Chapter 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?”

Saved by an Apparition

DURING the War I drove a Sunbeam Ambulance and at one time was attached to the 92nd Field Ambulance. The division was in action at Ypres and the first-aid post was in a dug-out on the canal bank. As soon as darkness fell it was our duty to drive from Flaniatyage to the first-aid post, pick up the wounded and convey back to Poperinghe clearing station.

One very dark night I had just arrived at the first-aid post behind Essex Farm, where I was told to return immediately with a very bad abdominal case, and was given instructions to get to Poperinghe as quickly as possible.

I had gone about 500 yards when the light of a star shell revealed what seemed to be a lady standing in the middle of the road. I had to pull up. Consider my surprise, as the next star shell went up, to find no one there.

First, second, top gear, then another star shell and the lady was just in front again. I pulled up to find no lady.

Just as I approached Salvation corner, I saw, by the light of a star shell, a sentry standing at the challenge—his bayonet gleamed. I gave the customary shout “92nd Field Ambulance.” He didn’t move again. I pulled up and, to my astonishment, there was no sentry, but, immediately in front, was a shell hole large enough to bury a London bus. It took a long time to get past, but I got my patient to Poperinghe alive. Should I have done so had those apparitions not appeared?

A Field of the Dead

PERHAPS the most unique of many ghostly experiences—both personal and those of friends—was one which took place on the fateful night between August 3rd and 4th, 1914. My brother (who though strong and unimaginative is somewhat psychic) and I had sat up till about midnight, and I was amazed to hear him suddenly declare, as he shut his book and rose, that “no one could sit and read with that noise going on.” I asked what noise, and, on being bidden to listen (our house is on a quiet hill off an old Roman road going to the coast) noticed the sound of a great crowd, a confused, soft sound. “Why,” I said, “I don’t understand you—it’s no worse than any Bank Holiday. Quieter, indeed. You can well understand their being about to-night; they want to know whether it will be war or not.” He maintained that it was impossible to do anything but get quickly to bed. More and more amazed—this was so unlike him—I went to the front door with him, and there, clear and distinct, the sound of thousands of footsteps, of people shuffling, treading, moving about, but without uttering one single word, came from the road at the foot of our hill—about four houses’ distance. Nothing whatever could be seen. My brother declined absolutely to let me run down to look, or to come with me. Next day we heard that war had been declared at midnight. We live five miles out of London and it is not a place where people would gather for news. Subsequent inquiries made of a friend who lived on the road where the silent crowd had moved and passed about (remaining in the one place so far as I could judge), revealed nothing in the way of explanation. To his knowledge there had been no crowd. It was as if the ghosts of those who were to fall during those coming four years of blood had “projected” themselves, eerily, at the hour of the declaration of the Great War, upon the ancient road where Roman soldiers, long ago, must have marched. Or were they the spirits of the long-dead soldiers of the centuries, welcoming the heroes of 1914—1918?

A Mother's Vision

DURING the War my two eldest sons were serving with the Forces in Mesopotamia. One day, while occupied about my usual household duties, there suddenly came to me the following mental vision (I can call it nothing else): I saw my eldest boy in a half-reclining position, quite alone, in a wild desert sort of a place with one hand stroking his forehead in a dazed kind of a way. So vivid and clear was the vision that I could not shake it off. Again and again it repeated itself, always exactly the same.

At tea-time I spoke of it, and said I was afraid something had happened to F., but they only laughed at me and said I was getting fanciful in my old age, and so I tried to forget it.

About six weeks later (the usual time for news to get through then) I received a letter from him and, to my great surprise, it contained these words as near as I can remember them:

“I must tell you, mother, of a little incident that happened the other day. I had a fancy to take my horse and go off alone for a long-stretch gallop. When some distance from camp I suppose he must have put his foot in a hole and stumbled; anyway he threw me. I don't know how long I lay there but, on coming to, I discovered I had still got the reins tight in my hand with bridle attached but, alas, there was no horse; he had quickly made tracks for the camp, leaving me to get there the best way I could.”

I shall always think that this accident happened just at the time my vision appeared to me.

Then again, about three days or so before Christmas, 1918, I had another presentiment that something was wrong. This time it was the younger son. There suddenly came to me a vision of a hospital bed and I found myself looking down on my boy, who appeared to be very ill. I had not the remotest idea at the time that there was anything wrong with either of them. But, as before, the vivid reality of it seemed fixed on my mind. But, this time, I kept it to myself until the arrival, in a few days, of the ominous official envelope with the news that he was in hospital at Bagdad, seriously ill with dysentery. He lived to return home. He then told me that, just at the time when I had seen him in that remarkable vision, his life would not have been worth much.

Saved Husband’s Life

ONE morning, during the War, I had a most vivid dream of being chased by two Germans with fixed bayonets, and I'd almost reached safety when one of them stabbed me in the right shoulder. The shock woke me, and, on looking at the clock, I found it was about 6:45 a.m. When I got downstairs I remarked that something had happened to my husband and related my dream, only to be laughed at. I heard nothing at all from, or of, my husband for fifteen days; then I had the usual official notification, saying that he was in hospital with severe gun-shot wounds to the head and left shoulder. Some few weeks later I went to see him in hospital and found that it was his right shoulder that was in bandages, and, of course, told him my dream. He looked at me in such a queer way that I asked him what was the matter, and this is what he told me: The morning he was wounded, they were ordered to attack at 6:30, and they hadn't got very far from their trenches when he was hit in the right shoulder with a piece of shell which sent him spinning into a shell hole, where he lay unconscious for two or three hours. When he recovered consciousness he saw me standing on the edge of the shell hole, beckoning him, and, with great difficulty (for his right arm was quite useless) managed to scramble out and follow me. He was joined by two wounded Germans. When I'd gone some distance, I stopped, so did he and one of the Germans; the other one went on and was blown to bits by a shell which exploded just in front of us. Then I went on and took him safely to the dressing-station, where he collapsed. To this day he declares I saved his life.

