Part 2

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.