Ghosts In The Great War

A Pal in Life—and Death

My pal and I joined the Army on the 21st day of September, 1914. My mother’s last words to me were, “Be a man; do your duty. If God spares you to come back to me I will be proud of you, my lad!” I was the only son. My pal heard her words and said: “Cheer up; we will come back. ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’”

My pal was a soldier from head to foot. When duty called he was always ready; fear never entered his head. Night and day we were never parted; side by side we fought for two long years, and I am sure his thoughts always were that England did expect every man to do his duty.

He was shot dead at my feet on the 5th of October, 1916. If he could have spoken to me I am sure his last words would have been, “Thank God, I have done my duty.”

Broken-hearted through the loss of my pal I did my best to carry on, although my nerves were shattered, and fear was always in my heart. I was a messenger and had to carry messages from the firing line to headquarters. Three weeks after the death of my pal we were on the Somme. Our division went over the top; we fought our way forward all day until darkness stopped our advance. My captain handed me a message and said: “Go back to headquarters with this as quick as possible.”

It was a lovely moonlight night. As I ran forward bullets and shells were flying everywhere. I don’t know whether it was the sight of dead men that lay around or the noise of the battle, but fear got the better of me. I dropped into a shell hole. The longer I sat the worse I got. The message which meant so much to my comrades in the firing line was now getting delayed. Shell after shell burst around me. I made one more attempt to go on, and, as I crawled out of the shell hole, the sight I saw I shall never forget. There was my pal standing not two yards away, not in white as most ghosts are, but dressed in his soldier's clothes. I stood there: the shock was too much for me; I could not move. But the ghost (I am sure it was my pal) kept waving me on and pointing in the direction of the headquarters, which were about a mile away. I don't know how, but I moved on; the ghost moved also. If I stopped it stopped and waved me on. This went on until I was about ten yards off my destination. The ghost then waved its hand as if to say “good-bye,” and disappeared into the air. Terrified, I ran on. With the help of my pal, the message was delivered. He had helped me do my duty in life and he had still aided me—though dead.

The Morning of the Ypres Big Push

THE following remarkable experience befell me in France. It is true in every detail and, although ten years have elapsed since then, still the memory of it remains. It was the morn of the Ypres big push, August 16th, 1916. After a night of almost unendurable suspense, fed with the knowledge of the coming storm, how unusually quiet everything seemed. There had been nothing to disturb the serene tranquillity of that summer’s night, save an occasional ping, ping, of the hidden snipers’ bullets, and a stray enemy shell. It was an ominous calm—the prelude to the approaching storm. In the small hour of the morn, I left my dug out, as shortly I was due for duty on the fire step. As I proceeded on my way along the trench I suddenly became aware of the form of a woman barely a dozen yards in front of me. Now I wasn’t half asleep, neither had I been having an extra rum ration. I stood there astonished, all manner of thoughts coursing through my mind. Could it by any chance be a kilted Highlander? Impossible. They were miles away on our left. In my anxiety to discover who it was I exclaimed, “Hello Jock,” and it vanished immediately in front of my very eyes in a straight run of trench and in very good light. I was bewildered, and proceeded on my way, scarcely able to credit my senses.

Arriving at the post I joined my pals there, and we struck the usual conversation. After a few minutes a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over me—a sense of impending danger; a presentiment that something was about to happen. I thought of the form I had seen, and an irresistible desire to leave the post took complete possession of me. In desperation I turned to my pal named Stewart, exclaiming: “Come on, let us go to the latrine and have a smoke.” After much persuasion he eventually came away, and, together, we made a bee-line for the latrine. Arriving there we lit our “half-a-mo’s” cigarettes. Scarcely had we done so when we heard a resounding crash and, together, we rushed along the trench in the direction of the sound, grave fears filling my mind. At last we reached the bend in the trench leading to the machine gun post, and there a grisly sight met our gaze—a head lying on the broken duck boards. A trench mortar had made a direct hit on the very spot on which I had stood scarcely five minutes previously. Three poor fellows were blown to atoms. A narrow shave truly. “Luck,” some would say; others would say “Chance.” But, in my honest opinion, it was direct spiritual intervention.