The Shell-wrecked Church

THE experience I shall never forget happened to me while serving with the Dublin Fusiliers in France. My battalion had just come out of the trenches and we were billeted in different villages near at hand—my company in the village of Courcelles. In this village was a shell-wrecked church, and my billet was a broken-down cottage just opposite. One evening I took a stroll through this church and, to my amazement, I heard the sound of deep and heavy breathing. Thinking someone was asleep, I had a good look round but found nothing. Looking across the road I saw my chum talking to an officer and I went over and asked them to come over and listen. When they heard the noise my chum turned deathly white, and they asked me what it was or who it was. I was just as wise as they were. We searched about the church, even to moving about the stones and bricks, but found nothing. The same night, when asleep in the ruined cottage opposite, my chum woke me up with a startled cry, “Cyril, look quick, the Virgin Mary!” Looking up, I was astonished to see a white figure gliding through the room and out of the broken window across to the church and into it. We went all about the church the next morning but all was quiet. What could it have been?

Vision of Brother

DO I believe in ghosts? I did not until the War was on and my favourite brother was in it. He was stationed at Salonica. One day I was making cakes and had just stooped down to take a tin from the oven when it seemed that my brother bent over me and snatched one. At the same time there was a whisper “I am so hungry.” I dropped the cakes and turned round with “Oh, Ron!” but my hands met the empty space. A few days after we heard of my brother being killed in action.

Vision of Wounded Son

ONE night during the year 1915, whilst waiting up for my son who worked on the trams, and, in consequence, was often late, I thought I would while away the time by reading. When he came in and had supper and we were preparing for bed I suddenly became aware of a pair of muddy boots on the hearth rug. I looked at them again and again. Then I looked up and saw putties, then pants and belt; then there was a space where the body should have been. Still looking higher, I distinctly saw the head and face of my son George, who was then serving somewhere in France. All about his head were white bandages, and just by his ear was a large spot of blood. I believe I fainted, or something like it. My young son was frightened and called his father who had gone to bed. I told them, “If George gets hurt it will be in the head.” Five weeks later, on the 1st of June, word came that he was in hospital with a bullet wound in the head. The wound was exactly in the same place as I had seen the blood. My son George is still living and most happily married.

“His Spirit Took This Chance”

THE following incident happened one afternoon during the War, when I went to visit my husband’s mother. We were sitting in a room talking to some other members of the family when, suddenly, my husband's favourite sister came running downstairs calling out, “Mother, Dick has come home!” We rushed into the hall, expecting to see my husband, and were naturally very surprised, as we had had no intimation of an intended leave. However, the hall was empty except for my sister-in-law, who had just reached the foot of the stairs. She seemed quite convinced that she had seen him standing there, in full field equipment, and we searched the house to satisfy her that he had not come home.

We did not hear from my husband for many weeks after this and were very distressed, as we felt, after this strange event, that something very serious must have happened to him.

At last, we had news that he was a prisoner of war.

When he returned after the War we told him of this strange incident and gave him the exact time and day on which it happened.

Just at this time, it appears, he was captured by the Germans, one of whom struck him with a rifle, rendering him unconscious.

I sometimes think that his spirit took this chance of leaving the sickening horror, and, if only for so short a time, being near those he loved.

Walked with the Dead

DURING the Great War my sister was employed as nursery governess with a family living in M———. One of her duties was to meet the oldest child returning from school—and she was very frequently joined by her fiancé, whose regiment was stationed quite near. Eventually “Dick” was called to the front.

Six months passed, and, one day, my sister came to see me, looking terribly distressed. She informed me that she knew “Dick” had been killed. I advised her to get a good nerve tonic, thinking she was overwrought through not having heard from him for two weeks. She proceeded to tell me that during her usual walk to the school “Dick” had walked with her all the way.

However, little over a fortnight after this, my sister again came to see me. This time she handed me a letter she had just received from one of “Dick's” brother officers, stating that he had been killed. The date and hour given of “Dick's” death corresponded exactly with the day and hour that my sister declared he had walked with her.

The Phantom Soldier

WHILE my husband was serving in France during the Great War, I carried on our business as job master, and it often used to fall to my lot to drive the brave lads to and from the station. One lovely summer night I was driving a young lad to catch the midnight train which used to arrive at Waterloo about 4 a.m. He had come over from New Zealand when the call came (he emigrated a few years before the war) and he had just been home on leave to see his parents. I was driving an extremely quiet little pony in a governess car, and the young soldier and I were sitting opposite one another talking. I had just asked him if he intended settling down with his parents when the war was over or go back to New Zealand, and he replied he thought he would stay at home until his parents died. No sooner had he said this than the pony gave a most violent swerve, and, there, by the side of the soldier, outside the trap, was another soldier in the New Zealand uniform. The one I was driving shouted out: “That's a dirty trick to play, mate, the pony might have had us out. Do you want a lift to the station?” But the figure had vanished. A week later, the young fellow had paid the Great Sacrifice. Now, all three of us saw the figure, and I think the pony saw it first. When I got the pony to the station, he was trembling and sweating, yet I had not driven him hard. I often wondered if he saw more than the soldier and I saw.

An Unknown Visitor