Part 3

Such happenings as these are merely scientific, not supernatural; but in this case both my husband and myself would probably think we had seen a ghost had it not been that our education had led us into scientific studies in face of which we knew we had not seen a ghost. The present day vogue in spiritualism and kindred subjects, which shows the God of Love and the Creator of the Universe as a small-minded creature who amuses Himself frightening us poor mortals, is nothing but pure ignorance, and deserves to be put down as such. To try to get into touch with the Almighty by such trickery, for instance, as table-rapping, is simply blasphemy.

I do not believe in ghosts, except as the result of our own imaginations. In “Hamlet” (Act III., Scene IV.), when the ghost enters, only Hamlet sees it. His mother, the Queen, not seeing it, thinks him mad. That ghost is merely one conjured up by Hamlet's imagination. By continually thinking about, and brooding over, the fact that he has not yet avenged his father's murder, the accusing ghost appears to him. After he has explained matters to his mother, she rightly says: “This is the very coinage of your brain, this bodiless creation.” Similarly, Brutus alone is visited by the ghost of Caesar. Only Macbeth sees the ghost of Banquo in his place at the table, and says, “The table's full.” Lennox, with surprise, replies, “Here's a place reserved, sir.”

During my lifetime I have seen only one of these ghosts of the imagination. During the last year of the Great War (I was only eight years old), there were many horrible stories in circulation among my schoolfellows about the Kaiser. What an effect they had on my imagination! I could go nowhere in the dark alone. Even when accompanied, I saw awful phantoms: sometimes bold and prominent, sometimes misty and indistinct, but always with spiked helmets—and always Kaisers! As soon as it grew dark my life was a perfect misery. I was thankful I did not sleep alone. When the war ended these ghosts gradually faded and, again, I could venture in the dark alone!

I am sure that people imagine the ghosts they see in lonely woods and on lonely heaths. The weird noises they hear are natural—perhaps magnified by their imaginations. Even when not magnified, the sighing and shrieking of the wind in the trees and the mournful hootings of the owl are very eerie!

I am only a working woman, and not highly educated, but I feel I must put a pen to your ghost problem. Well, I don't believe in them; there are none. Would any sensible person, having lost their dearest and best, like to feel their spirits were not at rest? Why, Flanders field would be white with ghosts. I believe that nervous people often fancy they see things, as I have proved, having lost a dear sister, whose mind became unbalanced through a nervous breakdown. She used to tell us all sorts of things she saw, but, thank God, we have never seen her ghost. But I believe there are times when we are downcast and warned by a kind of telepathy of impending illness or death among dear ones, but only at times. I have proved this also. No, sir, no Christian people believe in ghosts.

Many years ago I was helping my father to build a house, on the side of a main road, near a large village in Lincolnshire. It was early autumn, and the house was nearing completion. A workman was left in charge during the night, but on one occasion, owing to the sudden illness of his wife, he was unable to fulfil his duty, and I elected to remain and take charge. It was a beautiful night, and the moon was in full. I had made a fire in a middle room, and by the light from a candle, I read through an interesting novel by Harrison Ainsworth. I looked at the time: it was close on midnight. I blew out the light and closed my eyes, the happenings which I had just read in the novel rapidly passing through my mind. The silence was intense: the loneliness complete. Suddenly I was startled by a crash and the sound of falling glass on the front-room floor. Feeling sure that someone passing had hurled a broken brick through one of the large bay-window panes, I rushed upstairs, and from one of the windows which overlooked the road, and from which a long distance could be seen both ways, I looked to see in which direction the culprit had gone. Not a soul was to be seen; not a sound was to be heard! Then I went to inspect the damage. Every pane was intact, and there was not a fragment of glass on the floor!

Later in life, I have found, on more than one occasion, what tricks one’s imagination and thoughts can play; how they can conjure up pictures, and faces and forms, not only of those we know, but of those we have known, which the eyes, acting in unison, will, under varying circumstances, place momentarily before you. The writer “Norfolk,” in your issue of the 17th inst., had this experience when he saw the face at the window.

No, I do not believe in ghosts!

Ghosts In The Great War

A Pal in Life—and Death

My pal and I joined the Army on the 21st day of September, 1914. My mother’s last words to me were, “Be a man; do your duty. If God spares you to come back to me I will be proud of you, my lad!” I was the only son. My pal heard her words and said: “Cheer up; we will come back. ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’”

My pal was a soldier from head to foot. When duty called he was always ready; fear never entered his head. Night and day we were never parted; side by side we fought for two long years, and I am sure his thoughts always were that England did expect every man to do his duty.

He was shot dead at my feet on the 5th of October, 1916. If he could have spoken to me I am sure his last words would have been, “Thank God, I have done my duty.”

Broken-hearted through the loss of my pal I did my best to carry on, although my nerves were shattered, and fear was always in my heart. I was a messenger and had to carry messages from the firing line to headquarters. Three weeks after the death of my pal we were on the Somme. Our division went over the top; we fought our way forward all day until darkness stopped our advance. My captain handed me a message and said: “Go back to headquarters with this as quick as possible.”