The following sequel convinced me of that. Some time afterwards, in writing to a sister of mine, I related the remarkable vision I had seen in the trench, and, in her reply, she informed me that it was in the small hours of the morning of August 16th, nine years previously, that my mother died, about the same time as I saw the vision or form of a woman in the trench. She reminded me of a fact I had quite overlooked. In summing up the whole thing, I am convinced that the form I saw was no kilted Highlander, but the spirit of my own dear mother come to warn me of impending danger. How else can I account for that feeling of uneasiness, that sense of impending disaster, that strong presentiment of something about to happen, and, above all, that irresistible desire to leave the post? Thank God, I did; for through the instrumentality of that spiritual warning, not only was my own life spared but my friend Stewart's as well.

Is There an Explanation?

I don’t know if the thing I saw could be called a ghost. I’ve never really made up my mind about it. It may, for all I know, have a perfectly proper scientific explanation, but it struck me as remarkably eerie at the time. It was a ghostly place anyway—the Somme, in 1918, when for the last time “Jerry” was being followed back across the old familiar ground. It was daylight—a day of sunshine—and I was reporting to company headquarters from one reserve line to another, across the open, when the shells began to fall. In appropriate rabbit-fashion I dived for the nearest shell hole. There was a dead man in that shell hole, lying on his back, staring up at the unquiet sky. An unpleasant neighbour, no doubt; but when shells were about one stayed where one was reasonably safe. Naturally enough I stared at the dead man, and then I noticed a peculiar thing. I have said that the man was lying on his back, but that was not exactly the case. The shell hole was a very large one and very old. In the bottom there was a coil of rusty wire. The face, and upper part of the body—for that was all I noticed—was pillowed upon the wire and the spear points of the grass that had grown under and about the coil. The face struck me as the most ethereal and delicate I had ever seen. I don't know exactly how to explain it; the dead man’s face appeared as though woven of some ethereal flesh-coloured cob-web, spun on the points of the grass and wire, and the light seemed to go right through the delicate skin. I stared at it quite fascinated, and, after a while, the fascination overcame me. I simply had to touch the face to see if it was real. I plucked a piece of coarse grass that was growing in the hole and, stretching across, stroked the face—and, immediately, it vanished.

Now was that a ghost, or can science explain? For instance, can the mere shell of a human face and body exist (below ground, it is true, but open to the air) and yet be so easily dispersed. For myself, I don't know. It is, in any case, the nearest approach to a ghost that I, personally, have ever seen. I did not make a search, but, after the body and face disappeared, I looked round but could see no trace of any equipment, boots, entrenching tools, and such like things.

A Dream—or a Ghost?

I KNOW nothing of the occult, and claim no great belief in it, yet an instance occurred in which I was undoubtedly assisted by what appears to be the occult. It was just after the signing of the Armistice that I was at Dobritch (in the Dobrudja) running a Y.M.C.A. centre there. The goods for the boys used to come by ship to Varna. They were placed on rail at Varna by another Y.M.C.A. officer stationed there. They were locked, and sealed, and a guard placed over them by the British R.T.O. at Varna, before being transported to Dobritch by the Bulgar railway authorities. These stores always arrived locked, and, yet, invariably, with quantities of goods missing. Both my colleague at Varna and the R.T.O. thought I was mistaken, and the Bulgar railway official said “Nothing could have been stolen.” I was puzzled. Then, one night as I lay in bed, there passed before me—as in a panorama or a moving picture, so vivid and real was it—a vision of a train drawing up in the night, to a small station. I distinctly saw a stout, middle-aged Bulgar station-master (as proved by his uniform) go to a coach, unlock it, creep in, and roll out some crates marked Y.M.C.A., lock it again, and then whistle for the train to proceed. Vivid as the vision was, I paid little heed to it. As the next two or three consignments all revealed goods missing again, I decided to act Sherlock Holmes myself, next time. I went down to Varna. After the goods were loaded, I allowed the R.T.O. to lock the doors with me inside, and seal them. Only we two knew I was there.

