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?”