimaginably bloody Great War broke out.

The U.S. stayed out of the conflict at first, but the Zimmerman cable was too much — the nation was pushed over the edge. In April 1917, the U.S. declared war. Everything changed. Ships once bound for luxury travel were seized and repurposed for battle. The DS President Lincoln, docked in Bar Harbor, Maine, at the war’s outbreak, was impounded by the U.S. When war was declared nearly three years later, she was seized by the U.S. Navy and renamed the USS President Lincoln. Refitted to carry troops instead of travelers, she was transformed from opulence to obligation. From beauty to battle.

That summer the refitted President Lincoln began ferrying thousands of American doughboys across the wide, wind and wave-swept Atlantic.

Peder Miltersen answered the call quickly. In April 1917, he registered for the draft. The wait frustrated him. In June, he enlisted — eager to serve and hasten his path to citizenship.

In the late summer of ’17 the USS President Lincoln began ferrying thousands of American dough-boys across the wide wave-swept Atlantic.

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Young Peder, off to war

Accepted, Peder was off to training by mid-summer 1917. Embarking from Duluth, he was sent to Fort Sheridan, along Lake Michigan just north of Chicago. After completing training in early ’18, he was sent east to the military port in Hoboken, New Jersey. Bound for Europe and off to war, his Atlantic crossing was aboard the transport ship USS President Lincoln — once a symbol of peaceful  passage — now carrying him to  battle.

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  1. The U-boat

Service aboard an Imperial U-boat in World War I was anything but pleasant. Thirty-five seamen and five officers crammed into a tight tube — outside dimensions just 200 feet long and 20 feet wide. Inside it was smaller, and much of that space was taken up by fuel tanks, twin diesel engines, and torpedo tubes. There was no personal space. One toilet. It often overflowed. The food sucked. The din was constant and numbing. Lights were dim. Mildew clung to everything. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and … something worse.

The U-90, under the command of Walter Remy, was known for bold, calculated strikes. “U” stood for untersee, or undersea, but that was a bit of a misnomer. Submarines of the time had to spend 90 to 95 percent of their time on the surface—burning diesel, charging their batteries, and refreshing their air supply. Only when prey was sighted—or suspected—did they dive.

Then came the wait. Submerged, running on low-capacity batteries, they lurked at periscope depth, edging toward their target at 5 knots. The sweet spot: about one kilometer. Close enough for a torpedo to hit, far enough to avoid a collision.

By the spring of 1918, with waves of American troops crossing the Atlantic, U-90 began prowling farther—and wider.

  1. The encounter

600 miles west of Brest, France, in the brightening skies of a North Atlantic morning, Remy’s officers spied a large ship. Headed west. Unescorted.

Submerge.

Periscope up.

Now on battery power, the U-90 crept forward at just five knots. Slow. Quiet. Careful.

It was big.

Really big.

A juicy target.

Speed and direction determined. Line up the sub’s axis with the computed trajectory based on target speed and charted sea currents.

Torpedoes launched.  60 seconds to impact. They followed their path, initially along the U-90’s axis, speeding toward the portside of the President Lincoln at 40 miles per hour. The path was coldly and precisely calculated, accounting for Lincoln’s velocity and charted currents. The first two torpedoes struck broadside at 9 AM. A minute later… a third direct hit.

The doomed Lincoln immediately began listing. Thirty minutes later, the President Lincoln sank stern-first into the cold Atlantic.

Of the 715 men aboard, 25 were killed in the explosions or lost below decks. One more—a Navy lieutenant named Edouard Izac—was taken aboard the U-90 as a prisoner. The rest, over 680 men, drifted in lifeboats or clung to wreckage until American destroyers reached them the following morning. The sea had spared most of them.

And Peder Andreas Miltersen had barely escaped tragedy as well.

The war at sea took a staggering, mind-numbing toll. Even before the U.S. entered the conflict, it had seized nearly a hundred German vessels in its harbors—among them other luxury liners like the Lincoln and the Kronprinzessin Cecilie, soon refitted as the troop carrier USS Mount Vernon.

But Germany’s undersea fleet struck far harder. By war’s end, U-boats had sunk more than 5,000 vessels—over 13 million gross tons—threatening to choke off Allied supply lines entirely, and causing the loss of 15,000 troops.

