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.