The train rumbled along in the night, for some considerable distance, and then drew up at a wayside station. It was midnight, and very dark, but I heard heavy footsteps approach and stop at my coach. Then a heavy breathing and a fumbling at the lock—and the door was gently slid back. A bull's eye cast a gleam inside, and, by it, I saw the burly form of a Bulgar station-master begin to creep in. His lantern shone right on his face. It was the exact face I had seen in the vision—even to a scar on the cheek. I waited no longer for the vision to be further fulfilled but jumped down off my bed and planted a running kick, square on his jaw. He fell back, outside, with a groan, mumbling “Anglaise dobra, dobra” (English, it all right). I closed the door again, the train proceeded. Goods were never missing again.

Instinct or—What?

WHAT is instinct? Is it some indefinable extra sense which now and then comes into play, at much needed moments, and guides us into correct lines of conduct, when otherwise rational thinking would only leave us confused? Or is it the operation of some external force, perhaps spiritual, which recognises our incapability, takes the helm, guides us through rock strewn seas, with or without our approval, and, finally, leaves us safely in the calm?

Listen!

During the War I was a stretcher-bearer and, on the occasion in mind, I was one of a squad who were carrying from a certain aid-post.

When things were quiet it was our custom to make ourselves comfortable in a deserted wayside cottage. The comforts we improvised in that billet were wonderful to us, and it was, naturally, an object of our “Tommy's” pride and affection. One evening, returning from taking a casualty down to the advanced dressing station, I don’t know why, but I became obsessed with an intense feeling of distrust for our cottage. Call it what you like; I felt fear, funk, nervousness, insecurity and an unmistakable impression that something was going to happen. Strangest thing of all, all my distressing symptoms were centred on that beloved billet—nothing else—not even on the shell swept track along which we carried our wounded.

Sensible men never turn a deaf ear to such a pointed warning. I persuaded my pals to leave the cottage and “dig in.” For a couple of hours we worked hard forming a little trench to hold four, and we completed our earthwork by covering the top with doors on which we loaded earth to act as a protection against falling shrapnel.

This was our billet for that night.

And now for the sequel.

At midnight the enemy, instead of “searching” here and there with his shells, as was usual, suddenly developed the dreaded creeping barrage, and within five minutes of the commencement of that bombardment our cottage sustained a clean hit and collapsed in flames.

Furthermore, when we crept out of our trench at dawn we found the surrounding fields ploughed up with shells, the nearest four hits being within twenty yards of our little trench.

“Luck,” some say. “Instinct,” I argue.

But what is “Instinct?”

Saved by an Apparition

DURING the War I drove a Sunbeam Ambulance and at one time was attached to the 92nd Field Ambulance. The division was in action at Ypres and the first-aid post was in a dug-out on the canal bank. As soon as darkness fell it was our duty to drive from Flaniatyage to the first-aid post, pick up the wounded and convey back to Poperinghe clearing station.

One very dark night I had just arrived at the first-aid post behind Essex Farm, where I was told to return immediately with a very bad abdominal case, and was given instructions to get to Poperinghe as quickly as possible.

I had gone about 500 yards when the light of a star shell revealed what seemed to be a lady standing in the middle of the road. I had to pull up. Consider my surprise, as the next star shell went up, to find no one there.

First, second, top gear, then another star shell and the lady was just in front again. I pulled up to find no lady.

Just as I approached Salvation corner, I saw, by the light of a star shell, a sentry standing at the challenge—his bayonet gleamed. I gave the customary shout “92nd Field Ambulance.” He didn’t move again. I pulled up and, to my astonishment, there was no sentry, but, immediately in front, was a shell hole large enough to bury a London bus. It took a long time to get past, but I got my patient to Poperinghe alive. Should I have done so had those apparitions not appeared?