Over the war Remy and the U-90 tallied 30 vessels sunk—74,000 gross tons—in only seven patrols. The Lincoln was their greatest score.

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  1. Epilogue

Peder Miltersen went on to fight in the muddy hills, vales and trenches of Flanders. Serving with Battery D of the 17th Field Artillery, 2nd Division, he survived artillery, disease, gas, and the grim, grinding arithmetic of ground war. He fought in the battles of Aisne, Aisne-Marne, St. Mihiel, Meuse-Argonne and general defense. He earned corporal’s stripes, for bravery and valor: a Gold Star, the French Croix de Guerre and the French Medal of Honor with five battle stars.

Flanders, 1918

After the Armistice of November 1918, demobilization was chaotic. He wasn’t discharged until August of 1919. The war itself did not technically end until the Treaty of Paris in 1921, which imposed such punishing terms on Germany in about a decade it seemed that a second world war was not just, but likely.

Peder returned to Minnesota, settling in Pine County near the village of Askov. Then its population was a mere 250: rural, tight-knit, and wholly agricultural. Even today it hosts only about 330 souls, nearly a fifth still of Danish or Scandinavian descent.

Upon returning home he went directly to his girlfriend, Martha Marie Johnsen, another immigrant from Denmark. And proposed. In June of 1920 they were wed. They raised four children—Hazel Jeanette (b. 1921), Violet Mariem (b. 1924), Norma Jean (b 1926) and Darwin Poul. Peder was active locally, serving for years on the Partridge Township  Board (which lies in Pine County and contains Askov). They otherwise tended to a quiet, dignified and steady life. [1]

Peder, Martha and daughter, early 1960s

Peder lived and died as he began: among farms in fertile fields, keeping alive the memory of his native Denmark. He lived to be 86 and is buried in Bethlehem Lutheran Cemetery, in Askov, MN.

Joe Girard © 2025

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Footnotes:

[1] A birth announcement for a baby girl born to Mr and Mrs Peder Miltersen appears in the Askov American, April 7, 1921.
Apparently they lost a daughter in infancy, not shown in ancestral records.  Askov American, November 22, 1923.  “Mr and Mrs Peter(sic) Miltersen mourn the loss of their infant baby who was laid to rest in the local cemetery Sunday afternoon.”  And: “Mr and Mrs Johnso of Starbuck came here to attend the funeral of their grandchild, the infant daughter of Mr and Mrs Peder Milterson.” The child was born on November 15. It also reported that the child was “very ill.”

Other Notes

Peder’s Gravestone

  • The “U” in U-boat stands for Untersee, the German word for “undersea.” To German speakers, Boot simply means “boat” (not “boot” as in footwear). So U-Boot translates literally as “undersea boat,” referring to what English speakers call a submarine. Der See (masculine) is a lake; Die See (feminine) is the sea or ocean. (“oo” just like the “oa” in boat.)
    A German steam ship is a Dampfschiff – hence the DS, which Germans would use. It was marketed to Americans as a steam ship, so literature on the west side of the Atlantic would call it the SS President Lincoln.
  • This story is probably partly fiction. Sitting in a brew pub several weeks ago a fellow named Darrel (or Daren) about my age was sitting next to me. We talked of many things and ended up on history.  I shared my interest in learning and writing about interesting but mostly forgotten people and historic details.  He then told me the “story” of his grandfather’s brother (Great Uncle).  His name?  Peder Miltersen.
    According to him Peder emigrated to the US on the SS Baltic.  He settled in Minnesota and enlisted in the Army for WW2 earning the French Medal of Honor (perhaps also inducted into the Légion d’honneur). So far so good.  Many Americans who submitted paperwork were eligible for this.
    The tap room story fails when he said that Peder also went over to Europe on the same ship, the Baltic, which was torpedoed and sunk on its return trip to the US.  That is false.  The Baltic was once attacked by a sub – carrying the first wave of US soldiers to Europe, along with General John “Black Jack” Pershing – Commander of the American Expeditionary Forces  It was not struck by the torpedoes.
    So I “invented” Peder going over there on the Lincoln. As it was indeed torpedoed and sunk, as described here, on its final return trip.
    I also “synthesized” his emigration journey.  The dates are correct, but I could only make an educated guess as to how he travelled to Liverpool.  He indeed was registered on the Baltic’s voyage to New York. I don’t know if he actually went directly to Minnesota.
    Everything else is factual.  It’s feasible that he was on the Lincoln, as his arrival in France was in mid-May, 1918 and the third battle of Aisne was May 27 – June 6 — although it would be quite a train ride to get there from the wonderful natural harbor at Brest.
    I didn’t find any record of him even returning to Morso, or Denmark for the rest of his life. No manifest. One would think at least once or twice, say, to attend a parent’s funeral. His father was born in Morso in 1861, and confirmed there in 1876. His father was Milter Andersen, so Peder became a Miltersen.

