In November, 1916, my son, eighteen and a half years old, went to the
war, being sent out to France. The scene I wish to relate happened a
week before the Easter of 1917. It was a Friday. I spent a most
miserable, uneasy day. When dad came home at tea-time I was nearly
frantic. However, he assured me all was well, and, retiring about
eleven o'clock, I put the bedclothes over my shoulders expecting to
sleep, when three sharp jerks pulled the clothes right off my
shoulder. This was repeated twice. The third time, I tucked them
under my arm and held them tight and waited to find out the cause.
Then my son walked into the bedroom and came up to me. He was in
uniform, excepting cap. His left hand was in his pocket. With the
other he snatched my hand, gripped it twice and shouted, “Mother,
Mother!”
The following week I heard from him. He went into battle about the
time of my vision and was wounded. The same thing happened each time
he was wounded—four times. It has always been a mystery to me. Each
time the vision was so realistic and he always had the wounded part
bandaged.