Chapter 3 of 11 · 3985 words · ~20 min read

Part 3

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.