 

https://uk.forceswarrecords.com/memorial/626755423/peder-miltersen-1894

https://uk.forceswarrecords.com/image/420194065/article2jpg

https://uk.forceswarrecords.com/image/420194440/marie-petejpg

1911 Census

 

 

 

 

 

 

Biographical, History, Medicine, Science & Technology

Stuck on You

Stuck on You

 

Up on the Cumberland Plateau in eastern Tennessee, not far from the romantic Smoky Mountains —  where mists linger and lure late into the morning across hills and hollows — rises Walden Ridge, overlooking the Tennessee River. Tucked into these highlands lies the remote hamlet of Grandview, a place that truly lives up to its name.

Grandview, despite its simple beauty, had only begun to attract settlers in the 1870s. By 1890, it had a post office, a railroad station, and a school devoted to training teachers, anchored by its magnificent Jewett Memorial Hall — all serving a community of roughly 200 inhabitants.

It was there, on October 10, 1890 [1], that our protagonist, Earle Ensign Dickson, first entered the world. He was the oldest of three sons born to Richard Ensign and Minnie (Hester) Dickson. (His younger brothers were both more than ten years his junior.)

Their father, Richard Dickson, was then principal of the Grand View Normal Institute—the first school to offer grades 1 through 12 between Cincinnati and Atlanta. Earle, however, would not remember Grandview. At the end of the 1892-93 school year, Richard resigned his post and, in the summer of 1893, moved the family to Philadelphia to pursue a medical degree.

Richard Dickson became Dr. Richard Dickson, M.D., in 1904. The family, now with three boys in tow, moved to Holyoke, Massachusetts, where Dr. Dickson started his medical practice. [2] [3]

It was there that Earle Dickson entered and finished high school, graduating from Holyoke High. Aware of his father’s career, he became interested in medicine, health, and caring for others.

_________________________________________________

Earle attended nearby Amherst College (about a 30-minute drive from Holyoke) for two years before transferring to Yale University, where he earned his B.A. degree in 1913. He then pursued a year of postgraduate study at the Lowell Textile School (part of the University of Massachusetts), gaining knowledge of the science, uses, manufacturing, and research of textiles.

Young man, Earle Ensign Dickson

 

Dickson worked for several local textile companies in rapid succession: first Edwards Manufacturing, then the Lockwood Company (both in Holyoke), followed by the West Boylston Manufacturing Company, about an hour east and north of Holyoke. These jobs all occurred within a few years, which might suggest he couldn’t hold a job. However, the textile industry was very dynamic in Massachusetts at the time, and Dickson was seizing opportunities to expand his expertise in manufacturing, technical processes, and business management.

Early in 1917, full of talent, passion, and experience, Dickson joined Chicapee Manufacturing, a Johnson & Johnson subsidiary in Chicopee Falls near Holyoke. [Disclosure: the author holds J&J stock]

Also early in 1917—on April 6 to be exact—the U.S. entered World War I, then known as the Great War. The following month, on May 18, Congress passed, and President Wilson signed, the Selective Service Act. Dickson registered for the draft. The call-up was extraordinarily fast and massive, with nearly five million men conscripted over just a few months – in a country of only 103 million!

