IN October, 1917, I was staying with my four little children in a
village near Lowestoft. My husband, a skipper of a steam drifter, was
at sea. On the night of October 7th, I was awakened by a loud bang.
At the same time the bed seemed floating on water. I looked up to see
my husband bending over me, and he seemed to put cold, wet hands on
each side of my face, then disappeared. Two days afterwards, I was
informed that his vessel had struck a mine and was lost with all
hands, about the time he appeared to me. Three or four months after,
I again saw my husband, this time looking through the window. He had
with him another man who was a great chum of his. He also was a
skipper. A few days later, I was told that at the same time as I saw
them this man went down with his ship in the channel raid.