A Field of the Dead

PERHAPS the most unique of many ghostly experiences—both personal and those of friends—was one which took place on the fateful night between August 3rd and 4th, 1914. My brother (who though strong and unimaginative is somewhat psychic) and I had sat up till about midnight, and I was amazed to hear him suddenly declare, as he shut his book and rose, that “no one could sit and read with that noise going on.” I asked what noise, and, on being bidden to listen (our house is on a quiet hill off an old Roman road going to the coast) noticed the sound of a great crowd, a confused, soft sound. “Why,” I said, “I don’t understand you—it’s no worse than any Bank Holiday. Quieter, indeed. You can well understand their being about to-night; they want to know whether it will be war or not.” He maintained that it was impossible to do anything but get quickly to bed. More and more amazed—this was so unlike him—I went to the front door with him, and there, clear and distinct, the sound of thousands of footsteps, of people shuffling, treading, moving about, but without uttering one single word, came from the road at the foot of our hill—about four houses’ distance. Nothing whatever could be seen. My brother declined absolutely to let me run down to look, or to come with me. Next day we heard that war had been declared at midnight. We live five miles out of London and it is not a place where people would gather for news. Subsequent inquiries made of a friend who lived on the road where the silent crowd had moved and passed about (remaining in the one place so far as I could judge), revealed nothing in the way of explanation. To his knowledge there had been no crowd. It was as if the ghosts of those who were to fall during those coming four years of blood had “projected” themselves, eerily, at the hour of the declaration of the Great War, upon the ancient road where Roman soldiers, long ago, must have marched. Or were they the spirits of the long-dead soldiers of the centuries, welcoming the heroes of 1914—1918?

A Mother's Vision

DURING the War my two eldest sons were serving with the Forces in Mesopotamia. One day, while occupied about my usual household duties, there suddenly came to me the following mental vision (I can call it nothing else): I saw my eldest boy in a half-reclining position, quite alone, in a wild desert sort of a place with one hand stroking his forehead in a dazed kind of a way. So vivid and clear was the vision that I could not shake it off. Again and again it repeated itself, always exactly the same.

At tea-time I spoke of it, and said I was afraid something had happened to F., but they only laughed at me and said I was getting fanciful in my old age, and so I tried to forget it.

About six weeks later (the usual time for news to get through then) I received a letter from him and, to my great surprise, it contained these words as near as I can remember them:

“I must tell you, mother, of a little incident that happened the other day. I had a fancy to take my horse and go off alone for a long-stretch gallop. When some distance from camp I suppose he must have put his foot in a hole and stumbled; anyway he threw me. I don't know how long I lay there but, on coming to, I discovered I had still got the reins tight in my hand with bridle attached but, alas, there was no horse; he had quickly made tracks for the camp, leaving me to get there the best way I could.”

I shall always think that this accident happened just at the time my vision appeared to me.

Then again, about three days or so before Christmas, 1918, I had another presentiment that something was wrong. This time it was the younger son. There suddenly came to me a vision of a hospital bed and I found myself looking down on my boy, who appeared to be very ill. I had not the remotest idea at the time that there was anything wrong with either of them. But, as before, the vivid reality of it seemed fixed on my mind. But, this time, I kept it to myself until the arrival, in a few days, of the ominous official envelope with the news that he was in hospital at Bagdad, seriously ill with dysentery. He lived to return home. He then told me that, just at the time when I had seen him in that remarkable vision, his life would not have been worth much.

Saved Husband’s Life

ONE morning, during the War, I had a most vivid dream of being chased by two Germans with fixed bayonets, and I'd almost reached safety when one of them stabbed me in the right shoulder. The shock woke me, and, on looking at the clock, I found it was about 6:45 a.m. When I got downstairs I remarked that something had happened to my husband and related my dream, only to be laughed at. I heard nothing at all from, or of, my husband for fifteen days; then I had the usual official notification, saying that he was in hospital with severe gun-shot wounds to the head and left shoulder. Some few weeks later I went to see him in hospital and found that it was his right shoulder that was in bandages, and, of course, told him my dream. He looked at me in such a queer way that I asked him what was the matter, and this is what he told me: The morning he was wounded, they were ordered to attack at 6:30, and they hadn't got very far from their trenches when he was hit in the right shoulder with a piece of shell which sent him spinning into a shell hole, where he lay unconscious for two or three hours. When he recovered consciousness he saw me standing on the edge of the shell hole, beckoning him, and, with great difficulty (for his right arm was quite useless) managed to scramble out and follow me. He was joined by two wounded Germans. When I'd gone some distance, I stopped, so did he and one of the Germans; the other one went on and was blown to bits by a shell which exploded just in front of us. Then I went on and took him safely to the dressing-station, where he collapsed. To this day he declares I saved his life.