Dickson’s military service would greatly shape his life. He first served in the Ambulance Corps, which deepened his interest in medical treatment, a trait inherited from his father. Sixty days into his service, Dickson was reassigned to the Bureau of Standards in Washington, D.C. There, his fabric expertise was applied to research, development, and the manufacturing of fabrics for balloons, planes (fabric wings!), and gas masks.

It was at the Bureau of Standards that Earle met Josephine Frances Knight, a stenographer from Maine. One can only imagine how quickly the courtship progressed and how brief the engagement was. They were married on December 6, 1917. Fast? Yes. But times were different, and such matters often became urgent during wartime.

Josephine would soon have a big impact on Earle’s life, beyond bearing him two sons: Richard Paul Dickson, born September 15, 1918, and Robert Ensign Dickson, born September 11, 1920. It appears that Little Richard was popped into the oven right after their ceremonial vows.  😊

The Armistice ended the fighting on the memorable date and time of November 11, 1918, at 11:11 AM. Likely, Dickson’s assignment at the Bureau of Standards ended a few months prior, as the military began to scale back. He then returned to J&J.

By that time, Johnson & Johnson was already a large company. Founded in 1886, it had grown into a major manufacturer of medical supplies, including surgical dressings, sterilized gauze, and bandages. Known for quality and innovation, J&J attracted Dickson with its research and development focus and its spirit of invention.

His first assignment at J&J was as a “cotton classifier.” He was also learning more about materials, manufacturing, and supply chains.

________________________________________________________________________________

Josephine was not a sedentary housewife; she was very active. She ran the household. She cooked everything from scratch, which meant much grating, cutting, peeling, slicing, and cooking on open gas flames. She gardened and grew fresh vegetables. And she took care of her babies — think diaper pins. With all this activity, she was constantly nicking, pricking, cutting, and burning her fingers and hands. Ouch!

Ouch!

There was no convenient way to dress such small wounds. The typical solution was to use gauze and wrap it with tape.  Not an easy one-person job.

Almost every evening, or so it seemed, Earle would get home, listen to her small wound complaints, and help her bandage the wounds.  It was getting a bit tiring. It was awkward.  Tedious.  Slow. Earle was a devoted newlywed, and tended to her health needs.

This tedium annoyed and inspired Earle.  He devised a solution. He took a strip of surgical tape and put a small piece of sterile gauze in the center of the sticky side.  Then, he put it on the wounds and covered it with crinoline. Voilà. Problem solved.

[Crinoline fabric, normally a stiff cloth for women’s attire, was, by then, available in much lighter construction, and was by then even used as a protective layer for bandaging in hospitals and doctor offices.]

One day at work, Earle was quietly demonstrating his homemade prototype — surgical tape with gauze at the center, backed with crinoline — to a few curious co-workers when the company’s CEO, James Wood Johnson, one of the company’s founders, happened to walk by. Rather than scolding him for tinkering on company time, Johnson leaned in, intrigued. He encouraged Earle to develop the idea further. It was a simple exchange, but a telling one: a reflection of Johnson & Johnson’s openness to bottom-up innovation, and a glimpse of Earle’s thoughtful nature — always solving problems.

With a few modifications, it went to market under the trade name Band-Aid® in 1921. The first years were rough. The Band-Aid® bandages were handmade. People were reluctant to switch. In 1921, the product’s first year, sales totaled only a paltry $3,000. J&J never gave up. It was a great idea, and they knew it.

Meanwhile, J&J, with Earle, worked on mechanical production and kept marketing. Perhaps their best promotion was providing Band-Aids® free to Boy Scout troops and butchers.

Simple Solution

As a salaried employee, any financial benefit to Earle was likely small — perhaps a modest bonus. But…

When the patent was filed (U.S. Patent No. 1,612,267 – Surgical Dressing), he was indeed listed as the inventor, which was assigned to his employer.

… But, it’s also possible that Dickson received a small residual income, which would have been quite substantial over time. Over 100 billion Band-Aid® brand bandages have been sold in the century since the patent, and Johnson & Johnson continues to profit handsomely from Dickson’s seemingly simple little invention.

Patent pg 1

In 1929, Dickson was elected to the J&J board of directors. In 1931, he became Assistant Vice President, and in 1932, full Vice President.

It wasn’t just bandages. Dickson is credited with organizing J&J’s first hospital division in 1925 and continued leadership in surgical products.

