ONE night during the War, I had seen all the family into bed and returned downstairs to put things right for the morning, and to pack the food for the workers. It was well on into the night as I sat at the table cutting the food. The lobby door seemed to open and my soldier boy stood there and said “Mother” in such a sad voice, then vanished. I could see him so plainly and he looked so sad that I felt upset and went to bed, but not to sleep. I felt he was in trouble. I came to know in a short time that he was that night lying out on the battle-field at Passchendaele seriously wounded. He received a M.M. We have the Testament that saved his life; it is shot through, but there happened to be a steel looking glass at the back, and this stopped the bullet. A War Worker's Experience Your ghost stories have prompted me to write and tell you of an experience which I had some years back and which Armistice Day has brought back to me very vividly. In 1916, I, like many more young women, felt the call of my country, and I gave up a position I held in an office in Leicester and offered my services at the Glen Parva Barracks, Wigston. I was accepted as a clerk, but, when it was found that I was a typist too, I was sent into an office to release a young soldier for foreign service. He took it very well and showed me my new work very willingly. There were also two soldier clerks and two civilians, but I was the only female in the block of buildings. He was very friendly with all the clerks and often came into the depot to see us whilst he was training. He eventually went to France, and I thought no more about him, until one night I was awakened out of my sleep by hearing someone move in my bedroom. In the dim light I could see this soldier standing by the chest of drawers and feverishly turning over the contents of the top left hand drawer. My mother used to call it my “chaos” drawer, because it was always in such a chaotic state—filled with all my odds and ends. My blood ran cold and I could not speak. I sat and watched him raking about in that drawer until, after what seemed an eternity to me, I managed to gasp “Tyers, what do you want?” Never shall I forget his face as he turned from the drawer and looked at me. It was truly poor old Tyers, but his face was all drawn with pain, and ghastly. In a moment, he vanished, and it was a long time before I dared look at my watch to see what time it was. It was ten minutes past two, and I did not fall asleep again until it was almost time to get up. I missed my train next morning and was very late. In the usual rush I did not get a chance to tell the other clerks until quite late in the morning. They all listened anxiously and hardly had the words left my lips when we heard footsteps coming quickly up the wooden staircase outside. The next minute, the Lance-Cpl. who was on duty in the guard room rushed in and said: “Have you heard about poor old Tyers? He’s dead. His father has just telephoned to tell me that