The Shell-wrecked Church

THE experience I shall never forget happened to me while serving with the Dublin Fusiliers in France. My battalion had just come out of the trenches and we were billeted in different villages near at hand—my company in the village of Courcelles. In this village was a shell-wrecked church, and my billet was a broken-down cottage just opposite. One evening I took a stroll through this church and, to my amazement, I heard the sound of deep and heavy breathing. Thinking someone was asleep, I had a good look round but found nothing. Looking across the road I saw my chum talking to an officer and I went over and asked them to come over and listen. When they heard the noise my chum turned deathly white, and they asked me what it was or who it was. I was just as wise as they were. We searched about the church, even to moving about the stones and bricks, but found nothing. The same night, when asleep in the ruined cottage opposite, my chum woke me up with a startled cry, “Cyril, look quick, the Virgin Mary!” Looking up, I was astonished to see a white figure gliding through the room and out of the broken window across to the church and into it. We went all about the church the next morning but all was quiet. What could it have been?

Vision of Brother

DO I believe in ghosts? I did not until the War was on and my favourite brother was in it. He was stationed at Salonica. One day I was making cakes and had just stooped down to take a tin from the oven when it seemed that my brother bent over me and snatched one. At the same time there was a whisper “I am so hungry.” I dropped the cakes and turned round with “Oh, Ron!” but my hands met the empty space. A few days after we heard of my brother being killed in action.

Vision of Wounded Son

ONE night during the year 1915, whilst waiting up for my son who worked on the trams, and, in consequence, was often late, I thought I would while away the time by reading. When he came in and had supper and we were preparing for bed I suddenly became aware of a pair of muddy boots on the hearth rug. I looked at them again and again. Then I looked up and saw putties, then pants and belt; then there was a space where the body should have been. Still looking higher, I distinctly saw the head and face of my son George, who was then serving somewhere in France. All about his head were white bandages, and just by his ear was a large spot of blood. I believe I fainted, or something like it. My young son was frightened and called his father who had gone to bed. I told them, “If George gets hurt it will be in the head.” Five weeks later, on the 1st of June, word came that he was in hospital with a bullet wound in the head. The wound was exactly in the same place as I had seen the blood. My son George is still living and most happily married.

“His Spirit Took This Chance”

THE following incident happened one afternoon during the War, when I went to visit my husband’s mother. We were sitting in a room talking to some other members of the family when, suddenly, my husband's favourite sister came running downstairs calling out, “Mother, Dick has come home!” We rushed into the hall, expecting to see my husband, and were naturally very surprised, as we had had no intimation of an intended leave. However, the hall was empty except for my sister-in-law, who had just reached the foot of the stairs. She seemed quite convinced that she had seen him standing there, in full field equipment, and we searched the house to satisfy her that he had not come home.

We did not hear from my husband for many weeks after this and were very distressed, as we felt, after this strange event, that something very serious must have happened to him.

At last, we had news that he was a prisoner of war.

When he returned after the War we told him of this strange incident and gave him the exact time and day on which it happened.

Just at this time, it appears, he was captured by the Germans, one of whom struck him with a rifle, rendering him unconscious.

I sometimes think that his spirit took this chance of leaving the sickening horror, and, if only for so short a time, being near those he loved.

Walked with the Dead

DURING the Great War my sister was employed as nursery governess with a family living in M———. One of her duties was to meet the oldest child returning from school—and she was very frequently joined by her fiancé, whose regiment was stationed quite near. Eventually “Dick” was called to the front.

Six months passed, and, one day, my sister came to see me, looking terribly distressed. She informed me that she knew “Dick” had been killed. I advised her to get a good nerve tonic, thinking she was overwrought through not having heard from him for two weeks. She proceeded to tell me that during her usual walk to the school “Dick” had walked with her all the way.

However, little over a fortnight after this, my sister again came to see me. This time she handed me a letter she had just received from one of “Dick's” brother officers, stating that he had been killed. The date and hour given of “Dick's” death corresponded exactly with the day and hour that my sister declared he had walked with her.