The hospital division delivered medical products directly to hospitals — sterile gauze, sutures, surgical dressings, surgical sponges, customized kits for specific procedures — and promoted (with product) modern antiseptic methods and sterilization techniques, still relatively new in the 1920s. All driven by Dickson.

He also worked closely with doctors to design products that met their needs.

In the 1920s, the Dicksons moved their family to New Brunswick, New Jersey — then, as now, the world headquarters of J&J.

Through the decades J&J made improvements to the Band-Aide®.  The two most recognizable were the addition of little holes to allow the skin to breathe (late ‘50s), and the peel off sanitary strips (late ‘40s, standard by ’60). Although Dickson was not directly involved in most of these, as a company executive and board member, he enthusiastically supported the innovations and R&D. [4]

He and Josephine remained in New Brunswick after his retirement in 1957, although he stayed on the Board of Directors for the rest of his life.

Clothing factory floor, Kitchner

On September 21, 1961, Earle was visiting fabric vendors in Kitchener, Ontario, a region thick with textile manufacturers at the time.[5]

Suddenly — hard to breathe. Gasping. No warning. What? Chest pain. Arm pain. He reached, vainly, for the fire behind his sternum. Gasped again. Dizzy now. Wobbly. Reached for a chair. Too late. His knees buckled. His body folded, limp.

In moments, it was over — a massive, fatal heart attack. Earle Ensign Dickson, the man who invented the Band-Aid®, was gone.  He was 19 days shy of 71. [6] 

Earle has moved on. But Band-Aid® bandages — and his legacy — will never die.

He and Josephine (who passed in 1969) are interred together under a shared monument at Van Liew Cemetery in North Brunswick, NJ.

Older EE Dickson

 

Joe Girard © 2025

Thank you for reading. As always, you can add yourself to the notification list for newly published material by clicking here . Or emailing joe@girardmeister.com

Final note and footnotes: Obviously the various patents for the Band-Aid have expired. There are now countless knock-offs.

[1] Although Dickson’s tombstone and several secondary sources, including a local history published by the Grandview Heritage Foundation, give his birth year as 1892, multiple primary documents support 1890. These include the 1900 and 1910 U.S. Census records; both World War draft registration cards (1917 and 1942); and his college chronology, which shows him leaving Amherst for Yale in 1910 after two years of study. A June 1911 obituary for his grandmother also refers to him as already attending Yale, further supporting the earlier birth year. The 1892 date appears to reflect a later, public-facing version of his birth year that entered circulation but lacks corroboration in contemporary records.

[2] Richard Dickson’s medical training likely extended over a decade due to family responsibilities and part-time study, which was common at the time. Though formal medical education typically lasted three to four years, balancing work and schooling likely lengthened his path before establishing practice in 1904.

[3] Census shows them living at 105 Pleasant Street, Holyoke, overlooking Jones Point Park, along the Connecticut River.

[4] many other modifications over the decades.  Skin tones. Active flex.  Water resistant. Embedded antibiotics. Hypoallergenic adhesives. Clear Band-aides. Decorated Band-Aids (for kids)

Monument, Dick and Josephine Dickson

[5] Some fabric manufacturers in the Kitchener-Waterloo area at the time (essentially twin cities, side-by-side).

  • Seagram’s Woollen Mills — A major wool fabric producer in the region.
  • W. Woolworth & Co. — Operated retail but also linked to fabric distribution.
  • Hawkes Woollen Mills — Known for wool and textile products.
  • Kitchener Dyeing & Finishing Company — Specialized in textile finishing processes.
  • Waterloo Woollen Manufacturing Co. — Produced wool textiles.
  • Eby’s Mills — Local fabric mill known for various woven products.
  • John Forsyth: mostly a Shirt Company
  • Tony Day: Sweaters
  • Many other small manufacturers, including weavers, many of them small family enterprises, were in the area.

[6] Dickson likely suffered a massive myocardial infarction, the medical term for a severe heart attack caused by sudden blockage of blood flow to the heart muscle. When the affected area is large, or the rhythm becomes unstable (ventricular fibrillation), the result is quite often rapid collapse and death within minutes.