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.