The Phantom Soldier

WHILE my husband was serving in France during the Great War, I carried on our business as job master, and it often used to fall to my lot to drive the brave lads to and from the station. One lovely summer night I was driving a young lad to catch the midnight train which used to arrive at Waterloo about 4 a.m. He had come over from New Zealand when the call came (he emigrated a few years before the war) and he had just been home on leave to see his parents. I was driving an extremely quiet little pony in a governess car, and the young soldier and I were sitting opposite one another talking. I had just asked him if he intended settling down with his parents when the war was over or go back to New Zealand, and he replied he thought he would stay at home until his parents died. No sooner had he said this than the pony gave a most violent swerve, and, there, by the side of the soldier, outside the trap, was another soldier in the New Zealand uniform. The one I was driving shouted out: “That's a dirty trick to play, mate, the pony might have had us out. Do you want a lift to the station?” But the figure had vanished.

A week later, the young fellow had paid the Great Sacrifice. Now, all three of us saw the figure, and I think the pony saw it first. When I got the pony to the station, he was trembling and sweating, yet I had not driven him hard. I often wondered if he saw more than the soldier and I saw.

An Unknown Visitor

I WISH to record an experience that befell me while I was on active service in France. It was during the Battles of the Somme in 1916. I was attached to a Lewis gun

team in my regiment during the attacks on Ginchy and Guillemont. One night I was on my post, between the hours of ten and twelve, when I was relieved by the next sentry. I retired to an unoccupied dugout fifteen yards away to grasp a few hours sleep. I had just crawled in and dropped down to sleep when I was awakened by a voice calling me by my christian name. I sat up to ponder over it and, when I convinced myself that I was alone in the dugout, and no one within fifteen to twenty yards, I considered it was only imagination, so I dropped down again and, after a space of two minutes, I was called again by my name. Once more I took it to be sheer imagination, and again I lowered my head to sleep when, to my amazement, I was called the third time in a more distinct voice. This time I sat up and plainly saw a dim blue light going out of the dugout door.

I immediately arose and followed it outside, but no one could I see—only the occasional burst of the German shells. I shrugged my shoulders and went up to my sentry post to ease my mind of the matter. I had just walked about fifteen yards away when a German 5.9 shell landed in the dugout and blew it to pieces—a grand escape, and I attribute it to the warning of a friendly ghost. On another occasion when my life was in danger the same voice called again three times.

A Lover and a Sister

ONE day during the War, I was sitting reading, when suddenly I heard my fiancé (then in France) calling my name. I looked up and beheld him walking towards me, in a white shroud. I was horrified and called to him to go away, but his ice-cold hands touched my face and I fainted. He was killed that day, and his comrades said

he was calling my name as he died.

Again, in a vision, I saw my beloved sister (a nurse) lying dead in a ward. A few days later we met at our home. During tea I related my vision to her, describing the ward and even the flowers and ivy they had put on her. Everyone but mother laughed. My sister laughed till tears rolled down her cheeks and said “Oh! my dear, I’m too healthy to die; look at me.” And, indeed, she was a picture of health and happiness, and she was beloved by everyone. But, six weeks later, she lay dead exactly as I had seen her. Why I should see the two people I loved best like that I cannot say, but I cannot but believe in the supernatural.

A Brother's Smile

IN August of 1917 my brother was fighting in France for his King and country. One Sunday night I had gone to bed and just turned out the light and made a prayer for the safe-keeping of my brother who was fighting for us. When he appeared before me, bent over me and gave a lovely smile, and disappeared again.

Two days afterwards I received a letter to say he was killed in action at the hour he appeared to me.

Her Soldier Boy

ONE night during the War, I had seen all the family into bed and returned downstairs to put things right for the morning, and to pack the food for the workers. It was

well on into the night as I sat at the table cutting the food. The lobby door seemed to open and my soldier boy stood there and said “Mother” in such a sad voice, then vanished. I could see him so plainly and he looked so sad that I felt upset and went to bed, but not to sleep. I felt he was in trouble. I came to know in a short time that he was that night lying out on the battle-field at Passchendaele seriously wounded. He received a M.M. We have the Testament that saved his life; it is shot through, but there happened to be a steel looking glass at the back, and this stopped the bullet.