It was a lovely moonlight night. As I ran forward bullets and shells were flying everywhere. I don’t know whether it was the sight of dead men that lay around or the noise of the battle, but fear got the better of me. I dropped into a shell hole. The longer I sat the worse I got. The message which meant so much to my comrades in the firing line was now getting delayed. Shell after shell burst around me. I made one more attempt to go on, and, as I crawled out of the shell hole, the sight I saw I shall never forget. There was my pal standing not two yards away, not in white as most ghosts are, but dressed in his soldier's clothes. I stood there: the shock was too much for me; I could not move. But the ghost (I am sure it was my pal) kept waving me on and pointing in the direction of the headquarters, which were about a mile away. I don't know how, but I moved on; the ghost moved also. If I stopped it stopped and waved me on. This went on until I was about ten yards off my destination. The ghost then waved its hand as if to say “good-bye,” and disappeared into the air. Terrified, I ran on. With the help of my pal, the message was delivered. He had helped me do my duty in life and he had still aided me—though dead.

The Morning of the Ypres Big Push

THE following remarkable experience befell me in France. It is true in every detail and, although ten years have elapsed since then, still the memory of it remains. It was the morn of the Ypres big push, August 16th, 1916. After a night of almost unendurable suspense, fed with the knowledge of the coming storm, how unusually quiet everything seemed. There had been nothing to disturb the serene tranquillity of that summer’s night, save an occasional ping, ping, of the hidden snipers’ bullets, and a stray enemy shell. It was an ominous calm—the prelude to the approaching storm. In the small hour of the morn, I left my dug out, as shortly I was due for duty on the fire step. As I proceeded on my way along the trench I suddenly became aware of the form of a woman barely a dozen yards in front of me. Now I wasn’t half asleep, neither had I been having an extra rum ration. I stood there astonished, all manner of thoughts coursing through my mind. Could it by any chance be a kilted Highlander? Impossible. They were miles away on our left. In my anxiety to discover who it was I exclaimed, “Hello Jock,” and it vanished immediately in front of my very eyes in a straight run of trench and in very good light. I was bewildered, and proceeded on my way, scarcely able to credit my senses.

Arriving at the post I joined my pals there, and we struck the usual conversation. After a few minutes a strange feeling of uneasiness crept over me—a sense of impending danger; a presentiment that something was about to happen. I thought of the form I had seen, and an irresistible desire to leave the post took complete possession of me. In desperation I turned to my pal named Stewart, exclaiming: “Come on, let us go to the latrine and have a smoke.” After much persuasion he eventually came away, and, together, we made a bee-line for the latrine. Arriving there we lit our “half-a-mo’s” cigarettes. Scarcely had we done so when we heard a resounding crash and, together, we rushed along the trench in the direction of the sound, grave fears filling my mind. At last we reached the bend in the trench leading to the machine gun post, and there a grisly sight met our gaze—a head lying on the broken duck boards. A trench mortar had made a direct hit on the very spot on which I had stood scarcely five minutes previously. Three poor fellows were blown to atoms. A narrow shave truly. “Luck,” some would say; others would say “Chance.” But, in my honest opinion, it was direct spiritual intervention.

The following sequel convinced me of that. Some time afterwards, in writing to a sister of mine, I related the remarkable vision I had seen in the trench, and, in her reply, she informed me that it was in the small hours of the morning of August 16th, nine years previously, that my mother died, about the same time as I saw the vision or form of a woman in the trench. She reminded me of a fact I had quite overlooked. In summing up the whole thing, I am convinced that the form I saw was no kilted Highlander, but the spirit of my own dear mother come to warn me of impending danger. How else can I account for that feeling of uneasiness, that sense of impending disaster, that strong presentiment of something about to happen, and, above all, that irresistible desire to leave the post? Thank God, I did; for through the instrumentality of that spiritual warning, not only was my own life spared but my friend Stewart's as well.

Is There an Explanation?

I don’t know if the thing I saw could be called a ghost. I’ve never really made up my mind about it. It may, for all I know, have a perfectly proper scientific explanation, but it struck me as remarkably eerie at the time. It was a ghostly place anyway—the Somme, in 1918, when for the last time “Jerry” was being followed back across the old familiar ground. It was daylight—a day of sunshine—and I was reporting to company headquarters from one reserve line to another, across the open, when the shells began to fall. In appropriate rabbit-fashion I dived for the nearest shell hole. There was a dead man in that shell hole, lying on his back, staring up at the unquiet sky. An unpleasant neighbour, no doubt; but when shells were about one stayed where one was reasonably safe. Naturally enough I stared at the dead man, and then I noticed a peculiar thing. I have said that the man was lying on his back, but that was not exactly the case. The shell hole was a very large one and very old. In the bottom there was a coil of rusty wire. The face, and upper part of the body—for that was all I noticed—was pillowed upon the wire and the spear points of the grass that had grown under and about the coil. The face struck me as the most ethereal and delicate I had ever seen. I don't know exactly how to explain it; the dead man’s face appeared as though woven of some ethereal flesh-coloured cob-web, spun on the points of the grass and wire, and the light seemed to go right through the delicate skin. I stared at it quite fascinated, and, after a while, the fascination overcame me. I simply had to touch the face to see if it was real. I plucked a piece of coarse grass that was growing in the hole and, stretching across, stroked the face—and, immediately, it vanished.

Now was that a ghost, or can science explain? For instance, can the mere shell of a human face and body exist (below ground, it is true, but open to the air) and yet be so easily dispersed. For myself, I don't know. It is, in any case, the nearest approach to a ghost that I, personally, have ever seen. I did not make a search, but, after the body and face disappeared, I looked round but could see no trace of any equipment, boots, entrenching tools, and such like things.

A Dream—or a Ghost?

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.