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.