A War Worker's Experience

Your ghost stories have prompted me to write and tell you of an experience which I had some years back and which Armistice Day has brought back to me very vividly.

In 1916, I, like many more young women, felt the call of my country, and I gave up a position I held in an office in Leicester and offered my services at the Glen Parva Barracks, Wigston. I was accepted as a clerk, but, when it was found that I was a typist too, I was sent into an office to release a young soldier for foreign service. He took it very well and showed me my new work very willingly. There were also two soldier clerks and two civilians, but I was the only female in the block of buildings. He was very friendly with all the clerks and often came into the depot to see us whilst he was training. He eventually went to France, and I thought no more about him, until one night I was awakened out of my sleep by hearing someone move in my bedroom. In the dim light I could see this soldier standing by the chest of drawers and feverishly turning over the contents of the top left hand

drawer. My mother used to call it my “chaos” drawer, because it was always in such a chaotic state—filled with all my odds and ends. My blood ran cold and I could not speak. I sat and watched him raking about in that drawer until, after what seemed an eternity to me, I managed to gasp “Tyers, what do you want?” Never shall I forget his face as he turned from the drawer and looked at me. It was truly poor old Tyers, but his face was all drawn with pain, and ghastly. In a moment, he vanished, and it was a long time before I dared look at my watch to see what time it was. It was ten minutes past two, and I did not fall asleep again until it was almost time to get up. I missed my train next morning and was very late. In the usual rush I did not get a chance to tell the other clerks until quite late in the morning. They all listened anxiously and hardly had the words left my lips when we heard footsteps coming quickly up the wooden staircase outside. The next minute, the Lance-Cpl. who was on duty in the guard room rushed in and said: “Have you heard about poor old Tyers? He’s dead. His father has just telephoned to tell me that he died in the early hours of this morning at a hospital in England.”

Why he appeared to me as he did I do not know, nor do I know what he was looking for in the drawer, but I have always chided myself that I took his place, for I feel somehow that I was partly responsible for his untimely end.

The Sinking of the “Aboukir”

ON the night of September 22nd, 1914, I was sleeping with my daughter, whose husband was serving on H.M.S. “Aboukir.”

During the night we heard a noise such as would be caused by the dragging of heavy chains. I sat up with a start and my daughter gasped. “Oh, mother! what is

it?” I got out of bed and called the only man in the house. He searched all over the house and the yard outside, from whence the sound appeared to come. But all was silent. We all went back to bed and, within a few minutes of our return, we heard again the dreadful clanking—weird and unmistakable. Again a vain search was made.

The following morning the papers announced the sinking of the “Aboukir” and my son-in-law went down with it.

“On Leave”

I was engaged to a soldier, during the War, and received notice that he was coming home “on leave.” The day before he was expected I was “spring-cleaning” a bedroom, with a friend, when she suddenly exclaimed: “Look, there is ——— on his bicycle,” and pointed out of the window. As I was busy at work (and not too clean) knowing that I should see him within an hour, I drew back, that I might not draw his attention to me, and told her to do the same, until I had dressed properly. I was not surprised he was a day early. We watched him from the window, and saw him speak to the gardener, who was sweeping, and then we hurried up. Having dressed, I went to the gate, but saw no sign of him, so I asked the gardener which direction he took. The man said he enquired if I still worked at this house, but he did not notice which way he went. Thinking he had probably gone to my home (ten minutes distant), but wondering he had not called for me, I went home. No one, excepting my friend, myself and the gardener had seen him.

Next day I learnt that on the day, at the actual time I saw him, and the gardener spoke to him, he was killed in France.

The Three Figures

IT was during the Great War, March, 1918, my only brother was in France; he had just returned after fourteen days’ leave.

I was awakened one night by three figures entering the bedroom—one in white between two soldiers in khaki. I drew my husband’s attention to it, but he could not see anything, and said: “Now, it’s just fancy; try to get off to sleep.” I was going over when they entered a second time. I shall never forget it, for I knew there must be something coming concerning my much-loved brother. Three weeks later, I had a letter from his officer saying my brother had been killed in action on the night of my vision.

To-day (Armistice Day) recalls sad memories.

“Good-Bye”

A FEW years ago I was spending a holiday with a friend who lives in a quiet village in the Lake District. We were returning home one evening from a neighbouring village, and our path led us across an old stone bridge spanning a swiftly-flowing stream. Here I could not hear the voice of my friend because of the deafening roar of the waterfall which was only a short distance from the bridge. By the side of the waterfall was a powder mill, where most of the inhabitants of the village earned their livelihood.

After we had passed through the avenue leading from the bridge, my friend related to me a very strange experience she had whilst passing over the same bridge one evening during the Great War.

Looking towards the waterfall, she saw, to her amazement and fear, the figure of her husband, dressed in white, and waving his hand to her as if in farewell. Almost

at the same time her husband's father, who was then at work in the powder mill, saw the same figure of his son at his old place, but waving his hand to him in a similar manner.

The following week my friend received the sad news that her husband had fallen in action, and, on making inquiries, discovered that he had been killed on the same day and at the same hour that she had seen him standing on the waterfall bidding her “Good-bye.”

“Hello, Daddy!”

THIS is a most curious incident I now relate, unexplained, and I think that nobody will ever be able to explain it. I can vouch for the truth of every word of it.

During the morning of a day in the early part of July, 1915, I was busily engaged hanging out the clothes to dry in my back garden, when, suddenly, I heard footsteps coming up the passage. I thought that they sounded familiar, so I turned round and watched the gate. You can realise my astonishment when I saw the gate open, my late husband walk in, shut the gate after him, open the kitchen door and enter the house. I immediately set down my washing basket and ran down the back garden to the house, being so excited at seeing him back, as I thought, from Egypt, where he was serving in the Great War. I entered the house and, seeing nobody about in the kitchen, I looked behind the kitchen door, expecting that I should find him there, as he often used to hide there when he came home, and then jump out so as to give me a surprise. Seeing that he was not there, I thought that he must be in the living-room, so I went in there, exclaiming as I entered, “Hello, Daddy.” Imagine my surprise when I found the room empty, and also that no one had entered the room at all.

What did I see and hear? I can swear that I heard my late husband's footsteps, and that I saw him in his

khaki uniform, complete with everything that a soldier has when he comes home on leave. I also saw and heard the gate open and close, as also I did the kitchen door.

A few days later, I received from my husband a letter stating that he had just arrived at Netley Hospital, Southampton, having been wounded and, therefore, drafted home. Therefore, at the time of my experience he must have been on his way to England from Egypt.

The Robin's Warning

WHEN each of my four brothers was killed in the War a robin came and hopped through the house. The last time this happened mother went to bed in a worried state as, having three previous visits from the robin, she knew what to expect and dreaded the morning post.

Waking up at midnight she saw Will leaning over the bed-rail in his uniform, with his head in bandages. She called him by name and he came towards her but, when she put her hand out to touch him, he vanished. News soon came that Will died on that same midnight from head wounds. Mother has never really recovered from this vision and the visits of the innocent robin.

A Remarkable Story

IT was at a base hospital in France, January, 1916. My brother, who had previously been partly buried by a shell bursting near him, was now dying from pneumonia.

I sat by his side through the night, having travelled across the Channel to see him, as the authorities had arranged for the same in serious cases.

He was a bootmaker by trade, as was his father; both working the business. In his delirium he was back home in the shop. His bed was close to the boards of the Army

hut. He would fix his gaze on these boards and then swing his fist with three distinct knocks, after which he would push the palm of his flat hand up the boards, thus producing a peculiar squeaking noise. My father, home in England, was working late in the shop; there came three distinct knocks on the window, followed by the peculiar sound of someone pushing their flat hand up the window. Thinking it was somebody playing a joke he shouted, but got no answer. After a little while, it was repeated; he went outside to see who it might be, but there was no one visible, and, although by no means a nervous man, or superstitious, he felt a something, and could not proceed with his work. On my arrival home, after ten days' absence, he related his experience to me. Then everything seemed linked up. No wireless could have been more direct. My brother’s hand on the board in France had produced its effect on the shop window in North Bucks.